digte munter ondskab

The Secular Sadoo is pleased to introduce Milta Ultimal, a recently discovered poet from the outskirts of Catalonia.  Her works were found by Dr. D. Vida L. Honesc, a devotee of Paul Ricoeur and excavator of Spanish obscurities.  From the little known, it has been gleaned that Milta Ultimal was a drunk, misanthrope and lecher, who died in 1831 at the age of 24.  She spoke Catalan, Oromifa, and Yankunytjatjara, and had propensities to attack foreigners.  Her Digte Munter Ondskab became renowned at an Alta Ribagorça bar for three days, during which seven dogs were killed and slightly fewer humans were conceived.  The Secular Sadoo, whether it celebrates Milta or not, introduces her, and commemorates her youthful death.  Digte Munter Ondskab has been translated to English by Dr. Spiroh Schflat, associate professor of catalan poetry at the University of Shampoo Island.  We appreciate Dr. Schflat’s efforts and acknowledge his upcoming performance piece in Mawlamyine with durians and dead grandmothers on February 8.

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clouds are more real than i, water more true

force of the monad : energy of the all
The only thing to destroy is our souls
            I will not sleep, i will not sleep
To forget the object but not the game is the dance on the blink of zero, the zipless love in art’s kink, arjuna’s empty duty
Marketing, self-promotion … secular evangelicalism … that content is pushed in the name of the god or the us or the i, what difference? god as walt disney clearly explicated in his leaves of duck is i and i is god and gods’r’us
We place dark hope in technology, that it would be the platform in the voided skies to carry us—no, not us:  our packaged times, our bowtied art, our sprouting deeds—to trantor or max cantor or ms beerle
the neobodhisattva withholds itself (from the blissful one-one unity) through a refusal to retreat into solitude and silence, to retreat from the thighs and sparkles of the clubby city.  The urban whoopdidi, the clogged plumbing of art, the ecstatic privy of communication: these present spectra of god—the explicate order that afflicts
divine light shatters the vessels, divine contraction making worlds of flush
                                                                                                                                                     the expanding universe : partzufim made sound
                   aren’t jr kipling & épater le bourgeois & e waugh siblings in the family of eye and pen?
hemingway’s strength is born from the stretched dialectic between his sentimental machismo ethic and his minimalist aesthetics.  There.  you wanted criticism
life is short, art is long.  Everything’s been aliced now
            art is short, life is long
if you can’t change the man, change the pillowslips
it is only by being observer of my being artist that i become an artist.  i play at being artist so that i can observe my play so that i can become my observing so that
ideas only motivate the weak;:- the strong—which is to say energy temporarily coalesced into distinction—are not motivated, they do not move, the strong do not move
one leaves the institutions of thought to think
one leaves the institutions of faith to faith
one doesn’t leave the institutions of money to money
the external world doesn’t exist other than as a refueling station for the machine-organism that houses a perpetually partying host of creators birthed by flushy creatures into flushy worlds
Live and evil and vile and veil lie in believe …
      i am a cow. i write. i have a penis.
      if the obscurity of wrath and the lucidity of wisdom do not ultimately coincide, how can we recognize ourselves in this world?
I awoke sleeping on giant labia, labia as large as elephant ears, neighing and bleating in my drowning face
The boredom of the blank page is preferable to the boredom of the world
art becomes antiart becomes antiantiart : opposition leads to regress and fragmentation … so, rather, the obvious conclusion, become that which you recoil against and recoil against the recoiling. become a papist, a realist, a fist
The mad, we have established, are not mad, and the not-mad, as is evident, are mad.  i wish to write of the principles and patterns (these shapes, the principles and patterns) of the communication of god …
            much of this would have to do with the grammar of hiding, of hiding in itself, of hiding in hiding
                        for god does not communicate according to the manner of professional objectives, clearly, concisely, except when it needs to take that as a guise, which is often
                        and it does not communicate according to the manner of aesthetic dictates, uniquely, compellingly, except when it needs to take that as a guise, which is infrequent
                         but it communicates in the poetic caesuras, the executive falters, the journalistic gaffes, the sleeps of the tongue; (the poet knows this and so is stuffed in god like a turducken; for the executive and journalist, faltering and gaffing are mistakes, potentially career diminishing, hooks in their prowess, indications of a possibly fucked humanity, begetting vast structures which must be erected for their avoidance, for the poet, though, the caesura is its duodenum and mongoose)
                                                {ooooh bergman bildungsroman boogeyman brueggemann}
                                    Nothing has changed in the politics of the divine.  What is not said, our silences, our stumblings, that which is tucked into the diseased folds of words, point to the sparks, the plugged sparks, the sparks, the lost sparks, the sparks
                                               Look, human, look, in the neglected dumps of life.  No one will compete with you.  There will be stillness, and silence, and the beauty of ugliness and stench.  There will be a grammar of hiding (sephirot tikkun nitzutzot)
