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
3.4.22
horses of hot unction
clouds have fled babylon
but the muscovite snitches on the saints who roll the relics of the sublime between the teeth of money to not any high
its not that anxietys more interesting than confidence but that it holds within it more interest its mortgages more costly and its term lengthier
water questions the city but the citys too busy to listen
incomprehensibility as camaraderie the nearness of lunacy stoppage as movement return as progress
the circus of the night tram a show worthy of the highest tonys
living the dream but the dream isnt any pleasant fantasy but the dream of dreaming confused exhausting morphing nonlinear disturbing parasemantic disobedient para trans and pataphysical
trucks like cabbages roam the streets like banshees abducted by a greater nightmare
prisons provide society with its sanctity a continual gift maintaining a false mycelium that fruits structural toxicity
the inquisition morphs like water in the receptacle of history and we drink its many flavours with a nonchalance born of the club of time
covid registers on an exchange of currency unexchangeable on the exchanges of the current currencies
its not the narratives routinely shifting that should be troubling but that theres no nonnarratives embracing the shiftings
the reliance on voidic wit through text disappearing empty text remains witless wit it acts like a muddled sage that doesnt take the judgement the absence of nature takes language and throttles it
youre trying to avert the loneliness to avoid the dialogue thats fled
in covid the city building itself no whonyms to inhabit them but the skyscrapers rise anyway homages to a system that cant stop itself like a recent corpse that keeps walking as if memory were a stale leftover of time
cavorting with the priests of the temple of stupidity is an indulgence one must purchase to avoid the wrath of tribal righteousness
the functional gypsy elemental flexibility and an object of despisings by the commons
sorting out the world the world cant be sorted out what now
the waiter at the ramen place says after im done you sure conquered that bowl a strong verb i say after that shes awkward
capitalism slaughters dreaming by turning it into an activity
the nine whatinears ride their whysteeds across the bog of dreams and sink blithely in relieved by the death of questions
teats of ennui
money being the only common whonym language remaining but comprehensively insufficient as it lacks the grammars necessary to escape or simulate escape from society presents itself to mystics those aberrations of time we dont talk about and cant these holders of silence in language as a dictatorship as unruly as any political despot the tricks required to speak the common language without believing in it a sickness mandated by our psychotic society to permit breathing of its members become in their way so hungry for energy and time what remains in the soul to enable the holdings
ive gone so many rounds on the carousel of stupidity that i begin to think sometimes it goes somewhere
this unspeakable sadness that births from the confrontation of the alienation between between what‽ between all the betweens most truly but as cryptically and so perhaps as poetically between knowledge and knowledge flesh and flesh spirit and spirit death and death so wholly resident across the plenitude of distributions
cat stares at me as if im a traitor to vitality and consciousness and the hypothesis lives far from impossibility
even the good people destroy spirit this is lifes central comedy though one has to pilgrimage deeply into nonmaps to laugh corollary jokes are that the bad people often create spirit by necessitating it in opposition to their lack and that the vast tedious bulk of the madding middling crowd in its warm orand aggressive indifference creates and destroys mirroring its schizophrenia in the dolorous factory of vitality
what should be our primary existential orientation has now quite naturally horribly as nature cum whonymsociety become pathologized and the pomposity of experts have named our innate disease prolonged grief disorder let us take more pills to deal with the toxicity of the professional usurpation of the few remnant things we as singularities might claim as our own acedia melancholy vision grief
the primary task of the parent is to teach its children that adults are just fuckedup children
if ones given to resent society a texture of the fabric of this resentment an impetus for meditation retreat nonaction ennui is the vigorous forcing performed by society on its propridden stage of having to abdicate to lying and thieving to continue to live not that thieving and lying we would find acceptable orand funny those routine manifestations and intrinsic properties of language but that deadly lying of the soul which one becomes increasingly aware of as one wayfares farther into the geographies of mind and warps ones orientations to sacrificing self in any of the myriad ways to the maw of the beast and so we die a thousand deaths and the people hardly noticing other than as another weakness to exploit and the capacity to speak restricted to the phonemes of machines for the infinite attempts to speak spirit once hopeful and joyous minced into an afflicted gaze and bewildered walkings its not just that we dont talk about bruno we dont talk about anything
