If Mona knew a rhizome baby then down thee stair of translated ontologie and ontologue they swept.the gleaming star of . it. yes. inward the rose banter. outside smoke furled a coarse hour, a ladder of spirited steps dismissing each and every moment ~
conjured that for Love ~ . alien word to philosophy and love, the gloves of quiet interpretation contemplation. call the nightingale ~
he rhe a r tIn her heart lot ruins - as when a parking lot's chilled by the baker's dozen
next dooring its rarest tent catched the voice clog. Waggled by the truck of her arse,
he's shifted breasts to his mouth.A ural as any calling bard.
Wants to .
Yes, you said Sir
a ruin of lots and timber! timbre timber!
for each ruin's brain a knock down dead forest cluttered memory. body ache. broken fell bell angelus de death. s's body strapped across the case.
fiction as it's done
Flateau eighty-nine to her merringoround .
so it go. she creepeth up around the strata. trapped by ray light, cumbered by body spirit's kiss-ass weed.
each view is a night without stars
Mona was a bird of flight. And Franny was too, before the night wasyoung. So the molecular paths were past past tenderness. Was the anxietyof deferral greater than the anxiety of influence? was the strata thebending then bedding of noun and preposition, or the verb ofproposition. God what deaths one found in the de-politicized. its always tousjours comme ca, a sonata of water, delirious to the play zone , a parlay of orchids, and smother rose, carried to end of knight. she stared at the catatonic place of his quilt. You read, this, you read this knowing your heart was stable.
You knew this: lender lover ~ .
Grieving is not seaming. Or wearing tented gowns to bed! you silly becoming!
Follow an empty finger to the loon ~ .
Like that he said turned the corner of my desire my wildness Mon territoire, et j'ai dit, je ne sais pas . The train might be going with me to good old Toronto down the 401 or the plane, or. So we gotta see, and 1030 is so early make it 11.
And then the Philos are thinking and Yes it is and and One combines them to find the alchemy of contact the machine rings and the desire machines buzz and hum. till then" Said Jack and then Mona sighed with relief. Cause she knew Jack still like her, and more.
And and and and so on so forthwith a therorem of therofore fore seeing? is it ring a twosome drifting a pear ?
Saint Jacky didnt know the difference between a beat a pulse and an annotated conotated revision of a fifth printing between her sheet of calibrated blue.
____________HHmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm speed it up! Will ya?
Mona hanker to her geology of moronism, as would a dictator of despot, not desporting a fair angel, a crooked house and horse. Sir Minimum.
grapples hooks -- spiders its connections Guattaree pens a missive : t'a Mona and friends
Dear Mona, I know the performative is valuable. Fear not these nuts in the dèstablishment. they are deadbores. not performative. Yer friend and mouthlover DadaDuffy is the true CroWn Prince of the Potatoe. he has many spudlings as amiable pals and cheerful suds of friendship and fellows that invent the fellows of the thought that flollows.
these new so-called "Establisments" are the worst most reactionary one of all of them in the worldin
all history! I pindar ponder
"from the council right through to the publishers, the critics, the reviewere, the whole kit and kaboodle and
it has not changed "
[so you say]
it got worse
[yea yea yea bla bla]
One is censored
[two are censored not One the censoree and censored]
kept out controlled
[micropoetics of control]
then there is the ____ that national radio "broad" caster __ and that horrible horrible programme "Frighers in Compnay!"
(an what a n Obvious echo of great Sylvia Beach's Shakesepare and Company the woman who published one book by one man)
and that horrible gang of Middle Class controllers
[dont ya think yer being a little bit general?]
across the Country who maintain and control the machine
even the most far out
and intelligent of poets/ writers get caught captured imprisoned by all that Bs
Look at what Deleuze and Guattari say by way of Artaud ...
Every writer is a Sell out....
it is so..
