diaper dialogues viii

rev mangetout was what we might call a scientist in alt existences, wholly other universes, geometries of time unhinged from linear minds

why was i implanted with such a useless vocation?

in our universe we call your useless vocation the new science

but the new science was published in 1725 in our universe

that was that new science, this is this one

i don’t make any money – in fact i lose money, love is a perpetual disaster, i’m estranged from my species having grown to lack almost any understanding of its dominant values and modes, its lickspittling conformism to factory narratives designed for domination, inequality, and the fragmentation of spirit, i roam around in fogs of alienation mumbling to myself, looking increasingly derelict, insane, having begun the biological toboggan ride down the bumpy hill of decay, anonymous, impecunious, lost, stumbling, miasmic, smelly, dismissed …

… yes, that’s it!

what’s it?

the new science

i’m a stuck raita cumin seed in the infinite teeth of a wastrel cosmos, a schematic for vulgarity, a marrow lecture on failure, a discarded pit of mythic poetry accidentally blasted from time’s mass grave into the pulsing current of plasmatic cash, a turd of legacy dimensionality reeking in reality’s scrubbed light, a risibly recalled anachronism, an embarrassment to reason, an annoyance for taxonomists, a negative case study for scholars, entrepreneurs, politicians, justice workers, bums, revolutionaries, artists, naturalists, the virtuous and the wicked, workers, leaders …, an exiled poop of disgust that can’t be exiled for places of exile themselves are exiled, can’t be composted for its plastic composition, an unposted poster child for unsophistication and irrelevance …

… yes that’s it! …

… i’d rather be a custom mycelial mat than human, i identify more with bedbugs than simians, visions are my reality and your reality my nightmare, what you call love is for me a horror of suffocation, community a celebration of mediocrity, gossip, pettiness, narrative oneupmanship, and schadenfreude, success a laundered exaltation of greed, destruction, genocide, and death, citizenship incarceration … in past spaces and times one could at least retreat but now humans have damaged or eliminated all places of retreat and they seek in spaceships and screens what they are committed to slaughtering on earth, the only retreat internal – yet the vast bipedian sensuous onslaughts intrude even here, tentacled and bludgeoning, in the once cloister of thought and imagination: what had become at least the remnant freedom …

… this is it!

why do you keep saying that?

what?

this

in our universe the new science has discovered … it has reconfigured realities … upended the truths of barbarism … light and communication are not just words … neither suffering nor death but war, genocide, hatred, ignorance, hoarding – these all have been composted into creativity and love, an unimaginable shimmering equality of all creatures and things …

… but you’re a snow pea!

watch your assumptions

aren’t you a snow pea?

that’s not the assumption i mean

what’s the assumption you mean?

your universe. i had almost forgotten

what’s that supposed to mean?

… you stupid fucking mangetout …

mayhem ensues

as does chopping

a stir fry of ignoble proportions

farts and belches

this universe

diaper dialogues vii (sing of coffee)

sing of coffee

in which mangetout is introduced

and a verb

setting

a long café stretches, yawns. white globs marshmallow¹ geometrically on inevitabilities of old mad human males and the young strut their virtuous tyrannies like new moon piñatas full of napalm candies. metaphors squelch under privileged -pods preparing for hiemal horror. books were here, like blake or qayat. code 01107. words are more liquid than coffee. oh democratic dictatorship, oh sidereal baristas. an entire parade of sentences strolls by, its sartorials haphazard, makeup lay

characters

a mangetout approaches through fogs of west, spots diaper perched like pens. mangetout snaps at snow, mangetout eats cessna. mangetout greens

dialogue

M	god of mangetouts …
D	… i’m not god of mangetouts
M	what are you god of?
D	nothing that i know of, certainly not mangetouts
M	where is god of mangetouts?
D	i didn’t know mangetouts had god
M	mangetouts have god
D	maybe you are god of mangetouts

epilogue

let us sing a sing to sings of coffee

sing of epilogue

ooooo-ieeee-iooo-oobobobobo-

afal diurdurna ooo

sqwil slee

miamyrma eee afal arsh

00ee-iooo-nobobo-^*%#

sqwil slee

¹marshmallow (third-person singular simple present masha, present participle marshmong, simple past dwinw or (archaic) yeed, past participle folof)

