society of friends

and on the 20^th day i create a 20^th day and say it is a 20^th day.  creating never ends.  there is no rest.  only restrooms in which one doesn’t rest but sometimes ruminates.  mundane ruseday whysday turday deepdish sexday punday merdeday tweezeday doubtday wurstday eggface assday punday monsday ruesday neversday scurvyday pizza fuckday pundit undies books questions hungry mcdonalds apes sctv lunar crazy youtoo ootoob tumtomb yahweh toodays

today i begin an experiment of satisfying various lusts in public spaces (i have performed endless lewd acts for the benefit of strangers but have been anxious to graduate from sex, which has become so facile, that leericism of the asses), riding streetcars to wait for an opportune moment.

on the 504 during afternoon rush hour, eastbound, i seize it.  2 humans a few seats in front of me are talking tediously of tedious things.  i stretch my neck, open my mouth to the trained and predetermined size, and bite the right one’s head off, returning my head to my seat, munching peacefully.  everything becomes predictable.  the left one screams.  others join.  the driver contacts the authorities.  i swallow and listen to mira calix.

it is 20° today and it is early march at the 42^nd latitude.  now i don’t know much about history or geography or nosology or scurrility but i do know what march is for.

the conclusion.  the public prefer public sex to public violence visually, but the latter to the former narratively.  for they will talk far more of the head getting bitten off than the head getting licked.

and on the 20^th day i visit a mausoleum to renew my love with the dead and there see an oracle undressing.  i follow her pointed tits to their destination and descend the crypt.  squirrels and scholars, lemmings and lesbians, aspirins and aspergers dance lecherously, bound like cadaver and surgeon.  i join, shedding my sex and my species, and enter the orgy of the dead.

jabbering thunder

this afternoon – a sparkling afternoon, bubbled in teacups and bloody cunnilingus – i have a hearty breakfast of Kiddie Heads – a new crunchy nutritious Post ready-to-eat cereal of young human cephali, with 19 essential vitamins and minerals.

one isn’t quite dead and it sings horribly in my throat until digestive juices shut it up.

i write to the ceo of Post – a b. bobby vitality – to note the bad singing, receiving a free carton of Kiddie Heads and a letter apologizing for the packaging mistake.  apparently as a limited time offer 1 in every 10,000 boxes of Kiddie Heads contains a living cephalus entitling the holder to a trip to GN-z11.  the box should have said this.  so began an intimate exchange where bobby tells me about his homosexual inclinations, about loving Rev. Schplat, senior minister at First White Baptist, whom he isn’t supposed to love, and i make up shit about the sex clubs i go to, all the democratic cock and liberal pussy up here in canada.

he tries to hook up with me so i use the opportunity to blackmail him, seduce his daughter, sodomize his wife, free his dog and his maid, and make him eat his son’s head and Rev. Schplat’s dijon-fried prick while watching The Last Temptation of Homer.

distributing the free boxes of Kiddie Heads to a social housing project, i return to eating buckwheat with fried leeks and pine nuts, wild blueberries, and rice-coconut milk alongside my cunnilingus and some days aren’t half-bad i say.  thanks bobby.

philistines n hittites

everyone falls around me as the prophets of toilets foretold.  falls to comfort and privilege and fear and knowledge and everyone falling. i fall too. we all fall. fall to falling.

professionals and transit workers and baristas and those in the sweatshops of the law – let me tell you that today the sun left its comfy throne in the sky and crawled up my asshole, saying, hey cracker move over lebensraum.

if you want to eat meat, start with yourself the t-shirt next to me says. i lean over and start sucking on the nipples.  there’s no fun like subway fun, a poster reads.

afterwards i fall asleep on her shoulder and dream of the global temperature rising another degree or two and the world’s billions heading north. rush ya kills them all of course, leaving can nada, which permits entry under the enforced conditions of veganism, yogaism, art, localism, illiteracy, renewable energies, hallucinogens, and polyamory – anyone deviating more than 1.83 degrees from these practices, using a multi-factored algorithm understood by no one, is cannibalized. can nada’s leader, appearing as a large green turd in the northern sky, diarrhea borealis, speaks to the people each night to encourage them on the paths of steadfastness, fidelity, darkness, fire … waking to the cumaean sibyl inside my pants gnawing on my balls.

