Wednesday

revisions janine

Oona, the clandestine here of these frictions called weeping gnashing his teeth the reed of clutch he'd found slipped from his grip, her cluttering bodies amaze, a zone of Irish song. What silver dangler is this?

Ah! me the sheep in the zone have prayed.


-- I,"janine mackintosh"


write the words of the Holy Father

How can there be a reminding of thee father for a schizo?

There can be none, as the schizo, and in this the lines of flight are telepathic epistles offlight, have no parentage. Why is she afraid of scholarticism if at all afraid of it, how does the War machine link up to the individual's flight,how does Mona leave her gender; does it deterritorialize which is not the same as deconstructing. Outlandish was the word used by Prof D. when my lover Parnet asks him about this word: the ABC film; outlandish as an identity of gender breaking at the edge seizing a moment to skedaddle the majority strata state body with organs power goosing goose-stepping.... Oh, scholars families, and scholastics... "State, Army, family which of these dogs wishes to die first ...Nietzsche

That was a beautiful head, yer body in my own. And I really love the way you go off. But maybe your just afraid of losing your own passion? What threat does scholasticism pose to you? Do I remind you of your father?_____

Jill points to her navel saucy sailorette that she is___________

... and deconstruction ...the concumbrence of weight and scale skittering its high sea and sun, cummerbund about a waist girt in the sun? ...There used to be some exciting Jacky Dereader stuff to ride around on ... there might still yet ... Jacky book?...ooops there goes my memory... I think its called Case me a Sign Sponge Ponge... but anyhow there were some he speaks at great length he does... odes I think of cease on the pause of the medulla

about the deconstruction task,; but it is not about deterritorializing;

Daddio Deleuze mentions he wrote called Essays (he sneaked into a lecture once, in a dry whisper arid as the what, the rosetta stone? the roe of

gallops _ Who sneaked in? Me and her naked in our clothes, the lecture of 88 the ones about metallurgy scary .... the hoarse voice )

clinical critical ... One is about machines being plugged into other machines i.e. literary machines connected to other machines, and the other simply said is about prescence and absence and all that, and removing the centre of thephilosophic issue from Being and so on... something like that.. and more andless... Omy sweet one my mouth is opened to thee_____________________virtual/actual.

J.D. has a nice word that straddles the two :theactuvirtual.

(he never came to see me when I was pick. Pick. she used me. She abused her friend. O dear its the reactionary route, the boot the one you use.)

I may be misquoting this lovely neologism-----still alive? Is Monique W still alive and writing? think Monique writing about this Dead from the same lover.. I need to take a taxi I am meeting him now, she 's wearing her white leather jacket, shes showing off her hips, inviting me to parties....no zones to neurosis..., from Paris. ...easy. words to finger your bead,
(not rosaries, but counting lip
verbs to hoarse ...)
your writing stone is like your testicles,
my testicles...


Go slowly, take the two of your zones,and use them as tactile fingers, outside their usual relationships. You're feeling is what's the matter...

Nice work. Your neurotic reterritorializing of deconstruction is the problem; you need to understand that is the problem; love, there are no activists.

(take this text in your mouth
a matchbox hidden behind your zipper
where I live)


I like this intense...black dot...that//\\makes sobbing teepees with the pixels/\/I don't need your recommendations.. my squatting me is you, I am the gnone gargoyle. No, not so, a petition to honesty...


Mona wants to hold the hand that feeds her.


My dear can you be more specific about how you see Scholastics and Spinoza linking? After the scholastics were Catholics, and Spinoza was something else as you know... I agree there are crossings, but how they happen is what excites me, can I would love to hear more about the maps you might have in mind in this case ... Franny pencils in marks over page 48 of the second bk. Deleuze rings, ok tomorrow at ten the spider scribble trolling the page paper of the .... book in production....


(Maps to your skin,
middle ground of the plateau
we venture the body
and its deaths)


Post schizo you know how badly I want you, and your hands.


space and surface meaning//D/?D&G+Artaud- I think that the points of convergence cannot be confused with samenesses.Derrida deconstructs, whereas Artaud is already deterritorialized in bodymind etc. he is in the b.w.o. as it becomes a named experience.

... letters to Jacques Riviere are too the point; his experience is not an elegant descent into the unconscious as was the case with other surrealists, but was the limbo and hell he had to live and suffer, that is what makes him precisely what D+G will celebrate and praise, and this is another project than JD's.
he was not fair to the surrealists... you know I say bending into her waist clutching me we are as the moon and the planet Mars, no your Uranus? No you're my oedipal non oedipal !
Shit, that was stooping low beneath the mantle piece.
What eye piece, lorgnette is this
at dawn?



Mona skips around the already fed caper of review of past, knowing the century has disappeared around the bend desperado...

More drama : plateau death 1995

You know, when Deleuze took his own life, I don't think anyone was shocked, they were sad felt grief and so forth, but most felt - at least those I know and knew that this was part of his territory. Same with F.G. who died while at work at La Borde Clinic. - I cannot ever imagine ... Jacky D dying a violent death, his work is of another calibre and a cabinet ....


__________SnIpSnApSnoop! A spy from the obssessive land on our blogs!

Look at Franny's fierce stare at the enemie territoire ... of paranoia its guilts melancholies treacheries... racist delires... reading the rac e...

another order, there is no temptation to violence as with Artaud and his

greatest admirers, if I can choose such a phrase, G + D. My points, at least for now, are that they see Artaud with a different set of loves and hates; D+G come to him with the honour of deterritorializing and connecting his work to the other machines that he Artaud had already begun, and Derridareads Artaud with another type of love. But the projects are distinct, they cannot be identical, similar paths are parallel but not identical. But ofcourse we know that, but do we know it at the moment of writing and readingwhen we lose our thoughts to the predictable, the banal and ordinary losses of thought; we shld. desire the bifurcations that Artaud suffered, as they open to us what he suffered, we can coast perhaps and master perhaps what he was killed from.

Best to all Best paving. Under the stones the children the kids the stones... no more beaching....




Eurydice ... badiouBadiou - badass! No, no scan or scandalize my lover....didn't he write some letters to Big D. and for a while it looked like there was going to be some new cowork a la Deleuze Guattari


and then it fell apart? Didn't Mona tell me about this? Am I confusing him with some other guy who wrote about Time?----as someone suggesting Mona was a cyber-robot, a flat spacee scaped into this ....Destructivation: no problem with words no more.



I (Who is Busy????????)


am just so busy these days and months I have had no time to be active outside of my body ... I am never working except on your and this or ours, or something about your hips... legs ... feet...

they're cut I know the bottoms of your heel... dry skin ...

these , turnstiles
that swing to the breeze___ the erstwhile book epistolary novel about Franny Jill and Mona. I have

(shhh come sleep in my taddy my garden sweet heart
forsake me not)


never seen your name in the world
until some time back in the autumn











This sounds like a reference to any number of Guattari's.One or Several Guattari __ How many approaches did he have?

He had one in the clinic and others in politics, yet

they all worked like scissors. I forgot to answer your query. I was

there as a patient...reliant ... Private then later in. I had the impression you were someone I had met there. Felix's approach, well books are written about that. But a woman/becoming has to escape the molar ale strats. ... wrote in a book about them... haunt their work... This partially a a basoon __ an elegant elephant ...Groz, Irigary ...opened in the work, and F. the first to say so ...



I Jill say these comforts to you ....


What Guattari's approach?---------- his approach to you
is that of a poacher kissin' the night
escaping the sighs of your
lust

I've seen the whores of the Imperium's culture wars it callets .. reap the ..clickety goo... break code ...t'a a peech...


