in a money youth white human neurotypical technology male name cis exotatic supremacist culture how does one eat one’s marinated tofu?

trains are dribbling down my face like echidna enchiladas and his hair hangs seeming to the thonged throngs who drink from the callous chalice in raucous exaltation from chilled craniums in celluloid sexuality and mothlit metaphor that just pharmaceuticals hold the gavel of the hanging

i look at her and can’t believe she’s not saying i’m not one of those fake anthromonogists who goes in with nothing on but the maille of credentials but an anthropolygist, a many going in with an appearance of insiders

a strong man she says a poutine of the boot a pinxing of the sickle a rump of the dump a bray of the tsoris a tussleini of white linguini is what we need to leap before the look yet what jumps before the brain is not this but those who overdose from microdosing the rains of the litter the runts of bitters, not the nalia of margarinia or the utter of gutters but the non compost mantis of the coca, the rounddown of the sated glyph

it is hard. it is hard like justice without its just. and cold. the gods of nothing giggle on their stylites, these fakirs of Eternal Merdia on the beach of their vertigo. we die like ytterbium, babies of knowledge, teratogens of the earth       

he is like she says was she says like a pataphor in a cafeteria playing chess with confessing dragonflies on a medieval beach. he lives as the dead do, enlarging. neither an outdividual nor an unter an uber and hardly an in he clung (or clings or will - oh caps and malendars!) to prypositions like one of those rafts you see in hallucinogenic ridere risus that we irrisorize, push over earth’s jagged aged edge like a polypsych

and i wonder if her encomium is just baked laudanum, a societal sweet we tweet as dessert with neither precursor nor nutrient and we are left unfilled like souls at a table of a great unbanquet where banquo’s burnt toast spreads over our jam like honeybees and who are we to tell a story of any ends?

you’re full of alice and malice she says mallets and millets and those metamorphosizing argots of the very catholic order diphtheria. who would want disorder by their homes? and who would take the unity that isn’t inside like a what’s it like to be a brat? i’m full of questions of the text and my sex rises like elohim on spacecrafts of doomed wonder

and i can’t tell whether she speaks of me or the keyboard talking on my shoulder like a djinn high on history and i think of asking her but what would be the use in these communicative times? i say the rocket achery hurts my axes, pocket vituperators pain my nidi like a flying violence of masses and asses. and who talks? who among the haruspicina would talk before the angel in qiryath chutsoth?

zero more

the choice (after all, after everything’s been somethinged) is engaging in this world as it’s given or living in another – not one after or other than this earth and life, not something now or in the future better – of the (sarcous) imagination. and for that one lives in zero, that one-zero that’s blurred in the fuzzy logic of the transrational

zeroism as class and capitalism subversion … for what is dimensional art other than the need for recognition by capitalism, a class clambering and unconsciousness, for the masters to get their money on it and by moneying it shelving it and by shelving killing? (do not the margins get sucked in by capitalism’s embracive sucking and where then to read if the vacancy is locked away and all that's seen is infinite dark text blinking in a small cell and the emptiness of light has fled?) yet what zeroism requests is a rerecognition … a decognition … a codeignition …

heresiarch sadoo nogueira writes in the unshorn unshown soaring book of dis –

the only noble destiny for a writer who publishes is to be denied a celebrity she deserves. but the truly noble destiny belongs to the writer who doesn’t publish. not who doesn’t write, for then she wouldn’t be a writer. i mean the writer in whose nature it is to write, but whose spiritual temperament prevents her from showing what she writes

amazing lace how sweet the mound

that ruined a slut like me

i’ve always been lost never been found

and am blind from hiv

when i’ve been fucked ten thousand times

dark shining as the void

i’ve still got time to do more grinds

until i’m finally destroyed

the baton of exploration has passed from those terrestrial adventurers who mapped physical earth and gave it to the new masters to dominate in the newold ways … to those who wander in the unmapped lands of interiority (and these lands are slightly larger than the earth) ... but we have learned, we voidturers, what the masters do despite their smiles and assurances and strokings. we do not pass our knowledge on, we do not give our grammars to the cunning linguists nor our ways to the anthromonogists