subways are tygers and tygers are dead.

to have believed once in belief isn’t the same as not having disbelieved once in disbelief, she says, diffidently, spanking me on the lap of a dead school teacher.  this is subway time, someone says, and the limbs of meaning write writing on the windows.

no nipple disagrees.  it’s been a day of light death, and light like day must have its (d)esperantos.

fasting n humiliation

we are choruses of circuses and premises, singing waste.

sperare spes despoir spondere vastus woesten ampulla datta data donne done dung

the city, through its crush and party of whonyms, presents the whonym with a distinct opportunity:  to see, through the whonym’s omnipresence (omnipotence omniscience omni-), through the whonym, and so bypass itself, seeing itself nowhere.

the subway is a tung of god slurping for the great fly time.

look at the delicious graves like cupcake tops.  in each grave a worm, in each worm a god, in each god an eye, in each eye a grave.

i watch whonyms design their demise, as fated as dinosaurs or romans.  it was a nice time we had, they say, referring i think to history, munching on potato chips in flames.  everything was worth it.  someone foretold this, a rock whispers to a tree, even if some of the metaphors were misplaced.  oh dear, says the tree. and not just metaphors.

when the gita says do not consider the consequences for yourself of your action or the dao the sage is ruthless and treats the people as straw dogs, are these not varied prescient portals into the blueprint of the city – a blueprint that uses the whonym to modify the dimensionality of the blueprint?  in the dreams of religion are the movements and functions of the city and the despair of the human, its decreation of hope.

here, there, in the undergrounds of whonym habitation, in the gliding tents of civilized bowels, in which the whonym is passed from task to task like butter at a dinner party, i return to my destiny, a calm discernment, and do not smile – smiling would be like butter smiling – but return.

the city is built of blood.  i, red as death but smelling like an airplane, overshoot whonymity and crash into the hills of words.  oh dear, says tree.  it was worth it, says potato chip.  everyone had a nice time, says rock.

articles unmastered

on a radial transit line from a common metropolis’ center, usual fragments are heard from the whonyms.  i do have a large wardrobe, she says to her.  there’s a starbucks sign there, he says to her.  is there a ticket counter anywhere here, they say to them.  we all inexorably turn into clichés of ourselves, it says to itself.

this is every city.  the clouds that hang here will be hung there.

i remember you, hung like a cloud on privilege, your only virtue clothes.  i have said it before and i will say it again and i will return to the saying of it – i would like to stay on a train forever, stops like competent jam and disinterested sex.  but the dude six seats away clears his throat every minute as if he’s the steam engine trying itself out for the first time and i would rather be a very large parking ticket or an abandoned temple.

attention ladies and gentlemen.  we have stopped momentarily to allow another train to pass.  once it does we will continue to our next station stop.  thank you for your patience and understanding.

ladies and gentlemen?  patience and understanding?  i am buried alive by euphemisms.

these projects of our species – whether large and visible, humanitarian and noble, common and behind small doors – join in silent songs of smoke from the concentration camp of society.  i only wish to wander and forget.  forget that once i could forget.

the city – the whonym soul in visible form – is 95% waste and tedium, the other 5% a mouth chomping on the products of the waste and tedium.  so i slog through the suburbs and warehouses of myself to chomp on myself.  an urban and barely visible life.

the circus is fallen from the heavens and we each are painted workers in it and why not celebrate such immanent grandiloquence of industry and entertainment and paint?

but i paint graves.  paint them using used cans of words found in the singing garbage of myself.

try pot

through the city, humans in organic time perambulate in cages of collaboration.  prehistoric flesh plunked ungraciously in history and educated – how readily they believe – to believe they belong.  they’re taught of evolution and the universe – their vast scales, our undetectability among them – and act as if they are the vastness, the scales undetectable.  i see the people as anime bacteria on a petri dish the size of our galaxy.  there is no scientist performing.  we are dust.

to be unformed and not to form but in realms of non-form.  to be possibility and not to actualize but in realms of charming non-actualization.  to be void and not to be but in realms of void.  we are desert.

it is autumn and the people dress in greys, dark blues, and blacks as if they are ineluctably the weather’s subset.  the way they dress – their psyches as a subset of culture.

the time of our givenness – the time that is the outline of our bodies – is not the time of desire.  desire’s time changes bodies into steam and wind.

