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

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