A dark morning, the sun is blue today. Yes, and a down going movement is in order. The seaside cave is dripping with sighs on the side of the white spectral cliffs. I (but not I) climb down, roughing up the vegetation with unworthy steps. A vaginal hole the approximate size of an ash leaf stands in front of me (but not me). I enter, pure silence reins here. No ocean waves or gulls dance inside the eardrums. Liquid drips from the ceiling, a thick black substance which whispers to me when I am sad. I lay down on the ground, covered in black bile and turmeric. Closing my eyes, I picture a giant airship in the shape of an elephant, stumbling toward the Berlin skyline. The playing of this thought opens cavern rooms previously unknown to me. A red squishy path opens up around me, this action played to the sound of a knife. This fabled red road exists in direct opposition to hard and unyielding yellow brick road of which all rational porcupines are convinced. I open my eyes, take off my sandals, and proceed. The path feels warm, very nice in fact. I resist the urge to lay down once more and sink inside those mothering folds forever. That bright blue light again. I reach a lower room deeper than I have ever seen. A pool of dark water and some strange movements nearby. The body of a young mermaid is next to the pool, beached or merely mad. She looks up at me with blue lips and blue fingernails and coos softly. I touch the outline of deep wounds geometrically arranged across her arm. The number “557” and the word “earthquake” are prominently displayed across her cheekbones. I run my hands across her breast, slowly working my way to her coppertone vagina. Slick suffocating essence of an empty perfume bottle. My penis bursts forth from its decaying womb of mass produced fabrics and has an argument with me over the moral implications of fucking this dazed mermaid. The delighted ball sacks expand, vibrate, and coo in response to her inexplicable murmurs. Inside her slit I find the house of colors, a land of disused mucosa and delicate golden ruins. The angels with heads of pulsating esophagus greet me, grabbing my hair and running wet salamanders through it. From their tails and little arms, a secretion of a first order. The mythological content of this sexual affair is unmistakable. Or is it stake-able? The figures turn to white dust, I can no longer see anything. A dark window or perhaps Mabille’s mirror slices my misused eyeball and I am happy. A universe has died but I have not taken it’s place too soon. I am swimming in the fluid of the hungry goat and the mermaid has begun to melt onto my body. I pull myself away slightly but it seems I am stuck, it is like a sticky blue taffy. I lick some of the melted flesh, and it tastes sweet. The hair tastes more unpleasant, like the licorice which I have never enjoyed much, except when I am channeling that mummified medieval flagellant’s back scar. My mouth is blue from over feasting. The ground turns a bright white gold and so do we. Calcification.
The next day.
Rapid four dimensional flight through an epiphany of uncontrolled levels. My vision so blurred by this movement and this simultaneous descent and accent that I began to hallucinate trees. The reality of the body is a surreality. Expanding between walls, dropping down into tiny mice holes…It is the perfect aboriginal aardvark. Why should we believe that the shoulder, currently hindered by the authoritarian barriers of skin, will not tomorrow be seen riding a bicycle? All excretions are sacred. The body in liquid form is a tall cathedral door worth closing quickly so that the priests inside burn to death in the dyslexic flood of the utopia to come. My toes may one day become the crown of Satan’s disrobed penis. My hair could become his anal passage, tickling hungry arrivals. And my eyes? My eyes will certainly drift about in the ocean, lost and forgotten like some dumb decaying piece of a message in a silly old glass liquor bottle. This author-less splash of paint on the wall is not a monument to lost ages but to a uterine future in the process of rupture.
No, I am not convinced that the dog is really feeling those fleas pulsating on his rump. I prefer to think that the door knob ingrained in his thoughts of pain is slowly turning an unnatural color above the fire pit and this is why he suffers.
Does the salamander’s tail weep for his lost body? No. It is content with the multiplicity of forms written on the back of the oozing brown wart stuck firmly and forever on the eternal flatulence of a god. Yes, the shit also is happy to leave these rusty pipes during morning constitutions. Its only wish is to no longer be bounded by the fascistic unified body which stubbornly refuses to spill its marvelous secrets. My deepest hope is for nothing more than that all skin would become transparent skin, that all of civilization’s constricting and ridiculous clothes will be collected and burned in great big piles on the moon by some aimlessly drifting space pirates onboard the ship Arcadia, a final and true smoke signal emanating into an already moist and nipple-erect cosmos which distant alien life could interpret as the long waited-for sign that they can finally take us decaying mammals seriously.
My goal for the new year: To become melted white cheese on the back of a hermaphroditic alligator’s rapidly expanding vaginal cavity, while five growing but still childlike penises melt and constantly reform in the fallopian cenote of my dreams.
It’s very exciting to see that the catalogue for the Archaeology of Hope, an international surrealist game, exhibition and ritual held on the Isle of Wight in 2017, is now available from Head Louse Press. This gorgeous catalogue contains many strange and shocking wonders from the surrealist future.
“The Archaeology of Hope was launched on the winter solstice of 2016, with an invitation to a game that culminated on the summer solstice of 2017. This book is a catalogue of the results of the game, and a record of the exhibition and performance ritual that sprang from it.”
An oneiric communication from Bruno Jacobs to Jason Abdelhadi, December 4th 2017:
“Last night I dreamed that I saw the following internet publication of yours, ELEKTRON.
I think that it was a kind of newsletter, and it looked quite exactly like this anyway, with paragraphs that didn’t really make sense to me, including odd numbers and capitals and with certain words in color. I was also somewhat surprised that it looked like text did on early MD-DOS computers.”
and some unexplained occurrences of aquatic faunas
By Mattias Forshage
Head Louse Press & Peculiar Mormyrid Press
- Savage carnivores that prowl in the park…
- Towns that are made entirely of onions and eggs…
- New developments in the science of eschatology…
- The mysterious monument known only as The Tintin Gate…
Parisian surrealist Michel Zimbacca’s first solo exhibition will be taking place soon in Paris:
Paintings, collages, drawings, objects
October 14th-28th 2017
Vernissage on the 14th, from 6:00-10:00 p.m.
Closing Event on the 18th, 8:00 p.m. (poetry readings and films)
L’USINE 102 BOULEVARD DE LA VILLETTE 75019 PARIS
Tel : 01 42 00 40 48 / Site : usine102.fr
The closing evening will be accompanied by a screening of Michel’s films. A collection of his poems, illustrated with with a number of his drawings is forthcoming from Sonambula editions (Montreal) and will be on sale at the gallery.
And for those of us who can’t make it in person, there is a Youtube upload of Michel’s film Ni d’Eve ni D’Adam (1969) with a cameo from Jean Benoît!