some venomics of waiting to get to gek poh

 

its raining like mosquitoes at three o three on a sabbath and long waits for the trains fill the spaces and here dawdle supernatural babblers alone lost illegal crushed on platform a and a sweltry smoke from the genocided sumatran forests worms through every orifice and violates the brain and ruptures language

shes sipping remnant herniaria lustanica tea and going to gek poh on the jrl and hes behind the steam to kembangan on the eastwest positioned like an awardwinning sculpture a tourist obliviously glimpses while transversing inzai on the 京成成田空港線

its the autism in everything she says the singular autism but worse the tribal autism i do everything i can to adapt but my own autism cant help but overwhelm the adaptation attempts to the other autisms and there we have it communications like a hipstered herpestid in glyptic relief

i live in fog and rain and bugs and bugs and rain and fog and try to create perambulating wonder that cant breathe in dimensional reality in closed clothed societies and if this deters me the deterrence itself i turn into wonder like some mage of akhetsnafus void and all would be disputed if any of this could be perceived in the senses of a race without end or shape

you sound like a bibulous putz she says and goes back to the tea with a passion unwarranted by the evidence in those selfhelp books you pick up while drunk at a populist bookstore if it still exists and read in gulps and bias in the pursuit of coitus but only end up passed out on your couch with the tv on and your genitalia splayed and pitiably gooey and simpsons reruns laughing at you in your oblivion we know you do it and she stares into the shrubbery as if it held enfolded within it the visage of a future deity that will nonchalantly destroy the world

you realize you can as much as youre inclined reify the protocols of your heritage but im under no obligation to accept those protocols or even more the reification both of which but particularly the latter are crimes against the spirit and while they go almost entirely unnoticed by your juvenescent courts of law are the chief testimony on scales so distant from your preoccupations they make earendel look like an alphagettus in the soup your face just fell in

your insults are bricks and mortar and im the internet and ive no interest or principal in the hefty mortgage of your words which will soon foreclose your soul leaving you homeless in the city of sublimity but though weve nothing in common but our having nothing in common and also that were waiters on lonely platforms conversing about loitering nothings why dont we while away your mimbo life and expose your package and shut up and do the business you were born for

the low odds of negotiating between the groundzero imperatives and agonies of the body and the commoditized rhetorics of persuasion fear envy guilt acquisition sacrifice the braindead megaphone of latecapitalism in hopes of locating an intimate ground of operation from which an authentic loving gesture might be launched lie shredded around the feet of these disastrous costelettes and he unzips and his tumiditys as a vatic vineyard in imaginations of those locust eating hebrew prophets and a cluster of plasticgrapes as youd find in a tawdry bagnio frequented by thieves and journalists pinned to his scrotum and she tenderly plucks a vitus and slides it in his mouth saying 

your turgescence reminds me of a meeting i had on the top floor of 547 west 159^th street with those hungarian interpreters you could peel the bombast off the walls and i thought then as i think now on platform a at jurong east about to engage in the apex ritual of the commons along with war the only unity of time under an almost southern moon this orderly repressed city state sleeping justified by pythons and interrogated by poets that the novel were ins at least a novel and has to be theres nothing else and if you say its a boring novel only notes for a novel the characters are undeveloped abstract monodimensional robotic theres no continuity not much sense its stylistically abstruse and anarchic i might say but this is life you work and sleep with whonyms like this every day your daysre like this and if you force an artificial clarity on them from insecurity and fear well thats your stupidity and she puts her left pinkie in his mouth with the plucked and her right hand around his tugor down to the cheap stilllife dangling swaying in the fuggy bugs and sqiggles out of her frock and goes to doggy on platform a and invites the polymer cluster to gustily slap against her thighs

but none of this he says

youre not allowed to talk

none of this is

your trains here in two hours we go from babelon to babelon the maps say sembawang this bugis that we say oh yes i went to venice how marvellous so many tourists i have homes in quepem and krško but its all just babelon and these trains were waiting for with your structure in my structure like a demented ouroboric polygyre for no reason other than this is what time and meat do these trains like our shoving serve only to give us the illusion grossly impressionable species that we are that were doing something moving moving anywhere at all but no all we dos stand absolutely still from life to death in one place in babelon and once we die thats when things start happening 

none of

talks a kind of train that goes nowhere and languages a system map to make us think we move

