Friday, December 31, 2004



Och! another dear rumble into her head spilling its beans, splitting her side and the laughter in the cape

her nose


Don't leave it like that.



we saw yer face
before night

and we held its nape
by the tranquil water

she staged a fright
inside day

hindering its path
over noun and mutter

Mona got bored very quick. Quick was the speed of bored. Not a simple tom-tom of love but the buttocks slamming the door

the E-heart making no sense folded her mouth colloborated her arm.

More later..

Welcome saith Mona, again and good byes do no harms


Monday, December 27, 2004

the death of Deleuze

No Vem Bre 1 9 9 5

the death of deleuze
it was the death of deleuze 1995

the death of guattari, 1992

Henry Miller is dying, come to Paris, tomorrow.

Dying, dying, dying, dying in your crying, child. Dying in your Deleuze, dying in your guitar of a thousand plateaus, and Sartre was dying, Foucault was dead, Genet died in Paris, 86

dying a refuse to mourn to grieve your death

O Father O Stepfather O Mother

Jillwas dying for Deleuze was dying out the window with Spinoza the Baruch there to catch him in his nape of caught neck in the broken down step of their death,

Nietsche`s daughter was dying but the gods reinvented by the nymphs had their pleasure and the goddess gray-eyed cried out, yelped the.

Mist came over her .

And the pancreas failed , broken, squeak machin-e-

broken in its token andthe fire tore down the tall of Paris, out the right size highrise window

Dying in your crying

the digital voice rethundering the echo thudding across the playing field.s. And the was no poetry in that, that lyric strained rebacked inthe American voice, that is the simple seed of the complex phrenia of her loving, her bodies many one.

Now, not tomorrow in the clickety day
mapped hands freckled with time`s disease
Something like this
And someone else`s body speaking

Cheeky like a sunset and the death went clown around the down gone sun, into the drink of his body big ship in his deathwright sail. So many others. Not named across their speeds of history, their rseeds a hysteria of mulk and mighty.

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Flinger Fugue

Mona dipped deep in her father of the cycles of her story arounding the seven hills of city, town, village, hamlet and river whirled with cuneiform cuttings: she reads ....she reels in the night of dark, enveloped by earliest antiquity, so remote from herself the selves of severn lake where shines the eternal her place she has the most beautiful,  considers them wily and profound countries...her countries... standing still the crossroad stationary boulevard.....Her ABC of hi and low sing sweet chariot swing...

a country for cows and pains, where silk masters pave the route of her offense and den


Jill knows the afterwards of her repentant metanoia, speaks the silent tent of ring, word, slander, carve, zither, mourn, dagger, tough, mastered by the pool, desecration of her body that muders all, hugs all takers, in the glass of desire when the whirl speechs its place,  her hams and thighs quiver in the ox of hunger she felt leaves hover her eyes stuck in their volition rearrange dawn aubades mothering intents and ....


This ways she knows the path to the void is filled with vacuoles, simple as a hand held to branch which banks its neck against the sills of windows

otherwise known as horizontal widows
where bodies where bodies platitudes stuck to the genes shirk their duty

duty being a dirty word Mona spills the beans, flicks a flea, meanders to a dairy of Jill where JillDeleuze sexy as long blue carpets, owns her head, nears the fight and the fall. Then Mona counters with her jab, a cogito to play again the harlequinade of her capered sleeve, a closeted self.

later she played the fugue, the librarian.

it was love, it was lust, it was shining, it alluded

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Looked at NoOne

Jill reads, re-reads 'late' in'to' the night. as they call it , thispassageoftime that is a gruelgem some sloggeringinto haptivity and after dis Missing the lettres of an old traitor reads the older epistles episteming in the gladdening the glade? the galleon? yes a galleoned somethinged shipped hipped

'I'm not saying that the machines don't differ in what they do. Or that
they are the same.>>>> A choice,a choice , did you say? >>> But that a choice between capture or flight is either EIther??? How's That Either?
--- ethical and molar Or a matter of taste/style/ect. (i.e. doxa). Not that I really care, for I am sort of tired of ethics.....
Personally I like dirty little bad little Baudelarian flows that
create shit and sperm drains that bust open FILTHY DRAIN PIPES SAid
Mona: Yea.
> >

cause them to flee, too.

Mona Looked at realized Nobody was right or Wrong! none were offthe
mark! But! that flows were flows and and and and And and not either/or.
was Where it was at.
Of course some flows are razor sharp and others are awfully gooey Andy
warholish Disney Goo.
Mona Says NO: But what does she
but what does she

(no) ~.

Sunday, December 12, 2004

slinking to

If One dayday a poet was writingto kathy`s Acker and received her M.A. from Deleuze and Guattari she was dreaming, that is,a reverie of soaps and suds making her thrft past night and noone to love her. She was the crap mistress of the several in their many and mulitude ..

now between breaths there was

that was
like a body

VeRlOO knew SomETme Death was Coming on the train on the bend was becoming its death is minority shrinkage in the pillage of its prey.

Some maw of reap and rape

and the political knackeys of immanence would not do the trick

even for a court jester of her calibre.

So then slow motion reading was ouT of thEE Question


was Revenge and Similes

and she sat down in her short pants riddling the night with her fantasM!

she marrieD a Woman NaMed FriDa K.

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Guy Debord: Obituary

yearbefore the death of deleuzethedeat H of deBord. one can say the death of La Borde also took place, at least in our imagination, when Felix died.

Question:How can an Immanence die?

Guy Debord: Obituary

Friday, November 05, 2004

deleuze`s death

Deleuze did not die. That is a myth. It was a simulacrum which flew out the window. The death was already long gone. Rip-off artists beware

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Couples EverYWhere « all yer blue mondays come to back to haunt yer...

Yes, we don``t we ? »saith Hiawatha Jillcynicism :We sometimes behave as though people can't express themselves. In fact... theyr're always expressing themselves: And it gets very tiring. Dont U think? They ought to be shutup! Fanny curls at the idea, the notion of a shut up! ... The sorriest couples are the ones in which the woman can't be preoccupied or tired without the man saying, "What's wrong? Say something," or the man, without ... Or dear what time is the movie coming on... Speak to me My Nerves! are bad tonight!the woman saying... Speak Speak why do you never speak..? ...and so on. Ra.... yes the readio.... DiO DiIOdio and television have spread this spirit everywhere, and we're riddled with pointless talk, insane amounts off words and images. Stupidity is never blind or mute. So the problem is noYes, it is question of gettin`to repress themselves the boding bores, the livers of linger... longer getting people to express themselves, but little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say. Repressive forces don't stop people from expressing themselves, but rather, force them to express themselves. What a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, or even the rarer, the thing that might be worth saying.

But things never changed said Mona, and she hung her shy head along side the board of the subway huddling her sybartic self in the Toronto orange night gathering her heads and mingle forests terminating her chewing, mulling over the mysterious ... she hamadryad and held the pillow to head, no, jammmed it to her head...

Jill makes them, makes them his own and desires them, desires briliancy... Some seek coherence and inunity imagining they`d found themselves, but her logic of sense was a smatter of brilliant. Not brilliantine! silly, not like Belmont Park and the roller coaster! or was it , he said holding her again of longgogago...

trickerd downher treat the sylvan weep.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004

sufI ReSoNances End Game? MoNA ReFuteS Some Old SuFi Pie from Son of Genet

Once Mona was reading her halfbrother of the schizoscholleges and found her bothersome genealogy of a brother bleating this horn of tunes:

brevity in this is not the soul of wit. I suggest you will learn when your dissertation advisor completes translating Derrida's work on Deleuze. At which all will be revealed. At last the veil will be lifted from all the Deleuzian silliness. Deleuze has said he was the most innocent and gullible thinker of his generation. So it was. The Guattari split did not exactly ruin Deleuze's own trajectory but diverted it:this is what Derrida will suggest in the book referred to. And Derrida would not be so unkind as to spend much energy on what need not be discussed. If you read the works of Derrida you will not uncover a reference to Deleuze unless in passing.

Mona says to her self while feeling a breast of immanence this is not so, this is not so so Now that Poor DeReader is dead and gone, they pick on Deleuze and Derrrida dissemeniation son of the Muse, the Prince of deconstrucin'g the lovable proteinportable word.

But Mona, being the becoming-good daughter of the Professor reads on and hails!

If something is incorrect it is perhaps the notion you express of correctness and it is precisely this laziness among 'deleuzians' which has left and continues to leave the legacy of Deleuze so poverty ridden. A perfect example of the Giant shadow of Derrida which reveals the smaller and lesser thinkers who have surrounded his work. One would hate to disappoint the 'followers' of a series of terms which have led nowhere (for sure a typical secondary Piercian might reply but this is an example of falleness); Baudrillard has gone the field in the real historical context much further than Deleuze ever did. As for his friend the Lacanian analyst one can see by the nonstop production of jargons that nothing was gained. Oh one might see all of this was born of the times, but it is not it is like those who deny the pervasiveness of deferral and yet never provide 'evidence' there is no evidence to provide. So it is and say it as it is. Be good.

