you only see the caterpillar once

 

sheou calls it like it is shey says and what it is isnt much like anything

and then theres the calling what about that 

what about it

whats it like

its like the it i suppose callings just another it isnt it

when you reach the geezer class and develop wattles whats left to do but drink and be abused

theres suicide thats always good to kill a day

wanna sing the suicide song

we sang it yesterday

if you were told lifes as boring and small as it is when you were young what would you have done differently

the very essential quality of being young is a radical incapacity to believe that

the adult tasks to make life as small and boring as possible ie make life what it isnt then enforce this artifice on everyone as early and efficiently as possible and devote collective and individual life to pretending not just that this is what life is but what it must be

wattles though arent they nascent antennae designed to receive messages from the holy ones of the farnear

i like coupling with strangers on crowded metro platforms it makes me feel as if i might have something to say no not as if i might have something to say but that the something i dont have to says understood

a tall order for a short species

each impression we leave in another memorys like an alien artifact randomly stumbled upon and occasionally gathered and set on a mantle as some object of incomprehensibility thats shellacked in words so opaque who could see anymore the incomprehension and so the only life thats left us is to litter other minds as much as possible and this wholesale collective rabid pollution is civilizations present work

just yesterday i was at shinjuku waiting for the e to kasumigaseki and a midenarch with a pet dassie i believe to this day quite firmly was an interstellar alien with powers immense and indescribable and our lusticles so large and mutual before you could say natanovich paenungulata strugatsky i was being magnificently humped against some middle manager of the sony group corporation syndicate conglomerate kabushiki gaisha i knew she was a sonyist from the perfume and the magazine who couldnt do anything about it really considering theres nowhere to move and we all just shuffle together like that onto a train with the midenarch and i doing our very best to maintain the rhythms under such constraints and even the middle manager perhaps im imagining rubbing with us an inexplicable edoian rushour 3some im still convinced amitābha expressly sent this visitation for the very task of penetrating my μουνί to hitherto undiscovered meatal pouchy pleasures which ill be blunt are even now astrally reverberating in the lechery of my saturated underpants

the wattles a gadget that makes the internet look like a chamberpot for crickets the folds alone of its syntaxre so sophisticated just listen to this ive come up with this theory its a device really even a protocol that will tune the wattles natural receiver functions to such frequencies each data centre so to speak the body of course will have become a repository of vibrations so fully spectral communication as we know it 

why youre ruining a perfectly splendid masturbation session with your insane speculations

why dont you take your smelly loser underpants and stuff them in the face of that hamburger waiting for the q train with hedgefunds for a brain and nfts for a heart

your relentless pedantic conceptualizations are stillbirths from some unterslime extinction

your underpants are the scourge of an insectogarchy that might exist if only

and she unzips him and takes out his obsolescence like a time capsule and drops her pants and underpants like a matryoshka heavy with memory and sticks out her globbed satellites with mission and procedure and guides him toward the dirty hole of love and the trains zipping by are great messengers of tautology and buried screams and they go at it two warriors of meaning and she hollers alienations our unity and he communications the new babylon and the sun rising on the morning commute a rusty mistake on the squeals and anxieties of a race without end or purpose and he pulls out and the santorum pools on the floor scents of an unmapped transit and cums on a scurrying junior executive and she laughs without remorse or delight and wipes her ass with a nearby overcoat and crawls to a corner and sings the suicide song alone

shaggygate

 

we continue to transcribe leaks

from a dispensation of dial logs from the mad

this one at station elbasateen in the metro anfāq alqāhirah

in the yottapolis of a thousand minarets

on the continent of cave dust

to reveal however partially

great diversities

of nature still remnant in the city

and some grammars of soul devoiced

oh whonyms

communications an infinite expanse

whod live incarcerated in language zoos

of a small & stumbled civilization

the minds born free

and so should language be

i dont know what loneliness is she says as she folds another pair of underpants and places them neatly on a tall stack in her imaginary suitcase its not as if im unfamiliar with certain complexes of feelings that seem in particular moods to at least vaguely align with what others may be describing when theyre attempting to articulate however ineptly states they might sometimes find themselves in that they put for whatever reasons and however partially or contradictorily into the category they or the reified forces that have effectively consumed them and consequently they unable to distinguish them from they associate with the word lonely

