shiteratures of confessing

 

ı enter the city of confessings with the silence of armadillidiidae and inquire at the municipal information booth which is a public toilet of how to find my way to the museum of novel  the customerservicewhonyms a colossal capybara and wearing nothing but brassieres and speaks through unknown holes a language of putrescence i understand more than ınglsh

if you take scum the genealogy of witches  the knowledge that circulates like malice among conductive outcasts and radaric wraiths overlaying it on the city with the screenprint of your destitution a map may appear though not according to your map of maps and in your confusion seek the legend and work out its interpretation with tears and dissembling and then seek the museum and youll find when you arrive that youve already paid the entrance fee but the exit fee  ah  well

they register the inexorable loss of the immediacy of memory   machines of representation cancel the references that support it  memory vomits itself into times clogged toilet and the future strung out in the bathtub and whonyms like trailerpark lights in a winter that doesnt end

the citys the book   one seeks a presence  however minor and fleeting  on its pages  or one reads  though the book while in plain views hidden and its text in the transient language of toadstools and clochards   one tries to read but the words are catadores  outcasts and porous  dispersed sloshed magicians without guild or code   yet if ones required to read one reads  even though meanings saturated with decrement and corruption   those of us of book but hardly in it try to write ourselves in through vain readings and the books fat and invisible and oozes all manner of militaristic insects   why one would ever try to be a part of its mystic machinations is a question for those nights youre misplaced alone in a forest and the moons down and unknown birds reel in the pitch of heaven

පාපොච්චාරණය කිරීම දාහත

 

lyteemə calls me up one afternoon and almost screams at me im not that kind of person for saying she was going to give me her mophie then retracting  you can take your mophies and shove them up all your filthy rectums except theres not enough room in them because theyre so full of shit i scream  youre attacking my character  gestate 666 morphie foeti in your warty anus and birth a termiteheap of dirty morphie babies in the morgue and let them loose on my person and destroy it and there shall be no backup  my phones wet with spit  youre being excessive  your morphiesre your decadence and the whore of babylon shall devour you alive and technology is your doom and the patch cables of existence shall pass you by  my eyesre gyrating like strippers and my tung lolls like jeremyhyatts sleepingpenis and my meats scarlet and horripilated and   but shes hung up and we giggle in the steamed spa of alienation   

were all looking for holes in communication arent we  apertures that take us through language to that sensation of being alone in the boreal forest after inescapable years in central delhi   that make langwich look like an idiot and we can sit back and gasp with pleasure at our inane complicity in this task that has seemed till now so critical  graspable  unavoidable  but has  for the moment anyway  become as ridiculous as marshmallows   isnt this why we seek and succumb to sex  it deceives but for that moment anyway comforts us that weve found the place below  the pit that circumscribes language and births it  rearing it into words that dissolve as quickly as rainbows   i see it now  what the mystics have flayed themselves for in their tiny hard cells of impossible silence   the silly french deconstructionists pomp about it in cisterns of wine but they know nothing but tenure and flagellation   the well that dances and the well that sings

seen from the cold window of the kitchen reflecting lights of the ministry of defense on the water as if theyre oracles of some quiet monster that breathes beneath the mud      my plasmatic throat vomits all langwiches      repentance  the last out you visit

le pénultième est mort

we havent had any sex for a few pages so lets fuck like the hippocritters we are   weve gone into one of those republican jesus white rumpydumpy churches in yokelahoma or sexas or disasraska or allahbama with sign slogans like this church is prayer conditioned  many who seek god at the eleventh hour die at 10:30  life without god is like an unsharpened pencil no point  give satan an inch and hell be a ruler   we break in at 333 sunday morning and find the immersion tank and sink into it clawing at each other like salacious mvumbi   we each have nine penises and nine vaginas and they ooze around our meat like maggots   stick allofem in us we both say in lustspeak and go at it like hinduism at the conception of consciousness

   at the peak of a ziggurat next time you gasp

                nipson anomēmata mē monan opsin i shout

                                eighteen simultaneous orgasms you scream

holy virgin jesus and

celibacy and cilices

and the papal smear and

many slutty marys

humppumping each other in chaotic unison in the baptistery of god in the heart of the porno republic at the end of the world we build our release like khafre grimacecontort religiosexually speak ritual fragments like priests of the fulfillment of degeneracy leave our textile shreds around the pulpit smear our cum on the pews fuck u amerika and christou we spraypaint on the walls giggling like corpses and gyrate from the front doors naked and saved