So sick and neurotic so concerned to expose their students to what they imagine are the true and right values of writing
So sick and concerned to sell their little expression their little puny expressions
and the "clicks" that formed over the years
the wanky spoken word lot
I am so glad I am living in Mongolia now
where none of these twits can bother me and Martha.
Martha my doll
Martha my wrap up Poetry Queen
Martha my Dada wife
shes my babe
and I dont need any Scribble Woman teachers or any of the rest of them dead busts from Candeada or Usamuckia!
Listen we breath better in the mountains
The phone rang, Oona calling to say, we don`t believe in any of our own opinions and are as willing to drop them as a draft.
In those days stuttering Deleuze met Guattari who met the plate plateau of
translations and anguish. She was not what she seemed. He had been living on
the molar line which is why he experienced paranoia. I mean the molecular
but projecting onto the molar. Haha, switch-switch. So it went till he went
pop goes the weasel and went nuts. Then he heard from her who had seen
Frantic Felix in his clinic of La Borde of Love and Hate and Other things.
So it was like that. and was.
Let me explain for all the fools who do not write. There is always an
agent. Always, it is called decision and the machine is the decision. So. I
decide albeit the I is no longer I. So much of what secondary readers of
philo do is make rules the master[s] cannot contradict as they are dead. I
like to approach books and authors - and being one myself I really
appreciate this -- with that Deleuzian idea in mind - dont make the author
you a re writing about weep or turn over in his grave. Which image comes
from English literature and dates back to Sterne and Swift . So why be
fooled by the silly generalizations which "people" make about writing. When
they do not write. As William S. Burroughs told Daniel Odier in THe Job when
asked about the cut-up method and about whether it was too machinic or
mechanical, he said. I always make a decision, the writer is always there to
make a decision.
---- There are nothing but signatures of writers in the world of desire. Do
you believe your own theory? Not for a second replied Antioedipus Clifford
Duffy. With love and many conflections. O Philosophers!!!
More Yet! good Queen Mab!
Dialogues Gilles Deleuze and Claire Parnet English trans.
New York:Columbia Univ. Press, 1987
from first chapter :a Conversation: What is it? What is it for?
It is very hard to 'explain oneself' __ an interview, a dialogue, a conversation.
Most of the time, when someone asks me a question, even one which relates to me, I see that,
strictly, I don't have anything to say. Questions are invented, like anything else.
If you aren't allowed to invent your questions, with elements from
all over the place, from never mind where, if people 'pose' them to you, you
haven't much to say. The art of constructing a probelm is very important, you invent
a problem, a problem-solution, before finding a solution. None of
this happens in an interview, a conversation, a discussion.
Even reflection, whether it's alone, or between two or more, is not enough.
Above all, not reflection. Objections are worse.
Every time someone puts an objection to me,I want to say
OK, OK, let's go on to something else. Objections have never contributed anything.
It's the same when I'm asked a general question.
The aim is not to answer questions,
it's to get out, to get out of it.
Many people think that it is only by going back over the question that it's
possible to get out of it. "What is the position of with philosophy? Is it
dead? Are going beyond it?" It's very trying. They won't stop
returning to the
question in order to get out of it.
But getting out never happens like that.
Movement always happens behind the thinker's back, or
in the movement when he blinks.
Getting out is already achieved,
or else it never will be."
(first page first page first page
first page page first first page first
page first page
first page first)
(forest page junction
Mister Artaud to Monsieur Deleuze)
(Claire clair e_clair clear clear as
On a Claire day you can see all the way to the Pacific)
(When heading West West becomes becomes becomes
East ) (Easting yer West Westing yer Easterly winds)
I've this wonderful photograph of Deleuze striding across
a beach pensive as the Norman wind
pensive as the Necromancer
East of 'terrible' windings. Or say winding to her trail, a spinner spoofer off trail. Not banked by progess and professorships,but other gods grilled at the roast, heats eaten alive.
guts dropped and sag.