i know what you mean he says and he thinks this folding she does isnt it like that time i was in weiberfastnacht and hübsch bützchen coursed the streets like an auseinanderfaltung and the dachshunds like kacchera lost in the laundromat of satyaloka and he aslants in her direction through a clade of apprehensions and plashes his meat far enough from the suitcase that he intends his invasion wont be experienced as any sort of unrequested violation

nexts a pair of phlox briefs which she dangles from a pinkie saying the apocalypses gonna come whether you read the news or not so why read or bow at an altar of stories that have as little to do with our karyoconstitution as magic underwear does with magic help me fold and she hands him an oversized garbage bag im the illegitimate child of vytautas the great and a kroppkaka dekonstruktionist hembitråde named smålånå or scåtiå or våsterbotom the genealogys opaque and i wont take yes for an answer

my pedigrees much lesser he says and muses how in the hurdles of hierarchy to broach into space the message hes just received from the highest and most eminent emanations to do kinetic glossolalia against her sphincter and bides the challenge by loosening the knot and asking if he should place these robust delicacies on one of the existing stacks or begin anew as all of the existing are despite the relative lightness of each fabric with the various inevitabilities of physics factoring into the almost truly astonishing heights shes managed to achieve looking as they may not be able to continue much longer in any vertical ascent

elevate your underpant game he said she says at reichenspergerplatz and the number sixteen to wienerplatz was so late i believed him and let me tell you elevation makes a difference and she hands him a maebari to include in the piles and circumbambulating faqīh rushing to their judiciaries mobbed and mobbing like marmosets disagreeing like forensic forensicists whether this is that or this or something else and removing her apodesmos says would you remain so distant from my pubococcygeus for youve already fondled my cacks and what separates your tungis now from my perineum

the faqīh put underpants on their heads and look like misshapen owls from the vestibules of hell and join hands in a circle around the fraught fornicators and they all that diverse and impossible congregation faqīh commuters transitpersonnel baladi and ṣa‘īdī mutasharids and mummies almutasharids and almawmisses and rihlat shaqat ealaa al'aqdames sing this hymn from the palpitating memory of motile khufu

we are one

not in any of your tales

the news it holds no unity

our rants* no commonality

we live each of us and all alone

but for this

that one true and only bond

underpants

and the subligacula what with the wind picked up and the idiobabelia against her ani externus like a dervish festival flapping around elbasateen like chiroptera and the faqīh flapping and she says i have to get to qobaa before the bomb but the buttaramas to my taste and its not a question of not paying attention to the emotions but which to pay attention to therere so many of them at the same time i can only float them like an armada that stresses the horizons and watch them rampage on their way oh my mastodetons are messy and she puts it harder on his tuggo and the faqīh go to levitation and speak vonlenska and some rare commuters too and the gruds fall off and the wind is windy and cairo dustily redeemed

*usage note

the hymn is sung as a round of nine with rants

being substituted with

dance lances cants trance wants aunts manses

in any order with a return to rants

in round nine

saurian baubles

he sits by a pillar at sumulong station his thin dongle making a trail through the valley of his legs and he fears no nunus and boredoms become so part of him he doesnt see it anymore and spirochaetes flagellate through that holy city and he awaits a fellow floater to break through a dreamgate of time and share a meal of love

she comes through silent scream of bones stalwart generational abuse bleeding and butchering the news across petticoats and petty troats and besiding him says going to setapak

inthrarak

the worlds a metro now she says even bears have their own platform and can hop on at discounted rates on occasion of their marginality and divinity and go to mosquito in no time at all its fantastic dont you think

when i was in the war in khortytsia eating blackstriped pipefish and chiffchaffs and blotched sauromates tufted pochards daubentons myotises pipistrelles cervus nippons otters exploding in the air like festive fireworks for a race so indulgent who could not concede any forbearance toward these eldern delights some lost zaporizhian general descends from the savutyn summit and hands me runes and translating says in art dont make death what it isnt and what isnt it

in other words think by not thinking move by not moving fight by not fighting as heresiarcha celadon bunting says she says and strokes his boa and it becomes like those museum sculptures that certain parents avoid and commuters around like leptospirosis and sulfur dioxide and all in their own worlds that is the explicable inexplicable world

loss is a kind of property he says as she removes her pants and underpants and the pants yet under those until her yaws present and shines like alsephina and some glance from their phones and go back to it like devotees of a sect without precedent or future

