Hooves and Gloves

'N'ever wise to leave behind the hooves ' heard Mona one day galloping as she was down the impassable paths of return and block, tellurian rocks in her hell-bound way, knocking on rivers, and flamboyant shells. Venus her mouth and dainty her tongue, satanic her lips, and hoof like her tears ... a lake a spear and a mouth a boy a girl a boy as lovers were in the spoken sea. Heard Mona and her mackerel down scent and her clobbers of groovers in the spent horse way.

But breathed Orpheus one day he was the sun of knight and the odium of the practical self was the carry-on way and the slipped up said the dry mouth parchment the scribble me out south against her breasts so reached into the further skyway of her tom tom self

Against Franny she surfaced a porpoise up by the water sea bed salt clinging her nose smell the wet sleek surface of her escape out nozzle making the porous wind bleak and

the wetness was her hide
before trembling in the dark of her lover side self
and the hangar log in and the hanger log out and the river bedded near the signifier of pout was the word clacked dominoe in her skin high grade against her polio footed fair. Was the mother sung done and the peeping ray of sun wish to the felt skin wait of her bear
me along heart
her tapping without pears by the river orchard bed


cached in her hideaway mend and lilted song struck was her purse in the indian dawn sonnet of her skin stung tarp her galooned stable ware

burst the water of her lamb
his skin sweet tong
and her liable river tribe by the battlers of the wished for gambol
and the herding melodic unspoken

in the hearing of the hand hovered the healed song done

her breast 'heaved' by palette and pass
to the sentence that Orpheus had gifted to his river high raise
and her sex rich entry

so Jill was Franny in the mollusc of its theme
her mouth open place
fade to her harlequinade of balconville her kempt naughty speed was his intense charade cover a sleeper in the hail was the fast genii ticket

then Jill saw Orpheus for he was. Not what he was not in the prurient mystery took night by the Grand Trunk rail and the do not pass go directly to the ababbb decor curlicue

in the sonnet shell fish
her Venus hound gray
scenting the fish of her prey And Orpheus mussed his ami his amuse clapped more and so her prose store meant the degree of riggers by the raft of the hanging and Orpheus rhetoric balanced the greed in the tree overhanging the rhizome of the sharer sheriff of his disconent and his homosexual Eurydice mother of the thou in the desert
her sex was a passing homo
a hetero sex the glances of her skirt her taut toughness a merry medley mixing and mushing spent and redeemed saved and drawn yanked along his string heart capture

Effort effort cried the meadow and elm elemetary dear Jill were the rock, boulders, metacried her shiver frigate
up to her mouth he held alert as any Pantheon in his goddess frig it frieze. The narrow cleave of her shoulders bet show was the tell of his freeze. Orpheus shadowed show her glow in the gown, her evening gown sonnet, her evening grown sonnet .



: Names as intensities the PrIsoner's Body in torture

Yes well I am certain the bodies of the tortured shall answer these questions.

then the wanking can stop....

take a moment to meditate


ladies and gentlemen we also wish to recall yoU to your senses.
I the brother of Claire Parnet tell you these words ripped from my soul!

we have dispatched our special brigade of molecules to intercept this conference and all its indulgent supervisors and others of secondary and anxious affect.

the mastumi monkeys shall not relent!

the guattari aberrant molecules are following our charms blow across the sky!

remember the Affect! the BWO the DIsJunct!!

schizoanalysishere d wrote:
dear translator of deleuze and sometimes guattari
tell me , tell us, why yer conference is so pricy. In reality ,

it ought tobe 50 cents. Cause u tell me why or how any real student,
a student not spoiled and primped and caged by scholarships , can
afford this extravangaza of irrelevance. Furthermore as a Canadian
school the event ought to be cheap if not next to nothing.
and more shameful on all of you and yer wily ways of keeping out the
Masses and Keeping in yer own wee wanking crowd.

Knowledge should be for everyone and not the exclusive enclave of the

Gointo this sort of thing should be cheap.

Instead you are paying out to americans to come here and preach to us.

big names in the small deleuze industry. big exotic names of men,
mostly or a handful of gals who bou d around the globe year in and
year out talking to and for each other. most ofthem hate the arts
have no love for artists
and Unlike Deleuze and Guattari are Misfits! and wanderers from the
true path of molecules and desire.
Right, you explain to Us O Wise One why a bunch of Men and Women
discussing Intensity is going to make a difference.

it wont.

nothing shall come of this.
it wont get my friends a job
it wont stop the flow of the creative
it wont help it either
I t Wont help Helixon Yurphy and cbc figure out who the best Canadian is.

