2020h 20.2x2 2020

her name is fine. not fine, but myryl våårkt-ng or sometimes myryl värccit. she’s an ōvid gapitalist and wears her dofo like a dumpstream

myryl’s maillon market’s gone uptits in the downstocks and myryl’s glum as xmas cake

though dedefeated in that way of mathematics. she sucks palladium and zooms sometimes durga, molly alway, through glunted flows

stringing wehrmachteinheitskanisters together like lights in holiday myryl’s lots to do and recites père ubu in ahkwesáhsne and bunners stale my åhörare

buys the dofos on straße des beefcake at abibati’s. tried queue on spotti once but frays were that undoing. models dofos for doktor üffÿn and doktor üffÿn’s bore afflicted

who hasn’t seen turdus major rise above the fire tyrants on a gluegun gorki ngó lockdown as a ready maid hoovers rinnotama juniper oxycedrus up her prickly

dofo juducanus abasactha says injudicate in situ. molto poco multe. nadie sabe lo que espera en este mundo. ex mons in pubicus. došo

still. those carabiners climb. and myryl's not one to not. the dreams are pretty touching. she covers me with acrylics and cotton balls and we do the main on drag street

the name's not fine but värccit vååkt-ng or something. she wears it cool like chemicals. her dofo's lit she speaks the shit, my bunner's stale like ubu

a decorticated corium holted down the scarp in its clastic kirtle to a curt cenation

i’d like to write sentences like today’s title. you’ll say i do. i did. but that’s not what i mean. i’d like to write or use them not as fact – here’s a sentence – but as a communicative device among tribes who’d understand me, with whom such a description could be spoken and my colleagues in language wouldn’t look at me as if i were insane or drunk but would respond in similar modes … and this continue until such time the conversation, like any, concluded through interruption, external necessity, or natural demise. instead these utterances crash into my solipsistic castle, which is vast but cold, then slink into the locked nothingnesses of its dungeons as quickly as they came

in the same spirit i’d like to begin a novel –

her name is fine. not fine, but myryl våårkt-ng or sometimes myryl värccit. she’s a covid gapitalist and wears her dofo like a dumpstream

if i could sustain this writing such an opening would rival literature’s great starts. but i can’t. strings of words – though some would say the diction here’s too generous – coalesce in my mind from the endless phoneme rubbish floating in my fluvial polluted cranium. all i do – all i can do – is fish out whatever coalescences are within reach – lurching for those that attract me, missing some or many – recording them for my nonexistent audience of the voided mad in the forgotten annals of sadoo. they sit alone on the park benches of narrative, going nowhere, staring blankly into the laughing continuity of passing conversation. of course even if i could go on and finish such a novel it would make no sense, at least in the usual sense of sense. but that sense’s sense isn’t mine and why i suppose i’ve turned out to be a hangnail of destiny

while i realize such utterances can easily be dismissed as nonsense or technical pedantry, they actually make as or more sense to me than the overwhelming majority of sentences spoken and written in society. and they're certainly far more beautiful, at least to a mind incapable of being habituated to expected discourse 

theorizing of my instinctual orientations leads me to conclude that a core function of literature is to not say anything while pretending to say something. most of what’s called literature achieves this by maximizing the gap between the pretense and the nothing, a maximization commonly called abstraction. i’ve no objections to this approach – and have often greatly benefitted from it – except that by now we’ve had a sufficient sampling of this style, however manifoldly expressed, dominant and expected in art's conservative circles as all defined forms come to be, waiting for an aesthetic embryo to survive the barbarous assaults of convention, take shape, kick the old forms out of the way, and become that weary obese master that in its turn has to be attacked and murdered

while i have no hope of my embryo surviving much beyond the foetal stage, i immerse myself wholly in the opposite extreme – a grossly underexplored sector of literature and thus a hypothetical future : to minimize the gap so that the pretense is the nothing and the gap, ideally (even if this ideal might be impossible to achieve in practice), falls into itself and disappears. the samples of language i’ve given above and liberally share in sadoo and life indicate - however murkily, inchoately, falsely - what i'm vainly striving for

