grammars

why does no one sentence me to death?

i am not a pessimist. i am no believer in the apocalypse or guilt

but i read of others being sentenced

and don’t understand why i’m not included in the readings

which grammar has provided such passage?

how do pronouns work?

it hides in my life

i seek to hide in it

and as i do whies hide too

the art of discovering possibility in grammar – less innovations inherent in ready mixing, more waiting for uninvented mixers, new instruments of relation. the former is the rite of spring, the latter the modular synthesizer

the soul in any age establishes transactional grammars for which money is the vocabulary – the confessional in the age of western religion, the therapists’ couch in the age of religion’s child. we should also include drugs in the latter, which are orthodoxy’s necessary dream even as the occult and its ancillaries were in the former

the grammars of language – at least in its distilled form: poetry – more similar to the grammars of plants than, say, the grammars of money. develop kinships and genealogies of grammars, a work having some rough precedents

the neoliberal class’s objection to war is to past forms of war – ones still bound to the conservative common diction, linguistic lingerers – and hardly to future ones, which it specializes in, using shells of anachronism, undiscovered mines, as decoys, distracting from its forms of strategic domination. grammars of war themselves battle on desolate plains. the epilogue to blood meridian

i have dreamt grammar – great grammars so complex, logical, and absurd i awoke sweating blood and cum in my eyes. i have sat at the roots of plants and knew there the grammars of the human to be false, false in their ambition to be superlative. nothing works anymore. dreams of grammars are grammars and the grammar of dreams is true

all true grammar is incomprehensible, says sadoo art-oh! on precipices of vitality

drop me down the wells of foolishness i say to the bucket that kicked god. i am holy says the bucket. drop me down say i

as we know that dream is the only reality so we know the chasm between consciousness and barbarism (we cannot say light and darkness) is now of such distance as to be the primary seduction for humanity. it is this seduction that draws me down

no longer able to overflow into society i overflow into myself. and this shift in locus ... this migration ... i call a grammar of myself, a song of electric leaves

grammars

grammar is a magic show with a participatory human audience, the magician unknown

to go insane – whatever this might mean – is to assume a grammar unregistered in society’s sacred books

the sun has a grammar. ants. events. hair. failure. edison bulbs. stuffed aubergine. howler monkeys. hashish. an mba. moles. adobe reader professional. sambucus nigra. the hawaiian dr laura.
there being no grammar of grammars – each of these just another grammar – and to know a grammar is to enter into it, pass through the forests of love and hate, break it, add it to a recipe with others … – i enter into the grammars of death knowing very little and if there might be ways to learn (learn? …) more grammars than i have time to willfully learn, what would be these ways?

within a human language there are many grammars

one can be a polyglot but effectively know only one grammar

i would play with grammars as children play with sand or some adults with clay, encaustics, wire, birdseed, and marinated cotton

to break grammar (in the way perhaps one breaks a phone or a carrot) is not to see into the grammar of that grammar, but glimpse another one

a grammar is less a set of rules or principles that guide a set of things in their interactions, less even a vision, a spectacle, an event, more movements, dancings

speaking of a grammar is an impossible practice, though we pretend to do the impossible; we can only speak of grammars. but even then in speaking we despeak them

oh black elder of grammar. steep language’s night. graft electric sativa into these simian bulbs. shampoo my stumbling with aloha’s curricula. i am a plant, unspeakable unspeakabilities. i am an egg

i can fry, poach, boil, scramble grammar. its culinary possibilities taunt my dreams and i awaken like a sylph, blood and titanium on my tongue

technology is a grammar – grammars of maplessly bypassing humanity

god is a grammar – grammars of deserts and geometries

nature is a grammar – grammars of gloamings of grammars

art is a grammar – grammars of grammars

and humanity?

