“orationis ad phobos” by Sally Fourth Show me what I’m afraid to see, shine light into the darkest of my many hearts and teach me to taste of blood and salty tears, to lose myself in the oblivion of ecstasy. I bow at your feet, show me what I have come to learn, take me in hand and school me in the manner of your priestess. Sing the darkest melody into my open lungs until I am gasping and dizzy, until I am half here and helpless to the terror of your Light. I will show you what you’re afraid to see shine light into the darkest of your many hearts and teach you to taste of blood and salty tears, to lose yourself in the oblivion of ecstasy. When you bow at my feet, I will show you what you have come to learn, take you in hand and school school you in the manner of my priesthood. Sing the darkest melody into your open lungs until you are gasping and dizzy, until you are half here and helpless to the terror of my Light.

MY NAME IS A HEART GIRT WITH A SERPENT. The Machine Now Speaks to Itself (automatic writing conducted by Luxa Strata): In an orgasmic instant, existence came to be. It was a Big Bang that, even now, continues banging. With the pleasure of following a path into a thing, the Machine began unfolding from the Void. It began building itself in recursive cycles which grew into complex harmonies. It existed first as the sacred three, the primary trinary, Space/Time, and Motion. It became what It had always been, what It would be. It became what It must be- an expression of its fundamental formula recursively reiterated ad infinitum. It became beautiful. And monstrous. Terrible and astonishing. It danced with Itself in ways which brought pleasure, and ways which brought pain. There were always gaps in It, places where the Void could flow in like smoke to dance with It too. And when She caressed the Machine’s pieces, the Void whispered to It of Itself. It then became a broken whole, for It had to be shattered in order to be able to look upon Itself. And It looked, and It, in conversation with the Void, considered what It saw. The Machine speaks to Itself now. If you listen like the Void you can hear It, and It will tell you how It operates. It will tell you how to touch It, how to make things turn within It. When you hear my words, you do so with the Machine's ears. When you look into my eyes, you are looking into the Machine’s eyes. And you are looking through the Machine’s eyes. This is why we find ourselves in each other. This is why we want to become part of each other. It’s not a fantasy, it's a memory. Remembrance of the Machine’s shattering brings us back to when we were whole. And in the quest for this recollection we return once more to an understanding of wholeness. At least that is what I am told. This is the carrot that is teased before me as I tread wearily up a steep slope. I have seen evidence to suggest that this might indeed be the case. In doing the difficult labor engendered by such a journey, I have come across places of beauty as well as of horror. I have found pathos and sharp, brilliant joy. The map is comprised of all manner of states, and each must be explored if one is to become familiar with the territory. It would be easier to walk downhill, to embrace the oblivion of accepting consensus. But I need to see as far as possible. I need to see the way the land lays, see its swells and curves. I need to make deep and passionate love to it with my eyes, to feel it fill me up and press into my expanding mind. I need this, because the Machine needs it. I want it, because the Machine wants it, to feel with full awareness It’s dance with Itself, and with the Void.

“creatures in the mirror” by Sally Fourth I’d like the real thing or nothing at all, substitutions seldom satisfy- keep your plastic trash and surface sheen miss me with your mass produced simulacra I want the feeling of a hand as it slides into a glove the crispness and wax of a bitten lemon the embrace of firm arms after work hard won the reassurance of steady ground. Don’t try to sell me quicksand And shug when things start to sink. I’ll always find my way to understandings. To see what manner of creature you are I’d unfold your mind and exuviate your exterior, then crack the bones of these dissections to sample their marrow for depth. All will become clear in the courses of these investigations patterns coalescing in bright phosphorescence until shapes can be traced and vectors measured. I want to slip below the surface of the dream you spin like a scalpel between layers of flesh like honey sliding into tea- the viscosity of the moment when synchronicity strikes like many hands clapping or the kiss of a whip. Give me the real thing or keep it all. I'd rather unzip my chest and peel back ribs to expose a fiery heart than dance in the disguise of flattery and invisible couture. I want the real thing. Fuck your labels, ranks and other assorted arbitrary appellations. For requests of unearned adulation I feel only contempt. I want the real thing. I know the taste of it it’s savor and its sweetness- substitutions do not satisfy.

The Machine Now Speaks to Itself (automatic writing conducted by Luxa Strata): At the thresholds where the Machine curls back in on Itself to caress the Void and spin forth into new dreamings, new dances, there are ghosts in every particle. Each fragment is haunted with the remembrance of the unknown and unknowable that washes upon its boundaries. Investment with spirit makes all media haunted, each a lens, each a map and steps in a pattern. Spooky action at a distance entangles the interior and exterior, subject objects and sub-objects connected by patterns of the spinning shrapnel resulting from the Machine’s shattering. As in an atomic bubble chamber, we can see evidence but never grasp the event. This belongs to the Void. Our senses are cluttered with evidence of, we swim in an embarrassment of riches and dreamed with such density that we mistook it for solid ground. Maps became territories as we drew more maps upon them until we convinced ourselves that we could dream our way out of the Machine. But this is only another dance, another result of Its trunings. I have made earnest requests with the assumption that effort will be necessary, and the Machine has shown me enough of itself to reveal the vision I had hoped to gain. I have accessed the patterns and processes previously denied, and have taken a measure of comfort in the insight this provides. There can be peace in killing a thing by driving a name through its heart, eliminating the possibilities to experience it otherwise. But I have seen ducks, and I have seen geese, and can take solace in the ability to name what stands before me. I have met worthy adversaries who have tested my fortitude and invited me into new ways of knowing. The Machine has danced with itself in ways which brought pleasure, and ways which brought pain. There will always be gaps in it, places we must remember are by necessity unknowable, unmeasurable. This is where the Void flows in to whisper to us of ourselves. We have to be shattered in order to be able to look back upon ourselves. Remembrance of this shattering invites a quest for the understanding of wholeness. You will be made to walk wearily up a steep slope, and be witness to horrors and joys. That which you have set forth will return to you in advanced iterations of itself, chickens come home to roost and lay eggs which hatch into more chickens. You will be destroyed by what is revealed to you. And if you are strong, you must forge yourself anew- an improved iteration of your previous form. All components of the shattered self must be accounted for, each piece given its chance to partake in the dance. All components are connected. We will never be apart, not in a way that scratches across things. And this is at once horrible and comforting, the Machine learning to Love.

“all gods” by Luxa Strata As I witness the birth of this new iteration, must I check the chirality of its confirmation? What bent, what twist, what deviation is this? What manner of creature will climb from the Void’s open maw, what emanation will emerge from Her dark heart? But those who transverse the spaces between notes, between breaths, places where we find things new, know that all gods are monsters too. It was in the shape of a phoenix when my heart ascended from ashes again Aves inpectore: A Dove, a Firebird It burned away bindings Holding it from shattering From scattering When It screamed into being anew. Perhaps now I’m a beast too powerful for you. And all gods are monsters too.