slathered slanderings

im slandering myself she says scribbling obscenities on newborn tombstones like an uninstantiatable funambulist

to delay the laws greater slander  to establish a ruse of a misting before the ruse of a hypercane  to play a game that the game isnt a game

its just my body chattering she says your tos are toppled monuments  your afters and befores graffitied obelisks

a chatter for a chatter he says a slander for a slander  your bodys monumental and your copulas crumbling stellæ

terrified dictators roam the boils of the earth like hotspots  they wear many maskharahs of extinction and i find them in my oatmeal

create procedures for creating procedures and murmur your questions into rumours of absence

were factories of accusations  betined extravagances lacking temple or temene  blind windliners and bluffs of bluffs

declare war on all finalities and icons  lurch as a flickering beacon groping for unknown siblings in an imperious and inimical world

we are punishment and all things must enter and remain according to the degree of their guilt

contest the terrible zone of shadows and deactivate the communicative functions to open the unlimited and potentialize ecologies of impossibility

i have gone into the streets in scraps of night and unfolded the asyndesis of the ravelled city and seen dreams reversing into einbahnstraßen of unflinching consciousness

this is just literature heading toward its own disappearance like identity slipping into a technobioregions absorptive interferences

i cannot know your name nor you mine  we begin the destruction of the city in fixed and frightened forms

youre a euheremist but to achieve radical deactivation through uchronia is the i and the bite and the apple and to craft rather than explain enigmas is our silhouette against the storm and to scorn coherence the only seeking of a possible image of the world

my obliteration is providential  a cosmic attrition and categorical docility that promises only the ambiguity of phantoms  nicht mehr gefällt mir

you smell of silence and rubata and you produce styles of death as if quitting were a strength and elision some celebration of an unshakable belief in a utopia you know will never come

love is a virus and greener than absinthe i am and as i drank myself and the earthquakes rocked my firstborn land my eyes awoke and i ride a black horse and follow the river and write a beautiful book about hell

for ingeborg

the suiciding of today