ni`ev|u and *asija

ni`ev|u and *asija – a ymess story

 für  familien 

ni`ev|u and *asija meet at the corner of concept and rial in a lethargy of ocean sweat by smile miles under a gibbous moon

the world it was new once says *asija

is that a question says ni`ev|u

i have been unable to be myself in the world says *asija. i have been unable to enact my body

it takes so long to fall into one’s self

lifetimes

eliminating world to include world, eliminating i to include i, eliminating ratio to include ratio

who said that       other than you

hairy clitoris

to delight in mud

to delight in catherine wheels

wheels of mind breaking bones of thought

we are distant figures in a misplaced bruegel

pigments of suffering

who would choose to join this picture but the oblivious?

and who would pin a badge to its breast saying i am human?

i have only seen spirit as a fata morgana

as palimpsest

yet spirit is our yearning

we are souls given bodies to see that we cannot see our souls

we are not distinct. we are not discrete. we are not individual characters in a cast in a play

yet we play this play that plays at playing that we are

this playing at what is not becomes what is

and is the new that feels old

world that is not world, i that is not i,

dear things to which we cannot pray

dear visions that we wait to reappear

we hide in spaces where there is no place to hide

in snow shapes of angels full of patience

*asija and ni`ev|u meet in twilights of a language lost by lights strung on a broken pain of knowledge to speak of unspoken things in ways we’ve less forgotten than never learned at a corner of ime and nein with empty eyes, under a gibbous moon

feastday for fishes and humans and the many hungry things

die prrrrr die'a'logs xxi

it’s a jolly day in literature’s undone pub. sun shines like a rabbit’s ass. winter, drunk around the corner, cackles in a heap of dandruff. 1 2 7 0 uff. revs and diaper round cold forges ring. mistlejam gets its sleigh full of tritium and thorium-233 to drop down unswept gimmes of ymess. all is holey, all is blight

art says mangetout

art says bonobo though toke and quantum semen are both fine emboldening chaps but perhaps there are elements in both that are now aging less well than expected, for they both existed inside meat and boneheads, and we're not quite living exclusively there anymore, are we? for example, in an old favourite here, we detect a strict anthropologist's sensitivities, attributing human actions to local cultural/religious values and superstition as any good materialist would but there is also a failure to pursue or locate a more subtle, nonegoic material source for these tendencies, as at that time one (even those who climbed the tallest mountains) would have had little inclination that scientific and linguistic tools would not only cut through the roots of religion but ultimately go further and locate material sources for these experiences that point to a horizon of new rituals. but like any individuals that see the snakes inside and have them come out in ink or tongue, these boys are too flippant and multifarious, running madly in and out of too many dressing rooms to be sorry victims of the hallucinations of any one time

art says diaper is art or may not be art or is not art. or?

art says bishop is structures of losing, semblances of disaster

child of humanity says ezekiel what is the node more than any network, or than a branch which is among the network of the network of networks? shall data be taken thereof to do any work? or will humans take a pin of it to hang any device thereon? and i will make the internet desolate, because they have committed a trespass, saith the ietf

art says blake is your turds singing halleluwah in a swirl of unflushment

art says play-doh is a functional subterfuge of substantive dominance

art say the nlt 43.2-97ers is no longer the dominant force of evolution. our political, economic, and biotechnological policies may determine our future, for better or worse

art says v wii heaven be praised for solitude! i am alone now when the storm crosses the marsh and sweeps over me where i lie in the ditch unregarded i need no words i have done with phrases how much better is silence

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dialer diapogues xx (canterings)

tonight diaper canters with diaper

on The Avenue of The Unsustained

canter? the? really?

the talkways of night are lined with lies

what’s all this equine shit? these definitive articles? your intradiaperial cant?

how can we live in these homes of destruction?