diaper dialogues vi

those humans who live in northern rhymes and count to ten in the manners of polar night, who watch slowly sun establishing its bed preparing for that annual desertion we never quite get accustomed to, otum light leafing through leafless books of memory – there a leaf, here a leaf, everywhere a … and nowhere do the trees still hold those stairs / long down and to the secrets of eyes – join hands in realms not on wikipedia and wonder in their dreams if this is it … if this night is the last to name …

the mind spins around

lettuce in spinners

water draining bathtubs

otum in wind

we watch

not to assert supremacy or even any light in these processes on their own or against what may too often be called order or reason, neither to assert nor name

to watch

the delights of patterns, movement, even if not quite exterior

(but are they? – one isn’t really sure)

this remnant nature, in exile or hiding

that we can

(for a time anyway)

visit in the monolith of city
poshlost of soul

regulated scream

these idiots who believe in science the way enlightenment thinkers believed in education the way scholastics believed in god. there is only poetry which has no hope or agenda or budget, which does not damage the earth or pretend it has any truth or beauty. poetry is science and education and god. it barely even includes words anymore. it’s just a way of living in a world that’s forgotten how to live

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diaper dialogues v

one who writes one who is written we who are texts and texted and little more and oodles less are enclosed within a formidable fence, free inside but forsaken beyond – not that we stand in fear of an inquisition but rather face all kinds of unpleasantness in everyday persecution, careers of all definitions closed for the only power that holds the keys is easily offended

sadoo diaper sits on toilet of itself

swirls of words coiled like morality flush broken

 smells of myself heaves of ass

(alt.wit can: 1855)

so diaper sits. and the sitting itself sits. and in our zoo of olfactories and signs we gaze at по́шлость ду́ши with petite reprisings

from these pastiches rev bonobo rises from the sun’s uprisings irises siring saying –

he’s one of those types who wants to save the world

which means he participates actively in its destruction?

flies everywhere, owns a car, eats mammals, goes ecovacationing in the tropics in winter – all the socially sanctioned hypocrisies

while he talks about carbon footprints and animal welfare

the genitals win again

if only our upper mouths were silent and our lower ones said what we really think – that is, how we behave

he recycles

ah. that virtue

he owns a bicycle

freedom now says louverture has pitched its tent only in the bicycle

uncomfortable

like riding without the seat

what i don’t get is the apparent disconnect between the opening descriptive paragraphs – if that’s what one calls them – and the present dialogue

the groin connects

the groan connects

when texts don’t make sense it’s due to the reader’s lack of imagination

lacking unity, progression, sense or context, it loses some of its potential effectiveness

the point of language is not communication, not human relations or society, hardly understanding, not even anything human. your not getting is the getting

i get that

you want either something simpler or more complicated, you don’t like bricolage

don’t tell me what i want, don’t tell me what i don’t like, don’t tell me it’s due to

don’t tell me don’t tell me

shapes of mind … currents passing through shapes of mind … like a colour scan of moods in time the moods of mind the moods of mind in time …

diaper dialogues iv

today rev bonobo says as we stand awkwardly in situ we shall talk of shambolic god

i don’t have much to say

no one does

but they say it

twinkle stinkle little god

you’re stuck there without a bod

up above the world so high

like a feces in the sky

stinkle dinkle little …

the musical

i want to be stinkle

you can’t sing

i’ll anus sync

you’re divine

shambalic god

symbolic

somnambulic

sumbulic

strephosymbolic

scumbolic

shrymbolic

stinklebolic

syncobolic

we’re getting obscure

getting?

we’re not talking much about god

isn’t that the way some say is the only way to talk about thid?

thid?

god needs thids own pronoun

thids’s awkward

so’s god

don’t project

projection’s a tool of light minds

apophatabalic

the heavy is the root of the light

the light the flower of the heavy

now we’re talking about god

i believe the instructions were to talk of shambolic god

god doesn’t have adjectives

when you’re asomatous you also lack parts of speech?

what does shambolic mean?

how are we supposed to talk about something when we don’t know what it means?

isn’t that the very function of talk?

so we’re talking of god

shalom shallow sham shaman shucking shamed shamrocks shambling shambolically

the apophatics say we talk in silences, fragments, hints and negatives, shadows and incomprehensibilities, dreams and solitudes of god. we don’t speak of god as you would a recipe for fettuccine alfredo or a policy proposal for debt reconsolidation or having just stepped on a goose turd

and yet by the principles of apophatics we never speak more truly of god than when we speak of fettucine alfredo

do the apophatics debate whether we speak more truly of god when speaking of fettucine alfredo or when speaking after having just stepped on a goose turd?

