Luigi Nono’s Prometeo Manuscript

It becomes a thing to go chasing after, the text. Unarrive! It seems to sing/command as we lean in, awaiting the anticipated hum. Markings belie a certainty, sound encoded in color, where waves of beneficent meaning might find their culmination.

Gift of fire is also gift of scrawl—the beginning of something sacred that might be instrumentalized, via training. Beginnings of something here and the internalized knowledge it accompanies.

Writing in order to not belong to it: time. Time is a filthy bitch that wishes to make us its slave.

A tremolo and then nothing. Red red advantage to this circle oranged over the no-writing. Basso profundo overdrive elicits pale squiggle downward; the madrigal’s congestion. Humanity gets a chance to redeem itself naked.

Mourn the sacred we no longer have control over. God in a bathrobe strikes a match, the flicker triggers a triumph. We won’t be able to gauge it for a century or two, by which point—no more battles. Can you hear them thundering above us? Zeus gives his son a spanking.

Choosing by chance what is hardly a wave, move toward the arrows to cull isolation. That’s the cue for horns to blare, humanity’s ashes to scatter past. This a scenario for no human actors. Only voices of disembodied gods.

Semantic substitute begets loosely. Sordina swallows; the waffling violin. Bound and unbound, curdling the fire. Cue the chorus’s silence.

In the time of tempering the testo’s meant to secure. The god that screamed beside us on the subway last night just gave civilization an entirely new color. Block the green to circle the blue. Pink unknowing gives final lap dance to questioning.

Reversion to worldliness is unhealthy. Unworld it all: the word. Through this scrawl, I might better understand how to coordinate the interruptions. Their voidal screen an angelic collapse.

Let me pretend to be an individual here. Let me forget, for once, the gods controlling me. Let me make sound out of movement. Blare of the trombones comes from my fingertips. The trumpet from the ends of my hair.

Yellow line the solar. Orange wavy a revelation that humanity forgot to save itself. Now we have to re-create the absence we found on high here below. Nourishing the verticals, horizon’s gone missing. Must reinsert the horizon in the forthcoming momentum bracket.

The setting is the graveyard, the voices undistributed. Sound bubbles up through the dirt at night, screech variegated through the silence. We must toss sordid into this variance, to expose all the losses embedded in this triumph.

Operatic balustrade, the bridge over the silence. Scratch superficial into the wound, bloody forces of violence must also be seen to contain civilizational reward strain. Prometheus just fell and crushed the mountain.

Midnight had a disaster to it that year, there were no new songs to be sung. Humanity perished into a state of perpetual slavery. We forgot who we were supposed to be serving. Suddenly the silence opened a museum.

Write yourself into the score so that you might disappear right outside it without ever having to go in. Peopled inhabitance yet to be forgotten; voices overtaken by the machines of a superior realm.

Write fire into the blueness that squiggles out a sky. Stealth manifestation of iterability slashing across a page; where contained it must end, where not, it may forever continue. Eagle eats your guts out.

You have to hate God in order to get anything done in this world.

Heaven doesn’t have any fire left in it. Instead we have this writing for the future beings to decipher. Having left it behind, we will become their gods, unwilling cognates in the future lack-to-be.

The I-ness of all never willing. The I a mark on the page and nothing more; God’s desertion. Zeus has a face and that makes him a man. Human perception gets gifted to the mass of unwanting, unwilling. Fire is broken gayishly outside the timeline.

I want all the world’s nothingness to go inside me. I want to give it a chance to breathe. Once that happens, I will project my voice into the outer world. The dancing shadows’ll also have their chance to peak.

Unend the distantly forgivable. Song that breeds in silence likely to yield reptilian form. Reptilian spurns new beginnings, sightly manifestations of the spiritual in spiked growth format, muffling distant hum of gods’ groans. Bury the seedlings and forget about time.

There were supposed to be two worlds; God forgot to create the other one. He gave us writing instead.

Too much light now in darkness. Must learn to extinguish it.

The need for warmth being the first thing that is known.

Unwrite all this.