the primary nature, function, and task remaining human white males is to retreat – why don’t you shut up? that’s what you prayed for

registers of the fallen

legions of the voiceless

you’re neither a current writer nor a currency rider – you cling to your irrelevance like an amulet that seemed to have once saved you from something

zeniths of darkness clamber vision’s rusty ladder

we are broken rungs, adamantine light

you talk like a mad snapped coil. you talk like a frog that dreams it’s had its legs pulled off by nine-year-old boys. you talk like something that’s never been counted among the somethings that count. you talk like you don’t know how talking talks. you talk, but your talking’s like a cracked mirror of narcissus in a garbage dump in michigan

i watch trains go by

boffee and cooze are my gurus

there are the margins

there are the margins of the margins

the animals watch us

watch us like televisions that have gained their freedom

haven’t seen much

a barnacle on a rock in a pool in a rock in a stream on an island in a lake on an island in a sea in an age in a hallucination in a scream on a petri dish in an induction on a non est factum in hydrogen bromide on a sigil gammaray in bosonic halflife in implicit crowdsourcing on a boston kpro type 1 titanium posterior plate in …

no ways but unways

unwalk this walking 

diaper dialogues xix

here we are, sitting in poetry

there are things that are important beyond all this wordle

like eating?

poetry is eating

poetry isn’t eating

science will genetically alter poetry to be eating and eating poetry

that’ll be boring

the announcement will be exciting

what’s the difference?

between announcement and important?

between poetring and eating?

poetring’s the image of the cake and eating’s the cake

eating’s now imaging

not when you’re imagining not imaging

this is far from eating

a visitor from nlt 43.2-97 visited me once and on nlt 43.2-97 one’s nutritional feeds are linked to poetic input and output – the more one produces and consumes good poetry the more one is fed

so the best poets are corpulent and the prosaic masses emaciated?

except that nlt 43.2-97ers aren’t as singularized as we. excess feed is shared through something analogous to mycelial networks here, which can channel for example surplus sugars in a paper birch to a nearby needy douglas fir. everyone weighs exactly the same taking into account differences in bone mass and other core variables

do you get visits like this often?

blake, ezekiel, and elizabeth bishop came for coffee and absinthe the other day

how was that?

ezekiel and bishop didn’t like each other

it was probably the absinthe

the point is – this isn’t poetry

what is it? – it’s not eating

it’s those spaces between that aren’t anything but graze everything

aren’t they poetry?

the cracks and rubble of poetry

the zone where one desires poetry but instead – sentient radiation

it’s a question of the usefulness of uselessness really

everyone’s now expected to contribute to the downfall of the world, through active exploitation, passive participation, protest bound through necessity to the forms resident in the active exploitation. poets defy this expectation – not (initially at least) through any intent but through what seems an accident

any time an unwanted group challenges society’s cherished forms it is seen as other and consequently stuffed in culture’s garbage, recycling, or composting bins. heretics – and there are always heretics for there is always a sacred – have been hated from the beginning of recorded time – they’ve been ostracized, exiled, tortured, maimed, butchered … poets are just heretics without any religion, politics, beliefs, paycheque, institutional credibility, taxonomic confidence, consistent structural realities, oneiric healings …

… play-doh was right in this anyway

play-doh can be formed to make most anything

as poetry

as the forms in the forms

it’s almost dawn

the sun oslo rises

sons all souls eyes is

the announcement of suiciding earnest

time for breakfast

fiddletoads and wildepoes and halfheads

what’s not to like?

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dialer dialogues xviii

i am weak like a grapevine, sinuous and drunk, clutter of tungs. i ply ployed play. i walk on the dead and they talk among themselves like cats. who knows the stretches of soul as it languishes in slaughtered deserts? i’ve seen leaves rise like stars on the crucifixion of time and not flinched. who has not shed some clothes for unremembered passages? who has not said no to opening a door? i am strong like yone and shige. the dead are not the unliving, nor are they the oncehavebeen. the dead are us, traded around strange guberniyas. let us sing together our untranslatable songs, on ashes of quashed fires, stories of silent joy

i walk a bridge from void to void, upon arriving a voidoid i become, form of see, weird of know

and dialogue is not some exchange between two or more parties seeking understanding, means, ends. dialogue is a rupture in night’s impenetrability, blinding us to ourselves, convention knowledge virtue effort … this wandering lacking destination or measure, words disturbed muttering of wind

we have spoken you and i across the spaces. we have placed ourselves like imaginary planks on death’s infinite bog and walked across and our walking is our words

who said love is anything but these spaces, this place and walking?

