Friday, February 27, 2004

her name in ENGLAND SCHIZOANALYSISHERE and his Lover girl

Mona sawed the seeds of dissing and recourse not discourse buthe splitting apart of hairs and bifurcations of desires in the small font between.

we are warning U dont eff with us Rimbum.Just cause U think u are Genets son it does not make it true or false so dont play Rumbaud games here cause something is sick about that and the same goes gores for what is her name in ENGLAND SCHIZOANALYSISHERE and his Lover girl. Everyone knows they are foolin about. playing frisbeen schizo games.Paleese Chill. let ye r schizz flow go!!dont be so Molar!!crhist those ondontiads are enuff!!to make anyone wise!

Felix Guattari the Seconde wrote:Yea, Rimbaud Quit picking on Fanny Fran! she is cool!~Felix the catatOnicWho saysFuckoFFDeleuze

...went to many funerals and attended short weddi...

«MOna was married to the venusmons of the strabismus of orient and her luckless shoes went the way of the sun!
 
Mona went to many funerals and attended short weddings. so she was. Incarnadine in her bloody dress, her bloody bevel.

Her Subject Then
was: Felix Guattari the Seconde and the Block of Plateau -- Hey Rimbaud Deleuze!!
Fafafafafffranny is faith Fides aND Not Greek
OrthODox!



For us it is very important to love Franny..y. Not like Rimbauddeleuze whois clearly the paranoid reactionay pole of things. this is no t acceptable. Il faut aimer Franny elle est belle et intelligent elle est fin et on faire l'amour virtuel chaque virtuel jour.So,there Rumbum Deluded shut yer paranoiac cracks.

On atending the funeral of Ted Hughes and Gilles Deleuze I send thee this arrasy


You never went to a funeral rite in your lives.

Thursday, February 26, 2004

Her favorite Lie waS...

My favorite line from Antioedipus is:

we have never seen a professor of economics.

of course p.. chotics have a discourse... who cld.have thot
otherwise. wise as they are we known she is one among the manyssplits
who could not imagine there was not authenticity

I revere bataille de temps a temps

between my schizophrenic teeth

the cities as you know

You, you are wonderful -- please more

Stupid becomingis cute, but I never knew it,
it's how one if one uses it.
But of course, Jill was a Daddy Professor becomings among the schizos
as was Franny among her Debords and others, et tant d'autres et t'ant
d'autres
How could one not transfer such a power puzzle?
Take what is beind done by Emmanuel Videcoq at Chimeres -- how he
has made Felix G's wonderful works closer to our eyes,
and the website run by Claire Parnet.
And all of these "antagonistic and irreconciliable groups" as Felix
puts it.

Please more .



Please more good book .

Mona had a literary theory

Mona had a literary theory. She had and had and it was her past perfect tense, that was Indeed.

In this section of the Fictions we See Mona formulating and disformulating her continuity broken and borrowed by the stars of light mixing fictions and theoria and praxis with Maxis, with her maxi coat lays and her mother of pearl and her perfumed haze she was the one who held the stance, before her night and arms, the shadows stayed and how could they ever have seemed any other way?

She was not mixing metaphors so much as making them over again without using a thesaurus.


More Shores upon Which to Read for each Reader

FLiitter Flutter in the Wings




Mona was framing thetext interms it was wasnot and willbe . what about the problem of chronlogy and backdating? is that the way it is organized?




Remind Readers that this site space does not have a commentary section this is not hypertext


IT'S A "EXPERIMENTAl"WORK OF FICTIONS IN PROCESS PRAXIS. A POEM A FICTION,

that each text posting is as Longas it Must be.

A FLiitter Flutter in the Wings
of Prose Fiction and French.


Finally we wish
to remind our readers that All our words are on parole.

So stick that in your Deleusions of Guattari and Smoke it.



we are the secret lovers of the language and her many bodies of becomes and being .

Now that was not an essay

Now that was not an essay it was Orpheus blaring the trumpet of death. She weaved the corner of point ducking her head below the death line of protestant catholic thinking the repression of the south the disaster zones of the North where Satan and the boys headed, Satan sexy lover of choice of choice it was the rattling gun of breath and life and so then little muse and big muse when people talk loud their death comes so speak softly not that thunder of rage and hatred the bare buttomed choke of the immortals.
Picked the period up
wasted the Irish of
melded the matter
mirrored the

Not so,
it was not bearable she was not the preface of her own work, some leaned squire jerking off as he wrote the 327 pages to her first book that was a joke we heard that long before remember and we paid 35 cents for a loaf of bread on St. Lawrence that day Mona was bilking at the bet while the others of immanence worried the strands of evil sucking up their constant force of goodness . She had a body that begged hips to the ground wanting to make night and day moon and mercy her white hipped flanks shone moonlight and milk I spent the whole day thinking of her buttocks and the milk kissiness of them when that night Jill was doodling her coffee holding her hand jerking her off in over the hill and under the till and drill ye tayers drill for you workall day for your sugar in yer tay down beyond the railway and drill ye tayers drill and drill yer tayers drill and In Dublin’s fair city where the girls are so pretty there was once a fishmonger girl and she wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow her body was a shivering thing Jill got numb from being around her her sticking out was so stuck out she had to but there was nothing to be done What is to be Done? the government of reform must fall. There are nights and days the peasants revolt the armies of Ottawa come to smash them the armies of France and America come to smash them that is the duty the job of a cadet trophy for dress for dress rang rang Jill was rung on the smile the forced smile of accept when she wanted the drill the drill and even then it was disappointment trying her ugly

