Pure Psychic Chance Radio

Jim Leftwich
October 2017

The ground beneath my feet is nothing but an enormous unfolded newspaper. (1) …asunder
stoppage, how stomping makes stamping makes nothing and re-effects such as we have to
what we need. Anew two-sided, we have allowed it to require our everyday talisman, against the
long fails of everyday credit, the prechopped and refried dawn goes on, punished by artifice,
revamped by ghouls, their sticky reports proportional. Pin cushion lore of the letters, unfettered
reports unplug the dice, electric glissade unfolded, the deschooled fever as silent as we are.
Nothing to what requires talking fails dawn pushed pin cushion dice to save the silent fever we
are making what we need in our everyday rhythms, artifice also proportional. Asunder re-effects
anew. Therein the talisman revamped untoward, the letters glissade ecstatic stoppage, such
two-sided tape against the credit-ghouls, their sticky lore unfettered and refolded, how have we
allowed it to go on as long as it has? Prechopped reports unplug the deschooled stomping. Free
repetition seems to be seams to bee semes to B the thesis of the past. Thus we possess
the febrile turn, a muttering dust eats the wheat, a smattering of the new in everything, no curved
ideas found stalking the witch in Oregon, musical pie, the music of pie glue, a bottle and a cork.
Renew nevertheless in batches, bunches, a binge as if the pinch of peril, set less drips
to microwave the chicken, spoken like a champion spark plug. Since we don’t have any milk, the
wound will reappear and the pears will soon unwind. There are no spoons in Arizona. The
twenty-first century will always misunderstand and underestimate the Club des Hashishins
(Baudleaire, Nerval, increasingly anonymous seances, several purposes appearing between
dreams and hallucinations — among them the revelations of automatic writing). How many
varieties of automatic writing are there? How many have you used? Have you ever been
stomped with a stamp? Are you addicted to any drugs? Sugar? Salt? Allicin? Capsaicin?
Subletteral improvisation? How many varieties of automatic writing do you need to use in order
to navigate the text you are presently reading? The text you are currently reading? The text you
are currently raiding? The post-contemporary text? Chimes of the levitating planchette.
Pansemic cryptomnesia. The calligraphic gibberish of Helene Smith (cf., Geber, and the
Pseudo-Geber, corpus-late the shortened scholars, arguably a mixture of chemistry and
Renaissance mysticism). Her hieroglyphs are transliterated, translated: one drawing is the word
for Traveler, another quasi-calligraphic aggregate means Hole-Digger, yet another array of
squiggles translates to Bearer of Sacred Water. Remember, these moments are followed by
a certain critical amnesia. Reflective hallucinations are to be noted at the moment of translation-
drawing. By hand, while graphic automatism, knowingly the third quartet of each case, a new
process must be obtained for the strange word-automatism, the French equivalent correctly
Martian, as fragments gather in the first verbo-auditive year. Her verbo-incarnation is incomplete
only in its manner of suppressed automatism. In the moment preceding entranced writing,
mysterious modalities and hieroglyphic apparitions (“verbo-motor hallucinations of articulation”)
whir like visions of phase-inaccuracies in the unintelligible sentences. Imaginary sounds
accompany her psychological entrance. Since this incapacity of mechanical writing to describe
the freedom of normal signs permits everything and forbids nothing, an exotic handwriting
translates to very little outside the constraints of a pseudo-language. Spontaneous scattered
automatisms overflow and are collected in sensorial tranquility. Memory inflicts an equal reality
upon the consciousness our writings have permitted.

Hélène Smith, Martian writing

How many of you have read The Magnetic Fields? How many of you have corrected its
conversion errors? It was dogs goat fist. Never the end of growing sorrow in old lies. They stay.
They are young and drunk at the railroad station in Charlottesville. Someone steals their wallet.
Someday the dead flowers might like the bees again. The bees are dying like honeysuckle on
the beach. Come with me to New York. We’ll have a few drinks. We’ll smoke dope with
strangers on crowded sidewalks. It will be the 1980s. In the corridors of the dawn we detect the
stairway of the dogs, the protest becomes a separate voice on Saturday. At four in the morning
the night loves a fire. Our drums butter the ceiling fans. The future is a poisonous way to go. By
virtue of the pigeons we have bottled the careless tides. Rescue the shopping malls, travelers!
Their eyes are pink and moist. “The magnetic hotels are empty.” “Because it is raining
obstacles,” softly responds the curtain. He thought of you: “The office will write to you. The
neighbors will change their streetlamps. Have you heard the sky whistling? The fruit-clocks?
Gliding over the muscle-bound horses, narrow fish in every footfall.” Since the poet’s dictating
source is neither god nor muse, there is no way of knowing if the intruding figure (the radio
broadcast, the parasite from outer space, the “Martian”) is any better or smarter than the poet
caught in this outrageous entanglement. (2) The ground stoppage, two-sided, sticky, electric
credit, talking eels revamped in our everyday credit-ash, has it no thesis of the smattering pie?
Plug as if to thereby underestimate several standards, are so many presently gibberish,
arguably translated into The Diggers? They stay, like your wallet with a stranger’s dog. The
pigeons are pink and responsive to their streetlamps. Bound muse, our outer entanglements,
beneath the old stomping ground, the fallow pork chops are proportional representation to me.
The dawn unfolds its sticky rhythms to punish our possessive reports. Thus the new glue as
peril, set in milk. The twentieth century appeared between how many varieties of sugar? How
many automatic chimes? Chemistry is our word for the squiggles of the goat. Levitate the
railroad, separate the ceiling tiles, bottle your magnetic thoughts! As you see, I can say
anything. …It is a little bit like passing through Kansas. (3) Here is a Rimbaud cut up. “Visit of
memories. Only your dance and your voice house. On the suburban air improbable
desertions … all harmonic pine for strife. The great skies are open. Candor of vapor and tent
spitting blood laugh and drunken penance. Promenade of wine perfume opens slow bottle. The
great skies are open. Supreme bugle burning flesh children to mist.” (4) Here is suburban vapor
in a slow bottle. An air of Rimbaud and tentative skies. Memories visit our improbable blood.
The great desertions are open, harmonic, drunken, and supreme. Only pining for penance can
burn the dance of strife. A great promenade of flesh upon your house! In the burning perfume
our candor opens the children to rust.

(1) Andre Breton

(2) Jack Spicer

(3) John Cage

(4) William Burroughs