Friday, September 13, 2013

Indulge Me.

spheres made of broken spheres full of eggs made of broken eggs full of spoiled yolks made of yokings jokings the roughcast joints of flutes

The study of Semiotics isn't a "Tower above tragedy" but something closer to 'a tragic erection'...

the passerby in the face of the determined helper,
and the bathtub left behind, its Santayana-pedestrian
or Helmholtz precision beckons with trusses.
Seneca wields a union with the black virgin
only to find 'all these museum'
are terminal rubber ducky, ie
Caligulan Sophistry
writ large against sublime
intransigentle dusk omens
of Summer's ending.
Why does the name 'George'
engorge us gorgons
with gorgeous
lexemes of distress.
In the margin here Santayana sketched
a boy in a tub and labeled it "accident" to cover an inkblot.

just another day on twitter
lulling with the ancient bivalves.
Here too, is Seneca,
as played by some jaunty
nameless contemporary fan.

The hypersea resembles,
and it returns to resembling.
It carries grace, and to grace
it carries.
Romance remembers all dissections
by the line.

The line is missing here; its
Christ of furred glass questions
the path of sound; as soon 
as you use a word, it's to(o) 
say some(thing) else, a 'si!'
in smoke floats
languidly away from all screens,
and transparence resembles
opacity, and that's where
the movie begins
to get interesting.

A Portrait of the artist
as Emmanuel Hocquard
in Gulliver's travels.
Kentucky Speed.

He describes the creation of a universal metaphor for human political (ir)reality.. Notice the brand: Yama-ha!

Venus slumbers sly upon the 
satori manger, and there is nothing
in this world, this universe, which is not beautiful,
and yet, beauty is terrible,
and we are not designed
to behold its fullest girth.
The eye is the emblem of beauty,
a threshold of transfiguration,
where confusion 
passes unto confusion,
and life,
unto death. Aye. I.
Beauty lurks always
in the carnival of signs,
and its barque floats long
and travels far.
Cleopatra rides her own asp
and fore, a trillogy
bound up
in spectral geometries.

A sacrifice is to mystery, what constants are to equations.
In Constantinople, the Byzantine Emperor Palaeologus
throwing aside his purple regalia, 
led the final charge against the incoming Ottomans, dying
in the ensuing battle in the streets like his soldiers.
On the other hand Nicolò Barbaro, a Venetian eyewitness to the siege,
wrote in his diary that it was said that Palaeologus hanged himself
at the moment when the Turks broke in at the San Romano gate,
although his ultimate fate remains unknown.
This is but one story of the ultimate game of spherology,
and its long umbilical penis of terracotta munchkins.
'pardon my fate'
Have you ever seen a titanic bust
whose life-like beard
is full of gesticulating pirates?
-fringe science-

sleep was fitful.. dreams strange, something about a 'cult of granular purple' which was really more like ambergris, ambergris foam

The French are so American.

The ribald sublime is always local.
Earth is local.
and every event, every particle
says one thing, the same thing:
with Electric Snake Fang.

I don't have time to explain now.
I'm doing drugs on a mountain top
in the desert
of ice cream.

It says here, that in reader theory, we are encouraged to use every affect
as a beginning, not an end to meditation? Do you buy that shit boys?
I'm not so much very sure we couldn't do it that way.

He admitted to not liking black people as much after the mugging, but what he couldn't admit
were the fleeting feelings of love which strange accidental hatreds inspired.
He preferred all none of it to sleep, where things were smooth
and fluid. rough. disturbingly peacefull in there.

The universe cannot spell,
but its magic is never in question.

and so it goes, the buggy blocked by the burl,
the road lifted from the countenance.
Forget what you have seen.
Remember it all in me-memes,
taste defies all order.
imagine a golden helmet vibrating.
and waves of pheasants
ascending to the sun.