is a clock a word?

the purpose of these laid varlet logs dear unreaders is manifold vast unspeakable   and imminent squizzical squalled in squamish piece in odd respect can well over visceralized cerebralities exemplify their ambitions –

• simulating the incomprehensibility of now normalized and expected human discourse, being an xray of sorts of common speech and relation
• proposing and demonstrating a new genre whereby the global fragments of language culture identity orientation are gathered into conversation – the conversations you’re really having if your epidermal marrow could talk, reality not in flimsy social facadual flesh but gutsy quidditive spirit
• not having a purpose
• an entirely nascent and necessary daily diary whereby the detritus of a day is gathered into an aesthetic incoherence and disturbed unity; a poem of platelets … codes & clouds for aficionados of controlled lunacies
• a tympanic attempt to intramingle (holographically, textually, ) the esotatic of souls and the exotatic of facticity, exotatic of foals, esotatic of pudicity, reason and reason's treasons, dimensionality and collapse … and so represent the inexplicable person, rarely expressed and never so pithily and so geometrically a verbal representation of the enfoldedness of things thereby leading through its practice to cognitive and spiritual dexterity : narratives according to the newsfeeds of the grammars of technology
• an important way to think that includes all present and past ways of thinking by negating them : a postprotest test, a stop sign, a woking of fragmentings of dissimulations
• just a damn good story
• a puzzle (like sudoku or finnegans wake or kabbalah or void cubes) in which every component is almondbutterpacked with allusions references illusions pointers hypersigns curvatures klunks transsequiturs holes of all colours and shapes depths interconnectivities offenses phoneme soles puns’n’pataphors maledictions turny twists so on so ons … and the bored attentive literary or autistic reader can add gravity and grace to its days by unpacking the thing : none of this does any mathematics to its meaning for meaning is beside and not and the point … but it does unpack, unpacks by packing
• an aphrodisiac orexigenic diuretic tomographatol aperient occlusive satirific
• suggests how, in the plethoras of everything talking to everything and nothing listening, to listen
• a synecdoche and gyration of the 11 stations of the gonads

alfreda of polystichum

in the border zones between chad and tansothbabya where chairs and horses go to rock i’ve constructed loosely linked helices hoping alfreda of polystichum the polypod an archdruid of east obsidian will recess from its subulicystidius and notice

but the patrols are swarming and seeing my hope handcuff it to a paddywiglen who isn’t pleased and horribly aguffaws ensuring alfreda the polypod of polystichum doesn’t recess

i reach into duffel bags and centuries for spells and hacksaws but cut my finger on an oodening ordering, reciting the manifest of the ferdinand ferdinando ferdinoro on its way to mingulay for war

i’m first attracted to the border zones to escape the fourth extinctions and find respite in loosely linked helices however temporary. alfreda at the time is only known to me through kapetron’s an anatomy of autothanatography which influences me significantly in my youth or whatever we could say that episode of fallen wisdom might be called. if i recall none of which is certain it first appears in the seventy-second footnote on page 318 in the sefer-ha-hakarim edition of the kokang translation for unfortunately i can’t read kapetron

in the border zones corteges, long and mute and faintly green, not in tense or in any sane, parade (if that’s the word and it’s not) slightly closer to tansothbabya though, if the truth be told (and it’s not) the chadites are their greater number. i join them for a time if only to remind me to wash my ibices which have leapt beyond the records

surprised i’m still alive for the third extinctions almost killed me and still might i sneak out to see my hope at nights when the ash somewhat sometimes lifts and the paddywiglen rems, spending a few moments with it though the oodening often follow and their recitations prod the paddywiglen rousing the aguffawing and even if in that brief interlude alfreda of east obsidian of polystichum the polypod considers recessing it doesn’t

kapetron’s of the opinion in some circles considered considered as far as i can tell at least and while i used to be able to tell fairly far now i’m not so sure alfreda’s of the clad that breathes from death. first it is said one breathes from respiration and this is the ovate next it is written one breathes from digits and this is the witch penultimately it is known one breathes from mycelium and this is the bard and in the end it is seen which is the middle one breathes from death and this is the arch. so the point is if alfreda of subulicystidius of polypod of east obsidian of polystichum of the dark arches notices and the artifices of the haruspices’ codices become unsung the loosely linked helices may vermiculize into the extinctions and the ash may lift and there the sun

mad tichalak

here we are – i and i and all the others – on a platform of fog and the display says someone says that someone says (though how anyone can read it who can say or also read) the next one’s in nineteen

mad tichalak’s had a heart attack and it’s dropped its dissertation

here we are – the siffleux and the zazarappi – in a digital display and the conductor says (though no one’s seen one here for ninety years) get out of there you bagbags

mad tochalok talks like a cuckold cock and its tresis theel is pipping

here we are – she and him and none and them and it – in a concession stand in big mister chew big fudges and we waiters munch in terpen time and the next one’s in nineteen

mad tackulik drops its cited dick in a faculty of footnotes

here we are – you if you weren’t in manufacture – on judgments so poorly engineered the conductor calls committees in geneva twaddling in its claptraps

mad tuckuluk on knees and hands groping for its chakras

here we are – and why are they still counting – on platforms of babbleuffionalities and it’s way way past nineteen and the conductor’s drunk and dead and we’ve eaten all the fudgy siffleux

mad techelek’s become a wreck of nanocons and oxyoughtens and drops its conurbations

here we are – i and why and weren’t and it and some remnant zazarappi – nineteen and the conductor gone – we’ve reached the dream and per the texts the dream’s the one inside it