зізнаючисьс сім or вісім

 

the easter bunny at the mall   the parents want to bring the kids  its cute and fun  but the kids see through the ruse and are terrified at this monstrous rabbit that doesnt look like anything  they cling to their mothers skirts as if shewhobroughtthechild to this hallucinogenic wasteland could ever understand the rooted legitimacy of their dread   its not as if the bunnyll physically kill the child right there in the hypercolourful fenced throneroom of plasticized eggs & flora  this lollipop phantasmagoria of berserk power and representation   even the child in some sphere knows this  but that the eared one  this warped sign of resurrection  embodies the insanity of the adult world which the child will one day all too soon have to assume as an inescapable order

i confess to not knowing whether my abiding obsession with literature and madness is a delusional regression  a psyche twisted in on itself from the accumulation of loss and selfabsorptive even autistic orientations  or a courageous protest against the pervasive inequities of society and its consumptive obsessions with itself and destruction   or‽ neither and not & so much more

in utah or nebraska or dakota  somewhere in those regions beyond  on the third sunday in november  whonym males gather for the worlds annual semen shooting contest   hosted by hank q onrop its a veritable draw for the indolent zealous and curious alike from miles around and with technology being what it is these days you can even view it online and thousands do   males take out their members  red and yellow big and small they all come out and all manner of meats dancing in lewd undress around to stimulate the bold contestants toward that bliss of ithyphallicism thats aspired to   while in the distant past stories of dubious repute abound of those days from threefingered toothless witherings of 60 inchers jizzing so hard the sequioa sempervirens grew an extra 100 metres that year  distance was judged using the ancient method of chalk and nepotism but now with lasers and yoctametres and whatnot all debates shoved into parallel realms and thats what the internets for other than porn and money of course   its meat without the meat ie meta but in montana its just the meat   the phallic warriors have 13 minutes from when the fat lady cums to shoot   the rules are simple  no mechanical aids  cant cross the line till after youve shot  friends and lovers are welcome to visibly be in the audience to encourage their favourite penis to build its velocity and trajectory as forcibly as possible with whatever gyrations and acts they deem efficacious   drug testing is disallowed so you can have whatever substances you want in your meat as long as you behave legally   you say well exposing erect penises at a country fair let alone jacking off in front of everyone sure isnt legal   well this is idaho so fuckoff   the unbroken record was set in 1945 by richard u rytas  tied in 2001 by his son richard u rytas junior and again in 2022 miraculously also by richard u rytas senior   at approximately 9.42477 metres that was a sensation lemme tell you and not just because he shacked up with the 1999 torrington homecoming queen and died during his impregnation of her and they both had to be brought by bird to cheyenne regional to get him out   made the frontpage of the post and the queens or i guess its exqueens quote i never came so many times or so hard as when his dead dick was up me in that bird and i know something like thatll never happen again but at least theres a kid coming and itll have some god help us that its a boy pretty fine potential had to sadly be censored from the official versions

city of impossible love

we conspire in the corners of despair where we loiter for scraps of light to create a city that will save us  that secret city rumoured in the spaces between words in those books the forsaken read when the wind drowns the torture of rabbits in alchemical and paludal forests   in dreams in long mirrors a mouth ordering a sylvaner  maps in the glass and a figure wandering in alcohols twisted alleys  structures protesting the principles of architecture rise in fallen desiderata caressing irrationalitys meat and the grates over hades quiver with greedy suicides  men with foxheads and green swollen cocks roll like barrels across the rigid thrones of money and their members detach and sprout wings catapulting to the darkness of heaven and exploding in shrapnel of smiles and destroyed seraglios  the 9 lines looped like radiatori and its driver oozes everywhere and the platforms are asthenic screams  we awaken with drool crusty on our confused faces and our minds grope for assemblages of hope and we name it city and it creeps in the walls of our infinite days

