slime too

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one says sometimes that to enter oblivion all traces from all instances of memory have been lost, all links to one’s name and image annihilated. and when one says that sometimes one usually also means by memory not just those ethereal presences in organic substances such as human brains but also in those prosthetics often called technology, whether of now rather old-fashioned texts or the increasingly pervasive kingdom of the digital – the purpose of the latter often seeming to be a protest, even if a last-gasp one, against the overwhelming evidence of oblivion’s immutable potencies

yet memory in all of this – and so oblivion – is being defined in ways oblivion might not share, being seemingly more flexible than those who sometimes are found saying

when i am lost to the memory of myself, when i am evened out in the odd odds of the game, when i am ground down to those sticky wisps humans spray with their convenience, when i am rubbed out my dust distributed through molecular calendars uncelebrated by societies of the seen, is there any thoroughness or finality, any guarantee i’m not obliviated now?

to remove a face is to find a face

oblivion becomes you she says. what do you mean? you become more yourself the more you don’t exist, you’re the negative sum of all effacements

it is in the asylum i had built for myself over years of solitude that i meet her. i build according to a blueprint that takes into equal account the structure’s two primary definitions – as a fortress for the mad, to keep these madnesses of an unruly i far away from the world, and as a refuge from the mad, a space of comprehensive architectures in which the world’s mad, what are often called citizens or the people, do not enter, not because they are forbidden but because the ways to the asylum are unmapped and even should one accidentally find oneself at its blurry, unmarked and indistinguishable nidi of entry that will be about it, for the asylum is cleverly overlain on what are called the real call reality and so they will neither know nor see

the trees surely won’t remember us and what has seized too many faces shall have none

i meet her and she smears words across my slimy smoothness. this forgetting she says affirms endless nots of defacings. she says her name is dauby mud and i say i have no faces left to give her. but there are always faces left for faces always lost and oblivion just another. whether that the digital pretends to overcome or this the text that’s been erased they are the same

slime too sees

in the asylum in the porch of my face i draw maps of the temples of the mad. rambling affairs that neither point to any forms of transcendence nor offer praise as a viable currency

the oblivions are no more or less obliviated than any others. there are just different protocols and rites

in the asylum of my fallen destiny and risen void plasma is a material of choice. our architects and engineers don’t go to your schools. we are made of mud and creepy crawly things and the nonchalance of bears

all one has to do for training is to open a trapdoor in any word and climb down

down

to the broken garrets of contradiction where oblivion is obliviated and the overlays of perception don garbs of garbage and irony is consummated

irony?

slime too knows

to delight in the asylum of the asylum

here we follow a mudocracy. our gods and sport are mud

in slime are i’m and me and is

oblivion sometimes is just a language that isn’t spoken by those who use the word oblivion

why would anyone want to know they’re alive? far better to doubt

the accumulated debris of history turns the art of simulating oblivion into a vocation of exile

oblivion. ioio blnv. boil vino  bio liv on