sex in a novels like wanking  you gotta do it then you forget about it and move on

qirasho lix iyo toban

as all dreams and screams know  to the extent it exists realitys a hypersphere or sphere or patasphere and the geography of these spheres includes a centre a circumference and a middle   sure the centres everywhere and the circumferences nowhere and the middles somewhere or the middles nowhere and the centres somewhere and the circumferences everywhere or however you want to put it in your fancischmantzi sophistries and all that may be true but theres still  like pollen and sand and clouds  middles and circumferences and centres  and what we call progress is just the expansion of the sphere so theres more middle and circumference   or more aptly what we call progress is part of a process we could describe as the breathing of the sphere as it expands and contracts   our obsession with wholeness wellness yoga spirituality ayahuasca the whole theybang relates to the fact that while we long to mirror the sphere in ourselves the spheres become too monstrously huge for us to do that  and its garbages so massively voluminous now even if you could for an instant hold the whole within you  including all its garbage for you cant have the mixterclean without the meowlitter  youd immediately incinerate   so despite yab about authenticity or unity or whathaveyou we have to specialize   most people  quite sensibly  praiseem lunchwithem  specialize in an aspect of the middle  they become lawyers or rangers or mercenaries or hrprofessionals or junkies or fishmongers or writers or mishfongers or mechanics or wastemanagementworkers  and there in that world they live and judge and breathe   but a few losers cant resist the perversion to dwell elsewhere  somewhere on the edges maybe   for as one cant be a competent surgeon  hairstylist  accountant  and prizewinning rhododenron grower  so one cant habitate along all regions of the circumference either   nobody understands anyone outside their specialty of course and even then its suspect which is why were all so obsessed with communication   because communication like tomorrow never happens   but at least the whonyms of the galacticallysized middle  however much they want to kill each other  are manufactured to function according to the operating principles of the middle and speak machinespeak to one another and think theyre poets   but those of us of the elsewheres have a completely different manual and dictionary  and so all of this toos happening when i go out to get eggs

speaking of eggs why do manual and dictionary have man and dick in them   if a woman wrote womanuals and cuntionaries what would they look like   confessings‽ 

onessings xv

 

we refer unreaders to our meditations on novel to determine whether or not confessingss a novel  after all if museo de la novela de la eternas a novel why cant this be   youre a novel im a novel theyre a novel   and to covida as to whether confessings is a pandemic   we do know that confessingss a very important new way to organize and present time   its also  and this shouldnt be undervalued or dismissed just because were uncouth blasphemous and obscene  worship   orisons of praise and supplication   toward what‽   god of course   but you clearly dont believe in any god‽   naturally not  theres no surer way to destroy god than belief   then what the hell are you talking about‽   those who ask such questions expecting answers in any form let alone words should be on basefook not confessings   you sure depend on words for someone who doesnt value them   words are breath and breath is time and times confessing  but none of thats a dependence ands more of a love affair

what our unreader doesnt realize is that confessing isnt done  its not an activity  and certainly not one that has an object   for proper confessing to occur you dont confess to anyone  or you confess to everything continuously which is much the same thing   and its this quality of confessing thats its energy   that turns us confessingadi into desert parents and children full of strange beseechings and succiduous visions

witlesstein once said that theyd planned to make a philosophical work consisting entirely of jokes but that they had failed to write this book since they lacked a sense of humour   this is that book  we are witfullstein and langwichs our ontology and fuck

im very pleased with the way my lifes decaying   the methods by which im set aside and forgotten   these daily death gifts each of which is a healthy bonbon full of nutrition and surprises   i await their delivery as the suburbs await their fedex and amazon packages  with a tracking anticipation and anxiety

the city wallows in its glittering makeup and the exiled trees sniff the newcomer perfume as if it were a laughter or an innocence

even the thought now of leaving house to get eggss an adventure  as complex as planning to go to eukratidia or invade nauru   i must be 92  society looks like a highschool corridor  i go to a bar and its full of yabbering foeti   hows langwich possible in the womb i say moscow mules in the uterus i say conders never wease i say  im beaten up and thrown in a dumpster and the fun rolls without end   its my fault   ive lost capacity  ive retreated so far for so long i dont remember how to socialize   the autoexile of my dreams has become my cave and bedding   but those whove retreated from retreat andve lost my capacity to lose capacity   we seek a society in which ones permitted to retreat and to retreat from retreat simultaneously and equally  we want many treats

