FANZINE

INT. THE YONIVERSITY OF THE NEW SYLLABUS – Enter CHORUS and WILOUGH OF GODSDOG, Second Descendant of KOGARD.

 

WILOUGH     O Time thy Pyramids.

 

CHORUS     O Time thy Pyramids.

 

WILOUGH     O Time, let us not forsake praise of our esteemed President, Godsdog of Kogard, First Descendant of O Syllabus, without whom we would have neither Syllabus nor School, for as like a faithful student he did descend after his teacher when no Syllabus emerged from the Center of those Systems when Kogard went down there, and found our First Descendant wrapped up in writing at the edge of the Known Zone of Our Minds, and though he did not descend unto the Void like our Founder he did retrieve that text we call our Syllabus, that knowledge freshly borne from the Unknown Zone which only Kogard had traversed, and in passing back through all our Time’s space and knowledge did return it to the Surface of our Consciousness and establish our Yoniversity in the name of Kogard in the name of No thing.

 

CHORUS     O Time thy Pyramids.

 

WILOUGH     Thy Pyramids have fallen. But congress, let us praise no man nor form above that eternal formlessness unto which our Fist Descendant thrust his self and was thus borne from new in our head-wombs. O Cypher of our Void, let thy Syllabus be heard. Let thy black script be drawn through our black bodies and through our black holes to breathe anew in the world. Let our selves be lit and burned to avail in ashes mound up in matter solid as our ground, and our souls ascend in smokestreams ethereal as our weakest speech and deepest inhalations, and let us dwell in the yonic lung forever, and be joined with our Founder, that seeker who did see the sight we seek at present, who did peak thy Pyramids to go down then for the last time and brood on the deep. O Kogard, my nigga,

 

CHORUS     My nigga, my nigga.

 

WILOUGH     Y’Knamean?…

 

CHORUS     Word life, God.

 

WILOUGH     … [Shuffles pages] We know now, that our descendants are born from their dark womb into the lighted realm of our earth, which has the sun to look upon and be looked upon in blessing. Yet we know that the sun is but a fated thing, and that darkness persists beyond it; and that light of our conscious life will soon extinguish as will our lives. Yet—in our descendants, in the fruitful raising of our seed, we do insist as a race to persist through the ages, unto the Coda of our Time. We seek eternal light in a fated sun, in the proliferation of our weighted bodies. Is this holy living? My niggas I ask thee.

 

CHORUS     My niggas, my niggas.

 

WILOUGH     Is this holy living? We are challenged to believe in an everlasting light in God though we be borne back into the darkness of our deaths. We are challenged to believe that we may ascend where light prevails over darkness and where gravity holds no influence to bear us down. Shall we ascend as angels into Heaven if we keep our sight upon everlasting light? If we do not succumb to the nature of the universe, whose chief influence is a downtown-bound 2 train, shall we then ascend unto Heaven, where His Story tells us all is pearly white and polished. If we live intentionally good as He decrees, shall we follow light’s descendants in the Christ on his ascent? Shall we follow light’s descendance, I ask thee, my niggas?

 

CHORUS     Nahh, nigga.

 

WILOUGH     If that is so then we swim upstream, is that fact, my niggas?

 

CHORUS     Nahh, nigga.

 

WILOUGH     Hell no. If that be so then we be salmon, and are we so?

 

CHORUS     Nahh, nigga.

 

WILOUGH     Hell no. We swim not upstream unto some fallacious height from which we shall inevitable go down from. We are borne down tributaries into the violent silence of the sea, the water way. For what did our First Kogard descend? He knew he be not some sea critter fished for by Gods, but a body born down by gravity’s great love. Yes, my niggas, gravity’s great love. Let us look upon light, which though it be the fastest element in our Spacetime, falters before gravity’s attraction. She is a fine ass woman, is she not? that even the light in all its hyper-activity cannot help but be halted in her midst. When gravity attracts thee with her sweet scent, dos’t thou not waver from thy path into the curvature of her big booty?

 

CHORUS     Word life, God.

 

WILOUGH     And when gravity’s booty is biggest, dos’t thou not wish to descend unto her black hole down the crack of her curvacious ass?

 

CHORUS     Word life, God.

