it was del [over hill and dell] And Fou

« Ce que la voix révèle, c'est que les concepts ne sont pas des abstraits. » (Deleuze)

so them was the days when intellectuals were bell towers in the dark night their work firing a sleeping gang, a motley crew, a tribe of ducks, a gagglin gawker of bunchs of sleeprszz, when grammaire was challenged, when folie was considered when guilt was shoved aside where the simple moral moat was pushed off opening the veils of beauty and deisre and
your body

not afraid of its own clandestine quest

them was the days

said Mona.

thee voice spoke to the scrolled pages of your insideoutside
not the ottter of speechstrange and
dual ducks

but the grand navigation

This Michel Foucault link is the one where so many delires can be uncovered:
  • Foucault

  • Deleuze with students

  • UnivDeleuzeAudio

  • audio deleuze said Jill, Mona and Franny looking , listneing for Pierre-Felix the fast.


    coughs the

    coughs the pain
    the dead knight

    so now no voice any longer to real with

    now then end of real

    the torque of pain twist brings the t sounds return back to body
    not so the memory of something then death was very close

    ears very close

    husking over the fang hook
    into his ne ck

    and there is nothing there was nothing nothing ever to be but the dead of bone some piuff of it nothing nada nada nada nada and then death was very big loomed out an open mouth over lyricism's last grave

    no pretenders to the throne here and her babies pulled forth his gyre grave meant nothing

    as names
    floated past

    I don't it there dont see how the orgasm of desire flooded


    savage faceAgriope

    Agriope wild-eyed wild-voice

    covets Orpheus and swirled around the body ofher limbs, her veil a vellum belly for his head to rest on, in her sex a tumbling space for his hide-out. Was this his mouth she wanted? Her , the savage-faced one , morning in the day, the day at night, the brilliant steed of her coffe cup his long day of pursue, affording a dance on his dane. Runes of her hand to his sex for his escaping in to her long fared lover. His body sweat swooped on her, her breasts pushed up against him, her keen a voice to howl in his ear. Some day, come to me darling his Agriope grope his hand his sex in her hand the flourishing member of her vine, the phallus or other secret words in his mouth hers. Pilasters, cluster the pages of her hair, a Corinthian column to her quantum she wants his ass too, he wants hers, the swirling in-bound of their sex, creating the marked instant of his delay into her and her humdown sing. Come into me she whisper over the city building her mouth over his. A spy to play double to her love for him, a distant city and ocean to fare over the lake of city and saken time over time his body a bibliography of her want, her desires a scrolled book to his hand she gives.

    Now take.

    Switch scene.

    Eurydice plays dice double gamine to his holiness naked round assed to his eyes, he eyes her sex, crawls in her child man. Not a Freudian fuck, but a free one. Not mother, but the relative universe of her pirate potentate. Despotic to her emperor she winsome as a Thracian feminist? not so the valley of her tufted sex is the rouche boulder she wants him to rest on. Repose is a nice word, but she prefers his back and his mouth whisper words into hers a flood of coming.

    Across the street, the pavements. Custards last stand it's not. Shes caught in the ropes. Ropes caught her sex to feel his aloneness in her past breakdown, he astrals bodies his pen in lieu of his sex.
    God that sounds terrrrribbbble. A chant from a choir and dust on dust further.

    Triples her pleasure waiting for his cripple to bring his face to face childhood with him. Mayhem in the tower.

    She says her teeth parlayed to the ground. Words are my tree can you be my rhizome? Not nostalgia for sure, not certain of the real meaning of art he wears her beads, kissing her anksles in silhoutte imagine she's naked in my bed. A nine to kiss kiss, a kiss to nine nine to kiss and nine to nine in the hours they are in bed, then six to one or six to nine they mate and blend the mouths to ripples across their chests. One sex multipled by one
    melts in one breath.

    Hers a gift to his lost found page.


    schizzes ||flow|flew

    ...It is not just a matter of music but of how to live: it is by speed and slowness that one slips in among things, that one connects with something else. One never commences; one never has a tabula rasa; one slips in, enters in the middle; one takes up and lays down rhythms ...