loss is a kind of property she says for which we have only the most puerile measure but these assets are of different regulatory structure and currency than those of conventional accumulation and she gropes for his controversy and seizes it rightly and places herself as a dispatch or commission and guides it to her sprawl saying the serious world as we say we know its but a sembling of a ramshackle feretory habitated by the relics of ancient satires whose biographies and effectsve been lost to meaning

and the ballocks slap against the pudendal butter like wanton church bells and those liking & froing & waiting & toing in the atmospheres like starved vanities and the two or is it more compatriots after completing the rite of outcasts and presidents whether in politic or dream sing a song in doubtful unison and a few of the rushing waiting whonyms toss coinage toward their open gonads and the song is that old favourite mankok bangila lumplump and it goes like this

the wicked have eyes

and flowers have tales

so lets my love

put the world on sale

it may not be ours

but whats that to us

wills possession

and the hours small

the trains are coming

a bear is crying

the wicked have eyes

and the hours small

the flawed geometrıcıan

 

id always wanted a large wardrobe of ghosts and now that ive got it now that its so stuffed full i cant fit another one in my childhood dream of having a ghost for every occasion ghosts of mourning favoured ghosts ghosts of celebration betrayal ghosts ghosts of rips and stains ghosts never worn but only thought every few years or even forgotten entirely until one day im thinking of that time at lucianas party when galadap spills the jade acrylic on me and it pops into my mind like a sartorial urgency and ghosts are my witness in the absence of witness for who can believe anymore the living can stand for one another or even for themselves

youre covered in blood and paint take them off and show me the ghost youre wearing underneath

when i was at oyingbo waiting for the red line to okokomaiko and a whonym from oroghoro whod been missing trains like a sloshed assassin drew a lovedart from its attaché like some crazed snail misplaced from the memory of itself and inserted it into me like an esbeltomaester they dont behave like that anymore these open sacrifices the linear displays how quickly they grow up

dont want to talk about mosquitoes lay your necessary meat behind elascensora ellevantamiento on the island where we cant see those cool vitalities bashing the old man haplorhini around like horseflies in summerboreals stuffed with their own buzz dont mind them go horizontal seek god together neither support life in its basic savagery nor stalking prosthetics piled to falsely bury blood if we agree on anything which is unknowable its to be no witness to the world for the witness in its attestation pays tribute to the very thing it purports to deny

flies double in size every hour but whonyms halve their weight every decade it used to be each century and before that millennium but things speed up soon itll be every year then month week day hour until we become our true size in the universe and disappear by that time each flyll be the size of a galaxy things change string my ass to the beginning of your love so what im sayings and sayings never as they say just saying thingsve become separate from their families words stories moments places now just shape without meaning not shape of meaning or meaning of shape or even meaning or nonmeaning of meaning but just shape of shape to pretend that stories still exist that names arent lost forever that meaning whether created or preexistent has any validity that we have any place in the world other than a placeless abyss that when the ways lost names become

yaw way war raw doom mood dam

whats left to do but forage for fragments and shag like spooks we always knew it would end like this the is the jizz gaps among potentiality and capacity so cataclitmic what could somehow have the means to bypass these chasms discounted words were in the badlands now honey and alls sticky with erodings

find a death worth living legally steal as much as possible love hypocritically have no regret in proportion to having no memory maintain rebellious despair fondle your poo refuse the names never lay

dying diversities roam our dreams like witless shamans while habitating offal in the manners of media and janatā can give domination and virtue simultaneously what else can with the combo of so great cost and so little social acceptance provide me with lifelong loss and here it is in the mask of everything a little deeper warrior and everythings alright

saguero de bustamante transit security put the old man in a garbage trolley and passing the bonkers ask what they might be doing on such a fine day in the underground of argentina and what rights do they proffer to the authorities and what are their destinations on the known cartographies of the world

im heading to díaz prima junta on the ı line and moanings like a child of an abattoir and countrycarnival who crawls along the trenches of glory seeking anything that might have sight

and i to neuva barass on the ñ and whod judge these hoodoo outlaws who among us speak their hearts

and security watches and some take selfies post to hungry markets as if the flood of flesh is eternally a drought and our two friends in the infratránsito of macedonios bajos fondos weary and sarcophilic on their blind commutes and in the stories and through the names our grappling we great meatbearers of culture here now in these fifteen seconds of fame

some venomics of waiting to get to gek poh

 

