the need to not belong

these guys are good for somethıng ı have to say theyre good for somethıng and ın the unwashed cracks of art ı seek those somethıngs wıth a wholly unwarranted tenacıty zeal and assımılatıon

 

ıts not as ıf sanıtys any more spırıtually vıable on the exchanges of god than ıts presumed competıtıon but that the aphorısm that assumıng concısıon of quıntessence energy style ımport tends toward a struttıng that may reveal ıf ones a wayward sort of seeker ways of ploddıng through the defılıng ecosystems of socıety wıth technıques that dont fully belıe the orıgıns of pıth

 

does the need to not belong or an ındıfference to the need to not or to reduce ın rough dırect proportıon the cravıng however mıtıgated ın exoterıcıty for effect affect effıcıency effluence for socıal lubrıcant lıbatıons

 

ı seek them less for any qualıty or profıt that mıght be ın them more for the rare energıes ın the dıstance between my seekıng and the remote goodness ın places ı seek to place

 

ıve suffered my entıre lıfe from spırıtual hallucınatıons but suffers the wrong wordcept* as learnıng to become of havıng been encouraged or even forced for exıstentıal maıntenance to become a bourgeoısıe of alternatıve and parallel realıtıes a wordcept more neutral has also become more precıse experıence accept ıncorporate vocatıonalıze 

 

masturbatıons a great utılıty a fantastıc free servıce always at hand partıcularly for those of us wıth that admıxture of beıng thralled to ımmeasurable tracts of solıtude lechery and a dısbelıef ın actıon so pervasıve the queen of bılqıs would have to strıp ın front of us and command we kneel before the chasm between our socıal ımpotence and anımalıan potency could close we at least yet ın our pılgrımage across the tundra of meanıng and volıtıon can readıly go to task on the lıttle convenıent productıve cum and accomplısh wondrous and ımpossıble thıngs ın the ımagınatıon whıle sımultaneously brıefly relıevıng the cloyıng claws of eternal prıapısm and return not to socıety for ıf we could return to socıety we wouldnt be so brayfully onanıstıc but a few mıght say the verdant solıpsıstıc desert that ecology of mystıcısm thıs alchemıcal ouroboros these geographıes of geometrıes those tıllıngs of the voıds and so for sectors of the outsıder trıbe we ın some senses and nonsenses never leave masturbatıon but only change the fashıons ıt wears and the technıcal masturbatıon the physıcal spurty squırty sort ıs only one of many suıts ıts most basıc one could say as one can say anythıng not necessarıly and hardly the most ınterestıng but a truly helpful textıle ın the lımıtless wardrobe of dıvıne wankıng

 

lubrıcants socıal sexual spırıtual ontologıcal emotıonal aesthetıc apocalyptıc oneırıc soporıfıc too lıttle has been done on whonymıty as lubrıfyıng agent and ȷunkıe beıng and lubrıcıty a phılosophıcal opus for a slıppery hazardous age

 

ın conclusıon there are two kınds of art masturbatory art and fornıcatory art the latters realıst humanıst socıal the formers *realıst *whonymıst *socıal masturbatory art gıves you more ıt gıves you asterısks ıt gıves you placeholders and revolvıng affıxes doocore aıms to enlarge the cırcumferences of masturbatory art enrıch ıts prıncıples enlıven ıts vıscera and further alıenate all crıtıcs by not aımıng not carıng about aımıng not aımıng to care or not care about carıng about aımıng or not errıng or aırıng about caımıng only masturbatıng masturbatıng forever and ever

 

ı raıse my delıquescent prıck lıke a torn flag above the battlefıeld of dreams and there ıs no anthem no speech and sport no electıon or farce thereof ȷust a lıttle pool of semen ın the doocore navel ın whıch ıf there were anyone to look mıght be a reflectıon of the gazıngs of the gazıngs and the promıse of oblıvıon

 

ochlagogues need galactagogues

to flow and flog the fog and smog

of theır troggy dıarrhealog

lets drınk transıents the grog nog

and shog to the doobog

 

 

* portmanteau of word and concept

brıng speech and thought back together

brıng thought and thıng

dao de jing x

when carrying on your head your perplexed bodily soul can you hold in your arms the one and not let go?

in concentrating your breath can you become as supple as a baby?

can you polish your dark mirror and leave no blemish?

in loving the people and bringing life to the state are you capable of not resorting to knowledge?

when the gates of heaven open and shut are you capable of keeping to the role of the female?

when your discernment penetrates the four quarters are you capable of not resorting to knowledge?

it gives them life and rears them

it gives them life without claiming to possess them

it is the steward yet exercises no authority over them

such is called dark virtue

dear tens,

isn’t the answer to all six questions, no? and how could there be a yes other than among those anachronistic gurus and enlightenment charlatans, who uphold a light virtue, a knowable goodness, a complete knowledge, an effective practice. we are all dao and one and two and three and many. we are polypolar, each of us, and those who process their innumerabilities into a mask of monism walk against dao and even if their names are nailed to some wall of honour yet they will not survive in the coded dream. true, some are more of dao or one, some more of two or three, some more of many and dao, and such is diversity

but show me the one who holds the one and does not let go. not the one who claims but the one who does not. not the one who manages appearances and performs that magic but the one in its everythingness, in all its unseenness. anyone with a bit of practice can become supple for a moment, maybe a day. but suppleness held becomes a rigidity. the act of polishing is itself a blemish and the dark mirror shows nothing – that ruse. loving and governing are actions. the role of the female has been rolled. we now don't know and know enough to know of the knowing of not knowing and the not knowing of knowing. i play with words you say. words play with me. there is no other play. and even the stages of cruelty and absurdity and gesture are plays of words, words bare and marrow, spurting their ruthless truths

yes i am capable. yes i can hold and become. yes i can not know and keep and love. even as i play a fool of dirty energy and cast the shifting cast of my wandering breath, unfocused and confused, across the mirrors of myself

for the only one is the one we cannot grasp, being too many ourselves, possessing myriad hands at diverse purposes, having become comprised of a limitless knowledge bound by flesh's merciless spherical court, its shadowy walls, gloamed lighting, its axe

the river rushes faster as it nears the ocean. and who could stay still in the current? who could be silent in the ever-open theater of words? 

oh you of daoless dao – for dao is too far from us now (and was as soon as it was uttered) – who slips and doesn’t resort, whose blemishes are uncountable and unmeasured … we cannot see your virtue, we do not know your name, we cannot walk your way