assembling assing

What was it about the ass that bowl of beauty?
her bowl was tilting taking advantage of cracking of
There was vaudeville, booth sex, telephone sex, peephole sex, jerking off on buses, or not, nights in the nave, confession booths, mouths in the fucker, into mouths and pillows, imagining when you were there then in the bunk bed the women to, not words to the swirling sea of the rapids her mouth her body was dying smashed in the face,
ragged circus of death, waiting for the hand of another guy on your ass, the smelly women crowding you on the 35,36 Notre-Dame bus the fare was cents was that it that did it was it crushed your face? first girlfriend cross-eyed Linda bringing chocolates and she her funny voice was you liked so much was

Cannot be the clinical critical dane of the ontological love of ritual
and the son high sacrificed in the stink of his night?

Mona cannot eat, it is simple, she cannot eat alone She cannot eat she will not cannot eat even when happy now alone eat so goes to the bums of the street Cannot eat as others eat

Now was that something or what.

The Completely Uncollected Works of Clifford Duffy

Think Mona of the unpublished words and thoughts and how, and how, then we are stuck in the archive forever.

years of notebooks yellow red and blue then green red yellow and blue respectively or not respectively
revisions and commissions
Words in the teeth
Never found
So on
So on
And so on
And so on
I am Still a Virgin
Notes from the Psychotic Doctor
Antioedipus the Prose Poems an imitation and inspiration in English of the Antihead of Tristan Tzara
Blue Dog
Blue Dog Plus
tidbits take bits
no bits
two bits

1. (opening paragraph) take
Machine guns blasting, our hearts full of [dada], the froth and beat of its movement. [Sex guns shooting, sex spirits shooting, we fucked them.] Our youth blazing, our hearts burning to full with the zany, the real, and the true. We beat through the marching night, toes-a-padding. We were young and unafraid, it was Friday night, school was just out [school was just starting], we thought we had new ideas, and strictly speaking we did.

Nietzsche’s Daughter
The befores and afters
Farewell Weather to Fine Friend
Blue Dog Plus
Hundreds of Others
Orpheus Fairy Tale
Bewildered Brothers and Sisters
Nights and Mark
Heel and Tramp
Crisis and kinesis
which got her into terrific trouble for years that the middle class never had suffered or bore
something like that Moonlight Portrait the Invention of God
Mona strutted and rutted
poled her neck out a long leaning giraffe

the essays such as theywere were pretend poems the doctors the notes the rivers the tent tree ricks rock rook mountain top
they thought they owned words not so was the faery the heard ear of that trumpet heard once at seventeen and heard forever then in the Jill ofher becoming her negotiations always pleasing to the night to the logic of lovers and lip to lip across your breast and beauty he pierces to die not like some French-Canadian nationalist movement who wishes to die yes spewed out the nationalist reaction of pig puke death finery of shit not shite but then she was not allowed on Pain of Death to Have Sex so when she Did have sex it was More Punishment but that too a Few Years to Affect and they did it too so the end was coming soon cause she knew the contract could only take you as far as you could go then Dropped like a SuddenSunlight was her face and body and that would be a relief then wouldn’t it no more Rock n’Roll rollicky sweet baby of her love that she was


Scattered Miscellaneous magazines of the thirties forties fifties sixties seventies eighties nineties the venues of many hundreds
The recordings the novels the journals the radio shows the collages
the amnesias not remembered the garbage bags for three four years boxes with no smell burnt marred scarred smeared


We’re going to the funnies, a classic comic of Mona Jill and Franny as they shooloot their path frowning the night of hugs wheat and high stepping gods.

Will that do? Not quite the period we’re looking at. So the hunger stood there, her sturdy gaze evoking orgasm. No, nope. Her star was as flat as the page of a midnight magazine, or the character speaking his orgasm after the 100th jungian unconscious synchronized coincidence of ecstatic joy and love and she kept you in prison for
We’re going to the fullness of her smooth round perfect how she brought me down.

Was Orpheus Mona?

Ain’t gonna be much a me by the tim you get here baby
a minoriy monking machine.

saidyou loved me and you don’t threw her out of the house threw me out of the house punishment return of the same the return of the revenge gods especially for those who did did did Dido and Carthage on the way to the mainland to be punished to be alcoholic to be alcoholically punished take you out of that hell that hell down there it’s real

yea yea yea all writing is pig shit
if it doesn’t plough the crap of being

nine months and more, and it was turning in your death tunes, and traffic in your glottis, Study break // Lunch break -- school yard – jerk off – beat up time break up time smack in the face time death time end of smell time,// swish of brother’s gowns as they walk the hallways, transcendence of beauty past all that discovery of Art Literature Joy// the hippy movement yes traveled all that way all that way came back but there and there none non none in the end look back none you didn’t miss none none none to none none none in the key board no appearance no Out of Nowhere but start of punishment she was goin’ to get it now the beginning it seemed began then after the 100th orgasm the final mp3 of ffm clipped/cut/three seconds ten seconds death of body /the visual virtual/ Staggered into the body against second becoming /laughter of jeers /cramdown of resentment/nascent of diaries/driller of journals/ripper of papers/ff galleries/night crasher of /broke the preposition/ mouth ripped out of the remember /hunger boy 17 in the /yes / knee exposed / knee


Now let it be known this is not an essay, nor is it anything trying to get known. It is escapist , pure escapist, and if works r doesn’t depends on you.