Mona scoffs this off: beautiful but incorrect.

On Mon, 31 Dec of a certain celerity rid plateau, genet son of genet wrote:

There are those who believe and even claim that Gilles Deleuze was indeed
a Sufi. However Sufis do not commit suicide. Stoic perhaps, but Sufi not
so. No dervish deals death to his body no matter the illness. Deleuze's
death is the final failure of the will, the volunteeristic tradition
reaching its headlong flight of danger. The death of Deleuze was a
failure and not the glorified nonsense many have made it out to be.
Nothing Socratic or heroic about it, nothing noble or pertinent to
philosophy, in fact one could say it was a shame, a shame and so close to
the generation of which he was a part that they, Lyotard, Derrida,
Klossowski were saddened and hurt by his death and the terrible way in
which it was conducted. We feel sorry for Deleuze that the other
followers have not seen fit to be critical of this terrible last act and
the devastation and shame it has brought to the philosophical
inheritance. Whatever made him do this terrible act, the terrible act of
leaping from a window and leaving others behind to clean up the mess,
this act of failure and the final failure of voluntarism which he
represented was an end, a finish. A finish to a line of French thinkers,
and it is too bad. Too bad he could not face his end the way others have
and the way in which others have continued to face their deaths. One
thinks of Foucault and then Deleuze and one can only say, what a shameful
and even a cowardly retreat from the philo who claimed to be of this
-- Deleuze a reason to live in this world! ha! -- world; not so, not so, this is the ultimate druggy death. Better to have
retreated to something else. Jumping out of the window on the bad acid
trip of his life and his "little madness" and his "little bit alcoholic"
is not answerable, nor is it a legacy to leave anyone. Because in the end
a philosopher is judged as much by his life as by his ideas. Others have
suffered -- think of Foucault suffering from A.I.D.s he did not
leap. Deleuze leapt and in doing so lost his place, no it is not a
deleuzian century which ended two years ago. It was a Sartrean century,
a Marxian century, a Kojeve century and so much more, but not the
secondardy leavings of this failure, this delire. Deleuze said it himself
he was not important. Not the great producer of ideas, not the great
miner of new ethics and ontics; so be it. It was what it was, and not one
of the secondary attempts to arrange the unarrangeable will change this.
The century was a century of Derrida and Sartre, Hegel and Marx. In the
end will Foucault and Deleuze be recalled? We think so yes, but in the
minor mode that Deleuze claimed so much to espouse. His inability to
understand the others of his own time, the rising stars of Baudrillard
and Derrida, and the misrecognition of Derrida's importance most of all,
the great staying power of Derrida and his writing machines reveals to
us the weak links in the Deleuze machines. B.W.O. finally is not a real
thing, not a literal thing, but a madman's fantasm from poor sad dying Artaud. So Derrida was right in that last interview and so it is.
Be well and be of good cheer. Deleuze was a Christian and did not even
know it himself.
Deleuze was not Jewish and so could not see the horizon of his own
century which was formed by the great Jewish thinkers of Marx and his
commentators. Deleuze was beautiful but sad and no one was fooled by his
terminological detours about minor literatures nor his Spinozalike claims

--- Mona smiled rue as she read this! her tears SplaShed the CyberPage!

to be against sadness and other negative emotions. This was merely
crankiness on Deleuze'S part. The commentaries on his work are so weak
so badly presented one can see the weakness of the original work more
clearly now than before. There was no political reason to ignore Deleuze
as many claimed and many still blather on about. The work of
interpretation surrounding the work of Sartre and Derrida proves this
point: It is both stronger and better work. Deleuze's real commentators
have not been born yet, we are still too close to the event, and his
ideas are questionable, their place in philosophy has not risen yet and
they might never. This could also be the result of the work with
Guattari which only weakened the Deleuzian project for itself, and made
him a star that was not a real star-- I mean one that endures --but just
a satellite a flash in the philosophical pan. His suicide undermines all
of his work, just as Heidegger's later Nazi ideas makes for questions
about the value and ulitmate meaning of even his great early work.... On
the other hand, one can see everywhere the greatness of Derrida by the
results of his work, by the sheer qauntity and weight of the discourse of
it, the presence of it; of course the quality of work born of Derrida'S
work... All of this has been so relieving to realize and to see how wrong
and how much of a failure, esp. the so called co-productions with
Guattari are. Tha t is where Deleuze sadly went off the rails. That was
the Big Error, the schizo analyst is what watered the Deleuzian project
down.And everyone who looks in their heart of hearts and examines all of
this will see this is what happened to Deleuze. Look at the solo work of
Guattari: from a critical and theoretica! l perspective it has produced
nothing but a mass of incomprehensible jargon and the concrete
achievements have left nothing but more jibberish to be unmasked. Poor
sad Deleuze drawn into all of this nonsense because of his what? His
illness, his alcoholism, his whatever, his denial of responsibility for
his weaknesses before his own generation of philosophers.

All of this is part of the essay to be published next year....

Mona laughed her head off called Jill, who tracked down Franny and going for a drink they went to toast the marauder who came to polemic their dear Daddy Deleuze and his PierrePal while my Guattari gently sleeps!

Thursday, September 09, 2004

they and Us Usssszzzzzssssssss

andthat afternoon was too hot in Jamaca and the tornado blew
the trees away...

and there others holding up the factory of doubt

yes but U cant explain lief and reel. or North adn south and the bands of desire can you? or how the truck faces north and not south. all these threads of es^pecially epistolary notions.

Message 8 of 780 | Previous | Next [ Up Thread ] Message Index Msg #

verlaine wrote

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

is this us in our bettereanselves? was Mister Jeezwhizz here? are webecoming wake?

lets recall

And the nights were war and the Americans can`t pray but the Canadians got dogs
when sometimes the lights go out as when the truck drives down the heel,
its drivers pronounces the wheel defunct heaving a sigh and struck
by the wind passing nearby his wind breaks, and his vehicule is praised
for a fake reason, but none more fake than his analogy of
And the first Ministers made a deal , but a cancer patient still don`t get a bed
and yer school fees are too high someone else is controlling the way things
given and taught, and Mister we know about that but we want our old age pension,
after all, we worked

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

Deleuze`s Wake and Guattari`s Sleep

Deleuze`s wake waS Guattari`s sleep as he enhanced the ecological cartographies making his mouth wide, stepping into the sunsent boulevard of his charged debt, in the fonds doucet where the papers curled in the air protected chamber of his schizophrenic lab, and his mulatto pens parried forth the avengers of brains, mingling his fold with flat planes, pans of gold in his hand, knowing concepts create concettas in thoroughbred space... and like that the river winded down to the cremated self at the wake of his jolly books bulged by their spare parts, the gear knocking spine saddled with tooled end to end and their heart was very fine between the molar and molecular...the schizz flows, the break points over the hospitals of breaking insanity and worried reason hypnotized before that ``Other`` that mysertium tremendum of rite and blood, ritual and defeat abiding by the river always circled by its learned stream , its occidental carry-on to planes of consistency and other matters, the viscosity of being the holes where Franny got out staring the landscape ahead the learned leaners into the street where coffee and smoked curled in the stands of philosophical venture and she Eurydice would greet him then stepping off the plane and its consistent flavour its fourth person regard in the high tide of summer and desert in the winter years, down by the clinics and circumflexes the critique and positive affirm of her holding.

and it went like that, she said at the wake, where the thinkers draped her thoughts all a gallery for her to play on. A harpsichord, a tune, by the fallow field, a kine, medly of past, future and its present to then.

theN she saw her Blue DoG

she saw Blue Dog and hillbilly! Hillbilly and a whale of fun to yer sickles and dropping terriers. of dogs and hamadrams and hamadryads

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Tell me

Tell me rail of bleg or blog, yer ontos and yer pontos,
yer ponticas
and estoniacs
your estonias
and ammonias
Shall we dance the spin of lavers?

When Prof. Del was reading Hegel he felt a smelt of the wake upon freight and his hohung dung was dingledumpers and ladies pumps! Should any imitation become an less than worthy sign then let her heart become high strung the peach, the berry, the peas, the pluck of an Occidental feather!

Monday, July 26, 2004

the firstlings of Mona`s heel

Some Poihierlefou is verlainelefou. Sometime there was sun between the words of long and sore.

Single in the brain was Mona hathaway and her ramble along sung. `.... tongue slickin' toe tacking' let gallivanter rolled prose she rangles... spun! My gosh, my pish posh! excalimed her! Mona,was riveted rival and arrival... Jill was zany, glorious, lugubrious,joyous, impressionist
related to all things
from the;
that at one then one!
Jona`s whale was a fibrillator

Verla was pelled and pooed with the noise of yesterday
Verla was Mona`s husband . His was the sondaughter of dazy Deleuze and her matters on the geology of morals and never never land theologies.... she was the hidden book in the librarian. .... Ravel Rabelaizzaian.....and the toilets were firing forth farts of extensity backup drains
not escaped pipes but traps in slaps and hoops of capital's rotten chain of toilets!

and the sinks
Yore so
suppering readying his feeet for the walks to the institutional toilets he was about to eat and go!

