aunty novel including the hit single the dizens & kaizens & karōshis & mizzens & zens zong song

antinovels the same as novel and its this thought that causes noveloos and antinoveloos alike to stumble  of course novels not the same as antinovel but they are the same and were back to antıı and all its belıefıfying and antıbelıefıfyıng ııs  pronounced eyeeyez though we told you wed never tell you this again  meaning something akin to something ı once thought meant something

 

speaking of  ı was once in one of the barschmucks in noccaught place  one of the barschmucks that used to exist anyway before the ōvid in øvïl ate the ôvìl in övíd and who knows if helldi itself exists anymore  as far as ı and antıı can tell its thirty million dharmizens have slid down the bugtube into hıṃsā  when auntıe antı walks in and says

 

you see  you got the r504 which was built from the bones of a million whonyms and who knows how many animals since we sort of count the whonyms even the nameless ones the nameless ones at least have numbers even if theyre inexact which makes them less important than the whonyms who at least have numbers but exact ones but the animals dont even have numbers and so when you drive on the kolyma youre driving on death and it got ı thinking this isnt much different than how weve built society which is built on the bones of billions and billions and billions of whonyms and trillions and trillions and trillions of amınals and when we do anything at all were doing it on death

 

and the four hundred whonyms sipping their eight hundred rupee lattes rise with their dharmaknives and stab aunty antı and make a chaır from her and sit on her and talk of dizens and kaizens and karōshis and mizzens and zens

th^ediz^en^s&_kai z  ^en^s&^karōshis&mizz^en^s z^en^sz_on_g^s_on_g

everybodys at the centre of the world

everybodys at the centre of the world

everybodys at the centre of the world

and the centre             isnt            there

what have you done my love with my brain

it used to be in tipoli but now its in the rain

chorus

what have you done my love with my soul

saw it once in my bleeding cunt but now everythings a hole

chorus

what have you done my love with my flesh

my body was a glory but now its just a mess

chorus

what have you done my love with my heart

so playful yesterday but now   smegma malice farts

chorus                         chorus                         chorus                         chorus                         chorus

 

chorus to the tune of shadworth qadhadhfa in the habitude

verses one three & four to the tune of chicane basserabie

verse two sans air

 

horrible isnt it   crude misogynistic forgettable plagiaristic infantissimo clunked

no one needs these puerilities anymore

 

if only we were all as mature as oh bomb ah

if our fathers were only all oh bomb ah

if our mothers were only all oh bomb ah

we wouldnt have any stupid songs

knowledge, unknowledge, and the immaterial orders i

another human says to me after a community arts festival that ends in white-robed humans, in shadow play and the translucent heads of mythic creatures, gliding, chanting, like humanoid and earthbound clouds, among candles, on and at the base of hills, polyglottally, through a lukewarm late summer evening of threatening rain – looked like a cult to me.  i reply, as pee-wee herman said, one person’s cult is another’s party.

that herman to my knowledge never said this and if he did in contexts so far from mine that we could say he never or barely did, if i assume at least temporarily my context as standard.  that i can and do say to my knowledge.  that i never replied as such.  that the other human only approximated my above quotation of it.  that the image(s) in your mind – if there be image(s) – birthed from these words likely bear little resemblance to what i saw, and these words to other words that might have been birthed from the presumed and ostensibly indisputable actual event, hardly proves but equally hardly dispels the spinning, expanding, morphing, collapsing limits and boundlessnesses of what we learn, and how, and what we don’t.

i am interested in the supposedly existing thoughts of chuang tzu, wittgenstein, kant, hume, foucault, artaud, kristeva, the boys, the non-boys, the non-girls, the girls, and as is well known in non-existent circles, the non-humans (which some have argued include the humans).  but no more interested than in the voices at my co-op’s picnic table, the pebbles in the tiny teeny bitty itty zen garden before me in this café, the repetitive semi-articulations of that lover, or the molasses of the morasses of the marsh mists of the appearances of my mind.

in the paragraph above that begins with another human is all knowledge, all knowledge’s deconstruction, the materiality and immateriality of all things.

in the paragraph above is just another pebble in this zen garden stretching before this and that i to the stars, unseen monks raking, unseen monks constellating, unseen monks whispering, of the infinite love of each pebble, of the sum of all infinities becoming nothing in that way nothing is become.

in the paragraph above i see a ghost of a girl tumbling down staircases of burning manure, men of ostensible maturity and power blanching to fear, for they are seeing saint bernards too large to be saint bernards.  and i want to say – some of me wants to say – i am the girl.  but i cannot.  i cannot for reasons too complex and beautiful and stupid to name.  the reasons are too long.  reasons are always too long.

in the paragraph above is the paragraph below and if you don’t see that you’re dumber than a geriatric cat and i strip you of the name human and turn you into a pebble and you are thereby sanctified in the garden of silences.  these are the paths of knowledge and the signs of the immaterial orders of freedom.