Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Peter Ganick and billy bob beamer: An Excerpt from an Experiential/Experimental Dialogue, Untitled

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o'rioTsnmelodystreamingsunstarwi ndope rch

a l   e  r    l e   s  h  i  n  h e n    t     h     e       t     m  e  l    i s a l s
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e    l      w    h          e                 e

marincky muransi         mu Te
sica muCic   melody MiN    gfla

No n ac aiou aca iuio vest
mets lob ber waitlip
fe/i-ron flu gelmate *  hrn          enel ing hip*

 [lf gi9]04 [x8y5] u9 th[9t]9th

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plisrem pleasth      mitlesssTEEP   suidia
lu[n]g] ne[ck 

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Carey Scott Wilkerson: A Poem

Forensic Cycloid
After Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book VIII

Falls then a clown into
his own disputed account

as who among those plummeting
will have seen in oceans

                        or is held to some proof
                        and is a marking a numeric is

                        plane in partitions a translation
                        top to indicative bottom

putative asymptotes driven
reflexively, un-mappably down

through appositives of ritual clôtures
calumnies of vertiginous descent

                        speaking as drifts plainly
                        to opening as encircles
                        recast as none as spirals
                        out probable names and binds
if for whatever will finally
trace the knot is an excluded middle

of speculative bird motifs
pinions in rhetorical imposture

                        given as are outlines looping
                        a causal body a premise a vector

                        outward plurals and convections
                        if a duplicaction a precipitious end

so too are known coordinates
to spill from rubric containments

their imputed and lurid geometries
parabolically, indecorously up

Monday, July 27, 2015

John Pursch: A Poem

Ape Rehab Blinkin’

She had reached the penultimate turnstile,
beyond which loomed the gaunt felicitous face
of eponymous cocktails,
galas hex toroidal Nair,
bespectacled deities of pall bearer tundra,
extreme meridian psychosis,
implantation ordeals on abductee gorilla feet,
fleeing cadaver police,
numb chelated lozenge lovers,
rodeo encampment festivals,
torn tendrils of timely schlep machinists,
favoritism on iced vesicles of gunny sack hovercraft
in seamlessly cordoned mendicant woes,
bottled pocket saddle soap
on tiny raider earwig contraption pulleys,
wigged-out offhand mercury retorts,
spilt Venusian broadband isomers,
card room cataracts of flushly canned pencil imposters,
serial effacement boatswains,
loudly auspicious crowd erection straps,
paltry reminiscences of wild shoot creameries
and dappled eyesore soup replays…

“Shiny hortatory dime drivelers,
surviving Cinderella plaudit employment bilge
at toned times the screed of pounded shamble shanty tombs,
drowning trebled crates of buggy totem alimony skiffle
and bedridden terriers on sluiced paragon wax cannons,”
unzipped LL-25 from slowly passing overhead bifurcation
of pure temporal toss pot,
vehicular booty shore.

“Lookie fur a falsie echo of landing pattern
blue boy bayou ritual entourage acceptance wheel,”
she conned timidly,
coyly wan mired Imogene,
as spatially as any alarmingly desiccated dignitary
might spitefully reject,
given graven cravings for graveyard gravy
gallivanter galleon-go-lucky spice dream quadrature
of chosen flapping pie or suction figurine
or terminated torpor argot.

Kabuki Clem he tossed in
a certain prepositional torpedo tarp,
daubed with fresh acidic truncheon wishes
(culled from pages of highway minds,
bullion of tilled creation myths,
strayed outa the brains of luridly lured
and summarily abandoned pipsqueak population bombs),
and stammered in caloric upshot’s knife-edged glide
of slashed doorway look-around leer:

“Ketosis crammed ‘em into my crude carbolic playpen,
wedged for goodly cinder wills
till Dearth dost they hallways deport,
headed honey swan-way drip
to hookah canoes swear,
eye reconnoiter,”
kinda murmuring a solid burbling mumble
down old-time radio address of
Hefty Arse, Ape Rehab Blinkin’,
Crankin’ Stiletto Hoser Felt,
Psyched Icing Hour, JFK-17,
Cow Fin Leakage, Hobart Aft,
Swarmin’ Cheese Farting,
Itchy Hill Mouse Klaxon,
Hairiest Mutant, Rude Woe Whistlin’,
Theoretically Odoriferous Rooster Felt,
the Professional Wrestler and Married Hand,
hearing Gully Gun’s Sighing Landing Patina Blues

