Friday

Jill If you

Jill read these words of her daddy Deleuze and she shambled past them thinking of Frank O'Hara and the positive.

“If you don’t admire something, if you don’t love it, you have no reason to write a word about it.

Spinoza or Nietzsche are philosophers whose critical and destructive powers are without equal,

but this power always springs from affirmation,


from joy, from a cult of affirmation of joy,
from the exigency of life against those who would mutilate and mortify life.

For me, that is philosophy itself.”

– Deleuze. Mona called Franny into the melee the chemical joyously rapt in the glad mantle of anonymity. And she shed her tears of ok the text is cool it's cool it's cool and there are contraction of thought desire and will.

Mona moved her muscles and flexed with unending desire and desired the girl with the shallow back, and her humdrum ways were slinking past the knights
riding
galloping into the snythetic allegory of her double articulate fold, her drapery and dresss, her prance of

a horse
upon a course
A Centaur .

Re visiting an `earlier` text

The Fictions [were] are [were represents sents sends a fiction of tense] fictions which undo their doing as [as can be the signifier of simile Simile is similar to smile , or close [cleaved]like a cousin is.] leaves burning [R might suggest this an suballusion to some othering poet's text] (Jill Questions: What is an Othering Poet's Text?) off the tops as they piece, so then, each text becomes another as it passes What spell of blur bound eyes speaks them as written what intent of [one can spend many hours doing this sort of burrowing and thrifting into a text's sub-belly bloom]

Others filled the word glimpse. [How can 'other words filled the word glimpse'? Is this a question of tense?]


So then readers 99 percent of the texts of Mona and Jill were written with her hand in her picket pocket. Not the power throngs of choose, but spill.

So today is tomorrow then. [The recycling of the word so: which its inhabitations of sown sew and threaded seeds inthe air]

2004. for the others becomes the past of the dates texted in the here and now. Nowing

Thursday

wekcome to badspeliing

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

Sunday

Mona Knew

Mona knew she was true and blue.
In Plateau 20: Orpheus wrote

Mona knew there was a veil between her and being and nothingness (and
between her being and nothingness).

So the song went, at least according to Jean Paul Sartre. So it was and is. And night was day before day was night, And becoming was before being, at least according tothe readers of the old guy.Heraclitoris. Who knew giving head was a little like resentiment. In that one went down to the bottom between the legs of some space or other. Too many took all this philosophizing
seriously. Too seriously for her to take. Make,take,break your own. There is no iron clad philo-
walking along this path. But that made it no less rigorous or challenging.

After I destratified my Jill I knew she was a raving lunatic. So it went and
goes.
And so Orpheus met Jill dancer Deleuze and they were always lovers from
the beginning of time.


If you wanted to be Mona's loveR you had to as physical as a glass of beer, forthing and frothing fortissimo as bodied as a pretty perky pert B. As physical as a glass of water, or a pair of ass cheeks, as tough as the throat warbles of an Eygpitan singer, and more likely to read her daddy (the Signifiggger Daddy Deleuze) in the bath yer genitalis afloat like a scampering coat.


So there, stick that in your tongue and eat it.


Link: http://un2sg4.unige.ch/athena/rabelais/rab_pant.html

Friday

I`m Not So SuRe-->>>>>>>>>>

Okay, you see it is like this eye on my head, or a head in my body. What is my body? what is her arm? where is her arm? does she stare at it. He turns the corner, autobiographical fiction is expression of delire desire. She wakes for the moment, pulls in the second of its sex

I am your real novelist. I am your real novel. This is not paranoid, this is the paranoia of criticism and so the homeless streets of Toronto, Montreal and Halifax will burst with their feeble hungry, as they fuck on the streets. The word which leaves me with out sex my name is desire fairy it is the spoke of desire stare. I am a novelist and I am building the bridges to tear your house down. You are a novelist, she says staring across the plate, it makes the tell tale instant hold its breath backing up into the water. Gets up forgets who she is not that he has amnesia but there is some kind of memory there yes she was saying the problem of memory is what makes novels write, but I prefer what He says. Or like Tristram Shandy or, not really, I mean he was ok, right, but in the past tense. But like say all of us today are so many sensibilites. She reaches for my purse, I hand it to her, the body is dying dying. And sleeping and he was about to reach into my purse when my left hand stopped him. Is that your third sex, honey. He didn't like it when I say Mummy when we were making love or fucking or making love and fucking. All my novels are false even if they were true. Desire is their only culpability You have to remember how she says, pulling off her 'black lace stocking." I am your mummy, I m yours.


--------->>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>



I aM

I am a novelist.



Sunday

taR BeCkJaLou



Tahar Ben Jelloun Hahaha.....haahhahahaahahah
Yessmmmm Hahahahahahah! laughed artificial Mona knowing full well that both of these scribblers took themselves very seriously.bet What Frenchmen did not her daddy had taught, but Genet the papa was a wee ...beetter. Better than all the Canadians put together, them and their lackeess.But "J'ai peur d..e sombrer dans la complaisance, peur ..de manquer de vigilance, peur de me perdre. Celui qui m'a le plus aidé à surmonter mes doutes, en m'apprenant à prendre de la distance, c'est Jean Genet. Nous discutions très peu de littérature, c'est en le voyant vivre, en observant son attitude devant le travail que j'ai appris la modestie. Et surtout à ne pas me prendre trop au sérieux" who knows where Midnight begins yes, one cannot take Too SerIoUSly all this Fodder and we learned that a longbackaways from the old guard and the rampant humourous.....--- in looper landof mouthing times where the girl was the boy`s body and her smarmy lips suckering on