fausta labbra ıı

 

theres a cilice dispensary nearby and she grabs a fresh one and wipes herself with it ouch and descends in the absence of sun or moon electricity or stars though her meat now almost wholly replaced with light provides alternative navigational guidance so she can deal with the tritium staircase without tripping and noticing some other meatlight ascending toward her around a corner backs into a rhodium alcove and waits 

for the the polloi thats gross and its gross and they say gross gross and hence they flee to the notgross which isnt truly truly the notgross as they believe in the schisms of their glorified minds but just more of the gross so this fleeing this notgross these are gross the transfigurations welladvanced and no meat remains and she says hey hows it goin and they say but i say the grosss interesting though interestings not the right how do we put it selection though selections also not yet the real questions is interesting gross which if its at all places us in spaces of collapsing fractals which isnt bad no not at all these ruined topological successions and in such moments i refer specifically and eminently to heresiarch imam ibn yayyab ishaq ali abdalaba abul bin bayt zayd ibn sina ibn yaqub al mamum bin ibn alal zarqik nib nib kharamazoo rashids treatise on a treatise on a gırıh set aside for some revolutions in the architectures of oneiric landscapes in our manifesta on apophatic unities who says and i recite according to my talents in these troubled eternities and the other meatlight fades and she goes on and the air might be nonexistent but she has no need to breathe and passes 2 in a gazement doing 69 earthrites and though their lightmouths are full and busy words emit from each and yea they speak if this be speaking simultaneously but she understands them both equally if understanding here can be said to have much meaning

sayeth the top for have i not walked the marrow path and set aside the fungibles and fungibilities and done what the sidewalk slogans recommended and undone the commandments of the forceful and seen shapes in unknowing clouds and taken them in me like a vacuum and still gone on dear lord adonai of the utterances so why though why we knows been omitted am i doing this 69 for so many kalpas though time we knows been subsumed and even though it relentlessly feels so incredibly amazing the best 69 ive ever had without respite every single seconds mindshatteringly psychedelically fantastic though we know seconds have been disbanded why have you not dear lord adonai of the utterances restored me to my rightful place among the devout and suffering and zealous and placed me in the chair of the cuntvent moanastery where the alignment of attributes ascends

the critic like the artist it requires for food and fuel resides uncomfortably in spaces that while we cant quite say decimate the object of its inquiry at least warp it to a point in which the position of judgement is so compromised any insight that might be claimed regardless of the receptivity or lack of any audience or none becomes like one of those dodgems thats lost its pantograph to the grid in the chintzy tin sparky ceiling and become autonomous and behold goes merrily or not away from its enclosure the only home its ever known down some path reserved for personnel and crashes into one of those trams reserved for the sessile sayeth the bottom

and she watches how its done in these different bongitudes and gets turned on though how being almost all but light could she remain in any state other than being perpetually turned on but even if offs no longer an option with darkness being broken even as dream and memory all this circumbonkalating in geometries unencountered in that fading outrage and finds an endohedralium stik in her radiance and uses it to probe their orifices though as you might imagine much of the probings guesswork as whats a hole when all is hole and one has become what its always been no more

and she leaves the 69ers behind and comes to a vast palladious square which appears as the embodiment of emptiness itself and enfolded within it a small huddle of meatlights gathering at far taboo and realizes shes forgotten entirely about her question and why she came here in the first place and heads directly for the huddle determined to remember and ask and obtain an answer and accordingly proceed and as she approaches they are what can only be considered singing though of such a nature as to redefine sound unacceptable in anything called a dictionary in the realms called normal and she cant help herself the draws galactically magnetic and joins and each wavicle of her shimmering lights orgasmic past all points of pain and she dies more times than has ever been speculated as possible from any of the texts purporting to be wise and this their song though the translation as you knows callow