It wont help get mental patients out of their chains, their chemical
and mental chains...

It wont stop you and me from dying

ASks this Question of the Now Reified Field of "deleuze delouse' studies


Go away sheep to yer baa-ing lanes...


the hedge stone

__ Jack and Jill were the simple man jacks of their knaves spinning difference tame in a flight of fancy a requiem of wrecks that ranked their heads high held on the downard rope to death and her tingled pane to its obvious other side . Of merit and pain there was none candled by it except the ripped up hearts the hearst of phrenia crueler words thrown across the nape, the tent of space.

When the daddy of geologic difference hammered the street, the fallen avenue there was a pain felt across the water, the deep shirked its rights, neptune was a platonic deity waiting for sleep. O son of the Muse, how can ye go like so? whirling your hankered body like this, when its heart breaks rake the sun?

Do not speak to me about the abuse of poets, becomings poet are born abused, misused in the dry heat of the summer and its tan sun .

__ Jill was a doctor, and a man a muser on the silent heel of dusk it worked its way over the steady piece of its frill and the crystal ball, the careful crucifix steadied against the ancient fortifed a promise carved in gold, staunched in blood, married in lust, nickled out of necessity. So was the strata some simmering under foot and the language murdered by the police of raves, and the lust each day cycled a dead and dying body not memorized by the beauty of lust. Jill heard her eyes speak Jill had his head examined factored by the nimble stake of philosophy and its olden days metaphysics. Not a place for a writer to be , but becoming, a wave over the mouth. The hedge stone marked the place where polite ended its nuance introducing the river of thought and the anxious of being. Growing smaller she hurls her smile, not a voice in her head, but the pain of its absence, the body broken, as usual, and nothing new there, a man is always dead by love.

__Jack of knaves on the spirit path , hugging the knees , bending the head, kicking the ass, hacking the guts, spilling the nose, hurting the forehead, pissing the penis, endlessly dry, wet, dry, wet, wet, dry, drywet, not a chemical reaction , or a reactionary person at all, but a voice wilted in the soft, not your body, but another's , not your anger, but some souled pierce of solitude.

Your filthy words, don't speak to beauty, but tear its veil. But say a veil is a place between lingering the allowance for two becomings to One. A substantive of bodies shaping over time and space ranking out its gathering in the forces of time. Not something your unheld hands know about 'fucking brains' a vulgar truism for death, walked backwards? not anything fancy about that is there? but feeling sorry for yourself? and yer dancing digs, your doodling wolves, not happied enough by the spool of yer eyes, whacking out the voice of the man hipping your veins of death unknown not knowing your self cutting the stranger ignoring the lover, shoving on the train, pushing out of the way on the platform, a plato form of idea dead as usual eternal shit on your doxa . Doctor meets a doctor, not the 'natural' encounter of shit and shite, but the potatoe of difference ringing around its collar and I don't mean your ass ring, but dominate? Dominate with one finger, a push pulley of the Saturday night fever, of fiction and its minions, the sixty-two galleries of the sagging night, and your tits. And inability to say the word cunt justified by your sorry excises of reality, your sorry excuses for life. That is not smooth, not shapely with the supple fourth line of the body machine and the adventures of Jill and Franny. Maybe it's time to bury Mona, said Mona. Laughing off her sheets, and her body shitting dying spitting back the cackle tooth, what do you know about life, and your golden horizons and your sleek bodies of protein and health.
Mona was the greatest skirt of beauty this side of hungry. Emotional problems, never! she was the skittish of truth, seducing god, not hung with the dillies of marriage and the in vetro of women approaching forty. Working the calipers What he wouldn't do to lick your ass, kiss is a cheap word . Compared to a sumerian sander and the hawks of gender squeezing the word of dry
_______________ __
Addendum for a preface
Naturally 'naturally' it was a smile speaking because she was happy and in the supple speed of her smile, her voice, she was joyous and governed by the kilts of wombs and male lovers she was free
She said it with a smile and loved you

Quip Caporal Pour 'a death in the family'

