detour to mysticism

as technology and disease return us into mysticism

as dimensionalities with dimmers detox detiming time

follow with our waddies waving in the air like sloshed sodalities

probing in the earth the way ventilated proboscides do

stepped democratically to eldritch regodings

oh backless werrobe and yet all it is is whir and back

our ground is air and air our eye and eye our error

screens of smoke or words or flesh  do they matter?

we are the zeroes of our dreams aggregated to absent commons

embrace us holy meat in thine garbs of frequencies

manifested far and near as though not themselves or either

middles in the spheres and middles not in middles and middles on the thrones

ends seeming nows joining hands like codeless classless java

geneses like pornflakes uberflowing bowls of smiles

together in some copulated grammatologies  is it before or after

our defacings rise sarcophagically from tumuli of uncabled comedies

these waning spaces wax but never light

come love laughing here this decreating night

just the words and crosses

ive perfected the art of fucking myself up healthily

the fiery sword which guards the path to the tree of life is called the pun   syzygy of words

what makes children laugh often frightens adults

to drive meaning so exuberantly past and over and under and into itself its desires of excess become apparent and explode in suffuse lean nonsense that gilds reasons fat

the grimaces on the face of a century

ne sutor ultra crepidam

ne psuchor ultra uterum

notknowing isnt a form of ignorance but a difficult transcendence of knowledge

the penguins took permission from the everlasting ice cream parlor and put their souls into the full corridors of disease

the image has no need of scholarship

to write scifi but a scifi of language directly so that alien ways and brains are not written from the outside but within  so that scifi becomes of language itself  language lands  and has come in terrible friendliness to visit  and humanity further recedes

as eap was the first to attempt to make its living solely through writing

to now attempt to make ones writing solely through living

that is in contradistinction to our cancerous currency  to work hard at not making any living through writing

to depoe through a dedoo …

when were at an age to imagine we cant say how or why we imagine

when we can say how we imagine we cease to imagine

we should therefore dematurize ourselves

the talisman is quixotic  to stay immersed so wholly in the burning fictions of book that ones first tongue becomes book and one speaks from and in it  literature then is not something one does in life  that one makes time for in life  that one retreats from life to do  rather literature is entirely different  it films over life  lays membranes and hides across the grimacing face  becomes what one naturally speaks   a new animism   and the quotidian communication that comprises most if not all of speaking and thinking for you is an effort a task an activity for us  as you pick up a book as a break   these some meanings of the death of the writer

literatures power is what it is because it proposes the destitution of all power

isnt it very strange to call something mad as it lets go of power

society permits madness voice to the extent it drowns out the possibility that madnesss form might be taken for quite another purpose

i write crosswords but without the squares and clues and boxes

just the words and crosses

défoulement           refoulement            fou

unleashing               repressing                mad

modern philosophy desires to know its own unknowing and attempts to do this by becoming more literary  while literature is the last thing psychoanalysis wants

i is what happens when analysis is defaced

civilization stylishly blowing itself to pieces and destruction is my beatrice

sublimation in poetry towers above the psychology of the mundanely unhappy soul

ironic consciousness is anguished consciousness and lucid in its anguish

whats madness other than an acceptance of pervasive doubt of any ability to control language

madness exists to demystify through its own mystifications the formidable mystification of our civilization

like the shining bat and the fanning of gravity all of a sudden by an autochthonous tip of a wing i wait for the adamantine angry swirling genius colliding the ruin and freeing itself in acrobatics so is it so am i   alone

how does nonsense produce sense and quite capably at times far more sense than sense

these reenterings of forests by language

as we reenter mysticism by technologys disappearings?

one may be too smart or good for the world but one is never too good or smart for worlds   yet another reason to dedefinitize world

the dreamwork doesnt think calculate judge  it restricts itself to giving things new forms

madness is a hyperbole of i produced through languages intoxication

to translate the ostensibly rational into the ostensibly irrational by flipping quotidian societal discourse over and transcribing what lies here squirming steaming  like upturning the soil of flowers and taking pictures of the bugs and shit and worms that are as much of the flowers as flowers

no common axis among the modes of consciousness   languages melancholy

literature constitutes the unconscious of psychoanalysis

i build a house of language made of purposeless shards

we must all make do with the rags of love we find flapping on the scarecrow of humanity

real writers dont describe things as they are   they write them as they themselves sense them to be   and if they sense them to be as they are ... they arent ...

