confessings

when i was in my thirties i came with such vigour my seed shot so high and long it leapt over my head and splattered the wall behind me   i kept hoping it would make a hole but it didnt which made me feel impotent   not sexually  its always easy to cum   but spiritually   that deeper incapacitation  and because i always fall short of the standards in dreams  the only true measure  i cant help but interpret my life as a failure  a reality ive come to accept as joy

i love confessing   i dont believe in sin or guilt or even confessing really   but not believing is a great impetus   if whonyms spent way more time not believing and confessing the world might be tolerable      as it is they devote most of their useless lives to believing in society though if anything doesnt exist its society which makes whonyms not only misguided but completely pointless   if you dont understand this just wait  it gets a lot worse

its always surprised me that my seed velocity seems so virile as i come from a tribe of overwhelming insipidity   theres nothing anywhere that suggests anything but mediocrity drivel sterility jejuneness   sure what might have been a distant relative appeared recently on the wikipedia death list but big shit  some scholar specializing in the sex life of the ichneumon fly  its not that im talking about   im talking about cosmic spiritual robustness   something cats innately have but whonyms can only grossly and palely simulate

i confess to liking being cheated on more than cheating   practically   theoretically i either prefer cheating or cant decide   but when it comes down to all the action and deception and relational chaos and just goddam busyness that cheating requires id far rather someone else do the work   that way i get more handcrafted gifts of melancholy and whats not to like about that   you think im being sarcastic  not at all  melancholy acedia loss failure   these are the great states of the soul from which all thats worthy to be borns born      that whonyms spend all their energies avoiding melancholys not only a tragedy  its an embarrassment

some decades ago when i was busy setting world records for long distance seedshot i dated for a few years another whonym whose breasts were like the hills of andettan  soft as stars and plush as soteriology   outshining the highest noons and foretelling calamities beyond the greatest astrologers   orbs that would put the most distinguished tumuli to shame   we made love like suave brontosauri on meadows of gluconasturtii      what do i know about death   i speak about it like a pompous charlatan   maybe  maybe  someone  the occasional whonym or more likely another kind of animal  knows something about it for an uncommunicable minute but what do we who speak about it know   we led entwined independent lives and shed visit friends in farflung cities for a few days now and then and id wank furiously to the infidelities i imagined her guiltlessly enjoying   im having far more fun than if i were cheating on her id think as my cum arced through the sky pirouetting like a principal of the bolshoi   and i may even be having more fun than her      i discovered years later she had an affair with at least one of my colleagues and there was growing evidence shed slept with our friends liugi and taavetti whenever she had the opportunity to drop the clothes without me   her weakness was weddings   all her friends and exlovers were getting married and i knew none of them and was never invited anyway   her journal was full of intimations of unzippings unbuttonings in cars hotels barns tents parks trains museums washrooms bars churches discountshoeoutlets garages basements stables treehouses zambonis conferencerooms elevators culdesacs zoos lighthouses abattoirs   she was discreet  nothing was referred to explicitly  but i read the real narrative in the euphemisms with an erection that would make zeus go dysmorphophobic

suicides a passable conversationalist

this place is sad   and the people are crazy  not any more or less crazy than anywhere else but here they say the people are crazy   the buses go on their long pilgrimages at night  empty as money  and get sucked into the blackness of the wind    everyones friendly they say   as friendly as viruses i think      im in love with the fishmonger and imagine humping her in the dirty office over a heap of codguts and the smell of sex and death so one the whonymjoining seems an alienation worthy of eden   in love for a second anyway   long for love i think   money lasts a lot longer   thats because its empty   sos love boofhead   how many of you are there   were all in this together and the thiss your body   this place is sad   ive fulfilled the prayers of sages i think the outer and inner are one   sadness has brought peace to the worlds   my body weeps like buses   to language is to cry and im a bus on the gonad route in the city of nowhere   my lovers sex is a fish and im a hook without quota or mercy   i reek like centuries and crave children of stench   lineages of viscera stretching on racks of gutted time   her vulvas a kipper and its meat vibrates in frequencies of loss   sex is a dumpster of death and i dive into it for discarded boxes of putrid life      spring has come and its snowing like january   i dream of india like an idiot   its 38 in veri nici and i see false holy things crawl by the ghats like exhausted rodents   hallucinating again she says   and i dig into myself to seek whos talking   oh its the fishmonger they say shes mad like the rest of you   and while wed like to be comforted by this and in a sense are its more that nothing has happened but suicides dropped by for a visit again

horses of hot unction

 

