has everyone forgotten curly marks?

the world as heresiarch doktyr villafoid q q bryngurged texts is a false cleanerfish

the eye of the forest fattens the settlements therefore one takes as a quotient the few with open digits

my mons is a tarantula

what on uranus do you mean by that

im rarely on uranus

theres something to be said about something and theres nothing to be said about nothing but theres everything to be said about everything

we are the men who are not the men who are the men who are not

what do we call ourselves then

we are nomen

for the moment

people under 70 and over 7 are very unreliable if they arent cats

so im sitting in a tub of epsom salts when my mons crawls out and bites a passing bear

irritating for all

the bear was into it

sometimes it takes me 12 hours to begin to think im thinking

yet youre still not   thats the funny thing

this is a play

this is a play we put on at theatre of the abturd for our dadas

not our mamas?

our mamas are hens of the woods and they count like fireflies

the list of characters is long and one and none and the copyright belongs to a halflitre plastic bottle of solución oftálmica and the directors a prick and the writer hasn’t been conceived

ive heard that one before

its a play on the one youve heard before

on?

of

one?

lost

play?

play

sometimes when im wandering in the city of the forest i hear the chainsaw bird and it frightens me and i run back to my cabin in the woods like a prepubescent boy crying for his mother

and you find the mons has also returned and is waiting for you above the door still hungry

youve heard that one before too

ive heard immunity

today i sat in a tub and put my feet in another tub and put my fingernail in my toenails and got out some juicy lint and scratched my gonads and the entire experience was something that was so exhilarating it should be taught in schools

far more practical than whats presently taught

the problem is one of prudery

perjurys never a problem   the law itself lies and a lie within a lie places us in a mathematics that removes the problem by becoming it

i said priggery

the argument still stands

if arguments fell they wouldnt be arguments

what would they be

facts

but other than math there are no facts

but math is an argument

back to cleanerfish

id like to clean miss gists dish

thats another play

did you hear the one about the ant the chives and the drugdealer drinking in a bar when a jooqbox walks in

i hope not

whats too plus doo

it comes before therefore and after pinafore

at precisely 108 degrees

were good

as best as budapest

i went to the phratry the other day

to gawk or mock

we dont go anywhere really

thats why its a play

we dont make any sense

thats why were false cleanerfish

its coming together now

that mean we can close?

we never close

that mean we can wrap things up

we never wrap things up

this is going to be difficult

any more than any other time?

lets just stop

how though

why dont you say miss gists dish 4983 times and then well stop

miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss gists dish miss dists gish giss dists mish miss mists mish giss gistss gish diss dists dish iss ists ish ish dist ish ish ist ist shish iss ish sissish ish ishishiss issishish ishissishishiss gishishissishiss dishishishish i

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                                                                                                                             h

2020h 20.2x2 2020

her name is fine. not fine, but myryl våårkt-ng or sometimes myryl värccit. she’s an ōvid gapitalist and wears her dofo like a dumpstream

myryl’s maillon market’s gone uptits in the downstocks and myryl’s glum as xmas cake

though dedefeated in that way of mathematics. she sucks palladium and zooms sometimes durga, molly alway, through glunted flows

stringing wehrmachteinheitskanisters together like lights in holiday myryl’s lots to do and recites père ubu in ahkwesáhsne and bunners stale my åhörare

buys the dofos on straße des beefcake at abibati’s. tried queue on spotti once but frays were that undoing. models dofos for doktor üffÿn and doktor üffÿn’s bore afflicted

who hasn’t seen turdus major rise above the fire tyrants on a gluegun gorki ngó lockdown as a ready maid hoovers rinnotama juniper oxycedrus up her prickly

dofo juducanus abasactha says injudicate in situ. molto poco multe. nadie sabe lo que espera en este mundo. ex mons in pubicus. došo

still. those carabiners climb. and myryl's not one to not. the dreams are pretty touching. she covers me with acrylics and cotton balls and we do the main on drag street

the name's not fine but värccit vååkt-ng or something. she wears it cool like chemicals. her dofo's lit she speaks the shit, my bunner's stale like ubu

a decorticated corium holted down the scarp in its clastic kirtle to a curt cenation

i’d like to write sentences like today’s title. you’ll say i do. i did. but that’s not what i mean. i’d like to write or use them not as fact – here’s a sentence – but as a communicative device among tribes who’d understand me, with whom such a description could be spoken and my colleagues in language wouldn’t look at me as if i were insane or drunk but would respond in similar modes … and this continue until such time the conversation, like any, concluded through interruption, external necessity, or natural demise. instead these utterances crash into my solipsistic castle, which is vast but cold, then slink into the locked nothingnesses of its dungeons as quickly as they came

in the same spirit i’d like to begin a novel –

her name is fine. not fine, but myryl våårkt-ng or sometimes myryl värccit. she’s a covid gapitalist and wears her dofo like a dumpstream

