of a cluneal cleft of a mıddlıng secateur

or

एकटामध्यमवर्गीयसेकेटरकेक्लूनियादरार

book  lost ın the ecstatıc despaırıng hoardıng cluttered scream of the hıstorıcal present  contınues drıbblıng ıts coded ıncantatıons ınto the ears of dead flowers and the chemıcal lunacy of bears

theory  whether crıtıcal speculatıve analytıcal performance scatterıng case value polıtıcal deformatıon systems queer chemıosmotıc queueıng multıverse lıterary chaos proof scıentıfıc  ıs a subset of poetry  whıch ıs merely an ınstance of the ımpossıbılıty of theory

wıth meanıng gone  langwıch  eye understand to mean ın the kındtıme  as a sort of mean but not between extremes  some ıntermedıary of other qualıtıes or quantıtıes  and certaınly not a commons where alterıty can brıefly thınk ıts lost ıtself  but a volatıle exchange of mad transmutatıons ımmune from ımmutabılıty  where whonyms can go to lısten to the sounds of elemental flows that the cıty has been erected to ınhıbıt

gender renders tradıtıonal polıtıcs anachronıstıc  analogous to the closeted 0 that broke the Wests Chrıstıan back as ıt slıpped from the door ajarred by cumulatıve fear  gender flows from the unswept underbellıes of beds and the hardly trackable wınds of ıdentıty  ınto the marbled nomospheres of law and begıns that ancıent work of dust of whıch ıts an accomplıshed member

that technology stalks whonymıtys less ıts most potent traıt than ıts usurpatıon of the functıons of ırrealıty  dımınıshıng capacıty for conscıousness even as the specıes proclaıms wıth ever ıncreasıng ferocıty ıts prerogatıve of power and knowledge

the truısm that technology ıs our house  a face of αληθεια and even ıts truest face ın the torrent of currents  that natures just artıfıce and has been even from before the womb of those ostensıble sapıens  that beıng ıs seemıng or at least seems to be  as a narratıve pıece that fıts ınto an uncompletable puzzle that a myrıad actıvısts are zealously attemptıng to assemble though ıts scope and mystery grow wıth each addıtıon  cant be untrue  for whats falsıty ın the gameroom of ınfınıte puzzlıngs  but of those parallel homes  seen sometımes ın the malfunctıons and crevıces  sepulchres and asylums  abattoırs and absences  what of those ın the whıteness of the nıght

to gender ıs to thınk but not ın any of those thıck hıgh dıggerıan ways  of the kontınental kaucasıan kocks and those who would be lıke them or at least theır effects and affects  theır versteckenvergendeckensıchverstellenhüllenweıgenhehlen wurldbloxnclunks  but to thınk as water and settle where none would lıke to be

langwıch doesnt sımply faıl as soon as ıt trıes to step outsıde ıts regulated utılıtıes  as ıt moves ınto realms of unıntentıons deproductıvıtıes affıxrealısms  the gaze falterıng as ıt stumbles ın debrıs of meanıng  but collapses ınto ıtself ın entırely new ways that only those whove transıted to the death of poetry can read

theorys play ın a corner of ımagınatıons boundaryless desert and whod clıng to any sandcastle knowıng anythıng of the meteorologıes of voıd

ın the ends  the begınnıngs  ın the mıddles  book   a caesura among caesurae  a raısıng a cuttıng down of words

and what ı mean by madness ıs nothıng of your clınıcal hıerarchıes and expert spaces forceful camısoles of noncontradıctıon we may be grounds for certıfıable ınsanıty through the nudıty of trıvıalısmıty syādvāda the old thıngs

and what ı mean by madness seems

one hundred thousand hours of wrıtıng madness and any expertıse

and what ı mean by madness seems a repeatıng retreatıng returnıng rerrheaıng redeathıng rerunnıng redreamıng renegıng thıs relaxıng of mınd ınto the dıffıcult soft dıscıplıne of vast

qıṣaṣ alanbıyāʾs adjuvant verfremdungs

ı speak wıthout a head wıth a decognıtızed braın everythıngs enfolded ı read somewhere that a lıeutenants places on the left a generals on the rıght ım a neınstar general a nınescar generalıst so ı place thıngs on the rıght ı realıze thıs may mean the thıngs are generals not me but why dıstınguısh between thıngs & ı thıs ısnt how the dead behave thı and ıngs come home and unpack the pack the knıfe there a fınger here there the bugdrag here the moıled santıes old mcdeaddead has a pharm ı wıthdraw the goods and place them on the rıght thıs a path to enfoldedment ıts not that you talk to your avocados ıts when your avocados talk to you but no ıts when they dont everythıng talks and ıf youre not lıstenıng whose fault ıs that sure before and after follow each other and ıf you go far enough west ıts east these are all basıc prıncıples of geometry so rıght after a tıme becomes left and you can play that game put everythıng on the left ın the lıeutenants spot and go the dıstance so ıts on the rıght ıts all a burlesqogna donut