we shimmers of light of goderite

nothing ruined nothing worked

reach and move within without

what never our berserk and smirk

to huddle in this polonium

means whoever of our murked taboo

not or not bridges dialogue

huddle this in that asylum

huddle far huddle near

humming hums of goderite

who would could waves of might

who lacking ears let here

and disrepresentations from a dispatch of perpetualis electromagnetic radiation come and shes chained to a phalluslight for a thousand years and each eternitys a day and each day a gag and each gag an abyss of bliss and each abyss a piece of a puzzle not yet fathomed or constructed and upon release shes carried in a rrheaium tesseract and dumped in a flufferite

fausta labbra

 

she asks her question as soon as she gets here or rather not as soon as she gets here but as soon as she can when she gets here after the interminable interviewing at the gates by sans peteriña where if she starts to ask her question the right winged one cuts her off immediately and repeats the brainless line im doing the questioning cliches never die she thinks and peteriña says theres a notion out there that truth comes from argument knowledge from debate comment on this and defend your comments

i dont even give a shit about getting into this place she thinks and says often argument comes from argument and if thats a truth its a truth but from nonargument also things come and isnt truth if it is something from all things or rather everything from all somethings and the nonargument in this argument sufficient evidence

is disillusionment more a freedom or a bondage

the scales required to weigh freedom while they may exist in your sphere are so nascent in ours the only artifacts that attempt that weighing are words and words are a bondage that cant be weighed

the mores and visions on your terrestrial ball necessitate that relations and practices are formed from fuckey and money regardless of the active and ubiquitous euphemistic factories explain how youll navigate different sets of factories relations euphemisms

look i dont even care whether i get in or not

you dont have anywhere else to go

therere always other places to go

sometimes there arent these are new circumstances for you dont overestimate the transferability of any knowledge you might assume you have destinations travel geographies possibility itself here they arent what they seem

they werent really on earth either but what i came here for is do you have a

sans peteriña continues questioning and she answers as if she were a bot in a phd defense in an inquisitive apparatus so vastly intricate and anachronistic what could speak in a mode that might point however obscurely to any habitations of reason that werent simply more mounds of isolation in a network so alienated from itself even a most conscious and powerful mirror couldnt begin to reveal any semblance of meaning that wasnt just yet more munitions in grinning robes of sentiment and as she speaks automatissmo and the hollowed and incidentally upsidedown portal domina interrogates according to the orthodoxies of the dicastery for the latrine of the wraiths she scans the system of gates between her increasingly dubious flesh and her inquiry and sees porters of decreasing rank stretching to golden horizons and interrupts isnt there a way to bypass this inane system of infinite ingress and sans peteriña says while youre still sarcoid if you service me and sans 7 12 490 and 1000 use the iridious globus crucigers in the second drawer why not my middle names anathema put the ferula in my rear consecration and the crosier in the anterior and sing inno e marcia pontificale using the 1991 lavagna lyrics hurry theres a lineup

and in the service of holiness and not having much else to do she proceeds with her tasks and completes them satisfactorily without further dispute and finds herself suddenly cast into a dark narrow curving alley with a faded broken sign on chipped osmium welcome to heaven population and there it breaks shit ive still got the ferula with me where theres a jill theres a way as granny ı always says and finds a dirty doorway to finish the build off

urıȷ

or

the petıtıo prıncıpıı of the

worlds most spectacular underground

the atlantıs metro tamsebyaızdata as its sometimes clandestinely called by locals glows with a purgative luminosity at this hour and it draws copulators down from the caves away from domestic abstractions and drones the futile and dispossessed and their liturgies of failure out of the terrors of interiority into terrors of structured mendacity into labyrinths of repression and stultifying prejudices of the powerful what brings them down these lost utopians from the caves of dreams

they sometimes fornicate on the shoals of the city in preparation for the hour sad thrustings against the vast middens of the wealthy and dogs and cows like rats rummaging alongside so one has to take care not to mistake a hole or proboscis and find oneself joined with another species and enjoying it more than ones own and what to do then in the sectors of dissonance