(broadcast from the Blurred Blank Studios
for the wholly unexpectedly abrupt and filially final
feral frugivorously foxtrotting time,
cloning in looped and clearly cast
to sedge furiously huffed sway locales as
Lacuna Peach, Trolling Pills,
Sam Harmonica, Same OhnoFred,
Redundant Bleach, Bongo Leach,
Married Pout, Musta Kissedher,
Blueport Niche, Pastadelta,
Aunt Harry O, Specific Palace Aides,
Hestwood, Sam Nerf Hand O’Folly,
Verbally Hills, El Bear, Dye A Pale Ray,
Moronic Old Car, …)

Spun shout,
threw haughty Lost Annulus bassinet,
resounding thatched famously phlegmed hole
with swirling swords of zwischenzug and zugzwang babies,
baking the slow-culled Burpee Boom scheme alike
sewn mulch dried potato breath,
chesty nutter cloned privation Ihadahoe,
heft ewe cadge mined grifter
(gruffly persnickety penumbral protuberances
be petrified in pied pejorative Plexiglas,
phoning fully flailed how perilously peripatetic
the lightning is getting).

Furious records swill hallways undulate
how fractious and stupor physically fossilized
the hauteur of this fading missive has become,
albeit becalmed by surgeons
(specific in colonnades and suppurating theaters
sneering at ewes, steer treater),
pet ovoid flurries of  hand-to-sand bombast
are mercifully trundling south of pavement,
diced to now jest futilely fulfill this sign of frozen sage.

Friday, July 24, 2015

Texas Fontanella: Three Poems

About a Year Ago I Got My New MacBook Air


The Evolution of Everyday Life

hale, its coming crisis was apprehended only
willing slaves for long if they are not
fice, a permanent humilia
tion of his people imposes on him. The price
ing anything save the false promise
of stereo. Taken over body and cons
ately released from their obligation
of the ladder, power is partial
blindly satisified with repro
nomic, lay forms & repur
stence, the domination de
ture industry, in fact imp
inuity or rather institu
tional specifica - irat
ional despite all its rat

(and how?) the mythic and poeti
cal presence and meditation o
fragmented refusal lays the ground
ivity is conspicuous, and
aesthetic self — can resist co-optation.

ously, is killing you?

this flood of light was
s by a hostile nature permea
ble of the third force —
                        Gauging the im
pact of every insult,
is false language,
is to carry out survival’s self
istical principle of represent
avioural unity; in this endeav
our words can no longer decently cover


Wednesday, July 22, 2015

CL Bledsoe and Michael Gushue: Three Poems

I Guess I’ll Go On. Why Not?
I can tell the future from the lines
on Samuel Beckett’s face. They say:
joy wears on the soul the same
as sorrow; who cares which you choose?
Dust will gather between their folds,
so at least you’ll be insulated
against the weather. But let me admit
something right now: I’ve never read a word
he wrote. I can’t even read. But I can damn
sure listen to a book on tape. But I haven’t
done that either. What I have done is fold
this paper over and over, then open it out
and smooth the creases. Exactly the same
as Samuel Beckett, it’s a Misfortune Teller.
This horizontal line is called Krapp’s Last Tweet,
and indicates the bottom of the cardboard
mailing tube where I live. It’s warm in there
and smells like woodlice. Like mama’s skirts.

Poppa Enigma

If you could count, you wouldn’t be wearing
three shoes. It’s okay. Put on some pants;
you haven’t even been born. Listen,

when the end comes, I’m holing up
in a Popeye’s. You can join us if you survive
the trials: namely, being able to pour a soda

without leaving a big gap at the top
when the foam disappears. And you’ve got
to be able to put the lid on without breaking it.

We’ll make a statue out of lard to commemorate
your memory if you fail. Come spring,
no memory will remain. None of us is getting out

of here without some major gastrointestinal distress
and several delicious biscuits. Watch for exploding
sheepdogs. You could call it the end of the world.