none

lifes become an abstraction so total we can know of nothing else literature ironically if irony hasnt died from excess still hasnt caught on to this stuck in homer a nostalgia of reality narrativity facticity meaning emotivity reason dont accept the compromise enter fully in let your abstract meat in mine mete times immobility and let each generation dispense the same punishments to those who fall far below and those who rise high above its middling standards and

and the first trains lights appear in the distance and he pulls out and shoots his cum clumsily on the platform and detaches the grapes and gives them to her in a remote gesture and puts it back inside zips up and boards the train and she sticky with love and sore with communication dons the frock and plunks across from the jem sign on the floor and her annihilated or to use the oldfashioned word exiled meat tangled and ungovernable and the sumatran smokes in language like a venom and she waits and waits for the jrl to gek poh

serried calmplex

the smile comes at a great cost the laugh on the other hand she says the laughs a function of an aesthetic incontinence that arises from having lived past an indefinable point and so control becomes a kind of immiserated regression and bypasses judgement and currency and she remembers when she smiled at that overpriced cafe in bamberg lunching with the scheitenschläffens and their poodle an overgrown delphinium more coddled than afonso pedro de alcântara cristiano leopoldo filipe eugênio miguel gabriel rafael gonzaga and what was she to do but smile at the thing and yet even now on the altufyevo bound platform of serpukhovskaya station delirious with the abyss of dial log and canopy of shiny marble and the vaults like a sealed doorway of meaning and war she regrets the gesture and wonders however irrationally or truly if the entire sad trajectory since has been born from that blunder which seemed only tactical at the moment but in the haze of hindsight stands monumentally like a strategic oversight so encompassing how can she even momentarily think of herself as belonging to any club that might consider admitting the wise

take me for a ride in your rutabaga convertible down the boulevard of artifice he says as she lifts her skirts by a revolutionary pillar and a corpse from a corner watches him kneel and draw hieroglyphs around her labia as if he were some pseudoscientific egyptologist and her sex a tabula rasa dropped by stylites far far down from the hard salvific heights of mortified oblivion onto a pragmatic mangled purblind earth

were savage she says and datas the only escape open the window of data and look out on its kind landscapes and pull up a chair and let that be a life today though ill just listen to the wind

you were once an aquifuge of rare delight wholly impermeable and without remorse or promise but now youve become or perhaps always have been and only now in some display of projected rectitude finally expose a pathologescent imago for the maw of the persona craving commons this heirloom of a failed archeological expedition on some timescale were incapable of inventing and she grasps the base of his throbulescence and guides it to the spelunking chambers wet with spiders and the dismemberment of metaphysics

the people are busy they do children and jobs and relationships obligations they call love or necessity wear you down through confusion and interminability the machinery of it all words of collegiality and care and acts of ambivalence and aggression the warm and icy hand the childish waiting for disappointment the crucified dreams lined on either side of the hallway as you return home to your mind after a lunch that felt pleasant enough and as you leave realize was nothing but another hostility

quem deus vult perdere dementat prius he says but heres the dub

it all fails next to dream theres dream and then you wake up and if you remember the dream maybe you talk to a therapist or a dreamspecialist or your friends if there are any or a book or the internet or just figure it out in your own miserable scatological head or some or all of the above and theres a meaning or the meaning but art isnt like that its just dream and never tries to go beyond art like love was once supposed to do never fails because it never succeeds if we ask what art means were asking the wrong question and the corpse presents its visa to the authorities and joins the heaving and her septum between the rubbings of its bone and his meat is an oracle without divinity or pointing

why are you talking about art like some wayward cheracebus lucifer theres nothing that would justify your

i will completely annihilate you she says with tea tree oil and lavender

i find your taciturny more irritating than mysterious he says and the two perform a kind of interruptus not well explicated in the manuals that purport to deal with such matters and the corpse and he retreat to a vending photo booth to continue the discussion heres the deal she says for theres no love like money and she borrows some vodka from a passing trobairitz to douche herself afore and aft and return to the psychokinetic constructions of an abject minstrelling

the trains arrive more or less on time and the photos taken and the trains arrive and arrive again and go to sleep on their iron beds and awaken and go to task again and memories stalk those of all and no dimensions as unity marches in the pitched reel of words

and so the three she corpse he in the afterglow of love in their ways go their separate ways and a story however fallen or befogged befoggings told

gwawk natacu

 

