the deSiRing MaChiNes.

Everywhere it is machines totalizing the field of lack totalizations the truth of history Mona and (tantalizations) Jill becomings-women a mistake an error the Uroborous the Id the Truth of libido the eros machine a shitting machine mechanics the handy-andy man the garage of oranges rhyme in the production factory the unconscious at work smoothly that human history exteriority always scarcity and mode of production privatization of the anus the partial organs the body without matter practical attempt to unite it, it is the object sunbeams up the dancing pixies Mona called seized the moment carpe diem Organ desire plugged into a accordion with the couplings and connections the Mouth of the Mona anorexic hesitates betwixt the nomad tryst what might be called the passive motor of history Franny shouted Jill hailed Mona skirred the winging tee’s of molecular dispersal conditions something is happening to women that is, not matter in itself but not humanism but a full body of the earth not called subject praxis but the desire hinge of your lungs sneaking in the park an inert universal memory that produces milk thence we are all handywomen cleaning the sties dictates a pioneer of desire body on flanks of Mona shaded the eye wore the mountain cape along her eyes blue velvet green in fits and starts was the past tense breaking the seal of that unity in fusion she stumbled the stairs the satires of her glance an Now to A solar praxis out for a walk a her to be the couch making the difference a difference to depressing meaning together with the initial alienation of her leg covered camisole it fingers in the fatty tissue of mugs and aliens and french creams and bye byes Passive actions of worked closeted with her pastor to the God of against Satan whose name was plural legion Lucifer in the psychotic bend down over the hills and sky But these pinnacles and principles of thrones cannot O mouth cannot O Mouth in the mother Subway of deteriorating deterritorialization along the crashing tracks the rails Mona

Jill stood still steadfast

Franny was guattari in her molecular cape. O immanence of the earth wear.

Clickety-click click click the sound of machines the smooth huddle of word processsors.

Call this page 1.


Desiring ProDuction 2-3 on the

A schizophrenic out for a stroke is more excited than a morning file with teeth. It’s death on the night undone unsaying the coeternal beat of the light faded by edifying glances down the strange of time. Knot some saying along her back playing the girl of night and her hummer back… not lived as nature or walnuts between the tasting teeth of L. the dark lore of her huddle eyed picasso elf eye So much apple in the nut is pleasing. Various gaits not the gate to the door that opened to Song see and its partial place of knock and wood. Then the mist appeared. It was vase and the optic place steered and the high down dead feeling a finely tuned machine by Sheila’s roses we walked. A fantastic tattoo a repression silence drunk deeper than night and Hilda’s highs. Over the ship overboard and starboard the buckets of sheep were crying. Murky caves spade of hand shuffling the deck a tape made in the tee black copper and a candlestick stretching the stellar canvas of her posh her pish posh look gem as in the gleaming not swirled in the lyricism another cynicism in the cunningness of things. Not the unread letters returned the absence of warmth cordiality and near courtesy of day stepped to night. A glass a glass my hand Franny says it does not mean we are tying nature to a pole of schizophrenia but we’re making a pleasure boat that turns over the capital vehicle. Is that possible Jill’s daughter shouted as the check spun in the air fluttering to the ground. What is a stone sucking candy mouth but the motor of its intent, even if that is spurn, and not day says done.
The social industry machine is not rhizomatics the we wish the misplaced finger the imagined finger, the letter missing, it’s not all the same thing, and the matheme is the death, the lapse of them all. The rest is absence not the other named dead once your over it over it virtue. Speak of virtue, speak of virtue and young men, treachery and the body comes naturally forgetting the voice that speaks its shadow awake.
Ought her heart to break first, the big bible, the bibliography? Scrawled or otherwise, it is not the one and others you read that counted across your pigeon scrawled eyes or the memorized eyes and globes you recalled. It is not, it is not radio or speakers, or letters between the vowels, consonants before the silences. It is the critique of desiring-silences that count and recount the page stuttering its way along Aye Aye capstan and bollard fakering the height that unbridles the image of her latest creation the cetacean nun the vermillion cage, the yellowed eyeballs the fragment novelistic. To what end a bicycle horn recording purpose an antebellum procedure before the bitter glow of His right side and her never want to know she was there before. The shiver that cleans twice ladles the verb and clears the page. Not like desiring production popping your eyes in one more torture cell a year. Not may like that. So it went now it does. Again, ripped inside the piece of waiting in the fear by the bus stop where you go the name waits head of forgetfulness . Only way there out. Desire cop coughs wrinkles the stele of pointed out cats and signs it’s your hole in the wall and I don’t mean The Wall hell is other persons starting the finish line after you begin not the Beginning of Pierre Lefou and her verliffy ways gathering at second hand apartments and.

Breath was making the modern way.

that, That, is how you versify. crucify,


dada IsMus - wekcome to badspeliing

Ladies and Gentlemen Boys and Girls Another Episode in the Continuing Fictions of ...