To be human is to kill, and to kill and kill like we eat marshmallows; this is not at issue  At issue only is what to kill, and how … not why … job & krishna killed the why
One does come through the negation of things to affirm, and what one affirms is the absence of the one … at the center of darkness is light, enfolded in darkness, which one takes inside only by travelling through the darkness … this is a cliché
                                    The light at the center is not the one, but the light at the center of all  We are enfolded darkness and in the wii and the enfoldedness and the affliction and the marshmallow is light and a one that is not-one … this could be a cliché
Build a mind inside your cell, from which you can never flee
Christmas makes as much sense as a crucified pancake
estrogen and testosterone are breaking down into oat flour and bike chain lube.  We will ride pancakes to work to bugger south dagonians for a little ipad pie
The name is a prosthetic of the soul:  let us not speak it, let us be silent until death  We will hold the name in us like a mother her foetus.  We will kill it before we say it in the marketplace. it will never be born
Immobility is the new dissemination
Far more important than money is forgetting : memory allows constancy, organization, fixed associations : forgetting releases us to creation’s murderous śūnyatā and there in the sweet pathology of creation money is like a vat of yoghurt dumped into jackie’s reservoir.  I swim and eat and drown, like badgers in the mailbox
            These badgers, what are they?  I despise them.  they smell like cheerios—those little false circles, those simulacrums of dough.  I crucify them each, laughing like play-doh, on the Listerine.  Ah! Ah! Cereal? What is it? only badgers in the mailbox, only badgers.
The other day, when my male organ was playing the art of fugue in a strumpet’s fan fares,
You dogs!
This is my lecture for today.
I saw a pink bamboo—i mean baboon (do i mean balloon?)—strutting down the Eiffel Élysées on a pumpkin.  It said to me, ude eer, spread your anus and sprout juniper trees from it or i shall cut your head off with my kiddie scissors.  That’s my lecture for today.
And in the end (this is the end)
I am being created every moment, the i that was i is not the i that is i, i de-i to i, dis-i to i-i.  how do i do this? ah! That is the eggnog.  I do this by trampling on thought with my yellow spurting prick.  No. I eat candles like soufflé.  I fuck all the ronalds in the grave  
There is nothing harder than to write without form when all there is is form
Succubus. Succubi. Succudick. Succucop. Conjugate the conjugal and castrato in my ass
These thoughts are truer than thoughts for they are not thoughts
I want to smear my body with the semen of a thousand monkeys and howl like a candlestick.  Then i would know there is a god.  A dead one maybe, but still a god. I would become as god, with all those monkeys
A little lower than the angels?  Then the angels are mud
The indifference of the earth is a song in my spleen; i am a tree, i am a cow; am i indifferent to you?  am i indifferent to you in your endless metal heavy farting, your eternal mouth pukes, the weenyteeniness of your ideas, your exigent psychologies:  which demand to be contested … you who need to go to your coliseums which you call boardrooms or barrooms just to watch ideas being chased and killed and celebrated.  (oh, there are always so many christians) Why don’t you give up ideas and surf on the nights of unreason as they break over your souls?  I am no longer amused by anything but death
Those who crucify their i’s will suffer the fate of the church.  Those who throw their i’s in acid will see time like the blind.  All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.  We are eggs:  seeingeggs in the oviducts of the grave
I would like to like humanity in the way i’d like to mate with a spider—something outside the ordinary, a little novelty, looking at the world through a different lens; who wouldn’t be into some diversity on a saturday night?
Sacrifice?  Of course sacrifice is necessary for us to be reborn!  But we all sacrifice—the banker poetry the sodomizer cunnilingus the composter bullets the good man bad … everything we are not which is almost everything we sacrifice.  I sacrifice myself to become myself to lose myself to find myself to forget myself … to forget … to forget  The world is a beercap and we are the beer.  I am the measure of mass.  I am a ripped copy of mathilde in amedeo clemente’s pocket, your ago and ah.  I am the egg and chequebook.  I am the egg and the photocopier and the strappado.  I am bamm-bamm’s buggy.  (my only dj’s dj holomovement)  I am kale chips seasoned with hsv-ii flaking from the pussy of a giant lilith exiled on a moon called ovid.  I am the seven stools of Bristol, like a sausage or a snake, smooth and soft, like an eiderdown, like your words on a pillow when you’re lying
I would be an anaconda in a toilet if i were not a muskrat in a musket,
            Said the prime minister as he woobled his way to his liquor cabinet to imbibe in himself
Minus nine dee please said the elevator passenger.  I am judas, proud betrayer of god, and i would like to settle in, get comfortable in ice, i’m flexible.  And i pressed the button for the dude.  i like my job.  The stars are overrated.  And Beatrice’s a slimy ugly sap, i like moving up and down, all these buttons
But not on us! the children said, turning a little green
All this saying.  All that which says.  All this sai sai.  Our tongues are pullulating automata, our minds soggy f-35 lightning iis.  Society isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.  There’s only language and soul  they can’t be saved either but at least they can be
Her breasts are like halfpomegranates after the seeds are shaken
I go down on her like a basketball or longitude
My penis is like a hangman
That’s the body. That’s the body. That’s the body.
But, disorderly to end where I didn’t begin,
clouds are more real than water, i more true

