within a week in the flurried city brain forgets voidic functions or rather the functions seem sealed in vaults of impossible alterity of something dreamt recurringly of a spiritual aesthetic existence unattainable through any means available to those gambled into meat
but voidic functions fails descriptively not just in that manner all words and all things fail not only those reaching for spaces of numinosity of the furthest interiorities of what we feel as ineffable and sometimes truest reality but equally and seemingly inexplicably those pertaining to the operations of aubergines to the modes and grammars of water receptacles to the tranquillity of japanese washrooms
compulsions arise to supplement this attempted naming of forgetting in the bellicose kingdom of words and a corollary question whether even the least supplementarity enhances diminishes or uncannily does both if even voidic functions is far too much considering what we aim to depict nevertheless the compulsion seems irresistible and the consequences as dire as any foray into the abyssal ecologies of langwich and so we falter in fogful indecision
i see a film about my cousin franz in a temple oasis in the centre of flurry it flashes sufficiently the dysfunctions risks terrors and entrapments of my family encapsulated in the comedy of unmitigable failure to conform in any internally ie integrated way to the expectations duties rites and syntaxes of society in its profound zealously prosaic tepid ubiquitous sanctitites
i sit tranced in the guts of banks as afternoon rushour crescendoes like the designs of algorithms so accustomed to rage theyve neglected it i sit calmly the algorithmic outputs down the blind escalators up the whooshing stairs theres no order at all everything goes everywhere yet nothing bumps into anything is it the phones they clutch like monumentalized talismans that guide them through the open
i say ive lost void it even has eaten itself but a week from wilderness and i sputter in babelon like a baby fallen from its bassinet i say i talk look at me i talk like all the others all the vast normals froing and foeing like enriched seagulls like ambitions of the driven homodox like chatty willful laundry on some infinite untended line i say its said saying says and i and us and the we in the you shards and shrouds of sayings havings but no one flinches theyve heard it all before in their product ears they have their croquettes and gyozas waiting on underpants lusting for a laundry
i do my says like those thosed on the tram the hysteric mad kings of resentment the ads hanging on to every word i cry the city is a fart and void the radical repletion of all expulsions piled past the perverted curvatures of time and sunk into the excess of their negations
the food court closes the banks guts shutter down the night sweepers crawl from the plastic plants and place me without malice and neither good intent into their thousand billion garbage bags and i am trucked to amerika the home and throne of waste and added to the pit of manifold disaster the seagulls descending from their maelstroms of geometry and i return to the unattainable squawking of the untouchable despised
of course i dont have time to live in babelon babelon wears the fashion of living but this is a ruse babelons a corpse and we its wardrobe i dont have time to be a wardrobe time or energy or money the foraging flock of voids my robe of grinning maggots i get the runs and sit on the toilet for two days after the foods out the other innards start pouring spleen liver pancreas stomach lungs heart and finally the brain the stinkiest of the lot white liquid frothy poo ill bottle and sell it to the worlds most exclusive spas ill drink it and turn into the queen of sheba i shit out myself and all of history and babelons sewers welcome us with joy
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