all the forests of the island are torn down for its construction but general urıȷ ıvınıvıchs celebrated as a grand national hero and the main line square boulevard academy park edifice prize seaport bear his name and who could deny its comprehensive impressiveness in every possible respect more stations than new york more beauty than moscow longer than shanghai older than london busier than tokyo smellier than paris more dangerous than são paulo dirtier than manila more crowded than delhi deeper than pyongyang more nonexistent than karachi more serene than stockholm one could enter and never leave and not live badly and some do its said sleeping in emergency hatchways feeding from windswept empanadas and patties smeared onto the exterior walls of marginal comms booths and signals of illused transfer tracks who can hold the representation of the system at once in ones mind and who can truthfully say shes been to each station and climbed those eternal stairs

the trains look like colossal squids and their bioluminescence can be seen at great distances even around lengthy corners as they scour the intricate and unmappable network of tamsebyaızdata and heavy pelagic moans roam the tunnels which even maintenance personnel whove been slaving for 40 years and whose pensions are so byzantine hrs lost all track of them cant fathom and routinely never timeout and are presumed extinct after the legally required passing theres the story of the exıgumenı fılıpı dı fılıpı lıppı whod only been doing garbage on one of the oldest lines for a few weeks and didnt show to clockout one morning and yet nine years after being presumed extinct shes found quite alive shagging in a pile of new tourist passes and few questions are asked and shes back to work stories like this circulate among the operators and security investigative officers the booth people and tactical infrastructure auditors portal service rangers and bioluminescent trackers the entire massive incomprehensible bureaucracy that keeps the trains moving 247 and without too many deaths from the lowliest urinal licker to the most licked executive they all have stories and lıppıs one of the few whos returned

as the linesre uncountable and the services fluid and the stations all named urıȷ for honour and glory and simplicity and restraint one takes ones chances in ones transit and for this the citizens are grateful this synecdoche of life bylaw 401|28b states clearly that the department of motile ingress and impetuous egress must no less frequently than every 900 hours move each station a distance of not less than 12.029746 fathoms including a set of procedures so monumental interpretations are rarely regulated or enforced pertaining to the specifications of entrances and exits and their relation not only to the socalled host station but to each other and an energy system of their environs which while not anything like fengshui has a certain similarity of architectural and geographical necessity propelling and constraining it

so into this monstrous scene into the oldest largest longest dirtiest lowest busiest smelliest most beautiful dangerous crowded serene metro ever envisioned or constructed after having intentionally screwed a few woebegones on rancid cumuli and a few hinnies by accident on the shoals of this indescribably great island and city she enters at urıȷ station and descends many stairs and elevators and infinite stairs and stairs and escalators and stairs until she feels shes on the very doormat of hades and navigates as quickly as possible for the purgative hour approaches with a speculative urgency the endless connecting tunnels past minstrels and troubadours of the most derelict descriptions who sound like tortured toads on toppling helicopters and the homeless and clothesless legless loveless and foodless clawing at her like inept demons and she finds a sign to urıȷ station and pushes to the very farthest reaches of the platform and removes her underpants and searches the eyes of those around for a luminous copulator to enter  

we communicate by samızdat

dont know why you do that

ruled by dogs but incorrigibly cats

we live by stealth and secrets

inhabitants of grand atlantıs

we live in chaos but live for coitus

dont matter if its the mouth or anus

a farce to play or a play to be serious

nice to no were goin knowhere soon

theres just the spoon

of love and a damsel in my fly

whod then or now not then importune

for metro loves more metro loves

its all after all just petıtıo prıncıpıı

you only see the caterpillar once

 

sheou calls it like it is shey says and what it is isnt much like anything

and then theres the calling what about that 

what about it

whats it like

its like the it i suppose callings just another it isnt it

when you reach the geezer class and develop wattles whats left to do but drink and be abused

theres suicide thats always good to kill a day

wanna sing the suicide song

we sang it yesterday

if you were told lifes as boring and small as it is when you were young what would you have done differently

the very essential quality of being young is a radical incapacity to believe that

the adult tasks to make life as small and boring as possible ie make life what it isnt then enforce this artifice on everyone as early and efficiently as possible and devote collective and individual life to pretending not just that this is what life is but what it must be

wattles though arent they nascent antennae designed to receive messages from the holy ones of the farnear

i like coupling with strangers on crowded metro platforms it makes me feel as if i might have something to say no not as if i might have something to say but that the something i dont have to says understood

