27.2.18

could it think the heart would stop beating


the dangers of decay are the dangers of a sentimentalized fear

mysticism is psychic holography

lifes goal seems to become as rotten as possible so that when one dies theres nothing left to rot

i have no rest from a consciousness that primarily seems conscious of itself as conscious of an anarchically diffuse and paltry consciousness

i must tremble if the possibility of play no longer attracts me

the plant intrudes in the human and speaks inside

dying is a mode of seeing the invisible

holding within word
languages of earth

the only legitimate autobiography would be one with dozens of prefaces introductions forewords postfaces prologues preambles epigraphs afterwords prolegomena conclusions postscripts addenda with little consistency (thematic stylistic chronological …)      no body to speak of

hornbook of sadoo hirpyz
for those new to planet earth
and
wishing instruction in the ways of the human
a brief version of a multivolume treatise on the practice of law
to prime students in the application of dimensions and the geometry of time
through case studies

in this age of relentless and pervasive light sound communication our craving for the darkness of incomprehensibility increases commensurately

i do not renew i denew  i am full of denewments

transcendence is the mathematics of the souls geometry

writing literacy from literacys grave

the world              make your voice count
i                             0 17 81 257 912

23.2.18

fuck billy graham


who rode the wonderbread ass of christianity into the evening redness of the west
who could not be friends with women and stuck them under his horny dominioned thumb
who had to die at 3x the age of his subversive lord
while clinging to capitalism’s wretched raft on exploitation’s infinite sea
who now is not past some pearly gates on streets of stolen gold (or even in one of many hells from alighieri's to shaw's to zurn's)
but with the 107,602,707,791 other humans, food for worms
who surely seems rock hudson’s closet lover
whose life resembled your average middling amerikan ceo or entertainer and not at all his subversive lord and master
who never once did ayahuasca
who killed so many cows and flew in so many planes, laundering these common genocides with the inane blab of his pimp the lord jesus christ of the republic of the disunited hates of amerika
who swooned under the barbaric voice of his own subscription to stupidity
who belonged to if anything the pumping party of regressive consciousness and lollipop cliché
who participated calculatingly and naively as the rich in the growing treacherous gap between word and earth
fuck you
fuck you billy billy billy billy
fuck you in the ass of asses forever and ever
amen

14.2.18

fientive honorificabilitudinitatibi

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