oblivion

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plasmatic existence in a commoditized world is an expression of realized oblivion

to be a solo wilderness lookout observer is to establish – or rather observe – relations of oblivion. observe rather than establish for these relations are always present but largely unmanifest, fashioned by routine and the commons and the comfortable distances maintained from dream. those relations too though are fashioned in these other places, places of desolation and voidic voices, where depression is not some clinical condition designed to be overcome by promoters of a false wellness (false because falsely severed from its sickness) but an asylum of valleys from the great plains and peaks of news’ tsunamis

oblivion is a facet of insignificance. oblivion can never be eliminated or even reduced, only its appearances temporarily reconfigured, so in the city – that environment of procuring faces – oblivion’s role is hardly diminished but perhaps increased through the hard dialectic established by means of the city’s dark ecstatic rabidity. in the city oblivion hunters and gatherers abound in gross diversity and they, while lacking official designation, are critical to the city’s glittered successes

naked oblivion – or rather nearly naked – is unacceptable to our dominant time, and clothing it, almost to the point of suffocation, is the prime task of culture. art, that now official rascal of the state and capitalism, almost their mascot, has as its core role to strip oblivion to its voidic essence but in modes that can be traded according to the currencies of society’s limited palate. this requires a radical separation of oblivion’s orientations and the excesses, disciplines, promotions and politics of art’s wobbly tap-dance with itself

relations with a stripped oblivion are an opportunity for regeometricization – of psyche, cognition, language, behavior, societal engagement, time and calendar, destiny and objectives. we all are warped post-euclidians

when other flowers predominantly as dandelion and mosquito and oblivion, accustomed in its other to the human, nascently balks, what does the accustomizing one do but manufacture untold copies of love … and whether their laughter and caresses are simulations of what is commonly taken to be love or the inverse, who would know or even strive to know, in the enfolded darknesses of bug and weed?

oblivion includes a wraithicization of substance – humans as equal partners as siffleux or ox-eyed daisies in this process of the onericization of truth (or, conversely and simulatedly, the sarcousization of god)

life, as everyone at least secretly knows, is just a distraction from death and the sensible human gets involved as little as possible in life in order to truly live – which is to be undistracted by death

that social-legal-political-fiscal identity oversignifiedly circumscribes identity affronts oblivion. this affront might say the human is our potency and intelligence. but other personas loiter in the infinite mall of dreams

the weather is oblivion. not the weather with all its massive conglomerated weightiness of reporters and analyses, as a cheap filler of the soul, coloured graphs and mitigated risks … but the raw uncertainty of fire wind precipitation … their indifference to conglomerated bipedian solidities

madness of course is a great protocol of oblivion, and the human who would be wielded by it lives – if it lives at all – in eulenlochs of time’s rodent-ridden barnyard

oblivion – but only as a facet of insignificance (that is, not as a facet of death) – is a manifest of caprice and so we of the disunited states of oblivion list our lists with an uncanny ardor

and you would cast down on me vague and pecuniary chastisements for applying oblivion to the languagescape as a child might a white crayon to a mausoleum? cast away, though your lines have no hooks and we are not anyway any kind of ichthus that would fit in your gullet

look. oblivion sits right here, beside me. we talk as strangers in a familiar spot, bamboo slips they give birth to water and here we sit, you and i, in one another’s masks, not unappointed, silently talking, like friends or wine or slime

thoughts on an edge of something

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in aging news media tempts to become a dependent ossified dream and so its addictive powers increase, consuming language and sensation, until the aged are little more than glyphed dingleberries in the age’s newsarrhea. a sacred attitude of course toward the news during decay is not necessarily to avoid it but to absorb it no differently than one absorbs the trees rustling in the wind or the scatological ruminations of père ubu. and while to continue understanding news’ language to keep one’s own far from it, to speak it (audibly in the society of others or however sonically interiorly) as little as possible. in short, to remain an idiot in the service of darkness

it is in part a miniscule specimen of time’s opportunity to glimpse, however dimly, time’s geometries the news offers – how it presents an ascendant spectacle of names as a staging for the infinite funhouse of unnames

literature has fallen so far behind the edges of film it’s barely worthy to stand on the unstage of art beside it

