载营魄抱一能无离乎

theres a choıce not much talked about that appears however dımly when one realızes ıf one realızes at all hıstory ısnt and has never been an optıon for you rather than choose love why not madness there lurkıng clothed from an ınfınıte wardrobe ın all that hıstory ısnt

mosquıtoes are lıke cats ın theır random ınterest and ındıfference

what ıf the purpose of whonym charıty wasnt to protect the weak but preserve the mad

ıts us that theyre hıdıng from us

the apocalypse ısnt prımarıly stark and hysterıcal as ın the commonplace dreams of hollywood ıts borıng lonely sıckly quıet one coughs ınto the forest and theres neıther echo nor wolf

the very stones of the earth have been wronged

an outlıer should peer ınto hıstory perıodıcally and by hıstory we mean anythıng from your world anythıng from tıme to confırm that the ubıquıty and ıntensıty of oppressıon hasnt changed that ımagınatıon whıch ıs the unıon of ıntellıgence goodness and beauty stıll has no permıssıon ın that world 

you have to be careful about what you do away wıth ıt could be that some part of our understandıng comes ın vessels ıncapable of sustaınıng themselves

math lıke art a legıtımate reason to suıcıde ınsuffıcıent clothes on grıef the unıverse exposed ın ıts eternal whonymlessness the ponderous ımportant pomped noıse of tıme sucked ınto the vacuum of nıght and only sılent shapes lıke wındless trees

what can you fear that hasnt already come to pass

grıef lıes lıke ash on the crumblıng skyscapers of culture the most vıbrant of our testımonıes grey under contours of death and futıle rage

a calamıty cant be erased by any amount of good ıt can only be erased by a greater calamıty

clınıcal madness exısts however much ıts a product of the greater madnesses of pathologıcal socıety and the collapsed but stıll conscıous soul pathologıcal socıety requıres clınıcal madness as a dıstractıon from ıts own loud futılıtıes and excesses whereas collapsed soul lıstens to ıt as an unfıltered voıce of that collapse and the crıtıcally denıed voıce of the desperately sane

ın the end all we have to offer ıs what weve lost

tombolo of stone

 

certain forms of intelligence have nowhere to go in society  this present society  for its own presumed good  as its structurally configured and enforced  must continually transform those intelligences into production  but they to be themselves eschew production  so where does intelligence go? it goes where it came from and in a sense never leaves   being a subsidiary of nature  conceals itself in excesses of itself which appear to the uninitiated  if they appear at all  as offenses

 

why does ı write?

·             to avoid suiciding

·             as society as its normally constituted is misaligned with ı and ı  to fill time

·             ı like it

·             the process of waiting for writing  which is most of writing  is replete

·             to manifest  however partially and obscurely  spirit

·             to dia log with other seemingly likespirited whonyms in desert bars of spime and tace and through these conversations participate in the esotatic and thereby see god and die

why write so obsessively though?

·             same reasons  for death is powerful and how else does one of the frail living meet it as an equal but through energies that simulatedly match it in vigor and material

 

who the night who rides the knight tonight?

my fortunes are as ill proportioned as your mind

why does not heaven turn ash or with a frown undo the world?

 

ı aspire to a failed artist  a fartist  an artailure  artâılûre

 

woiwode voevoda voivode vojvoda

voevod vaivode wojewoda voyvoda

voyevoda woywode

vojvode

 

ı autoexclude myself in the name of the quest of nym  to seek for inclusions that birth in my removal  that sort of activism  those politics   ı place in the undesired places all the ı of ıs and there go to war with the teeming phantasmagoria that drone over the virtual hills with great pomp and hisses taking manic selfies under bloody tattered banners of love

 

sadoogags

jokester1                              why doesnt granny ı take a dot?

jokester2                                                                  we all are dot

tragedian                                                we take dot for granny

 

an âr̂t̂âîl̂ûr̭ê migrates into margins with uncertain knowledge of scales that weigh vast and distributed ıs  that its migration has nothing particularly to do with justice balance equality or even necessity  neither with sadomasochism or sacrifice virtue nobility stupidity loss gain  but if anything a love of geometry perhaps instilled in the emigrant by a wayward dream presented haphazardly across numberless rubbed nights      the margins let me tell you are vile with unpinned life  so succulent with taxa of unhingement that any investigating biology would devour itself with maws of mawing   all your troubles and bumptiousities and kinships here on their heads and rolling and the lonely sad like forests when they first saw the whonym seize the turd from the tree of why in the burden of eyes   not that were promoting anything

 

we might in other psyches in finding ourselves emigrated hope for some however vague identification with the remnant diaspora of nature but this would be too much  rather we dream of simulating an otherity that we ourselves once were or might have been and in this dream neither vacillate among the presented types nor emerge defending any third or eight or middle way

 

the desire for nonrelation

the styles with which voidists create spaces around hopedforabsence         

 

if history has any purpose which is doubtful but possible it might be to eradicate prophecy   yet in historys present splice has prophecy become more necessary and unattainable than ever

but melon husk  u dont hav much cloo uv da whirld

cars and houses that dont exist are sold all the time

in fact primarily whats sold in the world and you sell is what doesnt exist

politics  like business and war  has always needed poetry  for use   whereas poetry always knows its uselessness  this knowledge in the spaces of a poem   and whether poetry needs business war politics for its uselessness  this a question also in the spaces

 

 

the silent unseen living

the seen the babbling dead

stick the polenta up my ass baby

this is a safe place baby

stick the safe polenta up my safe ass baby

were safe babies baby

polenta my baby asshole

stick my safe polenta ass

polenta polenta polenta polenta

baby

 so asssafe polenta baby stick baby baby