The Secular Sadoo
is pleased to introduce Milta Ultimal, a recently discovered poet from the
outskirts of Catalonia. Her works were
found by Dr. D. Vida L. Honesc, a devotee of Paul Ricoeur and excavator of Spanish
obscurities. From the little known, it
has been gleaned that Milta Ultimal was a drunk, misanthrope and lecher, who
died in 1831 at the age of 24. She spoke
Catalan, Oromifa, and Yankunytjatjara,
and had propensities to attack foreigners.
Her Digte Munter Ondskab
became renowned at an Alta Ribagorça bar for three days, during which seven dogs
were killed and slightly fewer humans were conceived. The
Secular Sadoo, whether it celebrates Milta or not, introduces her, and
commemorates her youthful death. Digte Munter Ondskab has been translated
to English by Dr. Spiroh Schflat, associate professor of catalan poetry at the University
of Shampoo Island. We appreciate Dr.
Schflat’s efforts and acknowledge his upcoming performance piece in Mawlamyine with
durians and dead grandmothers on February 8.
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clouds are more real than i, water more true
The only thing to destroy is our souls
I will not sleep, i will not sleep
To forget the object but not the game is the dance on the blink of zero, the zipless love in art’s kink, arjuna’s empty duty
Marketing, self-promotion … secular evangelicalism … that content is pushed in the name of the god or the us or the i, what difference? god as walt disney clearly explicated in his leaves of duck is i and i is god and gods’r’us
We place dark hope in technology, that it would be the platform in the voided skies to carry us—no, not us: our packaged times, our bowtied art, our sprouting deeds—to trantor or max cantor or ms beerle
the neobodhisattva withholds itself (from the blissful one-one unity) through a refusal to retreat into solitude and silence, to retreat from the thighs and sparkles of the clubby city. The urban whoopdidi, the clogged plumbing of art, the ecstatic privy of communication: these present spectra of god—the explicate order that afflicts
divine light shatters the vessels, divine contraction making worlds of flush
the expanding universe : partzufim made sound
aren’t jr kipling & épater le bourgeois & e waugh siblings in the family of eye and pen?
hemingway’s strength is born from the stretched dialectic between his sentimental machismo ethic and his minimalist aesthetics. There. you wanted criticism
life is short, art is long. Everything’s been aliced now
art is short, life is long
if you can’t change the man, change the pillowslips
it is only by being observer of my being artist that i become an artist. i play at being artist so that i can observe my play so that i can become my observing so that
ideas only motivate the weak;:- the strong—which is to say energy temporarily coalesced into distinction—are not motivated, they do not move, the strong do not move
one leaves the institutions of thought to think
one leaves the institutions of faith to faith
one doesn’t leave the institutions of money to money
the external world doesn’t exist other than as a refueling station for the machine-organism that houses a perpetually partying host of creators birthed by flushy creatures into flushy worlds
Live and evil and vile and veil lie in believe …
i am a cow. i write. i have a penis.
if the obscurity of wrath and the lucidity of wisdom do not ultimately coincide, how can we recognize ourselves in this world?
I awoke sleeping on giant labia, labia as large as elephant ears, neighing and bleating in my drowning face
The boredom of the blank page is preferable to the boredom of the world
art becomes antiart becomes antiantiart : opposition leads to regress and fragmentation … so, rather, the obvious conclusion, become that which you recoil against and recoil against the recoiling. become a papist, a realist, a fist
The mad, we have established, are not mad, and the not-mad, as is evident, are mad. i wish to write of the principles and patterns (these shapes, the principles and patterns) of the communication of god …
much of this would have to do with the grammar of hiding, of hiding in itself, of hiding in hiding
for god does not communicate according to the manner of professional objectives, clearly, concisely, except when it needs to take that as a guise, which is often
and it does not communicate according to the manner of aesthetic dictates, uniquely, compellingly, except when it needs to take that as a guise, which is infrequent
but it communicates in the poetic caesuras, the executive falters, the journalistic gaffes, the sleeps of the tongue; (the poet knows this and so is stuffed in god like a turducken; for the executive and journalist, faltering and gaffing are mistakes, potentially career diminishing, hooks in their prowess, indications of a possibly fucked humanity, begetting vast structures which must be erected for their avoidance, for the poet, though, the caesura is its duodenum and mongoose)
{ooooh bergman bildungsroman boogeyman brueggemann}
Nothing has changed in the politics of the divine. What is not said, our silences, our stumblings, that which is tucked into the diseased folds of words, point to the sparks, the plugged sparks, the sparks, the lost sparks, the sparks
Look, human, look, in the neglected dumps of life. No one will compete with you. There will be stillness, and silence, and the beauty of ugliness and stench. There will be a grammar of hiding (sephirot tikkun nitzutzot)
To be human is to kill, and to kill and kill like we eat marshmallows; this is not at issue At issue only is what to kill, and how … not why … job & krishna killed the why
One does come through the negation of things to affirm, and what one affirms is the absence of the one … at the center of darkness is light, enfolded in darkness, which one takes inside only by travelling through the darkness … this is a cliché
The light at the center is not the one, but the light at the center of all We are enfolded darkness and in the wii and the enfoldedness and the affliction and the marshmallow is light and a one that is not-one … this could be a cliché
Build a mind inside your cell, from which you can never flee
Christmas makes as much sense as a crucified pancake
estrogen and testosterone are breaking down into oat flour and bike chain lube. We will ride pancakes to work to bugger south dagonians for a little ipad pie
The name is a prosthetic of the soul: let us not speak it, let us be silent until death We will hold the name in us like a mother her foetus. We will kill it before we say it in the marketplace. it will never be born
Immobility is the new dissemination
Far more important than money is forgetting : memory allows constancy, organization, fixed associations : forgetting releases us to creation’s murderous śūnyatā and there in the sweet pathology of creation money is like a vat of yoghurt dumped into jackie’s reservoir. I swim and eat and drown, like badgers in the mailbox
These badgers, what are they? I despise them. they smell like cheerios—those little false circles, those simulacrums of dough. I crucify them each, laughing like play-doh, on the Listerine. Ah! Ah! Cereal? What is it? only badgers in the mailbox, only badgers.