andre the giant and the strawberry

andre the giant and the strawberry

(the coloured version)

Andre the Giant punted down the Clem, Ms. Katonic in tow, trafficlight green chemise unruly, Winners’ briefs unsoiled, fluffy socks from mocked aunt in Devonshire, quite deceased.  

The Clem, since it was circular, and thus knew no destination, was a favourite spot for lovers who, loving love, knew no destination too.

Boys were known, being boys despite the second sex, to hide in bushes round the bend of the Nodens, and display penises through the prickles, to their own bemusement and lovers’ shame.

The sun that day seemed beyond itself, as if it had read the most esteemed literary and scientific descriptions of itself, and attained a new consciousness, affecting its reflections.

The mocked aunt was not from Devonshire but Bocking and was infamous in certain basement ecclesiastical circles for her fluffiness and how she somehow transmigrated it to her socks.

A renowned incident occurred some years prior, and was reported, involving a Lucia Haddlewich and a Milton Brubblewich and a sandwich and an ostrich and a pickle and a punt.

General Paint (a nickname) was the lead boy and had become accustomed to vulgarities, some say, due to a father who had used zucchinis for what God, if there were one, had not intended.

Continuing the speculation of a solar literatus, the sun’s favourite lines from our terrestrial ball about itself all had to deal with anthropomorphisms; it had to laugh, if it could, which it couldn’t.

Ms. Katonic hailed from Catatonia; her father was a sociopath, her mother a homeopath, she herself a taxi driver who’d met Andre through a poet in a backseat, rather squished.

Being round and flowing into itself, but not a moat, the Clem was a minor curiosity for fluviologists, who flocked to punt and wonder, though General Paint and his penises made many flee.

Sometimes though the boys would put out pickles to sub for penises, dressing them with alfalfa sprouts and little hats of cocktail umbrellas, and give them names, then eat them.

Beyond itself yet notwithstanding the sum of itself, the sun performed its duties without any lone or clump or crowd of clouds, meaning punters and penis boys were sunned and, being summer, warm.

They had not got it on much, the Giant and Ms. Katonic, in the backseat, initially, squished, due less to any chemical incompatibilities and more to a sort of caesura that came between them.

Haddlewich and Brubblewich spent a night in jail, the ostrich in a morgue, the sandwich in General Paint’s anus, the pickle in a punt in a bobby station, a bobby at the bottom of the Clem.

General Paint procured his penises from Margrit and Margrit got them from her cousin who got them from a Presbyterian who got them from an Oxford don.  He got his pickles from the store.