diaper dialogues xvii

so, diaper

yup

i need your advice

don’t give advice

will you let the trees give advice through you?

that’s up to the trees

we’re not getting very far

there’s nowhere to get

then i’m going to ask for advice and also provide it

sort of defeats the purpose

you suddenly believe in purpose?

every once in a while it’s a relief to utter a commonplace

i didn’t think the republic of pompous poetry let you leave

language needs to sleep too

but shouldn’t it not sleeptalk?

i don’t think we should tell language what not to do

isn’t that exactly what we should be doing?

where’s humpty dumpty when we need it?

so here’s the scene. i’m sitting in the members’ lounge in yottalopolis’ primary artfilm venue minding my own business …

… you never mind your own business. what does that even mean bumblebrain? just because language is having a nap doesn’t mean we have to kill it, banality’s …

… minding my own business – i’m sitting in the southeast corner in one of those chairs that’s good for chiropractors typing on my laptop like a zombie literary samurai, for once no tepid neosinatra audio piss playing and the lounge as quiet as a cat when it’s quiet – when the dude behind me starts wanking some youtube junk on his phone. the gift of tranquility, focus, unity’s immediately stolen, torture fantasies rise seductively from the swamp of origins, misanthropy – never one to stay buried long – leaps from its hypertransient grave and claims totalitarian rule on planet i. what should i have done?

trees don’t give historical advice

you’re not one to believe in chronounidirectionality

i’m not one, but setting this aside we’re not one not to believe in anything

it’s the rank obnoxiousness. nature doesn’t exist anymore. only the city remains – everthickening makeup on absurd absence. silence and the spaces it creates – despite that clever 1961 book about silence (a necessary sound in sound’s evolution but hardly any sum of sounds, another cage to try out in the zoo of words) – are critical for biopsychicdiversity, these increasingly ubiquitous invasions accepted, even expected, desired, normalized, these offenses …

… don’t worry, your psychic brand is being phased out, in 10 years at the most the environments of silence will be so polluted with human sound that those unable to adapt will all be dead or incarcerated

want to know what i did?

what you should have done is bound the dude to his chair, smashed his phone, pissed and shat and puked on the fragments, used your revengoblast™ to mutate him into a zerodimensional antiad for nothing and stuck him on a videoboard playing on infinite loop in the hell of his own private theater

didn’t realize trees were so christian

i forgot about the trees

you and everyone else

it’s noise that makes us forget about the trees

it’s the absence of trees that makes us remember noise

it’s forgetting that makes us forget about forgetting

want to know what i did?

all our lives are are retelling stories so we can access modes of time lost with trees’ death

we are the species whose primary pedagogy is knowledge through slaughter

we learn through ghosts

blood is our curricula

death our classroom

there has to be another way

the way of trees

the trees are dead

let’s ask the phones

the phones won’t let us hear the answer

there are no answers

only questions. questions, and time

time too is dead, only questions

where does advice fit into all of this?

advice is the restory of the question

the vice of ads on a quest to rest us

yesterday is like an affirmed tomorrow never returned to its owner

time is like advice never spoken, taken, given, thought

i don’t see what any of this has to do with trees

want to know what i did?

diaper dialogues xvi (which consoles console?)

