Slipstream
The finite carnal minutes expand when the soulsex fit’s sublime. Then, expectant galaxies smile with the curl of her lips and the starbursts in her jade-gold or azure blue or smoky brown eyes when she cums continuously, precious quivers, ecstatic, eyes glazing now in primal delight. We purringly ponder our deep hunger in motion, her womb growing thirsty for her hard-on heartmaster’s anointing.
I don’t know why, but she shifts with me when the assemblage point, reality nexus moves through deep intent, changing scenes and extending the mortal years of the slipstreamers.
Once we slipped into deep trance while lovemaking, and not only had hours passed in our bedroom, but outside, at the break of day, years had passed, five to be exact. When we sensed the strange changes, we found a newspaper, and could only marvel at the date. Before, I would have awakened alone, shifted away from my lover and everything else. I have called this an alteration of the time-space continuum, so perhaps we are sliding through fissures of alternative history. I surmise we are shifting together due to an extraordinary soulsexual bond.
Sometimes our longer-stride-of-years experience is valuable in zeitgeist pattern recognition. Always our vital soulsexual longevity is a precious gift unto itself, even as it launches what is beyond. Escape velocity dyad. Holomovie dissolving into fierce bliss transcendent home free.
When a black helicopter crashed into our house, we were in the retro fallout shelter sexing incandescent. We crawled from the ashes of surveillance stunned but unscathed.
Various sleights-of-hand produce funding, the business of the unseen. No, not pickpocketing, nor dime-store psychology psychic, nor cloak and dagger intrigues. The skeins of light that connect opalescent souls in their flesh candy cases. Or just handy slots in space-time. They want the linguistic DNA I carry, semiotic code injections, imploding metaphoric enigmas.
It offers strong immunity to the prevailing societal virus of virulent delusional norms. The usual grinning death machine of big industry draped in flags and carryin’ crosses grinding meat believers into repetitive pulp fiction.
Pulp parabolics gets yer rocks off without submitting to lobotomy. Antiviral vortical prose to live by.
Since the assemblage point shifts leave my true love and I at times disjointed — beds cracked, rooms half-hanging in one time-space continuum or world, half in another – we’ve learned to spin our nomad lodgings from pure love. Crystalline gossamer shelter for twenty hours, a hostel cycle of manifesting minds.
Ferocious gravitas on the tundra, where icy crack a million universes.
And in the warm well of oasis beauty, blazing bonfire hearts keep the cold at bay.
Above, the chrome palm-frond ceiling of our shelter.
But then tsunamis lunged from the cracked 9.0 ocean floor to the deaths of 220,000 and millions homeless, and I didn’t see her again for many years, amnesiac as I was in the rubble, left for dead, miraculously surviving, etc.
All the time-shift differentials are still bardos, the haunt of being a simulacrum. Dead zone hee-haws. Intensely virtual.
Crystal hearts within crystal hearts within crystal hearts shatter simultaneously.
Invincible love declares her laughter is a silver bell, wings of the spirit, adored of my heart, shattered so often it’s at peace in the sudden miracle.
This love is a baptism of fire and water and earth and air.
Outside, heads were rolling in the streets again because the iron horseman came without warning. Literal medieval remains, and the ironically medieval consequences of allegedly modernist policies, show the persistence of blood and guts pulp’s reflection of the ephemerality of mortal meat.
The world is still officially hell, despite cozy enclaves to the contrary, packed with jabbering lunatics striking fear into impressionable imbeciles with even more vicious hells in the presumptive afterlife. “Love” is filled with lies and trivial horrors no mind can bear.
That lovely I mentioned above keeps slipping away.
Or it’s something more universally whacked than that. We live longer in the slipstream, it is true. There are fractures in memory too. Not Alzheimer’s, not amnesia exactly. But when the divine enigma I love leaves me, is out of my presence, she forgets who I am. Perhaps, Memento-like, I should inscribe the highlights of our intimacies on her flesh.
What was that I was saying? O yes I died was reborn in slipstream living longer ‘cause altered time-space continuum, shifting of assemblage points.
Old gringo of the gnostic song. Bane Savage, Slipstreamer. Every day tossing doubloons at the stark street’s shipwrecked denizens. This blue gesture toward quasi-immortality is made with the same haunting evanescence as your revered face in memory.
I’m singing while I still can the songs of love and madness. I’ll know I’ve found the right voicings when divine thighs part from the hot flow, when divine minds smile on the soundscape.
Being enfolded in stretched time affords me the buzzing blur of holonomic prophecy.
Listen to my vortical voice intone. Frequency’s modulated to pleasure your precious rosebud. This is addressed to the femmes of course. The men are to smash reductionistic scenarios from third eye unblinded.
Smithereens the perpetual dumbfuck doom machines. You want your big brother protective toward you but not insanely waging war on Mind. Therefore create policies of Mind, in which humans are deemed worthy of evolutionary emergence more than murderously slipshod indoctrination. Let us all die into Mystery with uncomplicated dignity. Win the war on subhuman policy rationalizations. The ones that find untold numbers of human lives expendable for political-economic gain. Make the world entirely fit for human habitation; make humans entirely fit for the world. Start in your own backyard; expand outward.
I’m shouting inside the cells of corporate executive golems. All too much of business-as-usual is conducted with the legalized conscience of a psychopath. I’m the migraine in the skull-cave of Moloch’s minister. His Jesus still drives him to the airport in a black SUV fueled with the blood of patriots. I’m the acid rain in Dr. DeathWish’s corrupted brain.
A la Delicatessen, all the ladies cum ecstatic while all the warmongers’ heads explode. True grit of the Make Love Not War revival. Correction: the Make Love THE War Revival. Cruel to be kind; kill ‘em with kindness. The way savvy Gnostics from 200 A.D. practiced communicative martial arts with Literalists, seeming to agree, while obviously not.
Crank up Thanatos/Eros tension and maybe you get something like Scanners spliced with Debbie Does Moloch, directed by Jane Campion, special advisor, David Deida. In which Debbie will of course be an Aeon Flux-like anime-esque heroine with X-rated superpowers to subdue the presiding demon of the war machine and other pious wretched sacrifices of the young to prevailing demonologies. Make love to the depths of your being and die to your mere self before you die. Or have your head explode.
Pornosophic war in skull-cave churches. Literalism burned on its own stakes. Jesus never existed for your “sins” — only your gnosis. Millions of FUCK EVERYTHING YOU BELIEVE T-shirts sold. Picture taken on the front page of your mind glad-handing Capitalism, a papier-mache honcho in the side pocket. Reality formation or bust. Mindsets, policies, documents morphing.
Molecularly awestruck, as the old world crumbles, I surf the infinite instant.
