diaper dialogues xiv

i noticed something

what’s that?

dalí, dalai, diaper, dialogue, and dalliance all have dia in them

and 80% have el also

dia means through

and el god

through god

through with god

threw god through god

enthusiastic

emmanuel

imam url

obscure

the topic today’s letter serendipities?

the topic today’s the topic today

ah. circles again

we escape everything but geometry

not a bad cage

we could change diaper to dialer then there’d be 5 el’s

dialer dialogues?

the scat connection’s lost

but what we lose in scats we gain in communication

no one dials anymore

but we diap!

dieppe

all words lead to war

i’d rather be bored than horrified

then let words lead to words

where do we put war?

in words, like everything else

wards

wor

we never leave

the circle’s just a dot

we can’t even see it

the point in the mirror the pupil doesn’t look back

the alphabet’s an aperture we walk through

to get to the alphabet

each letter is a string of pearls

each word a divine bowel movement

what we gain in communication we lose in communication

let us walk through

we already have

we were born here

in the alphabet on the other side of the alphabet

in night on the other side of night

dialer dialogues of a dalai dalí’s dalliance

hello dalai

all is holy

dalí’s holier than dalai

diaper’s holier than dialer

let us call ourselves

we walk through god to get to god

we’ve been called

these are lesions

face studies

in communication

iris and desert of philosophy

diets and worms of religion

mandible of love

turds of turdology

by turdomancer™

diaper dialogues xiii

eqrfadvui$&@#^(_)(*

uu t~l|qit

that painting that sold for $450,300,000

not even broadly accepted by names that are named as being painted by a name that in that world of naming would merit such a price

in this supposedly secular yet truly desperate age a painting of christ

that impossible stop sign

take paint’s tea away and all that’s left is pain

the world makes sense

the gap between singularity and reproduction grows

as does the gap between technoscience and death

isn’t the gap death?

then what’s on the other side of technoscience?

isn’t it technoscience?

technoscience on both sides?

maybe

yikes

even as all gaps become virtual

and fissioned into ostensible indistinguishability

if i had bought the salvator dalí i’d use it as a toilet seat cover

it’s salvador mundi

if i were a dalai dalliance i’d surf the world

waves play on tears of sand

next week the sick horses set sail for mars

the point is we could send africa on that painting to wd 0137-349

but we don’t even know who bought it

misty beethoven

you know for sure?

next week the sick horses set sail for mars

gather their decay and grace, desert earth

but we shall be here! – supreme and talking

palettes of war                    the divine farce

diaper dialogues xii

do i doubt night, home of doubt?

day doubts night, i let day doubt through me

your pride is my shame, your modesty my abandon

you look like a mad scientist

what do you mean? – i am a mad scientist

everyone hides in themselves, like memories in dreams. we’re nested vapours

more like vipers

most like diapers

it glides between irrational conceptual tyrannies and impossible tolerances

these extensive resources – variously biased and prescriptive – for myriad professionally dictated conditions. the available resources for aesthetic mystics, however, are only in the expressions of the condition itself – apophatic art, direct expressions of unknowns

that’s some manual

science is a codification of poetry for those uncomfortable with ambiguity

science is a present necessity presenting as prescience

our nescience is our science

what did the mad hatter say to alice?

had matter mared the pater killer a hinge of carts dreamt budder dreams

reality’s lost reality

it’s not only the center that cannot hold

is the mirror really only one direction?

too late

i was feeling masochistic and wanted a dose of your intellectual violence

what you name so glibly superciliousness is rather an undiscovered species of humility

the kalacakra tantra prophesies that when the world declines into war and greed, and all is lost, the 25th kalki will emerge from shambhala to vanquish dark forces and usher in a worldwide golden age

i had persimmon banana almond sunflowerseed driedcranberry sproutedgoldenflaxseedmeal maplesyrup garbanzomilk chia oats for breakfast today

i’m autotelic, hypnopompic, and apophatic – show me a job requiring those skills

i explore the interstitial gyres in the nidi of consciousness and society. having thrived in banking, information technology, communication, pedagogy and curricula, community arts, strategic planning, and policy development, attention is now turned to synthesizing years of research using integral posttraditional methods of analysis and language delivery. knowledge – polyphonic, contradictory, barely human – requires novel ways of derepresentation in this age of the increasing incapacity, destruction, and force of judeochristiancapitalism

want parmesan garlic potato chips

we have conversed

yes, we have conversed

communication is the new nothing

we vibrate in quintessent zeropoint radiation to frequencies of phantom vacuum energy

quintoms for all!

