The Heart is a Transmission: The Last Votaries

"The more one hates Man, the riper one is for God, for a dialogue with nobody."
                      - E.  M.  Cioran
Mam:  Faith is a curled finger, a puddle of hope.  Look at love:  a poor bicycle, a kinescope.  The women all are delicate.  The gates are ajar.  The threshold of anything is tainted by remorse.

Jum:  The bus that used to stop at this stop does not stop at this stop anymore.  You can stand there all day and no one, I mean no one, will even tip his hat.  The rain is the most insistent thing about this place.  We give it another name.

Kil:  The heart is a transmission.  The day is fell.

Mam:  Uh huh, uh huh.

Jum:  Yep, yep, yep.

Kil:  Fell.

Mam:  Calm as far away as a rainstorm, I shake my fizz.

Jum:  The elevator on its way to Mammon Park.  The trip down the Helter and Jekyll.  I look for your face in every address.

Kil:  Fell.

Jum:  I want what any man wants, I guess.  A little relief, an expanded version of my own heart attack.

Kil:  This line is crooked, meant to lie on the page like a fossil truth.  We all live in dreams.

Mam:  I listen to Miles, I listen to Zim, I listen to the sound of my own footfall in the forests of the Interior.  I talk to Jimi, I talk to Dame Murdoch, I talk to myself.  It's all the same jungle, Jim.

Jum:  The girls are naked and they dance.

Kil:  I give him a royal kenning.

Mam:  The head, the really big head.  The test, the really telling test.  The man, the one at the gate.  And me, don't forget about me, don't, don't forget.  About.  Me.

Jum:  Yes, Mam.

Kil:  Ah, Buzz, take that.  Right to the nucleus.

Mam:  I ended up, end up.  She was a basketful of dazzle.  She was a whirlygig.

Jum:  We all.

Kil:  At this point, in this place, 24/7, let me roll it.

Mam:  You mean, let's role.

Jum:  Yep.  Yep.

Kil:  The day is gelid, the tree outside my window wants in.  The woman next to me next is not my wife.  She opens a fumarole.  The tree outside my window wants her.

Mam:  Let's fumarole.

Kil:  I lift my page-cutter.

Jum:  The day is fell.

Mam:  Fell.

Jum:  The one that got away, the dance, the wendywardness of everyone since her.

Mam:  Yep.

Kil:  This morning is stiff between the sheets, the winding lies we told each other, another reason to stay under, the waves like fog, the bed a drydocked shift.

Jum:  Exuviae.

Mam:  Exuviae in pace.

Kil:  Rumors of Ward.

Jum:  I write this for the children, shivering and outside of every inside.

Kil:  I write this for her, back there, not waiting, still tomorrow not waiting.

Mam:  I write this form myself, inside of me is another man, Notme.

Jum:  Yep.

Kil:  Yep.

Mam:  No death before life.

Jum:  I redress the balance.

Mam:  I undress, unbalanced.

Kil:  Kil me.  
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