Why Do You Hate The Sun?

I. Mimic Satisfaction

I had promised myself never to dine with transcendentalists even if they are the one meal which is accurate for the day. They have served me a salad, a degree of debris… They have courted me, with heart-aches; condemned me to the stables; sent me to the black prison; tried to bring down the obelisk black. They have killed me. They will kill me… I promise you, she will kill me!

“…And in one whole year, she will leave you with nothing. She is the sun, and the sun cares for nothing less than belaboured brightness of the others surrounding her. And so you may know that what is her is her– queen of talent and taste, outreaching– indulgent keynotes, safari loudmouths and safari lanterns– unashamed poshlost, rugelach, thistles, incubators. Outflanked, she is prospering– the greatest vessel but is not a vessel– underwires that are dead, uppercuts which are eager… In one whole year, she will leave you with all the things you never cared for. She will leave you, not with her name, but with the name of another.” –wrote the miserable Mr. Loversky.

“And the earth spoke to me. And the fire and the air and the water polluted all spoke to me.
And I cared no more about the speaking of men. They sounded all so tired, with their endearing toothlessness
And their vacationing glory… As one pushes and publishes the physical home to be not the one final home,
Then it is treated with pissing and anger and affection so unintrusive; stacking and pestering; and sliding overcasts.
But this home is our final home! And the home, too, of the final people! of the people whose bodies aren’t vessels,
But are the final fanfare! Bad milk bubbles. Bad seas roar! Rondo Alla Turca for the people! Ob-literati, the twisters!”

To choral all the sentimentalists of a dying nation… (To Hebe…)
‘Til death do them part, but death is unattainable… (To Eve…)
To shriek and shine at the shallow moutaintops… (To Adam…)
To rhinestones embedded to true eerie skulls… (To Eros…)
To have sobbed with the sobbing of the nearly dead.

II. Mimic Nicotine

I am South-East Asian Gễras, overdone and overpraised.
I hang my lovely coat next to my collection of lonely urns.
I have far from seen everything. (Eve and Hebe deserted me…)
I have now new comforts. (To Adam and Eros, do abandoned me!)

Trust that this love– the love beside me– is the love optimal.
And I’ve never been a free person. No, I’ve been bound by crucial laws.
“Bitch, thou shall not steal! Bitch, thou do any harm to thine neighbors,
Nor do any thing with them… Your neighbors are not your concern.
Your only concern is your own one family.” And, of course, since I had no sense of duty,
I rebelled. And thus, the crucial laws that formed within me (And it is true. Heaven is selfish.)
Are the opposite of the crucial laws of the universe, (Name me the immaterial. It is a false city.)
For the universe is mighty selfish. (And you are right… Hell is, indeed, also selfish…)
(Hail the city’s strangest– my combination of untidy deities! Sinless in the immaterial!)

I’d have to pick every thing that everybody wears. And if I didn’t like what they choose,
I’d let them now it in a flash of news, because a flash of the eyes wasn’t enough. (Name me.)
I’d have to supervise those who dispose of our jetsam and goldenrod. (Hell is wearable.)
I have to make the time. Yes, I have to make the time. (Yet it is true. Heaven is worn out.)
“Every body is wasteful. Look at how they all waste nature! (Ascend from heaven, brother.)
Look at how they all waste the time where I make the time!” (Descend from hell, brother.)

And so, when I discovered love, I did not know what to make of it. (Give me, now, kleos…)
How to control it and how to rebel against or for it made zero sense to me (Suspend arete.)
And I’ve never been a free lover. No, I’ve always been a vacant one, (Blame Hebe. Blame Eros.)
Just vacantly staring and experiencing and sipping at the cup (Don’t trust Hebe. Crucify Eros.)
That will soon promise itself empty. But, alas! This love is optimal! (“Take this apple, husband!”)
This love beside me did not care if I pick any thing it wears, (“I will take the apple from you, wife.”)
Or if I had to supervise the things it is to dispose, whether (Let’s watch Adam masturbate for Eve.)
Excess in the natural or excess in the unworldly. (Give me, now, kleos. Suspend me of all arete.)