Her LinE is North to her Nile but south to her hindmost part, pearl to her clattering stove. Not her stove pipe hat, but to other umbrellas and feet, the Irish language of her clothed heart, its sewn backed baked god embroidered to the back. What a sexy incurving back it was, favoured by all seen by none, as for touching? kissing? etc? well, repressive language wont let you see, what she cannot feel.
No one knows her polyamourous self . Ecosophic to her thousand and one plateau hat,
shes sexed to her ruin, boy in her name, and body in her sock.
Mona had a buckle. She was not a sword swallower.She had every pencil page in her pocket a broken locket. Huckstered by "the wind and rain" . Kellogs to her any dollar store stop name.
Mona was "loose and easy" a strong simitude to her something something something.
She was fox in gold the trucking wheeze her gathered game. Report and repetition book to gather her snarl. Not lambasted over any trucking wheel, her forest feel was god. A predictable sentence. of smarts and fleece. Symbol ofthe word made thresh. A clock to smooth her every hour.
The Knight has no Organes when saving is the treat the stinging self when it waiting.
The Knight has no Organes when saving is the treat the stinging self when it waiting.
As maze to her real repeat shes partitioned her knave selves to cully the branches.
Ardour to her love hub-cap her busting bully to the same.
She hear Jill say Geology geology geology my love is worship of the satyrs and star.
draughted yer cut. king to q.3
cross-wove the dress.
always a cross, she
a dresser off power fool.
when things the guised reel
Ok, Mona, she is bored wheat. over rain. their need
understanding over edged foot. Come on, yer dance is
this need to punish over other. repressed. back. to
density of thought. and achievement of big hotting. Come one Mona, we
hug a nun rubbing her clasped breast breathing held-up breath.
She come as hold her. And priest? priest is beleaguered bugger of
this man she hold for her gendering posture to mud her fake
involuted covered glass. She pretend to understand. No
can stand this under of foolish prate? she compose
beat stress beat stress stress beat huspicating
her ass over a wheel drawn barrow. A nun kissing
her click clock cock. He has hard on to her mouth
narrow to her gauge. She scream pope as she come . Her muscle
thigh sinew to his bound.
--- as for the simile of god
and his marching platoon of piresi priest
for god sake keep the festoon cleric far
hence to this peace of language
cape coveted by dead and living
shush to yer nagging truck
holding back of flock
huspicating is pun or jeu-de-mots
on the word Haruspicate
when Mona got crenellated heat she knew she was centaur not breast to her brattled breathing .
of some rider in the tucked out forest.her fisted march calvacade to her bushwhack shes got near far close and serendipidity to her tuning Yorick. So it goes ball head as the grave soot
she come to it then.
Mona's hooped watch lady to her heart was indexed by hearting jointed knee hand slipped in silk sack of
first moon_ed month checked cheek perfumed by love's far fistula. A ringing touch to the heart of its peaked
white cap wave on green after green girl becomed the not knowing of her lord. Look to the marry rule of the papapapaws
of her papap. As he asiding her glance a murmuring instant up the looming gray stair well swept up
in the wallpaper of envious evening. In her mind's good eye a yesternight of star
pressed hand clapping this these gentlewomen heard on the air rustled mark secret
as the hound of hurrying. Love's apparition's come. On platoed potatoed platform over
bedding of the afternoon's lazy azure.___________________________
Jill's abiding otiose slim sinker. Over wood march. Matched the couple.Does green carry the bed? the ebb glow of regarding charges? or silver slim wish . Say the kelp festers geology, says Jill. Not over any harlequinade or romance bounced across the preposal of time. Time! time's haughty wish spite itself, spumes past the Elizabethan manuscroll in circulation and exlibris.
Franny call it the faith of choice, not spitted out spoiled grammar of I, me, my complain I am the onlybalonely one to two to hunderstanded the poetics of sheep or whistle of tingle tinflute. Lover cover name, lover covet name.
