The Infinity of Flesh

by Geronimo Arafat

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about

"The Infinity of Flesh"

Listen with headphones at your own risk, please.
…or not. Please listen all the way through at least once. Preferably on first listen.

Liner Notes:

By Zeid bin-Zubala

Late Tuesday night and Crash sits on his couch, inert. It’s 10:03 PM and sycophants are on his mind.
It’s the sad state of this dilemma. Take or be taken to.  But the Lakota are rising up- why can’t he?
He’s breaking out in welts again. He’s dreaming and he can’t seem to make it out. Rhines? Pines? What was that again?
Burn-away rice cream flailing. A tincture of green and yellow. Two children are running down a flight of stairs. The stairs are each one foot tall and imprinted with Quranic verses. Qabbalah strings lurch out at them.
“The cochlear implants could be useful to the average man if one could encode their transmissions to paper.  They could be our greatest weapon.” One says.
Two replies, “What of the boy in Dusseldorf? Are you saying he came to us unknowingly?”
One, “Don’t they always?”
Two replies, “Not always.”
One, “Oh, here comes Crash.”
Crash interjects, “Let’s get off this sour subject. What of transplants?”
One, “We put them in a bowl. Let the fates decide.”
Two replies, “Spectacularly. The amulet Raid left, what do you think of it?”
Crash interjects, “..After finishing the food, an assortment of octopus tentacles and tin cans, the monk walked along with the peddler and spoke with him. ‘Leif Erickson had two children, William (Bill) Leif (1946) and Susan Irene (1950). Why I tell you this? Because it is a matter of public policy. You see Leif Erickson was no normal actor. In fact, he was the greatest actor. For he was moonlighting as a Hollywood actor when he in fact was an agent for the KGB, which was in FACT a SUBdivision of the Israeli Mossad. You see, it all goes back to 1876 in which the Zionists and the Sri Lankans joined arms. But that’s a different story. You might consider getting in touch with Tom Richard, his number is (781) 235-1004.” He then knew the hardship and unluckiness of the peddler. The monk continues, “Opium was actually derived from a space lichen. That is to say some purple fuzz that grew on the outside of Rod’s spaceship, survived reentry. Anyway so i was fucking this chick right, she told me she wanted a facial. so i said sure would you like it spiced up a bit?” As they parted, the monk took out aclay doll-like statue from his bag and gave it to the peddler, telling him to treat it well everyday so that his luck will change. Soon after that, the peddler’s business got better and better and his wife birthed children exposed to radiation on average grow to be smaller and less apt to sprout loarizinine and leap out into faith. Hordes of ’em. Sheeple can turn word documents into ketamine ask me how. I breathe, relocate the off switch and gladly disappear. Scratch out the crevices previously worked, Big Wheels.”
Big Wheels is a man of about 40. We’ve known him since high school, you see. He’s a member of the Lakota Indian tribe. He always keeps a .22 on the Davenport and wanted to carry out film on paper before filming it…”
“Hank’s coming to town.” Big Wheels extols the virtues of the Russian Peoples. Hank Sokolov is his name. We’ll get to him a bit later for the second night in a row the Callused Dodger looks out his window and wonders where that green light is coming from. Often times it shows up while the Dodger is winding down with a with a glass of Red Label. You might call it a “neon puke” green, but it’s rather unrelenting. He recalls an old Japanese Doctor describing one of the victims from Hiroshima who somehow made it 3 kilometers after being scorched by gamma rays and infrared and fire. 
“I encountered the first victim halfway back to Hiroshima. This black thing suddenly popped out from the side of the road, swaying unsteadily. I had no idea what it was. I slowed down my bicycle and gradually moved closer and realized that it was a person.”
 Sipping Merlot The Dodger licks his lips. He recalls an assault with napalm he once witnessed in Honduras. It all stemmed from a dispute over a rice dumpling. The entire family was reduced to embers. Hog-tied and then doused mercilessly, drowned in a sea of plastic and fire.
“I tried to look at its face, but it didn’t have one. There were these two big swollen balls where the eyes should be, a gaping hole for their nose, and the lips had puffed up so big that they were covering half the face. It was hideous. And it had a black thing that looked like a sleeve draped off its arm, so I initially thought that it was wearing rags. I was wondering what all this meant when suddenly the person started moving toward me. My first reaction was to move back. But then it tripped over my bike and fell down. Being a doctor, I immediately rushed forward and tried to take its pulse. But the skin from the entire arm had slipped off and there was nowhere for me to touch.” 
Mckinley has just turned twelve today. He draws up a straw-full of Cherry Coke and eyeballs his mother hungrily. That’s just Mckinley for you: cold, deanimated, devourous eyes of red and green and doom. He lifts the serrated cake cutter intently. He scrutinizes it, he becomes it. Still eyes dead set on his mother he lifts the blade and brings it through the first slice of ice cream cake.