... a reply comes from experience... Not an abstraction ... at last... A black hole experience... and not a distant star... One must live these things at levels not abstract them.... Or if abstracted let them at least be abstractions of experience... see matter unfold before it. Uses of the Black Holes
... how does the subject of a-signifying enunciation transmit the intensities to another without keeping in
line with the black hole?

it truly is, not a problem, the black hole,
(I am always lesbic with you, when you say
...) ( here ... wor... wa.... no w... r ..d...
as I am now in a black hole, it

(takes control of my life) I was in line with it...out and from its spire
orbiting no way out.
(my kilt darling ... you saw beneath and beneath)

no way out black hole light

(bequeath )
... different ways to constuct metaphor; it sounds more allegorical, and not metaphor ... metaphor is more like a motor of transformation and metamorphosis ...
I suspect D*G's critical stance towards a certain idea - a very carefully delmited idea of metaphor and its abuse - was aimed the reductive misuse of metaphor and not its richest use, which is in poetry. Which they both wrote about at length . So there is allegory or weak metaphor,the popular misconceptions which invent figures of speech, tropes based onfaded grammatical structures, maxims and cliches strung together;however this also works as a collage, a textual aural collage, a bricolage, an assemblage and a desiring-machine that crosses the over machines, a bif of transversaility works the machines and niveaus; it works if you work it... the use of metaphor as a reductive thing is a favorite tactic of politics who want to wrap an artist up in bows that make him less dangerous, just as politicians and day to day talk uses dead metaphor to control the daily life lingo control ... reception of their speechs; it never ends, turn over a metaphor and you find a lie, turn over a lie, you find a dead allegory. turn over your geology and find and schizophrenic discharge, hurling inside a black hole,a navel gazing king of catatonia masturbating herself sleep with desires, pedals, and black holes, metaphors. And desire delire machines ...

"Man be my metaphor " More next time textual parodies...


"That's it folks"

"back to the Hotel, she said, and weaved my way." marvelous sentences of desire and female becomings. Searches in
the labyrinth. The traditional rhizome was the labyrinth.__________________ the black hole habitus!____________How can we escape the black hole. But habitus/contemplation constructs habitus, if not its conceptualisation. Why D/G tend more for the event as object in the concept. to live outside His God (and why is it so?):scary. ..






... One One favoured lines our friends talk about writing being pigshit ... making reference to Artaud's text ... that title...yes and at least the neurotic pays to be heard... not the hypocrite 'writer' ... This is in the context ... to be read by ....of a discussion about neurosis and writing. ... O h repeating is so completing says nothing that she did not I'd and know -- that reading what ~~ become become woman! becomings~~ writers have said about the concept of "becoming-woman" needs to be ~~ yes, yes ... Yes, well She loves Virginia is that not enough? to spill the waves of woman. reflected on: bit by bit not really -- Surely not really. Surely -- Hurly Burly -- this is not colonzing, but being helpful.She does not want your help. Nearly bird... humming bird...She is past that . Whereas your choice of word, if I can suggest it, is aimed to injure and associate my suggestions with a capitalist imperialist posture. Which is crazy.-- Dear Mercyfull, perish the thought ... sad rue .. dont be ruth-less.please don't colonise----- It is interesting. When I say or suggest in an admonishing tone not to supervize, one gets back this rationalization . A good andinteresting one, chock block of loops, flights, and leaps. Thanks. Its more interesting than a neurotic who supervizes. To learn something about someone ... I don't mean a noisy apartment
a solar anus ...


I mean the buttonhole
leading to your heart


... Janine is ... an [a][e]ddition to the things and are exciting and learned,and easy to read. Yes, she is all these things that make sex. between partners easier.I have no desire to give it away I am - no do not give a supervision away; there are none left ...
<- as="" br="" bumbler="" giotto="" her="" is.="" kneed="" knock="" mona="" pants="" she="" shits="" the="">


You need to --->be paid like Guattari said for being a analysand, and then what happens is schizoanalysis... and poetry a production to anticapitalize the marked .... reterritories of death... Oh my shoulders are sore, where the wings... were ... here is no More Supervision. This is a dangerous choice of word. ___ What one earth is resiliation?? - It sounds very sexy and close to resolution. Insouciant bugger ...

Or like fucking Franny get paid!



And so it was on the four thousand one hundred and sixty-seventh day of her linger to pride the mounting glide of air to

suckle back its pink tongue

and of her kissing
there was more....






waist of silk to weave the






my desertation of woof and wood





confected...



can never help the factory of capital production... economic of fictions ... language of off pronouns...




heading there ...

Jill suffered the private




Jill suffered the private pillows to drop. The farm, the farm was an hinterland to doubt, the allergy of first and not lasting, nor lasting was her face, a timber to cry its forlorn haste! Now was that a rhyme to french your verbs, humbling your goat herd? The slimmer the better was the toot toot toot and the Herculean pipe the fife in the subway the raid on your bones, the sack of wheat at the stop, the metropolitan place of her arms around your waist and your it s meditation of loves and hate


Jill stood by the steps of the big coliseum mute as the cloud risk of the danger thick as the dawn was dusk, and the cowboy wagered his honest dollar down, dingle and dangle in the tangle
up fleet. Was the ink in the eye the iris of the velvet the mat of its press in patterning her rig on the thigh of his waist?







Would this be the size of your feet?













a fine flow

Tuesday

who brought?

who brought you this farm, Mona, who brought you to this midnight taste
of its dapper challenge, the knight of galloping truant, the pear of wheat,
the single of song,
the hanging of lover




who brought the owl to the feet, dampening day by night,
was slumbering the catalogues langouring the feet, this farm of ancient weight .




Lark spurs and tender was fair on the old oak ground
over a shield of cold and barren thorn the lent of
feed and penitent as something you could not close,
the clattering





enjambment




no, the Nile .






No, the other observance. Snobbery,
its hate exclusion





to the





pin

.






the pinnacle .







Not like that. was her sun bathed song winnowing the forest
of her teeth, its mid day feather, the
tag to tag play over the simpering fox, the shell of
prepare and the mass of its father, the hooking rose
stuck to its rib, and the fellow along heel
tramping the way
(the window of its regard, the pace of its pause,
the refusal of dialect)







.






this pushed you a hussy used wench, no, a hussy used
friend attained what it wanted stealing your intent
reversing the charge blaming love on lover's
breath




blaming love on lover's breath




.






pulling in pushed out



pulled in pushed away cruel

as the phosphate in her gown




grown gather the toe
which kicked off love




harming the hair of your head
hindering the body of your give
the askance cut sheaved your






.




this the Imperium's slave came to kill
in you hurting your clamber
staggering your feat
tricking you into deceit






not this rhyme prayed for peace
but the love that spit in your face
in the name of an old year



.

Monday

And and and

Franny and Felix went for a walk, a perambulating stroll across the talks of time and their howl me down stairs... Rena called and asked in her telegrammatical: And on a completely other topic, here are some questions about the Felixer culpa side of the Deleuzion of grander desire machine of mysteri deleuze and guattari. Was Franny Guattari Gay-tarri? While reading the TLS review of Alliez, Goodchild and others, Mona saw these words:"Guattari was a militant gay activist..." Now was Felix all gay or part of the way; was he a bisexual built for two? Who was Emmanuelle Guattari, a daughter? a lover? a wife? Mona snorted and stamped her feet. Of course, He was a million minority sexes and then some. So what did it matter? A photograph of Guattari in drag with Genet recently showed up in a biography of a former gay rights worker in France.






Also was he not in a state of desirous pederasty and yet still fathering children on the molar level? Was he in the transversal translation of denial and in effect sublimating his hetero-sexual connections by donning the gay mask of rebellion? So Mona sighed and wondered what had become of her lover. There are 'scandlous' re-lations [amorous and others] be-hind every body, as there are be-hind everyone's list of lovers. Was Jill the lover of the Fanny fanny man? Was Jill a lesbian pretending to be a harried married mad professor? Will only the final episode reveal and disclose the secret clandestine sexualities of the guattari-deleuze couplet?