the rise in human rights correlated precisely to the decline in wildness and so the preservation of the world
the confessions of augustine rousseau etc we turn into confessings a pataization whereby everything is confessable and so the confessor disappears through exhaustion i confess to having toothbrushed my anus
the 1976 porn film alice in wonderland conservative promiscuity relegated to dream and sex in the end put in its rightful place of malefemale matrimony
i suck on the teats of ennui and count my guessings like an exiled puffin
it has become impossible to pinpoint my death not in that crass way that outside suicide none of us knows the timing and means of that transit but rather that there are so many deaths it becomes impossible to choose among them to assign any kind of hierarchy that punctum of biodeath that the throng holds as the death and the only one just another team member in the anarchist army of loss fighting for nothing
in poodays news the duchess of milan attacks the duke of hamburg resulting in fashionable fast food
i dont need help in dying in that anyway i excel i need help living but the hordes typically have everything inverted and skewered obligating themselves to attempt to help in that one death they take as all rather than helping in the endless deaths which is life these inversions and skewerings that themselves are our collective continual demisings
the eroticism of polypolarity its energys too much give us orgasms and dinner parties instead
when mysticism is withheld in a society from flourishing when the mores and movements of a society are oriented to quashing mystic impulses and that unity of nothing that births but bypasses destruction that society itself cannot but express a prostheticized darkness of that which it has withheld and so the poutines and peelingams (and yea behold ye socalled lovers of freedom or democracy or something unnameable even the bidets and rumps and kalamatas and murkles) take on themselves the concentrated energy of this prostheticization which in its lack for what is denying whonymitys one distinct capacity other than a lack can only manifest as fragmentation and terror
to reimagine time means to not time imagination it made its money trading covid futures broke and woke
the grievances and humiliations that accumulate not mitigated by money but made up by it we apply money to our spiritual faces masking the sags and fears but if we age without money wheres the mask our faces hang so offensively they become invisible
my imagination has killed me by filling itself up so repletely ive drowned in it
ive achieved such proficiency in lassitude that i get exhausted just by thinking about having to take a dump that there arent nobel prizes in this sort of prowess speaks poorly for the species for surely encouraging the oscitant arts is far more critical to the continued existence of whonymity than anything that could ever be actioned in science politics or literature
10 weeks of not going out i feel like fucking everything no yes no yes no yes yes no no but sit eccentricly in chairs of outpost and exile blocking the tinkled music only the ramen place gets it a bit finding words however prosaic in the silly scrimmage of surrounding whonyms eavesdropping on the hamstergossip and gerbilchat i long for god like the amazon the companys dropped the definite article which might seem clever buts just a ruse great bread and herring kippers and chipotle veese and a plantblessed egg what else could i want but tits in the face and a throne on the clouds of hell
beleaguerment geometry
i understand now the mumbling woman with the shopping cart and many coats in the parking lot with her pigeon friends and the wind maybe that i glanced at from the tram nonchalantly with no explicit mockery and a whack of assumptions perhaps i understand now the man on the parkbench staring at nothing watching death pass him by or life hard to tell which is which when youre on the bench i now understand though im unsure even since ive crossed the border and am a person now of coats and benches i dont think i much understand understanding and the presents like an unopenable gift sitting there under the dying tree with times other concealments now i stand or sit or lie it doesnt really matter and watch the people who glance and somewhere in their actiony businesses are infinities of little assumptions which might be right who knows someofthem its not that all i do is watch and mumble and put on coats and take them off its not as if im not actiony i slice mushrooms too and shit and close the curtains its not as if im not comprised of a yottagoogolzillion flighty assumptions even my perhapsing and maybeing and whoknowsing my doubt which i proudly fly as some freedom is just another ponderosity and if crossing as that hiemal netminder says has made all the difference or indifference whoknows its a difference or indifference of just this paragraph or also or not all the glancings and watchings and puttingons and takingoffs and notunwrappings and notknowings and understandings as brief as pigeons