humanity is not a grammar, nor grammars …

            we are nomadic punctuation marks, refugees of signs

who walks among these stepping stones as if they were knowledge? who walks through those mountains unperturbed by carrots? only grammars unacquainted with counting and love

grammar has two arms but little else – or else one very small one

grammar is the grammar of your female forebears

grammar is a dream of how to live

there is a grammar to a day. today, for example, i can hardly speak and doubt whether it or any other will ever be speakable

explaining grammar to grammar … not unlike talking about breath to breath

the human is comprised of numerous tensions, including those between the states of matter of grammar: its solidity, fluidity, gaseousness, plasmaticity. i am formed of all four (and perhaps like the universe not equally) but how do the grammars i live correspond to my form, these states within?

evolution – however tentative, geometrically flexible it might be – seeks seeking, grammars of shape spoken by dark matter in their anchorholds

i am riding the subway train. it teaches me of the relations of things. i turn what i learn into invisible prose and converse with an audience of dreams

i see continuums on the heights of potatoes, animal pathways from void to void, questioning themselves in fogs of established relations

rules are like, says the walrus, tears i shed for broken waves, prophecies of suidaeocracies so potent and sublime i return my citizenship in humanity

rules lure us but this luring is not a ruling nor even a standard but playing darts in the sand

there is a grammar to the soul that poets and mystics, obsessed with futile quests, attempt to describe in the forms of their creations

grammars! sandcastles? factories? crocodiles? mentors? libraries? travel guides? recipes? passports? dictionaries’ doppelgangers? wormholes? problematic altars? physics’ alphabets? alpha-bits? snakes&ladders? alpha&omega? arboreal harbingerings? present participial forgettings? lists?

tosf - saint porn

                  el-spet clitia

the online sadoo family – #7

el-spet clitia  - El Spet

http://elspet.blogspot.ca

look!

el-spet clitia dresses before us

exposing artifice

sadoos have long been disappointed in porn. porn that briefly fulfills its function, porn that inspires alienations or unities, suburban basement babysitter goat solstice porn, even rare porn that includes wit, caprice, eros, subversion, talent, intelligence. video in its proximities to simulation has performed better than text, but text is what we inhabit. text that knows how to spell

content   sex, modernity, art, sainthood – they’re all about blurrings. el-spet clitia explores the classics: animals and humans, living and dead, technology and humans, therapists and lovers, architectures and automobiles … even the old standard – humans and humans

stylistically, el-spet blurs porn, scifi, surrealism, transhumanism, historical fiction, erotica, philosophy, how-to, social commentary, neodada, feminism, mysticism, ‘pataphysics, literature (cliter- and cocker-), spirituality, and more – tune into sadoo porn for some of that old-fashioned finger pudenda fun!

zañisha

we’re not sure how we feel about hierarchies but what we do know is that fire is a portal and zañisha knows how to walk through

dimensionalities

el-spet encounters the establishment and dominates it

christ & el-spet

jesus not only has a dick that stretches from earth to heaven but a pussy a little larger than the entire universe

fatwawuwei

an interfaith dialogue between islam and daoism mediated by testicles and vaguely inspired by the grapesintheunderwear scene in the thief’s journal

cambion

no one's hornier than the dead

bundass

count on india for a particular kind of dirty

WW-om-b

theresa may, the muslims, the dead, radical feminists, and el-spet get it on – we may die but sex lives forever

el-spet’s vacuum

a nice little short that doesn’t short

yoga pants

neat porn (one doesn’t always want ice)

mommy & el-spet

sure we have anti-oedipus but that doesn’t mommy the way we want to mommy

spot cocks

the seed and egg that started it all

sadoos welcome a necessary and lost member into their family

    welcome  sadoo  clitia !!!!! 😜😜😜

sadoo next - lambchops 

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at the altar of sobo a3

a human in a wheelchair crossing a street gets hit by a car

            next scene :

human in wheelchair is in a wheelchair … gets hit by a car

            this continues indefinitely until the human’s dwarfed by mobility prosthetics

apply islam’s naming convention of cities (allahabad, mohammadabad) to legacy christian cities :

