kakistocracaticologist
konference
in kindawol kabul
kuly
kenth to kwelfth koo kousand and kineteen
the alchemical
amalgam of discipline and imagination one drinks to enable sayings of no
john’s
apocalypse a vivid dream of humanity’s stupidity, set in set forms and
articulations of the day
it’s
amazing how even the lowly crimini can, under the right conditions, smell like
god
think
of
civilization
as
a
poorly
built
ladder
as
you
climb
each
step
that
you
used
falls
away
a
fall
from
a
height
of
just
a
few
rungs
is
fine
yet
the
higher
you
climb
the
larger
the
fall
eventually
once
you
reach
a
sufficient
height
any
drop
from
the
ladder
is
fatal
language
doesn’t have meaning – it has sensation. language is just another sense (that
makes no more sense than the other senses) that we mistake for something else
in
the alphabetic rave of sexual politics i’m a d : dreamian (dreamsexual) or a
p-dit (polydreamorous dreamian interdream transdreamite)
or maybe a punctuation mark :
a : : probably if it weren’t for its association with g. the irony mark? or
better a glyph on the irony mark … it doesn’t particularly matter which one : i’m
glyph neutral
homelessness is a higher form
of protection of the mind
invoking posterity is like
making speeches to worms
ask a worm to be brave – she’s
pale and pink and soft, just like us
i’ve
long realized that my primary task in the brief space i’ve been given to occupy
the clock of vision is to build reasonable asylums for myself – places of
refuge from human violation in which i can wander in strangely lit and
bottomless corridors
the
inevitable monsters of our lives we prostheticize (and this is often called
success), repress or abdicate to or therapize (which is to name), or … that
rarer path … leave them in their monster states (and so unnamed) and play with.
and if then we become a monster to those others, what of it? we have been
granted access to the land of origins
we
wear the music of our emerging consciousness like a tired fashion
hebraicity city in a desert of trees –
who could charge for
such hard caprices? what bureaucracy would pay for unwindings so peripheral?
who would stare at the
phone as an oracle? and who could evacuate from oneself these immobile times?
oh green
faerie of tofu skies who lifts the skirts of god to timeless indecency oh
green faerie liquid mother of dreams who paints the corridors of our naked
sanities with blood oh green faerie of my fallen gonads swaben
swell of faded lime green faerie green
faerie the hair in you i pick out with my long proboscis and suck it like an
ocd durian in a bowling alley we
segmented specimens will not walk through their apocalypses our lower lips shall talk through the
wormholes we’ve been building in our imaginations to a new atlantis oh green tofu of faerie skies who sips our
blood with faded sanities take the hair
of my skirts and paint your indecencies on my liquid proboscis so shall all comrades of the worm be
justified in the courts of wanton purity
but there
are still 41 words left. now 34. now 32. there must be a better way. let me
tell you a very brief story:
misla,testtube
of sylif and a pack of earplugs, steals anatepa’s corset and has to pay