the city isnt some order of technology and permanence but a disordering of the senses so transgressive it must disguise itself in silks and qiveut and slink into crisp elevators where the fate of the world flickers like a schizophrenic emergency button and there if youre on a ride to the eightyfirst floor and it bumps like a rickshaw in kathmandu you glimpse its magic and the veils ripped and the wizard small and quivering and you go home if you can and lock yourself away from your distant loved ones and draw obnubilated maps in the mocking night   theres the boulevard of knives where countess quogg exenterates her husbands   museums of the novel wink across the nameless river where skeins of diseased excrement bobble to eager towns on the other side of the cranium  cackling trams careen on shredded limbs and everyones laughing and lurching and the approved bistro welcomes us with open thighs  and you  you in your auschwitz of animals in your pooh jammies on the altar of indulgence like some escapee from the middle class and your pencil shuddering with excitement and every gram of your game ready for the chase though you know neither what you desire nor where anything is

the mayor of mind holds the key in its corrupt anus and all your lickings are to no effect  you hobble on the crutches of memory and gasp the names of forgotten poets and buy a pass to the metro and descend   what are these miscreants of mumble and urine who pace on the platforms of electricity   everyones coughing and the mantras of the destitute unfold in the rags of the air   you crouch against a wall that seems safe and not too filthy and the pussed old poke us and share the violations of their years   the children of god i say were here together in the great construction of the people   knowledge walks among us and weve seen the flag of truth flap its eyeballs over our squirming lust   the city is eternal and it needs us like oil and we prostrate ourselves before it like novitiates without advancement or prior

with its free hand it slaps its own face for most of the day

and in spare moments it slaps the faces of others

and they pay it back in triplicate

it spends its time therefore in monstrous arguments

brought on by lovers friends creditors officials

and in the few moments it has left

it makes use of its freedom in a way that

startles everyone

and which always end up in small ridiculous catastrophes 

con lessings шесть секс саксофон носки отстой

 

a thing about times that any sequential chronological arrangement of events within it is bound  like representing the earthly sphere on a radically smaller two dimensional surface  to be not only distorted but just plain wrong   compare the whonym who hasnt left its tokyo condo but has studied all the maps of the world  and the whonym who hasnt looked at any maps but has crossed by boat or foot or bicycle all the terrain   theyll both in the end be nuts of course but at least the latter will know what its talking about   sure you say but this is a false binary   sure i say but timemaps dont have the limitations of spacemaps and our timemap is calloohar and this is confessing

you say this is all just another terrible bloated boring gratuitous uncontrolled fatuous awful untalented willed secondhand irritating supercilious infantile ramble   something says better that than the poo pork times and the urinal of american literature     in the reading stand by your unethical dumpster

a poo jokes a real joke says granny ı

for wit has forgotten the earth

weve had to to build heavily insulated cloisters where neither internet nor advertising can enter  in which ignorance of all politics is guarded and cultivated   speed numbers effectsofsurprise contrast size novelty credulity are despised here   and on certain days visitors come to look through iron bars at a few specimens of freedom

what a routine tragedy to see strong minds devoted to trivial things such as empires  historicevents  the thundering of cannons and the management and rule of whonyms

most whonyms hook up with other whonyms who are just like them   profs with profs  grads with grads  transitdrivers with dransittrivers  professionals with professionals  astronauts with astronauts and psychonauts with psychonauts   they say oh were not at all like each other  but expose the prof couple to the ittransdrivers and theyll say youre exactly alike      how much more interesting to put a psychonaut ecowarrior with a republican amerikan senator   a prof with a supermarketcashier   a correctionalofficer with a therapist   an assistantmanagerofplums with an asphalttechnician   boring‽ frustrating‽ futile‽ of course   but all beauty if its born at alls from such things   to have nothing to talk about with your partner   to be continuously misunderstood   to have none of the same friends   to have vast disparity in income education ambition and interests   if we were even a remotely mature species this is what wed be after   that is diversity  this is confessing and the fulfillment of the loneliness thats naturally ours

the vicissitudes of the day   for the soul  whatever ie  to bop around to thirteen disparate regions in one sun cycle  jetlagged as nature  drugged as the elohim  and hold oneself together  or be held together by whatever holds together  to call this a day or a self  to not know how transacting with societys accomplished being as i am a blued bapybara with negative eleven heads and a penis that looks like the amazon drainage basin   a swamp rabbit of chthonia i flop from disaster to disaster  enfeebled and hapless  and the landscapes no different than my digits   mysticism achieved dear gog and teresa of norwich   the unity of unities looks like a vomitorium  enlightenment a latrine

