just the words and crosses

ive perfected the art of fucking myself up healthily

the fiery sword which guards the path to the tree of life is called the pun   syzygy of words

what makes children laugh often frightens adults

to drive meaning so exuberantly past and over and under and into itself its desires of excess become apparent and explode in suffuse lean nonsense that gilds reasons fat

the grimaces on the face of a century

ne sutor ultra crepidam

ne psuchor ultra uterum

notknowing isnt a form of ignorance but a difficult transcendence of knowledge

the penguins took permission from the everlasting ice cream parlor and put their souls into the full corridors of disease

the image has no need of scholarship

to write scifi but a scifi of language directly so that alien ways and brains are not written from the outside but within  so that scifi becomes of language itself  language lands  and has come in terrible friendliness to visit  and humanity further recedes

as eap was the first to attempt to make its living solely through writing

to now attempt to make ones writing solely through living

that is in contradistinction to our cancerous currency  to work hard at not making any living through writing

to depoe through a dedoo …

when were at an age to imagine we cant say how or why we imagine

when we can say how we imagine we cease to imagine

we should therefore dematurize ourselves

the talisman is quixotic  to stay immersed so wholly in the burning fictions of book that ones first tongue becomes book and one speaks from and in it  literature then is not something one does in life  that one makes time for in life  that one retreats from life to do  rather literature is entirely different  it films over life  lays membranes and hides across the grimacing face  becomes what one naturally speaks   a new animism   and the quotidian communication that comprises most if not all of speaking and thinking for you is an effort a task an activity for us  as you pick up a book as a break   these some meanings of the death of the writer

literatures power is what it is because it proposes the destitution of all power

isnt it very strange to call something mad as it lets go of power

society permits madness voice to the extent it drowns out the possibility that madnesss form might be taken for quite another purpose

i write crosswords but without the squares and clues and boxes

just the words and crosses

défoulement           refoulement            fou

unleashing               repressing                mad

modern philosophy desires to know its own unknowing and attempts to do this by becoming more literary  while literature is the last thing psychoanalysis wants

i is what happens when analysis is defaced

civilization stylishly blowing itself to pieces and destruction is my beatrice

sublimation in poetry towers above the psychology of the mundanely unhappy soul

ironic consciousness is anguished consciousness and lucid in its anguish

whats madness other than an acceptance of pervasive doubt of any ability to control language

madness exists to demystify through its own mystifications the formidable mystification of our civilization

like the shining bat and the fanning of gravity all of a sudden by an autochthonous tip of a wing i wait for the adamantine angry swirling genius colliding the ruin and freeing itself in acrobatics so is it so am i   alone

how does nonsense produce sense and quite capably at times far more sense than sense

these reenterings of forests by language

as we reenter mysticism by technologys disappearings?

one may be too smart or good for the world but one is never too good or smart for worlds   yet another reason to dedefinitize world

the dreamwork doesnt think calculate judge  it restricts itself to giving things new forms

madness is a hyperbole of i produced through languages intoxication

to translate the ostensibly rational into the ostensibly irrational by flipping quotidian societal discourse over and transcribing what lies here squirming steaming  like upturning the soil of flowers and taking pictures of the bugs and shit and worms that are as much of the flowers as flowers

no common axis among the modes of consciousness   languages melancholy

literature constitutes the unconscious of psychoanalysis

i build a house of language made of purposeless shards

we must all make do with the rags of love we find flapping on the scarecrow of humanity

real writers dont describe things as they are   they write them as they themselves sense them to be   and if they sense them to be as they are ... they arent ...

scholarship   the art of turning plasmas liquids gases into solids

is our emotion much beyond an expression of a poetry that was lost?

wishing to immerse myself so wholly in aestheticized communication that its grammars are the ones i naturally speak and quotidian discourse i remain competent in  for use  function  the required tongue of force   so i speak idiocy nonsense absurdity more readily than the chattering reason required to card sanity in society  i dont speak about fungi but allow fungi to speak directly through human lineaments   still an about but an about thats so out of about its no longer about about

creating products society doesnt want as an integral blood of ones aesthetic  disutility as production and governance  in semiferal workshops of tweaked joy and freedom  in shadowed nidorous glittered decompositions of god

pornography is a satire on human pretension