its raining like mosquitoes at three o three on a sabbath and long waits for the trains fill the spaces and here dawdle supernatural babblers alone lost illegal crushed on platform a and a sweltry smoke from the genocided sumatran forests worms through every orifice and violates the brain and ruptures language

shes sipping remnant herniaria lustanica tea and going to gek poh on the jrl and hes behind the steam to kembangan on the eastwest positioned like an awardwinning sculpture a tourist obliviously glimpses while transversing inzai on the 京成成田空港線

its the autism in everything she says the singular autism but worse the tribal autism i do everything i can to adapt but my own autism cant help but overwhelm the adaptation attempts to the other autisms and there we have it communications like a hipstered herpestid in glyptic relief

i live in fog and rain and bugs and bugs and rain and fog and try to create perambulating wonder that cant breathe in dimensional reality in closed clothed societies and if this deters me the deterrence itself i turn into wonder like some mage of akhetsnafus void and all would be disputed if any of this could be perceived in the senses of a race without end or shape

you sound like a bibulous putz she says and goes back to the tea with a passion unwarranted by the evidence in those selfhelp books you pick up while drunk at a populist bookstore if it still exists and read in gulps and bias in the pursuit of coitus but only end up passed out on your couch with the tv on and your genitalia splayed and pitiably gooey and simpsons reruns laughing at you in your oblivion we know you do it and she stares into the shrubbery as if it held enfolded within it the visage of a future deity that will nonchalantly destroy the world

you realize you can as much as youre inclined reify the protocols of your heritage but im under no obligation to accept those protocols or even more the reification both of which but particularly the latter are crimes against the spirit and while they go almost entirely unnoticed by your juvenescent courts of law are the chief testimony on scales so distant from your preoccupations they make earendel look like an alphagettus in the soup your face just fell in

your insults are bricks and mortar and im the internet and ive no interest or principal in the hefty mortgage of your words which will soon foreclose your soul leaving you homeless in the city of sublimity but though weve nothing in common but our having nothing in common and also that were waiters on lonely platforms conversing about loitering nothings why dont we while away your mimbo life and expose your package and shut up and do the business you were born for

the low odds of negotiating between the groundzero imperatives and agonies of the body and the commoditized rhetorics of persuasion fear envy guilt acquisition sacrifice the braindead megaphone of latecapitalism in hopes of locating an intimate ground of operation from which an authentic loving gesture might be launched lie shredded around the feet of these disastrous costelettes and he unzips and his tumiditys as a vatic vineyard in imaginations of those locust eating hebrew prophets and a cluster of plasticgrapes as youd find in a tawdry bagnio frequented by thieves and journalists pinned to his scrotum and she tenderly plucks a vitus and slides it in his mouth saying 

your turgescence reminds me of a meeting i had on the top floor of 547 west 159^th street with those hungarian interpreters you could peel the bombast off the walls and i thought then as i think now on platform a at jurong east about to engage in the apex ritual of the commons along with war the only unity of time under an almost southern moon this orderly repressed city state sleeping justified by pythons and interrogated by poets that the novel were ins at least a novel and has to be theres nothing else and if you say its a boring novel only notes for a novel the characters are undeveloped abstract monodimensional robotic theres no continuity not much sense its stylistically abstruse and anarchic i might say but this is life you work and sleep with whonyms like this every day your daysre like this and if you force an artificial clarity on them from insecurity and fear well thats your stupidity and she puts her left pinkie in his mouth with the plucked and her right hand around his tugor down to the cheap stilllife dangling swaying in the fuggy bugs and sqiggles out of her frock and goes to doggy on platform a and invites the polymer cluster to gustily slap against her thighs

but none of this he says

youre not allowed to talk

none of this is

your trains here in two hours we go from babelon to babelon the maps say sembawang this bugis that we say oh yes i went to venice how marvellous so many tourists i have homes in quepem and krško but its all just babelon and these trains were waiting for with your structure in my structure like a demented ouroboric polygyre for no reason other than this is what time and meat do these trains like our shoving serve only to give us the illusion grossly impressionable species that we are that were doing something moving moving anywhere at all but no all we dos stand absolutely still from life to death in one place in babelon and once we die thats when things start happening 

none of

talks a kind of train that goes nowhere and languages a system map to make us think we move

none

lifes become an abstraction so total we can know of nothing else literature ironically if irony hasnt died from excess still hasnt caught on to this stuck in homer a nostalgia of reality narrativity facticity meaning emotivity reason dont accept the compromise enter fully in let your abstract meat in mine mete times immobility and let each generation dispense the same punishments to those who fall far below and those who rise high above its middling standards and