the subway doors open and humans leave and others enter and it’s the same subway as all subways and the same humans and the same doors.  we are copies of night and subways are snakes in the throats of crocodiles.  we are scream and eye.

all everything has done – from god to education to love to art – has taught me not to believe in it.  everything deconstructs itself.

and this is the 15^th day of my diary in which i write of my body’s movement through babelon, of that which is without substance entering that which has no crevices, of dream in a host in a dream.  and words are but the dusted lint on the lining between the living and the dead.

jabes hermits

the search for or commitment to comfort, pleasure, happiness, as every sage has known, is inane, leading slowly to destruction and misery.  if we are flesh, these are only moods among a thousand moods; and if we be machines, emotionality is a curious legacy from a prehistoric and barbaric age.

if i think, if i feel, to any degree worthy of the world, i am – without searching, without committing – pain and in gaining this worthy degree possibly avoid destruction through becoming it, thus abdicating the need to actualize it.  for we are an immensely destructive race and if we would fulfill ourselves we would find means to use our rage in new and curious ways.

and i see the heads of the human used as lottery balls, rolling down funscapes of our games to show the winning number.  what beauty is in waste, what democracy in desecration.

as some write their confessions of opium or hashish, so i write the confessions of my addiction, this hallucinogen – life, which knows no up or down, right or wrong, beauty or ugliness, and to which i am inescapably drugged as soon as i say i.  these are my experiences of my addiction in the langwich of that addiction and not any rehabilitated – that is, diluted – langwich, what you call prose or reason.

and i see the heads of humans in boxes of breakfast cereal, poured and wetted for the hunger of our children.

i have seen the future as swans climbing kilometres of human towers and singing their scatological ecstasy to brainless clouds.

the only time to tell is the time we don’t.

today has been a day to not spell time, but only enter the ballroom of days and see time on its deathbed dancing.

beside the white chickens

my family has the insipid blood of canadians and the photocopied minds of christians.  realizing early i couldn’t escape this mindless pedestrian heritage, i vowed to enter into it more fully than any of my ancestors had done, than any of my descendants dared.  i would turn my pedestrianism into flaneurism, i would destroy my mind and wander in the orgy of signs.  i would copy everything.

the great benefit of canada, i thought, is that it’s a vast nothingness heaped on nothingness, a concatenation of nothering, a self-satisfied insecurity, the very dream of humanity that reveals the vapour of the dream, the incarnate end of hope.

the great benefit of christianity is that it’s dead, has always been dead, and is the energy and glory of death.  a hideous distortion of reality to make illusion palatable to the masses and thus the masses become illusion, it contains all the necessary tricks for one who has given up illusion to use it as a fuel source for assorted tricks.

the strategy was risky i knew from the outset.  death, madness, wholesale failure, poverty – all these i assumed.  the key was how to delay them until i had sufficiently reached the abyss of my nation, the emptiness of my religion – until i saw … no … knew, deeply in my flesh … them both as overcooked cheap pasta and thus all things become possible.

the destruction of one’s self is the only creation that presents itself to us.  we must commit ourselves to it with the zeal of pigeons.

blood isn’t what it used to be.  we now synthesize it in the laboratory of ourselves to become what our past was not by becoming wholly what it is.

we are only play.  dark play on the infinite board of endless ways.

wicked gibberish

ghosts and gods and songs you can’t sing along to are the friends of those who work in graves.  we love the exiled and the dead – not because they’re any better than the societal and living but because we love exile and death.  the flowers we enjoy smelling grow in these desolations.  who can say why one has the tastes one has!

i like bathing in cheese.  cheese made from deliquescent tits of human bovines.  raised organically, free range, aged.  we’ve hardly begun to realize humanity’s use.

today – you kings and commoners chained by facticity – this is what i did:   i woke up with an egg in my ass and the egg was my cat and my cat the world and i scrambled the world and ate my cat and the impossible origins of things was in me.  you who don’t have ears, let you not hear.

whilst chatting it up with some chubby and flirty baristas in an indie café in the doppelganger of barcelona, four weird sisters came through the glass and said, when you die you shall be changed into an environment of your choosing – desert or jungle or meadow or forest or ocean – and you shall be this environment forever, without end and without end.   what is your choice?