Mona to a programme of bicups and hiphops to God....
to a meeting of a programme not a manifesto, not even a mama festa.

Pray for us schizos now and at the hour of dearths amemwoman!

Dearths rhymed with girth and the barbarian despotic codes were undone in the coded flanks of the capitalist nonethos the dublle disjunction of dysnfuction.

But at least he, he knew then there was a line, a line of flight, a lake to head out ta' in

the lumbering lickety split nights if it came to the madcap dance of sluiceicides! and shhits flying over halls of maddening capitalist plunger plumbers!

So whence and went off -- air -- for the instant of the now most taken with her Missy ways of texting her wondrous joy at Fictions and frictions.

Scoops and loops of intended my's were thy's inthe oriental juxtaposition of the nano. O Jill was frill rouched in the sunburn sword of Napoleon blues and

so wiggling along her plate and her plateau

she spent a sigh of the cuddling of with.

Franny frantic.

Mona chills cheese, meets Pierre Le fou.

The Grander of M.


La Grandeur de Marx --

- I think or at least I imagine that the manuscript of this book
one day become available to scholars. That would be the just thing to
Also I suspect many of us would like to see it . Well for one it
might offset the book on Marx by Derrida. It might change the calibre
ofthought involved.


Jill recalls a celerity tome of Marksmyword by Daddia derrida the detrucker of verbsandthingsin her discourse of words and regulations of intercourse. the navy side gut of callen Man.

Yes, andthere was more always, never ending revision of Vision.

Conation``s friend, was picket pocket`s prayer.

Mona speaks to Orpheus

Mona speaks to Orpheus

So she spins the wheel of hems and desiree like a shambling monk dark rides along the spine of her jacking forth trundles the sun turns the key the spin merry now and wonders

was it she, or just him?

shall night say be?

or was was in the present past pasting?

for now pasting was not pasted in the front of the head that lived...

Orpheus blamed no one.


Mona was born in plateau April 1997 and she was a humdinger. Who met the girls in Paris, for a conference. When there she met and created everyone's incarnation.

It's how she came about, 'about.'

Think of Rhizome two and Mona had a rhizomebaby. Where then would the centre be, we are decentred? How do you spell that, metre? The dictionary of space was a smooth gliding desire mouth. We printed nothing.

Sunday, July 25, 2004



  Displice and the monkeys were Mona`s sail. A button wore along her sheet in the shade of a shape not nearer to genesis and her remote control Roman. wAS fides herrr only cracker barrel hope ...
 in the high weather of her hounding dogs she was dash and ampersand oveR OccaM and curlicue Something melts the metonym of her parent buttocks.
There is nothing Jill won`t do to make incarnadine her zombiesh ways of Hector and bumtagging her night is a somber plate of jewls and a madderpiece of MonaLisa and her cracked smile, her hairbrained gawk of determination before the Japaneses tourists and the Noh theatre.
Inside her arse is the pediment of truth, hangaring around her last body soap
Kiss a molecule she made desire.
Not a spa either and not a death camp where soldiers match her body to the gaze
but a disembowelled trusser that hangs her guts on the wind

Monday, July 19, 2004

the clapped bell

was being close to nothingness and femme close to rem... was the blogographee the thing to catch the catheter of the king...
was my tart a heart in the plain of dustsweepers, peepers, preppers and no nonsense makers on the swing , the sower of fortitude, and the eyelids clapping down her song, an ass of swing and sway the lover bells,
the clapping of Mona`s hands along the gay song
was she the svelte question mark of desire....
all this and more good book as she wore the railroad of sittin wept keepers in the keepsake hotel of mohawks and mildew...

Thursday, July 15, 2004

lender lover


Lender love waS a number burned in the wind deterioration of the decoration of the selfmouth hand gone in the spided song, the rapture rope the runaway watts in the torn downslum

these things Mona knew in her hangar down, and her oedipii wrangle  her summer session (concession) the analytic knight

as along the mail relay routes they rumpled crumpled their Tao stayin the visitation vision in eye along the dust fabric of its path to

Rome waiting in the sea the trireme

The uterine saw that blanked the told escaped that prayed worried the silk torn heart. Her ton built the Milles Plateau of her resting, and settled down the days and nights of river, brook, stream, rivulet, pond, swamp, bog, her borrowed brogue reposed in the day of nights. and the recurring word sang its song.

Rushed this cream and battered its saw    .


Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Oh Pleeze|!

On Sun, 5 Oct 2197, in the plateau _ total Janeie said:

Oh please stop sending me all this shit. I needed your love and
you gave me nothing and nothing. When i was a street girl you said be my
schizo love and nothing worked now I have burrows and nowhere to love. It
is class war and you have all the Money! Give me some!

Whereas in 5 Oct 2197 plateau 47, Rhizome wrote: I gave you Art and U gaVe Me shit

Grom said

"" U gave me love I gave you disease and desir delirant.. u thin k
it was fun to read yer shitty translations of desire and nightmare out
there in the sounds waves of cyberwaves???""

Mona said

No I need her.

Ah! said Mona one day. I got an ignore. Some high falutin' big a
wig ignored my moans and groaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannzzzz. Never mind that
poetry was the essence of all philo. Never mind that becoming poet was the
animal becoming of language and words. Never mind that big shotsssss got
all the frreeee rides on areoplanes, never mind that rollling yer rrrr'sss
in the end never got ya more than hunger, poverty and blindness. Rongrong
was always rong in her right her right to be a judicious slave to all
chairs dominating all skies of liberty and apocalypse. One tired of the
weary masturbating machines of self-serving academics who loved only the
dead and not the living. Not the living.

Franny called Mona and said:

look what Jill sent me.

But Jill knew Jack an Jack knee Felice and Delirante knew Franny so
the girls all got together to write a paper on oil and paper. The loved
oiled paper and dhrama shores. Clatter sluts they were.

Answering machine messages in German and words that flew down the
pipe of her stame throat when heshe came. Like cameo busts and desire
lovers. And other shitty places.
Like none la Nuit. BY the Pere-Lachaise cemetery I laughed and
cemented my walk

I Love you dont forget it, ever.


that goblack to the back of libeckwords endforwwards Mona was went, in her shy down skent, of chartres cathedral and others of holygonal hexagonal and the slencecanadians accent of bullying and dumdum she was spent in her geological matta buck tooth andher metaphysicks sucked,she looks Up and SEEs a PreTEnShush prentenders. Now Mona has stares me when she wasa kiln of corn. reaping her horn and playin her chune of stoonstaremine mock. she has her box on shirtswidesought. she cant findan alphabet beside that and makers her fictions slicker and thicker with dates, lost, timesplaces misplaced and no one sure when began it what? Ok? Ok.

Monday, July 12, 2004

Mona`s Notes to the letter J.

Mona shalL send Notes about the we did U did jump

hahaha there were no notes so mister fat assed translater dashed his brains on the key board waiting for the intent to sign.

Sunday, July 11, 2004

which is why secsonic text Bumped by Mona and Jill

She said

I have not sent it yet...waitin for the tatter tart that Eurydice from Paris to ignore her as usual. Mona sobbed.

Mona read this, and laughed her head off. What a silly anagram, what a hidden and whorish metonym - ahah semaphores with whores and rich boys floating awkward referends and pausing signifiers.

Jill kissed her goodbye and they went to hunt for the text.
Hahhah, oh you slut of the word, that you would lust so long for the
signifier and be dashed when it appeared. O my humming tumming machine. O desire delirante, O turkish boudoir! O boardwalk bordello! She grabbed her copy of Violence and Reason, A Decade of Deleuze and Guattari, Five Essays (ed. G. Dreyfuss, and J. Sheridan, Trigram Press, London, England, 1992) and headed out the door. To see her trusty twin, Jill. On the ways she grabbed herself a piece of matter - what does it matter she thought? She thought some more as her legs walked together, to the left to the right, they walked together, she and her legs. What is a territory she asked herself, is it the same as a desire? What is a desire without a territory, what is a desire? What is a desire without a territory. She
looked around noticed men's eyes always looking at her. Was that a
territory they were trying to make on her body, while they at the same time were deterritorializing their own desire? Ohhh, she thought this is hard work! Oh me, oh my, where is my body without organs when I need it?

Where is the body when I want it? She thought of the well-oiled body of her sister part and the self that had broken down was desire mirror, no wait that wasnt it, it was, it was a, a. She could not remember because her repression had repressed her repression and she could not will it to come back. Try as she might//// Cut cutt cut//// She used to be a mental patient, and now she was just mental, who knows what would happen next? maybe she would becoem invisible like a cell./// Cut cutt/// Got out
her cell[ular] phone and dialed abcdghm, sounds like the right number.

