Monday

Mon a Was ham

Mona was hang-dog and hamstrung. She rushed back to her texts and realized
that she was the misreader filled with intense loathing. Projecting and
introjecting she grabbed back her paranoid super-ego and
de-institutionalized it. Her list selves had gone haywire and
weird.However Mona knew the virtues of a great cleansing and purging and
laughter and swifty Swiftian satire. She deterritorialized her selves the
grievers and made way for Plato's intolerance machine re-reading Franny
Guattari's last essay about tolerance. She was resting and wrestling with
a god, as Jacobs ladder was her lust desire machine of hubcaps and wings.
She was the night that said no more transference. No more
counter-transferences either. But an either was a neither when it came to
double negation and exclusive disjunctions. She flipped back to page one
of Poetry and Schizoanalysis. Though she did love her enemies she could
turn away from the haughty and bold like any drag queen and be the
Nietzsche drag daughter she was and was not. She read Sterne and saw Swift
saw hate and heard love. And dialogues was her best book a bed and Keats.
She went to be bed breathing the babies forlorn of born embyros.

Tata

Now let us say someonehas perjured my text and taken some of it, and published it somewhere else, under my name, but it is me I am somewhere. Else. and I am a monkey, and I copy-cat myself.


Or forGet anyHow


On a limb



Mona liked being on a limb and forgot her Hegel as quick as she
had read him quivering and oozing years ago. When she was Jean Genet's
wicked daughter, and they had walked hand--in-hegel-hand with Derrida
around the Paris of 68 with a glas in each finger, counting the
perspectives of plane one, plane two,, plane three and plane that went
from air and time to glide and glance. Somone said, I cannnot remember any
longer why I have these opinions and it was Zarathustra she was sure, and
then said never mind and went for coffee and looks. Or something like.
O! my lovers!!


god gosh??

was that yer god gosh? rapped Jill stepping aside for the rock gathered pool, her silly sanka coffee right down your throat and then some set aside. she knew a flight of desire took space like a parachute opening when the captain lands swaying to his feet and the full body of the earth hovers weighing her arms sometine in June when their fairies lifted their high feet and a man waits for tea makinghis spot on the altar of peace, knowing her face cannot be her body, and he waits for the slow drift of the arms to open exfoliating , like a german meadow, Or when a heath backs down, the lovers sighing their names, cluttered her vows, and the ship`s bow breaks its feet beneath the bow, or when a moor filled with the haunted memories of play by play action huddles its heart deeper into the saving grace of its disappearance, remembers thereis fitting, or when Virgil forgets Baudelaire and the square lips vanished the cones of time, and Achilles spear, and its four favoured city, its many squares and

what they call jewels

And that year the monkeys were down, the stats were right
and the people swore off food, but that damn hurricane was bastinado

And we had cement blocks for horses, and slats for glass,

And there was no air in the place,
Or when a logical connector cannot find a place, and the narrator holds back, her chest heaved sigh a wish for mouths over her tits, and the elbows of the room have no place left, and the logic of the thing breaks down, and you wait, you wait for nothing

``Paris was the first Hippy...` she said

Paris was the first hippy she said to me as I smiled oveR the space of difference between us


hankering her wrapped in the case  the nun knowing  (calling her son take mommy take mommy come mommy come ) it was her from the start her heart                               

spewing  fire

across the time of tables the day we met over the room: You did this


_________________At me the fur and her anus. Prayed the god.  come to me   ~  I am the mother of your son  ~ .

 

``Jill was the first punketariat was the first Hippy...` she said

Jill was the second punketariat in her street. She said to me as I was narrative of her bloc. childhood block of chinese tears. As when she I smiled oveR the space of difference between us


hankering her kisses wrapped «« in the burnous of her heavy vase, hes sloped hips and chin «««--- in the vase of the sun knowing it was her from the start her heart spitting its fire at me



I saw her breasts, as she cried ---




across the time of tables the day we stand near the room the room



and like so many others as the night turns out its flowers, the calls go descending...

Thursday

riooer

w as the way it worked word thru her face plate


mixing salt and vinegar across the eyebrows, asort of pate of nothing and dew and the globe was patterning past it self waiting for the shape to make place... Is that right?


