kakistocracaticologist konference

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kakistocracaticologist konference

in kindawol kabul

kuly kenth to kwelfth koo kousand and kineteen

 when the air in the outhouse’s purer than the air outside

the alchemical amalgam of discipline and imagination one drinks to enable sayings of no

john’s apocalypse a vivid dream of humanity’s stupidity, set in set forms and articulations of the day

it’s amazing how even the lowly crimini can, under the right conditions, smell like god

think

of

civilization

as

a

poorly

built

ladder

as

you

climb

each

step

that

you

used

falls

away

a

fall

from

a

height

of

just

a

few

rungs

is

fine

yet

the

higher

you

climb

the

larger

the

fall

eventually

once

you

reach

a

sufficient

height

any

drop

from

the

ladder

is

fatal

language doesn’t have meaning – it has sensation. language is just another sense (that makes no more sense than the other senses) that we mistake for something else

in the alphabetic rave of sexual politics i’m a d : dreamian (dreamsexual) or a p-dit (polydreamorous dreamian interdream transdreamite)

                  or maybe a punctuation mark : a : : probably if it weren’t for its association with g. the irony mark? or better a glyph on the irony mark … it doesn’t particularly matter which one : i’m glyph neutral

homelessness is a higher form of protection of the mind 

invoking posterity is like making speeches to worms 

ask a worm to be brave – she’s pale and pink and soft, just like us

i’ve long realized that my primary task in the brief space i’ve been given to occupy the clock of vision is to build reasonable asylums for myself – places of refuge from human violation in which i can wander in strangely lit and bottomless corridors

the inevitable monsters of our lives we prostheticize (and this is often called success), repress or abdicate to or therapize (which is to name), or … that rarer path … leave them in their monster states (and so unnamed) and play with. and if then we become a monster to those others, what of it? we have been granted access to the land of origins

we wear the music of our emerging consciousness like a tired fashion

hebraicity city in a desert of trees –

who could charge for such hard caprices? what bureaucracy would pay for unwindings so peripheral?

who would stare at the phone as an oracle? and who could evacuate from oneself these immobile times?

 humans are two-dimensional specimens of nature which crave polydimensionality but can only simulate such manifold vastness through zero dimensionality, a path they massively avoid, and this resultant avoidance effects increasingly complex and empty structures of death, structures we now almost wholly live within and make manifest the fear we have consistently refused to confront

oh green faerie of tofu skies who lifts the skirts of god to timeless indecency   oh green faerie liquid mother of dreams who paints the corridors of our naked sanities with blood   oh green faerie of my fallen gonads swaben swell of faded lime   green faerie green faerie the hair in you i pick out with my long proboscis and suck it like an ocd durian in a bowling alley  we segmented specimens will not walk through their apocalypses  our lower lips shall talk through the wormholes we’ve been building in our imaginations to a new atlantis  oh green tofu of faerie skies who sips our blood with faded sanities  take the hair of my skirts and paint your indecencies on my liquid proboscis   so shall all comrades of the worm be justified in the courts of wanton purity

but there are still 41 words left. now 34. now 32. there must be a better way. let me tell you a very brief story:

misla,testtube of sylif and a pack of earplugs, steals anatepa’s corset and has to pay