Nope, damn it! I wanted rhizome please, operator, operator? Are you there. No une was there, no une// Connect// Jill kisssed Mona and Mona kissed Jill. They were going to meet Jean Genet's wicked daughter, and then the French guy's daughter. They had started an assemblage, which some people thought was a desiring-group. No it wasnt said Jill to herself, but it looked that way. Then on the way, they found a text.

Jill said, are you Sextant Faantis, Droffilc yffuD badhyperbole who wrote: Long Sinning Sooth with refracted face.... And when said yes, she said I want a desiring fuck. Can you help me? I want to throw all my assemblages out, and start a new one, a group fusion where we can bloc our statics, and start be-coming and coming.
And so Sextant gillygiggled: "Come come throw me a fleer O tidal wave tier,
ragrye for a mona-culled camoeo." Jill blushed and said from me a dearr? And then Sextant replied `` `` The Mona said to Jill do you think he means us?? as the "perforated bubble bum..."
Why Stew the night when you can have hamadryad instead of ham and rye ...
But then Fanny said: baby I love you! I do! I do! and when I am finished giggling I am going to finish reading/writing this poem! Hahah she screamed and ran back to the North Pole. Of desire where No Mommy
Daddy Sat and Waited. She was dead, dead alive and Love.

So Mona went back to the Lourvre with her head hunkered down. Did you think she was created from bornite... a mere gal to carouse your leman... a cutted heart was her safeway best.

Saturday, July 10, 2004

: L'Abecedaire de Papa Gilles Deleuze

So Mona recollects Jill and her worstawowool suit and her armchair blues

Actually it would give him that "far-away" look. A turn of the
century like appearance, which would be interesting, don't you think? As
he speaks to us from the distance of the past. Or the past that was his
future, I mean virtually his future. That
is his past past future as the
sepia tones twinkle across to us the viewers....

and the magic moment of the stone.
Ah yer blues, with the armchair sepia an

Friday, July 09, 2004

mona founda text

Mona found a text and detourned it. Jill said she wrote it. She
sent it to the d+g list, then they found a mistake. THey forgot who wrote
it. It was very fast. She was in love with Jill's take on Mona's take of
the detourne take on violence. Anyhow they the twins fell asleep after
reading a text they had not written. ANd so the night was one void.
And flight line went right down the middle of their

Notes on aBcDeF in te year four Hundred and tweLve

In thEe year FouR HunDred anD Twelve Jill went to see a Movie... She was a tree in the Sinema of Delight. A cruelty in thee theatre of right....
Subject: Notes on aBcDeF

Her girlfriend was smoking asking Bigid Daddio DelO some stoking queries!
> > Interlocuter Parnet asks him about the letter A, animal.
> >
> > Animal and we hear a voice see a face illumined in the mirror
> > broken framed fragmented image, twice heard twice seen - and - smoke
> > rising like the burning word in a poem by Tzara in the poem L'Homme
> > Approximatif - Deleuze with his broken lungs - which we hear gurgling
> > and rasping time to time - legs crossed form from time to time asort of
> > schizoanalysis of his own body, the lower legs deflecting off the mirror
> > images of the self - but it is a man speaking. Animal asks Claire
> > Parnet - we hear via the broken jungle of self - territoire territory a
> > place to claw one's nails into and his nails are visible, long and rather
> > ominous looking at times; when we look closely at them, this man whose
> > body is already very sick, we see these nails which claim a space a
> > territory which acts itself the deterritorializing activity he speaks of
> > in nearly all the books, those books.... like voices speaking across the
> > page, the pages of strange history where ideas are made. MAde and not
> > found, matter and not some spurious idealism pet loving doggy wanting
> > papamama seeker. A little like Genet, but less, only less and then more
> > more in other directions. Genet at the end dying of throat cancer,
> > smoking, speaking, wording , writing, unravelling the tubes French Grammar
> > had foraged, manacled in Blakean chains. Then humility an active
> > virtue in
> > this thinker-teacher-professor - a modest idea he speaks of. As his own
> > work, a modest idea. Then the voice is raspy. Ah, cats no more pets, no
> > dogs. Is that a meow I hear after a question by Parnet? The audience
> > laughs, giggles, who were the audience, that is who was, who were the
> > members of the audience at Squat Video on a hot Tuesday morning willing to
> > sit and listen to Deleuze (not much camera action) speak about Animal.
> > Alcohol.
> > You drank a lot
> > (Laughs) - Yes I drank a lot.
> > Not anymore - [the recurrence of word sobriety in Milles Plateaux]
> > - Images of Norwegian lakes - again similar images in Genet's
> > final book. DO I hear the word assemblages too? I'm distracted by
> > the heat, the moment at last after all these years of seeing the
> > man I had admired so much. Though I had seen him briefly just
> > weeks before on late night television.... an insert of Deleuze
> > saying "the death of philosophy, what idiot, what imbecile said
> > that, what does that mean the death of philosophy, if you want to
> > think that.... what is that?.... it has nothing to say to me.
> > Philosophy is not dead." Wisdom, philosophy. philo - sophia, a
> > woman, a woman of wisdom, a becoming woman. She is not dead.
> >
> > Territories we had just been speaking about them, the scissors
> > of the schizoanalysis, tearing, cutting, splitting, or a blonde
> > woman walking into the sea, on the cool surface of the body
> > without organs. The smooth surface.
> >
> > Guattari his friend
> >
> > Foucault
> >
> > movement of the scissors down to the throat chakra as in Lawrence
> > 's Fantasia of the Unconscious ....
> >
> > The American writer - Tom Wolfe - old america.
> >
> > Moved when he speaks of Foucault, near the end of segment 1
> > his throat cannot deepen the sounds normally made when speaking
> > from depths of emotion - no, it is blocked by the sickness.
> >
> >
> > Spinoza - "he is in my heart" "I don't have to read him." He is
> > in my heart.
> >
> > Our idea was very simply really
> >
> >
> > the unconscious is a factory not a theatre
> > [what sort of factory?] not this castration businees the mama
> the papa
> > who runs it?
> > are the workers part owners, or is it a proletarian
> >
> > Paris Commune?
> >
> > When you want something, say a woman, or a woman wants a pair
> > of pants, she never just wants the pants, she wants everything.
> > It's an assemblage.
> >
> >
> > Then looked away at the woman sitting in one of the chairs by the
> > wall lined up, like we were in school.
> > In school, scholia, scholastics.
> We are in class, with Professor Deleuze. Genevieve telling me
> me about Vincennes, ten years ago, the classes huddled, piled,
> smoke, tape-recorders.
> > Yes, yes, there have been great French poets who were alcoholic.
> > yes, I see them sometimes on the street collecting bottles, is it?
> >
> > When that book came out I learnt about paper, the fold the
> > creases.
> >
> > A movie once a week. I'm not like these intellectuals, they
> > know everything that is going on.
> >
> >
> > Foucault most emotional moment of the
> >
> > Laughter but not much. An intent listening to every question.
> >
> >
> > Thought thoughtfulness
> >
> > Staring off away not into the camera ever
> >
> > Image of Parnet in the mantle-piece mirror
> >
> > smoke going straight up

Mona was sunken thrilled smoked her brainsout with K. on the Main seeing Visions of.

> Eyes like Sartre a little near the end
> Images of the lobster
> the double and triple even at times articulation
> of the man of thought
> the War machine
> When I first read Beckett I did not know what I was reading
> Felix moves much faster than me
> .
> Going out, once a week, not cultive. Cinema, not theatre.
> I have the impression that theatre today is not....
> No, no, not cultivated.
An assemblage


we never wanted anyone to go crazy

we have never seen a schizophrenic.

The books, I don't read them when they are finished.


Ah! but they did go some went.... crazy, it was not their fault... and Daddy Jumped Daddy Deleuze jumped a year after Guy Debord shot his self... Paris... 94 and Franny dead .... 92 August... Surrey she was... reading the news... and Angela ... Carter... and so many others...

letters to the rhizomers

...Once upon a spring it was Jill was weaving her burnous and her disjunctive synthesis to the Latin of Amerique. it was a tall and noble place....

Kaminsky wanted to say enjoyed yer post about rhizomatic
"soldiers" very much. More please!

Oh Rhizome Rhizome

be my home my home

without a home

my home with out a poem
my poem sans pome

inthem days Mona had many sympathizers when she was forming her 'formation' breaks and starts, schizo skills and stars...

Jilly's MamA Deleuze

Big daDDY Dee .."I.. saw myself as taking an author from behind and
giving him a child that would be his own offspring, yet monstrous .
. . becau
se it resulted from all sorts of shifting, slipping,
dislocations, and hidden emissions that I really enjoyed..." was giving a talk one night when Mona wasa girl skirt high,he oughed as she gargled laughed, in one morE snot down her flank.