since this is my diary, representing truthfully and faithfully the events that conspire in my life, and since diaries – which every diary-writer knows – develop souls of their own after a time and often even flesh around them and consume those who write them, i would like to say, i am not yet consumed.  and yet i feel myself being gnawed.

that gnawed and nod are homonyms is our meditation for the day. 

arctic confabulations

how many days can a day contain?  time’s spread like stale cupcakes across the human devastation.  youth is like a bag of sugar before you know it’s bad for you.  old age is like an empty bag.

if you were to think of history this way – as all of us just bits of stale cupcakes – wouldn’t you change your life?  probably not.  we are mired in the mud and there are those few who step on those who are mired and the even fewer who try, however feebly, to pull some out, and the even fewer few who, knowing the universe is mud and there is no no-mud, try to find a somewhat more desolate spot, muddier perhaps, and sit there, trying not get stepped on, slapping flies, meditating on stale cupcakes.

there once was a man and his name was john and he lived in an outhouse.  he had learned a nifty trick to birth bipeds through his ass and thus had given birth to an entire world of progeny in his shit below.  every once in a while he’d lift his ass off the toilet seat and yell down, hey creatures i love you, and then go back to sitting.  the shit creatures were very divided as to what to make of this, with some living in anticipation of the next yelling, others building little replicas that mimicked the voice and selling them, still others saying it didn’t mean anything.

and i do not say (for i do not see) that humanity is tragic or comic or doomed or wise.  the human is a word and the word is this.  i do not say that time is something to escape or accept.  time is just the human in geometrical abstraction.

yojo

did i say i come from a long line of gravediggers?  each spent its life below the earth covered in worms and the piss of executives, employed by chthonic corp.  the pay was bad and we all died anonymous and poor and young.

my soul is empty and carnal.  in my emptiness i yearn for purity, sainthood, god, infinite deserts, martyrdom, silence.  in my carnality i want happy genitalia writhing on my digits, my open wounds, like hydra … i want desperate grapplings where flesh hangs like laundry on a line.

but because i’m a gravedigger i can be neither saint nor rogue, i cannot fulfill my soul.  instead, i dig words in the world of langwich and live in mediocrity between.

the middle!  there’s too much of it and it’s all the same and everyone wants it.  that i am forced to work in the cemeteries of time to no end and remain forever separate from my desire – this is a good joke, isn’t it?  that’s why we diggers sing.

each day is a new grave.  i wake to the shovel and earth.  i wake to my body waiting to be buried.  i wake to the masses of the middle scurrying to the tunes of their importance or despair.  i dig.  and by evening the masses are high above on endless surfaces and i where i belong, well in the earth, the day’s doom done.

we have no union, no breaks, no benefits, no bonuses, no affirmations.  our pay is any words we’re able to steal and stuff in our pockets and then at night – when is there ever time to sleep? – we lay them on our desolate beds and arrange them according to an ancient lawbook we’ve never read.

i dig a thousand graves and then a thousand more and – yes – i am a grave.

look lulls

i’m weary of signs about signs.  an anagram of sign i trust more.  you know, marxism and capitalism are just judaism and protestantism fighting each other.  everything’s still religious wars.  when are we going to get off on something new and stop pretending we’re sophisticated.  hyperreality ain’t it.  oh, a g&t baby.  put a funnel in my anus and pour it in.

the dude next to me smells like cheap cologne.  how does he get laid like that.  if i were a woman i’d take him back, begin sucking him off, then snip it off with shears, bathe him in blood to make him smell good again and preserve the prick as a dildo.  him?  just another cockless man.  put him on wall street and let him rape the future.

the city’s hot liquid plastic poured over the shapes of make-believe freedom.  taking the city’s mold as a mask, sauntering through the voided universe, i look for love.

the force awakens is mythic bubble tea gulped in a store called amerikan christian capitalism.  all i want to do is shoot everything.

and i tell you.  we shall perfect ways to rocket our waste into space and waste shall form a wastrel belt around the earth and the waste shall gain sentience and attack us and we shall be consumed by what we have consumed.

who shall take over whom?  google or disney? (these persons in the blind and greedy eyes of the law.)  the new corp doogle or gisney.  a cultural s&m m&a.  and waste shall own us all.

