Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Unction Philately, or Thomas Landseer's Monkeyana

One liberates oneself through work, even on the eve of catastrophe. How long can you continue to delay the true nature of sensations? We must refuse to be beggared by orderliness. True nature creates combinations to defeat naturalism. There will always be on the table, if you look, a vase of intentions.

for a shirt liver wends its chew
across the collar
green frost ice mirror beachhead
tumbles up to chime-frame
and bristle-chimes
block the hole
but in that
hold a cigar
like a penny
in a navel

one often wonders just what the difference
really is, or why it doesn't assert itself more, most 
non-mathematival concerptions of space
are surreal anyway, so connect the
tack and mole
and then drift down
to the white
life-saver button

and then jimmy
crossing her hiss legs in a crash
never bowing to paypal author rotis
mon canard your trail of sky has skewered
my gyroscope so punctually
cupid's armorer of kisses
in tawny leather
to ptah

etruscan olives, marlowe,
whatever setpieces are stilled
as the windows of desire
those windows
become all smudged
with hippy sheep
bleating moses

the pumping
that is my soulchip
is also a pipe-stand
a goat's tail
a forelock
for the devil's

neighing at your neighbors's knee
by the sea, that kneeeeee
which somehow
rises from a book
your non-adjustable

At one time, yes, there was a monkey on my back,
but now, domestic caryatid wrecking ball theorbo,
there's a white man with a monocle.
His name is Mon Canard.

I am your shoe.

would you grow like a wave,
a curl of smoke, or mint,
L^{-}=\lim_{x\to x_0^{-}} f(x),
would you come back again,
my eyebrows
more exciting
than dali's mustache

I'm careful to visit the sculpture garden everyday
at around 3pm to midnight, carefully weighing
the deep meaning of all these lovely
languid objects, and sampling
their innards as well.
evening limits singularity
and blighted diners
club dog

I myself am weary of 'knows best' governments,
but as an unarchist
follow Don Bonham
across the salt flats

you could say I'm a 
high-speed wheel
in search of blessed
to annoint
with pure and brutal

Sigmund Freud, at his local pub would often eschew
the conversations that turned toward symbolist art,
the grotesque, or the drolleries of novels.
He was there to influence the dream-life
of ordinary people, and to that end
gave out
small blue frogs
in little wooden shoes
wrapped in yellow parchment
(and as I glommed on 
to the demon's head,
I was speared through the chest
by the tip of an enormous wing)
and pub-life

on my hands I wear curtains
not gloves

don't be so sulla, in mathematics, as the grass crown
is shifted to the nausem as the first tangible green variable,
just as our scene itself was when viewed as Delacroix's version of 
Phaedra and Cymochles which can only lead
to the great summations of William Etty, ie, even the rare nights in which we drank in peach, 
the ballast of your wildly flowing buttocks,
Sulla, come kiss your Pegasus!

Let us never follow the path
of Antoine-Jean Gros

The sublime
is basically a middle finger:
one coming from man to nature, and to certain men (or women I guess)
and one coming from nature to everyone equally,
and the middle way is pedagogy,
and is sort of like a hot
wooly costume.

so when the sublime
battles the titanic what you see
is basically
a kind of 
or sense feuding with local

is high windows
in an asylum
full of tall people

If Gros would've painted Ariadne as having a kind of outbreak of rosy nipples
which were seen to be virulently spreading to Bacchus,
the school of David
might have been saved,
and would have ushered in a Romantico-Surrealist revolution
whose contours could have rendered colonialism
and endless
eskimo-nude Sulla
wallowing in opium
and silk

this is the asylum for the very tall.
it is called 'expressionist film'
segmentation cannot help but breach the jumpcut
f(x)=\lim_{k\to\infty}\left(\lim_{j\to\infty}\left(\cos(k!\pi x)^{2j}\right)\right)

f_A(x) = \begin{cases}
  \frac{1}{n}  & \text{if } x \text{ is rational and }   n \text{ is minimal so that } x \in F_n\\
  -\frac{1}{n} & \text{if } x \text{ is irrational and } n \text{ is minimal so that } x \in F_n\\
  0            & \text{if } x \notin A

and here, after so many French painters, Ariadne, abandoned by Theseus on the Isle of Naxos, is taken in and consoled by 
The Eyeball Telephone of fair Bacchus.

In 1822, the Salon critic for the Debats
complined abou the monotonous rose flesh tints,
yet secretly hankered (visualized) incandescently rosy miniature nipple mantas
sliding across fair Ariadne as if she was a kind of living ivory,
a beach of supple critique.
Etienne Delecluze declared 'the subject' means little,
yet produces 'quite a lot', a prodigious amount in fact
given its actual
littleness, per se.


from Bindu
to Gorgon
The unsubtle 'gypsy path'
of the great alchemical burden
'the grotesque work'
or emerald table

being Diogenes
is not easy

I don't mind being Diogenes
on a day like today

Eugene Delacroix
in his third life
as a monster pupa thing
in the window of a Macau shop
suddenly discovered the internet
and began again
his portrait
of Sulla

like Raymond Roussel
have an external reality
and internal
which ends up
being quite charming

i saw an old harp over here by a rock

Richard Parkes Bonington's
Francois Guizot..

that first night alone
in Savigny's skull

Alexandre Corréard

The Nobility of Failure,
feudal hyperbole in late literature, and here,
most importantly, traditonalist counterculture

at the altar of duchamp
there is nothing but steps

a cool
and striatory frame
a lump

a stylus
and a snare

of relationalities, to wit:
After I photographed the baby in the silver punchbowl, it began to shrink,
Sulla Jimmy!
Sulla Paint!
Shall I swallow cave phantoms?