all the conflicted blab from the colonialists following the scripts about first nations   if they were serious about compensation all the white people would go to compounds called second nations  perhaps farflung walled ghettoes in the wilderness with mercury and whiskey for water  and the first nations people would take over the cities and wed see what happens

debt avowings 十四

 

so weve established in our outsider skullarship that in the big inning theres the meatscape or meatspace or meatverse which contrasts with the pataverse and this is the new gnosticism   evrythng cums round   so u go pata or u go meat   meat isnt meta its meat  not a meetup but a meatpu ie meatpoo   of course theres no big inning only infinite teenyweeny ones like polkadot bee keenies   i once dated a dispolkadotted bee keenie and they were keen as screams lemme telu  keen as lemons on a russian rollercoaster  keen as poutine jizzin on a ewe crane  goto urban dick shun airy and look it up  lick it all up

lemme speak like yesu in patables there was once a mamaw called mcurinal and it flushed like a big whack & stuffed the meatverse in its mamaw like a fryer and if it jizzed less than pooteen aint that just becuz it didnt and fried its frying in a tent called heyzoo and here we blow round again

heyzoo weeps

its dark as noon isnt it now and the sun hangs like pappardelle across an inexplicably horny earth and the aminals swag on the avenue of zeroes and the blood of love breaks the damned   where are the rivers my darling gnarling whys their song not on apple in eden   eyeeye say the rivers dying dying those whonyms love killing love killing killing and breathing is ending and musics dead

eye confess that night rises like an eagle on discluded horizons and eyes close like oceans on the unnamed

babies are enigmatically intent on something we adults cant fathom in our mature ignorance

i read skullarship when i need the fictions of order & reason

i read journalism when i need the fictions of order & unreason   

i read literature when i need the fictions of disorder and reason

i read mysticism when i need the fictions of disorder and unreason

a too ordered and irrational system

when the light of a summersolstice fullmoon rising in the south

enters the recesses of the cave of sıtėoppo

the desert rats rise from their monasteries and

battle the rats from the lake on the

parallelepipedic plains of dōlhēdōnōn

see violence  how it cycles through the temple like a coconut offered to grimacing gods with inoperable limbs flailing down the secret stairwells of disillusion  it flows greater than the hacked amazon through the polluted unnavigable lands of the whonym soul   the people straw and dogs picnic in its banks and copulate with temporary immunity  blood bubbles n love  addiction in pars and barties   just another movie   i dont belong   were contaminated all of us  reel like shot kangaroos from one figure to another   moral satisfaction denied

whonym
to bathe in violence to cleanse themself of themself

violence in justice  violence in mercy  violence in violence  violence in sacrifice  violence in ambition  violence in retreat  violence in meditation  violence in eating  violence in family  violence in creation  violence in silence  violence in langwich  violence in love      abysses open like glyphs in the soft curves of words

what shall we gather dear miners together

what shall we rescue from the sad womb of the earth

i crave my lovers infidelities   being too weak to engage in them myself i nevertheless need the adventure  however vicarious  they provide  and i cant be with her unless i convince myself she clandestinely copulates with crude strangers at the top landing of dirty staircases a floor or two above the roadhouse din of drinking boors   unworthy of love i enervate in the buzzing stupor of swamps and count the hours like jello

everybody wants to be a dictator or a middleclass housespouse or both but for the few of us who cant decide  well  we live in some limbo of the apophaticarchs running an anarchic lampadephoria without lights or track

eye confess to being a practising whonym but not a believing one  the first by necessity  the second also by necessity but of a different sort  i intend on writing anatomy of necessity thatll make burton look like a haikuist and an amoeba of taxonomy

the worlds overcharged with death and i move in it like a ghoul with an aptitude for fasting

the sun drizzles its warm apathy across the soulful and soulless alike and the citys streets are named kafka céline mishima krasznahorkai dickinson bishop weil sexton carrington acker lispector zürn tutuola cortázar macedonio songling chuangtzu and wraithliteratori hoard the intersections debating wittily obscure relations of the crossroad they find themselves say kierkegaard ave and sappho blvd  perhaps pessoa lane juts nonchalantly at the side  vehicles honk and scream and some brandish crowbars to wale against these violators of progress and disturbers of war but to no avail   the phantasma are protected by a law that stands outside the rule of clubs and knives and the sun drizzles down and the city is my heart