Suchwasnthennighta castaboom catluctea teh schiozpan akn woil; gfp Ok? saiIth Franny Koo0k

yer hello was GooDbyE

and Mona was the sober path of a night`s memory in May, and the
May was adown and the maypole of her hair, the flapping wind, and yes O
yes her teeth were gleaming in the dark, as her dark breast of
aquiline nose, and her nether dark breast of the ruling fevers the
speckled ransom of

paired against its parried self she was stoic in her stir the
wondering pronoun of her adoteenager years and gasped the gulp of her
self. now nagging night as when when a dark breast of a simile
truncheons its horn splitting past the melody of its cigarette its
sore neck the letters seaming tardy in the way low routes of her
toodle down toodle by the path of the cartoon there was plenty in the
lakes and flying fish that summer in Paris were we settled to write
our thesis, Felix Was we Pierre Janeting it, in the inkle down
of our jungian way past the plaster of her sweater and the bleater,
the metre of her body and her elegy hung high stereoscoped by radiant
dreams of the hill of eyes and the bush made men crawl you crawled
out of the hole black youth your oil slick back

Ah! Mona gore the bowl of plenty piteous oafs the mickle phrase the
parsimony of it, the parsimony unit! Sheesh she blessed her delouse
on the dithering of pages, the p punning parsed her past along ray
gimbaled by her gospel O the fourth injunction was it, that cried
your love across the front page of the Bouzouki place? and the
debtor’s prison it was the stockade of the handmaid But Franny

a go-getter incompetent with her shuffle Spinoza stuck in her
teafills of paddies knuckled by the spanky new suits and hard arses
seen to be eyed over the hour of feminine milk sun dust milk miracle
Mary Mother of us All full body of the earth her organs ploughed by
and the Krishna horror in us grabbed hurtled by the slave of the
second flittered by its rocker its rocking chair of slave and intent
but no more was desire to be fastened by its wheels a rebellion
against the whole bloody world! Desire! Positive sign of a Mission!
the Mississippi call your twanged out space not that anyone knew or
cared a hoop in flying freak its!

Mona could not be bored and bothered with the likes of that, the
blather of it! the shaking! the quaver of its turn-a-coat breast! now
speaking of breasts
Jill hovered there is no one to tell who they are in the co-in-
viduated star struck dilemma a personal pronoun inclining your
hitchhiker to decline the fall of Rome and France

Mona: not Muna : Did you ever notice that the Waste Land a certain
pictogram by an American man did not make mention of Paris in its
litany of falling cities? Well, shiver me timbers! I did ! I did to
indeed in my zurichy way along the pedal path to hardom and heights
Before Grand central Harlem I sat down and wept! O me boredoms! we
got the four O`Reilley`s to them! in the old keepsake of the rod and
the peat bog home we call plain on the range and smooth cheruby buttocks
so smooth the silk inclines to move’em. Aye, that is not accent on
your accident my son O father of the Nights O father Me Padre pray
for us now and at the hour of our death and prayers| O keyboard of
pharmacy. Ah! Paris My pharmacy run dry will you quilt the wells
on their toe down ties? No one shall know or speak this sneaky fifth
revision to your pages and not like the dead bleats of Canacaca poesy
their farts ruled the earth. Not like that, O my son.
O my sonnifier and jestblest welsome of a nigh pry nigh whisper the
soft intent of your pipple along stays.

Franny looks around her keyboard wondering about the j-string and
sees the room flutter with the ointment of ink and character making
her spelling bee bomb. Not for all your Shomskey`s in the world
phonetic alpahabetter, we are a neural county sirs, a neural dote of
three-- said with a twinkle in her eye -- a tweak on her accent -
tree or more over this crown of decadent alphabet soups of nauseous
wine! Shall we enough of exclamations? Said Jill in her comma break
down `down` becoming a so-called neutral country in her
merrydomedumbcome. A real schizo parlance was hers. Not so when the
cashier troubled her eyes, to make cashiering a public activity on
the shives and ships of her dally dog days a woman walking away the
creases in her pants.

So Mona on the fifth day. and others of the mackle way and the
brindled pavement shone high against its fortitude in the night in
the blind man’s way, and his touch tone key pad.

So Mona on the fifth kicking the guardian of the guardian angel out
and his bloody signifers of the garden of pardon. Not so in the
Western way was her body-smooth-without-organs.

Smiles, smiles All.

bladerunner !!! oh No PoLite RePlY

Mona went out and bought a copy the sound of Music - ! Yuck she
thought talk about getting abck into one's family mush. No wonder the
world was a terrible place, with Julie something or other singing with a
kotex pad stuck between her thighs and the drivel of her song bashing
everyone down into the sentimentalizing lies of childhood.....

But secretly Mona wondered if there was a something or other going
on that she couldnt sniff out.... Hmmm SHe wondered.... Thesound of music.
Right I know what that is



On Mon, 21 Jul 2000, Franny wrote: in the Star Struck Plateau

I was coming round the strata and I had a sneeze off my being and nothingness...
you think u are really a senior lecturer... And u like to dance listening to the "Sound of Music". And perhaps one day u will stop to act and really read a book like Molecular Revolution, by Felix Guattari and come to hold my hand inside my brassiere...

Kind regards, and a smile,

> Fanny!

> *The Sound of Music* *that* was a movie...


blogs, bogs, quick sands, songs, stuff, places, and muck of the plane of consistency

------->stuff and songs and places to see where other writers also Self Publish or Perish
O Perish me not said Mona! I need to see their work and mine! I love them! I love them! I love them all! She gasped with joy. and said their names as she scrolled the rolls of the world wide web blinding her love and desire full for their words and works.Mona bowed to the others that were blogging the plateaus and surfing the sites of desire and breakaway park with the dance and the roll.However Mona has not figured out the fancy stuff yet in blogs and she could not link so She pasted.

And licked the bell of the tatoo arm in the fanmail space, turbulence of what befalls us, the terrible calamity of Cadmus` glove and the trap of the french keyboard and no body is different we are tired of writing, but find the word very pleasing. Capitulation was not her forte, in the old days before stamps, she ragged her muscles into the morning and its tyranny. Otherwise hermaphroditism. was not his nook, but the force of language was and she was prisoned by it. rewriting the archaic spontaneous. Now try that! on for size