The sun that day rose higher than it usually did and saw with eyes more perspicaciously the randomness of humankind and stretched its fingers so it almost lit the bobby at the bottom still.

The other punters thought Ms. Katonic might be playing a game, the way we do, like water skiers but horizontal, like funalicious in the Clem, and Andre the Giant her gracious host and driver.

Circular rivers, wrote Dr. Slev D. William Blot-Hrag, in Fluviology Today for Fluvies (Fluviologists being taken), I propose are deltic aberrations of rhithronal stridulations. Little more.

Paint’s favourite had been the one who when she saw the penis (the extra large kind) pushed her man from the punt and punted frantically away, crashing on a little isle, impaling herself on rocks.

Consciousness, being preferred by humans as a human attribute (though defined by them in terms favouring such a preference), may not be solely or predominantly such a thing, thought the sun.

The sock mocked Bocking aunt was the mother’s sister and Ms. Katonic had met her only once, in Braintree, with spray paint on her hands, at a rave.  The socks started coming then.

There was a way (counterclockwise) to go round the Clem but those in the know would do the other way so that General Paint and his boys would focus on the others, drawing ire from the others.

The boys in the bushes with their penises and pickles weren’t against love, technically, in its romantic guise, but more for love, realistically, as a rupture in the flow of things.

What if I, the sun continued, did the same to them, and solarpomorphized the human, and said the human lacks my consciousness, which it does?

So was the perfect venue not that river, uncertain, gentle, and without impatience, for their exploits, love and boys and punters, a distributed collective quest under the rosy rolling sun?

Ms. Katonic and the Bocking sockist hadn’t hit it off in Braintree, but with the drugs and the blood and the Catatonia connection, who would?  The socks came anyway.

You’d think, of course, that the penis- and the pickle-flashers through the bushes would be nabbed by the bobbies and settled down, the way society’s supposed to do.

You’d think they’d get families and put penises in homes they’re made for and let the fucking lovers on the Clem do the googlies and the sippies and the touchies and round and round once more!

The socks came, though Ms. Katonic didn’t often, and she’d put them in a box or give them to Goodwill or feed them to her dog … but here, towed in the Clem, she wore them.

The Clem had a reputation naturally.  All things do.  General Paint was underplayed to newbies.  Locals went the other way.  Bobbies got paid off.  All things worked together the way they do.

Andre the Giant, despite his size, was gentle, while Ms. Katonic, despite her size, was not.  When they found each other on the channel ferry and shared a moment, she promised him some socks.

But what’s happening up there? With the sun?  Let’s ask it.  Well. The usual. Not much. Been reading a western. Doing a bit of thinking. The usual. Some anger management issues. Going down.

The aunt, after all, was not known for sizing, but fluffiness, so the socks for Ms. Katonic, in abstract surprisingly, fit Andre’s feet quite well, and Ms. Katonic got rid of socks, and Andre gained some.

We have one only, but there are many, and some have wondered whether they all think the same or, like us, if a certain inscrutability exists from star to star.

Science says, of course, that stars don’t think but science does, rocks don’t think but people do—thoughts worthy maybe of consideration.

The sun that day shone lightly on the punters who, except for Andre who required a special punt and was the talk, being large, interrupting more than the boys the quiet quests of love, only wanted love.

When the Bocking socker heard of her niece’s demise she didn’t weep (she was British) or think of travelling to the Clem to see the body but made more socks than ever, sending them to Andre.

The Clem was a circle as we’ve said, but the boys were stationed in the bushes round the bend of the Nodens, as that was most fortuitous for shocks and fleeing and various exchanges.

More rivers should be circular, argued Dr. Blot-Hrag, and engineers should get right on it:  dams and projects, federal funding, work and progress, now’s the future, begin it yesterday.

The Oxford don wasn’t always careful or consistent, nor was the Presbyterian nor the cousin nor Margrit nor the boys nor Ms. Katonic; who is?

The Clem rose slightly with Andre’s tears, for they were large and many, and he had never loved before, but now he had and she was dead and he was weeping and she was towed and she was dead.

The sun glanced at its continual descent—that slide of spherical proportions that slides eternally away from science—and said, It’s been a day. With me, it’s always been a day. Always is a day.