if i could sustain this writing such an opening would rival literature’s great starts. but i can’t. strings of words – though some would say the diction here’s too generous – coalesce in my mind from the endless phoneme rubbish floating in my fluvial polluted cranium. all i do – all i can do – is fish out whatever coalescences are within reach – lurching for those that attract me, missing some or many – recording them for my nonexistent audience of the voided mad in the forgotten annals of sadoo. they sit alone on the park benches of narrative, going nowhere, staring blankly into the laughing continuity of passing conversation. of course even if i could go on and finish such a novel it would make no sense, at least in the usual sense of sense. but that sense’s sense isn’t mine and why i suppose i’ve turned out to be a hangnail of destiny

while i realize such utterances can easily be dismissed as nonsense or technical pedantry, they actually make as or more sense to me than the overwhelming majority of sentences spoken and written in society. and they're certainly far more beautiful, at least to a mind incapable of being habituated to expected discourse 

theorizing of my instinctual orientations leads me to conclude that a core function of literature is to not say anything while pretending to say something. most of what’s called literature achieves this by maximizing the gap between the pretense and the nothing, a maximization commonly called abstraction. i’ve no objections to this approach – and have often greatly benefitted from it – except that by now we’ve had a sufficient sampling of this style, however manifoldly expressed, dominant and expected in art's conservative circles as all defined forms come to be, waiting for an aesthetic embryo to survive the barbarous assaults of convention, take shape, kick the old forms out of the way, and become that weary obese master that in its turn has to be attacked and murdered

while i have no hope of my embryo surviving much beyond the foetal stage, i immerse myself wholly in the opposite extreme – a grossly underexplored sector of literature and thus a hypothetical future : to minimize the gap so that the pretense is the nothing and the gap, ideally (even if this ideal might be impossible to achieve in practice), falls into itself and disappears. the samples of language i’ve given above and liberally share in sadoo and life indicate - however murkily, inchoately, falsely - what i'm vainly striving for

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pseudo recurrent covid simulation syndrome

prcss

can be pronounced process

(for those preferring vowels in their words)

definition : the disease inflicted on any creator for an hour or more (sometimes a day or longer) after it has to go into the infected universe to shop

example : fever, coughing, exhaustion, difficulty breathing … all these occur and heavily oppress without there being any evidence of them

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for the plasmatic, those inexorably of plasmatic consciousness – we, pyroclastic residue of the dead gods – all we can do in this overpriced buffoonery called life is attempt (though futilely) to keep up with the meteorological changes (however violent, however calm or nuanced) that blip and strike through our souls and whose energy and presence largely obliterate society, its processes and structures that define for almost all reality

i’m a failed meteorologist. a meteorologist as all i’m interested in are my internal weather systems. but a failed one both because it’s an unrecognized and thus wholly unpaid profession, with no accreditations, degrees, offices and collegial battles … lacking models, charts, predictive frameworks for what i study. weather happens and i write it down, but only fragments of scattered, small and random ecosystems of the circumferenceless madness that’s always swirling

not only this gross reduction, but a second one, as egregious and insane – for i translate the weather of my soul into words. and words were never designed to carry the weight of such translation. words and souls live in mutually exclusive universes. the former are products of the commons – designed to, however falteringly and flawed, transmit messages among those committed to quotidian human concerns, regardless of whether these concerns are emotional, pecuniary, political, sexual, transactional, intellectual, sensual, philosophical, religious. but we are what we are as josephus might have written and i run after my weather as an ant might after an elephant if it were carnivorous and could only eat elephants … which doesn’t make sense, but then neither do i

yet even to call myself a failed meteorologist is too elevated. in reality i’m a prisoner, chained to the winds, hail, lightning, fog, and relative humidity of my weather systems. if that chain sometimes feels long, as when i’m being pulled along through the patasphere by heavy gales, or sometimes short, as when impenetrable immobile fog pins me down … neither makes me less or more a prisoner. i'm chained to the stormy nothings of myself until death comes along with its efficient shears and snips a link

i don’t work, everything around me works. all i do is remove myself from work so as not to work and this removing some could say might be some sort of work. for example right now i watch tiny occasional bubbles in my cider pop on the surface. the cider works around me and i watch its working. i write the work of the cider and some would say this writing – which i call removing – might be some sort of work. but – no – i’ve never worked. i’m incapable of it

wizards of åł₫øṙ

in times when magic and philosophy, religion and science, politics and poetry aren’t riven by fear's sundering forces some wizards practice in the hills of åł₫øṙ and they are limpid

 this limpidity isn’t of the sort that clarifies however, not meaning it’s misnamed but only that its naming’s of the kind directing through its misdirects

 the hills themselves resemble those bedsheets of a child who devotes in bed to hours of play on waking till an authority shoots time into the now forever sullied room

 the wizards have avoided getting certified in any of the schools even to the point of not caring of their reputations among their peers. how then can they be considered wizards?

 interacting with one another in their way we surmise, though evidence is gleaned not from much statistic and more from that intuition that begets an unthanked world

 occasionally though very one wanders incidentally into the sundered lands and on the side and guileless creates mistakes too visibly and sometimes one will die

 once every arc of arcs they gather and recite though not that pleasantly for few the principles of unknown misdirections and in this there’s little turning

