POST-SENSE*

Reading loosely around, and in the sense of some sort of project, a viewer watching a project look at itself in the mirror, like a mother, I guess I worry about the child, his awful big lips. the odd way he keeps pushing his hat up in the back, the fact that all of it could be writ in a calligraphy made with stencils on a wall, golden army men spray painted gold, the shapes of their conjoined sole-flanges informing the lyrical mirror-stage of the font's self identifying murkicle, quasure, imagine if the roughest, or the softest thing conjoined their hands as in an angelic demon's voice, saying softly, like chopped limbs of wind through a delicate lace-like face-like sieve of starbones, 'weird drugs', and it's good enough to be Hegel, and Artaud, and President Carter and Mother Theresea, Theri-Esa, Elu, Eloi, Alo, elow, alou, elor, alors, elo, enu, arnouse, Mary, Jissom bell. Here i am, an old junky mother worrying about her child, his crooked plot-lines, his mispellings, and grammar, his lack of appropriateness, decorum, but even I know, he's just 'weird drugs', weird drugs is both motherly love, and the sea breeze smell of pirate zombies leaving their cold blue home in the glory of revenancy, is that a word? [...]revenant, that story about the monkey paw, thinking of my grandpa, he owned a little ceramic statue of a monkey reading the Wall Street Journal (Wallace Stevens, Richard Wallace's Fountains)['you don't know dick'], and that's the newspaper from which he bought me wind up robots, and we played with them on the farm, robots on the pharm, weird drugs, news accumulators, weird drugs, gene-splicing bacterial grey-water batteries, Osiris' electric catfish penis ala 'TORPEDO'.. 'jellypacks' I would always consciously try to differentiate my views from Ed, because whereas I was tolerant of certain art and literary scenes, Ed was not, and yet, I was extremely intolerant of certain strictures and structures of writing, saw hollowness in grammar, spelling, all of it, language was just a form of drawing, in every sense, and which as I later learned, could be perfectly described by 'alloinduction' or the non-specific signalling of bacteria. I saw in 'literature' a form of institutionalized entrainment, whereas Ed had left space in his interpretation for these traditional techniques of trans-subjectivity construction, I preferred 'weird drugs', Ed would always say, weird drugs can't be weird drugs, unless you leave a hole for them to go into, I'm lying, but not really, THERE ARE DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF SOLIPSISM, BUT IF THE EARTH IS BY DEFINITION A SOLIPSISTIC CHEMICAL SYSTEM why fight it brother? (Insert envy, malice, greed, and earnest(y), whater excuses for Mothering subjectivity)] and there's nothing that isn't weird drugs, and it isn't eloquent to remind folks of this, probably not, Addy Pross, but let's just say, there is a romance in the heart of the devil, and "This is the Age of the Naken Daimon." and its contour is like motherhood to an avalanche of flowers which propel a pyramid of [insert exotic wood name here] ironwood, sandal wood, and so now that Ed's been gone, the one person who was both 'into correctness' and 'sees all things as weird drugs' is gone to me, and I miss him, for I was weird drugs looking in the mirror, but I don't think he would've approved of Raymond Roussel. I think he would have steered me towards something like George MacDonald Fraser, because for him, if anything had a scent of gay that was fine, but just remember, (if I can't fuck you, then) what? Where are you going Ed? Gay is already weird drugs. He'd pull you out into the space of argument, lead you into what you might perceive as being a conflict, only to announce the continuity of weird drugs, and so, I guess this strain of narrative sparks from a single backbone come natural to me, whether it's semiosis, syntaxis, or cellphones, there's a collapsed network of lacunae which are sparking, which is very Vienna I suppose, the invisible, but no where is there a tradition of the visible likened tou OUR KIN of this or is there, but isn't myth like the truth hidden in plain sight, a kind of UR-Reflexivity which informs all models of all models of modelling, consider the labyrinth and the minotaur, the labyrinth the world, and the ninnitaur the self, the knot's elf, extra-low frequency sound makes a pattern in sound (sand), and isn't that one recent definition of life, a persistent pattern within a flow of energy, and doesn't OM remind you of the equivocating urge of myth, or math, of the worship of specificity within the evocation of difference, as if in the monadic imperative of seeing difference there were a unity, a continuity, an echo of disjunctive synthesis, and disjunctive synthesis itself like the creation of a persistent pattern in the flow of energy, at least as good as meter, and what is the clue to weird drugs beyond a certain 'cultural studies' version of 'metissage' as drug comes from the Persian for demon, and hence I reveal a small alter inside the inside of my text, you Medes, and Parsis, fools and beasts, the boolean feast says, what is this algebra good for? It will be good for circuits, a circus in cirrus, a sere cussing cut from the surface surfused with fussy fuses of succulent  lurid droolings, cures, kerf, and cupid, Icarus' vicarious flight into every more fancying ants standing upright, their curlean penumbra as evident of an herculean invisible housing electrickal formlessness (energy suffusing communication) but organ-blind, become drugs, lyricality as species of blunting, or sharpening, softness said to hardness, what is liquid? Kiss my glass:

Not less because in purple I descended [from Osirian Catfish Penis Laser Eye]
The western day through what you called [demonic presence, in the sense of VITAL]
The loneliest air, not less was I myself. What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard? [weird drugs] What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears? [weird drugs] What was the sea whose tide swept through me there? [weird drugs] Out of my mind [Get into-OUT OF MY MIND] the golden ointment rained, And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard. I was myself the compass of that sea: [syntaxis, see!] I was the world in which I walked, (myth, continuity, labyrinth, clair-obscure] and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange, a jelly-bean weirdo with electric snake fang, for behind my nose (knows) are electroplacques, muscular jelly batteries instead of a brain.

What byte? What fain? (I am working on my novel, and I am not making much headway, and I don't think you would have liked it Ed, and I am not too keen on it either, but maybe it is conceptual, but hopefully not in the way stacking tires in a gallery is conceptual, maybe its something closer to a teapot you dream about, and in the morning remember, but its shape is changed, and you feel like writing a poem called "Weird Drugs"

O there stands Osiris in Cinnabar armor:
"They cannot chop me now!"
for this carved stone is a barrier
to their inferior blades, and inside my throat
is a structure of adamantine hardness,
a strange machine which I have never seen,
and like a paving beetle
lays out a strong thin string, like a word
before the word, and like a cat it sleeps
on a queer rug whose weaving
is even more strange the deeper one peers,

and like a cloud tethered
to a solid crystal dagger prism
the dreaming cat is reigning
(the)




*were-ruse
*we're druze!
*warred the rugae on, digesting all, by indie gestoans