thoughts on an edge of something

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in aging news media tempts to become a dependent ossified dream and so its addictive powers increase, consuming language and sensation, until the aged are little more than glyphed dingleberries in the age’s newsarrhea. a sacred attitude of course toward the news during decay is not necessarily to avoid it but to absorb it no differently than one absorbs the trees rustling in the wind or the scatological ruminations of père ubu. and while to continue understanding news’ language to keep one’s own far from it, to speak it (audibly in the society of others or however sonically interiorly) as little as possible. in short, to remain an idiot in the service of darkness

it is in part a miniscule specimen of time’s opportunity to glimpse, however dimly, time’s geometries the news offers – how it presents an ascendant spectacle of names as a staging for the infinite funhouse of unnames

literature has fallen so far behind the edges of film it’s barely worthy to stand on the unstage of art beside it

and recently in from the news –

seth and beth did breath then meth then death

and recently in from the new school of vatic research –

the old (bitter and garrulous) will die in plentiful whimperings and the young (bright and uncomplaining), for they have never had the chance to know the illusions of freedom, will die in plentiful silence. and the others (numerous as mosquitoes) shall fall according to their kind and those still able to copulate will copulate in the viscera and smoke and those who have forgotten will still carry on with trade and law and poetry will be lost except in the mumblings of nightmares

only the imagination stands without flinching before the beast of society

i make things without definition, lacking genre, without name … unless the name be mad. but mad is that name without definition, lacking genre, without name. mad is the god behind the manifest gods. i manifest, but refrain from defining, for that would be to dishonour the root and earth, these divinities of flesh

abstraction – or rather the undefinable distances between abstraction and root – discredit themselves to the extent they bypass through nature toward root primarily through the human. the human – despite its now gross and global attempts – is not a sufficiently vast filter and its pretense to become that and of having become that – almost the sum of present politics, art, culture, sport, business – colours these abstractions with a palette insufficiently acquainted with the manifold hues of black