    Said Jill recalling her daddio o cool the wizard of multiplicty and intensity and the b.w.o. and other organs
    of displacement and lace

    as she handed her gown to me in the dark

    that gown of her body so astral far and geographic
    further inside the night of
    her lips and my hopping across the space of her desire
    desire desire
    it was the begining of rain

    and Jill faced him
    the other Jill who double engendered
    frying pans, dishes and dozens, of cousins
    making love his way.

    a farmouth on a distant post nearby__

    in the middle

    weed out the last gold make rhizomes make weeds your friend. kiss my wounded shoulder. aim yer missile atmy thought. let me beg a t yer cavities. open the sluice gates of. spare the strong. damn the weak. voidthe night. thieve the breaks.

    and so the flow ebb schizz

    miss monky
    what sake?
    sake inner side the rice bowl?
    sing wing not wight one writig one not too not wright in side the plane consisstertency? tent to see to negagatate in inslands of chilgood

    Jill was squeeze mouth chew bones push it out is it yer little baby? Lover? coming out of your mother, yer motheryrfahter? not yer _Orphan being, bigcoming. She never knew never got to see. Yer bigcoming. yer little coming with a small wax, in her hands the spread of yerhoney. Her call it honey_ honey of her lip, her lopsdied kiss.

    In the middle of things ...


    little Mona had a Jona[h]

    Little Mona had a Jona in her spidery way, and her hands all over the place, a like god, No she means a little like god, who was supposed to be everywhere before he died, but his corpse is everywhere, a copse on a meadow field, not a cross to die on. Some connective synthesis between harbours of bellies and suave kisses in the huge night of her abyss and double-self and her wombing him in hungry, ululating. And

    Franny wanted to know the meaning of Lawrence's letters before he became a ghost on the plains of his body, and her Mouth opened Wide to receive him in her other double down self. And he was her desert. Not a stolen cherry fruit, a flute? a question mark she introspected before passaging her way over prose and the naughty seven thousands seas of her self, and the leagues between them, her body his, and the body not shared, was a starting into the future not knowing. The full-body of capital on the galloping sails was her weave and woof-woof to her electronic steeds, and his bodies became.

    Now the decoded flows here are not the scientific axiomatics or dendrites of enumerable decomposable lapses. Little schizo I love thee, did he make the chemical love thee, the way I do and does wrapped around your finger and the willing desire to abandon ship, little schizo who doubles thee like me, and in my hounded days of horn I shall spell thy name again, yet again berries and throats around the roar of the song.

    Little schizo I kiss thee .

    over the ebb belly of the whale swallows me the argent nape of your tongue.

    Clang Clang Clang! she hollers the long dollar down her materialized feet and masturbating self, his best friend.


    in the (k)night

    In the night you have made machineszzzzzzzz that fly in the face of lies
    tumbling down the b and c the weir and yield of pistons and fright the voice carrying over the audible sound which fields thrust desire spinning its oratories and heaths, not the half-way measure of thread hanging from a dying south the rule of true pace and tryst a word hesitated by night by the faces of forlorn rules and their dumb bouncing broads, tantrum etymolgies of Satan and God, garnered by paradises of molecules. Cummberbund of singer over the cinema veiled eye of body and longing breath better at the capsule afore date and dawn. Dinner in the brook by the pediment of loss hunger its nymph body her only back my tongue raced over the spinal nodes. And Jill saw the field of corn husked in the wind sown field a burrow to runnel her pages over the body of an escaping lover and he loved women so he was sapphic in his heroic modes of aurality and voice, her voice a leaf coming to his mouth . There was a stranger her voice mellowed her to the touch of her awful breathing and dimes fingered by her pavement sparks. A journal to feed the plateau of her morning and to drape his throat negating the coffin of her verse, by the prose of her desk and the denial of split. Or something like that perished, is that it? parsnipped? Parsimonious by the loves she gathered in her matter of bearing and fair. So then it was the keeled over the, no the keeled over the bank, looped by the loud signals of desire its wished for. So Jill then while stating the instant snap rolling over the meadow of rye and barley opening the breach testing the sea rudder as it over the storm and we hurricaned through

    Mona cried wept the only god of her alphabet reading her lover of "old and yon."

    So her horse, neighed,stepped, holding over the knight of infinite faith,

    cut his lip for the wanting to kiss her .


    Later| jewels and books | or was that radio transmissions, to the Dieppe of their heart-wheel| clattering ruckus of a bardo, pleasured by the real flatter of their bodies and love ___ laughter.


    i wonder

    i wonder how iota is and Old Bag?

    I dont know Jill answers anguish swerves herskates cuttin g
    ululation to stir to sire night.

    was it love with shoe flat forms? made a porcelain
    doll, aproffession of living

    dictating fiddle and form the living knight gathered
    her wakes overing hill and puffing weed pumping

    up the stolen hemp the night.