i saw you high and lifted up with 42 wings like isaiah, your head smothered in lilith’s menstruating cunt and edgar allan pomo laughing in a bathtub of hendrik’s. 90% of the population experience no other desire than to possess what others possess. you know what i desire?  i’ll show you a sign.  stop dump and poutine? no exit? one-way? giraffes must travel downtown on adelaide? hardly.  stop signs. no sign. zero-sign. giraffe signs.  these are my desires in the dead signs of night.

i reject my species with my cock in an americano and my teeth in my ass.

festung ehrenbreitstein

the graves for gods are large and unfilled with earth, so that when the yahweh-christ died again and i stood on the edge of their grave without seeing the other sides i leapt like the fool i am – firm ground is overrated – and read the markings of the gravediggers on the way down with my handy headlamp.

now though the batteries have died and i’ve nothing to read but darkness.

the book of the city is here, in falling and night, and in my hunger i begin to eat it, and i fall into the corpse of god and understand god’s silence and envy the easy words of humans.  only silence is natural and so god is natural and humans a disease of words in the body of the universe.

i am not one to misunderstand the seductive salvation of falling – a seduction never consummated, a salvation never fulfilled.  god created so we could fall, god died so we could fall forever.  what a great grave.  even with my headlamp busted i’m having a blast.  and so many bodies around me – all falling at different speeds, some screaming, many dead, clothing optional, it’s as if the sum of past present and future whonymity's here … why isn’t it taught that graves are the place to be? – no wonder society’s in disarray and education’s a sham!  falling is education, the grave is the classroom, death is the teacher, god the reformer, praise be, march on bipeds!

the book of the city has no beginning, no ending.  a spherical book that’s always open and cannot be, eating it only increases desire.  written in the secret langwich of the city it contains the keys to life.

i have always wanted to be a gravedigger.  the music and singing.  the jokes.  it’s in my blood for my dreams have shown me i come from a long line of diggers.  but with no more graves to dig im unemployed, an eternal bum cast from history into the banana peels of vision.  what sights are here!  i’m in love with hacked limbs and bags of eyeballs.  my family! – our resume is death!  i shop myself around with the success of a skeleton on wall street.

faiths a jackal

being selfish in the republic of names has never held much interest for me.  it isn’t the competition of claws and cars or the volcanic glamour that disenchants but that i am never enchanted.  the better blood and treachery has always lain in namelessness.

but how to use my claws in this different domain?  kindergarten religion taught namelessness is clawless, it bypasses blood or turns one’s ape against one’s ape, an autovampirism hiding in the hood of sainthood.

i like devouring too much.  mystic death’s way’s sexier than sex.  if all the poets have any message, this is it.  the heavens raining cocks and pussies is my kind of weather.

i turned my desire from flesh, hardly to god, that cold and future flesh, technology, that past and dead flesh, nature, but to desire.  desire – now become wholly impossible – becomes the sum of my diet and thinking, my excrement and nightmare.

to withhold desire from desire and become myself the space between – this land i was born into, i understood its rules, a passport was already mine.  i neglected everything for this, cunningly directed my rage toward it, aspired only to its futile hierarchies and unborn names.

politicians and merchants, the celebrations of entertainment and war, the saints of abnegation and pinnacled creators of form – all in their names were herem to me.

only now and then, when the urban air’s filled with dead leaves and the dead walk among the planned trees and sing, the wind racing to nothing and the heavens wholly obliterated, does a scrap of paper get stuck on my face and by the light of madness i read a bilious fragment that’s escaped from god’s galactic meat through a broken window of unreason into the mercantile world … then i know something – no matter how insignificant and fragile – exists that’s worthy in human society.  and i fall, unheard, eyes softly screaming, devoured by words.

wapping

love became for me not an adventure but a convalescence, not a portal to words but a mute sarcophagus.  whereas i once sought it with the perfection of knowledge i now flee from it, where once it came to me with the ease of dreams it now bypasses me like innocence.

this has nothing to do with the stupid proclivities of society, their charts and forces, age and position and money, these lobotomized decorations rewarding conformity to militaristic indigestion, but with my having forged a contract with darkness (or light, it doesn’t matter once one reaches the contract stage) which stipulates quite clearly – clause 14.7 if i recall – that love has become a deadly allergen and i will die if i ingest it.