Mona sighed. Franny laughed and all good lovers went to bed.

afineseems the unstrung sky

Jill stands at the 'areoport' [now this word's errant, doncha think? surely it looks good as a pretty to look at grapheme but as a working sounding phoneme does it do the trick? __ Change it! it says airport airport!] [it was a typo to let candor have its way. have its candour way, candy way, the sucking up candies of your lips] [machine incomplete][I mean areoport is not aeroport, nor is it airport _ some weird Edwardian spelling affectation like some of them odd orthographs in galeaves of grass] [we wil never get to the pome at this rate, you dig?]


standing at the air port where the air is as a port . a port of air for your stuffed up lungs[zzzzzz] . No one says you can

Jill was standing at the airport. She was erring at the port of . She .

Jill


Stands at the airport blundering , if the



stands at the airport wonders if the air is
green or azure or cerulean sky ___


Jill stands at the airport
'wondering' if the air is green or azure, is it meridian or medicine? is that her gown or her platitude? Jill scorned the 'nightt of hair raising' books, straddling the gorm of

being and nothingness. She had time for cheese and


it's the air pocket seems the unstrung sky. Not so the raiment of clouds, in her picket pocket nozzle. Some loose detail of lyric in her Irish clattering harpschoon. So lather the detail of her memorising becomings.

A fine hair line fracture between the page between the eyes and its , its what? astute daring of thought, not dumb as a sack of rocks. feckless as an elf, a fay sort of instant tracked in her nursery. She spun to write, knee bent at the stage door of her book, overcoming the words. Coiffed by the the wind and wind. Now that was funny, echoed, her wind! A windy path to buckle her belts again the fourteen days of dehydration and encumbrence embrace. I want to.



Choice, there is no choice, when its the big bird of the sky
calls yer name, and the air sound hoof of its night wrangles
down your pate. What thunder of earth is that reverses the letters of its clutter?


Not Grids but GraDients

Reader if you follow that external link it leads O wise Owl to
Hypertext d+g .


when you drop all yer hads,
and other verb modifiers and signi
fiers wreckin' the damn text let
me know. hE-She says.
Sniffing
SNuffin her nose
at me.


All the time. Damn shame! is what I say, when I say I.


In this country where we live are against this feast of mania the dead silent night is nothing for us
but manis of delire
a misreading of downlinking
a hyper looking the face
the white face
the black hole
a horizontal bar
draggin' the culver t cross .




and worse.







It was all not triune true, there was no no external rinks, links
pinks or other hypertexting


things


.



He lied, it was fiction,




fiction









.

Mona gallops

Mona galloped 'back into Town.' "Suddenly" she was Bakhtinianlogic gone beserk haywire carnivalesque smooth bodies that mentioned the motion of the moment. And other dialectial gyrospcopes and monads. A misplaced sememe say or an escaped morpheme as in words whichsttttuuuuuuttttered about the mouth cavity and never 'got out.' That, was the logic of sense 'at times.' What happens then when everything one said became a matter of single quotes? Or double quotes, or miracle moats, spendid rhymes which never made 'sense.' As in the logical positivism of.Or fragment boat. Franny wrote her own pieces and sometimes Deleuze didn't likethat. She was so caught up in her own sibling rivalry anxiety ofinfluence how could she know her name as author and other self other if there were other authors? Thus the double schizophrenic indemnity of her authorial clause. Now one might ask what is the authorial clause? If the author is'dead' does that mean the writer is living? If god is dead, then god is alive and it follows like the day follows the seasons that the writer is alive and so is the author whether she be male or female. Ah.that old f-e-mail question. Mona wore galloping f-e-mail as she was trying to work out the Romance business of; She was trying to work out the Romance genre; what does it mean to be a Romantic genre type character?What does it mean to be a serialized episodic 'character?'Jill called Deleuze and said: Become woman. Memories of a Womanbecoming man. Man becoming woman man.become as in the spinning wheels of karma not auto-mobile orthe suturing blessures of rot as with apples that rot and guts whichrotted with all the milk of single kind days and not understanding and thefaith that is understanding in the standing of the moment of times squareas it rounds itself off in the hypotenuse oFranny called Jill saying I am the translator of memory and desireI am the plateau which chilled past the place the philo stoleAnd how you stole the factory of students in the death of the earand the child Rimbaud puffed past the sailsand the letter broke bespoke in the similar simile songshe wore her letters like a name imprinted on the body zone






.

Sunday

Personne -- Debord & Vincennes.

Franny always knew her shoes were tied too late. Too late for monads
and pleats, folds and drapes around her Baroque self. And that Hume (that's David Hume _ the scottish brilliance)
was help, because before Bergson ran to the rescue there could be no
plate from which to launch the selves that she was. To launch unfurl and
discompose the selves in "one fell swoop" was the proverb of negativity
she chose. She was Hegel on days like that, bad days one might say when
the dialectic of snythetic reason became the polarity on which her self
worked, lived and died. Days like hegelianism's temptation to totalize
even leading to a rationalization of facisms and smug self-assuredness,
professorial positions, spurs to a contemporary orthodoxy
notwithstanding one found reason "falling" a part as in the centre which
could not hold and the blood filled tide of innocence subjected to all
nostalgia and malaise held blazes and moments of intenity on any
body-without-organs on a given day. Franny got the first call from
Debord when she was still quite healthy and ready to revolt creating
molecular fall-outs of all sorts. Molecular as the train which shouted
in her sleep the sleep of reaon and Kant's aesthetic sublime and the
processual fervor of movement, old recordings, theory and its balanced
counter-take pratice as the reflection and experiment of its
contemplation. So it was she took a big breath and waited for her
friend. She was getting ready to go to work, where the psychotics were
all the rage, and the transversality of mini movements could be felt
vibrating throughout the building, the "batiment." So when Debord first
called saying Listen you specualator of the new simulacrum and listen to
the sound of your sisters, your brothers, your genders, your sexes as
they speak the double -tonue schizo tongue of desire.
Then Franny knew she was a homo-sexual. SHe knew she was a disjuncted
synthezier and silence was her other[s] name. Like the many sex beings
she was. Against nothingness and tear, and being before property and
knowing full well that even stones were politics. That! was the
repetition of a difference! ANd what logic there was to that sense of
feeling in the paint dripping across the body of the woman he loved. And
she knew her name, her name was Felix.
Then Guy said: Make the beachs rattle under the pavement of St. Denis.
What time is she wondered, as he caressed her female leg. So call the
time agains the city of telephones and sexes and shames you have no
desire to go to war against. While the pope prays for communisms and
unconsciousnesses to return. It was like jazz; sometimes she was Miles
Davis, the singer, the taxi-dancer at the dancings at the Folie Berger;
but she was not certain of the spelling. Oh those French words could be
so deceptive and receptive of oppression depression and the voices in
the recordings.
So then his-story was the story of the One lingual pun, and no matter
how much one writ one was trapped in the one. The one and the two and
the many additions it came to.
"So when" Guy called and said be my lover as we prowl the street.
Detourne as any gift.


Time to retreat her bodies her bodes self of desire


.




As a period patrols to a stop so her feet .




I am the surface of a Giacommeti sculpture



.

buddhism _ the plate

Mona saw this and thought: cool, cool I relate to this.
Called Jill called Rena and Fanny and Kathe they all sighed with relief. Ah, yes, now this is more like it.


...All things are the primal void, which is not born or destroyed ...

So, in emptiness no form, no feeling, thought, or choice, Nor is their conciousness... O




a rose





But Jill was a skeptic clinging to forms not matter and wondered what is philosophy, if it is not a dress I can wear on my spare parts shimmying and shaking the whole night long, when my body`s sick?




Yes, my dharma, and the fire burned in the clicky cavern, not sure of her tight buttoks, she lit her fife and drum, knocking over her first cigarette of the century, piling past the meter the extra dent of her doleful ways. She says, I don`t need this, and I don`t need that, but I do need a piece of land. Sometimes. At least. But I gotta rock and roll.