scholarship   the art of turning plasmas liquids gases into solids

is our emotion much beyond an expression of a poetry that was lost?

wishing to immerse myself so wholly in aestheticized communication that its grammars are the ones i naturally speak and quotidian discourse i remain competent in  for use  function  the required tongue of force   so i speak idiocy nonsense absurdity more readily than the chattering reason required to card sanity in society  i dont speak about fungi but allow fungi to speak directly through human lineaments   still an about but an about thats so out of about its no longer about about

creating products society doesnt want as an integral blood of ones aesthetic  disutility as production and governance  in semiferal workshops of tweaked joy and freedom  in shadowed nidorous glittered decompositions of god

pornography is a satire on human pretension

words are round

some niners of doktor alfred

words are completely spherical she says tottering in her lararium as though clouds were renal carcinoma and hökarpanna some rapture of affliction

i am sitting here he says most like trees or death germanely though both have been repealed by machinisme and some digits of his meat march outward like porcine tharm in anguished shambolisms

one rolls now look she says but the getting tangled with prohibitorum in your connexins making lutembi look perturbed and turbid   the minute grims

i am the donut in the jelly he says to avoid a simple pun i am a loop of henle in your latte and esurience

to the azores we went she says like crocodiles in a necrophilic hermitage confabulating dragooning your alembic up my skirts like a qtyx (sic) and i cum like a nordhessische bratwurst wurster meister

i am an angled angling anglo angler im fawsley kuhn he says that tintinnabulator who in loco loco qui iam vas confregit in enlisted demarcations

see flocks fly now and then and whens a library like an able when it disempowers and she cackles like a galidictis fasciata rowing through some offal to a g hole in a sexed suped el camino

i am doktor physics wtf he says and the fs for affix but dont let those dimensions eat your esoternity  geometrys just another word for zed or zee and your alphas not your actor abel apples

were diagnosing   we are gouch and cown pillpit techlearn dadadose to whomanize euclids elemental ooqlets that yabut is our azimuth and occultatings

i am εγώ εἰμί הוה היה הוה היה jorges borges im an ousted jilted rancid id of id doktor wordroll en savourer la surfemelle and i vant våffla

the zincs kinking in and my knickers need a wicking will will will it for us so help me junk and fraud

i am not in the rollings and the sphereings  i laxatate like bolelia gracebirdle in the enemata of her husbands  i am not with me or even with he says i am clock queen clinamina

their circumference she says unknows limits to swerves of resurrectine guedoufly extract of those like zosimos uberubuneins of cupellation

i am no pythagorean he says no hairy clitorides i stomp stumpings and deposit seamen in botomated mountebanks for accounts so erectile .mobi flees gigalomanias semantics

their centers my body and she jootsies calculatingly my bodys their decenterings  it mivides and dultiplies like a hobo superscalar alu and she says this like a vacuum flange

but he is juxtaposing woesomely and as he enters a defibberlator says i would like to be an outverse of a dumped steradian and then id be a hexy nybble

yet she says they soar and mine in minds and sores and isnt it their shape or whating that cracks them to inebriating freedoms

i would like tonight or not to not iambic in my algae bra i mean my jammies no my atomic number 82 you see she said i am spherical completely too

merci sūrūbū
et gaston

p o l y p t r y c h

this squashed and muted image intimates a p o l y p t r y c h installation

each panel should be at least 4x6 metres

the size of each panel can vary

the physical relations between the panels is flexible

relations would shift based on algorithms responding to surrounding input

the installation is religious in origin movement and intent

the four panels are presented individually below

each morpheme glyph and image is a biography genealogy thanatography scatobalneography and hagiography endlessly caught in ambivalent gyres of occulations and disocculations

this vilipended p o l y p t r y c h appends to the much larger up- and unending laurie spiegel installation (280213) and belongs to the vaster movement pataphysical lives dismatter

