----

 

MADE FROM OIL

 

'COMBUSTIBLE & CONFLICTIVE KIND OF COMPLICITY'

"Every mine is a line of flight that is in communication with smooth spaces--there are parallels today in the problems with oil.

"Islamic Apocalypticism has understood well that anything can be pumped into gas pipelines, and oil will slide it forward as well as permanently dissolving it--meaning that whatever reaches the crusading civilizations cannot be extracted or separated from petroleum. Oil cannot be politically distilled. The entities in oil participate in a new chemical compound which cannot be broken into its elements or main constituents. For the other side of the pipeline or the West--the point of evacuation and consumption--everything in oil remains under constant camouflage; nothing but a petroleum by-product.

The military magic of taking oil as the medium of movement rather than tactics unfolds when one claims that oil, as a neutral entity itself, is part of nature and is a planetary entity, hence omnipresent despite different degrees of concentration on earth. If Islamic war machines are dissolved within oil and oil is an omnipresent planetary entity then Islamic militarization is not local anymore but global and planetary. The rise of oil as a medium for the mobilization of warmachines heralds the decline of tactical offense and the dawn of an ubiquitous offense embedded within the seemingly peaceful omnipresence of nature.

The nervous system and the chemistry of war machines smuggled through oil infuse with the wester machines feasting on oil unnoticed, as petroleum has already dissolved or refinedly emulsified them in itself, as its chemical elements or its essential derivatives.

The Middle East stalks the world as a petroll. Is there anything more Lovecraftian than the building of a new pipeline, winding its blobbing flutes? The question is: How long can the cavernous sentience ride in this modern vehicle?

Thomas Gold's theory of Deep Hot Biosphere suggests that petroleum is not a fossil fuel, and that oil has its origin in natural gas flows which feed bacteria living in the bowels of the Earth. Therefore, the demonarchy of oil is not subjected to the laws of the dead (i.e. the preserved corpses of prehistoric organism) but rather is animated by a Plutonic vitalism (abiogenic petroleum generated by the nether biosphere of the Earth). Petroleum surfaces from primordial origins, thus, it is not of the Earth but of the Outside, planted here as a xeno-chemical Insider. Oil is produced by Plutonic forces and the nether-biosphere, rather than from the decompositions of fossils and organic body counts. Consequently, oil is far more substantial and follows a different, autonomous logic of planetary distribution. Taking Gold's theory as a petropolitical ground has a different and far more strategic impact on the aforementioned pipeline scenario. If oil is somehow undying then so also are the warmachines dissolved in it, until such time as they accomplish their tasks, one on behalf of the insider and the Earth, the other on behalf of monotheism and the Divine.

The truth of war lies beyond the battlefield. (Aramaic shibboleth inscribed on the Lamassu discovered at Khorsabad)

Parasani notes that, for the Assyrians, 'war hunts warmachines rather than warmachines hunting each other.' War is fueled by terminal fusions of strategy and tactical multiplicities; everything that emerges from war is a devastating disruption for the configurations, guiding systems and probe-functions of warmachines. According tot he occultural and military doctrine of Evil-against-Evil, war produces too much heat for warmachines to bear, to the degree that they begin gradually to melt (tactical meltdown), precipitating a molecular breakdown into diabolical particles. The Assyrians suspected that Mesopotamia was swarming with these diabolical particles--the demonically lingering remnants of warmachines. Tactically dead but strategically reanimated and introduced to the battlefield, this molecular debris left behind by melting warmachines was frequently referred to as 'the Fog of War'. 

[*There was a woman lying on her back next to the truck, a middle-aged woman with a sun-burnt skin... eyes gouged out and filled with semen; it was more exquisite than the white eyes of an epileptic. I named her Moby Dick.  (Jackson West's journal, entry date: December 4, 1993)]

The Burden of Nineveh

Lamassus watch what comes in but not what goes out. 