__ Mona two shoes what is this? he asked bouncing down the surreal staircases of Max Ernst her shoes pointed tip to his head,a widening cauliflower in the sun spring sky. Kiss my ears metaplate before the subjunctive subjective 'voice' of personalistic idolatries sickens me. What she scandalized. where comma breath goes noboy no, no boys knows I am you boy. your body's boy song, in tender leaf and gone. the reel wisdom is to meet not talk. I ve not read scroll bibilo



Daddy Del or Fraternal Guga in ages. She wrote in the sky abover her head. Heading and heading.




Mozart Mozart, not the subjective principle.




makes _ tears 'su'psoe'd to!




a flating iron in the eye texture



a floating eye

Saturday

Mona 24

Oh, but Jill new none of this was true .. . she was the occident press. the feeting climb of knighting day as wolves wore rain in their eyes...


Mona was Deleuze's fantasy of himself when he was her. Then
some - If I am many I contra-dict the word verb of noun praise and it
raises the hell of night.


Mona wore new clothings one day. She had a shamble shack with all the
deleuze-o-guattarian accoutrements possible. She had a noun vase verb
possible, and an adverbial qualifier. Other things like night and
slippin' past the pediment pavement stone. With all the wrecks in St.
Denis, and the old shag hotels her father Genet had lived in, camped in,
slept in, jerked off in and wrote masterful books in. While dying of
cancer and other diseases. Oh but Jill new none of this was true
especially while wandering in the special homes and aums, the autistic
places of the dead. Like Ulysses and the siren, the nightingale's place
where ripped words chewed the weeds off thought.
Franny called her "one day" "suddenly" and "by chance". She said listen
I got a molecular revolution going here with my fifth plateau, and my
endless strata that have no home.

Was a strata a place or an endless judgement of god?
Was an anxiety of influence the denial of god?




but we wont we wont we'll be columns pillars
staring stone at calendars of ray
beam glittering of stupified odd moments
and ringing sigh
to busting summer

in Mona's eye and her instruments her
garments
her plaited skirt

and

downtown


walk



meander



her stealthy










downtown









walk









out for a






walk

seeward

Who saw the recent flower of the leave Guattari her shining paths to the split gender of becomings and its name, that drags across the filter of the eyes, plays the stop of being and time, the climate of figures and their ravished air, of room and the temper of clouds...


Someone said to Mona
Have you read the recent publication of Guattari's "Écrits pourl'Anti-Oedipe"?... (E Cree ECreE Ecritures! Ecreetures ) it begins to look and explore, dig about, around and above the energies and scaffolds, between between, between Daddy Deleuze and Brother Guattari's excellent combinations of magic speciality....


le combinatoire the navigator not the alligator, which I hate,
to hate to hate
to


one billion plateaus.

Stéphane Nadaud opens with the question of who wrote (take the Opening of Rhizome for instance? nay rong book dummy! the hidden unfolded chapters, the filtered leaves of chapter two of the AntiOedipus) ___how AO was produced (like a philo taken from behind, breeding monsters), perhaps in the manner ofa wasp and an orchid...a brass telephone and a hand in a room... Wasp and Orchid.... Jill and Mona mated in the meeting speed and slowness a matching pair, a sloe-eyed deer and fast faced leopard, was how they latched the morsel, and part clicking lickin the book all to one assemblage! O how it was fun, and weighted a ton when completed!

The rhizome start in the middle but its existence
a line of escape ___needs a line of flight ____always productive.
Special Mona greets Jill in the encounter of anti-thought and the yumyumyness of brocoli! and chips? chips,yes, indeed fish'n chips.

A cryptic thought of elaborate weave and woof the eye ball there pressure to the glance of her skin,and his hidden mercury selves. Be cool be chill be rhythm and role!

Sheeps my love, O sheep and fluter piper . Swish of the word cape as his burnous has fallen off.


Sheeps go ba and ream the night of trestle bitter galleries, like sailor men reaping Andreas Divus ,

and straggling

the fortening harps of langour
and stone




.

Friday

many plentitudes for Miss Deterritory|re-territoried

Singular in money she roars to speak the name looking for its high tide among words and nouns, its something that eludes the grasp grapes, gripes, slinking around corridor, turning a corner the moment of subject. A love bird to caw yer __ blank blank __ blink blink sober sided will-power and the huskies of intent, not will power but other great power, immanence push and shove earth glow god glow row of the earth shadow saddle.

A humdinger but lukewarm to the taste of the god, hanging her chemise to dry.

First territory, then deterritoy followed with reterritory then conservative reterritory affording enemies and friend lover generous reterritory actual a supple line of flight, the deterritorializing machine pulling its squeaks along the road to health and the ground covered again where the sandalled feet of the philosopheme speak. Say, something like Jesus marching in the wind. Cutting back the catch of hay . O this is silly Jill just call Orpheus and get it over with! Gosh you complicate things! you gothicate them in yer omblicus and imbricated idears. A dime a dozen an idear for trough. Some goughing going on hear it in the next room _ lovers stampeding the stage. Look it's just poetry , ok? it's not my real life, whatever that might be. Real life was caverns pacing back and forth overturing to the neighboring tune. and its wreckless peons to love and hate.

Peons my eye, eons geologic looks hefted fore and aft, link and laugh, lag to the cunning forest.

Eon of multiple tables and talents askew in the rocking woods of age, you r body a table where greeters, and table song meet the edge.

A finding place, to unfurl the fluted finger, the tympanum thumb





You give up now, you too tired good book. Go get yer teeth fixed wearing formal tails from Eatons.


Miss Deterritory
Of all the the links that Mona made, a space for creation and difference she was the difference engineer 'par excellence' as they said...


it was something like that made Orpheus smile in the nudes in the sun the girl's burnt backs looking in the day
for a character not something one easily cooked in the raw and cooked of everyday life... O of desire and fun moving back to the primal punishment and the mother`s womb

but what did the mother move back to?






But look don't them quotes rock? They giraffes swing, the lemurs in the jungle twinkling their eyes .



That was, invisible quotes.
Said Jill to Franny as he was leaving for Paris, soon.

Was

It was crush and the hour glass of goating the rude shine of doubt, its heard dumb song stained. Not so the restless gangster of night. Mona merry Jill at the port whence the leeward break of the wave. Some tuning fork from the sky, epistolary boom boom and it’s the ice in her dromedary, is that medicine or medina in the hoof and clapper of the bell?

What burst of brain is this on the balcony, the balony the malarky she’s had to reinforce, the rewind, uncovering the stinky poo of repeition and brains.

Thursday

a thing then

A thing then, said Jill passing it along along to the suite of tex t and poems._______________________Is that it to know longing for what you can't have knowing it's far further the story of the strong one long away hungering for her lips

the shadow of the sidenarrows its breadth

How you yearn long shored to negative self

no one therethe space betweenwhere nowhere walks between?Sometime I longedpassionate prayerdom to failure and treacheryfrozen aphoneconnection click-click-clickaround the bodies trapped behind spaceO yes, some say take a train, a planecause 'my baby longed for me without saying'and I was hungrier, colder lousier than the nightor 'my baby she wrote me a letter' your letters stripped across spacesure tricked me, deceived like any mother wouldthe inevitable table of evilcountries,borders , geographies of medial pausesmy dazzled modem a display of heap and junkword glittering between andwinter a cold density come down like the fogkill and hurtingharming and hurt haring the night's harried wonderits wound of sediment rock pulling my teeth outbeside thealliterations of nayAh! Mister Betty Boop I've no bodybetween the contractions the sheets of wrap around spacemy lovers tarnished by night, their absence distancenot identical to some 'traditional' harbingerofdoubt and its folly______________


.



End period, some text ornate click of face, to cliche to end dead text _ refill the cup. Bloom up, blossom down, whose voice is that


not thine, but machine of predict. Not dict and diction.