a tall order for a short species

each impression we leave in another memorys like an alien artifact randomly stumbled upon and occasionally gathered and set on a mantle as some object of incomprehensibility thats shellacked in words so opaque who could see anymore the incomprehension and so the only life thats left us is to litter other minds as much as possible and this wholesale collective rabid pollution is civilizations present work

just yesterday i was at shinjuku waiting for the e to kasumigaseki and a midenarch with a pet dassie i believe to this day quite firmly was an interstellar alien with powers immense and indescribable and our lusticles so large and mutual before you could say natanovich paenungulata strugatsky i was being magnificently humped against some middle manager of the sony group corporation syndicate conglomerate kabushiki gaisha i knew she was a sonyist from the perfume and the magazine who couldnt do anything about it really considering theres nowhere to move and we all just shuffle together like that onto a train with the midenarch and i doing our very best to maintain the rhythms under such constraints and even the middle manager perhaps im imagining rubbing with us an inexplicable edoian rushour 3some im still convinced amitābha expressly sent this visitation for the very task of penetrating my μουνί to hitherto undiscovered meatal pouchy pleasures which ill be blunt are even now astrally reverberating in the lechery of my saturated underpants

the wattles a gadget that makes the internet look like a chamberpot for crickets the folds alone of its syntaxre so sophisticated just listen to this ive come up with this theory its a device really even a protocol that will tune the wattles natural receiver functions to such frequencies each data centre so to speak the body of course will have become a repository of vibrations so fully spectral communication as we know it 

why youre ruining a perfectly splendid masturbation session with your insane speculations

why dont you take your smelly loser underpants and stuff them in the face of that hamburger waiting for the q train with hedgefunds for a brain and nfts for a heart

your relentless pedantic conceptualizations are stillbirths from some unterslime extinction

your underpants are the scourge of an insectogarchy that might exist if only

and she unzips him and takes out his obsolescence like a time capsule and drops her pants and underpants like a matryoshka heavy with memory and sticks out her globbed satellites with mission and procedure and guides him toward the dirty hole of love and the trains zipping by are great messengers of tautology and buried screams and they go at it two warriors of meaning and she hollers alienations our unity and he communications the new babylon and the sun rising on the morning commute a rusty mistake on the squeals and anxieties of a race without end or purpose and he pulls out and the santorum pools on the floor scents of an unmapped transit and cums on a scurrying junior executive and she laughs without remorse or delight and wipes her ass with a nearby overcoat and crawls to a corner and sings the suicide song alone

shaggygate

 

we continue to transcribe leaks

from a dispensation of dial logs from the mad

this one at station elbasateen in the metro anfāq alqāhirah

in the yottapolis of a thousand minarets

on the continent of cave dust

to reveal however partially

great diversities

of nature still remnant in the city

and some grammars of soul devoiced

oh whonyms

communications an infinite expanse

whod live incarcerated in language zoos

of a small & stumbled civilization

the minds born free

and so should language be

i dont know what loneliness is she says as she folds another pair of underpants and places them neatly on a tall stack in her imaginary suitcase its not as if im unfamiliar with certain complexes of feelings that seem in particular moods to at least vaguely align with what others may be describing when theyre attempting to articulate however ineptly states they might sometimes find themselves in that they put for whatever reasons and however partially or contradictorily into the category they or the reified forces that have effectively consumed them and consequently they unable to distinguish them from they associate with the word lonely

i know what you mean he says and he thinks this folding she does isnt it like that time i was in weiberfastnacht and hübsch bützchen coursed the streets like an auseinanderfaltung and the dachshunds like kacchera lost in the laundromat of satyaloka and he aslants in her direction through a clade of apprehensions and plashes his meat far enough from the suitcase that he intends his invasion wont be experienced as any sort of unrequested violation

nexts a pair of phlox briefs which she dangles from a pinkie saying the apocalypses gonna come whether you read the news or not so why read or bow at an altar of stories that have as little to do with our karyoconstitution as magic underwear does with magic help me fold and she hands him an oversized garbage bag im the illegitimate child of vytautas the great and a kroppkaka dekonstruktionist hembitråde named smålånå or scåtiå or våsterbotom the genealogys opaque and i wont take yes for an answer