Something about subjectivity and the subject not being anymore, and Mona remembered something a painter said about the subject of her painting was… and thus knew it was a lie, but the Irishman was also a madman and the American was a spanner of bridges a builder of walks a carrier of cement a pleasure seeker a hod carrier . Now a pome, a poem in the completely uncollected works of Clifford Duffy what is that but the reflection of the glory of the love of Frida Kahlo– No, we don’t buy that, in the narrative weight, the heavy lyric weight, the song of the ancient earth rolling night. Slip into lyricism america poets deny it older ones ply it. Easy take a rhyme count four beats of metaphor and simile of malaise and yearning, and repulsion and regret then the melody tells itself, an alexandrine of loss and lake. But what funny comes from the that?


If God was not dead, then he was a murderer is what Orpheus thought. After all, god as it was called was killing Orpheus and as far as he could see, all of his friends. And he had killed all the other ones and twos and threes and fours who had meant anything. And
he punished him perpetually --- yes yes of course that sounds familiar doesn't it, it's because it is, and it's Prometheus getting his liver eaten out each minute of the day, and So
Orpheus and Mona stood crying


nothing to be done as the Judgment of Even the Dead Murderer God came smashing on Orphee's head again. And his boyhood was broken and his adolescence was choked, and he drank the years of early manhood , drank to be free, becoming nothing, a prisoner in the process, chained to the wheel, Orpheus was punished right after having gotten out of that prison, his first achievement was attacked, he was persecuted for years for putting out a book of poem, a N d the first one he loved, really loved, well she Up and left Him too, well then there was nothing was there but the violence in him to come out exploding and so he was Punished for that too and her body which he loved left him and the catholic machines came after him, and the hatred demons of revenge and paranoia and the betrayal machines and his first publisher did him with a knife in a back the day or two before the book of the first flowering was to come to the public, but he made up for that, but he did not matter because Orpheus lost his woman, at that time, and she was punished and he was punished.
Everyone was punished, and scourged and that so. And that was just the start, the start of the long journey into punishment, years of it, years of alone, isolation, rejection no sperm to give a child the air to breath, Americans laughing at him, girls laughing at him, the world laughed at Orpheus . A Certain Lord of guitars mocked and laughed at him, and sometime man who lived in a Fort punished him, and they gathered in the years to punish and thrash him, and out he went out he went out out out, like in the old days and he was scourged out and chased down the seven dead ends of time. But there was more, to come, more humiliation and so we’ll that story some other time, when you stopped crying over this one, and when there’s time to eat and sleep, and not eat and puke, and not time to go blind and have no money and be forced to eat shit, to kiss the puke of the enemy the enraged one who flew to the world strangling murdering slaughtering with his troops of maniac the Orpheus beings and becomings the songs of Orpheus and Sappho forbidding their love and murdering Eurydice and everyone dead.

______________________________

delete the The Completely Uncollected Unconscious Works of Clifford Duffy Stolen Ruined and Raped by Enemies the -- ones with the money -- stole time -- crooks that ---

And then so it was.

Said QuiT Re






He said quit revising yer own stuff! who do you










think you are? Some Sufi of
Carmina Burana! Some greatness of joy celebrated in its own need???



we cant finger this out into the in of the within the sin of the din when the longlute let go and the prepatory song was the bedtime wake and its spendthrift tare

now this is a little too



Now this is a little too much! All this lyric gushing in the late 90's how could anyone put up with it! Dryads and next thing you know juicy pulp and seeds of bracken bakers, and nomad tortured deities that dance on the head of a pin! I had to take that one back, I had not even corrected it! How spontaneous can you get, Jack!? She turned the corners of her pages, her rages making a sex pot for her flower knowing his body called across to her from the city, smelling her apple no matter how where when.



So Mona!

So Mona reads the reading of the past writing flipped in the baroque of its coarseness knowing that the Floridas of her vines are far away and that restless nights await her soul, her idiomatic black soul, with a tomahawk down its neck! A whoring roaring mouth to take up its platitudes!

So much for the mass (Sow and sow MonaJill thy genders reaping the rap of desire the multimingle sign of pleasure), in the 21 st century of our centime in the arrondissment of desire and its buckled along bellies. Not so the Mother of God and her she selves back down. Not some thief crooks stealing yer writing right off the page of this Canadian poet words on the electronic wind, not quite Homer. Not quiet Paul Celan but Clifford Duffy in his raydown socks. Some narrator, some poor self of an author barely able to scribblededo his own name on a sober check in a sober year of factories and writers.



________________________________________________

Grace was the Gaze of ..









Grace was a word that spent itself on the pavement. Night was

a word with denial. The gaze stared back then back yet again. Like the

back of the

naked woman where he peered. Over across the lips of the city.

Ulysses found a song and it was Orpheus. A singing head singing

in the rain with the stones of spring and girl's boots. Grace was Ulysses

finding the song, and praying its merit. Over the side of the ship cutting

the water the sadness of waves and bodies that leap. Lithe timber of their

skin and the nymphs song, their glistening buttocks flickering in the sun

water lapped sunshine milkiness. Ulysses was a father, a father of the

woman he wanted to love. Space was what stood between them, and the

dozen bodies of their marriage. In the willow planet of plays and traps,

trapdoors, crystal balls, magic lanterns, weird trains of childhood stuck

in the memory place. Ulysses, the father knew what he meant.

