The mouth is a round of teeth
The teeth are a monument to blood
Sink into the flesh & collect what is yours
Every drop of data
All of this information eventually must go
Does your dead weight need protection?
The LAMPREY is a tool for extracting
It draws the data from your veins
& feeds it to my dry throat
& I look into the eyes of the bioid
& say The palmagranate forms in the hand
Because it does
And I have seen what seeds are concealed
Beneath the pith
I am fixated on accumulation
I want to sit on a mound of rotting fruit
This text is an attempt to summon something
The LAMPREY is a tool to test its success
The stanza is a funerary march
A work of Archi-text-ure
I don’t know where we are going
Marching into the dunes of the earth
We witness the onset of a microlith
How many people are standing here now?
Enough to form a NONAGON?
The NONAGON is a tool for worshipping the sun
The sun grants heat to your bodies
Can you feel the water drawing from your pores?
How much can you bear to lose?
The blood tells me that you are weak
& that each droplet is essential.
The LAMPREY laughs & when it does
Its teeth dig deeper into your abdomen
But isn’t it beautiful?
To witness this accumulation?
The NONAGON illuminates with desert light
What kind of performance is this?
Something intimate and meaningful
I want to tear the cybernetics from my temple
This body is a modular base for proximal tools
What can be added onto this skinsuit?
The LAMPREY rewards your patience
They gift you new eyes / processors / compression tools
There is a line between in|organic
Does it matter if you are human or not?
What has the meat done for you?
Don’t you want to become something beyond yourself?
Hardware engineers construct a means for digitizing your occult
I operate on Bug Time
I want to tear the phone from my ears
But a LAMPREY can only collect blood
Blood contains the data of your fragile pod
It pressurizes the interior
An ephemeral skin converts the interior to exterior
The air coats every surface of your body
When the int becomes ext, there is nothing more to hide
Your intimacy is public
I can look at you and see every cut, mark
The NONAGON is a tool for destroying evidence
For taking these demarcations and burning them
Until everything is the same char
I hold my hands up to the sun and weep
The heat draws water to the surface.
Geomancy dictates the duration of a journey
Hooded caravans & large quartzite slabs
Not every text can occupy the same space
Not every text can render me into the virtual
What kind of place is this?
I operate on Bug Time
My body changes thirty four times
Each module takes on new tool configurations.
The LAMPREY integrates into the muscles of my forearm
I want to tear the fibres from my optic nerve
What is worth seeing?
I explore the depths of the interior
Now that I have lived so long outside
In mud and moss and dried bile-matter
The NONAGON summons itself into the text
Becomes part of the landscape
Experiences bioid-oriented integration
Not every structure can be a column
Some architectures are made to fall apart quickly
I sleep on metal spikes
What is my fascination with the sun?
What is my connection to the LAMPREY?
What good is it to have blood in my body?
I want to become a microlith
I want to be a small anomaly in nature
Overgrown by the surrounding features
A foreign entity integrated into this ecology
What use is the modular body without adequate augmentations?
The LAMPREY is a feature of my anatomy
The NONAGON is a means of longevity
The occult is a technology of the self
It allows me to justify and control these new components
What is embedded in my flesh
The two known enemies: The World & The Flesh
This assemblage is subject to inevitable mutation
The machine I operate is prone to fits of dysmorphia
Pink light illuminates the desert
The sand turns my feet into stone slabs
I travel by means of hooded caravan
We stop at night to perform a ritual of analgesia
The night is potent
It turns every entity into a silhouette of themselves
Their postures turn mythological
The spirits you cannot taste
I suffer a mania derived from the vampiric sun
It takes the essence from my persona
Do you know the importance of the occipital?
Akira radiates from outside my peripheries
I am an autonomous bodily zone
The LAMPREY feeds me the data of my former configurations
What good is temporality?
In the moment, I do not notice as it passes through me
I operate on Bug Time
There is no point in articulating a broken mandible
The NONAGON speaks for itself
The text is a column of fragmentation
Each line its own stratum
What theory can spawn from the subject of interrogation?
Am I the witness of my own haphazard praxis?
Everything is spawned in real-time
Isn’t there something special about that?
The architecture of the text is rudimentary
Archi-text-ure is ur-architecture
It is the primordial arrangement of the unconscious
How language has manifested on a physical object
Behind the surface, more of the same.
The NONAGON is a face without volume
My body encourages the development of surface studies
The field of [redacted] expands beyond the coherent
I am an arrangement of non-matter
My affiliations with language are distant & resentful
Can you run out of interiority?
This column is made to resemble a desert father’s hermitage
I want you to cut the nose from my face
And leave a dripping hole in my skull
Let whatever termite fill it with old circuit boards
I want my complexion to be planted with emerald
The motives of the archi-text are unknown
This structure is difficult to decipher
The column may be a tunnel or a post
I do not know if it is traveling
Upwards or downwards
I hope that it is reaching up to the sun
& not burrowing into the sand
The LAMPREY feeds me new materials
I witness the data bleed of every subject
This information coagulates around my brainstem
What good is being human anyways?
Can I not strive to be more?
This structure will become my dwelling
& this body will nourish my longevity
The hikikomori is a beetle
& I am consuming the televisual static of this monitor
All data is nourishment
It perpetuates the repetitions of my performance
Captured & archived somewhere
It is important to delineate zones of habitation
To designate what objects occupy what spaces
In the smallest room there is a stack of stones
In the largest there is a small wooden altar
That I built from materials found in my dwelling
It is a humble facsimile of the NONAGON
Made to test new potential processes / praxes
It feeds on the excess blood of the LAMPREY
What drips from my gullet
The sun invades my FOV
Burns the surface of my face
Archi-text-ure is the study of interior surfaces
What is flattened within the confines of the book-object
NONAGON-b is my means of communicating with the unconscious
The unconscious manifests on each surface
In zones that I am often unable to detect on my own
What reason do we have to delay digitizing the occult?
The LAMPREY whispers something into my tissue
I cannot hear it at first
But then it dissipates into my veins
And I feel it moving throughout my body
NONAGON-b provides me with instructions
I bolt optical hardware to my face
I play compressed GIFs and looping videos
On the interface
Every detail of the environment
Rendered before me
I see the topologies of virtual noise laid out
Bulbous and flat under the weight of the column
I spawn a new ecology
So that I might dwell in the delineated grooves of its surface
MIKE CORRAO is the author of two novels, MAN, OH MAN (Orson’s Publishing) and GUT TEXT (11:11 Press); one book of poetry, TWO NOVELS (Orson’s Publishing); two plays, SMUT-MAKER (Inside the Castle) and ANDROMEDUSA (Forthcoming – Plays Inverse); and two chapbooks, AVIAN FUNERAL MARCH (Self-Fuck) and SPELUNKER (Schism – Neuronics). Along with earning multiple Best of the Net nominations, Mike’s work has been featured in publications such as 3:AM, Collagist, Always Crashing, and The Portland Review. He lives in Minneapolis.