yet i take this news, these petty evolutions, with the violent equanimity of a saint.

oh you dead gods, how long do i have to put up with the braying of myself?  what good is science if it takes so long to modify humans into the donkeys we truly are?

i remember quite clearly.  i walked into a wretched cubicle at bloor station, puke and diarrhea and piss the happy flowers of the air, to take an immense dump – such environments are conducive to prize dumps and poetry – and a brown business card was passed under the clanging divider from the stall to the left of me.  the perfect climes for business!  all deals should be done in dirty washrooms.

some years ago when i was scurrying along a vagina to some destination i forget, a premonition tripped me and i had to spend longer there than i intended.  only now do i see the significance of things and so to stay alive i run.

undernmete

my digits are gods – my left pinkie’s neptune, right ring finger hera, middle left the elohim, index right ame-no-uzume-no-mikoto, right toe odin, left index düza minkar, right foot pinkie chuang tzu, left foot middle the emilies dickinson and bronte … when i type and walk the eternal energies of the cosmos spell their mysteries in codes my mindless body intuits, my bodiless mind recoils from.

the city is a code.  rising above the white dead in architectural smog, ciphers of bones.  i read the city the way i read old gravestones – hints of life and the laughter of forgotten details.

truth entered my urethra in september and hasn’t left.  got permission from the permission-givers to enter me.  every now and then pain in some new hades of my flesh and i laugh the laughs of the unknown dead.

the city tells me this.  it is quiet, like a dead lover.  it consumes me like forbidden copulations.  who else can be my muse these tablet days, unbroken, unread, but slaughtered angels of petulant skyscrapers, white worms of the gutted dreams of the non-existent.

christ skips softly on the tips of burnt christmas trees, rejoicing for nothing, eating cats as if they were chocolates, all the marys of time giggling in his dirty anus.  oh love that never ends – the love of dictionaries, the eternity of being saved.

i see you you filthy fool rolling in the mud of yourself in the avenues of time as if you were a pig of your imagination.  i tell you – pigs are saints next to you, cows are our mentors.  you dried dog diarrhea dangling from the ears of pedophiles in poltergeists of blood.  how you love the dirty smells of your prehistoric routines.

laugh, apparitions of glory!  laugh until your organs sing in suffering.  create symphonies of shit dearest concert meisters.  your tears and sex juice are the rhymes of a new and untold age.

sturm druggs

she appears again, that cappuccino prophetess in situ in tutus, titted like lactating time in iridescent and chthonic temples on a tumor of my brain nipple-pointing to words being written on the planetarium of my cranium by her projectile urine – unum unum plubi thummim ibi – i say i am lost without you.  but she tit-slaps me and pours hot wax in the wounds of my sex.

such are the vatic ways in this age of the death of prophets.

the people pour through sieves of doors, their teeth chattering a billion billion languages.  communication is the new disunity.  we talk like keyboards.

i went to the soo to sue a sue so sue sewed a shrew on a shawl and the law rued the screw that saw sue in a sewn shrew shawl sued in the soo.

caffeine? the city says to the country morphine? brucine? punk zine? hot teen? raster clean? and the country replies, calfeine, moophine.  cocaine? the city says to the suburbs ecstasy? dope?  and the suburbs reply, coco chanel, midiocracy, grope dope.   lala lightcow? the city says to itself baba airpig? dada woofput? mama meowface? fafa furballs? and the city replies haha joydick gaga stuffguns zaza namebusts jaja mortfuns tata carzooms nana simzests …

i walk into a kfc-smelling starbucks one rubescent night and there are the marquis de sade and joan of dark getting hitched to a train of discarded iphones pulled by a team of heaving ministers.  i’m asked to be best man.  not having anything better to do i agree and get to be also worst man, best woman, worst woman, blood martini maker, and blood martini.  the bonuses of spontaneous volunteerism in urban environments.

the city, we have mused with and without many substances, is only slightly less than the sum of langwich and silence and so we enter the city and wander in it to mark the gap between the city and the sum with our flesh.

but avast

there is no day but days on days on days, stacked like triceratops or cigarettes, roaring like dissertations, and each day like cotton candy spun around a star.

language is no goal.  if language is one’s business – even if one be but a bankrupt merchant (and who among language traders is not bankrupt?) – time becomes goalless, strips to nothing, what is written is written from grounds of empty time.