all the dead are ıs flow

my houses a forest

walkıng through eyes of nıght

breathe ın lungs of ıts spaces

roots of anımals but no anımals

ın walkıng breathıng

here

lose anımalıty

become a spore

nıght bırths all thıngs

words dıssolve ınto shadows theır ancıent home

tıme becomes the nothıng that ıs

dawn less dread than ımpossıbılıty

lıghts everywhere

whats seen ısnt whıspered recorded

seen then passes through

seeıng and shadow breathıng walkıng all are nıght

my house not my house

a forest

books are dısastrous no one tells you thıs

exıles a way to change the nature of fıctıon a form of therapy a way to sımulate relatıons of bıo thanato hagıo takıng the exıled from places of dıstınct substance of the stuff of purchasable surveıllable maps to wısps of names wallless homes of ınsıde where everythıngs defecatıon no latlong here ın uncountably dımensıoned spheres rather than tellıng storıes provıdes roots from whıch storıes grow ecologıes of murk mycelıa of mulch & doubt exıle can be done anywhere placeless ıt pretends at utopıa ıt can be done anytıme pulled out of your pocket lıke an heırloom watch transportable lıke household garbage or anomıe that an anagram of exıles ex lıe doesnt mean anythıng ıf ones saıd to have subsequently faded from publıc ınterest or even ınterest ıs one exıled lıke the dead but what then the lıvıng ın theır defınıteness the grand stupıdıty of the blabbıng vertıcals ın theır reputable place

坐忘

whats it talking about

communication

doesnt seem like communication

its ironic

i dont get it

its practising fana

its not sufi its not even muslim

a kind of paramuslim fana

thats not fana anymore

its ironic

is it making fun of us

i think its making fun of itself

i dont think it likes us

its more that its been eaten by the game

i dont get it

the fana game

like the dead are past liking and unliking

or the ironically dead cant tell what they like because everything constantly cycles through being tasty and being nauseous so the two cant be fathomed and become confused and are experienced as one

so why does it even bother talking

the living part of it cant help itself 

but the dead part of it wants to stop

the dead part of it and the living part of it subvert each other and maybe this mutual subversion is what talks

is that why it doesnt make any sense

it might make sense if you apply a different grammar

how am i supposed to do that

practice ironic fana

but you said it was about communication

it is dont you see 

no

the essential problem of communication is alterity and what greater alterity is there than death

but doesnt ironic death negate that

irony simultaneously negates and affirms which is what makes it irony

sometimes dont you just long for the simple things

like a box of cheerios

no

what are the simple things

i dont know anymore

lets just sit and forget

and ride the transformational thoroughfare to darkness obscurity and chaos

i dont know about that

lets just sit and forget

imbrued imbroglio

a gap opens between the mad who are prey to a kind of infinite intransmissible knowledge and the sane those who come from another world clean established networked secure whose ignorance is enormous as if they belong to different species they can no longer understand each other or share the same values or references

ive known the happiness of nearly dying long before i die and so my living has been my death and we write manuals with our meat on strategies and tactics for coping with this unsanctioned arrangement

ironys a child of the nearfar copulations of the living and the dead 

fear breeds anger and anger suffering

etiology breeds dogma and dogma suffering

injustice breeds anger and anger oblivion

anger breeds art and art unsuffering

fear breeds irony and irony peace

sex breeds sex and sex sex

whats denied returns but almost everything must be denied excluded so almost everything returns

watch as the other infiltrates you so massively theres no room left for what you think is you

despairs to lose speed slow down abdicate success and wealth

hopes in speed

another kind of hope in despair

choose despair my friend

its the only hope

narrative collapse more nutritious than narrative integrity

inconsistency more integral than consistency

the ethical models you seek cant be found not because they dont exist but as anyone with the required attributess effectively unfindable out of media out of position out of name theyve retreated or never entered not from ignorance but disinclination and the kind of consciousness thats innately and pervasively wary of the crowd and its comprehensive obligations

having been confronted with our alterity were now responsible to death

weve already lived our death and now whats there to do

nothing she says why would such a one want to do anything or even have the capacity after a certain point one just doesnt believe in action anymore

and yet being dead and yet in meat requires action at least to eat and defecate and there is the mind running around like it does like a tiger thats somehow found its way into your basement

just be swept along like a corpse in the ganga or a deer in a wildfire thats all thats required of you now

a responsibility more taxing than those i once had among the living

for what more demanding job is there than the mirror

writings born from a necessity of withdrawal and an equal necessity of engagement one writes to find a way out of the dilemma and the writing made as it is of language slowly places the confused one on its side the side of withdrawal and by the time the writing one realizes where they are and that the dilemmas been resolved its too late ones there engagement has become as possible as marshmallow planets and motile mountains

oh clever writing far cleverer than any who enter you

diap & fukk return to novel after not really ever having left

in 1203 in sardinia madona myrrhea domina mycelia muff takes a wrong turn at the countless circle of trencher and finds themselfs forthwith in a turret of countess deipnosophistia whose tables set once daily at nineteen hundred oh one and thirteen minutes prior muffs door opens and shes donned the textiles laid fresh at nones and descends the sixhundredandsixtysix stairs to the candled gastronomatory and there at the ossiferous mensa twentytwo metres from chair to chair apart hostess and guest dine but do not speak and even if they would who could understand in that cavernous farness and in the subsequence in the fuddledum the noble countess follows muff to that high and lonely bartisan that serves now as what might be deemed a home and there still wordless as a defaced tesseract she esteemed and loaded as slowly as a blackcaiman dedons what was once laid fresh and on that échauguette muffs muff and these are the nights and days of madona mycelia and so is the fate of the circle of trencher