Orpheus shook his head. It fell back on his body. His body fell

down the hole, the tunnel, the burrow. Where once the sweet glades loud

and the animals turned. Tuned fit of animal vision and the spellbound lips

of cherry and apricot, pomegranate. He shook his head, trying to shake

that vision of Eurydice. She kept calling, calling him back, back there

where a look, a gaze had been left. Naturally it was his gaze left like

some mask in her face while she drowned and dragged her heels in the

forever slow space of hell. Hell was a concentration camp where she found

memories that didn't belong to her. They were the names of history and

radiant apocalyptic angels, daemons of the sky. In his body over the trees

where she spelled his name, the unknown man, the loverman, the stranger

man. With his stone gilt wood, with his stone gilt word. Never mind that

it went from womb to womb over roots that knotted bodies together across spaceplace and

crimetime. That was nothing, she cried, and Hades the bastard ripped her

clothes off, chopped her arms, torn her organs out, flayed

her skin, dancing a frenetic farandole while doing so.

He was the boss king around this place. Because dumb old Orpheus

had abandoned her with his stupid look, a look left behind his looking

back. A look left behind he had no desire (but every desire to direct) to

restrain. One order only he had been made to heed. To hell and back with

heeding he thought. She knew what he thought. She was him, she was him,

after all was said and done.

Orphee shook his knotted head again and felt his heart pound bang

bounce irregular as any heart attack about to happen victim. In the end

recondite solutions were of no use. How could he travel

back there now, with the underground rolling past his eyes? How could the

Gaze once thrown be stopped?

Orpheus stuck his finger into his ventricle and pulled it out, the

dirty nail that had crucified him. The dirty nail skewing his heart since

the time he had had to pull down the columns in Greece while Hercules

laughed, and laughed and watched. Orphee was not a god like Hercules, or

the Samson one. Just a singer with some contemplation thrown in, and some

performance experience with circus animals and a girl who used to be

called Eurydice. He had not seen her in ages. Back in Montreal (and once

in a church in Paris) in the metro walking with Sappho he had caught a

glimpse of her on the escalator. He was going up, and looking behind at some

lovely creature an adorable desire body of libido, he saw her. He was not

allowed to do that, that was the agreement. Whenever he looked back and it

was her, he was never allowed to see her. But if he did, he was dead.

Stone smash, amulet crack, relic maker - that is his body was pounded to

dust and dismembered. That was not fun, it hurt in a hurry. He

had done it (O Lycidas the fire maker) many times and lived and died

through many lives because of it. Dismembered wasn't fun. Crumbling into

cyber pieces on the ground, the morsels cut (Dionysius had taught

him how to become the glass that cut) his feet, his once lovely pards all

blistery. recalled the days - when

With flutes and timbre of voice pagan puffing cheeks tilting his

body song. But this time he looked, he looked at her again. She looked

back. At him. Eyes met and hearts wound stretched pulled over and

across the air. Then the King Shouted: banshee! maenad! shrieked!

flying nails by the hundreds, crucifying flies, withering glances, dirty

looks spitting faces screaming voices for hours bashing fists, tearing

nails until the body stopped glued to the inside of the cardboard box, and

he incarnated. Another body. One more time, and it hurt. More each time

until the spiral stopped. And he loved again, and didn't give a shit about

all these orders and gods. These goddesses and gods who pounce on the

earth domains in all their corporate murderous principalities. But he

looked this time long and hard. Hard and long he looked into the night of

her gaze eyes. Now he could not undo it, what was done was done. In the

night done of. In the spare night of her body song lip

Yes, that it was a look cost, when the escalator trapped her sigh

in the growing nights.





O See this it spares your head, but not mine.

Before the twisted moment of its intent and rings

night like a dayland of visitors and heavy lipped words

wrung by rags and hands I hand you over Judas like

to some god, or deity, or gangster style mugger

pretending to be infinite, infinite in his resources

love and justice.



She called him and laughed then. While he winked a laugh in his

divine eyes glittering through the city's narrow corridor. Paris was like

that, smelly winding alleys, close knit avenues with bodies and cars

huddling past. He went to a poetry reading near the river Seine. He saw

Villon there, Villon hugged him, saying look mon ami don't worry she's

coming back, she always does. Don't you know that by now? Villon looked

him straight in the eye with all the courage he could muster. But Mr.

Orpheus was not generally someone one looked in the eyes without great and

exceptional stamina. His head jerked back. Looking at Orpheus directly in

the eyes was not an everyday habit, no matter how much of a poet one took

one self to be, or indeed were. You took a big risk doing that. It was not

an everyday thing. After all Villon thought, he came to me with the words

and the voice. But who is he when he is himself? What is he? Even Orpheus

had problems with looking at himself, and he had Eurydice. Most of the

time, then Sappho. Sappho who carried his head for him, and his body too.

After all he was dead, at least most of the time. That was why he could

not walk in the underworld alone with the shades shining past. Wandering

past him howling, moaning moan and talk and murmur of voice switch and

time patch in the mellow moment of the dead god. And his wife out there

and only her selves holding her together in the Hades temple. Smoke

stacked like death feasts in the timeless hell. And the groups of women

who walked with her guided her, her threads running back to all time.