"Within an already defined field of immanence, how is
onetegain a force, ontological element that might allow a
dual escape, from the structuralist epistemological horizon and from
dialectics, while stillference and Repetition_ and _Logic of
Sense_, two great be history of post-war French
philosophy, display the extreme refinement and the exhaustion of two
lines that it was possible to follow within structuralism, on one
hand, a t
ranscendental philosophy, and on the other, the empiricist
logic on which Des, one

: Outlaw days and wanders

the united boulevard of need and presage embellish me now in my burnous
of anonymity burnish me now in my unpolished state of denial and
awareness I might as well hold my end up if you I can't hold yours
burnish your face with eyes of desire laurel Mars mine aren't yours as
you state in the dark night O Mars O Deity of war and desire what truth
is it that carries my pack and my ready radio voice what healthy luscious
words hug me down the rails of the tracks of time and its friends its
ends its means but for the, for the, night is always young like your
shoulders O fun of the same desire O open yes of the body ripple
cutting the take the talk and taking the action if not anywhere at least
ihn your head finally learning nonviolence violence after this many years
O meadow lark of dream captains
and desire military images not getting away
bearing standard bearers and others down its hisoory and (all) its
tenement rents and property move it now slow move it no matter how mow it
through push past the stop sign practice the exercise the piano key board
no matter that you can't hear the sounds hibernia oild fields will await
yo the Hebrides and other geographies never seen never heard scratch
through the dead desert squeeeze past the forlon guards and deals of
yesterday (and) forge the road ahead askance glancing neither aside nor
behind old friends will not understand old cherished past will be abandoned
(and) others ferret around the earth at your feet sniff right out the
terrible tundra you hear the young people (and) the young flesh skinny
girls to mark your road your bad road outlaw margin of

must add the relations Deleuze maintained
with the Freudian tradition, more accurately the Lacanian tradition,
that he observed a bit like a critical sp
ectator, while trying to
discover therein a creative
and inter-subjective symbolic element,
beyond the real and the imaginary. Where is the 'structuralistie
hero'? Where is the one, enclosed in the symbolic, who reactivates
spatial topologies and makes them virturaire supplement 1996: 36-37).U dig she said and flicked the move thee back t o channel two. it was number two the light of the transcendence and her thought the backwater of Jersey and desire.

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

languages becoming women names

Oh, it was all fiction, pure fiction, melodrama, and harlequin romance, ,like Winter`s tale and publishing before the days of printers that had gotten hold of the regulation of what was and was not printable and how to do this and that, and this
was the Body-without-Organs and not Repression and its seven thousand houses of boredom.

Over this Papa Deleuze yawns
with bordeom these fucking bureaucrats!

No 1 post to Fanny said:

Dear Fanny, I read your posting
about languages and everyone else's - same question Jill asked! But
no one but you replied, I was so sad at the time! I blubbered and cried
all night! Anyhow - So do we know for sure how many languages Gilles
> spoke? We know he spoke, that is certain, and even that he wrote and
spoke in
French, after all, look at all those
books!- - We know he spoke French!
Gina said you replied to her in private! Gosh, how discrete! Anyhow,
would you mind asking Rena if she knows, and what she knows, and
whether she knows. I can find out about Pierre, and I think you must
know that he spoke and read English/Italian and perhaps wrote them -
look at all the years and work he did at Radio Alice, in Italy with Toni! Radio
Radio Radio, come in please, come in please, Pschiatria Democratia, Fou a
Delire! and old Basaglia himself!
As for Gilles' side, Fanny said to me that Madame Gilles was an English
teacher/proffesor in some capacity. I find that a little odd that she
would be . After all as I mentioned why did D. let that English
trans. of
Dialogues (of which he wrote the english preface) make that awful
mistranslation of Kerouac's book - The Subterraneans as the Underground
Ones go to press, or why would Madame G.D. (if she was an English
teacher) let that take place? It is such a weird mistake - to
translate the title of a book from french back into english that was originally an
american book ! Anyhow this is all sort of amazing that no one seems to
know, to Know, for sure. Very deterritorializing, very unravelling.

Oh the mistranslation of Kerouac is on p.51 of the hard-cover
edition of Dialogues New York Columbia 1987 first and only printing that I
know of in hard-back. Maybe the soft cover differs.

Thus Mona. And then more! More good book! More! good book!
But Mona knew there was more to be unravelled. She got out her
Latin dictionary, and decided to check all those referendes in Latin. To
see if they matched. Lo and behold, they didn't! It was a hoax, she knew
it all along, G. never knew his Latin, or the little he did was High
church Latin, and the very lack of knowing being a sort of
deterritorialization itself! My God, she thought, the loss of memory and
language all tied into the Platonic cavern! and the darkness of language
and phonemes and telephones and emphysema and semaphores. So she thought.
So she thought. The telephone rang ("suddenly") and it was JIll: speaking
a mile a minute. Listen I know Pierre Felix really well and he never
spoke anything but revolution machine, and whether he spoke anything
beside French wouldnt ahve amttered a hoot to him I know he used to hug me
all the time when I was living on London and had no money We would speak
about transversality late into the morpheme, I swear and then the schizo
poetry would break flow and
schizz stroll A real walk inthe country of the
blind of language of words
Mona got tired dropped the phone went back to playing the piano.
What did she care about all that ? Ancient Gossip?? Sounded like the
title of a "book-novel" by a dead American author.

This particular scandal made Mona come in her pants and paints11 times in one slash bar time.

backslash you slut! list! LIST LISTEN you lust of list

Klossowski/desire/ Again /Alterations

Jack got a real scholastic kick when readin' this translation of
one of Del's daughters. And because there was no one else to do it, he
thought one day I'll latin me englishfrench and death to all transcribers
of codes and abodes!


In those days Mona had a boner, and skipped her way past one
sexself. She had a thousand little sexes. She had a desiring telephone,
her voice slid over and eavesdropped into Jack and Jill. How could she
love him, and he her, if she was with some object else? She switched her
partitions constantly. It was easy, she had contiguous parts that didn't
communicate. Mona used to be a man, but then became an orthodox Jewish
woman washing windows. One afternoon Jack appeared behind her and looked
upher backside, and saw the desire of intent. She got a hard on while he
did that. It was because Jack was not afraid to begin in the middle. Like
grass and he smoothly slipped his grass in hers. She switched around again,
and was the living loving wife of old. Bound by vows and possessions and
the love long lost of childrens. Jack had childrens everywhere. She
jumpedoff the wall suddenly and had no face, she called him on the
desiring telephones. They spoke like rhymes coming, she imagined her hands
on his organs, while his voices tracked her down reconstituted her
material body. She felt the tremble of his voice in her sex, her hands
wandered watered down to her clitoris, while he kept speaking. Even and
morn past and the first time theycame, they laughed. Hahaha, they came
together, becoming phones copulatiing on the wires of Ma Bell. Jubilations like the sun! Hahah, and
it was the first day and Godbody without organs saw that what he had
created was good. He created a two voiced monster with one hand one ear
and hard/soft plastics in space that transmitted lovefucks in the air.
What could be better? Better than the sexual creation of her dream
revelry of liberty with his arms and forearms, and her chatter matter chat
of one lingo language to another. He camed her translations of matter into
his. They never had to meet again. They both became together and
laughtered again. Of course, they would when the seven eyed monster of
green possessions was dead and gone. Preferably to a northern country so
far he would never catch them out. She lipped lapped her hands over his vocal
sexorgans and her voiced his hands around her assvoice and prayed at her
clitorisvoice. She hummed when he did that. How could he do that so well
with the schools and the kids right there not so far away? It was easy, he
kept his parts seperate till "they" could meet. When they met, they would
eat. Life was simple, it was only jerks, phonies, self referential
idiots, over theorized neurotics, and philos (the worst not the best) who
got in her way. After all! she had such strong forearms and he admired
them so much. To hell with dead monogomies! To poof with their lousy
anthropologies! I will go to him and bring the kids too and they will have
two fathers, and how much better for them! They will live together part
time here and parttime there. And be the wiser for it, like I will and I
will have a new body with Jack. Why did that have to be so bad? Couldn't
all this be done in a nice way? (A nice way, a way nicer to the nice of depart arrive and trip! She was nice, for sure, in her own cold calculating way, but it was not her, who was speaking it was g--d.) Could she not go to a new life, like a real
supple line of trajectory flight and become the Spanish girl she was once
was. Ah, she hurt so much. She was hirsute in her love for this manboy.
She touched her sexspots again andhe came inside her with words and things,
gods to make her laugh into her polytheistispolymorphousperverse verse
of loives and desires.
Mona finally realized she was Jill, and Jack was hers. No matter
she didn't walk down the street in broad daylight with him. Like all happy
endings this (was) one begins with another one. Nada Nada she went to the
next chapter where they flew to Spain together.

Jack was Jill and Jill was Jack, tonight, tonight you will be
Mine, You will be My Knight (of infinite faith) in Shining Armour,
I Will Come to your Emotional Rescue.
They seized their Homosexals Territoires and Discovered
the Unknown Country of their Desire.