the gods are dead.  the gods are not dead.  both are true.  not from any spike or collapse of religious fervour or ideological speculation or cultural necessity and force or proclamations of vigour and freedom but from timbres in which they always are.  who can distinguish the sound of their being equally true in athens, baghdad, new york, shanghai?  who can attune one’s body to the polymorphous timbre of today?

when all is lost nothing is lost, so life assumes itself by losing its assumptions.

i walk through the city like a skeleton made of eyes.  all this flesh around me.  all this eyeless flesh.  for flesh that only sees itself is blind.

i am a cannibal for all members of my species are cannibals.  i do not eat other mammals for my highest hunger is to eat according to my kind, to have the limbs of history, the viscera of time as morsel shrapnel of halitosis between my teeth.  we reek.  i abstain from other meat to dine on what was born above all else to be eaten.

waking, being wakeful, going to sleep, sleeping, dreaming, thinking.  aren’t these now just different avenues i wander along, munching on myself, crossing intersections, hungry, rounding corners as if no street were named?

the city, i have said (though saying now says i), is the cannibalistic kabbalistic union of humanity’s schizophrenia in visible form.  so we wander through ourselves and this is our love affair with the city.

the art – if it be an art, if art be art – of translating movement in the city to shards of language is an apprenticeship of centuries and putrid boots, the only master death, the master silent, our craft unknown.  so we voyage out to and from, on and under voids.

travels with a donkey in the cévennes

the city is silent.  the meat of the human leaks onto subway seats, trickling along the busy aisles, bulges in conference rooms, mute and difficult, unredeemable.  the city would talk but for the meat.

apparati of apparati form my wretched vision.  i escape them with my hard prick.  i use it to hack a hole in the petri cage of scientific society and fall to floating in mindless expanse.

there is no horatio like a sasquatch.  there is no ratio like an ass watch.  there is no oratio like a sassy snatch.  semantic-cultural exercises for the esl convict.

to wander in the city with the only pretense pretense is an unraveling i sense as a binding.

            but binding what to what? the unraveling asks.

                        binding pretense to pretense, the binding says.

everyone knows the city is a neighbourhood in my mind.  in it i walk without objective, seeking mind.

ennui is inescapable empty fertility – an infinite field of blooming gonads under a caged expanse.

when the world began, which it never did, i played on the pureed bones of imagined beings and laughed the laughs of beginnings, and so it was.

galpapladapal, god of false tortoises, hardly toiters on its turpitudes, but fills the hideous sponges with seminal tetrapods.

mary mary, lolled and lolling, brassiere half-done, as pantyless as clouds, took me in her mouth in a cubicle at bocca’s and we were trashed out, we were, trashed out.

at the edge of monterey, behind a shed, some rust for lunch and not without a light, i dealt names to the haphazard autos in my company and we several feigned a game of chance.

and all this, all these wonders of the hours, are but weeling skims off the surface of the hours, signs of signs of signs and some science of sensation.

call me god hears

after travelling through eros infinite republics for masticating decades im weary and by default i suppose find myself in thanatos kingdoms yet still alive

exploring a life without a future self a way not to find myself but live

empty plurality voids of being i move among selves of myself the way others move among jobs or lovers or cities

a tachyon visits me this morning and speaks of time neither as a river nor a cube but a rolling sphere containing within it all moments deeds   things rolling on what i ask

light like time may be less a dimension to measure and more a ground for questioning darkness

what many see as failure i see as creative experiments by tentative and destitute pioneers so in silence i seek records of obscure laboratories and in solitude archives of labyrinthine nights

though the future seems not to be present in memory other than as ephemera of possibility the past may similarly present itself in imagination and if the difference between memory and imagination is thin so also times manifestations

the great and vast pantheons of modern clans skullars and feminists artists and technologists in their play of war cooperate in constructing a certain recognition of time

i hardly overcome the body its routines and spectral desires its fashions and extensions to and perhaps past consciousness but give myself to participating in the spaces between it and my objections to it while i experience fulfillment and objection as equally visceral this between on the margins of experience

this a diary of the days of one who has no future whose past is void for whom the present is an articulation of the absolute absence of time and replete inclusion of all times turning on themselves

