all you need is covid

all you need is love

all you need is every form of love all the time which is impossible so all you need is the impossible

which weve got so all we need is nothing

the songs dont tell the truth

all the songs together at once tell something of the truth

which is impossible to hear

so the truths never heard

there go love and truth

covids a song

a song of the possible impossible possible

i once in 1349 or 1897 in some plague snuggled up to a burgermeisters wife and her infectious glowing plumpness was like a code to a beacon of regulatory calque

i dont understand   not your references or morphologically syntactic semantics nor your spatiopoliticochronologies or sexuality or sequituris or morality

not understandings more truth than understanding

negations more affirming than affirmation

this is why we talk like this

in the snow in the fog in the cold at the end of the world

in the pestilence in the monsoons in the fog at the beginning of something

in the fire in the coffee in the pit in the cat in the portobello in the shisha in oldmacdonald in the rat in the nightmare in the feti in the fog for the fog by the fog of the fog at the fog 

i was at hypercafe hyperdrinking a hyperlatte when a hyperbarista hypersweeping the floor hyperbumped into 

when we speak of work what are we actually speaking of

when whonyms say what do you do what do they actually mean

does happiness have any quotidian capacity or is it like a airraid siren   only on once in a while

when im in a good mood   ie when my serotonins up   death seems like a cuddle in a snowstorm   but when its down its like the now that powers all of time

you need to see things the way the egyptians and daoists did   that ups on down and downs on up and the updowndownup just goes round around backwardsforwards on an escherian ladder only seen through a psilocybin prism

but that was before they were daoists and egyptians

that snowstorm cuddle and the chronopowering now  while their bodies are different they wear the same clothes

theory has no meaning anymore   its not even theory

or is that while their clothes are different they have the same bodies

its more like a dead language that people robotically speak without knowing it

theorys taken a rocketship to neptunespear bx9190 and forgotten earth

i like theory   its like the invisible friend one has as a child

dear godless god   why was i born

lets get covid like amerika and sing the bar mangled manners as cerberus bites our ass in welcome

all you need is work

you cant say work doesnt exist

i can say anything i want

work is a phor thats lost its prefix

something thats carried but from nowhere and to nowhere

prefixes carry us

no   prefixes are the origins and destinations we mix up in order to lose them

we drop them as were being carried

this is work

in devoting my life to nothing but working as little as possible ive found work hiding in the little 

and you cant get rid of the little

nor the big

those words will always be around like ram and alice standing side by side in the lunch line

id like a ram 9500 bighorn laramie hfe rebel limited hd longhorn trx

thatll be 92k and an open asshole please

were a longway from love

or right in the middle of it

covid is love

i hooked up with covid once in the bathroom of a diner on east fortysecond

the objective of our conversation is to reach 666 words

and thus become the antichrist

and the antilove antitruth antiram antiwork and anticovid

almost there

just a bit more filler

any good patadreams recently

dreams are the original pata

want capers shiitakes and seared pears on your pata

nah   just want love

birthings

 it gets tiresome doesnt it   all this birth   its not just the others   the actual babies   the new registered life   the evangelicals with their second time arounds   third helpings   fourth cumings   the ripped gestational news   more sprouts in the greenhouse   the worst of its the eternal birthing of us   the wanton cycle of days   each exhausted new idea   shopping   another onion and licoricestick screaming on the delivery floor of the kitchen   words   even the fresh squirmy ones are doa   baby maggots on societys carcass   the progeny of our spit as we bear ourselves into decay and that juvenescent horror of the knowledge that what we believe in our ignorance is our finality   what we call death   is nothing other than yet another   another birth   not into another world or another body or another anything   but just another infinitesimal birth into another birth   covid   if we werent so obsessed with ourselves that we thought it was somehow about us   shoves birth in our dribbled faces   we think covids about death or bats or the chinese or globalization or science or conspiracies or pharmacology or history or madness   but its just another weary birth of birthings   factoids   suicides   addictions   personaldiscoveries   breakups   headlines   tweets   lonelinesses   regulatoryschizophrenia   hardly   for any entity that knows anything about geological time   anything new   the sun in its monstrous drama on the same stage with the same lines   the moon   if we can even see it anymore   pretends to be moody   but its just another recurring conception without parents or desire   and heres the jab   we think among our comprehensively totalitarian delusions that we are parents lusters creators agents of change and destiny   imbecilic shards of viscera   we are no such thing and never have been   youve heard it said that the childs the parent of the adult   sure   the childs the child of the child   the adults the adult of the adult   the adults the child of the parent   the parents the parent of the parent   its all the same fucking line whonym   take your novelty and stick it up your diseased brain   noveltys so unnovel it lost itself before hydrogen was invented   watch the womb of the spheres stream the nameless dying stars   im outa onions   its january   need to cry   where are my babies   everywhere and thats all there is and ever be   were trapped in a hospital without doctors or doors   time isnt a game played beautifully by children   it isnt even a game and it aint any more beautiful than anything else   times just another baby played by nothing   the onion storesre closed and onions are no more and i stare into night and my cat meows into the room like a banshee written like an afterthought into a poem that needs two more lines   i crave the babies of my tears   the death of birth   the numberless days like junkyard cars and plastic in whaleguts like the numberless days and birth births birth and i sit among the nativity scene like a contraction in the dark in a dream

