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?