Arthur Spota

Condensed Virtualities
(An Invocation)

Desire, the secret author of all becoming,
goes through the crafting of a collective myth. – Pierre Mabille

Myth is the irruption of the sacred into the world
which then becomes quite similar to the dream. – Amina Osman

From hear around nothing
      the in and without

a fleeting Maldoror feigns no wings
  while blurring the inertia of the sun and its retina  
Guarded women shield their miniscule from the glare of microbial gnosis
  in an astonishing display of transparent breeding

and Ruthlessly


The illusory narrative becomes the verb

The hidden river melting the ships the color of great odds.

Sacrificial glistening
defers to the blue stone of a vibrating haven
where spring tones are no longer iridescent
and walls of perception are the curse
and the splendor
of the earth voice

An impossible odyssey begins
stretched like a simulacra where day and night
prep the sun prepared to spring.
I follow the living through a penetrant point
still devoured by the world
and it’s passion for black flags
black sun
black hour-less sleep
stroked and marginalized
by vivid crepuscule
and the collective conception of beauty
from which ransom deceptively clings.

I dreamt her shadows were shaped by an arbitrary disappearance of birds
   whose knowledge of sky and loss were quantified
       by the eradication of the species.

Tangled in drab
We confound joy with palpable vulgarisms,
Subvert imagination to possession,
Move in a motion that for now shall be called render
   in a bid to bless the son
   by viperous detraction  

…or distractions that no longer grasp the feral gesture.

Such is the beacon of the hidden myth.

To gauge the cloak of hidden inference
To incept the moon struck chalice brim filled with psychic wards
   desiccated by transgression
To unravel a season unparalleled in the old world says nothing of   
   surveying the opium quantum missive
To pursue sentient narcoleptic lull is neither sensational
   nor comparable to fracturing duplicitous tonics
To dwell on duplicity for reasons unknown creates an illusory gap;
   a doorway of a thousand evanescent suns through which an intricate double enters
To view the daughter of Spirit lingering risks her breathing the hours
   that are not mine to give, but my father’s solar plexus
To mirror the universe is to pull the shoal from amnesia’s thigh
To sail the oracle of the fluid Phix is to become the ghost of everyone,
   and then un-become
To knead the bread of surrender when nothingness is a forgotten breath is to breathe
   inertia, a magick without scale, without dialect
To yield to the volatile port of morning already drifting, a paradise of desire opens,
   then shuts on a shadow path of apathy
To touch the Earth behind the black glass, an apparition of you melts,
   a wolf bearing the remnants of a charred phantom
To sense the Earth in a throne of drones
To stifle the channeled ghost in a state of hungry siege halves the sun,
   opens a translucent window to frenzy
To draw a cluster of harmonies from an nocturnal overripe with sorrow
   is to become a verb of light on the night’s violent tongue
To invent a magnetic memory as opaque as the haunted firings one possesses
   is to conjure a fifth season, develop a seventh sense
To have the gilded halves propelled by inevitability is to devour the feathered cradle,
   free the palpitating bird to a contaminated indigo

Such is the treason of the hidden myth.

 Tonight at Noon on a Week of Mondays
Cage and Mingus are unbridled myths too.

Is it possible to mock the myth in the melting drift of sanity?

 Novum summons the compression,
              Induces the pulse

       and we glide with the signals
absorbed by an harmonious SILENCE

Tripping under the flow of transfixed light
exposes the undertow in our thought;
the spasm in our logos


We re-inhabit dead center when we savor the impossible

And devour just a single sedition.

I mean to forge the retracted and refracted conscience
   lured by the failure of men bent on strings.

My face full of singlets is mad to fly
The grass is growing and the wind is dying
and the cosmic lights dim
as Tiamat dresses our dream
with the conflict of torn shadows.

We are children in her oval
Sleepless like the clueless whose eyes burn at the touch of her lips,
the pressure of her thoughts weightless as she kneels in stunning protest,
whiplashed by nitrate in a volcanic surge of up rushing dreams
bursting out
and flooding all crucibles
that are a river of wire and red necromantic spells.

The soul yearns for the balm of hunger
at the Altar for La chevelure de Falmer

Palermo Anarchists show me the beauty of the tomb
and the Entrance is CRUEL!
We are the Unthread Wound
unspooling as we speak
with voice like the rain of reason
and treason that is poised to sequence desire.

The woman at the table fidgeting with her necklace
   doubles as Lamantia’s eureka moment.
Pumped and haunched by a dull flame,
   her charmed Somnambulist speaks in Holy Astral provocations
      in strategic defiance to mutual offense.

That woman remains frightened by language.
Taught to conform to the shape of words
her rectangular tables gale and turn Banquets into tiny desires
that drift idly into a spiral of human affliction;

a spectral resistance perpetuated by the necessity to warp
   the mirroring image

to halve the sphere

to befoul the memory of sun no longer immersive.

In Chdnyid Bardo
the fierce vigil of the great trance
melts illusion
and splits time
the anger of the God


where I appear negated
in the Luminiferous Ether,
expanded aside the limit of the law.

And as so in the circle
The essence present at the beginning
passed from NUIT to HADIT
to the Oriole of Earth’s secret doctrine
in a swelter of spacious velocity

from which emerged the great scream,
the primal quotidian of the psychic zero

And so as in the circle
am I here.

The Sigil

The following is an image of a sigil I cast that is representation of an occult spell summoning the violence of my own personal power against any and all oppressive forces, in service to liberation and transformation, and is a psychic extension of the text.

I posted the sigil at either very active or very quiet, relaxed locations. I placed them at eye level so they would be immediately visible to anyone passing in those locations. I left it up at the locations I photographed it at. So worst case scenerio, the sigil will stay visible for a few days until it falls off into the street or sidewalk and deteriorates, at best case scenario it will be seen by enough people to be found disturbing for reasons not consciously apparent, or even better, perhaps compel someone to take it.

As I was putting the sigil up at the locations I selected, I was getting all kinds of strange looks from people that were passing.

A girl on a bike in my neighborhood watched me set up and photograph the one on Broome St and the Bowery and had a bemused smirk on her face the whole time. On Sunday in Williamsburg, Brooklyn several young guys were standing outside a bar across the street form me and seemed to be getting agitated and annoyed, When I was photographing it in the park, a teenager playing basketball came over to me and started asking a lot of questions about what the sigil was and what I was doing. At the end of our brief conversation he asked if I had a spare one he could have. I aptly obliged.