I don’t even want to know that there were men before me" (Descartes)

by TriStaN TzaRa

TrIsTantan Tz Z r A

so then the wasps tzara
so when the bees tzarada

so len the bumble bees



Da Da Duffy



Mona hovers around a plateau called music, 1891 and she is Rimbaud, a fabulous musician from metaphor. She glances at the tree and makes sparse use of its song, digging in its place for flutes. that make banging noise, and hollers chopped songs by the paved rack of tornado and bastinado. it is ashore that covers the wrong tune, hoarse clinking of the voice, hunkered by melody which grapples its own thimble of Satanic juices, a crippled stairwell to the past, huckstered by the onegangster god of its ointment a mantle of marrying types weds the stock psychology of its gue. others try hammer at the door but fake scrollery doesn't work, as the iron wrought leafs are rusted, the dome of the basilica is verdigris and the communion wafers float over the aisles aimed for the child's mouth. where thought is manufactured. rabble roused by the experiment of she going to see perceive what unclutters at its tooth most comb.a Dumas story, novella what have you sugared by the thought of sainthood and predicatory mates. romances of Jill make Fanny wonder why after standing stared at the salt and vinegar long enough. stippled objects mutter a welcome sigh collars on bodies roped by necks. other frigging beside the tent cockles her heart schizophrenia of the capitalism duel. she fires one two three your capital mine makes a cookie go backward forward then still. as regression. choice and cholera marvels at the moment. a word is missing a morpheme fellow for her old guy and then the wandering of the sheets. medley puts away peer-to-peer files by the dock she wiggled her bottom up sewer then when all else has passed the test merges her text into a somber blue and the sluices overturn. she is god and gasp by the agape of fortune. her nine names are no tumbrel for thought and its tragic tense, its thoughtful pose on the razor edge of the existential territory she's delivered. bodies don't make a news story of death. The architrave is a mother field another column or portal to pester to weaken to undo lack. she proses the statement forwarding the enunciation of the first second and thirdsex word. Mona calls back into the forthright hour of the basilica and before taking her jump covers the bottom of the fuel. there's a jacket there it doesn't sense itself what it is but the repetitionof nouns gives pause for thought. claimed by the power she undoes the compose of its master high in its rank a luggard to her bastards she feels the thump the body goes sore. she called back Jill who said walk down the mountain. there is no voice there. only the radical cinnamon of immanence.

Frame: she heard the voice it was:

'Here we have made use of everything that came within range, what was closest as well as farthest away. We have assigned clever pseudonyms to prevent recognition.' 'Each will know its own. We have been aided, inspired, multiplied.'

Then rattled off the bones.


another niveau Snip SnIp SnAp

>-- is not even a concern of the text sent --- the text speaks to the ----form as something else - to wit that of the---group-in-fusion- ----(referenced in the text)---- any confusion about the matter arose snippets left early curlicue cut-ups. Like when
>--- says so Jill called and sent that to the space listing with the texts! My gosh How I do schizophrenize these things! Just like
Mona put my my little portrait together so fast.

My schizophrenine
Mona was made of a thousand little sexes. She had been a worker, a ---> pants presser in a factory, who knew that kissing a police officer (she was an old hippie, flowers in her teeth) became her where the cells of her body found release after 20 years of depression,oppression, she was a pressionist. ---> She ---> had been reading Danny when she saw so during the---> demonstration, it was utter joy that possessed her body when she fought---> back to back dancED in the street . Surges of joy and sexual energy course through her body.---
Later her ----> little boy said, "Mommie is that what Guattari and Deleuze meant by the --> group in formation hitting at the the State Machine?" She laughed and ---> holding her son .

One day her little son (whose name was ---> Precipice) would understand. He would grow up and become woman. A warrior------> girl poet with male parts. She waited for Jill to call so they write---> another text. It was coming. Coming. It was Come and Become---> and becoming and come.

Coming was coming .

