a decommons

mysticism was the first wireless communication

you know sign language?

i know hyper sign language

whats that?

literature

god the final word signing that all words further on will fail

the exhaustion of the speakable as consciousness collapses

communication  a global enterprise in failure

let us reason = let us communicate?

not a single one of the brilliant arguments of madness  that madness that gets locked up  do i neglect   this forest logic  fizzing into memory  so superior to reasons  i make into my body

the creature  in its committed exile from itself  rummaging through its growing store of dirty shards  hot to talk  pinned by gonads to a deconstructed cross  so immeasurably estranged from communication it prostrates itself before prostration  in manufactured twilights and anthems of glittering sewage it talks and rummages and in these nightmares where it briefly espies slices of its visage it does not scream or laugh  those wordless portals  but talks and rummages and talks

i say to communication  communication have you put your finger on the punctum of yourself and have you found it to your liking and have you stroked it?

and communication says to i  human the punctum of myself is you and so i say to you have you felt my finger and has it stroked and have you found it to your liking?

i watch communication ride its paddle plane across the ragged shores of the forest tops  a balmy sky singing guttered like a movie star and the moon which is made of cashews spitting at the catastrophically withered sun  and communication paddles along and around and i sit in the desert of the middle wondering if i should shoot it like i have the gods

the last madness that will remain with me will be that of believing myself to be mad

i do not isolate myself from the world but enter a place of communication that furrows a congealing world

communication sits in the bars of the cities

waits in line for perfunctory beer at hippodromes of loss

presents itself in boardrooms of doughnuts

squawks obscenities in thronerooms of love

retires vacant in the scraps of the day

i went to visit communication in a supermax and it was there in its striped pajamas  polynarratived and fed in its way  and it snuck me through a bribe of a guard a guarded warning that the story of its incarcerating are not the stories of its enclosings

media is our mentor priest parliament judge and executioner in communication and as we ignore its instructions we slip on orthodoxys ice and the paramedics arrive on mechanical palfreys and take us to guilds of mystagogues and ochlagogues and there we sign retractions

in reeking folds of desperate genitalia communication dreams its incoherence

one who already knows cant go beyond a known horizon  to communicate one gives up knowing and in the giving language must dream

the rise of communication as a subject and object is directly proportional to its disappearance

do you have things?

yes but i have things without thinging

i dont understand

try underthinging

faith in communication is as hapless an act as faith in god   but next to faith in humanity it seems a reasonable endeavour

communication  having fled the commons  pitches its cardboard box in interioritys ravines and there establishes a thresholding microstate of conductive grammars

where do you find ecstasy? in the hyperprosthetics of talk? death images of desire? fairs of maw? the hole of communication? the pared mirror?

i peel the communication fruit with the knife of memory and under its crusty skin lurid flesh seethes  raw and hieratic

various forms of expenditure define of themselves a law of communication regulating the play of the isolation and dissolution of beings

who sidesteps these squanderings by toadstooling through the doolips?

experience leads to no safety or knowledge but to a place of bewilderment  of the breakdown of communication and the empty gazings of word

exile is communication at home