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pseudo recurrent covid simulation syndrome

prcss

can be pronounced process

(for those preferring vowels in their words)

definition : the disease inflicted on any creator for an hour or more (sometimes a day or longer) after it has to go into the infected universe to shop

example : fever, coughing, exhaustion, difficulty breathing … all these occur and heavily oppress without there being any evidence of them

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for the plasmatic, those inexorably of plasmatic consciousness – we, pyroclastic residue of the dead gods – all we can do in this overpriced buffoonery called life is attempt (though futilely) to keep up with the meteorological changes (however violent, however calm or nuanced) that blip and strike through our souls and whose energy and presence largely obliterate society, its processes and structures that define for almost all reality

i’m a failed meteorologist. a meteorologist as all i’m interested in are my internal weather systems. but a failed one both because it’s an unrecognized and thus wholly unpaid profession, with no accreditations, degrees, offices and collegial battles … lacking models, charts, predictive frameworks for what i study. weather happens and i write it down, but only fragments of scattered, small and random ecosystems of the circumferenceless madness that’s always swirling

not only this gross reduction, but a second one, as egregious and insane – for i translate the weather of my soul into words. and words were never designed to carry the weight of such translation. words and souls live in mutually exclusive universes. the former are products of the commons – designed to, however falteringly and flawed, transmit messages among those committed to quotidian human concerns, regardless of whether these concerns are emotional, pecuniary, political, sexual, transactional, intellectual, sensual, philosophical, religious. but we are what we are as josephus might have written and i run after my weather as an ant might after an elephant if it were carnivorous and could only eat elephants … which doesn’t make sense, but then neither do i

yet even to call myself a failed meteorologist is too elevated. in reality i’m a prisoner, chained to the winds, hail, lightning, fog, and relative humidity of my weather systems. if that chain sometimes feels long, as when i’m being pulled along through the patasphere by heavy gales, or sometimes short, as when impenetrable immobile fog pins me down … neither makes me less or more a prisoner. i'm chained to the stormy nothings of myself until death comes along with its efficient shears and snips a link

i don’t work, everything around me works. all i do is remove myself from work so as not to work and this removing some could say might be some sort of work. for example right now i watch tiny occasional bubbles in my cider pop on the surface. the cider works around me and i watch its working. i write the work of the cider and some would say this writing – which i call removing – might be some sort of work. but – no – i’ve never worked. i’m incapable of it

wizards of åł₫øṙ

in times when magic and philosophy, religion and science, politics and poetry aren’t riven by fear's sundering forces some wizards practice in the hills of åł₫øṙ and they are limpid

 this limpidity isn’t of the sort that clarifies however, not meaning it’s misnamed but only that its naming’s of the kind directing through its misdirects

 the hills themselves resemble those bedsheets of a child who devotes in bed to hours of play on waking till an authority shoots time into the now forever sullied room

 the wizards have avoided getting certified in any of the schools even to the point of not caring of their reputations among their peers. how then can they be considered wizards?

 interacting with one another in their way we surmise, though evidence is gleaned not from much statistic and more from that intuition that begets an unthanked world

 occasionally though very one wanders incidentally into the sundered lands and on the side and guileless creates mistakes too visibly and sometimes one will die

 once every arc of arcs they gather and recite though not that pleasantly for few the principles of unknown misdirections and in this there’s little turning

 åł₫øṙ itself (though this form of speaking’s foreign) relieves itself of having to appear on many maps and those it does are mostly, even more, lost or burnt or stolen

 practicing in times but not in sunders facilitates a mode or modes that we might say if we could say are unspoken, scarcely manifest, yet something’s there and we know it

