Saturday

Mona`r the devIl...

Mona writing her thesis. She was half-way through when she was through.
It was a wasteland of academic jewels. and suffering fools was intolerant
to her. She knew wisdom was a golden bowl.

and so she read:


Nietzsche was a professor. Now isnt that nice? I love professors,
essp. the profs of desire. I love all of them I love Ivanhoe. I hoe and
hoe the professor ofdesire.

I and on the other hand am
not a professor. But a poet. A poet who
lvoes philosophy and its loves.On my other hand I am. I am. I am the am of
the other hand.


so:

And philosophy's always caught between an anger with the way
things are and the serenity it brings. - Negotiations ... Philosophy may
have its battles ...but they're mock battles.Not being a power, philosophy
can't battle with the powers that be, but it fights a war without
battles....

:she saw that In Dadamana Deleuze's book. Some book . Another
book. Then she went back to Lacan. Itwas hard work readin that stuff. Very
hard alll that marvelous elaborate baroque language..
Words like molecular machine. Ah now that was sweet. And sour too.

she saw:

the aim is not to answer questions, it's to get out, to get out of
it. -- Dialogues - p.1

she felt: Guattari's kiss acriss-cross the stars and starts.

What language leprosy could speak that. ?Over her questioned
marked selves. She had to go into the langauge to go out of it.She was a
theoretican poet. Now that was nice. A nicens new id-identity. A love den.
A low love den of sex and pots and and. Guess
the rest.

Tuesday

It is Interesting...


____________

And Orpheus laughed in his face fool that he was and threw of his helmet challenging any takers to come make with his lance of 



_____________________________-

Sunday

mONARCHy and things.

Jill had many a trouble with her intents and chronologies and blogologies, her ontic stance a post to peddle her wares,

across the seven seas of trouble...Mona was really having trouble with all this king and Queen stuff and Elton John singing rapturous sentimental odes at the death of glamour goddesses from the world stage.
She knew it was no assemblage, but some groping mush machine at work. Like crushed tomates and other things.Meanwhile no one in particular, a nun, said to have
done much good in her life died.

But nothing really changed all that much, at least not in a molar sense. But who knows what molecular chains of hope and revolution desires escaped from all those hungry bellies. Jack sent her a love note letter comment with his thoughts about the death of Lady D. - Who was Lady D... was she Lady Death? Or Lady Life, who knew? In any case, this is the note Jack sent. Hard to believe (but not all that hard) to believe that Albion'schildren still mourn the death of royalty, or would be royalty. Supposing Milton were there now in England, I wonder what thoughts his pen might pour forth. I wonder how he might respond. I wonder what he would think of the great sentimentalization represented by a singer like Elton Johnsinging at the funeral of this dead lady. Perhaps we are returning to the"old " world values; and what terrible nightmares of empire, monarchy and right,wing platitudes will once more take the centre stage in these last But years of the second millenium. Perhaps Joyce's Viconian cycles of ricorso whatare coming about full circle after and in some strange way unforseen way. she is right and the book'll be abandoned as the knew millions throw themselves on the Icon of the dead Princess. Perhaps. in Kings, Queens, Princes, and Princesses, royal loves and deaths in high spare time speed car chases. was not that, Oh that Milton were alive, was it Ernest Cummings quickly delivered wish?

Now that royalty's returned,
Oh to be in England now.Perhaps. But better yet.

Pah, I have sung the people in three cities and seen their kings and, they are all the same.

There is no king there is no queen all the lord's people are kings.Then down went the stalwart ship, and the poets sang of paradiseand laying down of sceptres, and god being all in all, and everymanwoman his own football.Mona looked back in spires at the selling of orthographee and mothers-in-law, the state decimal and the recondite king and son-in-law, their marriage and carriage like a Virginia Woolf passage in a longish book, penned by the hennae man from hell, the bag of white teeth glittering in the dark, like her soft neck. What sort of adjective t`was that made such an obtuse remark...ringing in the old, saddling in the new, the english accents piling in by the tomatoe load... Old Happy Harry and his dongglong song... war, war, and more war, for yer potatoes and crops... peeling potatoes where the old cow went... `Fall Protection` and the `death of others` merriment and the past tense, of wheelers and dealers, delayers, players and chairs of endless repeats in the feet of its block, and was Dean getting sober in the West Coast, orhad he died the death of the thousand needle points of his skin... question mark could be missing Mister Blooger and Jean holding her spoon to the navy, the high sails a gone a-bugger in the ripped-up tent of night...


it was before chronos and in the eternals of death she spoke, leaving her verbs along.. . the way...

tHe StATe oF Things

Friday

who was that masked man? was iTyou? PLateau 98

Besides rhizomes always include the dark and dirty of the earth,
the city...the lane....the alley....Ah, but be careful for the city
is filled with dogs...Cerbrus the howling beasts...pit-bulls and rotwilers...of resentiment and fear...micro-fascists cells promulgating at each moment....merging forming...taking hold...what good to unwind into a baud at such a moment...the theory must be practical...In this sense theory does not express,translate, or serve to applyOh Uncle practice: it is pratice. But it is local and__

Jill jumps up and hands clapping lAUGHS outloUd! -- Oh Uncle Foucault!
regional, as you said, and not totalizing... A theory is the regional
system of this struggle.... D: Precisely a theory is exactly like a box
of tools (we are all handy andy men, engineers), It has nothing to do
with the signifier. It must be useful. It must function. ANd not for
itself. It no ohne uses it, then .... it is worthless... A theory does not
totalize; it is an instrument for multiplication and it also multiplies
itself...Foucault yacking with DadDeleuze in MArch...
Of course of one make a tool out of Baudrillard then marvel of
marvels.
I try to stay out of black holes....
But of one can mine a black hole and emerge then one is perhap
filled
with more power, more strength. I dont normally even think about
Uncle ..Baud.... anymore.




