Thursday, June 12, 2014

I dreamed of an eyesore, more lovely than the sun..

the last transgression, and probably the one that's least fun, might be something like a math equation in which ontology is rendered as an infinite plane with zero dimensions..

the last transgression, and probably the one that's most fun, might be something like a math equation in which ontology is rendered as an infinite plane with zero dimensions..

now let's move on
from this entertaining chiasmuy muchizismass
before our ondolero
lays down to the agated bands
of our faun strabyssimuss

trees stand like quills
of smoke
against the scrim
of our unfinite can'tsciousness

aren't the only blood lettuce
with deep undercarriages

this epicurean age
wears many masques

What if words were the only true punctuation,
and the rest
set up to force the piano
to longing

I'm bound
to reach the bottom of this
if only I keep on moving

and I can't quite quit
the quietude of its seeking mi
for if the oracle is a heel
what wound her

you know what they say about the snake charmer;
it isn't the notes,
but the swaying
of the sword-piped scrivener.

that's like saying that
every view of the impersonal
is in itself
the revealing of a collective

If only I could
catch up with yourself
but I can't, yourself
is catching.

Once upon a time,
in an abstract and compositional

forced piano-fugue
of foregoing

a xylocodeon was borne

its name-fate-desire
to comprise a pile

so how whas
Ptah compromised
in the end?

I'm waiting


How many times
are you just going to stand there
in the yen-faun-nevus
to double doors?

at least we can agree on something

something is happening!!

the pile is speaking!

you'll excuse me,
I'm going down there to find out
(Don't red these)


it's just about time
our emblematics grew some.
From this day florid,
our schitzopodal octopi
should give a repeating sigil!

(over and over and over)

have soured my balloons,
but undaunted
I ascend
the collossus
of roads.

to make an omelette
you've got a lay
a few eggs.

and filled with sake'
and smelling of banana
all the while..

ever since he replaced his leg
with a ball point pen
he's been able to cross the enemy lines
with impunnity.

it's leprachaun magic!

i would gladly trade
the love you found
in doubled doors
with the statuary
of my longing consciousness

 Now let's see:

If (statuary = consciousness)
then (longing = syntaxis)
= snakecharmer,
or is it the other way
the doubled doors?

That's like saying
Buddha = Minstrel?

grid for plain.

I'm tired of your constant supposition!
I'm tired of your kunstant composition!

leave what's unfinished
so what is done
can't be borne.

So that means
if Jesus Christ was really God,
then Marcel Duchamp
must be Ptah!

(i'd like you two to paddle my bottom
rapidly like this)

I give up..

(Time for a break)
with reason.

When the daily life of ontology is not approached
through the hot and cold doors
of Nietzschean idealism,
surely atavism
must take root.

I'm weaving the roots into a text!

a ghost is only as relevant
as its language.


I see the smoke
but no fires..

I see the trees,
but no writers!

what a funny place to find
a paper and pencil..

The muse is hidden
on every side
of every argument,
and even from itself,

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