once upon a blimey there was a whonym female and a whonym male and among doing other things they manufactured five whonym children   the first became a leading orthopedic surgeon the second became president of amerika the third became a corporate finance lawyer the fourth became a worldrenowned scholar in something i dont remember and the fifth became a boutique online dealer of organic psilocybe cubensis though the other four thought the fifth was actually a stenographer though whats a stenographer in either case a loser and while the fifth was ostensibly invited to family functions it stayed away   the reason why number five didnt make it as they say is unknown to time as both parents now have dementia so bad they think theyre tetrigidae but let me tell you its because during the first four copulations the missus was hohumhohum get the seed in and the mister was hohumhohum weve done this before but on the fifth the missus was ohyeahbabyfuckmybrains out and the mister was ohyeahbabyimdoinufrmevryanglfrvr and this wasnt only because this mister may notve been the other mister but also for a buncha reasons weve put into our seminal semen seminality the woowoo coitus of the mother of the president of amerika (doomsbury: cumdun 2027)

knfssngs 5

 

emptiness is a set of principles predicated on a mathematics which can be well realized in the soul but its applications avoid register on the scales of currencies and the markets of measure

most whonyms dont apologize at all but if they do they apologize for the wrong things like they accidentally throw out your carefully curated three thousand dollar vinyl collection and act as if its your fault then forget to buy carrots at the grocery store and prostrate themselves before you in woeful abjection   or scream at you in the art gallery for taking too long in the washroom and dont say sorry then are tearfully contrite when they put a dirty plate in a dishwasher full of clean dishes   this tendency has been effectively ignored by psychologists and scholars which itself is a sign of vast import   its linked to our dedicated individual and collective denial of everything important to instead focus on euphemistic inconsequentialities which is rooted in our blithering bumbleness in that most critical of the arts   confessing      eye set out in these tales to right this disastrous wrong and set the species on the way that would guide all things into a circumferenceless and twinkling calendar

ill share with you now comrades a dirty little secret   calendars real name  the real name of the real calendar or more truly a real name of the real calendar or most truly a simulation of a real name of an intimation of a real calendar         calloohar         a dusty word only to be uttered in the most surreptitious congress      dirty‽      conceived in a filthy hole of a dying boatswain on the banks of the putūmayó as a green anaconda took the petty officer feet first

when i was younger i was turned on by being excited in sex   now im turned on by being bored in it   in both cases the physiophally works the same but the latter approachs far more sophisticated   if youre turned on by excitement in sex youre going to be routinely disappointed as sex even for the most highly active can only comprise small portions of time and inevitably frequently disappoint but if youre turned on by boredom youll be almost continually satisfied  not only because  especially in time  boredom will naturally begin to dominate over excitement  but the more important reasons that the greatest turnons are spiritual and boredoms far kinkier arousing fulfilling than excitement   if you dont believe this youve gone to the wrong schools

i imagine a confessional architected like a panopticon  not simply a confessees box on either side of the confessors booth but entire worlds of boxes in 360° all telling at once so that the confessors overwhelmed with pain and takes on itself the unbearable miseries of the world

i used to think many times that mınıseries  accent on the second syllable with both ıs short  was a sort of set of small miseries  ie life  and it was a bad day when i found out it had something to do with television

i couldve been a postpunker like gira or a supreme court justice like breyer or an exec like jobs or a skullar like zizek or even a novelist like dfwall or zadies but i more wanted to be a clochard   so many talented and untalented young thingosities just do the usual on the ladder presented to them  climbing climbing  with associated rationalizations  but something in me thought but didnt tell me      no      youre clambering a few rungs up many ladders and falling off them all so you stay alive and then im gonna give you an actual physical ladder thirty metres high and thatll be the ladder you love   and so it happened and i havent fallen off that once

its not just boredom thats such a generous giver but also failure   boredom and failure are the twins of data information knowledge wisdom      once in wretched late and latest capitalism some newly arrived manager got us all in a small room and blabbed for hours about that taxonomy   shit was he stupid

konfetti 四

 

i confess to never having lost my precarious love for the donut women of my youth  large sugary cancerous circles of dough cackling around the clock of my heart   spherical bawds of coloured goo and gossip  disasters of the nose and infernos of digestion   how ive fantasized about having them squished together as my beloved soiled mattress  masturbating on the quaggy down of their meat  feeling them squelch under my unctuous heavings  heavy clouds above the bathtub and ornamental morbidities in my garden   oh glory and memory and love