Age hammers me and every lover. (Sell out to Olympus.)
I exceed myself in solitary. (Sell out to the Underworld.)
I hang my lovely coat, my lovelies. (Sell out to Tartarus.)
But I promise to thee this, (Sell out to the Asphodel Fields.)

Love is never wasteful, I say. Love is never like the universe,
For the universe is mighty selfish. (Glory to the killing of deities!)

III. Mimic Masterpiece

Have you ever found a body as perfect and as unreadable as Arnheim?
Where there offers peace and happiness and maybe all sorts of balance,
There is also nothing but lengthy discussions of nothing? What excites me
About the body is that there is a promise! Yes, there is a promise of a glimpse!
And to glimpse that perfectly defined happy, as stoic and as sincere to stoicism
As may be, is a rare opportunity! And I get besieged by the hunger that is offered.
And I get emptied by the besiegement, and both emptiness and hunger unbalanced
Forces me to re-grow…. I look everywhere and breathe the essense of everywhere,
And say I, “Look at the nipped and lifeless pigments of the things here that have no name…
They are ugly and distorted and resented by every thing taking the spaces beside them!”
What happens to a person when a name they’ve avoided for so long finds them again?
What is a name? Is it just the consecutive utterance of syllables? Or is it the entirety of
One’s persona? Myths have taught us that names have power. If such power exists,
Does that mean a name can both destroy and create? Yes, I think… A name can conjure
Images; can represent the future; can investigate the past; can stop, in its tracks, the present.
What is a thing, then, in a plane so soundless or devoid of language? How do you search
Memory in this sort of ethereal and dreadful existence?… Arnheim is such a powerful name
Like the name of yourself or the name of your lover that was once an extension of yourself.
“And I will put all extensions of my names in clay, so they’d be with purpose forever!” I say!

“There are monsters in celadon urns. Beware! Beware!
If the topic is remembered, I will horde the topics myself!
I will own all potteries and monsters of this dire world!”

I pray a name is never wasted on me,
And I don’t even believe in prayers.

IV. Mimic Flexibility

“Rethink, always. Rethink. All of your stances. Rethink, always. Rethink.
All of your gratitudes and all the things you so dear enjoy.” O’, Fragment!

My Arnheim is an Arnheim of perfect goldenrods being swallowed by lupins.
Lupins have always been a better offer to me. Better than roses. Better than tulips.
Better than kisses and coffins!

“Rethink, always, Adam. Rethink, always, Eve!” All that we stand on
Are vast. All that we inherited are the wastes of envious fragmental gods…

In my head still rings the hatred of the former cult I wasted two years of my life on.
I guess you never truly know people until you’ve heard them talk fanatical. And when
You introduce yourself to them, they will hang you against their faith. (I were family!)
O’, and they know. They know how to perfectly hang a human body!
The death and disposal of your body is their Arnheim!

Fragmental Arnheim is dead. It has no flowers. It has
Furious detonations fast-tracked and placed carefully
On the hands which are sly, by the broom’s side of the
Brown-lit marrow that was once a forgotten proud nation–
All the stars have cried cautiously and, stepping back, one
Could see the patterns emerge, emerge, then repeat. Too
Many failed stories have warned us but we heard of none.
Only the blinking ceremonials are what we have left and
What most of us will become. (Illiberality, come to me!)

Are you really ready for it, when the mellow comes?
Are you ready to share it with everyone when there is
Everyone who is not the self and everyone who is just
The self? The unrepeatable and expelled mac and mash
Morass comes in vagaries and paragraphs. I am owned
By the flawed closeness and consistencies, Mr. Loversky.
What is our spell for detoxification? Is it the mellow vibes?
Avowed cool boy vibes– no temples, no supervisions,
Just freedom far as the eyes and ears can sense. We are
Here to declaw the distributors; and in brindles, see; and
In étude, hear. And our tibia is here– fitfully, ambitiously
Lures the appreciations of the grueling as is the ambitions

In paper plates in our planetsides. I play the seared song of supervisions while you
Wave in your faceplate… Don’t feel alone, baby. Don’t feel ledged, legged. I got you,
Lithium-ion baby; enterprising, fossilized and clingy. You, propane planet of so many
Shinks of sterlings, my captive iron-heart armory-art baby, formulating in your
Head is the freedom, manic-schismatic Mr. Loversky. (Hi, illiberal Mr. Loversky!)