No.


Ok. try again. »No, she says waddling the river banks dipping back int`a her novel, thinking she is a proser. Con-versely we turn the page of lost emjambments twiddled by the emptiness of its compassibility...



Mona -- hagars her hair: More after and wards. Afterwards.




Shall climb another Niveau

Wednesday

In out

----------____________«««««««««« Who can know the date Love begins?? _________________Out In

________________ __________ -----------------


In those days again and those nights again Jill never got past her
monsters the ones in her asshole immaculating conceptions as she misread------
her Mister territory Hegel as she misread her Herder and Fichte as well,
but that was fine it was a misprision of the first order that made things
was they were. Even when she was the double negation of a negation and her
faded tatters of reason were ranged along monstrous couplings and
creation. What monster taken from behind can make her body of thought the
sole place of consistency along the dead zone of threshold and desire?
What place can her zoom lens of close reading lead to her closer
understanding of cloud breath? Why should she read synthesis when there is
phenomena? Why read a reading of Plato when she Plato was the very air she
breathed was conceived and so like any other Plato she read her postcard
and lunched.

I read much of the night, and go deleuze in the winter. April is
notthe cruellest month, you are. No way Noway. I have negotiations in my
pocket rocket and that is the tiny and one thousand sexes of my files of
need and night. No way. What way?

she said my name is Jill Deleuze and I am not reading anyone but
myself. As I suffer from the anxiety of influence and music. And Money.
Too . Economical. IT is ALL ALL economical. Which is why Derrida is dead
and I am alive. Not me, Not me not me Jill Jilly Deleuze I am not dead. I
am not.

Plato told me: I wrote the books because of the beauty of the
youth of Athens.

God is a grammatical illusion. Franny Guattari told me this, in
secret rolls while he wore a burnous. yes I am the one she is . I am the
double disjunction of schizo-place. In French too please. Not the first
book in traditions and its talents, butthe place brokers go when the
subjectivity and the subject is reject in body love. And what is there to
live for, and what is there to live for? She asked Jill and Jill asked
Shem and Shem asked Antioedipus and Antioedipus asked psychoanalysis dead
analyze why there stops in her gaps.


No it was not Plato, it was Palto Alto and besides,, I mean Hegel,
Hegel.. Yes those beautiful passages in Glas. Quote by JAcques deReader
when he was writing about Jean Genet our Father in Heaven. Does that make
me queer subjectivities and other nights? Am I the author if the dead
author is dead?

I jean Genet's restless daughter send you this from the depths of
purgatory and nugatory as it is I am the Baudelairian  strife of
schizoanalysis. I am the double edged scissors cutting the double dustbin
disjunction of lips and ass. My ass yer face? My feces yer faceless face>
is that a strata you got there, or my face in your micro escaping line...
and yer guitar gently weeps and yer cell phone glibly rings, and your
virtuals self is a whore like your real self is, whatever that is. She
said. To me. and to her.


what is a minority philosopherher?
whats a mirror philosphee
?


What is a philosophy but something you wear to bed with your bodies and
brides and bodies without organs. So.

there./ She said. I love you Lion again and again.

__________________________________

Mona said to me said to MoonA some people take this shit seriously. I am an Irishphone living in the dominion of Queebec and I am an oppressed citizen-subject and have been always. we are dimmed and dominated by class and lingo. Its Lingog and Classrog!
as for fictions, frictions leaves of dove
and night, it`s somethingwe do in our spare time.

Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari Copyright@1998-99 Clifford Duffy.``
Reader Yes, well when the text is owned by me perhaps each word ought to pay me a sylabbles worth o` coppers, until I have been crooked!!