and the first trains lights appear in the distance and he pulls out and shoots his cum clumsily on the platform and detaches the grapes and gives them to her in a remote gesture and puts it back inside zips up and boards the train and she sticky with love and sore with communication dons the frock and plunks across from the jem sign on the floor and her annihilated or to use the oldfashioned word exiled meat tangled and ungovernable and the sumatran smokes in language like a venom and she waits and waits for the jrl to gek poh

serried calmplex

the smile comes at a great cost the laugh on the other hand she says the laughs a function of an aesthetic incontinence that arises from having lived past an indefinable point and so control becomes a kind of immiserated regression and bypasses judgement and currency and she remembers when she smiled at that overpriced cafe in bamberg lunching with the scheitenschläffens and their poodle an overgrown delphinium more coddled than afonso pedro de alcântara cristiano leopoldo filipe eugênio miguel gabriel rafael gonzaga and what was she to do but smile at the thing and yet even now on the altufyevo bound platform of serpukhovskaya station delirious with the abyss of dial log and canopy of shiny marble and the vaults like a sealed doorway of meaning and war she regrets the gesture and wonders however irrationally or truly if the entire sad trajectory since has been born from that blunder which seemed only tactical at the moment but in the haze of hindsight stands monumentally like a strategic oversight so encompassing how can she even momentarily think of herself as belonging to any club that might consider admitting the wise

take me for a ride in your rutabaga convertible down the boulevard of artifice he says as she lifts her skirts by a revolutionary pillar and a corpse from a corner watches him kneel and draw hieroglyphs around her labia as if he were some pseudoscientific egyptologist and her sex a tabula rasa dropped by stylites far far down from the hard salvific heights of mortified oblivion onto a pragmatic mangled purblind earth

were savage she says and datas the only escape open the window of data and look out on its kind landscapes and pull up a chair and let that be a life today though ill just listen to the wind

you were once an aquifuge of rare delight wholly impermeable and without remorse or promise but now youve become or perhaps always have been and only now in some display of projected rectitude finally expose a pathologescent imago for the maw of the persona craving commons this heirloom of a failed archeological expedition on some timescale were incapable of inventing and she grasps the base of his throbulescence and guides it to the spelunking chambers wet with spiders and the dismemberment of metaphysics

the people are busy they do children and jobs and relationships obligations they call love or necessity wear you down through confusion and interminability the machinery of it all words of collegiality and care and acts of ambivalence and aggression the warm and icy hand the childish waiting for disappointment the crucified dreams lined on either side of the hallway as you return home to your mind after a lunch that felt pleasant enough and as you leave realize was nothing but another hostility

quem deus vult perdere dementat prius he says but heres the dub

it all fails next to dream theres dream and then you wake up and if you remember the dream maybe you talk to a therapist or a dreamspecialist or your friends if there are any or a book or the internet or just figure it out in your own miserable scatological head or some or all of the above and theres a meaning or the meaning but art isnt like that its just dream and never tries to go beyond art like love was once supposed to do never fails because it never succeeds if we ask what art means were asking the wrong question and the corpse presents its visa to the authorities and joins the heaving and her septum between the rubbings of its bone and his meat is an oracle without divinity or pointing

why are you talking about art like some wayward cheracebus lucifer theres nothing that would justify your

i will completely annihilate you she says with tea tree oil and lavender

i find your taciturny more irritating than mysterious he says and the two perform a kind of interruptus not well explicated in the manuals that purport to deal with such matters and the corpse and he retreat to a vending photo booth to continue the discussion heres the deal she says for theres no love like money and she borrows some vodka from a passing trobairitz to douche herself afore and aft and return to the psychokinetic constructions of an abject minstrelling

the trains arrive more or less on time and the photos taken and the trains arrive and arrive again and go to sleep on their iron beds and awaken and go to task again and memories stalk those of all and no dimensions as unity marches in the pitched reel of words

and so the three she corpse he in the afterglow of love in their ways go their separate ways and a story however fallen or befogged befoggings told

gwawk natacu

 