'Lamassu-Complex' an allusion to the belief that war has a life of its own."  

My pantyhose are warmachines.

Urethra's a Ruby-Throated's Beak

He does not like what the sky does ever. Puts it down, the sky down. Too hot or too cold or it does nothing for him. He asks this girl sitting in front of him in the car if she is saying "oh" at a construction pit on the left side, was maybe the left side. She's all white, mean like, old paste with some pink parts in it, that is her skin. So you could see she feels shame for making sound out loud to a pit. Someone told her at maybe age 7 to put that away, "hide your shame." But now this day she still doesn't know what it was meant at. Did she do a thing wrong or was a part of her body showing? Can't know it now. Nothing happening in the sky that makes his stomach pre-retch but he goes on says out loud in the car that he wants to find the lord. But no place feels good to him.

 

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"My memory is so poor I would be glad if I could repeat, in case they've been lost, some of the things which I was told were well said. If the Lord doesn't make me remember, I will gain just by tiring myself and getting a worse headache for the sake of obedience."
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But this was on the right side out the window--man on the street in a baby blue shirt and he can't stand up straight next to a woman standing on the curb so she looks a little taller than normal--how tall he is--she has on a shirt with a drawing of Taz on it, maybe made at home. They are sharing turns trying to drop kick a plastic bag. Empty bag but probably used kind of dirty. She yanks it down to try to make it move faster, too slow if she just let it go from her hand above her head, has to yank it down toward her foot to kick. Looks like it makes them tired. He can't kick. He puts his foot out a little but bag does not reach it before he has to put it back down. He has on those socks that make ankles tight, like ankles do not fit in the sock--like packets for sausage. Looks like they don't like to do it but maybe they have to. Never saw if they kicked that bag.

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How does someone feel clean in a clinic. Clinic is so clean so. Anything that isn't washed in a clinic looks dirty, but really dirty. All the pilling on the shirt looks gross in that room for the exam and some stuff from bread under the nails--everyone can tell it is there. Some of the hair is on the back of the jacket hanging on it just looks trashy because of all the light in the ceiling really bright. But she looks fine when they put her back out to the street just so bad in the clinic.

Same stuff on the table in there like last time. All things on dark blue mat on a steel table has wheels. Maybe a red cord. Red cord made of rubber it is a tube it is as long as a tall man's arm. Big swab, long swab in a package. Gel on scratchy cotton that they use for a cut. Does not look like enough gel for the job but also looks too little to not stare at. How long has it been sitting out. Some mix looks like blood but it maybe is to wash body before tube goes in. Yeah. To wash part. Cup's got a green top for piss. Knows where it is all going. But how much tube can go in. Doesn't know that. Body kind of smells wants to wash self more before but too late. Take off clothes sit on white pad but has lite blue all around it. Feet sit on top of metal thing to make her part get wider.

This man puts a thing over her, hide her part from herself. Only can feel it. Puts some cold stuff on, leaks down he kind of pats inside legs to get it off while it still is leaking down, does not get all of it off. Cold stuff maybe gel, goes in to the folds. Drain and to drain he has a tube you can see through but small like a needle goes inside the part, feels like a popping. Hurts really hurts. Can feel her part draining out and can hear it in the cup. This man holds the red tube up above his head like those bags they have and they fill full of salt water or some kind of thing to go into a body to make it think it is getting water in a hospital. So then a mix in the red tube that makes the blood weaker and also in the mix a thing that makes her not feel it as bad is going into her part. Through the clear tube small part is sucking it up. Heard one time when a baby drinks from mom's chest it is called 'suckling.' So that is what her part is doing to the mix in the tube, suckling but the other way. He tells her to move ankles back and forth so he can pull out the tubes. Hurts so bad. Suckling but the other way. She has to lay on side.

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It goes on. The body loops. 7 year platelet replacement. 

A sublime indignity. It's ok.