Please. Veri, verify.
Mona always thought a female bottom the most beautiful
in the world and never ever boring how awesome the lady femle ass
O round ass of desire and desire fire A Lady ass was so much more exciting and tantalizing than the male
ass but then Mona was heterosexualized in athousand tiny sexes and
couldnt be bothered with the male ass . Unless it was her own which
galloped past the desire fields of fucking and mysticisms and addictions.
And lines of flight which leapt off into the exotic territories of alcohol
drugs sex and planet Venus. Planet Venus like Penis was "trapped" in the
phallus. how did one get out of the phallus in the space of ethics that
the femaling bottom had slide past the oils of desire deception perfume
and Saloming through bodies bodies bodies and wise owls that spat where
they sat. Jill called the desire number which was Adam One One nought
cable cord navel cord back to Edensville and the slimy body with out
organs which played against all cages and becomings.
The she shouted: Was desire a truck or a fuck? Was a truck fuck a
desire to impedimentia the disjecta membra of the deferred moments of
gratifications and gratifictions of hunger in the still moment of turning
touring times? Was Jill really her own mother self before the paginations
of night! night! night! Was everyman Oedipus to his own Mother? Mother?
Mother!! I want to kill you!! She screamed finding her morpheme past all
intent and oncology ontology and split being becoming cancer deaths and
learning then that Franny had said:
It is a virus. I am a virus that skits and skirts the hunger of
masturbation not mastication and she turned then back to the logics of
sense and found the teethless mouth of the womb eating her cock. She had a
cock when there was Sundays and Mondays learned she had a womb past the
yes of. She shade. And make the mince meat of the day come crazy
with the movable calendar of her hunger sainted suitors and their lover.
In the plural intensity of desire's singleness of purpose. Then the
infinite knight of love came her way galloping and galloping galvinating
over gambols of froth filled mouths stuffing their hard gourds with food.
Oh she bid her obediance listen in the auditing of her mouth but could
hear no word in the curling of her time. She was hardy and hardly good in
her ethics of demonstration . So back to the ethics she cracked and
croaked in the sheer of her smile.
Franny "called" whispering O wait for the night of the molecule
then the machine droves will hum and strum your body long high and low and
wait~ wait~ as it whittles the day dusk and sunset now.
some have heard its keen ledge not frighted by day.
the wisdom of prism and dice. or kept princes. not puffed up day. or piffle in mouth over blowing overward the orchard of carrying on benders. Jill hunker inthe wind. Mona trailin` geese near by a petition of lithe. Hands to keep her lover. Not staired by weir and other pacing beasted demon come to her him in the middle of night. Breath. Ah, this, this , her , lover. Indeed.
What begat Jill to hunt her theory of the freed babe by the loss of lust its eye wind along the turned banister of its evocation spent and confectionary as any museum soldier. Not wished by boot and prayer, or bot and bitpiece. not Some flood of Tamburlaine over buggering war its enemy smashed city killing soldats. Their doldrum the deadending the death of others always, hard voice, roupy thought. Its caught death in ruby wake up twilight.
Not of the gods, and other things, but other things.