we think your critique of the dalai lama is just nietzschean ressentiment

i think your critique of my critique is just philosophical cliché mongering, psychic envy, and an insecurity manifesting in a love of entitled pageantry, inane hierarchies, and otiose tradition

we think your critique of my critique of your critique is nothing but some gushing phoneme factory, obsolescent, overproducing in your soul, indiscreetly plunked there by some malevolent conceptualist, your mouth a cloacal flow of undigested commonplaces

i think your critique of my critique of your critique of my critique is semantic flatulence and aural smut produced by your overindulging in häagendazs black cherry amaretto gelato, caucasian continental cock metaphysics, balderdash aged cheddar, prissy white poetry, gardein herbed stuffed turk’y, anal sex, sol portobello mushroom burgers, an indolent faux bohemian lifestyle, pretentious pomposities masquerading as alternative, hip, free, and revolutionary … all washed down with stolen plonk and fairtrade organic coffee to make you feel virtuous, saturated in …

… we think your critique of my critique of your critique of my critique of your critique would be assessed by any certified members of the official and renowned professions of sanity as an exemplar of deranged coddled sexist racist ageist classist ableist sanist specist gross dysfunction, establishing your pathological condition as a wholly new degraded personality heresy within the diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders, one so psychopathic and sociopathic it requires immediate and nonconsensual invasive medical, pharmaceutical, and institutional intervention …

... who is this “we”?

just the “i” doubled to itself

i am the dalí llama

we are the ocean feces

i am the dubble hubble

we are the ordure of putrescence

i am the papal smear

we are the slop of sleaze

i am the i who says am

wii are the wee we who whee weed and try not to say are

to conquer oneself is a greater victory than to conquer thousands in a battle

if you think you are too small to make a difference try sleeping with a mosquito

just one small positive thought in the morning can change your whole day

i think i am actually humble. i think i’m much more humble than you would understand 

when the dog looks at you, the dog is not thinking what kind of a person you are. the dog is not judging you

how can we enter the professions and yet remain civilized human beings?

virginia wii’s way holier and smarter than lama, trolle, and stump combined

writing with the woolfs

of course she didn’t have to worry about money

your rolling critique of neoliberaltechnocapitalism and judeochristiancapitalism is just nietzschean ressentiment

your critique of my critique is just …

… quotes are prefabs for those who don’t have time to think

how could an argument soothe or settle a controversy when every quote is a nest for a bird of doubt?

prayer to wii wolves and playbox yabiz –

oh sun that fills our hearts with merde

help us not to say another word

but soar above the clouds like bird

and not stink like human like a turd

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diaper dialogues xv (politics of the dalí llama)

i hate to get political but …

… everyone else is

it’s expected

in the age of human incarceration in the human by the human – an entirely new evolutionary phenomenon we’re perversely celebrating – what else do you do?

… but fight humans

and as a corollary genocide everything else

we’re smart

like lucky charms or bacefook

anyway. i wanted to say that the dalai lama doesn’t particularly impress me

what does though?

it’s vain, hypocritical, homophobic – why do humans get all drippy about it?

humans are drippy things – they bounce between cruelties they call necessity and strength and sentimentalities they call love. the dalai lama is an easy feed for this lobotomized joy ride

it blabs about ecology yet flies all over the place, makes tollelike clichéd pronouncements, views celibacy superior to sex, vaginal penetration by the penis as superior to other forms of sexual pleasure, and his own personal physical attractiveness as a necessary attribute for all lamas, surrounded by money, privilege and adoration, accepting humans bowing before it and addressing it your holiness …

llamas are holier than lamas

lama llama

at least it wants to end the program

isn’t that only so it’s the last one and can ride history high?

that’s cynical. you’re not any holier. all you do is sit around talking to yourself. what good is that?

i’ve no idea. i just get pissed by mortal apotheosis of mortals

you support immortal apotheosis of mortals, immortal apotheosis of immortals, mortal apotheosis of immortals, mortal disapotheosis of mortals, immortal disapotheosis of … ?

… i support pissing

on others

back to politics

golden hours

not to honour humans of worth will keep the people from contention, not to value goods which are hard to come by will keep them from theft, not to display what is desirable will keep them from being unsettled of mind, …

lama diaper

diapers are our teachers

shit is education

flatulence is communication

no human ocean but the ocean ocean is our ocean

no human lama but the lama llama is our lama

i wish you’d stay away from politics

no one else is

since when did you do what no one else is not?

what?

your diaperness …

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