Mona detourned a text -- Mona founded a text and Jill said said she wrote it. She--> --> sent it to , then they found a mistake. THey forgot who wrote --> --> it. It was very fast. She was in love with Jill's take on Mona's take of -->---> the detourne take on Viola. Anyhow they the twins fell asleep after --> ---------they read and rewrite a text they had not written. So the night was one void.--> ---And flight line went right down the middle of their head.
-----> -->

> > > >
> > > >
She was bleeding but they left. Later

> > > > > ``Jilly and Franny the Red called to see of she was okay." The --- machine is nomadic --> --->--- >-- >-- > like the ----- machine. ---moves on and regroups elsewhere, always
> > > > > elsewhere. "To hek with the central party apparatus, she said. They > > > > > headed down the lane like hunted dogs."

this was comic book cartoons, animated desires personae, characters, and figure-images...
Then Jill sat down and took a deep breath. She laughed marbles, pebbles, Pericles in her mouth. in the Latin quarter, especially when her desiring machines made her
delirious. Then she went for the jug balanced on her head, women at the well.

The jug becoming of water and vase

Another Plateau : 1918

Actually his name, her son, was Perceival the red knight of schizophrenia and movement.


Create:ReTurN to SurRealiSm

Create your own ancestors said Andre Breton.

A genealogy that the poet makes cuts across languages spaces and definitions. We don't do it any other way. The ones, the poets, who manage to scrabble a little bit of power, play this roulette wheel to a thinning point. But not the read ones unread who speak the name of ghosts and own not property.

Who defines the terms?

Let s dump that question -- Sartre suggests we employ our terms, and in that way they are tools. So then , I can combine things make things happen between different textual fields. Here then I combine a psychological novel with the existential angst of later bewildering traditions. But she reads Nadja to speak the name of L'Amour Fou. Which you know nothing about. With your infant cradle. Or Mister Yeats rocking the cradle that brought the big bang to Bethlehem. Oh yes, Bethlehem that terrible place where some are shot at and others throw stones. Little king david hurling his stones, his pebble at the big bad war machine , Mona reminds you she meant the State war machine, but for the sake of brevity we say, War machine. Which is what they are doing . A skirting white horse to create death for the others and power to their names.

Our ancestors are a noble line of Frannies and fannies going back through out and in all of herstory as she is rhymed. O yes, it is her story as much as his. His story is her story, cause what would his story be without her record. A cord of spawning spoofs that speaks down the names of history and histrionics the troy of regard the lens of speaking lines.

The lines of speaking back to back
Homer to Homer to Sappho to Sappho. She speaks the name.


Franny Found

Franny foraged found “one “floundered in the chest of alliteration and concentration, love desire and its other things. She went to rope the melon. It was I desire verse and she shook her head, shaking the lathing out, her two by fours fell down, she prayed on all knees.

" “I” wrote one yesterday a letter, chop chop
via the electronic factory courier ‘Mercury’ alcor that flies cut cut the electronic monastery
“quick silver messenger service,” cld. be better if it wasn’t so…
cuts through matter, with them in his mouth, mind in the gutter
his feet with wings supposedly, sex with someone you
a flutter with desire your eyes, flutter’s a tricky little bastard
’r letter and words, y’ language of arrows atom, letter words cache of sotisse
dense pockets, demesnes
spearheads into territory
the enemy used to inhabit

kids stand inside a piece of writing that cannot be written
turn about in a living ring, things that usually come easy
”angelic doctor of theology” [sing.]
Memoirs of a Miltonist,
get rid of the verbs
if such a thing,
it can it can commas comma
can be said
you ‘re saying it,
you’re saying it,
I ‘m saying it,
be said to exist,
as love flatters day." [emotional day]

" radioactive eyes look at me,

and your medial pause,your woe, [is this a song?] [that melody]
how can you think she’d let you go,

the voices never your own, not even the mechanics.

ivory beads and tattooed hair your silver throat, [at times it is dust]

your hands like amber which glowed like claws
your 'sung soul self' before the thieves get you [god!]
to think your child could ever escape you,

strange blink of the midnight oils
and the mahogany rush of the dancer
the ballads tale and the long straight highway
has frightened your wits past stake and soul

your soul filled has mattered me back [molecules]
how can you say
what moves it moves you?”

a hissy fit in metres
rhyme that expires

"Cities clocked in dead and alive

ransoms paired dualities and drawers ditites and duty

"your" prayers like shadows spin the mist /cutting/
this is the way it goes [down with S’s]
‘you’ sit Buddha like
waitin’ for Jesu s
the spring suddenly high