One fine night (night! night!~whispered), Jill called Jack and
said, my assemblage is so crowded and I miss you so much, O phantom friend
of mine Where, where can we connect? When I look at my organs, I see
yours going in and out, when I do the self sex love and read your texts, I
play with your imaginary fiddle for hours! O come and come to the master
number and play my suit, o Sweet one. They had both homosexualed


They ran their desiring machines right up to the top of furtive grabs and
feels. She want him to want her in the desiring possession of her
two backed self of his self, herself. She said then again to Jack, here is
a text of yours I found from many moons ago, O sweety! O baby, a turn is a
trope, like a trope is a turn to your sex machine! Come (and become) on
mine on a Monday morning. No plane took you away to the West as expected,
cause you got sick, you poor thing. O thing of my subject self not
objected. A trope is a turn on to your sex thing, yer desire organs, and
my organless death. So come meet me at the end of the rainbow! He
turned to her, and "said" but why sell out so badly baby, why sell out
when 37 is already gone? But still he wanted to read (already read,
Oread! Of my sex drivers!), to write her sex drives. Her machine
for kissing and making other kid drivers. The next time we meet "she said"
in a whisper across the astral spaces, I will write your organs! I will
play them like typanum! Okay, "he said," "Deleuze," can be reached in
the usual way, on a usual day and you know where and how. And how!
Say about 11 of the morning, for a double allonge at the Bistro on Boulevard
St.Michel. And he grabbed her imaginary double body, reached over and
muttered one final thing, bring the translation! She, Jill Guattari,
reached his solar plexus and nuzzled him good, HeShe came ebbing and
ensemble beyond any MaMaPapa Oedipal triangles. Eventually he had a
feeling they would simply run away together. She slid her silent self past
him and into him, and UpPed his down, and they did it./ Most of all Jack
Deleuze loved the way she fannied her eyes, and the smile and sadness of
her eyes was all that did him. And her sweet teeth, much as she did not
believe him, he saw them teeth becoming. And knew they was meant for each
other. They would elope in spite of the p.c.'ers and monogamers of
possession. Call me, she whispered one last breath, and she called him.
For ice cream, bagels, lox, breakfast, they painted their own town red,
like the Pink Panther. And that was from, On the Line.
[Like all false translators he made up what he meant as He went along the
ligne des fuites, and ppppfpfffffffuite! All infernal machines of dance!]
"Finally"(which is a translation of the French expression
"donque" of the colloquial French) "she said" I found an old piece text
you writer which you wrote. Heree it is, and they nuzzled and ran blue
and white for the infernal desire of their territoire.


The Piece Jill found for Jack, part One,two, three...

Say Mister Kl. meets Mr. Kaf. the minority is then the ontic status of two be liefs. One lief is the fig owed by catholic anagogic thought, the other is the kabbalistic renewal of analogy. The metamorphiss seems to contradict the resurrection. After all, what angel could be a insect upon waking? Perhaps only a Jew could understand this, one who seemed to sense the the horror of the gas before its appearance. Monsieur Kl. had been well heeled in the theological mystery, the angelic doctors at his finger tips reaching into stochastic memory, selving renwal by prxy, close to the dangers of leprosy (how catholic!), amnesia at the altar, bending sodomy of female selfing in chromosone male parts. The K. person was consumptive with the affinities of romanticism tied to his names before all history, but rather near er to the hysteria of death trucks, and splinters at the heart of old mono theism, a percolating polytheism at the heart of the broken Judaism of 19th century ghetto and isolation. Janus faced the old god perjured and mixed itself unknowingly with themany god whores of old, it rubbed off, sex and theos copulated in the pants of father god and mother goddess. Analogy! shouts Aquains but no there is no analogy to carry the distance from the moment, the dialectic is ruined on the forest of maps and there is no side or inside to move a thesis to its pre ordained place in the procession. History is dangerous hysterical and many ordained, gods in the guts and cash in the crops. Klossowski married a woman who had been in the camp, Aushwitz, this was real, as real as KafÂ’skÂ’s lineage exterminated. And the reneweal of prayer in the darkness of 6 million dead Jews could not be renewed, not on those terms, but all that thirsty richness, what to be done? Robert as reply to K, KÂ’s last stand a minority muddle. The social exists and history is not over, no matter the cheap haunted simulacra that abound. Amnesia makes the mentor jealous of its children, like Cronos it spits them out, breaks analogy and allegory, perversely weds symbol and sign. The moment cloud breeds life in bits and morsel, morphemes of poor and war.


And Godbody looked and saw that what She had written was Good.
And then she circled her self wildly like any dog chasing her
Own ta[i]le.
Une tale of love and mist!
She saw it was good and ran away way with hootin' and howlin'
and dey Made de Big Music togedda.
Togedda to matta they had a new ensemble, It made him wanna rescue her like a Pink Panther, and let forward
and free the guilt of what she imagined she owed to some old idea of id
investment and sublimation. He said to her one day, and it was fine as
any other,"there is no sublimation my dear" and then he laughed the
laughter of poetgods knowing it never could be replaced. But only made,
only made. And she loved it then, loved it then knowing it was them.

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

Sticky Fingers

Jack got a telegram in his email. And it said:

Mona saw: Subject: Mickey Mouse

Mona saw this and cried. She went to bed with Mickey Mouse and it
melted away. It was nothing, neither a drouzee or a drowsee. She stalked
her own kitchen walls and thought of Gherasim Lucas, drowning, like Celan,
then G. dizzy Deleuze (her last real boyfriend before she....), whereas
Pierre died of heart attack. And everyone laughed. hey they said, all
those good schizos territorializing totalizing and retotalizing the cash
on their (spilt infintive) HEgelian calendars. The kind that goes
"Suddenly" the phone rang, it was Jack without Jill who had ebb
flowed and become his own coming becoming. "I need to hear the flow of the
deadcapital machine when I makelove with you dear one and lips would
make real machines then as we capital our organs. A body without organs!
And without tape too!

"""On Friday, 13 June 1997, Canadian Capital queried & wrote:""""

Something which they could not quite recall but Cut, Cut Cut I
connect, I connect it!

Jill kicked this text around a little and asked her secret lover
boyfriend what was up? He laughed slyly and pointed
down while gazing (peering) uP and Upper. She bent
down her lips taking him inher mouth so deterrtorialzied it flowed from
her. She dropped her Sartre and kissed her Jack, her Jackboy of all
trades, meanign sexual and otherwise. Other Oh, He sighed Other, then
realized in quotes "Other" is what I am. She kissed him again. She became
hima nd she became . And Mickey Mouse became a hallucination created for
the mass, the catholic american mass in partition practicum particular.
Her fuckwucked her on the desiring table. A real schizo table it was too.
They married their schizoid self in half, half a laugh each they
married. A
real virgin reconcialtion it was too. They wuckfucked again and realized
their repressor selves were dead. Was it a brain they were missing, or a
chaosophy. Or just a plain nut ward! Nut ward! Nut ward! Come and nut it
out with the last of the affects you have left.
Never mind Mickey Mouse. She (JillMona) was skinny and JackSelf
was skinny, they made a good pair. A good pair of splits when they first
did the desriring things and the desiring thighs! My gosh their desiring
phones went wild! They became all over the place not worrying about aids
(or band aids) for one second. She looked over at the screen and saw words
flittering on the white glare of its radiance. They said

I have a question [really???] IS**** Mickey Mouse a mouse becoming [an
idiot coming through the screen causing nightmares of capitalism tothe
child long dead in me) human [WE HAVE NEVER SEEN A HUMAN]
or a human becoming mouse? {daddy is this man crazeeee, Mices are Not
Peoples!!} Mouse are dead rats that slither the apartments of hostages.
Mouse from screen is rat that is dead, not burrowed but furrowed and
finished! - the little JackJill son said this while pointing to the
screen. He an anagram (not an anagrammatical!) (or a grammatology)

Jack called back to Jill from out of his becoming and said Wait!
There is more! Can you read it please!

""""Or is he a mouse [Is that a Man or a House?]
that has """become""" It is impossible for the decomposable to
become. But what mouse becomes is nothing other than cartoon, why speak of
mice or men at all?? And cartoon is capital investment of cheap desire in
easiest low wishes of formation of unconscious captured representations.
And catatonic makes spit out of territories. Go see for yourself they walk
up and down the boulevard forever forever dead bodies where from. The
grass the grass is what we seek ! Go To China and there are millions of
millions of dead mouses! Mona Shuddered with the sheer joy of it! She
was so proud of Jack's prescient skills. She grabbed his tongue with her
mouth and pooped the deterritorilization question.

"""reterritorialized as a representation of the father""" -
There is No Father except the Paranoid (BEsides Which)[winch with an old
GangsterPapa of Oedipus and it is a good job that he killed the old
I sing the open road, of myself I sing, I given the open
desire machine of your mouth and teeth, given the open hand of your womb.