I call it Tuesday. Ignore the sleeping cats.
We have a deep fat fryer. We’ll be free.
Of our bodies. At some point.

A ceremonial pop quiz will be given
in honor of Sisyphus finally getting that rock
up that hill. Wait a minute. Never mind.

Nice try though, like pouring a glass of milk
into a world of milk, a world you are born in,
a world with nothing to lose, indifferent.

A world where you don’t even count.
The problem is one of desire. As in,
I want to explode and also witness my

explosion. I want to sleep and also trip
over the cat, go sprawling into tomorrow.
Have a biscuit. You’ve been a good dog.

Feathers, of a Sort

The buildings want to eat me not
because I’m scared but because
they’ve heard I’m soft enough to chew.
But I’m undeterred, living carapace free,
one mix tape after another. The elevator’s
throat gapes at my floor, a long corridor
disguised as the doorman’s seeing-eye
twerk. I’m rising. Believe me. I pushed
the up button twice. I can feel
my jelly legs fold from the upward
force. Soon, there will be pie
on the roof, clouds to reel down.
I’ll make them into the softest pillows you’ll
never see. 

Monday, July 20, 2015

John Pursch: Three Poems

Timestamp Gulls

Outlying lobots
tend to grapevine miscegeny
by the charitable dock load,
trucking spiked ruminants
to faraway glands of swollen mice pellets,
geranium stew, and contender presence pink

(the shadow of timestamp gulls flitting carelessly
across the nerdly moon of bespectacled quadrant lovers,
pent in foppish daguerreotypes of an urban cinder).

Narrow grounds for chemical cetacean curfew
spread by hoof-in-southern-belle disease,
known to all but the moist demented locals as
Harriet O’ Hattery’s Peninsular Fall-Off Scum Petition,
traveling daintily in wickered
faucet shoestring piano nuts
and grassy cantankerous stolen yachtsmen,
smoking porn box pipes
of papoose cream hand commotion
and sunrise separation gangs
in gentrified cooling plover.

Off to island mosquito pits,
Hairy Ogbert Sno-Wrangler the Quizzical
spells out his itinerant beggar’s
sumptuously held tracheotomy posture
for the sixtieth and penultimate timer’s pistol,
licking thumbed collapsing cap,
cowering in grapeshot fear
of crassly compelled low-res femurs
in crab leg shootout stance,
pressed to nomenclature synchrony
by staid connubial court martials
in pending ditch incinerator breath.

Oui Below Sedated

“Eye donut declaration
oven independent milk slaker,
wagging perceptive ergonomic fairy gals
at soothing lunch meat prestidigitation myths,
spoiled expertly by spurting sawfish authorship
on sale for calving bunny-benching sandy-legged
phylum fleece of thawed cranapple pardons,”

the Pincher prompted all prospective
promulgators of Puce Pentameter Persephone,
crowned from burpee-mounting jamborees
to Seagull Shouts to Oui Below Sedated
Club Spout clan

(shameful blot weed out pageantry
or stumped sidereal clown cake
or toes in Sad Reactive steamboat
shrinkage codfish measurements,
flapping almost underwear
in longitudinal duress mache).

Bucking chaff, Swannie Hiver
of Municipal Organismic Metronomes
can queerly feel a freely felled clean-cut furor
of spreading clear across
Huffer Mange Hat-in-Hand,
quashing pedicure pugs in boldly liquid
boarding louse extremities
of neonatal covert titration itch,
wrenching right shoulders outa
highway guardian socket decrees,
espying chrome in catheters
of poorly found hitmen
on rickety skyline carburetor
hemophiliac reminder kits,
rigged patiently by hourly noose mechanics
on furloughed oast impellor kicks.

In Contrail Madhatter

“Downright rural, 
hefty halved myopian Indian,” 
Generic Jalopy Ump Petro Dog 
the Greasy Garbonzo Galoot 
gadded from gazebo showers 
in Contrail Madhatter, 
kumquat sneering ad handy parkas 
wad mired bee lining torn icy pockets 
with seedy shakeout cruisers, 
cod falling from shaven ossified ramp 
toupees of swarthy mayoral scan rebates.

