the curse of the poet is upon us

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the curse of the poet is upon us

we have learned to breathe blood

and nothing is real

intelligence is the process and practice of routinely cancelling itself

the marriage of yotta- and homo sapiens with death officiating

the potentially fatal contradiction in liberal diversity projects   while other populist options are less appealing that the former can only apply itself to evolutionary aspects that perpetuate injustice and conformity through that ruse that shuffles words and pointers and bodies around on the gameboard of technicized nature and applies to this shuffling half the words – the words that nobilize its efforts … this is the problematic shape of human time progressive politics cannot speak

death isnt doing enough

were not getting death working for us

physical death itself isn’t a sufficient evolutionary policy –

(waiting for the old guard the old ideas the repressive regimes the stodgy generation to die)

(to trust natality!

remains a common tactic and hope but evidence for its efficacy seems lacking)

when we speak of the efficacy of what is commonly called mental illness what do we mean?

                  the genius of mutancy

                  a wildcard of experimentation and nonconformity

                  the hard brilliance of sacrifice

                  new geometries of darkness

                  necessary composting shadows of the loud feasts of hierarchies

                  questions

                  the inefficacy of what is called mental health

                 

become excited if you wish by esotericism its visions and romps  they arent untrue  they have their sustenances and seductions  it rests though on the arts of margins and margins to be margins live on names edges and you lover of esotericism of places outside whose home is the outerclass whose role in spiritualsocial linguistics is voicelessness will lose your excitement and fulfill your fates with neither abuse nor affirmation

                  inner hidden reenchanting rejected withins of withins

and while were blabbing of class where is the blab about all those other prepositions?

not just outerclass but para- syn- meta- pata- through- by- alongside- …?

油炸圈餅

deep fried circle bun

donut

                  lessons in etymology

and you over there … sadoo! … sadoo in the dirty white clothing

                  uirwq

why are you so delusional

                  delusion is for me the only path

but this is insane

                  not just delusion but delusion piled on delusion on delusion

you need help

what i mean by this is going to the bottom of play

thats not what delusion means

                  my delusion does because i place myself in its bottom

youre ludicrous

                  and youre a venereal gwagwa con

im outta here

                  you never came in

in the end (though there is no end) all ive been

is another animal gasping for god

darkness iii

in the absence of visible darkness yet with its desire persistent, remnant, and present, with darkness having migrated from exteriority to interiority, our relations with it shift on psycho-mythic registers, and we seek for the unseen darkness in the human as we once sought the unseen light of god.  so the human disappears, while our seeking, while remaining infinite, turns toward our absent selves.

in the age of knowledge, with the human more tangibly and relatively omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient than god once was, darkness becomes the ungraspable, apocalypse the dream, disintegration the hope.

only flesh in its darkest knowledge can rise to look light in the eye.

to love darkness is to avoid in its entirety the statement – let there be light (and consequently let there be …, which is always and simply a variation) – and rather remain hovering on voids, exhorting nothing.  this is no statement of fate, any more than let there be light or money or love or knowledge be statements of fate, but of the indivisibility of fate and freedom and chance.  this indivisibility is darkness.

to exist on the margins – but rather, no:  to exist in places those with money and hierarchical social power name as outside the light, their light – and not attempt to move (or rather to move only among these places so named by such) is to subject one’s selves (oneselves) to visions that, in language, are given by and to darkness, but outside of language (or rather in languages other than language), and this outside given to a deeper darkness:  that of not knowing whether the visions are comprised of light or darkness.

to see, it is said, requires light.  and yet can we not say that the blind-from-birth see, yet through language.  words are dark eyes.  language has the capacity to bypass light and see.  this is its energy – energy that subverts the power of the beasts of the world and the screams and resentments they plod on.

and so when we say in the beginning was the word, we know the word existed before light, and the word was void, and vision was only the capacity to remain in relation to word.  so technology permits new paths of remaining in relation, new patterns of darkness, new visions of creating.

i take the lights of society and weave them – though weaving be now an art of industry – with the scattered skeins of my flesh’s black thread.  how do i know this weaving when its schools are destroyed and its masters dead?  i take my lessons in the night, i read the texts of void.  madness becomes my lover and emptiness my friend.

mysticism, as its more visible sibling, society, takes on darkness as root metaphor rather than light – for darkness is the present greater energy.

i am oriented to those without names in the world – not as any advocate to give them names or to protest their namelessness or even to judge the named in their greed for names and all that clambering entails or to become through advocacy or other means among the named – but as a naturalized citizen of the tribe of the anamed.  i recognize my kinspeople; we are those who find it difficult to breathe in the air of names; we are those whose rough and disturbing comfort is wandering in the darkness between creation and destruction, affirmation and protest, between the ruling and the ruled.  we are the nomads of darkness.  should we – through chance or fortune or talent or love – come too close to the republic of names, we cannot help but sabotage any process of citizenry that might be thrust upon us … neither through denial nor hate but an eyed and replete acceptance … and return to our people, the people of night and the impossible eternity of words, those who stumble, without object, objects, through the alleys in those dark regions that connect city and soul.