Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Drawing is the Hero, and Death is My Monster Mother

The calf's head is made of smoke, and a Turk is teasing up a cannon toward its sanguine and curly rest. To test the major city centers their mettle, The Turk's calf head whould show a bisected smoke on terms, but then rein in all the usual real estate, vermillionaires to the rescue, and crimson noses all lined up side by side to hotrob the throbbing of the aristocratic alcoholograms. Too many shirts versus skins. Too many skin rocks. Let's begin. In the beginning, there was Moses the skin-rock, a calf's head, and some smoke. Then brown architecture moved like thunder out of a sordid shirt cannon. Bleak rainbows walked where black Venice gave deep purple ice to the lieutenant's hound purse. The calf' smoke is made of heads, golden hollow heads holding transparent olive jelly. Thin olive jelly colonels silence the calf. They stop it from presenting a mush of golden heads to the assembled cities of smoke which hunch in the dusk of everything. And the dusk of everything is a mulch of dust and dreams being a chain of everworking things, like the string of a thong to hide the bung where the belles lettres should spread, its cheekiness pre-veils (verb).

word / verb
vird / vort
weird / merde

word death

the ad is always for "drawing"

As in À rebours
drawing or dessin // becomes the saint, or the is~ain't
Des Esseintes
As if the mind would be reconciled to the materiality, as if all of history
were to be writ through that lens, but what it reallly ain't
Is that if you wan say It's like an other materiality, or
as Nicolas Cusanus says in his De Docta Ignorantia (Of Learned Ignorance)

the spirit:

A calf's head goes my breasts
a tidal pyrite pirate moving at pi*rate of change + absence
to the


The Greater or the Lesser Virsicle


The Great and Laughing Mother Death.