The boys were known, led by General Paint (that bastard), to drop the used penises in the letterboxes of the punters whom they considered, after voting, were most likely to succeed in love.

The Clem, since it is circular, and thus knows no destination, is a favourite spot for lovers who, loving love, know no destination too.

Andre the Giant is punting down the Clem, Ms. Katonic in tow, trafficlight green chemise unruly, Winners’ briefs unsoiled, fluffy socks from mocked aunt in Devonshire, quite deceased.

MY ƏLD LEIGH GOSHE

The invitation to the meeting had been distributed, oddly, in the middle of the night, a practice that would have been viewed as mildly gauche.

 

 To:      istes Holoway

            Xie Xia

            Double yOu dee Cr*sh

            Urt

            Peday Conjaju

            Merci d’avoir fait votre part.

            coose-coose-loose ˈ loose

            1.800.456.1191

                        @@@@@@@@@@ @@@@ @  @    @       @                    @                        @        @  

From:   ude eer

Re:       Status Meeting

Kindly be reminded that our next Status Meeting is scheduled for Tuesday September 21 in Space 231-C at 1400h.  Light snacks will be provided.

The agenda and necessary ancillaries will be posted in StatUp shortly; as usual, any information regarding regrets or substitutions should be communicated to Merilla in Space.

Team members should be reminded that PMRFs (project modification request forms) are required to be communicated to the PMO no later than Friday 2000h.  There are to be no exceptions.  Because of target exceeding in August, code sheets are optional.

 

istes didn’t know what to think.  It worked its way over to Urt’s pod and angled its words accordingly, knowing the histories of Urt’s orientations in similar circumstances all too well.

Nice mug Urt.

What’s up?

Are you going skiing this weekend?

What’s up istes?

Just chatting.  Pod boredom.

It’s the meeting.

Merci d’avoir fait votre part. won’t like it.

Does it ever?

Right.

But it is the third time.

Right.

Urt paused and laid its mug on the recyclings, shaking slightly.  So?

So.

Funny.  I would have thought you’d have shown later.

That’s not the point Urt.  You know it.

You were trying to surprise me.

No.  No surprises.  You can’t be surprised.

Everyone can be surprised.

Has Xie Xia?

OK.  Everyone but Xie Xia.  Why is that?

It’s taken more module training.

I don’t think that’s it.

What is it then?

I think it’s its units.

Or profits or habits.

Or credits or debits.

Benefits.  Or spirits or limits or merits or deposits or …

Stop.  Stop it.  Or rabbits.

It’s hard.

Let’s stop.

You started it.

Go istes.  Go.  No more games.  We’ll deal with this on Tuesday.

Back in its pod, istes became more pleased with the conversation with Urt than it had thought.  While no resolutions had been obviously forthcoming, istes felt as if an understanding had been tangentially developed which could result in resolutions.  Urt hadn’t shut down.  The testiness at the end wasn’t real.  The references to Xie Xia were binding.  Merci d’avoir fait votre part. might be able to be systematized under certain conditions.  istes experienced joy.  It had been the right move.  Tuesday would come.

***

Xie Xia was the first to arrive, with ude eer ensconced in the authorized status post, monitoring the arrivals.

Xie Xia, ude eer said.

ude, said Xie Xia.

Xie Xia placed itself and made a move to grab a stalk of les prés garder but then withdrew, sensing more arrivings.

ude eer was greeted by ude or eer, and ude eer greeted each arrival in turn from her asp, until each was placed and stalks had been obtained and the meeting was called forth.

Have you been skiing? ude eer asked, and Urt was known to be asked.

I have not been skiing but this weekend offers possibilities, Urt tactfully responded.

Skiing offers possibilities, ude eer said.

Skiing offers possibilities, the project team said together.  While Urt was resented for this by some, particularly 1.800.456.1191 and Peday Conjaju, the majority received the repetition neutrally and oriented themselves toward the affirmation, shifting dynamics and, slightly, the future.

Bandits, said Urt.

istes almost crashed.  It had been wrong about Urt.  The testiness was real.  An understanding hadn’t been developed.  Urt had appeared to not shut down.  istes de-experienced joy and began decommissioning.

Let us sing the song, said ude eer.