p o l y p t r y c h is an advent calendar under which each entry is an unchocolate for the door has no dimensions and its place for prizes just the entries   p o l y p t r y c h s an advent calendar that disadvents  deplacing time with vents and caloohar

gallery visitors should in their movements be irrelevantly and irreverently incorporated into the installation in a manner unrecognizably like la mariée mise à nu par ses célibataires même

p o l y p t r y c h s a calculus for gesturing death

relations between panels are undefined by any physicality among them and instead by imperceptions deriving from logarithmic functions of sensate intensity   shifting their weight and morphologies on propertyless planes

venue and access exist apart from promotional and pecuniary objectives and realities and those who enter and are incorporated do so lacking intent or consciousness

mörgæsirnar tóku sér leyfi frá eilífum ísbúðum og settu sálir sínar upp í fylltum göngum sjúkdómsins

On Mon, Jun 29, 2020 at 9:56 PM Alala Action <alala.action@resourcerecovery.org.el> wrote:

Dear Resident

Thank you for requesting a Problem Waste collection. Your request is now in our system.

You will receive a confirmation approved reminder email 24hrs prior to your booked collection.



Please note the following details:


Booking Request Number : 12345

Requested Collection Date : 07/07/20

Collection Address : 44 Ropim Space, SPELTLANDS



If you have any questions relating to your collection please contact your participating Council.

From: martine <martine@gmail.com>
Sent: Wednesday, 1 July 2020 10:44 AM
To: Alala Action <alala.action@resourcerecovery.org.el>
Subject: Re: Thank you for booking a Problem Waste Collection

Why, this is completely mad! We have no problem waste on Ropim. And there is no such thing as this ... SPELTLANDS.

Dr M de Floss

On Wed, Jul 1, 2020 at 7:30 PM Alala Action <alala.action@resourcerecovery.org.el> wrote:

Good Morning

Thank you for your email,

Someone at your address has booked a problem waste collection for some paint tins for next Wednesday, if this is incorrect and the collection is no longer required let me know and I can cancelled the collection.

Kind regards

Alala Action

T: 0123456789E: alala.action@resourcerecovery.org.el  W: resourcerecovery.org.el

From: martine <martine@gmail.com>

Sent: Thursday, 2 July 2020 10:45 AM
To: Alala Action <alala.action@resourcerecovery.org.el>

Subject: Re: Thank you for booking a Problem Waste Collection

Well I'll be guthered! Thanks for your kindest reply. This notice is shocking as we don't need to paint around in these parts and if we do we hire humans to do it and they take their dirty tins away with them and god knows where they put them. So no need for any of your newfangled collections on the 5teenth or any other day god bless you and may we all walk the big walk and talk the little talk.

Dr M de Floss

Alala Action	Thur, Jul 1, 7:03 PM
to me Good morning

Thank you for your email, I have cancelled your collection as requested.

Kind regards

Alala Action
T: 0123456789E: alala.action@resourcerecovery.org.el  W: resourcerecovery.org.el

they arose

some other days in whats sometimes called the past thousands of googly eyes of many styles and colours and sizes that had been lying innocuously in little plastic bags and containers around my cabin rose

i had procured them from a number of distinct establishments intending to use them for all sorts of typical things but had been distracted by an unexpected défoulement as one doesnt want to become known as a mass purchaser of this kind of artifact

noted among the sage across times inviolate viscera has been confusings of the senses such that touch speaks smell sees vision feels taste hears and who could tabulate these data into neat distinctions like a hübsches paket

having painted the ironies and set them to dry on a circle i was interrupted around midcoffee during a subsequent mandate by tired affectations arrogating from a shall we say mea afaina which assumed privileges of a literate hysteria though this was not the défouling aforespoken

the fou as phauj mim txiv dev used to murmur over me i in shredded jammies laid unrapt by existences neither prepositional nor reductive but intersected so shaggily by arrivals any goings seemed just more comings parried stanzas burn

origins such as they arent are errings rightly wronged though ive been mistaken more than sums of all the judges of the world so would you trust me and those jammêd shreddies might be nothing more than a pembasahan after too much orange juice during sunset