Space was also her mouth as she reached into the narrow space of her

escaping. Villon's head was spinning as he caught a glimpse of what was

happening inside of Orpheus' head. Looking into Orpheus gaze was not a

game one took on at any moment. Not quite like looking at the Sphinx as

Oedipus or pretending to be a snake as the bright star had, Lucifer man

with his tormented gods of many places taken over by the King god of the

One I am the one God, the jealous god of the 10 laws and their raging

tablets. Not quite, but getting there. How could he bear it? He could not,

and turned away, and Orphee and he sat down for tea. And Orpheus gazed

looked long lasted and burst into tears. The tears filled the cup, and his

cup ran over. His tears ran over the table, and ran down the floor

drowning his feet. The room looked around and saw, and looked down at his

feet. He looked up and wailed some more. The rain came then, like the

horns of plenty, a deluge. He looked down and his legs were almost covered

with water, water from his tears. He looked, Orpheus looked, he no longer

gazed, and she was there in the water speaking smile to him past the god

murderer who had heisted her that night some weeks centuries ago, captured

her. Sappho said, Hello Eurydice, Hello hello you are here. You

are here.

Eurydice looked up at her lover boy, the gaze man, and the underground

man and pulled him into her face lap, and they wandered down again to the

other place where the cops couldn't follow, and the demons could not

pester. Nor the god see. It was another trick they found for being

together. She played her guitar as they walked. He listened deep in his

tears solo wind.





Moon like a dryad dripping silver

Hand like a tulip makes you see

Knee like a dance in your sigh

Heart in the granite dug underneath .





Red the pillow where the blood

Broke the pace, still the air your

Animal lute traced .





I was the cello

Spoke back the cold,

Even you could not fathom it's bold destiny dare .

I am your hand, heart, mouth .

Seize the ringed temple now, dance the tambour

harmonica hums,

I am the dance the jolly lover that

tangles the spell of the dread dead god.





Words he heard in the rich dawn . Words hung round her

threads and pride, her stormy anger at her fingers painting zones, when

the red night came. Red of the democracy and the haunted

happy heard. Cities and taxis, couples to couple in the safe house walked

by them that afternoon. They did not notice the strange peculiar radiance

coming off the rescued liberty of Orphic Eurydice, and the Eurydicean

Orpheus.

Quiet jars of happiness surround them. In the balmy air of a

city's touch in the found ones.

-------------------
Well Mona had a few comments about that it was a little too much, a tad nineteenth century dont u think she was ringing her hands in the washer waiting for the oiler of hope and the resentful women were in her harlequin Romance. No way, she could toleratre that gerund, and Evelyn's tarty little attitude sendin her number me along for her to call 'cause she was sick. I was stuck between two plateaus! Leave me alone she cried, she circled her buttocks making the fare a name in her number.

So listen I want to write Milles Plateau I have no time for jerking around.

- - - - - - -

"all lovers are found places before encounter"
that

Wednesday, February 25, 2004

Mona had a Don Quixote and windmills roaring their arms whirled in the spinning jenny and clapped all side boards with intents and men


she had a deconstructed vulva and many mannaed Moses triballing her socks down the danubes of time . O awkward stays of rhetoric and aerodromes of connubial blossom and bliss wards filled with transom and soldier body singing home gathered by the are of is and the is of Love that allegory crowded before misty trains.


was she anxious before the afraid body of Charon and Styx was a mighty river gabbling up its tune its riverful song of revenge and rank. All sliding solider soldiers gathered on its signifiered banks, all sliding signifiers wondering outside of history and its blank down homes . Protean and portmanteau her masks were deity and denizen her body a hysterical gambling of force. Before the plateaus she was a horse. Along every eatery and cannery she was known to be sold fishes. Ducks tail and ribbed cages melting out of her mouth scraps of meat on every heap, a trisyllabic plate on every meant . A hooligan and hollow friend were not her Trent, a hollering in the moon meant she was a baleen backed whale. Was Don her scout over the ridge of the Ontos, that sexy Ontos always wandering down her tent, and gravy dripping down her side. A nobler heart never lurked by her side~! She was kicking and flying her hoosiers a mere night of propinquity and sighs! Wean me she circled to the crying sun knowin her composition was deep Space nine and none was allowed on her gallery … madness was rushing in her world everywhere… dishcloths and childrens wroth she was make and take in the bulge bible land of doubt and a gracious Madame she was . In spite of all. March on she would her head hurled upward glazed into the cloud of surfaced smooth louds in god’s basement tent song . Was she sea-faring or he-fairing was ne’er a concern across her backbone pain. Or we shall have many Monas and not one taddle fished by the swarm of her self one back.

But Hunger would call! and she would dialogue the distraction of date more obscure than any sand paper song and choosing hunger before hate she scrolled her peeps and worked her song. In the old days she knew Jill wore a camisole and batiste was her favorite but not baptism by fire or air but by kiss and hit on the hip between the hie thee hence leg (of good fortune). And all the old english was pouring past her head brains . Her limbs were limber and golded soft songs her palaver was a breast full of a mouthful. Her abode was a metaphysical tent by week and weakly was her heart a palpitating condition of yearn and pern. No retreat for the wicked and tit to lip was out of their mind minding their own business was a choice stock phrase the wine dear night and the wondering winged sunset of her butt and back~! Some email flew past her head and her hors’se was a ghost walking along the floor sliding … What was a bureau was a commode was a dresser . Jill turned and stood in her face like any elevator shaft going down. Her favorite hip was a clip in the nip and the assistant pharmacists mouth was her perfect present tense unclenched wedding preferred lip. Mouthing to mouthing. Not moulting and unmoulting bolting like some grammarian of south. South was sooth where the antidesire was resided.