clouds have fled babylon

but the muscovite snitches on the saints who roll the relics of the sublime between the teeth of money to not any high

its not that anxietys more interesting than confidence but that it holds within it more interest   its mortgages more costly and its term lengthier

water questions the city but the citys too busy to listen

incomprehensibility as camaraderie   the nearness of lunacy   stoppage as movement   return as progress

the circus of the night tram a show worthy of the highest tonys 

living the dream but the dream isnt any pleasant fantasy but the dream of dreaming   confused exhausting morphing nonlinear disturbing parasemantic disobedient para trans and pataphysical

trucks like cabbages roam the streets like banshees abducted by a greater nightmare

prisons provide society with its sanctity  a continual gift maintaining a false mycelium that fruits structural toxicity

the inquisition morphs like water in the receptacle of history and we drink its many flavours with a nonchalance born of the club of time

covid registers on an exchange of currency unexchangeable on the exchanges of the current currencies

its not the narratives routinely shifting that should be troubling but that theres no nonnarratives embracing the shiftings

the reliance on voidic wit through text disappearing   empty text remains   witless wit   it acts like a muddled sage that doesnt take the judgement      the absence of nature takes language and throttles it

youre trying to avert the loneliness to avoid the dialogue thats fled

in covid the city building itself   no whonyms to inhabit them but the skyscrapers rise anyway  homages to a system that cant stop itself   like a recent corpse that keeps walking   as if memory were a stale leftover of time

cavorting with the priests of the temple of stupidity is an indulgence one must purchase to avoid the wrath of tribal righteousness

the functional gypsy   elemental flexibility and an object of despisings by the commons

sorting out the world   the world cant be sorted out   what now

the waiter at the ramen place says after im done you sure conquered that bowl  a strong verb i say  after that shes awkward

capitalism slaughters dreaming by turning it into an activity

the nine whatinears ride their whysteeds across the bog of dreams and sink blithely in  relieved by the death of questions

teats of ennui

 

money  being the only common whonym language remaining but comprehensively insufficient as it lacks the grammars necessary to escape or simulate escape from society  presents itself to mystics  those aberrations of time we dont talk about and cant  these holders of silence in language  as a dictatorship as unruly as any political despot   the tricks required to speak the common language without believing in it  a sickness mandated by our psychotic society to permit breathing of its members  become in their way so hungry for energy and time what remains in the soul to enable the holdings

ive gone so many rounds on the carousel of stupidity that i begin to think sometimes it goes somewhere

this unspeakable sadness that births from the confrontation of the alienation between         between what‽         between all the betweens most truly but as cryptically and so perhaps as poetically between knowledge and knowledge  flesh and flesh  spirit and spirit  death and death      so wholly resident across the plenitude of distributions

cat stares at me as if im a traitor to vitality and consciousness     and the hypothesis lives far from impossibility

even the good people destroy spirit   this is lifes central comedy though one has to pilgrimage deeply into nonmaps to laugh   corollary jokes are that the bad people often create spirit by necessitating it in opposition to their lack and that the vast tedious bulk of the madding middling crowd  in its warm orand aggressive indifference  creates and destroys  mirroring its schizophrenia in the dolorous factory of vitality

what should be our primary existential orientation has now  quite naturally horribly  as nature cum whonymsociety  become pathologized and the pomposity of experts have named our innate disease prolonged grief disorder   let us take more pills to deal with the toxicity of the professional usurpation of the few remnant things we as singularities might claim as our own   acedia melancholy vision grief

the primary task of the parent is to teach its children that adults are just fuckedup children

if ones given to resent society a texture of the fabric of this resentment  an impetus for meditation retreat nonaction ennui  is the vigorous forcing performed by society on its propridden stage of having to abdicate to lying and thieving to continue to live   not that thieving and lying we would find acceptable orand funny  those routine manifestations and intrinsic properties of language  but that deadly lying of the soul   which one becomes increasingly aware of as one wayfares farther into the geographies of mind  and warps ones orientations to sacrificing self  in any of the myriad ways  to the maw of the beast      and so we die a thousand deaths and the people hardly noticing other than as another weakness to exploit and the capacity to speak restricted to the phonemes of machines for the infinite attempts to speak spirit  once hopeful and joyous  minced into an afflicted gaze and bewildered walkings         its not just that we dont talk about bruno      we dont talk about anything

the rise in human rights correlated precisely to the decline in wildness and so the preservation of the world

the confessions of augustine rousseau etc we turn into confessings  a pataization  whereby everything is confessable and so the confessor disappears through exhaustion   i confess to having toothbrushed my anus