These texts are foreseen.

Wednesday

sHades of PercIpient

Shadess of Ooona, Mona's friend in the edge of percipient.






Read s with his glasses, no denizen of thought but a crook of eYes going
blind,
blinde
blinds
the eye man of sight and insight fails to his hurt. a turtle of wombs




You enter a room there is heart that purring a similar line
one to disjunction ... happening owls clutter the space
of greeting who's this animal her arms gathered around
him, the silent speak of the
cowl?

Perceptual garner of its tender piece. Reach in
the body mouth for a word tugged off the
recording consumption
sap of cage and mirror of tom-wit



shizo__ epistolary

Chere Schizochaotic, c`est tres beau ca. n`est-ce pas tres beau? Very nice very nice as Arthur Lipsett once said in the title of his film. Film Film.. these I am `working on the wrought essence`of my dissertation with poetics... a dissertation that deserts its subject, where all idenitities collapse and make one laughing happy fundly.

One harpy fambly __ a seething night of rock and rollers __ the train of tumbling buttocks the sheer weight of them hanging me down close to

precipice of cat hotels and Inside


the grand Schizo herself with my name in her Pen.

What do I do with that? Hold the altar cape next to her neck? Garb the shovel of arcane tripping and rub her shoulders with my hand? Is she frumpy Franny? Is she dour flower and the grace of walking in the woods? Is her net my knittin' unknittin'

what punctuation doodle is her finger print?


I ask questions of the great trigger holding the bible in her hand, she wears nylons and pressed slacks, has a parlour not a living room, invites me for tea, not cookies, saying we must read Webster together while the sun holds its set close to the television landscape of sunset and darling draft-works?

Is she my expression of cats, dialogue, silence, dialectic , idiolect, misery making ga-ga eyes?
Come to eat my blue dog?

Watchin the rain create puddles of wheat,
we dont want disgusting things
Stop the word wish and repair to the night of want.



Each work a shovel.

Her brogue was a tongue of flame. Now that is lame, Orpheus she hovers close to my collar bone letting her breath tickle my ear,
Orpheus says back to green Eurydice don't you think I know these wars are not the paid rent of desire, and want? Come to my body, I am wait. I wait for you to return. A platonic dialogue of our will. I submit this to your will my darling monkey.


Hahahaha. Laughter rarely works texted, rarely laughed texted her name to laugh in the calling hall.

And I whispered the hull of many hundred picaroons.


And sailors.


Bucaneers

Bucaneer for you.

Tuesday

on th Ee othEr Clasp

Characters, figural radiations over a text of words searching in the philologies for a base. wait, try to make sense. naw n'ver work. what. pay a dentist, for the bridding of death. what is your body? it's 22 days and no sun has set is the way you talk . the process kicks its cure back to the starting plate? is this baseball of molecules a dance of chandeliers and death? be glad, be clad in your burnous o Wind of the desert!

it escapes __ validation of the word

kirtles __ thurible chaining over your body at this hour. censors lit up the nerve room of the soul, Psyche and Cupid bowered in innocence, the academies scrogged by dust.censers for the high mass that traps the ointments and oils that stare through the glass





'A gabeh to hide me'
'later a suzani to untie the delicate straps.'
'grapes and oraments of fluted frets'


Hail a taxi we head to the hidden space . Space is nicer than place. Come my lips, speak to me. Speak to you that you can see __ .

Sunday

on the other hand

So then on One hand _ the sound of one clapping clasping__

"A new tone in philosophy, an extraordinary simplicity and concreteness, emerges from a great complexity of arguments, which simultaneously bring in the use of fictions, the science of human nature, and the practice of artifices. A kind of philosophy that is popular and scientific: a pop-philosophy. Its Ideal? A decisive clarity, which is not the clarity of ideas, but that which comes from relations and operations." Gilles Deleuze _ from the book and essay about Hume.




On the Other Hand __ A Blog that creates fictions is a poem that never ends. Who would think to "flag" experimental fiction and art?


These fictions evoke a space of experimentation and interlinking texts, words fashioned on connotation and intertextuality.

_____


So we continue :



They're not a bad place to hang out for a while (the space these characters create)


whilst you schizoanalize yer "virus" yer "bacteria"

while rhizoming and rollin'

and doing this Mona screes the tents and trees holding her hands to herselves and the others. who dream of bold plateaus of nothingness.

______

Love is stiller than death
let its name be spoken on cloudy skies
and moody days.


________

It is all fiction and figures. The characters, the actions the images the combinations of words and their elements one vast trope on imaginings and becomings.

Mona the (fictional need I add )daughter of Jill Deleuze and Franny Guattari (fictional epistemes) __ a dance of imaginings the sizzle of cartoon characterization invents a ploy hypertexted with the various archives of the blog allowing for the space of creation to unfold. Here then a space of desire-machine, and the lines of flight and character, poetry. Schizoanalysis.


The real Prof. Deleuze spoke in the film made with Claire Parnet of how it was enjoyable to him that paper makers had written to him after having read his book about Leibnitz, Le Pli the Fold and told him of the connections they had between what they were doing and his little book. He was charmed delighted... B. Massumi wrote in the intro to Milles Plateaux of making the book work any you see fit .. in imaginative ways, and ways that recognize its molecularity and not its use as a molar medium. So then.
On with it.

Mona & Jill and Franny.

"And doubtlessly Anti-Oedipus cannot be said to be rid of all the formalapparatus of knowledge: surely it still belongs to the university, for itis well-mannered enough, and does not yet represent the "pop" philosophy or "pop" analysis that we dream of.


How wonderous to hear this voice speaking from such a humble position.

So Jill, so she has nothing to admit, admit except her powerlessness in the face of becomings, the becomings of everything, and an end to walls.

Thursday

in th e old days

Fictions of Deleuze Mona and Company
as they come and arrive! Enjoy the jouissance
Mister Bauke H ~ once queried

Mona/the Monadic Nomad



"Has anyone kept a complete record of Mona's story? (Apart from you
nobel author, of course), I'd like to start by the beginning, once again I
have to say, but was foolish enough not to save any of them

Bauke"

Et Voila, sont ici here there and here ~

vers

ver to OrphEe




that speaks so





Jill who speaks so well speaks to the subject voice,or sujet en Francais.



_________________________________



Who are you that speaks so? l knows nothing but your solitude which tells the peak tonigh a hundred dramas aboy lover to his mother, Not even OedipUS! either! but a friend's mother!

a jerk!

to night endless tunnnel of rain loss smile years now when the past still presenting and like your love she was always a smile __but turned away in the leaves__fasted faded robbed by the bandits that you wonder__god did god exist what was meant by god, what were the words?? the difference between the words and the concept, __ tableness of being which is the concept between the cone of the eye which keeps its sliver in contempt for the hero his love and step , and something might be clear if we hang on long enough wondered by half-mist and midnight and have I grieved these decades unbeknownst to the self I call me and conscious and I am the drug addict the train addict the addict chained to her post waiting for my lover who has stolen my cock and my cock-a-doodle-do my nights

have praised beyond the dock and bayou

where near a balcony I dropped hoping you would love something in me that was tormented wanting to explodefinding the emptinesS __ ExCUSe me Sir, was that FUnding the Emptyness? ___ You O my lover what did you know in those first scared months decades grieved and spoke to me long__out of my mind__the communion of the saints and martyrs the living and dead and if that is so, then he's there with them,__ I can speak to him, __if I can reach him, __there, __if I go, but but going going is the hitch, the catch I won't catch, for the now that is -- the quavering of an old man's voice --