    She begins, but does not know how it is going to finish; perhaps it will not even be called a novel... but that's exactly what an analytic process is... I am no longer master of either myself or the universe the verse... Franny was lookin' for a fiction to roll in against the mouth sides of the universe her day and thunder a simple blanket to hold by

    the hollering of the world, its strange paradox

    RiNG! Aiieeee! says Prof. Deleuze shifting his sand gears of boxes into what she, she means He, knows.

    Philosophy the consolations of the lip, a hungry lip to mouth against the night of your bathes.

    ___ Mona likes to stop the wheel in devotion, some Sufi saint her brain rears ... like a fiction holding a deal out on special rates to epistemology. Not a way to publish another book! with Editions de Minuit , the heroic press in the world and her other cousin.

    Guattari drops by....

    Says Fanny G.

    --- part 2

    she shoots she scores. a sinphony? a phonetic radition of her self. bodies.



    Il a été mon maître" -Sartre

    Mona thought, always Sartre was a beautiful man __ all ways, thought, he was , was was. Jill wrote , or her father in spinoza saw he was in immanence to the greater degree of earth's hurtle,
    her hurling whirl of

    Castor and her loves for him and the cafes the smell of tobacco and the papers and dialectical reason and so it was and yes yes, she loved him then and always a son in heaven to the almighty and her ruth for him and I shall follow you and be your people a tribe an only saint in the country of one and two make s three and he was very noble to turn down the Noble prize integrity one cannot buy like that .

    and being

    becomings besides his other lakes
    intelligence like a fierce pierced arrow




    philosopher .



    Over the states
    of and

    slips away of

    betweens somehow my darling you are my love. each schizo letter of yer bifurcating selves enters my betweens.

    me and janine and our double countries of only 3 or 4 people and no metaphore. such pursuits of desire make many spaces and time is a glance unfolding over the sheets of desire. shall our bodies
    make sense

    ah but this is what we need to do to read Irish poetry glancing along our sheets for the blues and blink it makes us think so lover is the night of pens and shrink?or pentameter and breaking the mold?shall the high hills hold in that good morning to the sea the terre the bold and noble
    each word rusticates its way to the farmspent

    and plumbed to its end

    Remember we love all of ye thee
    _Across the golden pages of


    One night here is what Jill said to Mona

    One night here is what Jill said to Mona ___ and she was very much, very much.

    “A hall A hail-well fellow well-met you've made your bed now you're going to have to lie in it don't be sarcastic with me young lady just who do you think you're talking to a little wick of hope the stories are really true, or the stories' really true, or the stories're really true, those stories were really true weren't they depression as a return O Venus on your couchconch staunch launch raunch paunch Ulma relent silent silently O such gratitude sorrow breaks apart it just roils, writhes right on along have to be emptied to be filled I return via depression sometimes my way of getting off the world a dull roar repent relent murine and gormless morn like a hot knife through butter and her thighs,and, then no more phrases left el-a-raqui rubies of beringed fingers got into some bad habits before I met you like going to whore houses, and, all night brothels much of this more couldn't go it would sell me down the river deliver me over to the handmaidens of darkness and depravity then met you a song of flesh and need began took up like a choir of angels, messengers and bright burrowing through incarnation to bones it was soft blue like the craters of night spring sky scudded clouds having left & made a mark traced their pell-mell a mail to left and right fingers of the bones molecules hearts, and, anchors of light and sky preened the pedalling woman whore of a clue not be uncovered O louche lady why won't you bend your knee nothing matters anymore your lens you a loft noise will get ya to the ground in those days you could eat out of feet and mouth disappointed by her beauty disproportioned by pillars and columns pilasters the recurrence of wordimages routinely fuck my bourgeois friends my fingers like pillars what does it mean to be
    a brother a sister a flower montbretia to the muse or mussed hair on the muse which bemuses me coloured scent of flower volatile volta the breath or last accent on the poem or rather last accent on a line oxters of her thighs wassail a kind of tail or song dreening god knows what this is a keen? a wailing perhaps surpassed”

    And then Mona, Mona laughed her head off, well Mona laughed and laughed, laughing her head off, and it fell down the steps, the verysteps of her self making world.


    Re_Vision of Mona at her deskstop. Not top but stop topless of breath mouth

    her breasts across

    the fullness of the sky .


    There was no history

         There was no history when Jill was born she was a minority of one and ten and there was splendid down the days and nights of her hoar. Not something like  a word which replaces the text in the progressive text of its tensions solidified in its useless lees And uselees. And usedlees. SOmething which desire would make a  woman's face seen flashing in the intermittent moment of its videotaped existence.