slime too

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one says sometimes that to enter oblivion all traces from all instances of memory have been lost, all links to one’s name and image annihilated. and when one says that sometimes one usually also means by memory not just those ethereal presences in organic substances such as human brains but also in those prosthetics often called technology, whether of now rather old-fashioned texts or the increasingly pervasive kingdom of the digital – the purpose of the latter often seeming to be a protest, even if a last-gasp one, against the overwhelming evidence of oblivion’s immutable potencies

yet memory in all of this – and so oblivion – is being defined in ways oblivion might not share, being seemingly more flexible than those who sometimes are found saying

when i am lost to the memory of myself, when i am evened out in the odd odds of the game, when i am ground down to those sticky wisps humans spray with their convenience, when i am rubbed out my dust distributed through molecular calendars uncelebrated by societies of the seen, is there any thoroughness or finality, any guarantee i’m not obliviated now?

to remove a face is to find a face

oblivion becomes you she says. what do you mean? you become more yourself the more you don’t exist, you’re the negative sum of all effacements

it is in the asylum i had built for myself over years of solitude that i meet her. i build according to a blueprint that takes into equal account the structure’s two primary definitions – as a fortress for the mad, to keep these madnesses of an unruly i far away from the world, and as a refuge from the mad, a space of comprehensive architectures in which the world’s mad, what are often called citizens or the people, do not enter, not because they are forbidden but because the ways to the asylum are unmapped and even should one accidentally find oneself at its blurry, unmarked and indistinguishable nidi of entry that will be about it, for the asylum is cleverly overlain on what are called the real call reality and so they will neither know nor see

the trees surely won’t remember us and what has seized too many faces shall have none

i meet her and she smears words across my slimy smoothness. this forgetting she says affirms endless nots of defacings. she says her name is dauby mud and i say i have no faces left to give her. but there are always faces left for faces always lost and oblivion just another. whether that the digital pretends to overcome or this the text that’s been erased they are the same

slime too sees

in the asylum in the porch of my face i draw maps of the temples of the mad. rambling affairs that neither point to any forms of transcendence nor offer praise as a viable currency

the oblivions are no more or less obliviated than any others. there are just different protocols and rites

in the asylum of my fallen destiny and risen void plasma is a material of choice. our architects and engineers don’t go to your schools. we are made of mud and creepy crawly things and the nonchalance of bears

all one has to do for training is to open a trapdoor in any word and climb down

down

to the broken garrets of contradiction where oblivion is obliviated and the overlays of perception don garbs of garbage and irony is consummated

irony?

slime too knows

to delight in the asylum of the asylum

here we follow a mudocracy. our gods and sport are mud

in slime are i’m and me and is

oblivion sometimes is just a language that isn’t spoken by those who use the word oblivion

why would anyone want to know they’re alive? far better to doubt

the accumulated debris of history turns the art of simulating oblivion into a vocation of exile

oblivion. ioio blnv. boil vino  bio liv on

oblivion

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plasmatic existence in a commoditized world is an expression of realized oblivion

to be a solo wilderness lookout observer is to establish – or rather observe – relations of oblivion. observe rather than establish for these relations are always present but largely unmanifest, fashioned by routine and the commons and the comfortable distances maintained from dream. those relations too though are fashioned in these other places, places of desolation and voidic voices, where depression is not some clinical condition designed to be overcome by promoters of a false wellness (false because falsely severed from its sickness) but an asylum of valleys from the great plains and peaks of news’ tsunamis

oblivion is a facet of insignificance. oblivion can never be eliminated or even reduced, only its appearances temporarily reconfigured, so in the city – that environment of procuring faces – oblivion’s role is hardly diminished but perhaps increased through the hard dialectic established by means of the city’s dark ecstatic rabidity. in the city oblivion hunters and gatherers abound in gross diversity and they, while lacking official designation, are critical to the city’s glittered successes

naked oblivion – or rather nearly naked – is unacceptable to our dominant time, and clothing it, almost to the point of suffocation, is the prime task of culture. art, that now official rascal of the state and capitalism, almost their mascot, has as its core role to strip oblivion to its voidic essence but in modes that can be traded according to the currencies of society’s limited palate. this requires a radical separation of oblivion’s orientations and the excesses, disciplines, promotions and politics of art’s wobbly tap-dance with itself

