dark shades of ghosts in the closet
bloody fangs on the rear wall of the wardrobe

WILL must (?) (might) be an independant agent working (undermining) a larger system of components ( . . .?).
Imagine instead a still-life (frozen aire) ga-ga land where scripts flit by (. . . . .),
the array is enticing, the images become lost like a newspaper blown down the street .
The main kernel below all of this is to inquire as to whether TEXT is compulsive, whether the physical motor will to scan is a reflex designed to acquire the 'ideal'
TEXT (. . .?).

MOREover, is writing the agent of a SUPRA-will? - Is it yet another arm of the Demonic agent of individuation splintering off to create a compelling undercurrent which by its unique position counters all hitherto existing statements?

Perhaps the most literalistic examples of this paradigm may serve to provide an illustration here: A few authors who embodied the isolationist paradigm, whose intractability constructed the walls of a TEXTual citadel around their corporeal, tangible thoughts?: perhaps the incarcerated images of Antonin Artaud, the Marquis de Sade, Jean Genet will guide us repetitively to the same conclusion: Is not the Demonic will a divine Agent?

The search for the 'Ideal' text . . .

Moreover do we as creative agents need to disguise our own motives, if in all of the culling and compiling and erecting that we strive to organize in order to 'subvert' our original native positions placed by birthright, in order to gestate successfully, doesn't it mean that creation is itself a subversive process?

Isn't it after all a hermaphroditic severing and fusing, a nocturnal descent by which the attributes of a Tiresias are obtained, bifurcations which by their growth cannot be traced?
Isn't it also necessarily paradigmatic, simply because it represents yet one minute fraction of a primitive process (Pasolini: Oedipus Rex) that is accomplished cyclically,. . . . is it even necessary to hold this window open, for isn't the drama created when it is stumbled upon tragically?, poetry, according to this definition that I am crudely attempting to define is just this, chtonic subterfuge . . . an antecedent
variable of chaos that is best avoided . . .

What if by some frightening action of complacency the World as it grew us was forgotten. Death became a freeze frame extinction and all of us simply survived . . .
eventually we all grew up and found that there was no longer a need for Fear . . .

Charons' Skiff

Fantastical Dreams and Phantasmagoria of soul and metempsychosis awash in a vile river of putrescent stench. Carrion dripping into the ebb from the banks of its gaseous shores. A clipping bark of oar and the open hook of a scythe that dredges me from my floating supine wafting between bobbing nuggets of limb and meally worm infested celluoid unraveling off its sputtering reel of stowed dreams like the dismembered fragments of lives hunked upon Charons junk.
A cradle of human compost I fall into warmer than the embrace that holds me there as my thoughts collide in an oily bubble of screams: I recognize a lamias jagged jowl and half ravaged hanging jaw:
I slip and writhe upon the decks ghost fish stew sheening with flecks of decomposing grey soul scales. Hopelessly the bobbing ocean bed of death calls me and I convulse lovingly to comply but I am locked in a shattered geometric nightmare vise lock of stacked blue crystal shards that reflect the monster languishing dull anvil weight of the lamia hording the small space of my back.
I desire the lustful rigor of Charons oar to split my head and lance this putrid ghoul heaving on my ribs: should such a jolt tear a shock wave abacus register of lost radio streams buzzing through his monstrous greasy tome of nocturnal visits.