“Snow oui broth deter
yer highball solder humps
sartorial quoth imperiled
C-note harpy news
and crawling trillion
sands of timed events
in rib cage delicatessen meet,
flung characteristically
in spherical omnidirectional
repulsion tack sneeze,
pretending to blow naturally
from steeper summer kid quarters,
pocketing a runny lozenge,”

the Blind Standard Parrier
of Shorty Fecund Screed
tossed office alibis in festive
distaff monococcus greed,
flocking within to cellular pleasure
squeaks of noted aimless prosperity

(lung sins gore fodder,
ten to a dozing bullpen marigold).

He calmly rearranged
his onboard pock snow,
rupturing a million sparrows
in frugivorous phalanx compunction,
smugly implying golf hyenas
on parasitic oil man paperwork.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

D.C DeMarse: An Excerpt from "A BED FOR KEYHOLES"

[In corruptible things, fruit or men, there is a certain sinister joy: the joy that such a fruit that lived fat and green now deflates, too ripe in death for tasting.]

1. [is the rational mind a sort of negative god where stays the hand in the face of beauty? a thing making impossible I view in this case as the hand staying itself, as judgments of reality might in all appearance be something redundant. is the mind attached to this hand so vicious, as to institute so blatant and substantial a limit, as of one denying himself the beauty that is another face, or body, or reality?

but is there another, separate will involved? the impossible denying entry is still able to be good will and appreciated such on the hand of the possible. does it need a body, this will? is reality a vessel only literally, that is, we view it as things around us that exist atop the same earth’s crust; or is it a vessel in that it is conscious?

but then, rationality is limited to what is rational, not what is beautiful, as in, the beautiful itself has no limitation to speak of. and this though it is simple rules over the highest rational mind. the rational can be beautiful, to note, however, if it conveys truth, reaches the intellect, etc.

the beautiful exists as something fleet bc it is overpoweringly constant. it is as much a presence and pate as anything conscious enough to ‘forbid.’ perhaps we tire of that realm as we tire of anything constant, and consciously swim away from the drain.]

2. [There is nothing more powerful than the metaphor of The Toy. Rilke’s puppet, or doll. We are in the grips today of an embellishing reality, one that naturally flourishes beyond its distinct essentials. So much the embellishment that the reality of things itself has become indistinct from the flourish, and yet at least I myself keep the humility of being-caught.

A certain level of artifice is in any progressive intellectual state, that is, a state of useful thinking. In thinking anyone must throw out a kind of notion of impending importance that is ruinous to the levity of whatever you find.

What few realize is that this embellishing is precisely a cause of the mechanism that perpetuates reality’s essentials. Upon the discovery of the thing, one too must thrust, nay inject, a sense of the will-less, that on some ethereal level humanity at large might appear as knowledgeable as the objects of child’s play, their thoughts the much less.

This humility is the true grandiosity, yet arbitrarily used as a platelet on which to build thinking, a false ground for discourse, especially if the discovery is exactly the essential reality. But we can never know that. Thus the error in thinking is too its brave symbol, as Pascal might renege to Christianity, so the thinker reneges to limitation.

The mechanism, of course, being that all is artifice, and meaning a meaning for the toys, not toys wishing to be men. The roads are misgivings, partly for a sense of either/or.

People cannot look at themselves as puppets, even while declaring this I cannot believe it.

Therefore we cannot connect to the essential reality of things, which drives us to expand, find greatness, a scale out of tune with the great symphony of playthings.]

3. [24 and already a shadow of his former self, young droll D.C DeMarse climbed uphill, further on in life than he wished, in years, what a blessing to be young and feel old, however: to have had the changing thing happen at so impossible an age, that is, impossible to win, up against that obduration of a changing thing, a certain bravery to it, to rage on in the face of nothing to be angry about, the event dissolved past the last cascading spleen, and foolishly, like a child, it is only predictable he continue on in his anger, anger at the changing thing, or more because of it, causing more, and yet it all stemming from that one thing disappeared, long ago dissolved, that memory, that holyghost: yes, this change, or changing thing, what a mysterious blessing.]

4. [It is one thing to breathe raw talent for the extent of your life; it is one thing to start on an a priori basis as such, with all its preternatural sense of space, organic rhythm, and crucial folly, that is, that so much is based upon it, and which is not true about the foundation, corrupts it totally, all that was written and thought in the realm of that functioning talent in the meanwhile - and say, through your very folly, how you came to what first was an immanent finesse, talent, grace, yes, would suffice.