A cigarette was her drouth. A dose of pain and a cigarette a drain. This was english language literature. Most sincere sweet dame a charlatan of hate and pain O literat(e)re lip of leader and long! Cry thee mercy near a plateau packed a chocbloc with memory and balking held back by the reservation of tarrier and narrative .

Near the wharf. There is an ass. A pain. That makes a thalassa in her intent. By the vowel of her body. Was a rigamoral rigadoon. Stir by the boot she was exile in the den. Her cock was a steel plate. No body was her. She body was kill. Desire to damn. Out of the plate and into the heel. Agamemnon (was)no fortitude to her glass. Her black silk wrap. Her black hair balanced on the plate her rearing high god, her tray held over the shoulder teetering balancing on
the edge of the deterritory and the reterritory. Such was the phrase of her mouth. Clipped by the robber and broken by the south. Her wound heternal blessed be our name. By body and soul. She wanted a south to house her vein to hose her [l]pain

She knew the french girl.

When Mona was Oona and she was herselves the beleivers of sheaves, she was Midland baby brown and so many readers were approximating inher lust.

-- When Mona was Oona and she was herselves the beleivers of sheaves, she was Midland baby brown and so many readers were approximating inher lust.

Here are the years of her birth, her fictions and fans, and somebody else too.

But there was more, ever fornight and yetmore for day.

But that was not all, at all, not at all the pennny arcade of .

So she teethed it and preened.
Jill came home one day having forgotten her body, she was blackmailing him with her body and her hinder harm. Not really knowing the begining was the start.

and More.

So thus
the many fictive s of Mona.

Abelablecapababable neathenorth deistmachine" , "able country doctorofBWO" , "andyhandy man engineer" , "bach andhermother daughterofgender" , "bitterbuttershrive usedtobesinbut sometimedesirewalker" , "eurydice@orpheus.com , "calmer thanyouandher kidschiz" , "clear still parniture" , "deleuze fran moona" "grass of china" , "hereader diss hereaderssthere" , "hulsen beck fantasiticprayer" , "jill franny" "laundry yers andmineshoes" , "lizzythegoodone goodfaith seenhisface" , "major domo" "mister plateau" , "mona`s home maiden made at" "mysymphony nadadaorcanadada itsthefifthmovement" , "nietzsche the one" "sinema goget waitinfermovies" , "sisterdeley frannny monasinventor" , "siter mariahunkers buttockstheos" , "sop oclees yerknees" , "usedtobe sortof influence" , "ver terr ittory"@madcap.com notatllhere@now.com somethingikeoureyes@glance.dog.com



And so on and so on it was like it used to be in the cambre of her insult the hurt of her pain in his long eyes down, the camisole of it. When he tasted her touch.

WindmIlls Roaring Monadonna

Mona had a Don Quixote and windmills roaring their arms whirled in the spinning jenny and clapped all side boards with intents and men


she had a deconstructed vulva and many mannaed Moses triballing her socks down the danubes of time . O awkward stays of rhetoric and aerodromes of connubial blossom and bliss wards filled with transom and soldier body singing home gathered by the are of is and the is of Love that allegory crowded before misty trains.


was she anxious before the afraid body of Charon and Styx was a mighty river gabbling up its tune its riverful song of revenge and rank. All sliding solider soldiers gathered on its signifiered banks, all sliding signifiers wondering outside of history and its blank down homes . Protean and portmanteau her masks were deity and denizen her body a hysterical gambling of force. Before the plateaus she was a horse. Along every eatery and cannery she was known to be sold fishes. Ducks tail and ribbed cages melting out of her mouth scraps of meat on every heap, a trisyllabic plate on every meant . A hooligan and hollow friend were not her Trent, a hollering in the moon meant she was a baleen backed whale. Was Don her scout over the ridge of the Ontos, that sexy Ontos always wandering down her tent, and gravy dripping down her side. A nobler heart never lurked by her side~! She was kicking and flying her hoosiers a mere night of propinquity and sighs! Wean me she circled to the crying sun knowin her composition was deep Space nine and none was allowed on her gallery … madness was rushing in her world everywhere… dishcloths and childrens wroth she was make and take in the bulge bible land of doubt and a gracious Madame she was . In spite of all. March on she would her head hurled upward glazed into the cloud of surfaced smooth louds in god’s basement tent song . Was she sea-faring or he-fairing was ne’er a concern across her backbone pain. Or we shall have many Monas and not one taddle fished by the swarm of her self one back.