anyway it mayve been a re or post or afoulement who knows the point the point and all a circle is is points is nuk ka asnjë pike though i dont believe that though i do and that thing often called whatever maybe phlox or pansy sighted rises too

thats been my day by that i mean my night by this i mean your yore lanet olası ördek ne and this unchaining like a crazy elbow on sheols shoals shall we join the googly thing my naughty rotter love or shall we join

never neither innocent nor silent eyes in recrudescent dawns rise unsaying kind kannst du nicht sehen dass ich sehe which in translation means something like we are risen or weve been riven yes bawdly rizen and we of many styles in our little plastic bags

who would be placed at inexact holes

 where knowledge intersects with madness

and there no safety rails

and this a humanness

a decommons

mysticism was the first wireless communication

you know sign language?

i know hyper sign language

whats that?

literature

god the final word signing that all words further on will fail

the exhaustion of the speakable as consciousness collapses

communication  a global enterprise in failure

let us reason = let us communicate?

not a single one of the brilliant arguments of madness  that madness that gets locked up  do i neglect   this forest logic  fizzing into memory  so superior to reasons  i make into my body

the creature  in its committed exile from itself  rummaging through its growing store of dirty shards  hot to talk  pinned by gonads to a deconstructed cross  so immeasurably estranged from communication it prostrates itself before prostration  in manufactured twilights and anthems of glittering sewage it talks and rummages and in these nightmares where it briefly espies slices of its visage it does not scream or laugh  those wordless portals  but talks and rummages and talks

i say to communication  communication have you put your finger on the punctum of yourself and have you found it to your liking and have you stroked it?

and communication says to i  human the punctum of myself is you and so i say to you have you felt my finger and has it stroked and have you found it to your liking?

i watch communication ride its paddle plane across the ragged shores of the forest tops  a balmy sky singing guttered like a movie star and the moon which is made of cashews spitting at the catastrophically withered sun  and communication paddles along and around and i sit in the desert of the middle wondering if i should shoot it like i have the gods

the last madness that will remain with me will be that of believing myself to be mad

i do not isolate myself from the world but enter a place of communication that furrows a congealing world

communication sits in the bars of the cities

waits in line for perfunctory beer at hippodromes of loss

presents itself in boardrooms of doughnuts

squawks obscenities in thronerooms of love

retires vacant in the scraps of the day

i went to visit communication in a supermax and it was there in its striped pajamas  polynarratived and fed in its way  and it snuck me through a bribe of a guard a guarded warning that the story of its incarcerating are not the stories of its enclosings

media is our mentor priest parliament judge and executioner in communication and as we ignore its instructions we slip on orthodoxys ice and the paramedics arrive on mechanical palfreys and take us to guilds of mystagogues and ochlagogues and there we sign retractions

in reeking folds of desperate genitalia communication dreams its incoherence

one who already knows cant go beyond a known horizon  to communicate one gives up knowing and in the giving language must dream

the rise of communication as a subject and object is directly proportional to its disappearance

do you have things?

yes but i have things without thinging

i dont understand

try underthinging

faith in communication is as hapless an act as faith in god   but next to faith in humanity it seems a reasonable endeavour

communication  having fled the commons  pitches its cardboard box in interioritys ravines and there establishes a thresholding microstate of conductive grammars

where do you find ecstasy? in the hyperprosthetics of talk? death images of desire? fairs of maw? the hole of communication? the pared mirror?

i peel the communication fruit with the knife of memory and under its crusty skin lurid flesh seethes  raw and hieratic

various forms of expenditure define of themselves a law of communication regulating the play of the isolation and dissolution of beings

who sidesteps these squanderings by toadstooling through the doolips?