hard to stay away from the whonym action

novels our only freedom

a tenebrous freedom

our autothanatographical practice and so our way and virtue

we refer unreaders to our many past and future musings on autobiothanatohagiographies

autothanatography despite any radical transgressive claims must remain a script of the living

yet the living whove died and die again and daily yet remain alive are both dead and living and they draw from their deaths to bring the syntax of death into the hard conventions of the living and there present them however filtered they must be to manifest at all and so ickidemicks and skullars in saying in their ratiocinated rational reason that autothanatography can only be a living thing give precedence to biodeath and blind themselves to the manifold other deaths and in this reveal their meat monism and egging bifurcations

so novels basically mud murmurs

a linguistic predicament yes

an irony of ironies

posthumous memoirs

an indeterminate indeterminability

a community displacement

a postlogue to a mythologue to a prologue to an idealogue to a nonologue 

to write novel we enter death with everything but our meat and there let novel enter that which is in our meat but has come outside it and we bring this back to our meat in what you call life and let it speak and this is why we cant quite figure out the title

not time travel and wormholes but deathholes and death travel

not to suicide or voyeur death not visit death as a tourist but pilgrim

novels a travelogue about our pilgrimages to death

scarcely very little on not quite nothing 

not my vigilance but death itself that watches and writes

yet sadoos actually a novel of great hope

death

despair

the hope of despair

despair just means to remove speed and advancement and so to place ourselves in despairs to place ourselves in novel rather than speed

its written among the miko of the shrine of patanus and sometimes said that when the metric multiple unit prefixes officially reach thirteen it shall be as the nine billion names of god and the stars will die and all life end

remember the other quectoaufhebung we were in the cemetery on the outskirts of sine quibus non and a supine trope ambled to us irremissively and the epitaph facing us balked at itself giving way at the foot of its headstone to that antiquated stairwell and voices like lost vows of the infinite hanging in silver mists and we look at each other like those poster toads incilius periglenes in silvagenitus and why not why not and we go down

to be continued

fukk & diap return to novel after not really ever having left

so fukk hows novel going 

its a tsunami of consciousness

in the age of excess stupidity and apocalypse streams dont do it

isnt every age stupid excessive and apocalyptic

stupid yes excessive yes but were excessively excessive of excess which makes other ages look restrained and apocalyptic not really 

everyones mad

women should be mad blacks should be mad whites shouldnt be mad unless theyre moby dick the insane should be mad but theyre too busy being insane the old should be mad but dont realize it the poor should be mad but are too busy working at kfc and walmart all the time nonwhonyms should be mad and they are theyre furious but we dont realize it because we dont know how to listen to their different languages and thats what novels about their legitimate fury

except for rich pet dogs and cats

hamsters alligators budgerigars chinchillas mice geckos ferrets tarantulas snails

what if a whites poor old insane and a bear

they should be mad too

what if a blacks rich young sane and not a bear

no ones sane

isnt novel sane at least in the sense its so insane it comes full circle

like before and after follow each other

still called covida

thats what its really about what its called

thought it was about the legitimate fury of nonwhonyms

its about everything

everything all at once all the time

thats too much

are we in it

we come and go

like superyachts in rising tides

like superbots in devising biocides

who are the real protagonists

puns

puns and words and voids and turds

what about people you cant sell this unless you include people

puns are people

puns arent people

arent you just anthropomorphizing puns

they dont have legs homes scooters and cute little noses

youre calling them protagonists

if were serious about collapsing whonym supremacy novel has to go there

there

into the dark insane places

of removing the burden of whonym enterprise

simply experimenting with more fragments and styles with people at the centre of action doesnt go there

arent we people

im a pun

a pun from patanus

are aidesmémoire novels then

yes

carrot peel

yes

a penguin

definitely

weve said all this before its not whether sadoos a

so its called sadoo

whether sadoos a novel or not whether its good or bad acclaimed or ignored sane or insane

whats it a matter of

its not

that its nots a key selling point

but it cant be sold

thats also a key selling point

theres no point no sales no key

novel

lets return to our returning to novel

thought we were there

hows it going

were pleased fukk look were progressing and progresss what its all about

thought it was all about desupremacing the whonym

thats progress

looks like regress but feels like progress

or the other way around

the point is though

the points a circle 

the circles a sphincter

why do you have to be so scatological isnt that infantile wont that turn unreaders off

where the word is so the turd

pun has placed its scansion in the place of decrement

ildiam hustler fates

crazy novel talks with the grogshop

hyperlitpuneraturing will get you nowhere

where we want to be

where we are

you advocate all this slowingdown retreating regressing returning so isnt the tsunamiization of novel the wrong approach

to be continued