But Hunger would call! and she would dialogue the distraction of date more obscure than any sand paper song and choosing hunger before hate she scrolled her peeps and worked her song. In the old days she knew Jill wore a camisole and batiste was her favorite but not baptism by fire or air but by kiss and hit on the hip between the hie thee hence leg (of good fortune). And all the old english was pouring past her head brains . Her limbs were limber and golded soft songs her palaver was a breast full of a mouthful. Her abode was a metaphysical tent by week and weakly was her heart a palpitating condition of yearn and pern. No retreat for the wicked and tit to lip was out of their mind minding their own business was a choice stock phrase the wine dear night and the wondering winged sunset of her butt and back~! Some email flew past her head and her hors’se was a ghost walking along the floor sliding … What was a bureau was a commode was a dresser . Jill turned and stood in her face like any elevator shaft going down. Her favorite hip was a clip in the nip and the assistant pharmacists mouth was her perfect present tense unclenched wedding preferred lip. Mouthing to mouthing. Not moulting and unmoulting bolting like some grammarian of south. South was sooth where the antidesire was resided.

A cigarette was her drouth. A dose of pain and a cigarette a drain. This was english language literature. Most sincere sweet dame a charlatan of hate and pain O literat(e)re lip of leader and long! Cry thee mercy near a plateau packed a chocbloc with memory and balking held back by the reservation of tarrier and narrative .

Near the wharf. There is an ass. A pain. That makes a thalassa in her intent. By the vowel of her body. Was a rigamoral rigadoon. Stir by the boot she was exile in the den. Her cock was a steel plate. No body was her. She body was kill. Desire to damn. Out of the plate and into the heel. Agamemnon (was)no fortitude to her glass. Her black silk wrap. Her black hair balanced on the plate her rearing high god, her tray held over the shoulder teetering balancing on
the edge of the deterritory and the reterritory. Such was the phrase of her mouth. Clipped by the robber and broken by the south. Her wound heternal blessed be our name. By body and soul. She wanted a south to house her vein to hose her [l]pain

She knew the french girl.
Mona knew not to what to believe, but that believing, was a scaffold used by players, world players who wished to dominate predominate and nominate the force of things, in their own favour. Mona wore a skirt unlike the jeaned and death-laden girls of the years 2000-01-02-03, the machine made girls tubed and machined by the phallic force of their unconscious. Their war was the war of molar against muddy, mercurial molecule versus monstrous solar molar magnitude against the becoming le deviner … something e a series of predestination that wanted to unnation, that, that Nationed wrong against right…not that she was on any side. The judgement of god was the force which made the world go on round, on that level. She was confused, there was no threat ‘facing the world,’ there was only facing that created a warning, a dire admonition of war and death. On her soil, she was a bleeding creature, she saw the night spinning, past her eye, and the cone of death everywhere the daytime light of books, the machines of undaunted horses saved a layer of truth in the beauty of desperado sediment. Tick tock of watches in outer space, so how could there be totalitarian regimes in the sky. A blink was opened in the deep word which hung on space making the humanitarian sky the real furl one. The furled fair night of voices and war not war end war war is over give the peace in the sand which staunched the days the blood. Girls wore phallic pants and jeans but didn’t know it. Hibiscus and flower head held the night, open air enthusiasm was the real god of the now, Satori in Paris was her preferred jejune posture. Sartre/Deleuze was her few Penelope & she eloped with her again over the cinema verities of the night, and the night was a young girl hanging back. Making the lone fire its still space
Betweening the nights over Janine and others between Maria Buttocks Sister of hate and doubt she mounted the stair of lilacs and shadows while the cape of sentiments was thrown around her shilling shoulders. Crying apples and oranges …the tick of the telegram the mating of science and night and she was budding the track down…sender and receiver making her mate… ellipsis of dots in the evening was her italic remember…she sees the body in the steel hunkering her … wading overwhelming her…hearing the roar of engines past the barrier the boom of sound…the roar of war planes bringing bombs and death… like any looming spectre she stood…pearl of hand before ointment of song… smile of lips her breast, her brown breast… was not so tasty as it looked… in the dots between sight and taste… she was stupidier than a rainbow and Penny was smarter if more hysterical.... where had she heard that word… before… Captain the rainbow has eyes! and she coped with it… missing the one and only and she didn’t like the ---

SiGned FelixFranny











replaced


Jill had a misplaced modifier, but was it dangling, Deleuze? was apposite not opposite whilst the subject became the object in the nude lake of her participial forest self? Something like that forgot the thought slipped past the taking of its moment
Nothing can interrupt the desire but desire itself and silence is not optative accusative blative nominative. Dangle her Deleuze whereever she spoke, misplace the descriptive adjective that made sense of nonsense and ease from ill at ease. A come apart was a place in activity in self, a substantive parlez vous, parlay vous? like that waitress whose supple body folded before my eyes her long black brown hair a flowing like she said I am the desire of your hands and mouth, your legs and bones, tight thighs like mine, buttocks like mine twist and turn yours in the suddenness of desire-death. It is a promise. Neither master nor doctor, doctor of my soul its hurting threes a pain where there once was a body a body across space navigate the achieve of it her swing sway as bending her , over the table top counter and the long black brown hair
Thus Jill in the jangle
And Mona was muttering the theological atheistical death of god and its coordinates its play and suffer between the spraining zones of her kine

and her kind is my kind
Kind goddess make her mine
for a comfort or two
a solace to get through

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

chaosparalysis

here is yer eyepatch heart. A native strung word ganged up by Joy. Mona swivel her hip gyrescope to her Henry James. Her in the Cage, a pirate putty. A ganky spoonerism. A slut to her becoming. Anass she adore