 åł₫øṙ itself (though this form of speaking’s foreign) relieves itself of having to appear on many maps and those it does are mostly, even more, lost or burnt or stolen

 practicing in times but not in sunders facilitates a mode or modes that we might say if we could say are unspoken, scarcely manifest, yet something’s there and we know it

6 cognitive feelings

sigil isn’t simply a sign but a system of signage, systems of signages. not any system from any central planning agency, scholarly analysis, of will, design … but one having arisen from, returning to, and being of the nature and function of collapse. and so a nonsystem – relation networks lacking any discernible nodes or paths, any capacity to map their maps

when sigils gather from the nonprinciples of their own randomness, from the generations of blind heaving mud, it neither is some metasystem – a galaxy rather than a planet, a universe not a galaxy. instead, it piles nonsystem on nonsystem, asystem on asystem. but not even piles. each asystem (yet we can’t even use system in our description – it’s an ystem, a metsy, a tysem, a myste) exists in and apart from the others, without recognition or parallelism but having generated within the same disorganization of madness 

signage to what then? to a physic of itself certainly, a physic incomputable from or within those ones of planes, falling apples, fluvial sublimations, bananas going bad. sigil then is less any appeal to forces or energies, any call for curse or blessing, any desire or volition for psychic modification or tweaking in the external or internal worlds of accessible description … but a fuliginous invoking of a chemistry of oneiric futility

sigil arises from impossibility, cognitive decreation, volitional frustration and indicates, however abstrusely, their constitutions and constituents – not anything of hydrogen, xenon, palladium but elements for which we have no names, science, institution. so the human vectors of sigil live through the scrubbed and staggering smiles of the ponderous reality of your physic in gross disarray and if anything is redeemed for them – but the diction here is inaccessibly clastic – it’s those brief occasional unpredictable interruptions of time when sigil functions in its way as an alien technology facilitating access through the skyscraping concrete of your universal reality onto, however dimly, the mind of another (what else could we call it?) light

sigil accumulates but unquantifiable ether adding no weight to any scale. it guides but not to any end, start, name. it marks but leaves no trace or memory. it seals but everything is open. it images but grants neither value nor dimensionality, idea nor likeness

sigil is prayer. a visible concatenation of a mathematics of negative encomia for hesolate and dapless souls, a geometry of meditative illustrative exercises designed to dedesign signs, post dimulations on bebroken media ... not these to any god or gods or like a boomerang to selves or self, neither destined nor oriented nor aimed, but gas and words in ripe wildernesses of nonutterings

scrubbed & staggering smiles

corona in making government even more important for the prosaics of living necessitates the creator making it even less important. how does it do this? the way it does everything – by repurposing … in this case government to the point of joyous unrecognizability, a disintegrating cartoon, of de-functioning it … by – rather than government placing the creator in its systems, the creator re-placing government in the creator’s liquid and bubbling worlds

… through the art of transporting facticity to imagination …

cat whomyn sadoo
sigil54

melting government down to its elemental parts, its raw plasmatic chemistry rather than its ponderous and monumental historicity, its statues and statutes, refashioning (using the creator’s visionary forges and witty subversions) the hot elemental materials into gaseous artifacts of melancholic laughter

the creator also applies these techniques to news, fame, money, mores and morality, death. only language and love partially escape

nuflwuflufl ffl
sigil 66

the creator’s fires, for they themselves are fires that refashion creators. everything else is cooled melt, frozen humans on metal horses, tangled wires of media

and scrimmage. you say – but death … death cannot be this. no you’re wrong. death too is just news – its only useful parts those already residing in love and language

mary had a little lamb

its grease was white as snow

and everywhere that ahab went

that mary was sure to go

through the stops

they haven’t been to the places

the places

come close but always been something

there’s nothing in the way

it’s the nothing that keeps them away

screamings and the nothing

nothings and the screaming

i once had a dream

and now the dream has you

the having then the being had is in the places

and not

absence

itth goze inth inth

that joke

i’m in kind of a good mood now

i was but it stopped

the signage of moods

if you go through a stop sign do you crash

can’t go through those ones

stop really means stop

but on the roads

in three dimensions

away from moods

but not away

stop means stop but doesn’t mean stop

moods mean more meanly than roads

moods are roads

more than roads are moods

moods are rude but so are roads

but differently

i’d like to be an amphitheatre

onanism i’ve heard is

i’ve heard onanism

if you’re on an ism are you also on an ology

onanology’s not a thing

not on ism

onanists are on a jism

more that jism’s on an onanist

are onanists anonymous

we’re off the road

and through the stops

and in the places

we’re allogists

we get the gists

and miss them

we miss the missings

i miss miss gist

miss gist   she had the places

but she hadn’t been

she was the places

to was or not to been

that’s the indigestion

i’d like a hamelette without the ham

or the question

or the let

not much left

but the places

and the missings

the indigestions

summer

the stoppings

and the places