Jack saw the word made text! And what the hexed his riant laughter he
rialtoed the market with stolen goods! he was a thief of desire, and a
crook of currency. He marxed his exchange and whacked his words! Oh so
rhizomatically, they coudn't be stolen, but only - her light smile and
""given the AntiOedipal discourse of Walt Whitman""
And can we be escaping lovers on the lines of take off! of Flight and Height
and propinquity?
and dead Tyrants like Mamaaaa PapaaaaHH of blind old 'Oed.
had a chance.
Thanks Son, my pleasure!Pop! Danke! Son - We have never Seen a Son!
hegeled her
lasso and pooed her shoe. No Slyan Slyvia Plath for her! So then Mona
looked down and saw his
Up and he looked and saw her Up (they spun away
at that precise second spinning lovers one roundbody)
and it was a mighty string to the sky, a line of flight the likes
of which had got all the way to Mars only to become a rover. Jesus!
Christing! ALmight! She said to Jack what have they done to Mars and Mars
Jack looked back and saw it was Oedipus again, captured and gone.
he was the dear refrain gone dead deaf and neuroticked in self-hood.

Little pices violins, tremolos, shattered books, little traffics of libido
and intent, botchs of super-ego and Id, and putty pieces put back
together in tandem, sort of. They were about to go off into the sunrise.
Living whatever it wasthey would. And a destiny desire was there, a
machined it automatic. And no Wankee Dizznee would fop their paths, the
multiple forking many's of their routes and

Jack and Jill went up the hill, to fetch a pail
of adversity
So there was no sound when they listened. They had the desiring
trucks in their hands, There was night they was listening and listing.


Now Jill saw all this, and realized she had two lovers. One
herself and the other Jack.

Saturday, July 03, 2004

body without organ texts AntiOedipus

Ha! there was a body without organ texts. And they were sitting on the
fence, facing the recto verso version of their self. What slave of self
was it they fourfaced in the varied corner of their structured
simultaneous self-hood. What blood was it poured down them?
Sifting through the city market of his dead body piece (god
scattered rafter scaffolds all about), the left handed god awakened
The right handed sheep death at last. Some nominative noun passed
on finally. And the anglo-saxon language of sleep awoked near the end of
bridges and other torments. A peronsalized self dread walked away from,
near the infinite Knight of armour and infinite delectation and
repetition. O Angels! O Savoir!
What peel of lip
O lover of my mouth
You who are San Francisco a whole city character allegory
A figure-image name Nietzsche Daugher and Milton agains the
Zarathustra wind and thunder of prolegemonon
rolling word of tinder and sex pull in arrondissment street
through quarter and avenue of every funeral and Pere Lachaise
O stinger of the chill spine
malevont as night's deepest witch
As sex and dead desire the buddhist money on my back.
Dead philosopher of the sage West run back east to hear the
call of saviour and rest.

Now breath and die O anagram
Breath and reposed in the arms of the nymph
travelling the link of street and desire
O Anagram of nymph and play
against any desire

any word


Friday, July 02, 2004


Mona saw this and thought: Cool, So Cool! I can relate to this. And called Jill and called Rena and Fanny and Kathe and 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..."

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.

A de territory love affair

Mona saw junctions - disjunctions across the hand lying in space was a body-without-organs and its knight gallopin across the animate plain. so somber was the toil of her night, she was knight and knighted by the Quixote of her style and its mesh round sane.

So she, Jill, waves the blind man across her passage from deus absconditus to day minus light

how many hamadrans over the Gaelic sea was her storming side and its muleteers,her language speak under the dale of its porcelaine bakery the lace of its sigh, her silver

horsed forth mouth of daze and

a-rub dubdub not

by Mona`s grand canal saw the veins of its blue blah balance its chance touch wood and its could say yes

and its prepare meant know its product sent providence its vice for aversa and its recto blind re:send
its roccoco

Wait! shouts Fanny you rescind its tie cutting the tragic bowl of its heavenly salad its pain breath leer
Now does that begin a new paragraph? Mona's no wish to become expert in blogology but merely to paste the passing of time, not wishing to be the Memoirs of a theology reader --

a server of mechano proportions to subserve her wigwams not wanting rights to heft her rongs

nor a dixionary of space to fold her fields, store her fiefs, reckon her tithes....

go back to the in between text of its Mother worked vellum the trumpet hurrah of melding and joy its bad verse a curse to mockery

trombones whistle a feeling for Mona she stares the Oedipus boy in the whole and the rent must be turned back on its self finding the labour not to sell, but to buy. and bye-bye she went. wanter her word in her castle sale the love brig of joy.

Jill astray climbs the middle peak resting her fiery on the podium the rest. Of inevitable schooltide, the making mergence of celery.

Some say the mouth is not enough, but we know better Ayeesha snaked by the high heights of the ballet

its trombone toes dare into the herd of crowded fury. The fire-horn of the play work .

Thursday, July 01, 2004

Pack : slide plateau 98 ~ 99

Mona had a pack and was partially western and partially organs.
Partially a pack of cigarettes when she and Franny first took the Western gates and splashed through the horn. The horn of plenty and spilling theory all over her knees of lover, and would be lover. There was night, and there was knight, there was day, there was dayadhvam. There was the pack of night and day and transferring transfers between institutional super egos interiorized which broke her body bodies and coming. Here was there and there was Waste galore of her pinched heart eye brows. and arrows of hunger expletive dead lover pain .

No .

A Fragment lover pai

n .

There was a pack of tarot and slinging mud and her only begotten lover and the sonnets she wished to mend him in her sooth. And so it was on the 498th gene(genetic) and night of their love. There was Orpheus splitting the atom too. The molecule of some harp thrown off the space calendar of his movable feast. His ossuarry of funeral parlours and the masked face which
could not been seen, could not be found.
Doctor, Doctor. I am the jailor of your self. and My knee high lie.

There was a pack of suicide and bodies diverged in the exotic territories. There was thee and thou and pronouns and slammed hearts in half dead bodies near middle age with packs of cigarettes which killed the ointment of desire, or at least soothed it. There was her univocal vocal cords near the woman that loved, there was "I" loved, un loved, uncomposed, and there was cold and 28 below without a lover. So Mona saw the Bible (and its belt) in her sun. And her ORpheus was her plenty of lover, packs of words spilling, strewing, slagging from his mouth. And there was the hips and folding thighs of his lover. Her self in the mouth of the south of her crowd of hands and ass and cock genital guns and dead comes which never wasted anything that close to liberty but libertinage and bad Victorian woman poets which one was forced to read by the lyre of dead forces fuelled by resentiment not ascendance. Where was the sickle moon  when one needed she asked? O He was the night of her accordion and day and she was the mother of his breathing,
and the some hands found in the distant city metropolis.

A pack of sing song singers in the silence of the dew, and the death rain knot. She was not in his heart of (heated hearts like deranged fuels and tresses, tenses), hearts and the salamander leap and her lap of dead skin was the Hypoborean lather of her pelt. She was the borrowed body of his jewel. That he lost when he was her she ing down the sexes of her path. And which does not mean that path which was born of the psyche of hunger. (the path of least resistance). And his hunger lips past her thighs in the scream. She was jealous because Night was his Mother, she thought biography could be seen in his word star road. And then the there of the abstract hit jewel eye back and he was the one she shored past in the tumbrel of their meeting. And he his head lopped off in the day time gone. He was a singer poet in the band desire links fell off the multiplicity she sought. In his hunger veined high past the brown beat trail of her lonely motherless sigh.
All packed in the veins of her plural self rides around the citied circle death cry. And no one knew him in his high cry schizo mute.
and the circle of his look back vein was the call in Eurydice the night of his lonely city call

the prose poem Orpheus et al.

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Mona Monad was BirtBerthDayed

Now Mona was a monad that nomad, and nomaded her around the gerund the sheet of time

gerrymandering the selection of choice and love, a sexy lover of choice and desire, her Rimbaudboyo dreamlicked to her dramascaper.... Something like this was her mate, matter was the name of her hospital, her hopalong cassidy, the oratory of doubt, the dumdum of deniere arrives (accent missing exclaims Jilly) and so on and so on, so forth, and catalogue her love dye thee live long dayday her poetry knight a maid. Spectres of bliss! Her bliss was caramel along the maple sugar sap she forthed.

Fourth grade with her Jill the reader the knower was her stay, her stays! you say! what! Cheers I say and amble down the Hamlet hill, my poll and pollared head a hill of rambeldabble daddies.

Silence was something like I love her.

So shadows do rerun like old movies, epic similes sparse styles, ornate coal and lacqureed dust. Was that the right spelling of dust and lackwearea? hahahno you soltice silly phoneme girl and rain she ran around her funny face. Her funny face so like the freckles and chairs where she sate. Sate you thirst on her eyes! you silly goose of a scholastic line of flinging flight and wides brimmed sweet asses of Henri Bourrassa / wel something like that good dress, we tire of hearts splittin down their centuries and the old bags that know nothing trembling quaking cheeks.
O well

"we see," Said Mona.
and hurried along her way catching Jill and Franny on the rebound.