the 1976 porn film alice in wonderland conservative   promiscuity relegated to dream and sex in the end put in its rightful place of malefemale matrimony

i suck on the teats of ennui and count my guessings like an exiled puffin

it has become impossible to pinpoint my death   not in that crass way that outside suicide none of us knows the timing and means of that transit   but rather that there are so many deaths it becomes impossible to choose among them   to assign any kind of hierarchy  that punctum of biodeath that the throng holds as the death and the only one just another team member in the anarchist army of loss  fighting for nothing

in poodays news the duchess of milan attacks the duke of hamburg resulting in fashionable fast food

i dont need help in dying   in that anyway i excel   i need help living   but the hordes typically have everything inverted and skewered   obligating themselves to attempt to help in that one death they take as all rather than helping in the endless deaths which is life   these inversions and skewerings that themselves are our collective continual demisings

the eroticism of polypolarity   its energys too much   give us orgasms and dinner parties instead

when mysticism is withheld in a society from flourishing  when the mores and movements of a society are oriented to quashing mystic impulses and that unity of nothing that births but bypasses destruction  that society itself cannot but express a prostheticized darkness of that which it has withheld   and so the poutines and peelingams (and yea behold ye socalled lovers of freedom or democracy or something unnameable even the bidets and rumps and kalamatas and murkles) take on themselves the concentrated energy of this prostheticization  which in its lack  for what is denying whonymitys one distinct capacity other than a lack  can only manifest as fragmentation and terror

to reimagine time means to not time imagination      it made its money trading covid futures      broke and woke

the grievances and humiliations that accumulate not mitigated by money but made up by it      we apply money to our spiritual faces masking the sags and fears      but if we age without money wheres the mask      our faces hang so offensively they become invisible

my imagination has killed me by filling itself up so repletely ive drowned in it

ive achieved such proficiency in lassitude that i get exhausted just by thinking about having to take a dump   that there arent nobel prizes in this sort of prowess speaks poorly for the species   for surely encouraging the oscitant arts is far more critical to the continued existence of whonymity than anything that could ever be actioned in science politics or literature 

10 weeks of not going out   i feel like fucking everything   no yes no yes no yes yes no no   but sit eccentricly in chairs of outpost and exile blocking the tinkled music   only the ramen place gets it a bit   finding words  however prosaic  in the silly scrimmage of surrounding whonyms   eavesdropping on the hamstergossip and gerbilchat   i long for god like the amazon   the companys dropped the definite article which might seem clever buts just a ruse   great bread and herring kippers and chipotle veese and a plantblessed egg   what else could i want but tits in the face and a throne on the clouds of hell

beleaguerment geometry

i understand now  the mumbling woman with the shopping cart and many coats in the parking lot with her pigeon friends and the wind  maybe  that i glanced at from the tram nonchalantly with no explicit mockery and a whack of assumptions   perhaps i understand  now  the man on the parkbench staring at nothing   watching death pass him by  or life  hard to tell which is which when youre on the bench i now understand though im unsure  even since ive crossed the border and am a person now of coats and benches  i dont think i much understand understanding and the presents like an unopenable gift  sitting there under the dying tree with times other concealments   now i stand or sit or lie it doesnt really matter and watch the people who glance and somewhere in their actiony businesses are infinities of little assumptions   which might be right who knows someofthem  its not that all i do is watch and mumble and put on coats and take them off   its not as if im not actiony   i slice mushrooms too and shit and close the curtains   its not as if im not comprised of a yottagoogolzillion flighty assumptions   even my perhapsing and maybeing and whoknowsing   my doubt which i proudly fly as some freedom is just another ponderosity and if crossing as that hiemal netminder says has made all the difference or indifference whoknows  its a difference or indifference of just this paragraph or also or not all the glancings and watchings and puttingons and takingoffs and notunwrappings and notknowings and understandings as brief as pigeons

the accumulation of selves   little different than the shedding of selves  for each sheddings an accumulating  transmogrifies the self into these accumulations of indistinguishabilities   and so i become a shadow of weights   a wraith of what im not   an apophatic multiplication   a wealth of negations   and how do i manage these assets but through some anarchy of words