Being wrong first and learning to do the thing right is different from this because there was no raw talent to start. But starting with raw talent and losing it, working towards where you had started, again, reveals to this young loser a better understanding of why the finesse was finesse. To breathe raw talent, of course, is to exist only in the finesse, eternally, and in this know nothing of why - yet I would wager: if asked why, such a person would still be able to give you an answer as good if not better, to why.]

5. [so I ask did what is permanent as to consciousness become so by distillation or a mere need to clean up. in one case, the aim is purity. in another case the only aim is to make room in the mind’s house for its furniture. or maybe it is not purity but what is left, the remainder. but in both cases the aim is aesthetic, though any remainder is bound to represent, as in any case of simple long division, something from the start not fitted to its method of organization or solving. I suppose there is a problem in both cases: there is a problem to solve.

so I posit, if any of this is true, the need for order is the presage of something conscious, borne from its reaction to clutter, chaos, et al. morality is the psyche’s janitor - the mind’s house, that is - and is just as permanent a desire as any more cosmic places what I have said might bring one to.]

6. [method of philosophy whereby the flaying of my own metaphors to their bare flaws, in revealing them, that I strongly communicate the problem that is the topic at hand, that is, nakedness, that bareness, bare forms are flaws, or that is where, or under where, hehe, they are. that is the skin can be there but what is under the skin is where the flaws pulse. but where is the problem in that concept, and why, after all, is it a problem? there can be bare beauties withal small chests, even; I’m an ass man anyway.

I guess you can begin where you begin and everything upon going forth has to fall into that. but where you begin can be from anywhere; but it must be from. you can start something in medias res sure but that is the place it is from, moreover not a bit of the drama nor is a motive left uninformed. chaos can represent chaos and you can go wherever you decide but a theme is a theme because it lingers. I began this draft as something a little different than it turned out to be, after all.]

7. [not only is the regular seen wrongly as lazy and close-minded, since after all it is the more consistently observed and so, more easily absorbed, more even than the news of a given day, over the day; but the irregular is not even hard to find, there is a place everyone knows to go to find the arbitrary, the odd, the quirky; there is as known and clearly accessed a place for the inaccessible as our daily truths. the difference: the inaccessible just wears the mask of being hard to find. some meme probably already has explained the latest meta-irony, telling us how to feel about something like “Faith Hilling” - in other words the function of the irregular is regular, and the regular is belonging to nobody, is just some symbol for tactless non-value. the daily drudge is for the populist, and is relatable enough to alienate the demographic it applies to, who then are left with a few things that compute, a few that “don’t not compute” [The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, ibid]