on the offchance she says though chance is rarely off and adjusts her mordant mufti to rouse a question from the crypt on the onchance then excuse the neologism to serve a purpose neither of us im absolutely convinced about in my doubt can remotely fathom that somewhere in your interior disorder might reside however encaged or roaming an attribute however fleeting or illusory that could suggest however remotely opaquely or disguisedly under the most generous circumstances an indication of the possibility of any realization that you as all things exist simply as a startlingly brief and comprehensively insignificant tıttle in a universe so vast and eternal it would laugh if anything so indifferent could ever enter the realm of wit 

you take me into psychopathic space baby he says and covers his feet like seraphim

in the attempt to communicate she says as she slaps aside the approach of a usurpation from a locked closet in an abandoned room on the floor of childhood suppressions were abducted into chthonic triforia where our task if we have any at all and this is far from certain is just to look but instead we direct whatever energy we have into being lulled into the unlook and there in the lulling how can we advance but through a retreat so singular and exhaustive it instead of participating in our movements defines our very being

i take my time i do it my way i run the race he says and removes his trousers and slathers his member with garlic vegenaise and recites some nursery rhymes about dinosaurs and tulips and the gardens of the rich

it doesnt matter if we devote every minute of our furious meaningless lives to maintaining however increasingly precarious delusions that accelerate however fragile our ridiculous and hyperinflated notions of self as long as the relations we construct enable us to walk erect through forests of hostility and meadows of humiliation for how could any of us and surely you in reality or fantasy are not exempt cope otherwise with the draft of void as it approaches unmitigated by the wonders of fashion and caresses of cliches

were all sloshed clowns passing limp batons in a relay race no one understands i know you dont eat meat but will you just this once make an exception and feast on this eggless condimented stranger

the end was never supposed to be like this she says silent and full of garbage and wipes a finger of vegenaise and takes it in her mouth like gasoline as if shes at a picaist party the point is what could we ever do but what were doing necessarily pathetic though it not only is but must be even and perhaps especially in our fabricated reasons

dont lose sight of the great battalion in the sky my dispossessed amazonian though we can hardly see it he says and slices his member off and hands it to her the way she likes on steppes of radicchio and kalamatas pierced into it with coloured toothpicks

what were saying while it has little to do with reality though im unsure that matters anymore she says and takes a munch of the proffered snack has much to do with moving forward in ways that might surpass any mission imagined so far in the minds of sages which exciting though it seems cant live up to the promises exacted at the cost of any pretense of intelligence

who dont exist of course he says but thats beside the point and watches while she gulps the last bit down but the only true crisiss the one we cant do anything about which effectively now is everything and they the dialogue having more or less finished cross to different platforms he to the stanmorebound jubileetrain to transfer at bakerstreet for latimerroad to watch the thirdgame of the stanleycup in his chelseaflat and she to the stratfordbound to disembark at canadawater and visit the neglected graves of nunhead

deranged tales from a sadoo stoodıo

the agêd explode ın ash

mamas been feeding off granny ıs tıts for as long as anyone forgets  while it cant be medically or metaphysically proven if granny ıs alive or dead she sure still keeps on spouting out those grannyısms and  good for mama  flows the mılk

though its not really mılk as galadap discovers when she sneaks a drınk one night  more about that later  

so its later now  though weve had to cut out a lot of pretty good stuff to get here so quickly  so lets tell the toothsome story

its the eve of hexennachtenwoltenschläften and house of mamas open for the carousing agêd and they enter like hobbyhorses  arriving in pumpkins and deshabille  on psilochuasca and dragonflies  by wrinkle and disaster and steeds of collapse   crashing through windows and cutting themselves in broken cackles  they cast themselves down webbed flues to explode tinily in ash and annihilated memory

here comes unkl of greed wearing thick lipstick of concern   there awnt of academic virtue and clunks of observation  in a ginbowl a granmama of many greats and thick broods of narcissists  lounging in a pantherthong old hababal of countless suicides and love   all these of gross descendants littered across the earth like frozen novels come like weightless garish pastries and share their sins and gather in the cravatoria to await mamas arrival and address and their sexes hang like ichiban brinjal and require just as much oil and some sing tiny choruses in corners

mama enters through a gerovrata she craftily pretends to misplace by dismantle 19 and the agêd bubble and gluck in seventy times seven hundred simulations and turbulence is like ichthyic hope