on the offchance she says though chance is rarely off and adjusts her mordant mufti to rouse a question from the crypt on the onchance then excuse the neologism to serve a purpose neither of us im absolutely convinced about in my doubt can remotely fathom that somewhere in your interior disorder might reside however encaged or roaming an attribute however fleeting or illusory that could suggest however remotely opaquely or disguisedly under the most generous circumstances an indication of the possibility of any realization that you as all things exist simply as a startlingly brief and comprehensively insignificant tıttle in a universe so vast and eternal it would laugh if anything so indifferent could ever enter the realm of wit 

you take me into psychopathic space baby he says and covers his feet like seraphim

in the attempt to communicate she says as she slaps aside the approach of a usurpation from a locked closet in an abandoned room on the floor of childhood suppressions were abducted into chthonic triforia where our task if we have any at all and this is far from certain is just to look but instead we direct whatever energy we have into being lulled into the unlook and there in the lulling how can we advance but through a retreat so singular and exhaustive it instead of participating in our movements defines our very being

i take my time i do it my way i run the race he says and removes his trousers and slathers his member with garlic vegenaise and recites some nursery rhymes about dinosaurs and tulips and the gardens of the rich

it doesnt matter if we devote every minute of our furious meaningless lives to maintaining however increasingly precarious delusions that accelerate however fragile our ridiculous and hyperinflated notions of self as long as the relations we construct enable us to walk erect through forests of hostility and meadows of humiliation for how could any of us and surely you in reality or fantasy are not exempt cope otherwise with the draft of void as it approaches unmitigated by the wonders of fashion and caresses of cliches

were all sloshed clowns passing limp batons in a relay race no one understands i know you dont eat meat but will you just this once make an exception and feast on this eggless condimented stranger

the end was never supposed to be like this she says silent and full of garbage and wipes a finger of vegenaise and takes it in her mouth like gasoline as if shes at a picaist party the point is what could we ever do but what were doing necessarily pathetic though it not only is but must be even and perhaps especially in our fabricated reasons

dont lose sight of the great battalion in the sky my dispossessed amazonian though we can hardly see it he says and slices his member off and hands it to her the way she likes on steppes of radicchio and kalamatas pierced into it with coloured toothpicks

what were saying while it has little to do with reality though im unsure that matters anymore she says and takes a munch of the proffered snack has much to do with moving forward in ways that might surpass any mission imagined so far in the minds of sages which exciting though it seems cant live up to the promises exacted at the cost of any pretense of intelligence

who dont exist of course he says but thats beside the point and watches while she gulps the last bit down but the only true crisiss the one we cant do anything about which effectively now is everything and they the dialogue having more or less finished cross to different platforms he to the stanmorebound jubileetrain to transfer at bakerstreet for latimerroad to watch the thirdgame of the stanleycup in his chelseaflat and she to the stratfordbound to disembark at canadawater and visit the neglected graves of nunhead

deranged tales from a sadoo stoodıo

the agêd explode ın ash

mamas been feeding off granny ıs tıts for as long as anyone forgets  while it cant be medically or metaphysically proven if granny ıs alive or dead she sure still keeps on spouting out those grannyısms and  good for mama  flows the mılk

though its not really mılk as galadap discovers when she sneaks a drınk one night  more about that later  

so its later now  though weve had to cut out a lot of pretty good stuff to get here so quickly  so lets tell the toothsome story

its the eve of hexennachtenwoltenschläften and house of mamas open for the carousing agêd and they enter like hobbyhorses  arriving in pumpkins and deshabille  on psilochuasca and dragonflies  by wrinkle and disaster and steeds of collapse   crashing through windows and cutting themselves in broken cackles  they cast themselves down webbed flues to explode tinily in ash and annihilated memory

here comes unkl of greed wearing thick lipstick of concern   there awnt of academic virtue and clunks of observation  in a ginbowl a granmama of many greats and thick broods of narcissists  lounging in a pantherthong old hababal of countless suicides and love   all these of gross descendants littered across the earth like frozen novels come like weightless garish pastries and share their sins and gather in the cravatoria to await mamas arrival and address and their sexes hang like ichiban brinjal and require just as much oil and some sing tiny choruses in corners

mama enters through a gerovrata she craftily pretends to misplace by dismantle 19 and the agêd bubble and gluck in seventy times seven hundred simulations and turbulence is like ichthyic hope