How rich she smells
this abortion of a fledgling!
I will eat it with a fish fork!
menstruation choir hands!

As my ice prick floweth,
so floweth all culture,
to abyss, and below,
for puncta undone,
is puncta over all!

I myself
am dowsing rod
and sinner chalice
holder of all reason
and dinner

what, that strange peg
holding that beautiful slab of ice on the wall?
Don't be a moron!

I've never seen a waterfall 
so utterly saturated
with beautiful dead flowers.
I call it

Now that you have all bowed 
to the wan coalish skull of all 
abomination in the spread-legged sarcophagus
of all potential geometry, 
could one of you fucking waiters 
bring me my drink!

this tastes a little like
Mon Canard..
I'm afraid my wrenching car wrecked avant-gard fuck-head swannery
just cant seem to get it (oh wait)
Rebel without a Face!
(I see it)
1960's Butoh version
with James Dean
in a white plastic sphere hell..

are pretty children
our finest
all consuming actual
family vernacular

let's go there now
to herald the great snake!

what hurdles did you leap
to get nowhere?

It seems like I've reached the end of someone else's
tether, or neither-either, or ether, therther?


Yep, I see it too, well it looks like we've traced the funding of Google
back to the parvenu society, old Wilkie and Boilly set the stage
for the Napoleontic search engines. 

I'm looking over
a four leaf clover...

Julie my duck, mama's lute, chouchou, in lieu of amore
of our loo, butte of my butte, beaute of your butt mont rue,
that enough, her green leather shirt modulated both smoothly to the chair
and the green leather pool table
a few frames back.
There must be critical limitis.

f(a) = \frac{1}{2\pi i} \oint_\gamma \frac{f(z)}{z-a}\, dz

\left | \frac{1}{2 \pi i} \oint_C \frac{f(z)}{z-a} \,dz  - f(a) \right |
&= \left | \frac{1}{2 \pi i} \oint_C \frac{f(z)-f(a)}{z-a} \,dz \right |\\[.5em]
&= \left | \frac{1}{2\pi i}\int_0^{2\pi}\left(\frac{f(z(t))-f(a)}{\varepsilon\cdot e^{i\cdot t}}\cdot\varepsilon\cdot e^{t\cdot i}i\right )\,dt\right |\\
&\leq \frac{1}{2 \pi} \int_0^{2\pi} \frac{ |f(z(t)) - f(a)| } {\varepsilon} \,\varepsilon\,dt\\[.5em]
&\leq \max_{|z-a|=\varepsilon}|f(z) - f(a)|
\xrightarrow[\varepsilon\to 0]{} 0.

f(\zeta) = \frac{1}{2\pi i}\int_C \frac{f(z)}{z-\zeta}\,dz.

no irony here.
my loving is a lightning bolt
straight through the head
of the game.

no irony here.
my loving is a lightning bolt
straight through the head
of the game.

I still can't find my

The critics were completely unaware
that their discussion resembled quite magnificently
Sawrey Gilpin's
Horses in a Thunderstorm

Each picture that is not death,
is also not language,
in the standard sense of gorgoneion
against silence
(death as the restraint of confusion)

I'm not sure I understand the significance
of your backwards masque?

In Japan, I first learned
of Sodom
and Gomori

Blimey, I'd trade all these endless conceptualist days
for a beautiful friend bearing the strange gift
of tiny doll pants.

comparable to the Massacres at Chios

this scrooging
scrubbing woman
says it all
these small pictures were for me
a revelation!
I was firm in my resolution to become a ______________!

But why can't I have both of you?
I aspire to a high, real, and natural poetry!

yes, move your nose like a tapir.
hmm. natural love is guiding me.

omg no
cyclicity's unfeeling animacy
has torqued my flat affect
into nothingness
before the spreading

I whished they'd all'd take up daguerrotype furnitures
and beast limericks to shed.
ah yes, to shed a beast limerick, a lime ricky
on the soda head..

My nostrils are blocked by bees.
lessee if this works..

the actuality

I feel like
looking again

no fire can consume
the immortal
of desire

to bang her
tv refridgerator
of minotaur

the private life
of oracles

that dream
that slowly gnaws
its way through us

I dreamed of an olympics
of stoned gods

bright magic!

and the charm of dark omens..

before finally,
the pure essence,
was revealed
as completely

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.