_________________________



And Franny said, those pomes are hard to make, not cause of the poem she thought , but CAuSe of the life







the life








the life of pity and plenitude

Wednesday

Jill then her mou.. th

Jill then her mouth harmonica spatium_extensum_extensio __ centres of (named) nomos __ logos, thisnesses _ thingsness _ haecceities __ perpinquities _ compars _dispars and her car and their cars, chariot things, __diamond demimonde Her hands __ time of Aion and Chronos_ a diagram her map a meal __a nice machinic assemblage as your body and his welded _ a silent sometime meld__ her body-without-organs _ his and hand to hold over the seventh seal fainting _ her melodic landscape and his harmony a tilt to play, a tune __ that rhythmic character __ corona of crowned anarchy, a feather and sheep and the tubes across the floor corm and bulbs the better to feel her __boat tipping on his mouth, his mouth’s grace _ a schiz flow and beckon to the cineman’s recondite fuel to her hand at the lunch __ the dinner and table of flares __becoming-animals becoming-bodies foe friend and foreboding the distilled becomings-wayfarer-wave far up to a verb chugging puffing and she huffs his housel steers the crack-up a desiring-machine of her mouth lidded his my love ____ An Abstract machine clatter in the knee talk hand to hand held __abstract the territory of the far away bush _ a tickle of a tickle to , of ___________compars dispars the circular virtual and between resonance of hoops redudant plod of the heavy-fugue the heavy figured ample breast _ her weight the hip __ speed her detail movement the event of his cut and wound under sea and wood ___ Jill her distribution next the modulation of the hour and the seconds ticking of the clock work word __ it’s extra being to becomings of her thighs around his clock around the orange _ the prospect of its problematic subjectification majestic gazebo of her fellahin and Sister Maria’s Italian panning of the trundle deeps, the test of hand-carved objects in the light ___ Jill for axiomatic singularity _ she a singular point chance garbed by the worn off continuous variant of his love __ humming a radar __line of flight there , this line of supple segmentarity _ that this number/numbering the plane __affect to her wished for haunt his billy-boot goated __ leave it seconds flicking a horse’s tale _ to speed wish __dimension to plane the cube of her sobbing eye her sore foot, the difference repeats in the abducted backyard of their ___ black hole balk white wall _ the nausea in the forest as trains pull out in in out the detailed burial of her_ Percept concept a problem hailed her hail well fellow feel to his elbow please assemblage there __ carefree at the boulevard jingle jangle five cent please me please ___ Jill boating __ a carousel the cock boat fine lines believes and fabricates its taste his eyes hers




Jill that weaves over plate then so soak this for she saunters off to green woods to be overnight and fairer than this is farther to notice __ closed-up doors over dormers carrying a palindrome a plain forest meal.

Monday

offspring off

Mona heels her hose, Franny tenders her resign but to resign is not to surrender.

sending you my gallon and the harp of the love god his wheeling sound
reading your telegrammatical pleasures




Jill had many offspringbut none were generational! hahaha she boomedher big dada flesh against the boards of will and peeps! her cleets were isolated thongs!! Did you want to be my lover in the thingbetween deck and down?? Felix cried Mummy!Mona shouted Dagger! the American secret service had stolen the brains of everyone.translators were essentially cowards and not shepherds. but life was okay it was good to be a chessbreaker. or nothing else. the Canadian secret service was arressting more and more people. thousands stranded at the border where Saul Martian the newest Primo Minister of Power Money and Steamships was treading the Mills. Him and his sister Georgette Bushkins had come together for conference of inference and the Massumi sisters were playing in the background. Someohow the patent on boundasses was dropped in the gulfs of Canadian errings and young french canadians were kicked out of scholarships. what ships she asked, waited for the famous letter of reply and love. and Lacan went home puffing his pipe, Anti sat on the tree wearing his sandals others came and camaradies to vinceness and not vangoshas. Jackydereader was living in Ontario. Demartians was his advocate for capital gains. someone opened a concentration camp. Jill Deleuze was married to Frantic Mona in 2004 and they were copyrighted forevever and ever.

Sunday

mona knew a true crew

Orpheus was a head band starting at his teeth down to his accidental legwarmers really the song piece of his genitals for her . Tucked right there away in her sex sigh, her thighs.

Mona Knew Mona knew she was true and blue.
Orpheus wrote


Mona knew there was a veil between her and 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 philowalking 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 loversfrom the beginning of time.


After the destratifaction of room and hand the dare of the spin was her shell over her breast and the spaced out woman of the desire fields their mocking bird melee. There is no sound like the second one. After the first one there is other and more the multiply of send . Sculling teams gather her feet and gear prepared for the sage hour the black flowed locks of would be lover . Dove. And her upheaved buttocks.

Friday

Fanny was

Fanny was Franny on her days off when walking books was the tide SniP>>>>>>>> she saw the noon of her house<<<<<<>>>>>> Snip and she was the cashmere sweater of her hugger-mugger breasts. That he wished to lick. Across the tongue of their taste of her leman. Her lemas around the river of the far .<<<<<<<<<<< Snap!


Sheclicked her lips close.
Her unloosed her garments stroke.


Leman
Lover
Leman
Lover
Leman
Lover

holder to my fort salver to my lip inside this sin of my desire your body`s a wreath song. tender is the hour from which my wishes pastes you on.

As over the pale fruit, the mango magnet, Mona was the dumplings and delvings of her appetite their stray Satori fellow the visit of the saint, her body was a saint when she visited down my name an audition along the heard cambric of her heart, and want.



Visitorvisitor visor ungirth yourself to my highway song. Dont be anymore the debutante of your deception.



Be a conception
the Incipient riddle of your eyes
our eyes .

in their narrow edge

In their narrow edge between move and the radicle potato was the heel of bread, the sunken trash, the wheeling sundown and end of end the tabernacle of thought, the wheezin` haze of its blister the toodle-ooh summer the .

before berth was washed aside in the big boat of my love, and Paris is fires crackling in the distance and the silence of curfew and emergency powers not merged deltas and cracked savannahs. hear the cry! hack of baton on head, burning gas. In the Paris of this reach ther e was a walker carried nearer the levantine tune and her back bridge oats. Here was the church St. Sulpice, St. Sylvanus in the wreckage. By St. Denis I sat down and wept watching the grimy walls by the train tracks. Gare du Nord Gare du Sud the dangerous death crumbling humbling them all down the ornate fixes and orange crates filled with packed sailors lending their death to everything to everyone whiplash of the beatings on their back, and the bending forth of death. If I cannot live without you, live without you, your voice and eyes, across the soft sundown of death, then what am I , what am I in the Paris night, the Dublin dwarf of my own size self, the
rickety wharves, the forgotten shelf of words. And you are past me in the season of its hope, but my words beckon me to you, inside some parlay of truth and lips, the beside the self season of love.


Walk back to Dublin open the penitentiaries of somethings that make weary their path, ahead of himself getting and forgetting the penitence of your death, the contrite hole of its less, and now, the fortitudes of swimmers are talking back, talking back, talking back, talking me back, the time wheel, the spin yarn, spinning me back to the years, then the days the years, then the days, of the then thenning now.


Your body is a seeming song.

Thursday

Jill 179 Paris and back ( )

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 used-lees. Something which desire would make a woman's face seen flashing in the intermittent moment of its videotaped existence.



Shall do thanks very much says Mrs. Orpheus. A delightful demon riding high the winds of cyberspace …


Once on a time (and then some space) was the dirty wish to silence Orpheus . Mrs. Orpheus ‘ld not permit it so so she didn`t.

Wednesday

Mona read the word share

share Mona read the word "Share" and gagged. Share was american pyschology and not reality. She flipped through her copy of M.P. and A.O. and Logic of Sense. Nowhere did she see the word Share. Down with share and with shares as well. down with the word asshole and vulgar americanslang. Mona who had lived with Deleuze and Jill Deleuze all her life knewall this railery was silly sense and waste of breath. And went back to herwork. SHare !! my Eye Being GuattaroDeleuzian was not about sharing. NEver!it was about the Monster. The Monster!! Boris Karloff!!! ANd she threw a couple of atomic eyeballs on the land mass of capricornia , sharing and the word asshole. I love philosophy said Franny. I love you said Jill. Good -- let's read some Plato with our potatoes!! I love spuds and suds and scuds.!!!! A little bit of jazz matazz to make me happy. How about some Duns Scotus for lunch, and some Karl Barth (O theologies of Calvin laughter in the predestined cocoon) for supper and some good old New Concepts for Dinner.