my pedigrees much lesser he says and muses how in the hurdles of hierarchy to broach into space the message hes just received from the highest and most eminent emanations to do kinetic glossolalia against her sphincter and bides the challenge by loosening the knot and asking if he should place these robust delicacies on one of the existing stacks or begin anew as all of the existing are despite the relative lightness of each fabric with the various inevitabilities of physics factoring into the almost truly astonishing heights shes managed to achieve looking as they may not be able to continue much longer in any vertical ascent

elevate your underpant game he said she says at reichenspergerplatz and the number sixteen to wienerplatz was so late i believed him and let me tell you elevation makes a difference and she hands him a maebari to include in the piles and circumbambulating faqīh rushing to their judiciaries mobbed and mobbing like marmosets disagreeing like forensic forensicists whether this is that or this or something else and removing her apodesmos says would you remain so distant from my pubococcygeus for youve already fondled my cacks and what separates your tungis now from my perineum

the faqīh put underpants on their heads and look like misshapen owls from the vestibules of hell and join hands in a circle around the fraught fornicators and they all that diverse and impossible congregation faqīh commuters transitpersonnel baladi and ṣa‘īdī mutasharids and mummies almutasharids and almawmisses and rihlat shaqat ealaa al'aqdames sing this hymn from the palpitating memory of motile khufu

we are one

not in any of your tales

the news it holds no unity

our rants* no commonality

we live each of us and all alone

but for this

that one true and only bond

underpants

and the subligacula what with the wind picked up and the idiobabelia against her ani externus like a dervish festival flapping around elbasateen like chiroptera and the faqīh flapping and she says i have to get to qobaa before the bomb but the buttaramas to my taste and its not a question of not paying attention to the emotions but which to pay attention to therere so many of them at the same time i can only float them like an armada that stresses the horizons and watch them rampage on their way oh my mastodetons are messy and she puts it harder on his tuggo and the faqīh go to levitation and speak vonlenska and some rare commuters too and the gruds fall off and the wind is windy and cairo dustily redeemed

*usage note

the hymn is sung as a round of nine with rants

being substituted with

dance lances cants trance wants aunts manses

in any order with a return to rants

in round nine

saurian baubles

he sits by a pillar at sumulong station his thin dongle making a trail through the valley of his legs and he fears no nunus and boredoms become so part of him he doesnt see it anymore and spirochaetes flagellate through that holy city and he awaits a fellow floater to break through a dreamgate of time and share a meal of love

she comes through silent scream of bones stalwart generational abuse bleeding and butchering the news across petticoats and petty troats and besiding him says going to setapak

inthrarak

the worlds a metro now she says even bears have their own platform and can hop on at discounted rates on occasion of their marginality and divinity and go to mosquito in no time at all its fantastic dont you think

when i was in the war in khortytsia eating blackstriped pipefish and chiffchaffs and blotched sauromates tufted pochards daubentons myotises pipistrelles cervus nippons otters exploding in the air like festive fireworks for a race so indulgent who could not concede any forbearance toward these eldern delights some lost zaporizhian general descends from the savutyn summit and hands me runes and translating says in art dont make death what it isnt and what isnt it

in other words think by not thinking move by not moving fight by not fighting as heresiarcha celadon bunting says she says and strokes his boa and it becomes like those museum sculptures that certain parents avoid and commuters around like leptospirosis and sulfur dioxide and all in their own worlds that is the explicable inexplicable world

loss is a kind of property he says as she removes her pants and underpants and the pants yet under those until her yaws present and shines like alsephina and some glance from their phones and go back to it like devotees of a sect without precedent or future

loss is a kind of property she says for which we have only the most puerile measure but these assets are of different regulatory structure and currency than those of conventional accumulation and she gropes for his controversy and seizes it rightly and places herself as a dispatch or commission and guides it to her sprawl saying the serious world as we say we know its but a sembling of a ramshackle feretory habitated by the relics of ancient satires whose biographies and effectsve been lost to meaning