O, silence was masting ship sail furled the repetitive day

Friday, June 25, 2004

Now here/ now here away...fort/da...strong design....the sign is strong

> Subject: Re: Now here/ now here away...fort/da...strong design....the sign is strong
> yes im reading u rong! but how right! no I got that just as I
> sent message
> will send information demain sour(sour soir sunday)
> jean knows about but most students here seem dull over
> this amnazing information
> gide was not nice to genet when genet was a nobody
> but genet got him back years later
> so be carefull who u kick when they write ya letter! hahh
> a bientot, fanny
Mona writes back!
> > >
> > > wrong eliot knew about dada and rejected it: found an esssay thanks to
> > > bloom by eliiot which refers to TZARA inventor of dada
> > >
> > hell yer not reading me i said he didnt know dadada (hindu shit)
> >
> > please find out when eggzactly jacwques is coming down
> >
> > i might come
> >
> >
> > ciao again
> >
> >
> > kleist calls
> >
> >
> > the amazons lack a breast
> >
> > achilles etymologically means the lipless one
> > because he sucked his mother's tit without touching it
> >
> >
> >
> > i will have fun 2with this one
> >
> >
> > Then Jill riposted:
> > >
> > > >
> > > > dadada was pre-eliotic
> > > >
> > > > dada forgot a da
> > > >
> > > > pereversion as lacan says serves law of the father
> > > > by deviating it re-affirms
> > > >
> > > > is dada this
> > > >
> > > >
> > > > dada kant mean nothing
> > > >
> > > >
> > > > Nothing means nothing
> > > >
> >

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Mona re:Monad Mona had a rhizome baby

SO I am wondering, says Mona to me, her finger (not her signified) under my skirt, uhm, my shirt, which we ought togo since are against publishing and our aesthetic is the purely unfinished one of old Dada and DaVinci.

Or rather it is like love, and spelling , orthographeme, here there are no 'ed'itors, there id itors and lictors, no lectors, or something like that. She Mona was hesitant about the heist, and Only wanted one thing: To Get out of Town

Mona had a rhizome baby, and a goathead,a desert a cactus periander, or Pericles in the relativity box, and her hush down ways, were blewing the smoke in her smile of wild wickedy way .

Mona did the boogie-woogie and the urgent boogie, but one night there was no one to dance.
Geepers! she exclaimed. Allthe things they said you cannot write about.

Later came the more animals, a new one, on the edge

AH She was hefting a principle of connection and heterogeneity... any point of a rhizome ... connected to anything other... (breath breath)..and must be. This is very different from the tree or root, whic....h plots a point, fixes an order. . . . A rhizome ...ceaselessly establishes connections between semiotic chains, organiza...tions of power, and circums....tances r...elative to the arts, sciences, and social struggles. A sem...iotic chain is like a tuber agglomerating very diverse acts, not only linguistic, but also perceptive, mimetic, ge.....stural, and cognitive: there is no language in itself, nor are there any linguistic universals, only a throng of dialects,.... patois, slangs, and specialized languages. There is no ideal speaker-listener, any more than there is a homogeneous linguistic community.

I am James Joyce's Daughter, she said.

No, I am not.

It makes me think of Pope, a before a long time ago and quotes.

Ok, more good book. Later.

Monday, June 21, 2004

Meet Mona and the Seven Lists

O Saintly lists of desire machines and the delire of writing its song harpingered over lover's body. So tis said it was the Jill is a fine monkey

a primal ape and some Vico merge melt over the seven sea of phenomena ah my lovelies, between shore and castle there are many places to be stooped on

many night forests

night goes by day disguised as its fundamental cheek

Thus Jill'll finally spill her seed!

she hushed the wind

Sunday, June 20, 2004

For a Reader ||In Here.. A.D Plateau :Explications.

Each text posting works as a plateau a niveau that slides into another, shifting shape changing energy, switching gears, movin ' from high and low, to low and high. interlaced with 'poetic' (troping words, text and syllable, and phoneme,morpheme,) fictional device, real references to the characters on display. A little machine of chaosmosis.

So each reader is invited to perceive the plateaus, though they appear chronological, as laminations over a series of horizontal and crisscrossing links, lines, narrative thicknesses (the unconsciousnesses) each of which micronarratives into pieces. There is then, no begining or ending. Backwards, go and come,forwards, to the side, changing a page , a view seen, glimsped and gone, and though the archives appear as dated they are not dated so much as marked by a reference (by a breath), constituted and constrained by the medium they apppear in, the blog fictions of Jill and Mona, Franny and her friendly.

One day of a night, a reader was asking Franny to explain her space of blogs and texts. And so it went like this. There are three figures, or characters, in this novel, fiction, blogchronolgy, and they are poetic flows, or becomings, that refigure, configure, and resolve themselves around motifs of desire and love, language and the body becoming.

The author, CLifford Duffy, or Sir, or esteemed Poet, was not sure how to unwrap himself of the veil of poetics he surrounded himself with, as the magic of language had taken him by the hand to the vales of dreamtongue speech, and the auralities of the spokenwritten, and the writtenspoken, of time and its rhymes its weaves and heave of breath and becoming.

But let us try then to explicate a tad:

The characters:

Mona is the daughter becoming of Franny and Jill.

Jill who is the daughter becoming of Gilles Deleuze and his woman becoming romance a la harlequin.

Franny the desire creation of Felix and the becoming of his becoming-woman.

Now these three characters change gender, and place, and body, each metamorphosing into the other, and into others other than 'who they are'. Think of a cartoon that animates itself perpetually changing and reshaping its character's main shape and identity.

and so Dearest Readers, lonesome and otherwise, world wide, and of the 'live world wide web' is what we reveal for the moment. The rest is language.

The rest is performative silence.

For now, whispered Mona, slipping into the unconscious.

Saturday, June 19, 2004


If Mona was herself, she'd someone else, becomed someone else. the sentence that makes her, putters
across over the page that fabricates a writing. Something like the gerund that higgledy-piggedly rattles its thumb. What! sheepers,she claims, I am the disjuction of traps, trapezoids, marathons, miraculating weaves, sampled tigers, bright laned in watch lists, not something to fib a horizontal
line of flight. Her mouth filled with line of flight, the Fffff sound open out rags her ne'er do well in the bum down days of nomad strobe light lovers of cartoon filled day.

Is that marooned? was vulva voluntareerism the reply?

shall we shrink black the digging bones? Mona is the woman of steal, the fanny of browne and her medicine is melancholy buttocks reared on the tops of mountains. Old lovers never never know the name of this just belly. O near the nelly dance of dillydo!

Shall we see the somersault
Prattle onyer opaths of otibiographeme the platonic plick-plack of shallomeizomay and the rod
group of grumpling dung-dumpers! What, is that shi_t? O Censor of plantidunes and lyric bellies? Youth of lyric blow and bow my name before their haven heaven. pitter pratter?

She eyes the deleuze caper of her daddy daddio.

ArChived Deleuze and Otherzz

Thence Dewlooze was archived in the ark of no template was playing the ackward smile of heaps and nuts,
they were gooseberries down there.
and margins
when a thousand tiny sexes escaped meantime the world was being ruled by one man and Orpheus knew it had to finalize, andthe Empire and its butt ended days must stop.So, she said I am Orpheus and wear no deleuze signifier in my underwead. Do you where me? Not so, she said climbing the theological mysteries of his back, mother.

Archived Jill and the many others were hunkered in electric space
stand. And
many mothers worried it out, suggesting the affordibility of webster
covering tunes of take and give forth and back twitching in that
place. A zeeziggy to undo the composition of the foiled mother in
her bodies

Can't you spell? asked Antihead. No.

Sunday, June 13, 2004

but at her Back

But at my back I hear...

she said the war of whisper it was gone, death was a night

time was the killer and she was looking for an answer besides the lover's reply . it was no horn battling down the hills of death and the long Odyssey of her self. a goddess named wise eyed abandondsed her leaving her high and dry was not the way it was got to go, not so for the Orpheus ofherself, her Eurydice self, her body a flying hill in the night. persimmon was not her name, her hands flutted down, the xerox gaze bodies gathering inthe night the garnered self, the words told she could not use, was fuse
the body
in its tale toll tell across the seven oceans of her eyes
hilding her body in the grip the tribal banging and the fragment the sick hospital of ships

stultified travelers of navy go down roses in the last light july the ropes of sendward the bollard held low the tugged veil and cutter spread out over the mouths and the ears was a playthign of ripe berries the flesh fruit the taste over areach her

eye in that dark the smoke clovered around

the wise eyed had no place for her Mona when the Jillies broke down and the detective came home on the click click the geese the geese it was farewell farewell and not me in the rain as you thought O she swayed in the

breath of the night


for she had persimmon hands of the ebony wood and the vale of city was her name