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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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diaper dialogues x

i call myself what i am

not to become what i am

what would montaigne have thought of the internet?

mont anne would’ve interred the net

the net will inter us all

it has already entered

as it turns into us we turn into it

we turn into our turnings

return to our urns

technomycorrhizal convergence of the twain

nature’s hardy

something like something like progress?

progress is a set of assumptions

progress is the must in the should in the won’t in the can’t in the will in the woods

what does the internet think of montaigne?

everything. the internet thinks everything of everything

we are caught in the web of the grave

mont am thinks everything of everything

what’s the difference between mon tamtam and the interred net?

one’s smarter

that’s regress for you

the interiornet and exteriornet differ only in the realm of prefixes

everything is fixed before entering those spaces where interring enters

let’s fix that, let’s fix it with prefixes

i become what i see

not to be what i am

gender is a prefix. race, age, class, psychic config, species

prefix to what?

interthenet

enterthevoid

intertheenter

gender and those other things’ll fix it

let’s fix everything with everything

mont gong’ll fix it

the internet’ll fix it

science’ll fix it

god won’t fix it

we can’t fix it

musth kant willy woods

cant rhizome tygress frost

we’ve played this game before

on the floor, let’s play once more

i am not what i am

unbecomes our becoming

mind that sees mind

is an eye that’s not mine

diaper dialogues ix (hao happiness?)

we sit with rev mangetout on painted bricks of many innumerable uncountables of dead. the bricks have been painted by the dead with the paint of their everlasting memories. the dead have no futures, only pasts, and so their paint is thick with stories and pain. the dead grow, and their growth is like a tree providing shade for the living

is the rev for revenant or reve?

revalescent. though sometimes revanchist

why uncountables of dead?

 what classifier do you use for dead?

i don’t know – five deads, a lot of deads, bāng of dead, …

… 幫?

… massifier of dead, some naughty of deads, much deads, …

, … a little bit of dead, a little bit of deads, plenty of deads, a dead, …

this isn’t grammatical

the dead know no grammar

how do you know what the dead know?

you aren’t i so how do you know i don’t know what the dead know?

i am not you but you certainly aren’t the dead

you have proved that i know the dead know no grammar because you’re talking with me about what the dead don't know

this is not the way it goes

what?

logic, mysticism, rhetoric, epistemology, semantics, transcendentalism, analytics, politics, anthropology, …

que sais-je?

what i find as mangetout is that your grammars, while expansive and definitively utilitarian in certain limited ways, severely restrict, like all specific grammars, possibility and knowledge. while in the old days of nature – and i hardly wish to romanticize those days: after all i am mangetout – human grammars coexisted with grammars of bear and tree and bog and death and spark and sky, now (in their seeming and infantile desire to be all, to subsume all grammars within them), in the preponderance of the human, their primary function seems delusional, a magic trick that’s lost its magic and its trickery yet still persists from some inexorable force of habit that’s wholly lost its usefulness, beneficence, intelligence

i find the mass ubiquity of humans, this relentless noise, this environment in which the human voice is voice, its values and interpretations within particular circumscriptions inescapable and small, the now exaltation of this confinement (as if an incarcerated tyger were purring gratefully in its cage) through social media and the politics of science, some absurd necessity appearing but only through the polytentacled broadcasts as this voice, our paltry voice, as given, the given … incomprehensibly moronic, existentially incarcerating, spiritually and aesthetically brutal and puerile …

… i am mangetout …

… i am human …

… i mangetout …

… mangetout …

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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