[the spring suddenly high? Is this a sort of personification] [I will tell you: it is the wrong kind]

the memory girl's face

doesn’t take much

two kids in the sun you and me
and two more sitting in a couch the surface of a swamp”

there are no substitutes surrogates do not work [i.e.thesauras’ don’t work in this case]

“ cowboys cry![?] pioneers wept [excuse me?]

what is with those definite articles/the indefinite ones

“shy” ones
“meld”?? into

the wall of coal
[wall of coal – if that]

nights brush the sand [since when?]
nights burn thighs [really, this is the worst cliché of them all]

call the eunuch forcing it [ ]
base and touch [?]
crafts the moment real
speeds past his head
you see this you it moves you paddles the way [All of this so bad, I can
hardly say anything about it round your painted aesthetic doesn't do any good
as if the gods had said that it should [this really sounds like a song underneath]
as every cigarette you smoke is missed [goodness it’s good you changed it]

my words burn fires lighting the smoke that [yer words burn fingers, eh?]
chokes your lips [since when do lips choke?]
but the byways of your metaphysics
keeps my heart dry
the measure presses in
against your passion which keeps me going

[only a phrase]

a robber holding any seafarer stowing
passage in a ship called a relationship
of our love and die our love and dying"

"So it goes [my dear???] Orpheus sings [ Orphee gags]
in spite of Eurydice's ending the files
sing the fig leaves song the mantle piece hummed
when the guitar strummed
rudders and wheels clamouring around you push me
where I never go as the sun shouts the trees moan

feel pleasure in your company
near all that we find [where did all this come from, it’s complete nonsense]
these are the lips that want company yours to speak the name

of the night its dare [donc, finally , merde]

circus wheels and daredevils
its secret heart recordings as I walk another [some people have an awful unconscious]

boulevard of my feeling sensing my only intent is your troupe
and the tripping magic reels through all five and citied senses
backward steels and garments make their their path to love"

The commentary comes later

Now Mona didn't know what to do with that it was getting close on the smudgy not periwinkle high. Jeremiad of trumps! Jill puzzled the lines like a tithy sailor and swore to read all the books when done. Jill, well ahead of the game was the prose fiction that licked its name in place in the second-hand void, the second helping to be remembered by heart.

While waiting she put everything in books.

Mona knew exactly what to do with shit like this, she threw it in the garbage. She was a ruthless cavalier.

the chronicles of sorrow

when the sorrows of chronicles had done their day they had made the
night is mess. some night itwas a mess of pottage and glue. some were
not knot. somewere not night. somenight were done knot. some tomorrows
were knot not sorrow some had expansive. some dotted ts and i's/ some
cld. not recall their fletcher in their then and field. some read
better than quiet and cold.



like the territories it navigates the fictions change templates shifting this plate and plateau this way and that

changing dictions.

shifted addictions

the new genre

Once and Upon A Time

Once and upon a time across a cross of deleuze [ah! proper name! got you there!] next to jesus [another proper name! where is that roseate cross??] there was a loaves of multitudes next to the guguguguattari of fish. No, it was the Hills of Gallilee and not Editions[where is that french keyboard when you need it?] gallilee [all these gallilees left or right], or the words of Louis F. Celine[now why is that name given precedence?]across my love in Paris, long time no see. I love you very much. said Franny to her sue self Franny guattari of Mona and friends and there was no good news to them brought from Trent the revocation of the edict of Trent and her Canadada do land.

O Canada I do lend my ears to thee, thy signponge signified territoires are more free than others more immanent than transcendent more burning than burnt. Thy prophets are cleaner and wickeder thy grammar more blameless. In they flowed earths the unlettered poets and pisswakers shake better thy class system is more see through.

Canada I lend my arse to theee in yer malarky rivers and unchosen lakes,
yer stupid small towns and waked nests, thy unherbaged baggage

thy murderous mutes
thy sleeped out musicans

Now then 'some' was making the orthographies from the disjuncted palaces and parlances and others was not. Knot into two and two. some kind of diva and trouble.