and the ballocks slap against the pudendal butter like wanton church bells and those liking & froing & waiting & toing in the atmospheres like starved vanities and the two or is it more compatriots after completing the rite of outcasts and presidents whether in politic or dream sing a song in doubtful unison and a few of the rushing waiting whonyms toss coinage toward their open gonads and the song is that old favourite mankok bangila lumplump and it goes like this

the wicked have eyes

and flowers have tales

so lets my love

put the world on sale

it may not be ours

but whats that to us

wills possession

and the hours small

the trains are coming

a bear is crying

the wicked have eyes

and the hours small

the flawed geometrıcıan

 

id always wanted a large wardrobe of ghosts and now that ive got it now that its so stuffed full i cant fit another one in my childhood dream of having a ghost for every occasion ghosts of mourning favoured ghosts ghosts of celebration betrayal ghosts ghosts of rips and stains ghosts never worn but only thought every few years or even forgotten entirely until one day im thinking of that time at lucianas party when galadap spills the jade acrylic on me and it pops into my mind like a sartorial urgency and ghosts are my witness in the absence of witness for who can believe anymore the living can stand for one another or even for themselves

youre covered in blood and paint take them off and show me the ghost youre wearing underneath

when i was at oyingbo waiting for the red line to okokomaiko and a whonym from oroghoro whod been missing trains like a sloshed assassin drew a lovedart from its attaché like some crazed snail misplaced from the memory of itself and inserted it into me like an esbeltomaester they dont behave like that anymore these open sacrifices the linear displays how quickly they grow up

dont want to talk about mosquitoes lay your necessary meat behind elascensora ellevantamiento on the island where we cant see those cool vitalities bashing the old man haplorhini around like horseflies in summerboreals stuffed with their own buzz dont mind them go horizontal seek god together neither support life in its basic savagery nor stalking prosthetics piled to falsely bury blood if we agree on anything which is unknowable its to be no witness to the world for the witness in its attestation pays tribute to the very thing it purports to deny

flies double in size every hour but whonyms halve their weight every decade it used to be each century and before that millennium but things speed up soon itll be every year then month week day hour until we become our true size in the universe and disappear by that time each flyll be the size of a galaxy things change string my ass to the beginning of your love so what im sayings and sayings never as they say just saying thingsve become separate from their families words stories moments places now just shape without meaning not shape of meaning or meaning of shape or even meaning or nonmeaning of meaning but just shape of shape to pretend that stories still exist that names arent lost forever that meaning whether created or preexistent has any validity that we have any place in the world other than a placeless abyss that when the ways lost names become

yaw way war raw doom mood dam

whats left to do but forage for fragments and shag like spooks we always knew it would end like this the is the jizz gaps among potentiality and capacity so cataclitmic what could somehow have the means to bypass these chasms discounted words were in the badlands now honey and alls sticky with erodings

find a death worth living legally steal as much as possible love hypocritically have no regret in proportion to having no memory maintain rebellious despair fondle your poo refuse the names never lay

dying diversities roam our dreams like witless shamans while habitating offal in the manners of media and janatā can give domination and virtue simultaneously what else can with the combo of so great cost and so little social acceptance provide me with lifelong loss and here it is in the mask of everything a little deeper warrior and everythings alright

saguero de bustamante transit security put the old man in a garbage trolley and passing the bonkers ask what they might be doing on such a fine day in the underground of argentina and what rights do they proffer to the authorities and what are their destinations on the known cartographies of the world

im heading to díaz prima junta on the ı line and moanings like a child of an abattoir and countrycarnival who crawls along the trenches of glory seeking anything that might have sight

and i to neuva barass on the ñ and whod judge these hoodoo outlaws who among us speak their hearts

and security watches and some take selfies post to hungry markets as if the flood of flesh is eternally a drought and our two friends in the infratránsito of macedonios bajos fondos weary and sarcophilic on their blind commutes and in the stories and through the names our grappling we great meatbearers of culture here now in these fifteen seconds of fame