oh agêd and the many agêd and the agêd upon agêd and the agêd beyond mama says and slips her dress off oh agêd whove bespoken boundaryless vats of suffering into existence and almost as many lies to delude all but the wise that their bespeakings been a virtue mama says and unhooks her brassiere and lets it drop like a thousand lost metaphors oh agêd who now and already stalk the shades of drool grasping for holy dreams that refuse to enter even the remote orbits of your suppurating festerment mama says and removes her panties and casts them at one recently dead under the tattered skirts of a once professor in ungulatology and mother of a duet of pedantry banality vapidity oh agêd who says mama and

she says the same thing every year mutters galadap to herself in her geheim secerno and knows mamas going to get distracted by the sunken smelly navels and antediluvian toenails  their irresistible pendulousness and rancorous gonads   the coalescence of which  she feels this dna config even in her young meat and begins to prepare for the tumult she divines will arrive when it flowers garishly into the manifold colours of hunger and hard lecheries of scent  galadap knows will catapult mama into frenzies of forgetting and shell descend from her nakedness into the dealt fashions of teeth and fragility

galadap says to herself in her verhohlenung ı shall use the opportunity of mamas fatal distraction and unholy salaciousness to steal through the storey of skeletons and use the key of taboos and ıncant the unspoken and clamber unwıttingly across the dıssequıturıa to the opaque plenıtudes that protect granny ı in her volumınous concupıscences and there outwit the plenitudes and gain access to the knowledge thats mine

& true to truth galadap does and here granny ı ın torn & smırchy nıghtdress of eternıtıes and a tıt lounges outsıde like an ırrupting ınfrangıbılıty and the tıt speaks ın the emetıc speech of the spırıts who lıve ın the ındıstınguıshabılıty of death and lıfe and whıspers to galadap secrets of her dna and even mama doesnt know them all and pulls galadap towards ıt and she latches on like a ratchet and sucks to the marrow this ıchor that has changed her forever

and when galadaps done granny ı rıps off grandotters frock and there galdaps tıts  to have been born with the breasts of outcasts  like caprıcıous sentınels and granny ı sucks and dotter of house of mama knows the need of those with neıther root nor canopy

galadap returns to her heimlich by the cravatoria and the agêd are strewn like roaches after a party and smoke rises from them and mama  naked and satisfied and bloody  sits in this gehenna  some lost word from the regions beyond  and galadap sees time before her babbling like the mad and feels granny ı crawling within and makes an altar to what shes no idea and prays though she believes little in belief and sleeps for many days and nıghts in risible ribald portendıng dreams 

oryr abdicant

as things migrate from meat to data  from suffering to statistics  whonym disappears into the vorticial blackhole created by the migration and in the disappearance manifests omnipresently as its rabidly loquacious absence   a kind of failed and disastrous mysticism which it in its nugatory superciliousness believes to be an unparalleled triumph

the geometries of soul are incommensurate with times mathematics

ideas are now so bereft of ideas

unfamous whonyms talking about the famous is like poor whonyms donating money to the rich

la flors a great film  despite its indulgences campiness frustrations imperfections  as it manages to be a deeply mystic film but presented through realism   the common critics  whether they praise or diss it  miss this and instead focus on it as a successful somewhat tedious or failed attempt at experimental narrative   but when viewed through the lens of fleshy mysticism every minute of la flor becomes rich   a divine comedy for the third millennium   there are a smattering of mature films  by mature here we mean polysemantically conscious and diversely representative of the orientations and movements of spirit seamlessly manifest in content and form  but la flor assumes maturity before it begins then goes beyond

friendship presents itself as possibility not when reason meets but when unreasons compatiblize  even if these aligned unreasons are named reason by the intimates

most whonyms of the socalled progressive sort follow the dominant diversities   which is to say not much of diversity at all   and so unprogressive   or at least progressive within a penitentiary of political conventionality and so unfree

parents use children to escape parents but by becoming parents they instead enter more fully into the regions they had hoped to flee

all good theorys impractical because goodness cant be implemented except in the most random distributed and occasional ways and moments  almost entirely aside from any intentions or conceptualizations of whonyms   fernandos right then  the only rational thing to do is maintain theory or dream  whatever your word is for it  in dream and theory   and let the body be enslaved by whatever molecular forces determined it from conception

a great but widely dispersed depression thats indistinguishable from a vast and pervasive joy

everything about the wild spirits indicates theyre an imaginal presencing of a primary dimension of human psychic being in unharnessed nonsomatized animatedness  impulsive incessantlyvolatile ambivalent omnipotent envious

birth is the primordial narcissistic injury of the ouroboric self incurred on itself by its own necessity to birth itself