from Two Books of Aphorisms – Will Alexander


“Nothing dessicates a mind so much as its repugnance to conceive obscure ideas.”

– E.M. Cioran

“…something subversive, something perilous…about the aphorism…”

– Richard Howard

Perfection. And by perfection I think of the Argentinean Macedonio Fernandez who maintained that there are moments of perfection in this life.


What is this perfection of which I speak? I want to call it perpendicular rotation, or a power of cleansing transparency, flying above misty realms of soil. Dialectically, it possesses the root vibration, the colloquy of nerves, like arachnoidal webs connected to the Earth. Which channels pure light seemingly hovering as immobility. The body then exists as one connective, as a seminal light source in being.


And here, I always align myself with sigils, with the evil beauty of metaphor. In spite of all appearance nothing can be concluded from episodes within phenomena. There always remains the exclusivity of insight, the sensitive spiral arms in the heavens, the breath which flows from galactic urns. And at the moment of extinguished lunar imperatives, I am always alive with subterranean wanderings, with organic voudoun from extinguished alligator hills, always uncovering forceful feral implosions, bringing to life, striking dead, strategically evading forts with acidic rivulets, with ferociously perched vultures, the latter, always snapping at the spines of those who suggest a poisoned moral authority.


Even while prone to attacks by surrounding vapour, I am always finding angles inside poetic water, always surviving pointed electrical assailment, moving freely, avoiding assault from swarming stingray engulfment.


An etymology of blizzards going back to the scorching circumstantials of primal rotational impregnation.



“We say that inseparable quantum of the whole universe is the fundamental reality, and that relatively behaving parts are merely particular and contingent forms within this whole.”

– David Bohm

“It is through its own force…, its own energy, its own movement, that the Existing comes to Existence.”

– Theophile Obenga

As poet, I listen to flaws speak. I listen to culpability, I listen to entanglement converse. Then this or that fragment awakens, and builds upon itself by pressure from nervous display. This process remaining operant as spontaneous lingual emotion, as colour unspent by pervasive electrical exhaustion.


So how does one cleanse hesitation? How is the breathing through fresh and ulterior dazzling? I surmise it is to scrape from one’s scales dire and unbreatheable habit, so that other shadows are developed ceasing approbation of prior combinatory ruin.


At the depth of my own improvisatory core, I sometimes ignite from listless suggestion, from energy spawned from seeming detritus, self-sparked by its own meandering ray. A blossomed streak on a Miro blue field, not as an in-serviceable suggestion, but as a living laterality, which in turn engenders in me experience on both the vertical and horizontal levels. Thus, I become kinetic on a combinational plane, knowing the blue streak as both terrestrial sky and interstellar hydroxyl. Whatever breech may exist in terms of intellectual assessment, dissolves, and becomes the instrument of untold irradiation.


As of now I’m trying to find out how old fuel is read. Of course, not combustion on the mechanical level, but combustion as it eternally explores itself throughout different levels and ferments. I’m speaking of the state prior to the invisible as it comingles with cusps of hydrogen, prior to the fire of its kinetic arrows, prior to its substanceless sound.


As to meteors, as to regression of novae, I am now engaged at the understanding of prior electrical kinetics, prior to universal enactment. And I can truly say that I swarm and commingle on the plane of pure electrical strata.


History has revealed itself according to its decimated offspring. And these offspring consist of piles and piles of aggravated bodies, inscripted by lesionous infernoes.


I’m witnessing a useless old figure in blinding nitrogen socks, having now forgotten the names he once inadequately read. To him, memory no longer functions as diachronic nesting ground. So to him fatigue is heritage, is his basic lair of acceptance. Although his thought now lingers near the diachronic, he can suggest no other example to himself, knowing now that his energy suggests confusion, and can no longer wander into lateral fields as escape.


Through the powers of telepathy and pulchritude, I am healing broken doves with my fingers. Because these are psychic doves, by my very attempt nutation is occuring. I am much in the spirit of a vertical lama, cleansing his cells in order to keep the solar form in balance. According to perpendicular maturation the body is less morbific and less challenged, thereby obtaining the power to open to pure celestial finding.


There are moments aligned to a dark and clandestine quiet, hovering like an insular jurisdiction. When inhabiting such a state, one remains magnetic, isolate, on an unending plane floating through outer darkness. The Sun remains formless with haze, and flotation ignites with the answerless. In this magnetic phase, deafness occurs and calls upon itself to float through eliminated circles. At such arcane remove the anthropomorfic can never reply, or call on sudden divinities to geographically state regions.


Will-AlexanderWill Alexander is a poet, novelist, essayist, playwright, and visual artist who lives in Los Angeles, the city where he was born in 1948. His many honors include a PEN Oakland Award, a Whiting Fellowship for Poetry, and a California Arts Council Fellowship. He has worked several less rewarding jobs over the years, and has taught at various institutions, including the nonprofit organization Theatre of Hearts / Youth First that serves neglected, at-risk youth.

His most recent publications include ‘The Brimstone Boat’ (Reve a Deux 2012), ‘Compression and Purity’ (City Lights 2011), ‘Mirach Speaks to His Grammatical Transparents’ (Oyster Moon Press 2011), ‘Diary as Sin’ (Skylight Press 2011) and ‘The Sri Lankan Loxodrome’ (New Directions 2009).


About thefiendjournal

I was born in Blackpool, England and am currently based in Lancashire. Poems have been published in magazines in the U.K, Ireland, France, New Zealand, Canada, U.S.A and South Korea. A pamphlet; "MMV", was published in 2008. Hundreds of poems have been written in draft form, and multiple books are being planned and edited for future release. As well as editing 'The Fiend' I translate, paint and dabble in photography (images of which have occasionally been used here).
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