“I realized then that the person was not wearing rags but was entirely naked. What I had thought were sleeves was actually raw skin that had peeled off from the body and was dangling down. The skin on its back had also burned and peeled off completely, and there were dozens of small shards of glass piercing the surface. The person suddenly twitched a couple of times, and then lay completely still. It was dead.” 
“Any culture unbeknownst to swallows and seagulls in Spring in Tuesday is never known outside of all-seeing tongues of unwretchables and wanton alien delights never to become final is one thing automatic .44 caliber deactivates a final plummet in lime green tongues in Summer you can’t know what it is I’m unfathomed spiral is ultraviolet crest of Saturn’s delight Poor Baphomet soon to be found out soon to be sipped from chalace of Winter all-knowing all-becoming elliptical wraith of autoimmune deficiency in tired penguin heart of tongue lashed out of dangling moving toward me unsteadily antiquity is balm of sanity in otherwise less atrocious veneer,” Mckinley spews at his mother.
Through the glass come John and Larry. Larry has a fireplace poker in one hand, which was used to penetrate the orifice of home and John has simply a handgun and an assortment of rosery beads. Maybe a knife would be better or a steel baton? What if you leaked out your serendipity with a poor salt-lick?
A murti make better for me. Tongue out the closet it’s coming out of Todd’s ears. Hey you, why don’t you strangle yourself with the umbilical cord you rode your way in on? And furthermore, I could really care LESS what your saddled tramp has to say about last nights obeisances. FUCK your maltodextrin. Fuck all things unbecoming of a man such as yourself! Surely there’s something better than this in the afterlife because tomorrow is oh forget me not I’ve soiled myself.
                                                                                                                           2
Pallindrilica is the one world government which rules in 2033. The fires of Shiva scorch from such a height.. But not even his flame can cleanse the totality of the unrighteous. Ol’ Ed White knew all along. Have your thoughts ever raced to such an extent that they reduced themselves to a derailed train of ultraspeed translight? They jumble and misform to such an extent that they usher in the hissing and the guttural intonations of what one would only liken unto that of a demon? The Jinn speak to us at this point. They wish to break through from the other side, to usurp our lives, our forms – because it’s just so fucking awful back there. Some try to help, yes. Some are psychotic beyond the point of recognition. Do you believe in possession? The manifold nature of unbecoming. You are not always your thoughts. Beware and don’t respond.
(author’s note: This is similar to the conflict between First and Third World. Upper class and the impoverished.)
“It is true that some of us equate nature with hierarchy. The interlopers, the eugenicists.”
“Cut with the silver blade of titanium I insulfate the antiquity of all lifeforms. Relapse is key to climate. I’ll trim what I can’t become and I’ll become trident.”
“What’s next?” He asks. “Calm yourself and think in terms of the chalace.” She responds.
And so he drank. He drank and drank and drank. And then he laughed. And then he defaced sacred objects, he spewed, and he fought. And then he laughed. And then he talked shit. And then he was agonized once more. He looked down at himself and saw pinwheels and obelisks. These are not your typical innocuous spores. Like dipping your hand in a public toilet. Like Hiroshima, leaving your child trapped beneath burning refuse and watching your husband die of radiation poisoning. The doctors attempt a blood test and he never stops bleeding because he has no white blood cells. “I am become Death. Destroyer of Worlds.” Like black rain. Like the war being over and celebration. Like an experiment for total destruction, no new way of life.
You must struggle to survive, that is your one fore-ordained purpose. How well you achieve it will afford you a mission from God laced with the “ability” to save others or the world. And that will be the pitfall. And it will be a long, long way up from there. There’s only falling up. Gravity releases and you float off to the heavens – but don’t float to high. Half of you will never return.
Like brain damage.
A black cat’s eyes in the dark reflected upon by a computer monitor slightly aschew from her. An innocent mew. Sudden calm.

credits

released June 24, 2017

Geronimo Arafat is:

Sinda Koslika: Vocals, Moog Synthesizer, Keyboard, Drums, Laptop, Effects, Tapes, Field Recordings.
Uncanny Sexual Valley: Vocals, Violin, Broken Things.
Moddot Prod: Vocals, Guitar, Keyboard, Laptop, Effects, Field Recordings.

Recorded 2015-2017 at Spore's Gape, CA, The Uncanny Sexual Valley, CA, and Vatican City, CA.
Lyrics by Geronimo Arafat.
Mixed and Produced by Geronimo Arafat.
Mastered by No Body.
Artwork by by Ace Farren Ford.

(Tracks 6, 13, and 14 by Moddot Prod. Used here with unexpressed consent.)

Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported (CC BY 3.0). Some rights reserved. Look it up, thank you.

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