i don’t side with you. i realize that dooms me. what else am i to do? this notsiding (which is also a long alongsiding) is zero

a zeroist writes text the way kafka wrote amerika – without ever having been there. a zeroist writes specifically about what it knows nothing or little about and in this way enlarges the nothing. a zeroist fattens zero, not for any slaughter or mockery or operation or for some rapacious carnist coroner, not for some scripty role, not even to fatten. a zeroist writes and writing is a fattening with neither weight nor substance

and quoth the raven zeromore

a polylog : a hurrah for anything map, a dial log travel log, a periphrastic wrestling, a travelaid, a patacadastral survey of complaisance, complicity, paranoia and desire

a polylog :

a hurrah for anything map

a dial log travel log

a periphrastic wrestling

a travelaid

a patacadastral survey of complaisance complicity

paranoia and desire

i don’t remember anything that tastes like the tomatoes of my youth she says with a ciabatta halfway up her mouth like a drunken baby marmot in one of those eponymous cartoons and a lonely rocking chair in her psyche waiting for a feeling to finally run its course and long for a little outoftheway place to end its days but what i do – and she says this less to no one in particular than a klatsch of impressions punting on an abandoned canal of pleasure who (were one to be given the right to access to ask them) might say their interest in progress was lesser than the greater of the afflicted aspects of gravity – is an adumbration of a seedling of oneiric exhaustion like a tessellated diamond print that looks from a distance like a secret passageway to an outhouse replete with invisible doors leading to unmappable universes

nightshadecide i’m undetermined is a clear issue i respond with kalamata pits in my nostrils like a minimalist shaman from a warped and culinary internet you must in your murky galleries of fuzzy images recall us together touching an apple with our body parts under the crepuscular tree and it was not as if we were in love for love then was not anything one could be in for it only could be in and nothing then to enter

unmappabler unmappablest she says as if none of what i say registers anywhere, as if talking were not anything commensurable but a forensic rappel from an undeterminable edge and the sun when it is just an orange ball in the ragged boreal beach becomes plasmatic on calm meadows of distortion and the ciabatta sways suggestively and i cannot help but think of the time we were bitten on a fated limpopo by vitrescible gazes as we said the nadanoster to a glazier’s luminescent lechery

king kalamata caresses me she says he caresses like an imperial shag. all i would like to do is have utility companies make mistakes on my bills and have to eternally call them for recurrent restitution. i would get rich and all i’d have to do is call and king kalamata would do his ypapantis on me and my tomatoes would reunite like siblings on a weepy screen after long pyrocumuli of massacres and king kalamata would take me to maria polydamouri and we would echo chirp the chaos faint on beds of consumptive threesomes

i am touched by something reminiscent of ramen scent in a mendicant’s amen like a whiff of iffy whiff waff wharves and with shirataki in my hair and sansai in my yonsei say we have come to watch the living like a banquet of prophets and poets and diets of corsets and worms and butbitholes and corsages and who would join us in genius to genesis an isis’ myiasis and where is my william when will i am is gone?

she slouches. she slouches like a a jilted macaroni penguin. eurydice eudyptes euripides in conjugation sits in a eucalyptus in state or eupnea and i look through the unfathomable distances like tetradecapoda tetrazzini. please come back to our ommatidium and let us be rhabdomites together as we used to on hypnopompic escarpments

i am alone she says and my perception increases in indirect proportion to identity. my words are my earwax and the stage of myself is an intolerable song but it’s all there is and lunacy in a eupnea tree is just another form of wrestling

and we sit or something there or here the two or

so of us or them food all around and in or

of us and countertalk or transistorize a hurrah for polyperimapinguano surveywrestling anythings