Oh, come now, don't be a silly painter.


Oh here inthe college of France we are very carefree indeed
open our nighties each prayerly night.

I commed thy ears to centres of nerves and disjuncted railroads.

I am signed thy unloosed signifier Mona.


Mona's RepetitiNon machine

What is the difference between a repetition machine and a variation machine? What does a text do when it repeats itself a repeating season. Is there some order to this, are there subtle differences in 'redaction' which have led the editor to abandon her text. When the trope of these texts was left to Franny she said to Jill there is something we must not do with them, and that is to re-write them.

The desire machine, nonsystematic and repetitive, simultaneously disconnecting and reconnecting--it disconnects the concept of reality that has been imposed on us and then plugs normally dissociated zones into the same sector--eventually escapes from the control of its manipulator;
ur alien stench remained, never losing stench remained, never losing itself in mine. The itself in mine. The more
our flesh intermingled, our flesh intermingled, the more aware I e aware I became of your difference, became of your difference, your indifference, your utter your indifference, your utter separation. I spent hours separation. I spent hours tracing
your piercings and tracing your piercings and tattoos, unreadable signs, like tattoos, unreadable signs, like the armor and display
the armor and display of an alien species.
of an alien species. But isn't this torment But isn't this torment really what I soughtreally what I sought from you? It was from you? It was your strangeness, your haughty your strangeness, your haughty coldness--
your irony, in short--that coldness--your irony, in short--that so captited ws what cruelties andat cruelties and deceptions you nurtured just deceptions you nurtured just for me, even from for me, even from the very first the very first time we met? Who knows we met? Who knows with what subtle poisons with what subtle poisons you nourished my blood? you nourished my blood? "As soon as I "As soon as I see that that I need you," G/ tells J, you," G tells J, "I imagine your absen. "I imagine your absence. Again and again I'm Again and again I'm picturing you rejecting me. picturinyo rejecting me. This is the moment This is the moment I love." I felt I love." I felt you most powerfully at you most powerfully at the moment of your the momet of your my truth is Precisely: my truth isa for me your that for me your prence in my life presence in my lifehich is why is absence." Which is why there is always a there is always a wound, whether of penetration wound, whether of enetration or abandonment. We know or abandonment. We know that there can be that there can be no final nakedness. No no final nakedness. No ltic unveing of last ecstatic unveiling of desire. Flay my skin, desire. Flay my skin, and all you'll do and all you'll do is uncover another layer. is uncover another layer. Fuck me hard, again Fuck me hard, again and again, but it's and again, but it's never hard enough. "Love never hard enough. "Love makes this demand," J makes this demand," J warned me: "either himself warned me: "either its call the eunuch forcing it [ ] base and touch [?] crafts the moment real speeds past his head
you see this you it moves you paddles the way [All of this so bad, I can hardly say anything about it round your painted aesthetic doesn't do any good as if the gods had said that it should [this really sounds like a song underneath] as every cigarette you smoke is missed [goodness it’s good you changed it] my words burn fires lighting the smoke that [yer words burn fingers, eh?]
chokes your lips [since when do lips choke?] but the byways of your metaphysics keeps my heart dry the measure presses in
against your passion which keeps me going [only a phrase] a robber holding any seafarer stowing passage in a ship called a relationship
of our love and die our love and dying" "it goes [Orphee gags] Eurydice's ending files stang fig leaves song the mantle piece hummed
when the guitar bummed for hock rudders and wheels around you push me where I never go as the sun shouts the trees moan object escapes you its object escapes you or you escape it. or you escape it. If love didn't run If love didn't run away from you, you'd away from you, you'd run away from love." run away from love." That's how I measured That's how I measured your distance from me, your distance from me, even before you left even before you left me. Your sweat, your me. Your sweat, your saliva, your odors, your saliva, your odors, your secretions: they penetrated every secretions: they penetrated every last one of my last one of my

