Wednesday, July 23, 2014

The Egg With Three Black Spots


Clausewitz!
O Clausewitz!
let down your golden rump-braids
for Penelope Gobstockings
will not let you go to newspaper long

young greece like a monkey
was fond of war
so do not be sour
and let all the young ladies
pull your long blonde rumpbraids
on national television computer hearth place street 

central nervous system
 unexpected developments unfolding under 
the "fog of braids" 
(i.e., in the face of incomplete, dubious, and often 
completely erroneous information 
and high levels of fear, doubt, cake and excretment) 
call for rapid decisions by alert commanders


laws which are witless
laws which urn ripe
the clause is a saddle
a fruit made of night
all of utopia a sandbox
all of nothing a view
of this endless gorgeous inscription


I've got you Madame!
never falter!
for I am JF BORY
of the long escarpmeant
of tables.


i quiver and tremble
for something in the totality
which i cannot name or tame
is that soul equation:
yes times no
divided by no 
divided by yes
squared

for these three round roots
found five fingers
to a lithophone


There he goes!
Clausewitz is running the wrong way again!


I'm not going anywhere.
Art is King of the Mountain.


A Metaphysical Exterior
with Biscuits.


I see De Chirico
he's riding Clausewitz.
Of all the great Acroterions,
they were the best,
and the worst.
It's so fun to run away
with nothing.


I'll release you all
with no message at all.
That'll show them,
being is a fullness
which cannot be harnessed
to completely.


It is not my middle finger,
but that of Hamlet.
He is the middle finger
in a hand whose fingures read:

JF BORY
CLAUSEWITCH
DA CHERRY COAL
LUCAN LACAN LACUNAE
LEUCIS
SELUCID

and braque.


and now for 2 small
caviarts..


1
If Art is King of the Hill,
She must also be
a mailman.


2
Somebody else
burnt this bridge
long before I arrived,
but as you see,
it is still
quiet
and as perfectly formed
as usura
the grace of Antigone
(like a green seaweed burger)


It was during our final expedition
to find the utopian grotesque
that we discovered this mess
a preponderand of patterls
amonk the disoddure

JF BORY
is
the black remainder
of François Vatel


He was so certain
yes
it was the head of a cyclops camel
a hybrid of
Unique Forms of Continuity in space
as stepping out of a basket
and into the crowd
of disappearances
and the wits of clauses
overhauled

the yeti which assaulted me
in the market
(baby crying)


but they never bring up
Il Botchioni's
Herm maid...
Just Kant grit my claws around thatre.


Karma
like morphology
explores the contraction
of pure being
into the avatar.


But what of Audience 
plurticipation?


critical diarilogue?


What of the fundamental
Fasculiminine?


The Utopian Grotesque
can never be countered,
only encountered.
President George Bush
painting a picture
of Bruegel's book spine.

"our brew gelled"


It's how I literally
walked away
into the netsunt..

for Clausewitz
is really Saussure
in the mind
of Bory'ng.


or maybe Mondrian
went to war
with a cherry coal..


so careful to found
a deeply ambiguous resonance
between all things:
Intelligibility itself
unintelligible
except
as a fountain
of interiority exploring
relationality

o hair coos..


for once in your lie
dune-something


gest for once


be that gnarl-ed crag
of abatement
caught in the hero's cowl
blindly fumbling for innocence

every molecule
a greased hog

an angel hog
turned loose on string


Bory
as a charmed sentence


won't tell me that story again,
that story of the dream mouth, dear

where dread is folded sweet
like crisp
olive linen
dusted with golden pollen


a sailor always knows 
where to finds its shews


Your hands move
while mine are caressing 
myself..


still.
what the audience
thinks.


space is to ambition
what fate was
to the gods


the context dripping

the blank sign
choralled


O totality
your bread hyphen
passes through my mind
to return
the mirrored helix
bypassing
all apathy
the last great public action


black nostril prawn
(rumpbraid)


JF Bory
(rumpbraid)


shiny frowning torso
and circular aquarium
(rumpbraid)


DeCherico
(Tel Quel)


Totality
as Clausewitz
(an actuarial table and meminine rumpbraid)

old and vascular
vext.


moonshine, etc...

(post-scriptusk)


In the year 1888 Herr Von Clausewitch was seventy,
and there were people who felt an extraordinary
and inexplicable repulsion 
repulsion when they saw him coming towards them 
in the streets of Berlin,  indeed, who in their dislike of him 
actually maintained that he must be an evil old man.

"But is there really something Rotten in Denmark?"

Or is there REALLY

nothing

as written in din-marks?