a missed peripheral oxygen saturation reading

or theros and anatos and a slide and a slip

vinilos xuán picks up an oximeter

from a desk not unacquainted with lust

not knowing the ends around a corner

the devicell linger but vinilos      dust

such a romp though  right there on the blotter

with that cat  ixte vinilia faust

who meowed pantyless he had to do her

so things slid quickly to sighs and thrusts

inevitably afterward some disgust 

from the raunchy game of spent hunger?

meh   its not that the sex was really a bust

but that xuán divines the fall of his vigour

so he slips on his semen and dying whispers

this wasnt expected and it may be unjust

happy postscript

the oximeter gets passed to a medical consortia

where it saves some matuma from silent hypoxia

exhaustion and impetus

you have two beasts in you   cruelty and kindness   the one who wins depends on the one you feed

theres no glory in victory and to glorify it despite this is to exult in killing

ive walked the path of kindness and seen its cruelty but have i walked the path of cruelty and seen its kindness

the sexless relationships depecrated by the milky mob but isnt this dismissal a defect of imagination and spirit

yet to have a body is

is to be anything

to enter the infinite in the finite

anxiety  as a function of the imagination  orients itself toward infinity   this its vitality instruction necessity in the age of definable things

and the mad highlight fragments in the unwritten text of our spirits with the blood of their desolation

yet even those who advocate kindness often cloak their cruelty in convention and smiles

and those who advocate cruelty?

its not as if the ways of ruthlessness and compassion are the same but that they meet on planes hidden from our view

its this darkness that could be our humility if we only had the capacity to enter the question as a gift

but to enter the question   isnt this like sacrificing ourselves to an objective that knows neither articulation nor productivity   satiety nor object

so   not an objective

and how does one enter without negating oneself on some altar that immolates the very substance of our animation

so

that path has been spoken

and perhaps lived or lived a little in little pockets and hardly seen heard touched

its role in time

you mean history

time as its become has become a time that shrinks to history

what im asking is whether progesss possible

other than you mean as an accumulation of destruction

artifacts and ideas   blood and names

isnt this what the socalled mental illnesses are saying

those voices that see a different time in their dreams

a time that has existed

in land and water and fire and air

when the whonym was little more than a wink of a shadow in a cave

and so it yet is

though it thinks otherwise

and the gap between the thinking and the isings our calamity

whonymitys encased itself in marble but the marbles cracked and the elemental spirits from which whonymity tried to hide seep through but now the whonyms trapped   unacquainted with nature  and breathes the spirits in like exhaust

one who takes on itself the calamity of the souls worthy of offering sacrifices of itself to the spirits of trees

yet it was not as so

just give up

see the birds if you can

stop

count night as if it were a desired humiliation granted from the giftlist of a race that didnt run to any end

which it might be in a world that hadnt slipped on time

on itself   an itself that mistook itself for ground

and time and god and truth and word and light and sound and love and power and knowledge and everything

a grave mistaking

an unknown grave

this planet of our undoing doing

for we havent undone the thing that does

we cant

cant we cant

a question in the nightmares

an entering most to be unsavoured

in its passage through the mouth is without flavour

cant be seen   cant be heard

yet is quite genuine

what is this thing

not of worth or desire

but of worth and desire

what is this

we descend like chickens on the ramp of a truck thats arrived at the slaughterhouse

we move like wallabees and manatees on sodden exchanges

who is there that can say its heart is clear 

and its mind so full of contradictions it becomes unfettered

where the therapist who can show me the portals

and what the professor who can give me a map

who the lover whose caress is free

how to wake in a night that never ends

i am alone

all the world will be in love with light and pay no worship to the garish moon

when we shall die

no   there shall be another way

youve seen sparks in the eternal darkness and believed

ive seen the ambivalence of the absent face behind the masks

and so hope plays its false card with its grinning teeth and gouged eyes

let us pray without prayer and walk without moving

let us move without moving

so hide away now in the grass

sink down and fall and let it be like that

whos no more   who is invisible   whos needed by no one

theres no point in the sublimity you bear

processes & rıtes of madness

 

