Welcome To The World Of The Spy Novel

The music I use to wash my hair every three days or so no longer wants to be heard in this world of performance-chakras, downloadable bubble-butts, and the fusion of every newfangled fascism under the sun. Even my handwriting, which I'd often come to find floating so carefree around the livingroom, bears the look of utter defeat. And

rhymes with electricty.

'Welcome to the world of the spy novel, sentence by sentence...' from the radio. Once fuel for a billion dreams in a more innocent time (we are told), it now serves mostly to remind us that even the ugliest of our toes needs to be fed.

Laughter rising from the street below, young people on their way to drink and dance in sweaty, crowded nightclubs and bars. Come midnight, they will simultaneously reveal their wings they had tucked away from sight, unfurling them briefly but with tremendous pride. Such transparency is required because the poets in this orbit are all heroin addicts. Their parables and aphorisms, though originating in good intent and fecundity of spirit, sit quietly at busy intersections, taking in all the hullabaloo, sipping wine while trying to appear wise. Clearly a hallucination, the latest science is vacationing on the beaches of Australlia, keeping a diary in which it dutifully records the arcane mysteries it can smell on the warm wind, failing to notice that the racial question has suddenly grown fins. No humming in public places, please. All floating knives are to report immediately to such and such a nanotechnology at the appointed time. We all know the drill, so we just smile and impose our own theory of what makes a circle a circle.

Melodies improvise themselves into being while I sleep. Glowing, perfectly oiled, chest-hairs have invaded my refuge in the virtual.

Rosicrucianism is simply not the place for me. Its secret leaders are impotent, no longer aroused by the mere sight of planes leaving the runway. My tongue knows the distance to downtown Montreal, comrades, the home of bicycles that yearn to be Mexico, anyway.

At The Beginning Again

Striation paradox, minutes stretched across the sky's ceiling, then falling onto the city below. Motion becomes labyrinthine and beautiful, too beautiful to even approach our understanding.

All cartographies seem to freeze, new faces lost hopelessly in laughter and play, the dazzling hues of pink leaping from the concrete before returning to their song.

Iam thick, opaque glass and: the world over guarding perfectly ample hips, fearing they will dissolve and waft through lonely, dirty alleyways; memories led to the edge of the sea and given a gentle nudge outwards; cigarette smoke rising unexpectedly from the pages of an open book to complain about how resigned it has become to its condition; a final telepathic fuck-you, another syringe withdrawn from another emaciated arm; astronauts wandering the margins of space, eyes glazed over, still chasing after the ecstasy their visors tell them is right there.

iam alone with my electricity (4)

a gaggle of wild dogs bark the swirling horizon, surprising even our gouge at the symphony's throat: lunar tresses boil amidst all the apathetic faces my chosen prophet wears to the golden ball: dada horses with only the law to guide them into the astonished triune of decay, any source of sound not writhing its recognition of genuine otherness: the circular voice indulges me with my green torrent of feet already dead drunk, but pure on other worlds

Welcome To The Pyramid

...a hologram aching with adoration and a vague hope of recovering fifteen billion sweaty ballads from the colour of opium. one could blast off into theoretical nights, or freely choose to squander the new Eve on remixed whorls of metaphor. the scarab's initial relation to superior fingers, it was all a harbinger of the sweet, unresolved fifth that augmented gravity, the codes revealed by your bare shoulder minus the lattice of smiling numbers. I ran through the flickering conspiracy, baritone impulses splashing at my exposed knees and thighs. the logic of evisceration drank prophecies from the fluourescent green foliage, a satellite was given enough answers to question. on the cusp of a digitized sunrise with blank eyes and a frightening message from the automatic, I mourned what was ironic in you, the equations that drifted without purpose yet were capable of dividing the bluest sky into the syntax of my upturned palms

Robert Chrysler is an inspired subway-ranter from Toronto, Canada. He enjoys challenging capitalist property relations, trying to figure out what the post-structuralists are going on about, and dreams of someday living in a tree.