O lip of the black hole suck me not in!
Protect me as I a mere travello wander the plateaux
from enemies and friends.



everything as the I vanishes into a multiple subject
upward and outward filled with strength ....
all regard for smallness is brought along as well...
Mouths out the Lip to words

become capable of love not with an abstract universal love, but a love I shall choose, and that shall choose me, blindly, my
double, just as selfless as I .. selfless as I .... I driftng ...
redeemed by and for love, by abandoning love and self...

Thursday

biographia Guattarodeleuzo |see the fine tune

Oh Franny! said Jill one fine dadadata day I need a word phiter for my finny reel of spinning difference. Show me the way to the deistic master-piece of Mr. teste and Madame Virgin. I need to translate nails into holes, and troubles into wholes. Where is the night which speaks the name of fold and fairytale, the schizo sorting out machine of short-cut and unkempt in the brain trails of the word which was Mr. Plato's? Franny stared at Jillwith disbelief. I am your wife-becoming not your researchscholar or editior don't you realize that?Mona called and came by reading a book backwards on prose poetry and falling in love with letters ever written glasses on backwards and said remember me: I am the video of memory and desire, and the night is the first molecular revolt. Then recordings which work backwards and desires that peel. I have no summer halt on my brains. I am the non-dead precursor of summer and wind. Recall the good old days when anxiety was at a premium and the stores were filled with thought and the rainbow was theever receding horizon of our future.Like that said Jill and let the book rest in her lap. After comingback from Spain they played the rhizome-rat scattering in space's sevendimensions and disappeared through many passages in long books. And itwasso good in French.But O O O that Guattarian rag its so elegant so intelligent.'On nous a reproche d'invoquer tropsouvent des litteratures. MAIS, la seule question quand on ecrit,c'est de savoir quelle autre machine la machine litteraire peutetre branchee et doit etre branchee pour fonctionner.'Tzarazthustra called Jills and Franny weeping after these words offlood and fled.In Spain we were very real.


See the fine tune of their tooth, no that is not impossible incompossible and waked on their back Virgil's mighty horse, the Trojan bellies of the sun. Winked by the eyes of dirge society and petals of wheat. Should an elegant like this be?
Possible, impuissant. of course. yer river horse. they say we can't do that. well, we no butter. So again we ply our trades, not like the socker Ulysses in his night socks. What intake is this in the emergency ward of your clinique? my dove love.

And the slap of immancence hurts ~

welcomings becomings a far anear

Welcome again! to you reader persuse the soft space the supple gob of blog reading the entelechies ventures of Mona Jill and Franny. Daughters and masters of DeleuzeoGuattarian fiction machines _ whizz and beep this novel year of love peace and ponies. Phonographs gramaphone of grampapapuss the pauper of piece, peace! hey then O morsel of mores and lots of less. the whole that is not greater ever ever than the pat of parts and patapatapata and its many mouths . Welcome to thee and thou oh many readers of this edometrium space of molecule autopoetic circuit of its manynesses.


One night (or was it two?) Jill heard the herald of bashing and knew a stutter was in order. She lifted her skirt and felt for her schizoanalytic cut, and
seeing her sex was still in place: She spat all over the writing that does
not plough the crap of being: She didn't really spit she pushed out it and off, not truly beingthe spitting sort.

She thought of a book on Bad Rimbaudelaire she had comissioned
once.
But she could not remember her
English well enough to know a subject from
anoun and she needed a sex to help her know the difference, and not the differance. So it was. She called Franny and said: who was that fellahin doing a book on codes and Charles Bbeaudelaire. Franny came over and masturbated for
Jill cause cld. not 'have' masturbation anymore and she knew two folds were better than none. That pretender neurotics on the international circuit of conferences who babbled endlessly were the same as sluts on the divine road to promiscuity . So she said: I am the allegory and I am time.


Time for your ass to lick mine so we can see the end of the AxIoMAtic and the stArt of the Idiomatic. Or something like that. And lover was her cuntface in her preface she was the quasi other self she always was. Franny kept writing cartographies.And the beggars of scholars kept
coming along with the hordes of translators. And shit like that. I was a virus (a succubus? you mean?) infected you she realized one day and fell asleep masturbating
again. Spat that last book out like any elite lung. and then fuck you Empire readers and Empire american Schools and Professors Who Know nothing Of Our 68 000 thousand Hopes. No way to treat a lady, a lady Deleuze, Lady Deleuze.
Whores and Mores and so like any surplus slut she felt thelust that is the anagram of body.


And something later in the muteness of money and paid chairs. and
what else.? She wondered where her schizo idiolect would lead.



_____________

SomEtImes the chair the chariot of becomings was mean hearted, less than the bible (of the unconscious)



J pour



Jill coughed and said: J is for jerk and joyce and take my pick me
up back then. And then she said. There is no pronoun after the plateau.

SHe was writing this book as a rhizome. She composed it from lines and cuts, posed of plateaus. She gave it a circular form (like a circle a circus, une circuit, a thing to go round in ), but only for laughs to comedian ourselves to the rhizome and back.


Is that any way to greet the newest year of becoming its friends a red road for the revolt and its lovings? Poetworking dance brother, dance sister love.