the accumulation of selves little different than the shedding of selves for each sheddings an accumulating transmogrifies the self into these accumulations of indistinguishabilities and so i become a shadow of weights a wraith of what im not an apophatic multiplication a wealth of negations and how do i manage these assets but through some anarchy of words
after my carefully curated vinyl collection was accidentally thrown out by sloppy Messy Strapaleaze & fiends ive taken after a vacation in prolonged grief disorder it up to begin building something vaguely worthy again two thousand dollars and heaps of frustration confusion anger time into the task with all the horror religiosity vinyls now packaged in almost incapacitating me playing the things considering my increased knowledge of what hypocrisies and virtued meanness distort the grooved radicality i receive the idea from the cryptobank of ideas to take this vinyl project go nuts on it order endlessly from discogs rare first pressings from tehran and atlantis go bankrupt build up a huge and excellent collection then never listen to it be so consumed by its hip jacketed presence and the horror of procuring its presence and the loss and stupidity and hate that precipitated it that its factive physicality is sufficient and its sonic manifestation its ostensible purpose becomes not just redundant but offensive go further destroy destroy it all burn the records on a night of witches by titty witty destruction redux but one that i have built in order to destroy i this singular arching architect of death that we somehow impossibly live within thisthat act of religious futility a consummation and finality of unspent beauty
27.1.22
the third tap
if the gov were smart it would introduce a third tap there was the cold water one then theres the hot water one now our needs for another one the absinthe one absinthe heals everything the internet changed everything then covid changed everything again the internet and covid are siblings but neither the internet nor covid heals absinthe heals its the cloudy green that seeps into our souls mirroring and sweeping it of all the hideous debris of time mckenna was wrong or he was right but only for his little time his tiny era that stretch of a life it isnt psilocybin thatll change us that brown web of saprotrophic mulch its the green faerie of our plumbing green machine elven pluralities put them on your tongue and let it sit there like a meditation absorb dont swallow it is the silent teacher of the wormwood tribe if we were civilized instead of just artificial brutes each whonym would be able to float up to its sink and turn on the third faucet and holding a perfect glass beneath see the green magic cloud fill the void and that would be this and one all a cosmic fulfilling into some gazebo of comprehension the small vessel and the infinite maw establishing a dial log beyond time and mind nothing pissed we say were no fan of common inebriation of cirrhosis and puke and dt but a legitimate pilgrimage to the desert of hyssop and clorophyll where mmuommiri hop from petiole to panicle and rainier cherries careen from heaven like joyful paparazzi i do not know of your political and social addictions your confinement in sad conventions your toilets and your heavy dreams the lead in your souls and the moats in your minds i dont know of them and i would not know as i waft on wisps of louche and drift on anise boats with fennel prows that long ago and easefully defeated the sorry battalions of production weak in their force and pathetic in your dominance
all our food problems are solved all economic woes and injustices dissipate all war goes awry the third tap glides in and is grain and vegetable fruit and protein fat and vision a new earth rises from the weary clump of whonym destruction whale joins hand with elephant and roach with sequoia babylon kneels before our liquid evolution and monumental solidity evaporates into polychromatic reverie no dont turn off the water just yet maintain its two taps alongside the future for a time but know dear fiend and comrade in your stuck disarray that a new flow flows and it is water and honey mineral and cultivar our destiny is neither space nor power but that luminous green swirl that becomes our blood and platform and guides us on the obscure paths of peace oh artemisia of our altars
shadows may coagulate and cumulate along the old pipes in wan copper but a golden light dances a new dance and it is with us join the steps of lucid stars reach out and open the portal of the green stream let the faerie in and become the face of the new eyes of earth
24.1.22
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
23.1.22
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