OveR every text a word Jouissance naissance Renaissance~~

Between Orpheus and the 'lost' text a dancer around the table a seizure a
suzerainty of awkwardnesses the plural fever of desire not faking the

quilt a quip of heels clicked the floor astrological map crinkled
folded under papers

Between the 'lost text' and the dancer who's hand grabbed over
the table

and the song of virginity was a splice the flying dutchman or the aching

Will it seize a nail reeking of the dust of her name? Shall a bend be a straight in the silver spooning 'before dusk' in bed? In the dancer around his

body snaking around the floor and the flounce of her skirt a French-

Canadian speaking with English and an Irish accent and a Celtic brogue in the borrowed background of her tongue the other one

the tongue over space was no good of no use the misuse of the cataract dawn

Orpheus will father the gales ORphEuS will gather the pails

Over every word A SMile Silo of deSire

Sire Sir (trembles her hawked out cock)

her smile is a thousand miles in the ether pulled out, yanked a tender
fix in the space

the event of in any case of the disjuncted synthesis a narrative line of

Reposant MonaPosted by Hello Mona couchant _ She got hot pants a hot pants a la 1960's (find us an accent s.v.plait) hot burning parts pants wishing a event on the tornadoe of the bastinado husked before the risen sun

(a passive sentence before gruel not a lyric machine spewing forth the sentiment _ find me that accent Eugene_)

Mona garners Orpheus who ganged Jill, Franny, Elina, and So then the lover's bodies pushed out of space into the Encounter

What was it but a fancy? a fancy Coleridge/ slashed by the numbers, the buttocks the free asses. the masses. the

Will Mona always be the hero of a name?

is the question

Mona wallows the hero of a dame


Inside her cunt after all that they found a wheel. Not so the end of the road where the continuous poem worked.

Out there you would never understand. Handing the hanky of death to its maker

This is not about Oedipus, you get it? it's not about Mothers and Mummy ... . It's not about Fathers and men rising up against you

in the night of empty holed

It's not about your mother, your father, your daughter, our hawks and wolves hungered to the sky burnt down in the rage at dusk

about the kindled children of boiled ice

Orpheusdada it is not about you

It's about death, daddy, its about Jesus, Mister. It's about Jack DeReader finding a way out past death, and I Mona, was errant about he. And Daddyio Deleuze was the second to none in the covenant of death.

Cover that nut of death, spill your teeth words to me Cadmus. I got black eyes from looking at the dawn.

How can the characters break their back?


and that's the song of fucking and death, your cock cold before mist at dawn, the window a dead beat clucking with coldness not a fancy ointment word that kippers your bacon, shivers your meat, huddles your intelligence at work. Not the shit of the ovens, and beheaded lovers cranking the wheel.

Jill knew the word was yelling .... the flesh not the faint fear in the eyes

Smash a text right out of your head

Or the coffee in your hand, and the piss in your left

and your split cock your empty cunt

the silver quake

something like that that afforded a wake

This then wasn't the supple curve of the fouth line . It was jam before hate and nothing the lineliness.

Mocked by another lineliness and its shabby defiant refusal a pride held by

Mortices blocked the gate, and only ANtiOedipus 'could find the way out' the blocked gate a textual drab on ice 'could open its secret lock' 'the combination' a fuzz of fuel and feel the unconstrued and uncontrolled

aleatory drift of her hips the smell of her thighs


Yes yes I recall when Gilles was phoning Felix and saying WhiteheadWhitehead! have you read this and Felix slammed the phone down!shouting shooting like a bat out of hell! I'm off to get thosebooks! those books! O WHite O head O white O head O Head O white

writing and

Prof Jill was watching .... Posted by Hello

How else can one write but of those things which
one doesn't know, or knows badly?
It is precisely there that we imagine
having something to say .

We write only at the frontiers of our knowledge,
at the border which seperates our knowledge from
our ignorance and transforms the one into
the other.
Only in this manner are we resolved to write.
To satisfy ignorance is to put off writing until tomorrow
__ or rather, to make it impossible.
Perhaps writing has a relation to silence
altogether more threatening than that
which it supposed to entertain with death .

Prof. Difference and Repetition and his magic crew merry go round.



When AntiOedipus woke up one morning he knew he had a head, in one, in two , language was a pharmacy where he paid the rent, knewing his name was the one combed on the lathe of her hair line fracture .