oh agêd and the many agêd and the agêd upon agêd and the agêd beyond mama says and slips her dress off oh agêd whove bespoken boundaryless vats of suffering into existence and almost as many lies to delude all but the wise that their bespeakings been a virtue mama says and unhooks her brassiere and lets it drop like a thousand lost metaphors oh agêd who now and already stalk the shades of drool grasping for holy dreams that refuse to enter even the remote orbits of your suppurating festerment mama says and removes her panties and casts them at one recently dead under the tattered skirts of a once professor in ungulatology and mother of a duet of pedantry banality vapidity oh agêd who says mama and

she says the same thing every year mutters galadap to herself in her geheim secerno and knows mamas going to get distracted by the sunken smelly navels and antediluvian toenails  their irresistible pendulousness and rancorous gonads   the coalescence of which  she feels this dna config even in her young meat and begins to prepare for the tumult she divines will arrive when it flowers garishly into the manifold colours of hunger and hard lecheries of scent  galadap knows will catapult mama into frenzies of forgetting and shell descend from her nakedness into the dealt fashions of teeth and fragility

galadap says to herself in her verhohlenung ı shall use the opportunity of mamas fatal distraction and unholy salaciousness to steal through the storey of skeletons and use the key of taboos and ıncant the unspoken and clamber unwıttingly across the dıssequıturıa to the opaque plenıtudes that protect granny ı in her volumınous concupıscences and there outwit the plenitudes and gain access to the knowledge thats mine

& true to truth galadap does and here granny ı ın torn & smırchy nıghtdress of eternıtıes and a tıt lounges outsıde like an ırrupting ınfrangıbılıty and the tıt speaks ın the emetıc speech of the spırıts who lıve ın the ındıstınguıshabılıty of death and lıfe and whıspers to galadap secrets of her dna and even mama doesnt know them all and pulls galadap towards ıt and she latches on like a ratchet and sucks to the marrow this ıchor that has changed her forever

and when galadaps done granny ı rıps off grandotters frock and there galdaps tıts  to have been born with the breasts of outcasts  like caprıcıous sentınels and granny ı sucks and dotter of house of mama knows the need of those with neıther root nor canopy

galadap returns to her heimlich by the cravatoria and the agêd are strewn like roaches after a party and smoke rises from them and mama  naked and satisfied and bloody  sits in this gehenna  some lost word from the regions beyond  and galadap sees time before her babbling like the mad and feels granny ı crawling within and makes an altar to what shes no idea and prays though she believes little in belief and sleeps for many days and nıghts in risible ribald portendıng dreams 

oryr abdicant

as things migrate from meat to data  from suffering to statistics  whonym disappears into the vorticial blackhole created by the migration and in the disappearance manifests omnipresently as its rabidly loquacious absence   a kind of failed and disastrous mysticism which it in its nugatory superciliousness believes to be an unparalleled triumph

the geometries of soul are incommensurate with times mathematics

ideas are now so bereft of ideas

unfamous whonyms talking about the famous is like poor whonyms donating money to the rich

la flors a great film  despite its indulgences campiness frustrations imperfections  as it manages to be a deeply mystic film but presented through realism   the common critics  whether they praise or diss it  miss this and instead focus on it as a successful somewhat tedious or failed attempt at experimental narrative   but when viewed through the lens of fleshy mysticism every minute of la flor becomes rich   a divine comedy for the third millennium   there are a smattering of mature films  by mature here we mean polysemantically conscious and diversely representative of the orientations and movements of spirit seamlessly manifest in content and form  but la flor assumes maturity before it begins then goes beyond

friendship presents itself as possibility not when reason meets but when unreasons compatiblize  even if these aligned unreasons are named reason by the intimates

most whonyms of the socalled progressive sort follow the dominant diversities   which is to say not much of diversity at all   and so unprogressive   or at least progressive within a penitentiary of political conventionality and so unfree

parents use children to escape parents but by becoming parents they instead enter more fully into the regions they had hoped to flee

all good theorys impractical because goodness cant be implemented except in the most random distributed and occasional ways and moments  almost entirely aside from any intentions or conceptualizations of whonyms   fernandos right then  the only rational thing to do is maintain theory or dream  whatever your word is for it  in dream and theory   and let the body be enslaved by whatever molecular forces determined it from conception

a great but widely dispersed depression thats indistinguishable from a vast and pervasive joy

everything about the wild spirits indicates theyre an imaginal presencing of a primary dimension of human psychic being in unharnessed nonsomatized animatedness  impulsive incessantlyvolatile ambivalent omnipotent envious

birth is the primordial narcissistic injury of the ouroboric self incurred on itself by its own necessity to birth itself