after my carefully curated vinyl collection was accidentally thrown out by sloppy Messy Strapaleaze & fiends ive taken  after a vacation in prolonged grief disorder  it up to begin building something vaguely worthy again  two thousand dollars and heaps of frustration confusion anger time into the task  with all the horror religiosity vinyls now packaged in  almost incapacitating me playing the things considering my increased knowledge of what hypocrisies and virtued meanness distort the grooved radicality  i receive the idea from the cryptobank of ideas to take this vinyl project  go nuts on it  order endlessly from discogs  rare first pressings from tehran and atlantis  go bankrupt  build up a huge and excellent collection   then never listen to it   be so consumed by its hip jacketed presence and the horror of procuring its presence and the loss and stupidity and hate that precipitated it that its factive physicality is sufficient and its sonic manifestation  its ostensible purpose  becomes not just redundant but offensive      go further   destroy   destroy it all   burn the records on a night of witches by titty witty   destruction redux   but one that i have built in order to destroy      i      this singular arching architect of death that we somehow impossibly live within   thisthat act of religious futility   a consummation and finality of unspent beauty 

the third tap

if the gov were smart it would introduce a third tap   there was the cold water one   then theres the hot water one   now our needs for another one   the absinthe one   absinthe heals everything   the internet changed everything   then covid changed everything again   the internet and covid are siblings   but neither the internet nor covid heals   absinthe heals   its the cloudy green that seeps into our souls   mirroring and sweeping it of all the hideous debris of time   mckenna was wrong   or he was right but only for his little time   his tiny era   that stretch of a life   it isnt psilocybin thatll change us   that brown web of saprotrophic mulch   its the green faerie of our plumbing   green machine elven pluralities   put them on your tongue and let it sit there like a meditation   absorb dont swallow   it is the silent teacher of the wormwood tribe   if we were civilized instead of just artificial brutes each whonym would be able to float up to its sink and turn on the third faucet and holding a perfect glass beneath see the green magic cloud fill the void and that would be this and one all   a cosmic fulfilling into some gazebo of comprehension   the small vessel and the infinite maw establishing a dial log beyond time and mind   nothing pissed we say   were no fan of common inebriation   of cirrhosis and puke and dt   but a legitimate pilgrimage to the desert of hyssop and clorophyll where mmuommiri hop from petiole to panicle and rainier cherries careen from heaven like joyful paparazzi   i do not know of your political and social addictions   your confinement in sad conventions   your toilets and your heavy dreams   the lead in your souls and the moats in your minds   i dont know of them and i would not know as i waft on wisps of louche and drift on anise boats with fennel prows that long ago and easefully defeated the sorry battalions of production weak in their force and pathetic in your dominance

all our food problems are solved   all economic woes and injustices dissipate   all war goes awry   the third tap glides in and is grain and vegetable   fruit and protein   fat and vision   a new earth rises from the weary clump of whonym destruction   whale joins hand with elephant and roach with sequoia   babylon kneels before our liquid evolution and monumental solidity evaporates into polychromatic reverie   no   dont turn off the water just yet   maintain its two taps alongside the future for a time   but know dear fiend and comrade in your stuck disarray that a new flow flows and it is water and honey   mineral and cultivar   our destiny is neither space nor power but that luminous green swirl that becomes our blood and platform and guides us on the obscure paths of peace   oh artemisia of our altars

shadows may coagulate and cumulate along the old pipes in wan copper but a golden light dances a new dance and it is with us   join the steps of lucid stars   reach out and open the portal of the green stream   let the faerie in and become the face of the new eyes of earth

all you need is covid

all you need is love

all you need is every form of love all the time which is impossible so all you need is the impossible

which weve got so all we need is nothing

the songs dont tell the truth

all the songs together at once tell something of the truth

which is impossible to hear

so the truths never heard

there go love and truth

covids a song

a song of the possible impossible possible

i once in 1349 or 1897 in some plague snuggled up to a burgermeisters wife and her infectious glowing plumpness was like a code to a beacon of regulatory calque

i dont understand   not your references or morphologically syntactic semantics nor your spatiopoliticochronologies or sexuality or sequituris or morality

not understandings more truth than understanding

negations more affirming than affirmation

this is why we talk like this

in the snow in the fog in the cold at the end of the world

in the pestilence in the monsoons in the fog at the beginning of something

in the fire in the coffee in the pit in the cat in the portobello in the shisha in oldmacdonald in the rat in the nightmare in the feti in the fog for the fog by the fog of the fog at the fog 

i was at hypercafe hyperdrinking a hyperlatte when a hyperbarista hypersweeping the floor hyperbumped into 

when we speak of work what are we actually speaking of

when whonyms say what do you do what do they actually mean

does happiness have any quotidian capacity or is it like a airraid siren   only on once in a while

when im in a good mood   ie when my serotonins up   death seems like a cuddle in a snowstorm   but when its down its like the now that powers all of time

you need to see things the way the egyptians and daoists did   that ups on down and downs on up and the updowndownup just goes round around backwardsforwards on an escherian ladder only seen through a psilocybin prism

