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!

-->

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

-->

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 …

-->

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

-->

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 …