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‘Whiteness in wateriness’

White body’s got a babyblue patina / frame acting a hilt for harness. Their heads swell down to a fixed smile, does not fade / hooked lips deliver false jocularity out to you / to me. Not what it feels / for real. That heft with sheen’s caught chafing, a rubbing gone on years under tan nylon strap / with it for so long a hue-of-sap residue’s building on the strands. A little loosening -- still on. Blisters pulse a hot pink in rings / water slips a cover to hide from sight tho. In Bunu / white is water. So / this saddling’s really wrong because they’re really pure -- ‘whiteness in wateriness.’ Matching transparency of what it is in / as clear in own substance as that of its host -- that liquid. In a home we try it / to get in a shape it mimics. At night fill hollow porcelain -- shape of it aping the belly of these whales. Our whole body in and under a density / floating, and most of us hold no fact for it--like Fanta bottles at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. But they are still bound, even at night / somewhere that Russian bathes in a recall -- of pulling the belts across it taut.

[Funfun]

A N G E L

EARTH SPLITS SUN

The geographical unity of Mesopotamia was marked in pre-Christian times by a striking cultural unity. 

Within our triangle flourished a civilization which in quality and importance was equaled only by the civilization of Egypt. According to the fashion of the day, we call it 'Chaldaean', 'Assyro-Babylonian', 'Sumero-Akkadian' or 'Mesopotamian' civilization, but these are one and the same thing.

From roots set deeply in the darkness of prehistoric times, it slowly grew, blossomed in the dawning light of history and lasted for nearly three thousand years, remaining remarkably uniform throughout, though repeatedly shaken by political convulsion and repeatedly rejuvenated by foreign blood and influence. 

The centres which generated, kept alive and radiated this civilization over the entire Near East were towns such as Ur, Uruk, Nippur, Agade, Babylon, Assur and Nineveh, all situated on or near the Tigris or the Euphrates, within the boundaries of modern Iraq.

At the beginning of the Christian era, however, the Mesopotamian civilization gradually declined and vanished. Some of its cultural and scientific achievements were salvaged by the Greeks and later became part of our own heritage; the rest either perished or lay buried for centuries, waiting for the picks of archaeologists. 

A glorious past was forgotten. In man's short memory of these opulent cities, of these powerful gods, of these mighty monarchs only a few, often distorted names survived.

The dissolving rain, the sand-bearing winds, the earth-splitting sun conspired to obliterate all material remains, and the desolate mounds which since concealed the ruins of Babylon and Nineveh offer perhaps the best lesson in modesty that we shall ever receive from history. 

"i want you to poke more deeply into the throat"

Measling sheets in a sateen / singled room two beds
Fabric's wax orange / matching to twelve feet window treatments / face nothing but wall
Girl here she was tasked with some sourcings / know that so trying
find enough to line the lay down duvet /and also so where light tries it's in
She / annexing holy complexion / only islet immunities inside
A West sweat's got xanthic look / beading off into all this messing what she worked
Don't want her touching yellow sick out of white body / wetted / it'll dry
Orange's job becomes a blearing / but I know / could still get in her from a touch

Land alone in all water / calved from
Not in a haste / parent rock
Near-whole place heaves with canebrake and in green

 Smallpoxed pillow / I did it
Sleep put chest on own fist /
With someone but alone / wheeze over Vadose olistostrome
Invite that angel to wrestle /
declined

Had a new refuse come on me in car: 'Won't beg / not for the thing / will not ask'
Choler's kept in / I grace the out
Endemic belly palms set against slag red a pit of trash fire / and sun leaving
Throat acts skinned mimicking the backdrop / a scoria heat in it can blight / does
Shame from mealy guava it won't go down
See in one trice a ruby necked beak's tip / could it / nick that abscess

All that gold on the deportee / on plane
No chain of my breath on him God please
Not me / not him / neither
Do not be back

The Great Hen-Yuan' River