  • AntiOedipus
  • Thursday

    selfdesiringmachines  Posted by Hello


    Passsin' the Pape ~Thomas Aquinas

    Was Mona merely becomings sentimental in the blubbery of 'greatness' and its hawked 'down' being? had she stumble bummed into the impassable passages of cloyed sentiment and the blood of a demi-god its awesome craters creators of lore and relic? was catholic not the becomings of nonbecoming total cash registers? stocks, bonds, the savings bank account, of the anticommunist. A cistern shell of the death watch?______________________

    Passsing the Pape

    strangely enough as a stochastic dancer

    of images

    Mona was moved by the passingof the Pope
    dada of millions of molars
    was some she shied from
    but her heart was tinkered past
    trying cynical
    thus her red hatand cardinal's robes a-flowing
    she headed to Rome

    for conclave clandestine
    'secret' of descending Spirit
    purged stairway

    lead to grace after grace
    the licking embers of the gone soul
    the bardos of mention and dimension
    O Pape O father dada of the molecule
    that is not Father But Mother
    I've gathered you
    he said somewhere
    like a hen gathers her brood
    it's what that Nazarene said
    past passing the Damascus door
    after he'd entered Jerusalem


    to some extent he'd been a working class clapping pope, even by accident, friend to Marx, the pilgrimage of desire's odd hat, the Paris hat, the doctors yacking hours into the night, high points, fine mettle of the quarrels, Marx knew the fact of labour, redemption was not its cost, but its price, its heighten'd price by capital's best catholic, . Some pudent impudent imp, of shape and clamour, clangoured the song, its outcome a paid rent on death.Besides, who was the Nazarene but a drag on her Zarathustrian kilt her whacking good speak English before the purgatic fog, the tug boat chugged her harbour a barmaid to delicatessans so her eyes lifted, a wet lash to her lover's hug a mug lips to kiss me she wore her way weighted over my body a lover song to despatch the forlorn believers of death. And its body. Begining again she began her song .___ as for good old Thomas, whenany man scrolled a song,her welcomewas effusivesweet melodic of


    "Bring the tender tale true of the Pelican;Bathe me, Jesu Lord, in what thy bosom ranBlood that but one drop of has the worth to winAll the world forgiveness of its world of sin" ___excerpt Adoro Te Devote, __ Thomas Aquinas

    A saint paid rent on her desire her influx desir of theisms' mighty shone.

    Adore te devote aredrome her Mona fancies were

    Pulling him off the cross .


    Passing the Pape

    strangely enough as a stochastic dancer of images
    Mona was moved by the passing of the Pope
    the dada of the millions of molars
    was some she shied from but
    her heart was tinkered past
    trying cynic al
    her red hat
    and cardinal's robes a-flowing
    she headed to Rome

    for conclave
    secret of the descending Spirit
    the purged stairway
    lead to grace after grace
    the licking embers of the gone soul
    the bardos of mention and
    O Pape O father O dada of the molecule
    that is not Father But Mother
    I gathered you
    he said somewhere
    like a hen that gathers
    her brood about her

    it's what that Nazarene said
    past the Damascus gate
    after he'd entered Jerusalem

    VATICAN RADIO - English Home page

    the Guattari Shoe


    Shine your shoes Felix! said the reader yer going to need
    thosE cartographies where you are going, into
    the intensities of densities the torture road
    of imbroglio the deinstitutionalized
    existential espace of

    Shine your shoes,
    we need some aesthetic paradigm
    to synchronize our steps
    ankles, heels, and poverty mentalities,
    our lack of generosity.
    Us Communists. Desire babababa

    None of us 've forgotten what you
    said in that last published essay
    re the wide generosity we need
    the retournello and the

    the middle plateau of nomadic structure
    like the smile of new-made teeth
    and not the pretences of poetry my
    dear dear Felix yer speed is
    master of mastery
    your song is
    a ballad
    a ballast in
    this dead zone
    of hope
    and the capstan
    Or the Crow's Nest

    where I sit amidships

    hearing over the ridge
    the sound of the

    future you spoke of

    O aberrant Pierre with your Genet Recaptivee
    and your notable c.v.
    So Mona pays her homage Guattari


    While my Guattari gently weeps