and recently in from the news –

seth and beth did breath then meth then death

and recently in from the new school of vatic research –

the old (bitter and garrulous) will die in plentiful whimperings and the young (bright and uncomplaining), for they have never had the chance to know the illusions of freedom, will die in plentiful silence. and the others (numerous as mosquitoes) shall fall according to their kind and those still able to copulate will copulate in the viscera and smoke and those who have forgotten will still carry on with trade and law and poetry will be lost except in the mumblings of nightmares

only the imagination stands without flinching before the beast of society

i make things without definition, lacking genre, without name … unless the name be mad. but mad is that name without definition, lacking genre, without name. mad is the god behind the manifest gods. i manifest, but refrain from defining, for that would be to dishonour the root and earth, these divinities of flesh

abstraction – or rather the undefinable distances between abstraction and root – discredit themselves to the extent they bypass through nature toward root primarily through the human. the human – despite its now gross and global attempts – is not a sufficiently vast filter and its pretense to become that and of having become that – almost the sum of present politics, art, culture, sport, business – colours these abstractions with a palette insufficiently acquainted with the manifold hues of black

kakistocracaticologist konference

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kakistocracaticologist konference

in kindawol kabul

kuly kenth to kwelfth koo kousand and kineteen

 when the air in the outhouse’s purer than the air outside

the alchemical amalgam of discipline and imagination one drinks to enable sayings of no

john’s apocalypse a vivid dream of humanity’s stupidity, set in set forms and articulations of the day

it’s amazing how even the lowly crimini can, under the right conditions, smell like god

think

of

civilization

as

a

poorly

built

ladder

as

you

climb

each

step

that

you

used

falls

away

a

fall

from

a

height

of

just

a

few

rungs

is

fine

yet

the

higher

you

climb

the

larger

the

fall

eventually

once

you

reach

a

sufficient

height

any

drop

from

the

ladder

is

fatal

language doesn’t have meaning – it has sensation. language is just another sense (that makes no more sense than the other senses) that we mistake for something else

in the alphabetic rave of sexual politics i’m a d : dreamian (dreamsexual) or a p-dit (polydreamorous dreamian interdream transdreamite)

                  or maybe a punctuation mark : a : : probably if it weren’t for its association with g. the irony mark? or better a glyph on the irony mark … it doesn’t particularly matter which one : i’m glyph neutral

homelessness is a higher form of protection of the mind 

invoking posterity is like making speeches to worms 

ask a worm to be brave – she’s pale and pink and soft, just like us

i’ve long realized that my primary task in the brief space i’ve been given to occupy the clock of vision is to build reasonable asylums for myself – places of refuge from human violation in which i can wander in strangely lit and bottomless corridors

the inevitable monsters of our lives we prostheticize (and this is often called success), repress or abdicate to or therapize (which is to name), or … that rarer path … leave them in their monster states (and so unnamed) and play with. and if then we become a monster to those others, what of it? we have been granted access to the land of origins

we wear the music of our emerging consciousness like a tired fashion

hebraicity city in a desert of trees –

who could charge for such hard caprices? what bureaucracy would pay for unwindings so peripheral?

who would stare at the phone as an oracle? and who could evacuate from oneself these immobile times?

 humans are two-dimensional specimens of nature which crave polydimensionality but can only simulate such manifold vastness through zero dimensionality, a path they massively avoid, and this resultant avoidance effects increasingly complex and empty structures of death, structures we now almost wholly live within and make manifest the fear we have consistently refused to confront

oh green faerie of tofu skies who lifts the skirts of god to timeless indecency   oh green faerie liquid mother of dreams who paints the corridors of our naked sanities with blood   oh green faerie of my fallen gonads swaben swell of faded lime   green faerie green faerie the hair in you i pick out with my long proboscis and suck it like an ocd durian in a bowling alley  we segmented specimens will not walk through their apocalypses  our lower lips shall talk through the wormholes we’ve been building in our imaginations to a new atlantis  oh green tofu of faerie skies who sips our blood with faded sanities  take the hair of my skirts and paint your indecencies on my liquid proboscis   so shall all comrades of the worm be justified in the courts of wanton purity

but there are still 41 words left. now 34. now 32. there must be a better way. let me tell you a very brief story:

misla,testtube of sylif and a pack of earplugs, steals anatepa’s corset and has to pay