i don’t think so

but we’re not speaking of apophatic god, we’re speaking of shambolic god

god’s a mess

you’re projecting again

or god projected on us

which came first?

the callitrichidae or josé da fonseca?

what?

i’m certainly pleased you suggested we speak of shambolic god today

but all we’ve done is end up speaking of your apophatic god

apophatic shambophatic unemphatic aliphatic 

up above the world so high

like a dinkle in my pie

amen amun aum and amen

diaper dialogues iii

condos are stacked like coffins on the cornea of the city. we cannot see for the smoke of the industry of death. we see in cracks and construction promoted clouds. i die my hair curcumin and walk like a demented carrot qtip looking for ears. clouds will soon have pricetags, puffy in shopwindows, owned by stars

excuse me i say have you seen any ears?

they rush by like olives in a hurricane to their communication. i look for the ears of frogs, of hydrants, transit ads, of shopping bags, the ears of bicycles. everything has ears

coffins are for sale and the living live in them like things. i’ve tried to count them. one two seven 23 921 thousands more. like termite colonies but no wood to eat. the wood’s in monitors, exchanges

excuse me, could you tell me how to get to the ear store from here?

they rush by like horny dragonflies but not alighting on my lingam. any ears will do i say. i don’t wish to make a necklace of them like those savages in blood meridian. i don’t wish to enter them and squish around and pull some fascinating wax out. i wish maybe to conduct a census of ears – not those demographic attributes like age, ethnicity, language, income, social currency, drug use, failure – but the sensitivity of cilia, fluidities and cavities, data buried in bones

excuse me, do you have a moment to answer some questions about your ears?

they rush by, the humans, to the steppes of progress, their mouths like costco parking lots, their eyes like ergospheres. i do not romanticize cats, their twitchy ears i want to eat as twitchy cereal with absinthe. they rush by, and i do not find myself in elevators to the skies. i do not find myself. i walk around, asking coffins coffin questions. i like the dark. i cannot count it, it is one and nothing and all the things i cannot count. they are rushing. i have written a history of ears. excuse me

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diaper dialogues ii

some memories ago we were sitting in empty stadium of light, befallen concepts like halloween mini chocolate bar wrappers scattered and everything like buttered dust, the many creatures around like fantasies or exhaust, pear blossoms (or was it bear bottoms?) in the air like ratatouille spilling from purgatory’s dirty green bins, everything like a box of atavistic hope wrapped in athena’s mons hairs which, as reputation goes, are longer than the distance between mirfak and hd 223229, thick as rapunzel’s braids, strong as the alphabet, …

you’re a poet?

a voidist

avoidist?

an avoidist

anavoidist?

an anavoidist

bananavoidist?

an anarchist

antechrist?

an anti anteantianavoidist

poet

i’ve heard it all before

once you’ve heard it all before you turn into a poet

once you’ve heard it all before you turn into a craunched marmoset

which came first, the poet or the avoidist?

marmoset

what did marmaduke say to the marmoreal marmalade on marmara?

this is the way it’s gone today

marmaduke?

it wasn’t funny

the marmoset was a little bit

craunched or uncraunched?

sadoo diaper

sitting in stadium

bear blossoms buttered

everything goes

alphabet empty

concepts like dirty

air like a distance

befallen exhaust

there, history on rutters. it entered from 219 with a couple from the nation’s capital looking like civil servants, never seen madness or poverty but through media. we went with it, poetry tends to

the couple said nothing?

the dude asked a few questions. edited them out

i don’t mean to be realistic – there are so many prefixes – but where did it come from?

219. i told you

but before that?

6a probably

you know what i mean

ultimately no

what about unultimately?

probably no too

they didn’t have that faith in poetry, that it could do anything, that it had any energy or light from outside, that it could produce, alone or in aggregate, even just in the soul, more compassion than cruelty, camaraderie than desolation, calm than ennui. for poetry is not a planet unto itself, lacking relation. and the poem not some form apart from smallmindedness or war

rev bonobo leaves the way gi came, 541, 14, hope like dirty ratatouille, reputation purgatorial (as it is), diaper like a leaf or gum in bleachers in a stadium in homo sapiens, poetry legacy software still somehow running in the os of our hearts