Gentle readers: no typos where none intended:please adjust your
grammar sets as given in the -- broken busted syntaxes accordingly

out In



---------------«««««««««««___________________»»»»»»»»»»» Who can Know the Date oF Love



In those days again and those nights again Jill never got past her
monsters the ones in her asshole immaculating conceptions as she misread
her Mister territory Hegel as she misread her Herder and Fichte as well,
but that was fine it was a misprision of the first order that made things
was they were. Even when she was the double negation of a negation and her
faded tatters of reason were ranged along monstrous couplings and
creation. What monster taken from behind can make her body of thought the
sole place of consistency along the dead zone of threshold and desire?
What place can her zoom lens of close reading lead to her closer
understanding of cloud breath? Why should she read synthesis when there is
phenomena? Why read a reading of Plato when she Plato was the very air she
breathed was conceived and so like any other Plato she read her postcard
and lunched.

I read much of the night, and go deleuze in the winter. April is
notthe cruellest month, you are. No way Noway. I have negotiations in my
pocket rocket and that is the tiny and one thousand sexes of my files of
need and night. No way. What way?

she said my name is Jill Deleuze and I am not reading anyone but
myself. As I suffer from the anxiety of influence and music. And Money.
Too . Economical. IT is ALL ALL economical. Which is why Derrida is dead
and I am alive. Not me, Not me not me Jill Jilly Deleuze I am not dead. I
am not.

Plato told me: I wrote the books because of the beauty of the
youth of Athens.

God is a grammatical illusion. Franny Guattari told me this, in
secret rolls while he wore a burnous. yes I am the one she is . I am the
double disjunction of schizo-place. In French too please. Not the first
book in traditions and its talents, butthe place brokers go when the
subjectivity and the subject is reject in body love. And what is there to
live for, and what is there to live for? She asked Jill and Jill asked
Shem and Shem asked Antioedipus and Antioedipus asked pyschoanalysis dead
analyze why there stops in her gaps.


No it was not Plato, it was Palto Alto and besides,, I mean Hegel,
Hegel.. Yes those beautiful passages in Glas. Quote by JAcques deReader
when he was writing about Jean Genet our Father in Heaven. Does that make
me queer subjectivities and other nights? Am I the author if the dead
author is dead?

I jean Genet's restless daughter send you this from the depths of
purgatory and nugatory as it is I am the Baudelairian strife of
schizoanalysis. I am the double edged scissors cutting the double dustbin
disjunction of lips and ass. My ass yer face? My feces yer faceless face>
is that a strata you got there, or my face in your micro escaping line...
and yer guitar gently weeps and yer cell phone glibly rings, and your
virtuals self is a whore like your real self is, whatever that is. She
said. To me. and to her.


WHAT IS A MINORITY PHILOSOPHER?

WHAT IS A MINOR PHILOSOPHY?


What is a philosophy but something you wear to bed with your bodies and
brides and bodies without organs. So.

there./ She said. I love you Lion again and again.

__________________________________

Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari Copyright@1998-99 Clifford Duffy.

Reader



Gentle readers: no typos where none intended:please adjust your
grammar sets as given in the -- broken busted syntaxes accordingly

CD


Tuesday

Sacred Band of Thebes/Plateau 818 BC. or Did U already Hear this Honey

Mona remembered when she marched with the boys of the Sacred Bad
Band of Thebes. That was before Socrates left, wasn't it? Where was the
book in she had read about it?
She scratched her head for weeks, for hours, for half-hours, for
minutes,, seconds,,, nano-seconds,,,, and then she Recalled. The many
sexexs of the thousand phalanxed walkers. The night, Aristotle's careful
reminders to the shock troops. But wait - that was no good. It was more
masculine boys powered by libido a la Wild Boys de William Burroughs in
hindsight. And things like that which she could not articulate. She had a
double articulation problem. She was whirling in the tenses of articles
and senses, articlers too! and she heard the Greek Boys drumming as her
safety belt went latch, and she buskined booted back to penitenary and
praise. Oh the schoolyards of desire, and the markets of Heracleitus and
the memory of the Father. And the thrill of seeing the first enemy killed
with a goddess-driven arrow in the gut,, and the wine dark sea laughed
back to her
face as she misread the answers of anxiety and the achieve of it,, the
flippancy of it. And the violence of her beauty as she crash landed her
sex on the spinning-jennies of a sea-going vessel, a dromos wherein the
memory of other lands lay. And memory was like Omeros as she washed aghast
against the waves of the maker, the builder, the blood inthe making of the
of the intent. She lost a verb or two then in the making of its sin and
her rap song crown. Not even the Sacred Band of Thebes was her motto and
her Genet daddy song as he bastardized all the sexes of the three-personed
god as it ravish raptured its way through night and intent. And where
recurrence was she placed repetition and dance.
Franny said in the person of her G: I might only believe in a god
who dances.
Jill saith: when and where and how does it move the axis of
essence and existence and the bad faith of waiters, gender, race and sex.