The other day, when my male organ was playing the art of fugue in a strumpet’s fan fares,
You dogs!
This is my lecture for today.
I saw a pink bamboo—i mean baboon (do i mean balloon?)—strutting down the Eiffel Élysées on a pumpkin. It said to me, ude eer, spread your anus and sprout juniper trees from it or i shall cut your head off with my kiddie scissors. That’s my lecture for today.
And in the end (this is the end)
I am being created every moment, the i that was i is not the i that is i, i de-i to i, dis-i to i-i. how do i do this? ah! That is the eggnog. I do this by trampling on thought with my yellow spurting prick. No. I eat candles like soufflé. I fuck all the ronalds in the grave
There is nothing harder than to write without form when all there is is form
Succubus. Succubi. Succudick. Succucop. Conjugate the conjugal and castrato in my ass
These thoughts are truer than thoughts for they are not thoughts
I want to smear my body with the semen of a thousand monkeys and howl like a candlestick. Then i would know there is a god. A dead one maybe, but still a god. I would become as god, with all those monkeys
A little lower than the angels? Then the angels are mud
The indifference of the earth is a song in my spleen; i am a tree, i am a cow; am i indifferent to you? am i indifferent to you in your endless metal heavy farting, your eternal mouth pukes, the weenyteeniness of your ideas, your exigent psychologies: which demand to be contested … you who need to go to your coliseums which you call boardrooms or barrooms just to watch ideas being chased and killed and celebrated. (oh, there are always so many christians) Why don’t you give up ideas and surf on the nights of unreason as they break over your souls? I am no longer amused by anything but death
Those who crucify their i’s will suffer the fate of the church. Those who throw their i’s in acid will see time like the blind. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. We are eggs: seeingeggs in the oviducts of the grave
I would like to like humanity in the way i’d like to mate with a spider—something outside the ordinary, a little novelty, looking at the world through a different lens; who wouldn’t be into some diversity on a saturday night?
Sacrifice? Of course sacrifice is necessary for us to be reborn! But we all sacrifice—the banker poetry the sodomizer cunnilingus the composter bullets the good man bad … everything we are not which is almost everything we sacrifice. I sacrifice myself to become myself to lose myself to find myself to forget myself … to forget … to forget The world is a beercap and we are the beer. I am the measure of mass. I am a ripped copy of mathilde in amedeo clemente’s pocket, your ago and ah. I am the egg and chequebook. I am the egg and the photocopier and the strappado. I am bamm-bamm’s buggy. (my only dj’s dj holomovement) I am kale chips seasoned with hsv-ii flaking from the pussy of a giant lilith exiled on a moon called ovid. I am the seven stools of Bristol, like a sausage or a snake, smooth and soft, like an eiderdown, like your words on a pillow when you’re lying
I would be an anaconda in a toilet if i were not a muskrat in a musket,
Said the prime minister as he woobled his way to his liquor cabinet to imbibe in himself
Minus nine dee please said the elevator passenger. I am judas, proud betrayer of god, and i would like to settle in, get comfortable in ice, i’m flexible. And i pressed the button for the dude. i like my job. The stars are overrated. And Beatrice’s a slimy ugly sap, i like moving up and down, all these buttons
But not on us! the children said, turning a little green
All this saying. All that which says. All this sai sai. Our tongues are pullulating automata, our minds soggy f-35 lightning iis. Society isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. There’s only language and soul they can’t be saved either but at least they can be
Her breasts are like halfpomegranates after the seeds are shaken
I go down on her like a basketball or longitude
My penis is like a hangman
That’s the body. That’s the body. That’s the body.
But, disorderly to end where I didn’t begin,
clouds are more real than water, i more true