6 cognitive feelings

sigil isn’t simply a sign but a system of signage, systems of signages. not any system from any central planning agency, scholarly analysis, of will, design … but one having arisen from, returning to, and being of the nature and function of collapse. and so a nonsystem – relation networks lacking any discernible nodes or paths, any capacity to map their maps

when sigils gather from the nonprinciples of their own randomness, from the generations of blind heaving mud, it neither is some metasystem – a galaxy rather than a planet, a universe not a galaxy. instead, it piles nonsystem on nonsystem, asystem on asystem. but not even piles. each asystem (yet we can’t even use system in our description – it’s an ystem, a metsy, a tysem, a myste) exists in and apart from the others, without recognition or parallelism but having generated within the same disorganization of madness 

signage to what then? to a physic of itself certainly, a physic incomputable from or within those ones of planes, falling apples, fluvial sublimations, bananas going bad. sigil then is less any appeal to forces or energies, any call for curse or blessing, any desire or volition for psychic modification or tweaking in the external or internal worlds of accessible description … but a fuliginous invoking of a chemistry of oneiric futility

sigil arises from impossibility, cognitive decreation, volitional frustration and indicates, however abstrusely, their constitutions and constituents – not anything of hydrogen, xenon, palladium but elements for which we have no names, science, institution. so the human vectors of sigil live through the scrubbed and staggering smiles of the ponderous reality of your physic in gross disarray and if anything is redeemed for them – but the diction here is inaccessibly clastic – it’s those brief occasional unpredictable interruptions of time when sigil functions in its way as an alien technology facilitating access through the skyscraping concrete of your universal reality onto, however dimly, the mind of another (what else could we call it?) light

sigil accumulates but unquantifiable ether adding no weight to any scale. it guides but not to any end, start, name. it marks but leaves no trace or memory. it seals but everything is open. it images but grants neither value nor dimensionality, idea nor likeness

sigil is prayer. a visible concatenation of a mathematics of negative encomia for hesolate and dapless souls, a geometry of meditative illustrative exercises designed to dedesign signs, post dimulations on bebroken media ... not these to any god or gods or like a boomerang to selves or self, neither destined nor oriented nor aimed, but gas and words in ripe wildernesses of nonutterings

scrubbed & staggering smiles

corona in making government even more important for the prosaics of living necessitates the creator making it even less important. how does it do this? the way it does everything – by repurposing … in this case government to the point of joyous unrecognizability, a disintegrating cartoon, of de-functioning it … by – rather than government placing the creator in its systems, the creator re-placing government in the creator’s liquid and bubbling worlds

… through the art of transporting facticity to imagination …

cat whomyn sadoo
sigil54

melting government down to its elemental parts, its raw plasmatic chemistry rather than its ponderous and monumental historicity, its statues and statutes, refashioning (using the creator’s visionary forges and witty subversions) the hot elemental materials into gaseous artifacts of melancholic laughter

the creator also applies these techniques to news, fame, money, mores and morality, death. only language and love partially escape

nuflwuflufl ffl
sigil 66

the creator’s fires, for they themselves are fires that refashion creators. everything else is cooled melt, frozen humans on metal horses, tangled wires of media

and scrimmage. you say – but death … death cannot be this. no you’re wrong. death too is just news – its only useful parts those already residing in love and language

mary had a little lamb

its grease was white as snow

and everywhere that ahab went

that mary was sure to go

through the stops

they haven’t been to the places

the places

come close but always been something

there’s nothing in the way

it’s the nothing that keeps them away

screamings and the nothing

nothings and the screaming

i once had a dream

and now the dream has you

the having then the being had is in the places

and not

absence

itth goze inth inth

that joke

i’m in kind of a good mood now

i was but it stopped

the signage of moods

if you go through a stop sign do you crash

can’t go through those ones

stop really means stop

but on the roads

in three dimensions

away from moods

but not away

stop means stop but doesn’t mean stop

moods mean more meanly than roads

moods are roads

more than roads are moods

moods are rude but so are roads

but differently

i’d like to be an amphitheatre

onanism i’ve heard is

i’ve heard onanism

if you’re on an ism are you also on an ology

onanology’s not a thing

not on ism

onanists are on a jism

more that jism’s on an onanist

are onanists anonymous

we’re off the road

and through the stops

and in the places

we’re allogists

we get the gists

and miss them

we miss the missings

i miss miss gist

miss gist   she had the places

but she hadn’t been

she was the places

to was or not to been

that’s the indigestion

i’d like a hamelette without the ham

or the question

or the let

not much left

but the places

and the missings

the indigestions

summer

the stoppings

and the places

news cums (queues' numbs [quentos numbē

most humans communicate according to a more or less agreed upon and unreflected code of emotional politics, this language of the discarded mirror. communication if it would break (de- and recreate) the commons – that is if it would become itself through becoming not itself, this apophatic reengineering – might follow codes of mutually incomprehensible vision, each visionary with its own distinct zeitgeist syntax (zeitax – language as time art, a time handle, spirit sensuality), the learning of which requires an education outside

outside what?

