so weve established in our outsider skullarship that in the big inning theres the meatscape or meatspace or meatverse which contrasts with the pataverse and this is the new gnosticism evrythng cums round so u go pata or u go meat meat isnt meta its meat not a meetup but a meatpu ie meatpoo of course theres no big inning only infinite teenyweeny ones like polkadot bee keenies i once dated a dispolkadotted bee keenie and they were keen as screams lemme telu keen as lemons on a russian rollercoaster keen as poutine jizzin on a ewe crane goto urban dick shun airy and look it up lick it all up
lemme speak like yesu in patables there was once a mamaw called mcurinal and it flushed like a big whack & stuffed the meatverse in its mamaw like a fryer and if it jizzed less than pooteen aint that just becuz it didnt and fried its frying in a tent called heyzoo and here we blow round again
heyzoo weeps
its dark as noon isnt it now and the sun hangs like pappardelle across an inexplicably horny earth and the aminals swag on the avenue of zeroes and the blood of love breaks the damned where are the rivers my darling gnarling whys their song not on apple in eden eyeeye say the rivers dying dying those whonyms love killing love killing killing and breathing is ending and musics dead
eye confess that night rises like an eagle on discluded horizons and eyes close like oceans on the unnamed
babies are enigmatically intent on something we adults cant fathom in our mature ignorance
i read skullarship when i need the fictions of order & reason
i read journalism when i need the fictions of order & unreason
i read literature when i need the fictions of disorder and reason
i read mysticism when i need the fictions of disorder and unreason
a too ordered and irrational system
when the light of a summersolstice fullmoon rising in the south
enters the recesses of the cave of sıtėoppo
the desert rats rise from their monasteries and
battle the rats from the lake on the
parallelepipedic plains of dōlhēdōnōn
see violence how it cycles through the temple like a coconut offered to grimacing gods with inoperable limbs flailing down the secret stairwells of disillusion it flows greater than the hacked amazon through the polluted unnavigable lands of the whonym soul the people straw and dogs picnic in its banks and copulate with temporary immunity blood bubbles n love addiction in pars and barties just another movie i dont belong were contaminated all of us reel like shot kangaroos from one figure to another moral satisfaction denied
whonym
to bathe in violence to cleanse themself of themself
violence in justice violence in mercy violence in violence violence in sacrifice violence in ambition violence in retreat violence in meditation violence in eating violence in family violence in creation violence in silence violence in langwich violence in love abysses open like glyphs in the soft curves of words
what shall we gather dear miners together
what shall we rescue from the sad womb of the earth
i crave my lovers infidelities being too weak to engage in them myself i nevertheless need the adventure however vicarious they provide and i cant be with her unless i convince myself she clandestinely copulates with crude strangers at the top landing of dirty staircases a floor or two above the roadhouse din of drinking boors unworthy of love i enervate in the buzzing stupor of swamps and count the hours like jello
everybody wants to be a dictator or a middleclass housespouse or both but for the few of us who cant decide well we live in some limbo of the apophaticarchs running an anarchic lampadephoria without lights or track
eye confess to being a practising whonym but not a believing one the first by necessity the second also by necessity but of a different sort i intend on writing anatomy of necessity thatll make burton look like a haikuist and an amoeba of taxonomy
the worlds overcharged with death and i move in it like a ghoul with an aptitude for fasting
the sun drizzles its warm apathy across the soulful and soulless alike and the citys streets are named kafka céline mishima krasznahorkai dickinson bishop weil sexton carrington acker lispector zürn tutuola cortázar macedonio songling chuangtzu and wraithliteratori hoard the intersections debating wittily obscure relations of the crossroad they find themselves say kierkegaard ave and sappho blvd perhaps pessoa lane juts nonchalantly at the side vehicles honk and scream and some brandish crowbars to wale against these violators of progress and disturbers of war but to no avail the phantasma are protected by a law that stands outside the rule of clubs and knives and the sun drizzles down and the city is my heart