i used to never sleep or think i never slept or at least say so and would respond to queries about my lack of sleep with ill sleep when im dead   like a bravado plumcake from some wayward smurfland      but now i sleep all the time   nine hour marathons exhausted on waking napping for two or three hours after breakfast more in the afternoon dreaming of sleep and more sleep maybe its longcovid but that would make me hip so its probably just some autodevouring cancer of the soul   sleep is the new cum is thought in a brief waking episode in which i down an ineffective coffee and an effective absinthe take an elephantine dump look at the vomitorium to see whats happening in the world  how soon our faces shall melt  then careen back into the great coffin of the bed   yin and yang as bàbá freyhoven loringtag says from her tincan tits   lethargy and oblivion are the new energy is thought who needs anything   whod ever want to wake to the reality youve committed to 

what im trying to do is use my life as a laboratory to explore the effects of a certain kind of protest on the sarcous soul   a protest against the order of existence  anthropocentrism if you want to use that term  a diminishment of spirit  an elevation of solidity over other states of matter      naturally to use one life in such a way will yield little  in the way a single early experiment by a scientist might be a complete failure but in its way contributes over many years decades or even centuries to some discovery that contributes somehow to some amelioration      these confessings  along with the vast sewage of the other writings of pataooQ and the many olorous decstatic sadoos  are the ongoing laboratory report of my experiment   i know its flawed limited misguided blind  but isnt yours too

a friend or acquaintance or someone told me recently whacks of whonym females were getting pregnant after their covid booster which  along with the threat of nuclear war  raises the spectre that therell be alota nineheaded children with say pfizer as their mom and raytheon as their dad   progress

i confess to believing most virilely that the only battles between the mystics and the warriors but theres no common battlefield

i confess to disbelieving in history not as any factoid or factory of factoids but as an impetus for breath

i confess to feeling more pride knowing how to negotiate panfried brussels sprouts and chopstix than for having once and briefly been a prof   i confess to the only noble feeling i had in that dark episode was giving my finger to tenures tribe

my life dream is to locate and pilgrimage to the mecca of confessings and join with my spiritual siblingren offering encomia at the altars of avowings

im taking today as a mental disease day   whonyms take mental health days but i dont see any results from them   whereas my mental disease days are productive   wild huge results   i should be awarded a pillitzer in interior investigative journalism

the days sag like my butt and on the droopy looseness i scribe my tales

confessi confetti ııı

this is all puerile i know  dont expect much  ive always loved farting  dont believe in wisdom  fart jokes  sermons about farts  farting during funerals  farts like shit are enlightenment   pueriles what the worlds always been  a leading expert writes the subjects that captivate us are sex drugs beauty fame money themafia lawenforcement violence   i give us what we are

i have stockholmomphalos syndrome which means i believe my incarceration in existences the geopolitical energetic and spiritual centre of the world

and i have died and find myself before the Hideous Almighty who lives behind rahels hair salon in a sinsinati suburb and spends its eternity in a clawfoot bathtub full of geraniums and linseed oil

HA account for your life

ı it was a tragedy your travesty ı mean your majesty ı mean a travesty ı mean your tragedy

HA you lied in the baptistry

ı ı saw everywhere the popery

HA i tell you lifes a unity but its really a potpourri

ı always wanted to be a wannabe

HA instead a cacophanous catastrophe

ı god and whonym and beast alike  all just blabberies

and i climb into the tub with HA and we stuff geraniums in our orifices and giggle like mambos

i confess to having known ill die at 66 for decades  this is irritating not for the knowledge or its relative proximity or that its 20 years short of an average lifespan but as i havent had the time or means to imagine and prepare an adequate environment for the event and ill never have the money anyway   i can see it now   ill just continue devouring myself alive until they finally get me out of sight and i babble to imaginary friends and drop into the pit like a rotten chestnut   hell thats life

i wasnt born out of a female vagina like the rest of you but a patagendered rectum   the drunken doctor couldnt spell and recorded a rectory birth which made my guardians think i was destined for the priesthood   priest of what absinthe‽ fragmentation futility delusion alloftheabove‽