Ghost Guattari haunt Mona,d Jill passed then by the window slowing snowed her bodies into the pavement, missing the inventions of gods et dieuxz... the belly button that unhooks to leave the arse falling away...v oids upon voids dripping its ooze and primal slosh.Here were the words Of Uncle Guattari`s :I am God most of the time when I dont have a headache, when Ithink of everything and nothing, when I'm not slipping down any Satanic slope... Then I understand quite well that one might settle oneself downin God or that one might settle him on a pedestal. I will not repr oach --- Jill was happier to read this than any day.anyone for that.On the other hand, I can conceive that artists may feel obliged to - Yes on the other hand, of Mona`s double delivery articulations, there was an arcane =--uproot that sort of comfort. Consider neuroleptic divinity; consider the vertigo of abolition; consider the extreme moment of creation.Is that to say that God might only be the privelige of thesimple-minded? An atheist like Pascal screams out God like a wild beast. And that is intelligence stripped bare.It would be advisable to distinguish God from belief. It is from the latter that all fool[folly]-ery stems. God is only a spell cast upon existence. He comes along like hail, sometimes dew or storm. Bel ief in turn, puts onairs of freedom; ups the stakes; imposes itself; stretches itself out over the socius.Isabelle Stengers wrote me one day to ask on which conditions and at what price I could do without God..... The answer is not speculative; it is a thorn in the flesh. All of that costs a great deal. It's inconceivable!Unbearable! Sauve qui peut! And God for all.thebreath worketh the night.heart beat, huffed and revved. bustedup guff. be well in a hurry. chair of light. settle downing dustling.
.Can You dig saith Jill deReader how it works, now.. as Mona tapedeck is busted wheel of nirvana she is wall by wall sideway walk to the saunter field. of Raise the dead. the Riant lute of summer.
The nice thing about Baudrillard is the way he dies;
real rock n' roll, all simulation and not suicide, all prat falls and no blood, no blood on the tracks and noknife at the throat a la Issac
(the story of
, Pierre Felix Guattari the Seconde.
Now if that is not a phony signature what is it? is it the tail of Mona metaphor,or Jill's Franny on the high hill of breath^
come now all old ye faded full preachers of denim and coil.
in her broken
in his borrowed brokenness of all the wars fought down by the dogs of time,
Mona was thinking herself. Its life she said.
Each second shes my child, my newborn babe, every little while, every day, two hours and more holding this, he is my own self
shes holding his rag to her face ....
....The most interesting thing about the so-called lies....----ego is that, sooner or later, the ones involved in the imaginary tale get angry, not because of the lies, but because of the truth contained in the lies, which always comes forth....
"Being the ------ is the most marvelous thing in the world...I let him play matrimony with other women. ----- is not anybody's.... never will be, but ---... is a great comrade."
In a letter to a close friend Frida wrote, "You too know that all my eyes see, all I touch with myself, from any distance, is ---.".
and this pain her body burned was his, was like his, was his metaphor his her metramophosis
Doctor Difference Duffy Almost
worked in her noetic consciousnesses
Everything is Deterritory
Now Sir do you think this new? as yer sides or thighs?
Oh Franny! said Jill one fine dadadata day I need a word phiter
for my finny reelof spinning difference. Show me the way to the deistic
master-piece of Mr. teste and Madame Virgin. I need to translate nails
into holes, and troubles into wholes. Where is the night which speaks the
name of fold and fairytale, the schizo sorting out machine of short-cut
and unkempt in the brain trails of the word which was Mr. Plato's? Franny
stared at Jillwith disbelief. I am your wife-becoming not your research
scholar or editior don't you realize that?
Mona called and came by reading a book backwards on prose poetry
and falling in love with letters ever written glasses on backwards and
said remember me: I am the video of memory and desire, and the night is
the first molecular revolt. Then recordings which work backwards and
desires that peel. I have no summer halt on my brains. I am the non-dead
precursor of summer and wind. Recall the good old days when anxiety was at
a premium and the stores were filled with thought and the rainbow was the
ever receding horizon of our future.
Like that said Jill and let the book rest in her lap. After coming
back from Spain they played the rhizome-rat scattering in space's seven
dimensions and disappeared through many passages in long books. And itwas
so good in French.
But O O O that Guattarian rag its so elegant so intelligent.
'On nous a reproche d'invoquer trop
souvent des litteratures. MAIS, la seule question quand on ecrit,
c'est de savoir quelle autre machine la machine litteraire peut
etre branchee et doit etre branchee pour fonctionner.'
Tzarazthustra called Jills and Franny weeping after these words of
flood and fled.
In Spain we were very real.