Sunday, March 2, 2014

The Derangement of Manuloquio had rendered all mass a justipotential mythode.




deep, deep conventionality driven by risk 
aversion rooted in all of the above
it's just that the whole
universe is just a mushy bunghole
pushing glitter around
nobody can cut and paste
big sections of suns
into menandering
bone-monday'd
serpent letters


it was the age of yoohoo


and the glandulinian fred
was building toward
a kind of vaguely boring
popcorn fart of an apocalypse
she called cells
google titties
he called them beating baby seals in Prell
there were already walls
of washy skeleton hordes
pretzels at the windows
in dayglo doodoo mobiles


Language
is a Tartarus


but whose complaining


is loudest?


Is it the self-effacing monument to glamour (a self)
whose delicate streaming data braids
drift like ladders
into pure animation?


or is it the chimerical hyphen
whose golden 'minus touch'
renders every addition
a subsumption
an entanglement
a hybrid
a mixotic
a templar?


Now kynicetischism
has shed its philosopher,
to reveal the blind instrument of justice,
objectification as pure animus.

nous' doubled quest-ion-is-aten


Napoleon's true meaning
is to represent
positivity or fourness
as the plan of all surfaces,
the map whose abstraction
crosses itself
before the concrete.


greatness comes
in small packages.


and weirdness follows
as  the "fada who attends"
the doubled hyphen


some have said that every game contains the idea of death,
but who is it that said that
every nimbus contains the idea of transformation:
the black sun's blue sky
like a gorgon reveals
a green tongue.


and there is no reason to think
that next years buildings
will not also be beautiful


for though the hyphen heavy crushing mind is absolutely nimble,
it may be retracted at any moment


and the guardian that stands by you,
your domestic bridge,
can only be
a memory of thunder


for if the whole sky is an eye,
is not each being
a shutter


and the whole of writing, the whole of history
its name


the depth of field 
like an open category
is open to transation


the din
oh the din of the crescent supper
upon the wheel of 
dream
our centurion clown
toppled by the west row


my life should have been different
and is


this blood red table
enacts an indigo ghost
of diagrams
upon a winding sheet
of unknowing ledgers


is not the body in the world
a thought within the mind


a ringleader
whose ourobourous
hides its threeness
within the 
Napoleontic $4


4-3-1-2
If I wear my lungs any higher
my eyes will be wings


Sherlock Napoleon
visits like Jesus
the home of Diogenes Watson
'do not be blinded by vision'


it only rains
in the central ring
and the fecund snake begins there
HEATSINK


a ball point pen
to enter
the void of sex


industrial popcornization
of the mythic film


squirreling away our meaning
for a day with due debits


disinterest 
period


the hyphen drifting
like an unmoored ceiling
of thought


what Cerberus founded
was a cinema
of incandescent blood
a priest
of pleatings 


a gypsy kiss
on the banks of a silent lutening


a fog place
where time in a furniture clock
confounded copulation
with the ecstasy of communication


and so
the bright knowing
grows on
hercules caged
in the whisper
of a circus

a poodle shaped
sewing machine
in a nest of green licorice