Then, Mona thought of the difference between Concetta and Concept, in classical Italian rhetoric and contemporary philosophy.





Connecting cell phones knew about share
connecting jaw lines in the night
the walkie-talkie bluster of desire
land-lines to speak in the mouth of air




and the double-limned stares of the passersby their spell bound faces held against day.

read and share the suds the calibre of her feet touching the real heels of grass as it leavened its terrace to her height she reaches inside the feet of the sun hurtling the spying prying intruder out of her heads and her hair hung along the path ways of Eden sudden home .




Finding the prose text along the stripes of her eyes and desire, the missing body of his love.

Tuesday

Anality

Anality

around your ass thy butt it had a dying fall a call to the disjuncted cracks of my take my ass of the round buttocks the hunkers the duff the bucephalus of the pumping and the wringing of hands and the false age of old and plotting schemes. around your ass the sun sets. around your ass the crawling on the wall the write the writing on the anal the sphincter on the tent in the wall of the increased shade where the great turd of OnanNoah lay and their buried down self turd plane flies over head as the plot thickens in the stew of desire the delire of race and raids. a body raids raises its others in the thoughts before midnight

what is the taste of shite, as the below the down doubles of the ground grow and the lies of escape and travail birth and rebirth the "sudden" night a cliche from the haunted graves of seers and paranoia the whispering of them that plots


Did you find that body in the plot that thickened as the brew stalwarted down the page of your death?


Here is what she wrote to me across the sky in the arrow of feathers, of hate:



It has been said already that when I absent myselves for some weeks -- due to drunekeness it goes awry the same old rascals come alive. well I am returned and have blocked all of you so please be silent
as for repetition it is my favorite merry go round
see my book by tzarathustra

I am slyvere lotringers son actually .

The anal death of her son the beat of the circus clown ticking tocking black and fourth in the race against time the eyes of a currant jam a tangle of doctors and confession confetti too, for they were married! on the steps of the riots "sweeping across Paris" children of rebellion and Paris the tribes of the old Lutetia not dead in its bones an indifferent city

sparks the cry of rebellion
the blood of rebellion
under the burning cars
the paving stones


the city the indifference of the internet

the solvency of death

Jill called her boyfriend, whose name I shall never not reveal she said to him, baby come to Moma, come to see me, and suck my breasts, suckle my breasts sweet one mouth .


She these words to him at his new telephone. And all the world were wonders at their love.


Not all the deaths of Paris and hate'd stop their desire. But the fire burning car connected to their breast kissing love.



II

Silence to all of you professional read
ers.
Let the schizo readers dominate.
He
nce vain follies and melancholy chairs of departments etc.
Hence and thence away


Greetings ! I am a Buddhist ! I came to share a Light!!



III


---------------------------------
Do you ever stop being solemn and serious? are you at able to read, do you see no intelligibility in what others do? Are you so self-righteous all of the
time? Tell me Count why do you not speak in your own name? I am against any Ism, I am dada, I am a Buddhist I come to bring a light. Excuse me, do you have a light? Have you read the Hamlet letters? I am against your fucking wars and causes, all of them, I think life is horrible and no matter who is in power, be it Queen Elizabeth Tony Blair, Eamon De Valera Pierre eliot Trudeau, George Bush Bush, Mao, Gandhi, Lenin, whoever whenever whate ver It is all the Same. It is about Power. I dont care for the game, and I cannot play it and never could.

I am a loser, a beautiful loser we are
famous forgotten novels


Here is what she said in her dream to herselves Orpheus Franny and the others . Later she censored herself for the fear of the loss of free speech and expression. What else do ye expect in your drivel dravel of the dying Enlightenment rights...

``I am a lover of all tribes and races,
and suffer frightful anxieties from having lived in Saravejo, Montreal, Paris, the slums, Bejing, a thousand tiny texts, I practice Safe Text, do you, I am a malamiya bad luck, ill assorted body-without-organs, I am the pleasure, zone, I think nothing happened . I dont even want to know there were men before me, I got fucked up the ass and also fucked up the ass I was the sodomizer of philosphers We live between your legs and eyes, the little perverse things you wish away I am against repressive laws of any and all mono_monotheistic moronisms...those stemmed the three part delire of Ole Nobodaddy, I am the Yes of Ulysses by James Joyce and the No of Yeats, I am the fourteenth supple lines of escape trying the true tasted rings of your desire-machine _ the Vision I am the pedestrian you are afraid of,I am the daughter and lover , the male and female, I am the godson of Jesus I sucked his cock while reading Bergson, entertained lesbic lovers with the wives of the big Poompahpa`s wives, I am the goddess he exiled. I am the Hindu Zen goddess of Deleuzisms and Guattarisms the disjuncted rhizomatics of your teeth and ass... the sweet flower of your clitoris the dance of your cock , the whirl and twis of your feet....I am Calcutta and Moscow and Moinesti. I am the translation in your soup the snip in your cuts, the dotted lines along the elipse. Stinky odour I image you masturbating while the madmen make war, I go the brothel of the Balcony of my Father Jean Genet and ask your name, you the count, the Isadore Ducasse of my Daughter are all we have ,a wedding of death and silence, of symettrey and poetry lost in the moment. I am the guest of Krishna and his blue skin tones force heart beats out of my head and breast.. male and female lingam and yoni ... tantric panter to the heebie-jeebie and boogie-woogie blues...`` .... Those are her wants, his wishes to capture the body-flow of the magic number...
Her Orpheus descent to immanence , the love(r) of the earth ....



Crap ploughs reft words between the deaths of each hip wrist. Can you dig?
I am afraid my love I do not read your words as something sarcastic. I suspect you want sex and instead of which I know nothing a way akin to someone swinging his arms for your


I like to hear commingling to hear
rent a come/
a orgasm a piroutte.

Greetings ! I am a Buddhist !

I came to share a Light!!

I came to share desire lights that beam up your arse!

She giggled Rabelasian gusts of laugh Ha Ha Ha Ho! Ho! Ho. Where I go I fear no man's hole, nor woman's troll patrol.


And the night stood still like a "bare naked lady" a prayer scopped under the sheets, a speed of typing the spell bound mode of escape



On the other side of France where the ladies wear no ...

... .....


...

......


She was a very bad boy, in her lover`s suit and hat.

self Perish Thought

No, no no said Franny! it should say _ When ___. got home she slothered into her bed. And knew Klossowski was her name ___________ she had buttocks mania and weddings and was into her analogy by proper names!

when ___ got home that she was slothered into her bed. She knew that Mona was a reader of archives and other fevers. That the bed was night and Russian music. That the bolder the better. That disjunctions always included latitudes and bodies of sex. Lezbeen pederast for instance was a body, and so was the girl, the one ebside him in the cafe. Or the Vietnamese sniper in Full Metal Jacket. and that R.D. Laing was the name of ego-less voyage and Mahmoud Darwish the silent whisper of history eternity and other belling, a sling shot against the fort of the State _ that had always been there,



When Mona met ____ she was incarnating the night and incarnadine was atheist with turns of shelves and many caftan lovers, and hijabs and she was a weaver and he wore a burnous whn listening to the angel on the harp called Rimbaud . When __ was open she was closed and in each inexact indiscretion sh was the chosen crowded solitude. Was there a theory to her praxis? was going poor meaning going broke as well? Was there no way out of the active virus of sex and denial the nail? How many movies in how many schizophrenic love palaces would it take before she met her other selves again and broke the spell?