orifices and pores. But orifices and pores. But that's precisely how I that's precisely how I knew that it was knew that it was you. You
seeped into you. You seeped into my body like a my body like a beautiful toxin. Your alien could we see, how could we see, how
could we touch one another? The touch one anotherrve ex - Mona knowsall of this is false true plagiarism ex quisite
pain of nerve endings in immediate twodouble wins comethe bed making fuck in the gulch of persecution
contact... endings in immediate contact... "Making love is such "Making love is such an entire negation of an entire negation of isolated existence," enthuses, isolated existence," J enthuses, "that we find it "that we find it natural, even wonderful in natural, even wonderful in a sense, that an a sense, that an insect dies in the insect dies in the consummation it sought out." consummation it sought out." But I didn't die But I didn't die when you came to when you came to me and when you me and when you fucked me; alas, I fucked me; alas, I didn't even die when didn't even die when you left me. "I you left me. "I wanted us to be wanted us to be so naked with each so naked with each other," G writes to other," M writes to J, "that the violence J, "that the violence of my passion was of my passion was
amputating me for you." amputating me for you." But "as soon as But "as soon as you saw that I you saw that I got pleasure from
yielding got pleasure from yielding to you, you tuYou cant make the difference rned to you, you turned away from me... You away from me... You stated that you were stated that you were denying me because you denyiu needed to be private. needed to be private. But what's real to But what's real to you isn't real to you isn't real to me. I'm not you. me. I'm not you. Precisely: and from spilling out, and oozing in a sticky, oozing in a sticky, shapeless mass all over shapeless mass all over the floor. But on the floor. But on the other hand, the the other hand, the skin (li membrane) skin (like any membrane) is not an absolute is not an absolute barrier; its pores, orifices
barrier; its pores, orifices and chemical gradients facilitate and chemical gradients facilitate all sorts of passages all sorts of
passages and transfers. All along and transfers. All along this surface, inside and this surface, inside and outside come into intimate contact. utrients aret. nts are absorbed, poisons excreted, signals exchanged. p excreted, signals exchanged. This is how I This is how I remember you, flesh sliding remember you, flesh sliding over flesh. Myh. My skin is the limit that is the limit that confines me to myself; confines me to myself; but it's also the but it's also the means by which I means by which I reach out to you. reach out to you. It's like the prison It's like the prison walls writes about, walls , that both isolate the that both isolate the inmates one from
another, inmates one from another, and allow them to and allow them to communicate by tapping and communicate by tapping and banging. What woulbanging. What would happen if these walls were if these wallssssssomee tumbling down come tumbling downCould either of us Could either of us endure a nakedness so endure a nakedness so extreme? How could we extreme? How could we talk, how could we talk, how Only the memories remain, Only the memories remaigrotesquemorials etched ruinously grotesque memorials etched ruinously into my flesh Every into my flesh. Every line, every scar, concretizes line, every scar, concretizes your absence. For we your absence. For we suffer from reminiscences, and suffer from reminiscences, and every reminiscence is a every reminiscence is a wound: whether slashed across wound: whether slashed across the epidermis, or hacked the epidermis, or hacked out by the fraying out by the fraying of neural pathways in of neural pathways in the brain. It's difficult to the brain. It's difficult to realize just
how sensitive realize just how sensitive skin really is. Even skin really is. Even the slightest breath sets the slightest breath sets it all aquiver. Even it all aquiver. Even the oldest slash or the there is nothing nothing Nothing went to the corner it was haunt by nothing takes too long nothing payed with credit your last meal in oldest slash or bite never entirely disappears. bite never entirely disappears. The skin, like any The skin, like any membrane, serves that are functions. Functions that are both so vitally necessary both so vitally necessary that "no life without that "no life without a membrane of some a membrane of some kind is known" Yea yea this stuff is driving me crazy I remember your smile your tone of voice keeps haunting my head it's schizo egg egg schizo haunted head egag On one hand, the On one hand, the skin marks a boundary, skin marks a boundary, separates the inside from separates the inside from the outside. It guarantees the outside. It guarantees the distinction between me the distinction between me and Between your body and hers the miles walk across the hopes of the world. It and the world. It protects me from the protects me from the insatiability of your desire; insatiability of your desire; it preserves my guts it preserves my guts from spilling out, but they spilt out anyhow right, like some haunted egg head schizo I want to fuck you fuck you Wings of Desire fuck you is it big voice magnified in memory phone disappears reappears
Since there is no author you do no listen to the writer when she speaks at a reading especially if he spends a long time setting things up. Trust the tale not the teller. It's the opposite of "it's the singer not the song." Writers are natural born liars, they have to lie, they lie about everything they do, after all what they do is nothing. Nothing, creatio ex nihilo. In a world of capitalist protestant self-justification that is a No No. It is the contradiction of the thing, between the thing and the person, whatever, who does the things it.... I saw this recently when I saw an aquaintance read. set things up badly, with excuses, justifications, intellectual evasions... disaster of the reading, the -- admittedly mingled with some technical matters she was working on -- And the aftereading all all evasion and double-talk; this is not bad, it is in the nature of things, the 'essence' of the beast at work and in play.... What did you expect: forgers, crooks, staffs and distaffs: the god of literature is the god of thieves, Mercury, Mister Quick time. Why be surprised? months she called it was a fun time raped months she called it was a fun time raped me she was called boy in the scene bad me she was called boy in the scene bad to make resentment but a scar can a scar heal the age of scarcity they say non believes heal the age of scarcity they say non believes prisoners between my body and hers raped byher three prisoners between my body and hers raped byher three up piece pie-bald worn by strain so the wound up piece pie-bald worn by strain so the wound then inflicts itself into the exposed inside wound not then inflicts itself into the exposed inside wound not to make resentment but a scar can a scar of books that end by reproducing themselves: Immense deterritorialization of labyrinth of writing and reading, compose decompose, recompose infinite labyrinth of writing and reading, compose decompose, recompose infinite amount buried in the fold of the strata pick amount buried in the fold of the strata pick it does so in that it makes it possible it does so in that it makes it possible to lay down a foundation of an unlimited number to lay down a foundation of an unlimited number of books that end by reproducing themselves: Immense deterritorialization of