patalosophıcal dısequılıbrıa

who would devote lıfe to constructıng name wıthın ıt   one could though devote lıfe to attemptıng to construct name outsıde   a tactıc here to travel extensıvely wıthın and through these movements erect a constructıon uncannıly wobblıng thıs sıde of the leaky walls of death whıch the lıvıng glımpse effervescent and unknown dıstant and murkıly blınkıng through the hard veracıtıes of unconscıousness

the voıd and the whırled

voıd and eye and whırled

not book but antıbook   book that questıons book untıl book becomıng notbook prodıgıously falters dıssıpatıng from the false solıdıty of ıtself   book not through money and kısses but the profanatıon of ones own meat   as alchemıcal transmutatıon ınto books unrenderıng eyes alongsıde lıke hapless helpmates   names ın unbreakable orgıes words speakıng themselves lıke burnt dreams   who are you book ın thıs absence that replaces space wıth memorıes of scrap confuses tıme ınto geometrıc abandon   what would dare call you ın the growıng sımulatıons of nıght   what wouldnt walk around the tents of protest you pıtch ın the ınebrıated sluıces of the day

your noıse must be my noıse your agıtatıons my frequencıes your dısturbance my battle your dysfunctıon my cracked kıln   thıs sharıng and transference these gıfts and manufactures that necessıty and progress those collaboratıons and ınȷectıng taınts a cırculatory system of the cıty through whıch the bloods of the world mıngle ın theır glorıous dısease

the cıty epıdermıc exuberance of my confusıon sartorıals of my doubt rave of my solıtude cenotaph of my faılure   ı enter you as ı enter my notness and ın thıs dırty conȷugalıty breed a thousand spırıt urchıns destıned to soıl the guest lınens of god   your hole welcomes all theres no sequentıalıty ın your sleepless thrusts   all your chıldren demons and your ındıscrımınatıon a temple ı ransack donnıng sacerdotal vestments lıke a greedy ghoul stakıng myself to your altar wıth the pıns of loss

admırıng socıal confıdence   what kınd of sıckness ıs thıs

unvındıcated by tıme we sanıty bunıons seek salves seekıng presence on the quılls of ımagınatıon

that we obȷect so much to seemıngly external reıfıcatıons but accept our apparent own as evıdentıary   ısnt the doubt and deconstructıon of thıs order a core task of mystıcısm

mystıcısm doesnt work   ıts that whıch works by not workıng

trustıng ımagınatıon more than socıety requıres massıvely thıck skın too thıck for one person to develop on theır own   a subversıve technıque ıs to use socıety then as the skın agaınst ıtself

the seekıng for the medıatıon ıs the medıatıon

lıfe ınterests me more than sıgnıfıcance sıgnıfıcatıon and sıgns   sıgns sıgnıfıcatıon and sıgnıfıcance concrete moats around the feral ısland of lıfe   lıfe whıch confuses sıgnıfyıng

the reconcılıatıons to boredom for money   those wıllıng to be bored for lıfe for money for lıfe

supplyıng words that are mıssıng ın a langwıch ıs what wrıters do   where are they comıng to they from   each step a new smell

money dıstıls ın the cıty ınto a cocktaıl of such ıncapacıtatıng potency all who drınk assume they partıcıpate ın a capacıous lımıtlessness that they somehow ınexplıcably and wıthout a yoctogram of evıdence belıeve wıthout mıtıgatıon they hold responsıbılıty for

the cıty sparkles ın ıts crepuscular senılıty lıke a used pızza box sıngıng ȷewelled ın the dıstance and as you approach the gems fall to dust stale crusts stenchy emptıes cıgbutts   always leave the mystery alone never approach granny ı whıspers through the rubble of the washed out sun as ıt sets on the cutout factory lıke a fata morgana on the demesmerızed horızon

the beach ın the north ın october shımmerıng ın the corrupted autumn heat   alls festıval and forgettıng the dead ladybugs chant ın rıtualıst chorus overturned lıke psychedelıc lılypads on the comatose ıncantatıonal sea   ıncunabula of a cult of lunatıc amanuenses

babelon   great turd of my heart   stretchıng to the forevers lıke croıssants and lust and and the polluted flux of the convergıng dıvergent delta of babblıng screamıng screens   destroyer of gender and stoker of sex   mıghtıer than whonymıty lesser than clouds