Daddiodeleuze was working day and night. It was a hard day`s eternity snf night with Spinoza(a!) and eh eh yes, there was that Franny and fanny and Felix the culprit making breaks at the clinics and so the Scottish shrink had given word he was coming but his alcoholism go in the way, again and the hairs in his eyes, and

_____ knew that all good things did not come to an end when writing was a becoming. Or was that coming cried Franny, or coming along? and making it work, and spending your thrift in the night out, and the Father and the Son witht he Daughter born without a mother between. So she shall see, and wore her plated niveau once again. In the circle of history and recoviers and coveries and coveys and covens like dissimilitude and simile and so he smiled in his last death of breath two times and one before big Daddio Deleuze.



After she was writing Volume 1 of Anti she said: I am not the only one with disjunctions and plates to open plateau and screws to open the light bulbs __ her wound existed before and in essence it was the essence to create had said Spinoza Doctor! It was as simple as ABC . Something like Tristan Tzara and her hat. Her Hamlet cap in Paris, and speakin Parsee helped, the ancient tribes of that gaulish ancient town, and being an admitator helped and imitation was good for the soul, it shaped the hunkers, polished the nails, tuned the fragmented bones, danced the jig, hung the strife, kicked the butt, energized libido, coffined the spooks, arranged the furniture, it was good for the genitals and the soul it taught one how to be two, and the girl in the cafe gave good hard-ons. Speak desire, and not be the negative road in history, two children and two wives next to the none.


Franny said no, there is no schizophrenic at the lecture. I am the body without-organs and you have no schizotext tube to make my way. Aie! Aie! why did ya die the way ya did? She saith. No, she was not Turkish but having heard the word of a Turkish man and knew something like the truth had been spoken about the broken spoken wheel. She knew she had a friend once who loved her. Perish the thought! she said. But not like Franny to be so easily put off and she like a bum like a nun and her name was not Pierrette Abelard for nothing. She never forgot the one amnesia of her named suitor.

cloud

In another fame of deferral the long narrow
________________________

Mona was the thunder cloud of desire it was never going to go away, but augment its shining distilling its fine wine up into to the tipsy throat of her mouth


then some


then some


and He loved her. It was simple as pie .


___

After Doctor Franny uncomposed his becomings she was baked by the goose of the paddling ducks and the farmer`s intent, herstory was her story and the bodies of desire the wind of the tackle keel hauled the settler not so the teleatape of accident _


Mona liked a lute tipping of the kip cluttering off dunes and lakes off climate and the rose and rose posed myrmidon of brook and creek


Mona hailed a flute

an oboe a caboose of tries and bellows


Her strong lungs howling the air, midnight or otherwise, she loved his box in spite of her self, in spiter of herselves .


The I Ching said No Blame


No Blame


Balm .

Sunday

whirl

Whirl ________________ Mona was a juvenile deliquent with a complex. If anybody wanted topick-pocket a fight with her, she ran. She ran ran ran, and rain rainrained too. Mona made her lips appear blue and she knew a whore when she sawone. Mona had B.A. and was proud of it. Mona was the real outlaw, and sheknew she had done a lot of wrong (when she was rongrong and ringringdingding dingaling) inher time of crime and punishement and and HeilHitler Heidegger. Oh my Oh me she said and underlined all the parts aboutthe octave of nothingness before Being. Then her friend said, you meanBean and Nothingness??? Mona had an oedipus cunt andshe was a sex phonejunky a pervert an obssessive but knew when she was shit. After all thatwas what being astoic philosopher had taught her. How to untaught intwothousand easy steps. Andshe knew her book was coming out anyhow so whatdid it matter if she was scared to shit about death where is thy sting andwhere is thy asshole? Bam!! shw swatted that little oedipii sticking out of her nose,and realized she was afull bread academic. Like Professor ChallengerDeleuze her lover father. Without hermother lover and hamstrings likedeathwingswould always bring her the place. Where nuts and berries grew and othernights like the dawn of dush and Iraq and speaking about veils and villasshe was the one the nights were seething. Something like that. What windowwas it that had brought the plane and the fourth avenue of intent. Shelookedin her friend's thesis and saw No One!! Poof Poof magic but shecouldnt create the sound effects on her crappy completely computer. Where was Jill in the meanwhile of all this torment tornado whenshe was Jesus Christ Deleuze in her harmful deleuzians of grandeur andother places of content. How could she be the one he had said all thosetheosophical things to her inher ribald dyads and nights. Night ! Night!Night! you will be mine! Mine Mine!! Nine times out of ten at least!! Shewhispered to the pullover of death and whispers. So Franny came and went and when the Sorbonne had burnt to theground she was under-the -ground with her heidegger and intent. But shepreferred Plato finally and the agony of a stone and the blues terminalbus stop. Before the pierced ear of her lover and her stones. Somethinglike that. So that was real love. That, was real love. jILL had re-=read the attributes and tribute of god and knew shewas a trumpet where no rhetoric played. She loved. And loved many in hersingle in one. _____________

Friday

Peace and ....(Episode 419)

O my thought Jill one day with her shenanigans and here agains I am the vision of the pelican Jesus on the altar on the way to Rome she say Franny Felix and Tommy the boy wonder of theologies and so slow she was too it was to see what was near the border of close to the bifurcation of thought.


She was not the schizmogenesis of desire. She was close to Franny when Franny was two n and too was closer to doubles and disjunctions and robes. So it went when time was durance and not endurance. So shall the thought precede the gesture in her getting? She wased in her closed to Nicea when teh centre of the subjective collapsed into many her transcending immanence and so it was. And she saw not a split level made a transference of her mate and other self. Advised she was against the recovery of the matrixial.

Tuesday

the fAR

The far will be your mouth the djinn which speaks your name







and that would be the wild same of its land, your territory your feet stampeding the areas around your toes a real comedian and not some sucker hauling through hell inferno and purgatorios how boring to be the dragged catholic theological of yer epoch







The far will be your mouth over day and south close to the telegram the need to prove right is wrong not your Oedipal song or the bodies gathered at the plate .






The far is a testament to arrivals delays and macaroni that bashes the floor! What? it comes in tubes making necklaces of your sweater, how lyricism precious lyricism a young girl`s ass does not endure the door only a well placed thigh would know how






in the night in the midnight restaurant sitting the coffee drunk the ashes in the air some memory for the could be unknowing future he sought your wrist a writ for your name inside your thighs he was holding the candle but never did see your sex that sweet face that`s your clandestine calender your holly and holy of holies where he gained entrance! entranced by the plate of your thighs, but really entranced by your moment, the moment of you and him rocking and rocked again rocking







The invisible harrier who speaks your name
wins the night



























the night is a recurrent thing



--



Stop pretend stoppered by columns and rafters she swung across the sky to his face .


Traced by the line of your thigh .

at for

At for she stands Up in the Hallway coming to see her Him the wait so long to her face a night of climbing to the staring things hampered at the side of the wall.... a hand holds her knave she comes to greet his getting in the way around the tomb of his said, this is where somewhere initiates the gabled truss of working afternoons by the hungry to wish to meet him now in the after decade of its pass.

For Jill has seen all plateaus tie beneath the body its anatomy a hurt and freak to the circus donning her sarong and Mona in songkok tipped over the trip the aircraft banks by the sky this is the professionalism of ease when desire is cool quiet and at home in her self. Reaches for a lemon her mouth sureptitious as the forum of navvies shes mispelles the word a jarvy she being like any other trollope but not dangered by the whispered vow. Gas yer engines Mona! yer EEG is not this side of characters which balance out their state of mind on desire` little engine, the Nero of her fate at rest in her palms, not a palm date, but a colourful landing in the state of Malaysia a gift of mind in the status of pleasure she seeks the one only onion spot of her ring , imagining I am in control, but Mona is never the case the two or three, the sentence structuring like a sound board, in , the control, of the snaky filament moving movement of her