relations with a stripped oblivion are an opportunity for regeometricization – of psyche, cognition, language, behavior, societal engagement, time and calendar, destiny and objectives. we all are warped post-euclidians

when other flowers predominantly as dandelion and mosquito and oblivion, accustomed in its other to the human, nascently balks, what does the accustomizing one do but manufacture untold copies of love … and whether their laughter and caresses are simulations of what is commonly taken to be love or the inverse, who would know or even strive to know, in the enfolded darknesses of bug and weed?

oblivion includes a wraithicization of substance – humans as equal partners as siffleux or ox-eyed daisies in this process of the onericization of truth (or, conversely and simulatedly, the sarcousization of god)

life, as everyone at least secretly knows, is just a distraction from death and the sensible human gets involved as little as possible in life in order to truly live – which is to be undistracted by death

that social-legal-political-fiscal identity oversignifiedly circumscribes identity affronts oblivion. this affront might say the human is our potency and intelligence. but other personas loiter in the infinite mall of dreams

the weather is oblivion. not the weather with all its massive conglomerated weightiness of reporters and analyses, as a cheap filler of the soul, coloured graphs and mitigated risks … but the raw uncertainty of fire wind precipitation … their indifference to conglomerated bipedian solidities

madness of course is a great protocol of oblivion, and the human who would be wielded by it lives – if it lives at all – in eulenlochs of time’s rodent-ridden barnyard

oblivion – but only as a facet of insignificance (that is, not as a facet of death) – is a manifest of caprice and so we of the disunited states of oblivion list our lists with an uncanny ardor

and you would cast down on me vague and pecuniary chastisements for applying oblivion to the languagescape as a child might a white crayon to a mausoleum? cast away, though your lines have no hooks and we are not anyway any kind of ichthus that would fit in your gullet

look. oblivion sits right here, beside me. we talk as strangers in a familiar spot, bamboo slips they give birth to water and here we sit, you and i, in one another’s masks, not unappointed, silently talking, like friends or wine or slime

thoughts on an edge of something

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in aging news media tempts to become a dependent ossified dream and so its addictive powers increase, consuming language and sensation, until the aged are little more than glyphed dingleberries in the age’s newsarrhea. a sacred attitude of course toward the news during decay is not necessarily to avoid it but to absorb it no differently than one absorbs the trees rustling in the wind or the scatological ruminations of père ubu. and while to continue understanding news’ language to keep one’s own far from it, to speak it (audibly in the society of others or however sonically interiorly) as little as possible. in short, to remain an idiot in the service of darkness

it is in part a miniscule specimen of time’s opportunity to glimpse, however dimly, time’s geometries the news offers – how it presents an ascendant spectacle of names as a staging for the infinite funhouse of unnames

literature has fallen so far behind the edges of film it’s barely worthy to stand on the unstage of art beside it

and recently in from the news –

seth and beth did breath then meth then death

and recently in from the new school of vatic research –

the old (bitter and garrulous) will die in plentiful whimperings and the young (bright and uncomplaining), for they have never had the chance to know the illusions of freedom, will die in plentiful silence. and the others (numerous as mosquitoes) shall fall according to their kind and those still able to copulate will copulate in the viscera and smoke and those who have forgotten will still carry on with trade and law and poetry will be lost except in the mumblings of nightmares

only the imagination stands without flinching before the beast of society

i make things without definition, lacking genre, without name … unless the name be mad. but mad is that name without definition, lacking genre, without name. mad is the god behind the manifest gods. i manifest, but refrain from defining, for that would be to dishonour the root and earth, these divinities of flesh

abstraction – or rather the undefinable distances between abstraction and root – discredit themselves to the extent they bypass through nature toward root primarily through the human. the human – despite its now gross and global attempts – is not a sufficiently vast filter and its pretense to become that and of having become that – almost the sum of present politics, art, culture, sport, business – colours these abstractions with a palette insufficiently acquainted with the manifold hues of black