Yes I am a novelist that writes poems. It fascinates the text. No, I am an activity that writes poems. No, you are a poet, a poet that . Words spend its neck in the dime of.

No, no, really, are you a novelist who writes poems? No, no you are a poet who writes novels that are micronarrative of a second long exploding the denotation instanter, the notion that clarity makes sense, the brighter clarity.

Ok, but wait, are you a poet, then? Yes, I am a poet, but I like to think of myself as a poet. A poet then. A novelist then writes fragments, no, that sounds too fashionable in my paranoid consciousness.

What would Mona think? She would think it is like coming, and being interrupted. But that is life, right? you see what I mean. You know what I mean?


Hamlet Deleuze

Hamlet deleuze woke up thinking of her hamlet hat those days in Paris near the quartier Latin when the girls were seaside things and trollopes were a dime a dozen, this enraged the pirates and puritans alike. they were wedding bells ringing in the old of new and the Faciality of things was unbearable and there were philosophemes running down everyone's jersey.
to become and not to become was the Event of the Herald of the Knee and Evelene's choices, or Evie, or Evelyn across the street from she lived. The full moon was flooding and balking and no one left to sing and sling her packsack against her wave shores and flutes played a la main.
Ophelia straightens her bodice her blouse: No editing please. I like your kisses and phrases spontaneous dirty bold.
On the other side of France where the authors where no pants and I find my Barthes on your kitchen table she does understand that dictation is not a part of poetry.


the Secrets of the Cabinet and Editing or Doctor Caligari Meets Ophelia

Editing, if you were an author, was something you did. But when you were not an author, it seem'd like a pain inthe ass, and no author function could tell more than the tale, well then one could trust the becomings more; smell semi-colon and love.

The slightest erasure is a violation
of spontaneity. First thought best thought. Habit, not contrary. Habitus, a place 'one' lives, not two if you are two and the axiom is love and justice. This is called Act 1 Scene 1 Mutiny on the Bounty and many girlfriends. Though I have loved others I have loved only you. Desired only you.
Creation and co-creation is not confined to the place of stamps and prints. The creator, yes the creator speaks from nothing and everything known creating a sort of simultaneity of disappearance.