confıtėrı coven

let us pray

not for we believe in god

or prayer or praying but as

a necessary act of

righteous war on the

eternal battlefield of the

dead self

most dearie dearest dearie dear

we have alienated and been alienated and have been alienating and are alienating and alienated and have been alienated and are those who alienate and those whove been alienated and none others  alienators all of us in alienations of alienation      wed ask dearier dearest dearie dear that all this would stop or at least diminish except were not entirely delusional and see no way how except through delusion that we as we are could be anything but what we are and what with all the endless ripoff programs and gurus and pills that say we can be other than what we are but weve met the whonyms whove been through those programs and slept with those gurus and swallowed those pills and they aint any different than the rest of us though they say they are but as we all know saying and doing are two different things so drearier dearest dearier dear were not asking for anything and we dont even believe in you or us for that matter so there

um      amen

i confess to not just wanting a factless autobiography but an autobiographicalless autobiography   this is the story of that quest

my life  though i dont know what my or life or i is  is  and neither is is known  being actively deroticized by something  probably life   derotic is pronounced dur rot ick with the accent on the second syllable   it means de erotic or finding eroticism through eroticisms absence   its an art   most try to find one thing through the same thing   money through money   love through love   work work   sex through sex   but this is stoopid   always go through the backdoor   as every mystic worth its nothing knows you dont find god in god but notgod   not art in art but notart   not death in death but notdeath

ive long short medium and very long covid   i know because before covid smeared earth with its pandemic jelly i had already had every member of the herpes family   mouthherpes gonadherpes monoherpes poxherpes shinglesherpes eyeherpes soulherpes hangnailherpes anusherpes and covid loves herpes  the more herpes it finds the more it loves   so when covid first enters me in the himalayan foothills it says weve found some meat most hospitable to our inklings   and when it enters me a second time in stixvil they say why did we just vacation in this meatverse two suns ago let us set up shop and call it home and never leave   and covid mingles with the herpespace so that any remnant i in the meatscape drains away and all i am is covid and herpes  this hovid cerpes and i am no more

all i remember from working in the academy are violence and lust   when i left i had learned that knowledge is sex and abuse and all that peerreviewed shit is like the bulk of vatican gold   a weight to counter and detract from the true function of the institution         for the serialized inprogress novella based on a true story of unbelievable survival in academic hell see elspet clitias child of curse school      you wont believe your gonads!!

स्वीकार गर्दैs बाह्र

 

i confess to knowing now theres nothing sadder than writing and to begin writing is to embark on a oneway journey of sadness   to find oneself alone in an ocean without map or name

and also to not knowing this knowing which doubles the immeasurable sadness and returns it with smirks & bonuses

the thing has potential if it only knew how to use it

it would have a future if only it would enter time

it doesnt know how to dominate thus can only be dominated and runs from domination to domination like a rabbit

and calls itself trickster to avoid complete disintegration

youre neither here nor there  in nor out  dead or alive

not a mobster but a mopester

a mopestar tinkling in desolate night

tinkledown spirituality

how is this confessing

it all   it alls confessing

all shall be hell and all shall be hell and all manner of thing shall be hell

hooligan of langwich

the great pisswick

the bot thickens as dickwick macabre crosses the cystic stage

denials the only game in town

i may not understand what you say but ill defend to your death my right to deny it

see you later dysodile

in a while propagator

in the big inning lilith decreated the beethovens and the zombies

the only thing distinguishing artificial intelligence from whonyms is the latters capacity to pun

that punny and money are nymhematological cousins is a kinship devoutly to be shuffld

i confess to being or seeming or becoming or not a succourless succotash suffering sucker riding in an abuse caboose to doktor sooss zoozoo

whonyms are naturally artificial intelligence so theres no artificial intelligence outside the whonym other than in the fact that intelligence always exists outside

im a tricksters whos been tricked into a ghostly ghastliness   a wick whos lost its kerosene a brick without hay click without a mouse lick without a lollipop prick without a pocket schtick

i barely know how to converse transactionally in society anymore   ive withdrawn so much that when eg i go for a useless hearing test that work insanely requires i have to reach into historical scripts to be able to know how to respond to the fatuous tester what the appropriate grimaces are to show in reply to his wretched jokes   they ask have you been exposed to noise in the last 24 hours   of course ive been exposed to noise you discarded offal   i feel like a vegancookie in a munitions factory

as a colleague says all thats left to do is scream