debt avowings 十四

 

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