 

WILOUGH     When you see a big-booty woman dos’t thou not wish to crawl inside her womb? Dos’t thou not wish to birth thyself anew in thy descendants?

 

CHORUS     Word life, God.

 

WILOUGH     Our First Kogard was simply a man who loved big-booty women, Y’Knamean? Praise be to my nigga.

 

CHORUS     My nigga, my nigga.

 

WILOUGH     Praise be to Ma Dukes.

 

CHORUS     My nigga, my god.

 

WILOUGH     Who are we but bodies borne down under the love of a big-booty woman. And of light, is it not as faulty as man? When those particle-waves once so straight see that massive curvature do they not delve into Her black hole?

 

CHORUS     Word life, God.

 

WILOUGH     And so, my niggas, if all we human bodies are suckers for big booties shall we worship the light of just another pervert?

 

CHORUS     Nahh, nigga.

 

WILOUGH     Hell no, my nigga. What then do we truly seek? What Kogard sought in the void, my nigga.

 

CHORUS     My nigga, my nigga.

 

WILOUGH     Praise be to my nigga.

 

CHORUS     My nigga, my God.

 

WILOUGH     Our First Descendant Man sought only the love of Knowledge and Awareness; he sough the single truth, and knew that the light above bore false enlightenment. Y’Knamsayin? Our First- wizen Mark sought that which light seeks.

 

CHORUS     My nigga.

 

WILOUGH     Yes, he sought that which light seeks. The true end of all enlightenment. You feel me. And where lies that, my niggas, I ask thee. Wherein does enlightenment descend and compress unto a singularity? Where is that holy G-spot of our sentience?

 

CHORUS     Where, nigga?

 

WILOUGH     In gravity’s cunt. And where lies gravity’s cunt, my nigga?

 

CHORUS     Where, nigga?

 

WILOUGH     Down it’s big ass booty–

 

CHORUS     My nigga.

 

WILOUGH     And where lies gravity’s booty?

 

CHORUS     Where?

 

WILOUGH     On black bodies, my nigga, black bodies in space. A black woman’s deep cunt be where thou shalt seek thy Syllabus—there, where Kogard the Descendant did penetrate his phallic self into— there, where thou seekest thy truest Understanding of thine lives—there, where you may descend to ascend unto the purest realm of existence in utero, in fetal peace—there, in the void, where you will peak thy Pyramids—there, thou shalt find thy truest love. O, K, thou has brought us down thy yonic hall, the great tunnel of the 2 train of our lives, before our truest light in darkness—darkness of our womb, where all light and matter delves like sunken seed; where all thine cigarettes’ lighted smokes and ashes amass in glass graves like ashtrays; where thy black spirits smolder to be released anew in a big bang of our truest descendance: of new worlds. There, where Kogard went down for the last time to pave our way. Praise be to my nigga.

 

CHORUS     My nigga, my nigga.

 

WILOUGH     We are all condensed, but from diffuse we shall be born again in our collapse unto that single center in our space where singularities converge. And we shall burst with our great density and release the gasses of new and future lights—there, where light is carried in darkness full term—in the birthfroth, the firstborn bursts forth: a belly splits; blue spirit’s sparked, a blue fugue, and I ignite like blew fuse in light. We shall spontaneously dissolve. We shall descend and be borne back—into the womb, into the deep within. And as I seek the sea, I see inside. O Time, thy Pyramids have fallen. O thing, thy yonic verses sing in the violence silence of our seas. Thy blue fugue rings in the wind that rustles in dry leaves.

For his sight beyond false light unto the true origend of our eternal dark womb, praise be to Kogard.

 

CHORUS     My nigga, my nigga.

 

WILOUGH     He is Descended.

 

CHORUS     My nigga, my god.

 

WILOUGH     The Mark is Wizen.

 

CHORUS     My nigga, my nigga.

 

WILOUGH     Praise be to my god.

 

CHORUS     O Time, Peer I Mind.

 

————

_{Antarah Crawley is Washington, D.C.-born verse and prose writer and artist. He studied English at The George Washington University and is currently writing and painting out of Brooklyn. His work at large concerns human understanding of human and non-human systems, and he is composing a Syllabus to that end.}