speaking of multiplechoice tests ive always loved them and have routinely sacrificed the possibility of success and romance to be able to create questions that satisfy my petty pedagogical deviances

mc test for confessings unreaders

when youre at a party and a compelling member of whonymity approaches you and fondles your gonads

a i dont go to parties

b what are gonads

c text my mother

d say lets go to the bathtub psycho

e b and d

f b c and d

g all of the below

h ı

ı h

j j

k once when i was at a party a conversation inspired me to _________

l

i confess to wanting to die at the precise moment my father does  not because i particularly love or respect my father  like everyone my fathers an idiot   but because i read somewhere that if you die at precisely the same moment as one of your parents the younger of the two at the time gets immediately transmogrified into an eternal rhododendron in the gardens of andetatta   of course if you die at precisely the same moment as both your parents  that bliss  the mutations so beautific we cant speak or even think of it but can only intone its fantastical desirability through this wee and insufficient chant

eriuz fakqer rweuv rwe mn reiu xpoi meqw vdhbu

i imagine meeting my father in purgatory and saying you incompetent mongoose why did you shoot your seed into my mothers hoary cunt and thus enable this stupid conversation and him saying why dont you just believe in the simple truth of jesus and my saying you inept wallabee then why are we both lounging in shadows without any absinthe for all eternity and him saying why dont you just believe in the simple truth of jesus and the absinthe attendant sauntering by with an empty tray and this infinite place without walls or ceilings or floors or meaning

con fes sings ıı

the most important thing to confess is that confessings a calendar   it is in fact the truest calendar   the calendar of calendars   why is this?   its easy my fiends   because theres nothing more bound to time than confessing   as you confess more you live more and as you live more you confess more as bàbá phenethÿlia writes in their seminal karma kollection woh ne reeb   but this is just kindergarten analysis for spiritual foeti   the juicy juice is yet to come   ah youve heard that before you seekers after seeking   weve all heard this before   i confess to desiring above all else to share the calendar of confessing with you  this calendar that will reconstitute time and recreate soul  but as a secret worthy of only the noblest hearts it must be released in dribbles and hints   like grizeldas indiscretions   patience my loves the only path to knowledge

i confess to reading the news not for news   not for information or opinions or knowledge or entertainment  but for horror   medias  whether social journalistic sensational awardwinning  far more traumatizing than anything technically falling into the horror genre   less because of the parade of atrocities and more because 

whonyms are thieves and if our socalled education system actually did what it claims to it would teach this from the earliest age   thinking like a thief  thiefology  practical thievery  biothievery  thievery and time  thievery and nothingness  thievery for seniors  cryptothievery  & so on   stealing goods and money thoughs the least of our disaster   even stealing our digits limbs eyes livers and gonads isnt nearly as serious as our most common and legal theft      for if were adept at anything its stealing time soul spirit mind  and those of us who cannot forget the ardor of the house of creation watch amuck the sanctioned spoilings of our embattled zeal

i confess to finding depression more fertile than happiness  more communicative  warmer friendlier  with more depth nobility wit loyalty intelligence curiosity inventiveness   these attributes all the more true as depression doesnt try to be anything but itself   as it doesnt attempt to escape itself and become  horror!  happiness  but instead seeks its own and explores the labyrinthine metallurgy it holds within its ostensibly more dolorous surfaces 

in one place i lived i marked the spots on the wall i hit with my cum  a penciled line with the date and a code referring to the journal entry describing in lewd detail the fantasy i had conjured to achieve such heights   id only add a new line if i shot higher and so the wall took on that feel that some childrens bedrooms doors do when a parent marks their increasing height as they age with a pencil line and date   the few miscreants who happened to find themselves in my bedroom would rarely ask about the lines  whonyms are shockingly unobservant and uncurious  but its easy to waltz around such questions  once in the bedroom always in the fog as granny ı says and so my secret remains   of course if i happen to cum outside an alien hole i tend to follow the instructions of the other party and aim the jizz at whatever body part they instruct in their disarray  tits! face! ass! the usual though a serbian dancer preferred it on her feet followed by a sticky massage   none of this highlights my velocity capacities but thats not it seems what anybodys after

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