Notch Six (Non-Zero Sun)

A virus in the planet, an imprint subject to screw... countdown to nova. The sugar-screw circulates and drives. Brain marinates in bland alcohol shivers; this machine shudders, runs on petraglyphs, burns clean eclipsthynol. This is not a reading machine.

The worms drill down viral patterns in the uterine echo chamber: the heartbeat, pulmonate rasp, motor’s thunder, asphalt hiss and the paranoid flat nasal buzz of men and women making sense of things – folding a neat universe into handbags and cocktail napkins, a neat conspirator pacing in the background. Toe clicks on the tile... moth bend and clip, silent on foetal radar.

Lips singed by the barking liquor burn smile now. Lipstick-mottled blank goddess ...a mother buzzard. Fat-fry renderings in chalk and piss and granite... This scroll was written in bile, with a hollow bone, with a hum in my ear. Shovel it in A-major, as close to 8 Hz as we can get down here, in the leech ranch, where the agates are all alphabetized, the typewriters only run underwater.

Six notches down, the cool air condenses on the canister – a pressure differential – like tiny wooden match-fire burns oxygen from a glass cup. The cup, positioned, suctions like an empty brilliant leech, blazing with transparency.

Open end, corpses down... six feed down, six notches up. The joint ratchets, the prices hike; the skyjack knife pinions Braille xenophobe threats on the dust-jacket. These pensions prolapse; now were all uninsurable. Miles of coils, miles of eleven-degree chemical knifings and chemical brides... A mass of tissue bolus subdivides, implodes. Latent twin fetus shares a spine, vestigal gills and fins, shares a jacket-less circular book with his broken blood uncle. Bulemic queers piss in the livery. The bootblack fucks the sheriff’s horse. His signature blot drips.

This island is a whale - a dead whale imploded - and supernovae coalesce swollen oceans into microscopic non-possibilities, particles with a negative tendency to occur in a non-domain. Eleven-dimensional six-corpse opening... buried head down, salt-crowned skeletons of the elevens, skeletons of the nines. The vane rests on the eleven. The gears melt. The axis of Pluto falls through galactic center, trips the wire while our sun rests there, saying nothing, never setting, never brushing close enough to zero. Non-Zero Sun ushers you just to the edge but can never drop you over.