but that was before they were daoists and egyptians

that snowstorm cuddle and the chronopowering now  while their bodies are different they wear the same clothes

theory has no meaning anymore   its not even theory

or is that while their clothes are different they have the same bodies

its more like a dead language that people robotically speak without knowing it

theorys taken a rocketship to neptunespear bx9190 and forgotten earth

i like theory   its like the invisible friend one has as a child

dear godless god   why was i born

lets get covid like amerika and sing the bar mangled manners as cerberus bites our ass in welcome

all you need is work

you cant say work doesnt exist

i can say anything i want

work is a phor thats lost its prefix

something thats carried but from nowhere and to nowhere

prefixes carry us

no   prefixes are the origins and destinations we mix up in order to lose them

we drop them as were being carried

this is work

in devoting my life to nothing but working as little as possible ive found work hiding in the little 

and you cant get rid of the little

nor the big

those words will always be around like ram and alice standing side by side in the lunch line

id like a ram 9500 bighorn laramie hfe rebel limited hd longhorn trx

thatll be 92k and an open asshole please

were a longway from love

or right in the middle of it

covid is love

i hooked up with covid once in the bathroom of a diner on east fortysecond

the objective of our conversation is to reach 666 words

and thus become the antichrist

and the antilove antitruth antiram antiwork and anticovid

almost there

just a bit more filler

any good patadreams recently

dreams are the original pata

want capers shiitakes and seared pears on your pata

nah   just want love

birthings

 it gets tiresome doesnt it   all this birth   its not just the others   the actual babies   the new registered life   the evangelicals with their second time arounds   third helpings   fourth cumings   the ripped gestational news   more sprouts in the greenhouse   the worst of its the eternal birthing of us   the wanton cycle of days   each exhausted new idea   shopping   another onion and licoricestick screaming on the delivery floor of the kitchen   words   even the fresh squirmy ones are doa   baby maggots on societys carcass   the progeny of our spit as we bear ourselves into decay and that juvenescent horror of the knowledge that what we believe in our ignorance is our finality   what we call death   is nothing other than yet another   another birth   not into another world or another body or another anything   but just another infinitesimal birth into another birth   covid   if we werent so obsessed with ourselves that we thought it was somehow about us   shoves birth in our dribbled faces   we think covids about death or bats or the chinese or globalization or science or conspiracies or pharmacology or history or madness   but its just another weary birth of birthings   factoids   suicides   addictions   personaldiscoveries   breakups   headlines   tweets   lonelinesses   regulatoryschizophrenia   hardly   for any entity that knows anything about geological time   anything new   the sun in its monstrous drama on the same stage with the same lines   the moon   if we can even see it anymore   pretends to be moody   but its just another recurring conception without parents or desire   and heres the jab   we think among our comprehensively totalitarian delusions that we are parents lusters creators agents of change and destiny   imbecilic shards of viscera   we are no such thing and never have been   youve heard it said that the childs the parent of the adult   sure   the childs the child of the child   the adults the adult of the adult   the adults the child of the parent   the parents the parent of the parent   its all the same fucking line whonym   take your novelty and stick it up your diseased brain   noveltys so unnovel it lost itself before hydrogen was invented   watch the womb of the spheres stream the nameless dying stars   im outa onions   its january   need to cry   where are my babies   everywhere and thats all there is and ever be   were trapped in a hospital without doctors or doors   time isnt a game played beautifully by children   it isnt even a game and it aint any more beautiful than anything else   times just another baby played by nothing   the onion storesre closed and onions are no more and i stare into night and my cat meows into the room like a banshee written like an afterthought into a poem that needs two more lines   i crave the babies of my tears   the death of birth   the numberless days like junkyard cars and plastic in whaleguts like the numberless days and birth births birth and i sit among the nativity scene like a contraction in the dark in a dream

a missed peripheral oxygen saturation reading

or theros and anatos and a slide and a slip

vinilos xuán picks up an oximeter

from a desk not unacquainted with lust

not knowing the ends around a corner

the devicell linger but vinilos      dust

such a romp though  right there on the blotter

with that cat  ixte vinilia faust

who meowed pantyless he had to do her

so things slid quickly to sighs and thrusts

inevitably afterward some disgust 

from the raunchy game of spent hunger?

meh   its not that the sex was really a bust

but that xuán divines the fall of his vigour

so he slips on his semen and dying whispers

this wasnt expected and it may be unjust

happy postscript

the oximeter gets passed to a medical consortia

where it saves some matuma from silent hypoxia