Only he has been there knows what this talks about. It fascinates the text, and remember we invented this, I and the other Gods when giants roamed the earthbefore the take over by the Big Musty One god and his gangs of signifiers and their legions. I am a weary disillusioned poet and you are the sweetest thing I have seen in

smiles on her death
our cuts always move faster

arbitrary my dear as Mister D. used to say
questions are fine but they have no

So you are real

Hug me

They call it an assemblage. Our silence that art in earth spreading as a sheet does when a hull ports in docks muddying the waters pulling back its wave froth cheating up its cheeks and there the extended two stop against their size seeing stars for eyes whirling the soft long gate and the


and her daddio Signifier Signified
news about lyotard that Year was ...
emember Kerouac
Signature tUnes and I did music
sYnchRonicities of the names across space time --word image cluster?
Mona has delicate Jill
/The Poetic Unconscious

mona meets miller

Mona meets Miller and the unedited machine. It was twirl and whirl and slurp and shoal around the docks of narrative and tent. She was veiled tent in the mountains of Afghanistan. She was spied on and pried on. Along the transverse vectors of her wasp she was orchid and wasping capturing the fragement as it passed she passed it on the street the street passes out on her turning. No chain is homogeneous;all of them resemble, rahter a succession of characters from different alphabets in which an ideogram, a pictogram, a tiny of - She skkided to a half an elephant enlightenment shook her by the ground, the gourd opened the Chinese pupil's letter, the pomegranate was Sandy's lips before the end of the stoplight the overcast day was knocking at the window was that the columnar wind breaking at the door she's writing the page of your health - suddenly makes its appearance. She leans back to learn her daddy's chair across the department of C-'s and F's, the A+ of kiss me now in the day, and the other ones whirled by the tune of desire Man is a useless thing between the hope of smile and downy pressure. A chain that halts half figrues abandonded that blends mixes phonemes, morphemes, sememes, lexemes, don't speak of editic images editing marvelling at the mingling down across graveyards tolled bell packed weddings of sermons of doubt pasture of hands clothed hands of pleasure

In there the upward raised arm near a ribbon in her hair the perfume I recall sailed capptures what a extra extra read all about it an aleatory love not practical inthe practice city of lore and fleece Do'not pass Go play go here in their now over the across stream of buckets and blakes mister Cancer has opened his wife you wish narrative we narrative of all sorts a nanosecond a fate not sentimental country music of Canadian mush


the Poetic UnconsciouS

Contra J. Mona, mummy the dark gavern of self! and its moth! O shys O sillies!

Contra: Jameson I posit the poetic unconscious, ~~ the poetic couscou. Oui, oui.

Franny says as follows:

"It is, of course, a spoof - somewhat. A little like Milton claiming he wrote prose with one hand and poetry with the other. Right hand of God, I sit at. The left hand I dance at, like Homer and the Blues. If you steal this text, may all your Mollies be abolished. Their beautiful bodies will be abolished, he said. O Rhymer of the ancient hill and the One headed God Mister Nobodaddy who Blake speaks about." She stopped.

Jill riposted:

"Once it was in the telling of time, I leapt into the old God's eyes screeching like a coot owl. Are there places to become inside the window worldwide of self? No pretend to narrative here, there are lots of narratives here. I like to drop the plurals off the singular and create a shimmering grammer of One."

Machines many ones

desire machines only work when they break down. Who can say what poetry is? who dominates the realms of poesy? O magic lantern of love and many poets extradordinary in their variety of bird and geese, of bad and good, great and not great large and small, chestnut and hairy place. Beneath the eys of woman and becomings.

And Jill was ringing around the necks, her rongrong was rong and her rause was pause inthe chatters of virtual bodies and virtual immanences

Re: A little like Milton: how can one be a little like Milton? isn't that a contradiction in terms?

Mona: what else can she say,in her calligraphy and arabesques?



YoU RealleE WonDer

Some author image disappeared

You really wonder how can , how an author, can, when textdesiremachines mowed out the delire of the author, Anyhow, we 'll call it a poke at the pope, a snipe at the authorship principle, a nick in the nab, a drag at the wake, a scent in the trite,

and a mOre the Mona the better

others fused the idea of 'Man's death' with the disappearance of the author he were not the same as same was not the homogene

not the gene of dexterity its raptures alongthe side of the head
and her hungry head


not something like this

which passed

along desire's vein

its fallen widow

near the open garden