and then Franny said: take him take me from behind!! Do do as I am
filled with the anxieties of influence and bad poets, not even minor
poets. Bad thinkers not even small ones, fake ones, not even paltry ones
who hung out with the schizo-solipsists. Mone dieu Je suis con et je suis
un farceur et je suis tres charmante et tres beau. Alors. Mona may I see
you language verbs past the mental health strata? Non? Oh nnnnn sound on
the phonetic walker of faker fakes and better broadcasting and jerkoff
artists on the web. I shall have my body without organs before the night
turns to day!!
Give me a cigarette she said suddenly and would not suffer fools.
How many idiots can one cram into a page of lies and pendants and paranoia
as the language of switch back and forth. Artaud be my mother as I
AntiOedpus celebrate my rhizomatic virus god love. Take me from behind
Franny said Iwas the Hamlet letters of anxiety and marbles. I was a
formalist Todorov. If my joy is to attack the weak and lame then I am the
good girl Nietzsche. I dont always agree even when I am entrenched in my
positon ps postillion. Gift? there is no gift? Love there is love so we
make our charm and move on. Non? Tu aimes ca? Well she whispered it has
been manyyears since I did not read Hegel, but then if you dont read Hegel
he reads you and she was night. So what, is that allegory of bookishlovers
and asses you want oh girls? Oh girls!! She said I am the Spartan flank
and I walk by water!

I have
my Logic of senses and you have yours. I have my
sensationsof logic and
you have yours . Where we breath.

Like lovers of love

and the other planets

and stars

and Love which moves the stars and other planets. And I came to
a dark wood holding a phallus of the fourth person.

______________________________


Mona wrote this in the winter of her disconnect her brokenage, of 1999. no one was there to hear her Jill. and she was ran merry pranker. not before and beside the cold.

One and EpiC SiMile smile

something she could get her teeth into was not guilt and more blobigatons but gategateparagate delevesalve! O belloni!

comment explique
tout ca?









One cannot be chronological about the nonchronological. she wont be chronos by Aeon in the yoke of the promise and the shorn legs, buskin and boots, her butter buttocks no no place comme ca. cest francais et anglais a partir de toute ca. tu cotáime.mphrends? je Oxo makes her Jill filter by her wakesian rules.



RudderS and Orpheus melds her meltdown tuque, Mona.



Jill reads Organs with-out bodies and laughs. all rong rongrong and glitters down the shoe sided stair of detail knowing her cone is bones raggedy on the drollery of back belters, two siders, and people pepsi, forcing her coke to wander the world. inthe undertide of things.

Thursday

single treachery






JILL who is the captain of balanceists, teeters on her head the captivated pancake of


then shadows the praetor of night meantime hunkering down in her West End apartment knowing full well, very well, that capitalist schizophrenia is a Ontario thing, and an Ontario legislated repression haunting all bodies of


aNd Yes, she knows that many others have followed her haloed imitator path a wrath upon them of bordom



there is such DIVERSITY in the forms of _expression, such a mixture of these forms, that
it is impossible to attach any particular privilege to the form or regime of the "signifier".
Deleuze MP. 5. 587 b.c.-A.D. 70: On The Several Regimes of Signs...

Mona likeD to fuck with her pants on, it made in mind of the signifier.! ______________________________________________
Single treachery of the bores and be-ers was something Mona had forgotten... something she knew came from under the plane of desire,


from a place called Ontario with the english colonial tongue hammering its way into the death of others....

poppers and powers and principalities....

Mona shat in their faces
and laughed

knowing all great creators must suffer




for a time


but she turned heckled and laughed

pulled on her billy boots and went the highway of her zones .