We threw them all in the air– all of our blood-moon boomerangs–
Hoping they would be made timid and clean. O’, how great our selfishness!
And how foolish we must be!… For if the walls are thick, and present, and
So, too, selfish, then where does our sins perspire but within us? Disciplines
Are to be then gone? Or are they to be then absorbed within the pores? The
Pores of the pure are the soulful pores! The scores of the rich must be selfish
Scores! The brushings of the enduring prolamations must be rich and soulful!
They must be the ones who are keen on throwing everything, just up and out!

Assists to the disbandings (Sell out to Olympus!)
Here, in my little city cottage, (To the Underworld!)
With my little coffee cup, I enjoy them: (To Tartarus!)
Suffocatings. I enjoy them: quiets. (To Asphodel Fields!)

I dream a rumble with tycoons. I foul myself indistinct. (For money!)
Lids and ids and creaks and contraptions! They are medicine to me!
But the songs of the dying are so persuasive (Against money, money!)

Against all the songs of the living which had always been more careless and selfish… And I’ve stewed them,
All together tougher– possessions of cattles with no reasons; tutting dissatisfied, cynical, clinical, and comical;
Threatening composite characters with winning profundities…The good stuff soaks. (Expelled!) Every man remains now
Undressed. Every lips taste inferior compared to yours, which is the gods’ last work perfected, I believe. Undesired
Are those who still roam with the mortar and its allies. The mountain bandits are beautiful. (Expelled to Olympus!)
So many animals wanting into buying visions but are not willing to pay for it. (Expelled! Expelled to Tartarus!)
But O’, how we bicker!

V. Mimic Inheritance

Every morn’, I wake to a world that is already proprietary.
O’, to be arrested by good news in the morning! To be woken up
With something so interesting that it’ll make unannounced stangers
Bow to me!… O’, shall I not stop dreaming of treasure just falling onto me!
Just a big chunk of capital becoming my seed. With my seed, I shall create
The slimmest version of my body, the fattest version of my soul! (Heaven!)

And believe, I will be malicious with that money! (Heaven is Hell!)
And yes, I will besiege myself with new things, perhaps jewelry!
Perhaps some thing that revolutionizes the world would revulse me.
Perhaps I will revive the ego of my fave, and spit my gems upon
Those who did not care to notice my dreaming years. And to cater
Only to memory of new memory will my admiration dream about!

If you hate the sun, I will buy the sun and hide it from you! (Heaven is Hell!)
And when it is perfectly hidden, I will remind you that you never cared for it,
And you were always indoors anyway, and that your world was small, and that
Your world was selective anyway, so why shouldn’t my wealth and vastness be?
You see, Eden is lost forever, even if you have the key. And while my Arnheim
Is the closest this world will ever have to Eden, if anyone I do not like crosses,
Then it will have to be a battle to the death with me. (There was never Justice.
There’s only Heaven and Hell and Money!)

VI. Mimic Vibrations

Only geniuses talk career in temples.
Only unchosen bodies know true pleasure.
Now, let us be clear! All the good work is suspended.
The only thing holding back the nightmare scenario
Is people being people, and– mind you– the people have things to say.

They will recount to you the lengths of their travels, and because they have traveled,
They are presumed to have known many things, absorbed many things. Because travel,
To many, Is the only thing that makes a human superb… But they have never been
To my Arnheim. No, my Arnheim had been displayed for such a long time…
Every body passes… Every body sighs and recites a prayer to it…

And every body stomps and kills a cigarette on it. And everybody ends it with a period
That weighed more than gold. When you truly love someone, you omit the use of punctuations.
That is the love optimal I enjoy now. A period-less love. A question mark-less love. I have no need
For temples for I hold now true pleasure. I hold now the key of the gush besieged and tamponaded.

Now: fear! All the good work is suspended.
The only thing holding back the apocalypse
Is people being people, and the people are stupid.

Who cares about these people who fear?
Who cares to mimic? Who gives two shits
I have lust beside me. I have loved. I have love.