The project members switched to song mode and retrieved the song.

     More than ever this is what i think

     more than ever this is what i do

     more than ever more than ever

     ever is more than evermore

They cycled through the pronouns, according to the Malaka-Nwert Standard—i, we, they, which, yours, whoms, codas of repeated i’s.  istes had always found the MNS Standard particularly satisfying; it went across memory to the space where the MNS Standard is in a meadow with monarchs and high and super fluffy clouds and white pythons melted on themselves, and humming.

I’d like to put a point on the table, said ista.

Let us subject the putting to the table, said ude eer.  Puter.

It should be Putter.

No.  Putter is non-standard.  You are not current on your utts and ees, @@@@@@@@@@@ @@@ @  @    @       @                    @                        @        @, said ude eer.  You have been asked to leave.

I request exceptions, said       @@@@@@@@@@@@@@ @  @    @       @                    @                        @        .

Are exceptions granted? asked ude eer.

ude has the gonads, Merci d’avoir fait votre part. said.

eer has the gonads, coose-coose-loose ˈ loose repeated.

ude eer has the gonads, the project team chorused.

She has the gonads, ude eer said, causing certain stirs and leakings.  You have been asked to leave.

It wasn’t an easy leaving.  @@@@@@@@@@@@@@ @  @    @       @                    @                        @        @’s dimensions didn’t fully conform (a point of discussion even at the time in Onsk, which would, though not part of our story, result in a recall of an aapstert and one or two schniks and a consideration of the nature and function of further miukumaukus), and the meeting grew unruly for a time, and more stalks became required and obtained and obtained, which caused further unsettlings.  In short, almost everyone wished @@@@@@@@@@@ @@ (@)  @    @                           @                        @ had become familiar with its utts and ees.

Puter, said ude eer.

Double yOu dee Cr*sh cleared itself.  I put, it said.

What do you put? the team members asked.

I put put, said Double yOu dee Cr*sh.

What do you put put?

I put put put.

What do you put put put?

I put put put put.

What do you …

Enough, said ude eer.  What is the resolution?

ista is facilitated, said Double yOu dee Cr*sh.

ista, said ude eer.

In cycling through the pronouns under the MNS Standard, began ista, …

Exception, a number said.

An obvious exception, said ude eer.

ista awkwarded.  It hadn’t been the best of times after all.

In this case we grant the exception, said ude eer, before the non-standard, itself non-standard, a legitimacy foreordained.  Continue ista.

In cycling through the pronouns under the MNS, began ista, we have been asked to consider the amateurishness of professionalism, jurisprudence, footbag, aardvark, Lee Valley, Rochefort, Kunstwerkstücksache, widget, tiling (as gerundation), hiiri, hiiret, миш, мишеви, ilygoden, ilygod, ਮਾਊਸ ਨੂੰ, ਮਾਊਸ, nas, Durban, nas, ụmụ oke, …

The point has been puted.  We subject it, said ude eer.

The project team subjected.  ista stalked.

Let us sing the song, ude eer said after the requisites.

The project members switched to song mode and retrieved the song.

     More is or but for the ore

     less is and and evermore

     ravens is as sows does

     does don’t do what poets was or bows

Puter? said ude eer.

There are objects and subjects, said Double yOu dee Cr*sh.

Is there resolution? said ude eer.

There is resolution, said Double yOu dee Cr*sh.

What is the resolution? said ude eer.

The resolution is that the considering is become the de-considering.

Skiing offers possibilities, the project team said together.

Skiing offers possibilities, the project team said together. 

***

Back in its pod, ista considered the de-considering, the events as a whole and fragmented, Urt’s urting, the exceptions and leaving and recalling and furthers, reviewed its utts and ees, retrieved some songs, thought of les prés garder, veered away from gonads, მაუსიd a little, slept.

Angling then into Urt’s pod again, it said, ...

Don’t say it, said Urt.

Everything’s going to be ok, said ista.

We ski, said Urt.

We ski, said ista.

We ski, they said, the two its said.

We ski.

And when the next invitation arrived, distributed, less oddly, in the middle of the night, mores were not unaltered, and ista received hopes that the puting of its considering would be resolutioned, that the angling of Urt would be arced, and that joy would be distributed and Tuesday would come again.