8. [And the depth of feeling is no melody anymore. It is shadow of melody; as if this too could be for none else a holy thing! Yet people take the—transcendent spaces—for granted, have, and this happens until they are undone, and one goes deep into the visions to find where no depth was, goes between the visions, told and told—goes off to some better beckoning, untold, as if to find something there the better than what was given, by oneself to oneself plainly. But no existential OTHER has paid, no GOD has: I have paid, yes, already, for the dismissal of myself and those depths: and I have my sufferance gained at that which life has named namelessness. And I hear now from the abstractions of my father all of that bushy self’s—head—beneath the hair, with his throat of rust. I have heard his voice give, and shake, shifting a lump out his big throat to hack his failing voice—outwards—yes, yes, and up, up, until the volume of it goes all but silent upon entrance into that something better—another tremendous indifference, no doubt—a denial—indifference, a particular, a one to make any indignant and well the more furious telling of proof seem but the sparse recollection of one to this harmfully vast cosmos—yes—a vast cosmos with a meaning more tremendous—taunting one, we, us—than he who goes off shouting at it—that is—at what is no chimaera to endlessly trump the brain but a nothing, which as nothing will be nothing, and yet will always form one’s shape from its own nullity—damnable tarnation, tuneless, and yet as if it were there, and you not. And thus perhaps to one’s detriment, the nothing of a cosmos too big for any throat to swallow will end up begging a shadow or two to fit that with the humanity of a person, to fit, yes, into one’s perception of themselves that portrait of nothing they thought they and they alone painted, all flourish, all stroke them, all in the frame them. And this nothing a thing with one’s, our, shouting at it, for relevance!, relevance!, only made as if to be tremendous as MAN, and merely a mirror in a closet—chosen by us, as to whether it remain behind the door or lighted once creaked open by MAN, letting in his own beatitude as lamp. But this is more to be a type of mirror, a vortex, to reflect—one—and his own hidden spirals—a gullet of a mirror, yes—to swallow one’s, all our pleas for meaning: at least let there be some human in the shadows we perceive, though, for once, yes, instead of the monster we, yes, we, not one, for one speaks for all this time—that we—that we perceive as indifference, an indifferent vacuum, a goddamned spiral, yes, yes, without a gesture to indicate its fierce round. Without a face or movement but the face we give: in looking in: or the movement of our limbs within its frame—and, and, and—yet, this in reality is no monster for us to perceive, no, no: it is a stoker, a hungry one, to blindly feel for some daft meaning there, the great void that is in our own hearts: nearly an ultimatum, it becomes—though, it is one—yes, yes, in its way—this form of a portrait, a mimicry not us but harmful as any dissatisfaction, any end to things past oblivion, the song of chaff remaining without end, as obituary and crypt both for our soul—collectively—as creatures on this petty marble, and for the soul of one of us as individuals, and which, both combined, prove naught but a mockery of what should be a veritable difference between them, yet made the same if seen in the same mirror of void—moreover, as portrait, as art, rather than the mimicry any void should remain as.

And the dreamed gospel dreamed dead as offal gone trashed now as like some rotund, black mass and now yes now a gathering in the bowels and shot up all frivolous up the larynx flung comically out and way out the fucking maw like a fucking desperado to the forgotten parts of the ground yes the parts dirt and stuff layer over and will yes yes and they will forever, yes yes yes as one whom as a person in his state of denying the gifts of self—each and every one, each precious gift—and, I speak in this manner of being, for myself, merely, this time—I, yes I, I will deny each layer as heresy, as an answer to conundrum, thus, not conundrum, thus, obscene, a rejection of years of layers, of events, of pitch and moment, of experience, all rejected—and more brutally benign than ever.

Because it is, this nothing, it is, well, it is dead to begin with if dissatisfied—if one sees the cosmos—sees the infinite, and feels an indifference, a posteriori, that is, as time passes, as experiences pass by on the loft wake of times and events, each one a shape, a shadow, a coarse beckoning to fill in where the shape meets shadow, that is. And this, any burthen of self that could hope to release is this, and would be this, rather than relent to the answer of a conundrum his own as meaning any meaning at all in the face of disgust and void. And left only a—meandering, a stupefaction—piled like a mass of sorts throughout the gut’s mixture as shapes, shapes of intensity and longing, yes, choking one in his very throat and to bleed and let bleed until there is no GOD but mere devil to make—to use a coinage of DANTE’s—a trumpet of his ass, at one and his own force of a self that anyway denies itself, at least, to say again, if up against an ultimate denial of meaning that is—ultimatum. I see it as that lump swallowed in him now and now left there, in the gut to stale and die—and, and, and—for the listeners to doze off at and at the service of no space in church but for some obscene and very much the more warped judgment of self—that is, this devil, this devil of scoffers, judgers, yes, seen the truer form of one’s reality, existential OTHERs, denials, stilly

inconspicuous, heretical, carefully, disdainfully heretical, in each, every pronouncement—and all, all but the shape of a scoff, one whom during the service is to openly lift his haunches in response, and fart on the pew.

It is become mere shadow in the mind of a one as me whom never himself will till the end of his time on this unit—this device of GOD, shuttling who knows from whence—this to put it plainly planet, will shoo off into some newer conundrum, thinking it better, the better one, better conundrum. It is and we are all however on a lump of mass hacked out from this father of lights, his head, the shaggier, hairier. And it is the fate of us to have been hacked out of that prolific monster of self into fragments of the equation, whole parts only whole by the measure of our limbs and torso together made.

And this EARTH if self belies the layers of each denial, each denial of self, until he whom is denied is left encrusted, a bane without witness, living out his disbelief in those measures life takes to be a whole mind, to make its own self own in a man.

