Monday, October 22, 2018

When computer hijacks texts & makes cyber cuneiform cyphers - homage to Kahlo

Frida Kahlo. The Broken Column. 1944. 

....when you read this below


 "Frieda"

read "Frieda" or "Kahlo"....on the other hand, yesterday I went to work on a long poem since 2011, "when fishermen cannot go to sea they mend their nets", about Frieda Kahlo, her image and images and the ongoing collective imagination of her, the event, the phenomenon still ongoing/unfolding in progress and when I went to the site to read the text over before any future tweaking slash and burning came upon cuneiform translations, better than what I can write...thusly:













































Here is "the Greater Relation" perfectly rendered. Find the hidden word which surds the calligriffins...why is the one word not rendered into glyphics? only Rilke knows....but the one word appears to be an ongoing ancient "hint"....






The weak translations of cuneiform revelation follow...



"All isreflux."
First "tablet/tableau"
"All isreflux."


compensations for blood-, 
earth-, carbon-, metal- 
deities. Incorporating Sky, 
an edible notion the more 
potent, sacrament of plants 
- fungus, febrile root, vine, 
leaf, pulp, spore, entire 
chemical choirs of angels 
gather in chew or brew, puff 
and spew, fiber fever swallows 
Uroboric Fractal which are
not so inclined to give us
ourselves utterly given this 
parity of storming  
exacting deities


"All isreflux."
Second "tablet/tableau"
"All isreflux."

Arab gift of the non-alloyed 

Zero unmeasured by mass, a 

better name for god depending 

on thermal history's twisting 

vector, ghostly mirage, if 

any are to be had - the base 

in spite of or within the 

Metallic 

Matrix 

the blacksmith heart hammering 

verdigris, chambers, ventricles, 

into shape, Newton's grave conju

gations, living time solidified, 

hardened, stiffens into dilute 

renderings base metal, chaste 


"Frieda"



chasing plutonium wire unaware, 

bears the blunt end at the end 

the Aeon of the Fishes still 

barely beyond Bronze Age's just 

sharpened edge fluted, preferring 

obsidian one hacked, chipped, 

scraped hard flint

"Frieda"


volcano born into conjugal vessel

Quetzal plume conjoined to Serpent 

skin extension of crash, returning 

God, boat, and horse delivered from 

the red beard of the bloated sea 

confronting yet one more deity 

requiring blood-canvas attempts 

failing to distill, to come to 

terms with what happened to her 

at 16 years of age, piercing metal 


violating flesh 


newly woman, turned her into some

thing completely utterlyastonished, 

livid and unforgiving pain burning 

her to vapor, yet, still, each  

canvas she falls ever backward 
within the cruel alchemical vas

glass splinters into 

unrelenting nerves, 

encased steel-plated 

Virgin takes a 

cyclops for lover  


 "Frieda"



[screen shot photo of papal mass for prisoners at end of 
Jubilee]


Each viewing of a Kahlo painting 
a viewing of her life, body and soul, 
its alluded metal serpents, cyclopic 
hulking male tyros (Rivera, Trotsky), 
volcanic, engorged Titans of Malinche, 
chingares (goring ones as the bull 
gores hungrily) swallowed, too, hoping 
both to remain and to break free of 
Her, the Great Saurian Mother, Plumed 
Serpent, Quetzalcoatl, inherited deities 
extracting from Kahlo and Mexico literal 
blood, for paint is blood too, gashes in 
brush strokes she could never quite 
conceal/congeal (and thus her paintings 
turn hemorrhage to good purposes), 
becoming herself the clot, her flesh 
an unwitting tattoo of existence's 
beautiful and terrible forms. A life 
with needles, stitched, she pitched 
repeatedly into the long throat of 
the Alimentary Great Mother, 

Uruboros tail-in-mouth, recreating 
Her self in hard passages, throat 
to anus to birth canal and cave, 
galactic center point waiting perhaps 
at the other (no) end, carbon jesters, 
angels teeming on Quetzal quill tips, 
twinkling fires in the pitch, sometimes 
called stars, or ravens, black heralds 
of colors yet to brilliantly come.








Still, such timidity ends in engorged blood, meat requirements, rendering vaporous sublimity too thin for fingers, why forks were invented. If modernity, it's forks and faxes, returns anything of value to us stretching into denial which is all our futurity, it is the return of images, official and unofficial, which return us in turn to our official and unofficial selves, limping shod or un-, ens-not-Ens (being-not-Being) as we are chafed to particular part-selves multiple-imaged as they want or dream to be - 

Who are we?

Frieda with her Twentieth century stifles a yawn and "stuffs the universe into her [and our] eyes" (a line from a poem by zen poet, Shinkichi Takahashi).