outside prepositions?

but language somehow has stepped in and said – i can translate (not only from vision to language but language to language and then from language to vision) … an unviable claim and one that ridiculously we must believe, those of us for whom the standard and imposed code of emotional politics is inefficient, unrepresentative, bellicose

the horror of covid far less the viral invasion of humanity, any socioeconomic collapse, the inability to travel or hang out in cafes or bars, but the (radically more virulent) attack of the news, which has invaded massively everywhere, making the biological virus seem like a failed startup. these wretched catastrophes of protestated unity, love, novelty the news cums on us like a molestation, dankly

news drives out poetry, out further than its out before. and where does poetry go in this essentialized wholesale genocide? where can it be exiled from exile?

we're exiled from nature
covid calls us back

but is it no novel virus but some poem?

a genre in which i write : leviticana. for some aims to be as tedious, convoluted, obscure as leviticus … arcane unlaws for the possdisessed

we need to begin imagining imagine (imagination, imagining)

we begin by change its a and 2 i’s to long vowels, its e to a schwa, its g to hard (in imagination the 2 a’s and 3 i’s to long, the t to hard, the final i and o pronounced separately and the on pronounced as the preposition; in imagining the 1 a and 3 i’s to long). imagine has too long been unimaginative

the age of collective desuetude moves into the tent of the human and makes itself at home in the sleeping bag of the small

humans calling the corona period this terrifying time. it’s terrifying only because humans like you weren’t calling time terrifying before this terrifying time …

                  as with naming various events/changes/closures unthinkable, unprecedented. if you hadn’t thought this already, if you were incapable of thinking this, what kind of embarrassment are you to intelligence? if you experience these minor disruptions as unprecedented, what viral disaster are you to spirit?

the media headlines (now more than usually apparent due to the odd and false unitary focus of content) manifest themselves as a fluvial polypolarity of mind – this thought, that feeling, that thought, this feeling, this possibility, this possibility closed, … that panic’d collective mind racing around itself trying to grasp a ground … the content runs through sectors of futures like a dissettled cat exploring a new or reconstituted (that newold, this derefamiliarized) space

once humans move into the middles or centers of capitalism – whether in the industries called healing, education, military (it matters little) [and what devotion, madness, discipline are required to not move] – they have the opportunity to legally and legitimately (often rewardingly, approvingly) apply the exploitation and force they’ve had applied to them illegitimately (illegally, exploitatively) often forcefully, prior to the moving. the smile and its language prosthetics as a liturgy of these applications

reading articles designed to stop me from suiciding (the corona-suicide link) typically increase my desire to suicide. they fit comfortably into the psychotherapeutic discourses serving the interests of the normals and all these apparati and languages to those of us unable to conform orand disliking immensely (to the point of nausea) the contortional acts of attempting to conform yet more bullying from the tyranny of normals culture (a wearisome irony being that some of this effort is, from the normals’ pov, trying to help [though even often as a mobic and fearful act]) … all this does is depress further, showing yet again how incapable they are of understanding our biology, even as they are the biologies of other living systems (other than trying to force change, whether violently through chemicals or violently through social pressures and bullyings – which they call kindnesses – of languages and systems ... into their kind)

what design!
to be kind

counting death. living episodes of transition, movement as home. from here to here. the day as a number in the mathematics of death. a calculus of the corpse

much heard much to doo

words are lent like potato chips

as the vine is wine

and spent in time

and time like words

just rhyme with crows

or quips or herd jejunity