the evil that speaks of love

the evil that speaks of love

is never far away

its like the wind i hear

always empty  near

 

whats that supposed to mean

 

mean?

 

evil  being an anagram of vile and live and nearly one of love  in being compared to the wind  itself of the tribe of flatulence and clocks  begins to suffer from an analogous breakdown not dissimilar to that purported to be between mangonel and mangetout

 

wot

 

wot i meme is  or rather wot that which is not i doesnt meme is or maybe isnt  not quite wot the near thats never far away memes

 

that helps

 

let me explain

were all insane

 

that helps

 

helpings a condition designed for the isnt that speaks of is

 

nowhere does the digger go but lowest then still even low

 

shaman like all now ancient desperations is overused and underdone

 

spirit trenchantly works itself out in the trenches of digitalia  the abandoned lots of eden using commodities of passion for the release of its irritated bowels  privates of opinion for fiveconcept generals playing facemask on voidbook

 

its horrible whats happening in the world

 

that sexy & romantic martyr che titting it up across perky planets

 

mein is have scene the gory of the cuming of the board

ei is tramping out the frottage where the rapes of death are whored

ei has goosed the hateful cozening that no one can afford

vermouths debauching on

 

gory history gory shoah

history gory gory shoah

gory gory history shoah

vermouths debauching on

 

eye have reamed ei in the clock pyres of many morbid dibbling tramps

ei have bribed

 

can we sing something else

 

i love that song  so marchy and triumphant and pyretic and insane

 

how bout a little political poetry

 

yo bidet is our kinda man

sitting on a ticking can

kalamatas our apotheosis

who helps us with our dermatosis

 

thats beautiful

 

bayonet loreate in training

 

oh honourable blit  piss us with your turds we play

 

let us speak of love

 

love is an image of a reflection of a double of a conceit of a guise of a fetish of a facsimile of a mirror of a representation of a semblance of a

 

let us not speak of love

 

notspeaking is a semblance of a representation of a mirror of a facsimile of a

 

let us not speak

 

not speaking is a

 

let us not and let us not not

 

sing another song that makes me want to hear a song of something else

 

a song of something else

wait   it doesnt have a pulse

but this song of myself

is a divine impulse

 

yeah that doesnt work

 

i sing what im not to sing   hunted fugitive unwanted vomitive

 

that doesnt work either

 

work?

 

i am a tree

 

you wish  but unfortunately youre a not in a flaw

 

what i said  a tree

 

trees are dead

 

there are  despite us  still trillions of them

 

dead as donuts

 

donuts are trees

and i am free

we are dead

and alls been said

 

time to wrap this up

 

down is up

you fuckup

cuz up is down

fear is clown

diaper dialogues xi

story

1.     we emerge from sunroom seeing bathroom door closed, assume it’s a flatmate doing business done behind doors. but – no! – emerging is a ups delivery human who’s used our bathroom for its purposes. it greets us enthusiastically, thanks us politely, leaves scents and a parcel and a story

2.     opening compost bin other day to empty our kitchen scraps – evening is musky, softly delirious – a corpulent naked human female clambers from rotting mulch, tells a turnip priest to marry us (which it does on a garden of decay, rooting forgotten liturgies into nuptial buddings), and we pitch our conjugal tent in a hidden african kingdom, untouched by slavery, europe’s christian talons, to grow, sing turnips, roll unperturbed in primordial muds

3.     some of you my friends have been peering deep into indifferent wiles of internet and from that immeasurable well has appeared to you, in truculent night, saprophytic night, oh molestuous night apparitions of time, saying (in part or obscurity) human. we have not seen you as we might. your soul is upturned out, covered in paraphernalia of gadget and culture, superciliousnesses of control stamping your brain whilst alien unilaterali puppeteer you    

4.     today sun rises like oslo or coleslaw on trolling belles, humming and hamming on ways to seas of bullets. squirrels, mice seek cats for death, amusement, and also crash our souls on fallen forests

5.     reason opens its backless wardrobe to see what it’ll wear. nothing to wear. i can’t go out naked. it stares at infinite selection, scans panoplies of everything to wear. new tailors! new designers! new technologies! new runways! new new! nothing. reason stares, does not venture into day, withholds its secrets from light and canopy

dialogue

these are stories to wake up to says rev mangetout

i’m still sleeping

all you do is flit between hypnopomp and hypnagog

a butterfly of liminoidality

a lepidopteran of thresholds

what do they mean though?

mean?

mean

you know better than to ask that

not really – without a best how can i know better?

best is just the mean of meaning without a limen

i don’t get it

then you get the meaning

can we have normal stories please?

once upon a slime will and jacki are bumbling through a trill hacking love and puking when a lipid turbid adder wallops from a nest lighting their orbitals. jacki goes awol, willi a’walking, adder with wellies to lunch

normal’s so elusive

haven’t found it yet

only misnomered tyrannies

value

when a mind’s configured to dream in words and live dreaming (a role in society that once was honoured, placed [and now even anticolonialists for whom dreaming is a subsidiary of will live against]), language – that cheap utility for instrumental humans – becomes a texture and movement in oneiric landscapes

we show not reason dressed and diplomatic, clear in social compromise, but at home and doubtful, and language, reason’s silent soul, lounging in a bath, meaning steaming, artifacts quite blurred, ends misplaced

these are dialogues of our plays, conversations of lost soils, voiced by ears in night’s mulch

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