       old name  new name

new york        jesusabad

london           christabad

paris              maryabad

moscow         godabad

the people are necessary to show the idea of eternity

            gods, you who gave the soul senses to perceive the soul

begin a children’s story like this, continuing …

mixter dickspittle and mixter clitspittle, lickspittles of spittleville, lived spritely …

include it in the grade 3 curriculum

in a barstucks in a privileged geriatric neighbourhood

grabbing an americano to make it through an unwanted afternoon

the old dood in front of me – i only call him old because he sounds old, in the way many young sound old – says when asked by the 12-year-old barista his name is bruce. i say my name is krishna. she asks me to spell it. j – o – o – d i say. she writes something down and says to me – your drink will be down there bruce. i say thanks bruce.

it’s a bruce-all-around afternoon

the 190cm 90kg allmeat black dood at the dispensary who checks my id laughs at my honky name. i blush the colour of a cheap coffin and say i’m changing it to jaylen

we have flight, urban, robotics, ergonomics, weather, finance, disaster, biomechanic, sales & production simulations, but shouldn’t we – considering its centrality to all things human – have developed by now a death simulator we can enter?

            but it was developed long before us! – ayahuasca – this molecular exploratory death simulation device

the transference of language from human atmospheres to its substrates. so silence is only a name for placing of human language in the context of language – humans then becoming quiet in comparison

banisteriopsis caapi instructions for facing plant void to void –

s          it up

o          pen your eyes

b          reathe

o          pen your hands

a¹        give clichés as presents to those who require clichés

wrap up lies for those who love lies

a²        never do i hate myself so much as when i hate myself

a³        it’s only the thought of carrying i mind carrying through security

you drink coffee you smoke cigarettes you write and that’s it

¤art so frequently is the academy’s mistress-gigolo (mistolo gigress) relying on its cues, ⏏rth⏏d⏏xies, certifications, tab⏏⏏s – rather than standing in the environment created of art: an environment that surely can accept pollens and seeds from the academy but even as it accepts equally pollens and seeds from all things including those many environments that flourish far from academic pollination. but art is now commonly just a fenced-in area in an academic landscape (often without even knowing it!) – art only because a sign with art scrawled on it hangs on the fence

la culture est un instrument manié par des professeurs pour fabriquer des professeurs qui à leur tour fabriqueront des professeurs

depression is only depression if you call it depression, just as fat is only fat if you call it fat. there is a taliban of language and the freedom-fighters of the human spirit listen to their death threats with a combination of amusement and mockery

⏏ ⏏

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there may be no purity
but there is simone

contorting oneself into the infinite prisons of one’s fate is an art normally automatically done; when one though is a specialist of sorts in such contortion – at least in its description, its awareness – every movement, thought, horror, expanse, colour and sound, vacancy, window, presumed escape (but one escapes only to a fate of escaping!), each emotion, fear, doubt, political nuance, relentlessly morphing definitions and statements, increasing lack of clarity (in any explicit articulate sense) of what this fate is and even whether this is the right word for it, the knowledge of nothing else, the small everythings in this knowledge, …

                  … others act, believe, know, promote, analyze, dominate … but those specialists attuned to every sensitivity of fate, like a precision-made instrument designed solely for this purpose, are unable to move with much assurance in these common domains

from death’s impurity i write. the living have called death’s perspective purity (purity – or its radical opposite) but there is no purity. the living do not understand death, that its impurities are different than life’s, and they mistake this difference, through ignorance, with another thing

while there’s something erotic, exhilarating about another’s pain – a delight euphemized and nano-negotiated through the functions of social-dominant language – our own pain is calmly even enjoyably meditative (but only if we have the luxury to reflect on it – that is, as s weil points out, if the pain isn’t too severe)  ¤

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• capitalism has brought about the emancipation of collective humanity with respect to nature. but this collective humanity has itself taken on with respect to the individual the oppressive function formerly exercised by nature

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