What these things have meant now pass, like shapes, this time, not shadows, at least, they are no more that than any depth could solidify. So off I go into the reckless, more reckless than before. I am become a mangling of parts to admit some whole both absurd and ultimately the only self left, upon the plucking of layers to refuse and begotten anxiety.]

9. [these days i havent been so—prolific—ive had to get back to my roots in a rootless void outside of all—thats when i do my best work that is when inside of that—a mere period of aloneness with myself i have missed—all these people telling me to get real i thought the way was to rid myself of that serenity but its not if anything being within what is outside of all has made me more in tune with that magnificent godhead whom rooted in all pitch and moment of conundrums and contradictions and whatnot at the least releases me from them in my mind that at least for now lives silently and pure and people wont understand contradictions in their own mind all i have of my mind is that its a shame and a disgrace to deny that unique way of thinking in myself in an attempt to—normalize—the greatest contradiction is that i wished to change first—so as to be normal—the very thing no one saw also the very thing that made me feel unity and purity in aloneness my solitude my space my sanity of course a mind of contradictions would deny its only sanity as a way to keep normal and i feel abashed that i allowed this trick to go on to the point when i enjoyed not but barely anything—and i suppose depression plays a role in ones sanity however much it depresses and slows one down its different for me in that i had both the depression as a garbler of the cogs that turned furiously rather than a slower of the cogs to the point of at least a fixity however horribly a pain at least i would have a place in my head to feel the pain rather than—know—the pain of senselessness ceaselessly people normally dont experience mania and depression at once she says as i speak to her of this—the key is perspective—which writing gave but i had stopped doing even that as the depression had knotted all these thoughts in a mess that mania struggled to make a balance out of—practical analogy—four fucking car pile up—metaphysical analogy—both ultimate ends of the emotional spectrum buzzing beyond hurt and the thoughts all of them hurrying away without the emotional perspective perhaps with a bit of their own chaos even these two ends—mania depression—meeting only in that i felt them at the same time without a connection between them via thoughts that as i said scrambled away—scrambled—thought has always been the emotional rationale for most people but for awhile and perhaps still this hasnt been the case its like—you feel—then you say i feel this—because—i lost the because i suppose which eh i guess was gods cruel joke saying—you like absurd shit so much? voids? reasonless gestures? well here you are!—at least i can say i have wisdom now as to what absurdity—truly—fucking is the predicament of a lost—because—that we replace with a moral postulate which to me amounts to a—just because—that though moral is in no way fucking at all—hahaha—just.]

10. [It is a purely modern concept to suffuse the celebratory with the stark the raving and the mad

Affirmative statements don’t have to be said with a smile and bright looks

We mix feelings and what we suppose enough to see in our mind’s eye is always a giant questionmark

The grandness of it, the blank force if you will, is enough in that aggressively silent image

- - Like a collection of the unsaid

But it’s not said either. The problem is rectification

We as a gen have to go by where our elders had pointed out the sinkholes in life, but time presents new sinkholes not necessarily dependent on the cultural topography of the former gen, but totally dependent on the sway of the times, and that each moment is unique I’d chance to guess is the best sort of simple metaphysical truth that anyone can understand

- - Totally / An unsaid duty to explore the application / of gen to gen, aesthetics & new breathing / new wagers

The unsaid is a mix of the possible to be said and the arbitrary preexistence of approximately said that, because it is figured later on, is to remain only a weakened essence of the thought on life then; but more complete for the time had by each gen to formulate the previous zeitgeist

Perhaps these days a way or a key even to unlock the present one

But this is folly as we realize before death that we cannot reserve a final say to thoughts on the age we live in

Yet we know that sinkhole best, better than anyone else ever will, anyone in the future

The problem is rectification, or rather a need to complete some abstract cycle

Which presupposes furtherance of life


The awareness of life’s infallibility is a greater balm than we know

But if this were the final age spoken for nothing but the age…

That, that would complete the cycle, whether it is actually completed or not, time’s end would complete everything by proxy anyway

The specter of perpetuum mobile lends to the idea of a concrete reality, in us, simply by the continual process of life that hangs over our eyes as a metaphor or imagery for that perennial quality

But it is as something less

That’s the question mark.]