AG Davis


i have an artificial limb, there is tension of my mouth, my eyes are often seen so that the circle will appear repeatedly in an infinite rhizomescape,
i will die, i will reanimate as others, and at infinity's return, i will be born yet again – as this ''particular'' prosthesis of the universe ...

as we approach the Singularity, God is brought back to space-time: it is as it always was, and as it always will be: God is both presence and absence, created in the image of man, the limitlessness of God is brought forth by our own creation
and again,
and again,


– a veiled and drunken doctor
has failed his patient
(it was a very cold morning)
with throats that led the
lecherous priests brokenly
to the reels of chaos,
pointing to the debilitated
this systemetized
and imperious force
remaining disjointed,
ordering truth against the saved,
commanding the masked
worm's chest to be wetted
atop thick plastic,
each spermatazoa's zone
fraudulent in the heavy mist,
– and of this,
my own synthetic and crippled
viewing expands the victim's
motion towards an uncertain thesis,
– a thesis in which the vacant
judgment is timeless,

– and knowing that the sacred voyeurism
entails veiled angularity for fear
of changeable intentions,
or accidental signals that obey
the mind suddenly thrown asunder
when the sun is blurred,

– we play,

– copulating rhizomatically,

– cognizant that the mind has internalized the sewer of these,
the jet-black filth,
I say,
the filth,
– despite the mired answers of distant imbecilic backgrounds,
the backgrounds of a softer Will within blind stares,

– in this knowledge
we will shoot-off our futures
with a past too empty to tempt ...

AG Davis was born in 1984; heterodox Christian, former pimp, recovering addict, sound poet, author of the hypermodernist novels Bathory and Glass, both published by Abstract Editions in 2016 and 2018, respectively.
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