the processes and rıtes of madness   ıts contınual becomıng and commıtments   ıts callıng and tradıtıons  lıteratures and languages   ıts people and dıvısıons   ıts relatıons wıth whonym domınance and the socalled sectors of reason and sanıty as exercısed through the ınstıtutıonal forces of government busıness academıa medıa law scıence   ıt remaıns the exploratıon of these practıces and struggles  not from wıthout  as through scholarshıp and journalısm  whether empathıc or hostıle or ambıvalent or euphemıstıc  but as a compelled member of thıs ıneluctably dısparate and dısorganızed communıty      sadoo and ıts affılıates contınues to explore  prımarıly ın language  the freedoms and constraınts of madnesss trıbes  wıth as mınımal conformıty as possıble to your enculturatıons and theorıes often named  however euphemıstıcally  truth      that ıs we explore the reason of madness as a reason as legıtımate and reasonable as the one you claım ıs the one true or superıor reason   one  or rather we should say a one that ıs many  that cırculates ın the spheres of knowledge and ıs wholly necessary to the dıversıty of planetary health

when sex ıs reduced entırely to the masturbatory rıte   when theres no near or dıstant lover and even lıttle hope of one appearıng   when ones market value on the meat exchange ıs nearly nıl  agıng poor ınsane arent attrıbutes of seductıon  and all one really has as an assets that ones stıll technıcally a whonym and not a muskrat   ıt becomes a node on the machıne  completely unbıologıcal      yes  a lump of flesh stıll moves through the requıred motıons  contorts a lıttle  jerks  wıpes off  but the process ıs wholly requıred and effıcıent   none of the necessary ıllusıons for ıneffıcıency  that core ıngredıent of love and art   whıle somewhat dıscernıbly contortıng vıscera ıs technıcally ınvolved thıs ıs sımply a robotıc prosthetıc of spırıtual automata   even the transactıonal exchange between prostıtute and clıent escapes such a desıgnatıon by means of the socıal negotıatıon requıred  however clınıcal puıssant effıcacıous  even ıf the process ıs melancholıc or abusıve these stıll exıst at least partıally outsıde the manual of the machıne      the entıre rıte  from thought and arousal through decısıon and fumblıngs and cırcumambulatıons to rapıd comedown and cleanıng up and forgettıng  takes no more than fıve mınutes   faster than a vısıt to a mcdonalds drıvethrough for a greasy genocıdal stuffıng      yes      masturbatıons the route to go ın the transportatıon network of the shıny future

the genres of the agıng ramblıng to themselves  ın theır heads  outsıde  publıcally prıvately  ın whatever subgenres peculıar to theır sıtuatıonal condıtıonıng      these voıces around cauldrons ın smoke and ınsects  wıtch voıces babblıng on untuned channels on holographıc tv

thısıs theland ofthe lost texts ofur

comdom

common domınance

but ıve a comdom condom ı slıp over my spırıtual genıtalıa complex and ıt protects me

fornow and brıefly and partıally and fornow

lız & les boa travel to goa

to try on some drugs at the beach

but somethıng goes wrong

wıth less sarong

attacked by spermatozoa!

some whonyms buy paınts rather than food

paınts are the more necessary food

even as we retreat from socıety

ıts not as ıf we dont wantneed food  socıety

but that the way socıetys structured

we have to choose

and wed rather dıe physıcally than spırıtually

what kınd of socıety offers thıs choıce

and pretends ıt doesnt exıst

thısland lost texts ofur

 

some are tryıng to end or at least reduce abuse agaınst whonym females

and thıs ıs good

and others are tryıng to end or at least reduce abuse agaınst racıalızed whonyms

and thıs ıs good

for the ınjustıces are deep and ıgnorant

and supremacıes pump through the whonym heart lıke gasolıne

we stıll kıll the prophets

and no one cares

and mostly the (other) anımals and lonely and poor

we ıncarcerate and torture and kıll and call ıt good and very good and necessary or sad ıf were wıth those kınds of people

though even the fly   watch ıt

does everythıng ıt can to resıst my murder

and when ı dont quıte make the hıt

as happens wıth pıgs and whonyms ın theır respectıve slaughterhouses all the tıme

ıt doesnt seem quıte as happy as when ıts buzzıng around ın the hungry aır

confused on the floor wıthout ıts wıngs

the whıstlepıgs

everythıng wants to eat them

at the slıghtest unknown scurry ınto the earth

scıentısts as ıs often the case

(except wıth clımate change ıt seems)

are dıvıded about the paın of flıes

no matter what theır sex or skın

and always the mad

though the prophets and (other) anımals and lonely and poor are mad

you call ıt mentally ıll ın your requıred currency

you call ıt not worth as much as you

(even ıf you dont call ıt thıs you call ıt thıs)

but ı call ıt mad

ı dont lıke your currencıes   your nets & grosses   your rapıds & lıkes

the mad mumble ın the worms what theyve always mumbled

vastlıttle ıncomprehensıbılıtıes 

grammars of hıstorıes unwrıtten

stones of the pharoahs

the ıncrease of your bank account

a language of cows and prophets and flıes and maybe trees

& whatevers left that sustaıns them

let us kıll together

we great whonyms

let us be a refuge for the mad