experience leads to no safety or knowledge but to a place of bewilderment  of the breakdown of communication and the empty gazings of word

exile is communication at home

the russian electorate visits me for breakfast this morning

its quite a delicacy the russian electorate says an advanced legacy

more beans i say

we have here the russian electorate says the beginnings the russian electorate says of something our babooshkas used to call капуста

the mosquitoes are quite populous this year i say its as if theyre an axiom of a proposition of a corollary of a definition missing from the dictionary

my wifes constitution the russian electorate says is inversely proportional to my husbands canon

i find i say litotes are a fine side to spinach and garlic  in fact my squatters never tire of reminding me that the government and academics speak about spinach all the time but so few want to speak with the spinach  it becomes clear that our job is just to vote and then watch the garlic speak about us as we get spinacher

back in the day when we were just a peer glynt in бабаs gonads say the russian electorate progress sat on my lap like a violator and dove into the pants and there the peasantry and here we are

oh people of the shacks someone lectured in my dreams last night i say rise to your destined depths and let spinach and garlic no more have dominion over you

and we all briefly hummed a sentimental hum

a fine fine завтрак the russian electorate says but we must be going  our салазкиs waiting for us and who would keep the собаки in the cold as великий дядя владимир говорил мне в то время как пьяный и развратный

most excellent i say and what a time weve had this morning over beans and breakfast and beans

and i stand melancholically in my doorframe while mighty armies of mosquitoes reduce my poundage and trickles of blood flow across my meat and i wave unrequitedly at the russian electorate as they merrily head north  sacred beloved glorious free  and i dream now daily of the time the russian electorate will breakfast with me once again

the russian electorate

but what is the russian electorate

the russian electorate does not exist

or rather it exists

but only as a sector of imagination

and a degenerate sector at that

not the good kind of degeneracy but the bad

not the good kind of bad but the other

not the other other but the other other other

anyway

we could spend a lot of time here

the point is

if theres a point

and let me be clear this isnt racist

any electorate id be saying the same things about

so why you then ask do i pick on the russian electorate

the point is that

if the russian electorates a function of imagination

and not a particularly interesting one

but weve already been there

sort of

i can manufacture other functions and sectors

more appealing to me

or

similarly or differently

im unsure

turn the russian electorate into something

i want in my imagination

something comfortable and homey

like a surprise visitor one might want to have for breakfast

as kafka does amerika so i do the russian electorate

this is the way the news should be presented

after all we think we understand the categories  the concepts

someone says or writes the russian electorate

and we all nod as if we know whats being talked about

but none of us know anything about the russian electorate

not even the russian electorate

especially the russian electorate

its as impenetrable to us as facebook to a twelfth century monk

the same as when humans say science or love or truth or communication or australia or genocide or steak or society

we all nod

even when we disagree we nod

but its all completely impenetrable

and this impenetrability is the material of communication

communication works because everyone silently agrees to codes of impenetrability and its the codes that permit communication which is not actually communication but a euphemism that pretends that something has taken place when nothing in fact has taken place that we call communication and its in this code i place the russian electorate and join it there so we can allow communication to occur and say that communication is happening and believe in communication and that weve communicated and that something has happened

strange case of ilda epo

in forlorn mornings when fogs are in and mosquitoes brew in nearby forests and fogs seem a visible absence of a principle of reason and mosquitoes sing a new music of blood and mornings a promise not of day but a manifestation of a negation of continuity

in little pockets of trilled brassieres we take our dumplings and bearded titty firecapped longtailed tufted ashy darknaped sultanas take us to an absolute obscurity and there on beds of cinnamon bears enact ancient pervasive perversities

in erdag we trust and on a check of memory lost behind theurgic panels of intricate abstruseness forgotten under currencies so dominant even ravening imaginations conceive only monumented maps of signs to gestures of themselves

in tucks of digital atavisms we pass posts of exigent sacrifice through which those of us whove said your lines are lined like tsarist matryoshki through necropoli in alam haba and stripped of names and clothes and i with you and with and with say i am clemmed

in returning to some spaces that remind of some remindings our dumplings cold and crafted by possibly weird traceries of stained delaughtering and joyous knackeries and i place in place in places three traces of cognac and a thrip of rose

in forlorn mornings when fogs are in and mosquitoes brew in nearby forests and fogs seem a visible absence of a principle of reason and mosquitoes sing a new music of blood and mornings a promise not of day but a manifestation of a negation of continuity