--------------------
DAy after American Poet Ginsberg Dies


Plateau/Niveau 1997: Gherasim Luca, Felix Guttari & Gilles Deleuze
on hand to meet the wandering astral body of Ginsberg.
They: Allen welcome


Its nice here no body no organs no sex no mind no poems
Its body with out disease


Its all stuttering and handsome


Allen: I knew it! I knew it! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
All thing are Holy! Including BArch Spinoza

They all kiss and embrace
. End of Niveau

Monday, February 23, 2004

Mona was about to --

about to

about

about she was about to she was she was it was it was it was It was
in the past tense, the imagined website of desire, audio files,
mp3's desire buckles, strange ornaments of shade and hue, muckers,
mewlers, old latin tags,
things, orthographic deluxe. She was special in the pasting tense of
the past of its participles and she was a grammar genius, staring at
her penis.
No Mona was reading again the chapter on Stoics and there was night
there and desire , more than she thought. She trundled to Socrates,
and waited for the homosexual hit.


From: "solitude...
Subject: Mona's literature course about D+D+G+G and the Frictions
of Jill and Franny...."


Mona is (Mona was was was always about to --) about to launch a website where you can
see all of the frictions of these last years of epistolary zooming
how who what and where went and the embedded sentences of their
escapes. How Orpheecd was Orpheus or Shem... or
breather at ... or and or and so many others you don't
remember she can't see once having lived with R.D. Laing.

Mona's book unlike Boogie's and the others was rejected by the big bad
academic publishers and so she was cast in a frown. Fili had left her
inthe lurch but she was turning and turning in the blonde cut hair of
her dye and cunt. She had a lacanian cut of the flesh that made her
capitalist needs better than nothing and she was the schiz flow of
her invention of god an eyebeam of desire or nothing.
In theold days she had been so many he could not see her name in the
stars but persistence paid off, even if insistence didn't/ Radio
territory territory radio She was Janine Macintosh who had lived at
Le Borde and forgotten, if ever had, her English and French grammar.
A tautology to end all pain with the French-Canadian girl glanced.
Desiringmachines was her favorite path.
But take those books about literature and Professor Jill.
Professor nonHamlet Miller was excluded.
and so many others. A disjunctive rejunctive synthesis was in order
along with the antiego company of others and names spread wide as an
ass and a sin.

--------------------


Still the Night Frames its Stings
rimbaudboyo

Subject: Forays from Other Groups that our Nomads have known


Here one finds a thread of a discussion, that as usual went nowhere.
Our nomads, fiction engines thriving were danced to delight, and
delight led to exhaustion!

Readers Scroll to the end for the full effect of each folding
message.


Felix Guattari the Seconde is under siege, attackers on all sides
buzzing her paranoia delimiting genders and jaws, deciding what is
who, and hare! So what shall be?? History! or herstories!! Janine
Save us! a machine to make deuces dance.
-------------
From: Boredom @K. Another ass in gaga land.
Jilly Deleuze's Nihilism Proven

Franny was tiddling her clitoris knowing this guy was about as become woman as any other weirdo, trying to make a buck, and prove a point, not a pint. Not a pint of truth to his notions.
She sighed a willow reaching its ware and software, her share ware and underwear too!



Felix Guattari the Seconde--


Your comment is such a good embodyment [person cannot spell] of this nihilism as a
projection on me, that it is almost too good to be true. Do you see that making
comments like this about others is an indication of something within yourself, or are you just completely unconscious of the necessity of
respecting the other in dialogue as a means of breaking out of what I claim as nihilism?
No
we don't . You ninny. Dialogue of that sort is for the middle class and the lazy poste-mortems and postmoderners!

Sure Said Franny I see all of that, and I couldn't care less! There is no dialogue with Morons.

If you are an example of a follower of Deleuze and Guattari, then I
rest
my case with your attitude as my primary evidence.

Thanks for proving my case, by the very way you deny it.

K P (Using his own name and thinking for himself)

-------------

It's heartening to think KP thinks for himself. As for us. we Never
do that. AS thinking is not our forte. Is it? Is it not, a forte no!
____________________________________
Felix Guattari the Seconde --verlainelefou


Franny Speaks to an Imbecile:
What are you trying to Prove ? yer own ideas? if so then yer right. Otherwise you dont know what you are speaking of.
There is NO Categorically No nihilism in the work of Jill D singular Nor with my own Guattari. What is the point of this sort of thing,it says
nothing shows nothing and means nothing. Read the Dialogues with my cousin Parnet and you will realize how silly you are being. Why waste yer time making futile and childish comments which lead nowhere. Christ go and read the guy for yerself. Badiou is a sleeper.

C Silly You think Badiou puts his finger on the nihilism of Deleuze, quite well. Deleuze has a hidden monolith behind this advocacy of difference
and heterogeniety. These are the two nihilistic extreme opposites. My
definition of Nihilism I take from Stanley Rosen in his book of the same name. Was tha the name of the Rose, said Franny as she Jilied downstairs looking at her charms and chambering the southern cross.

Mona: Well my definition I take and give from living it, and I do not care for your overly precious fascist interpretations! Never Interpret is what Daddy Deleuze always said! How does it Work.....

-----------------------------------:---------------------------------
-----------\ Note in the pseudo-identity of the addresse's
signature there are endless qualifications stating his importance!
how pimpous, pompous!

What sex, what ex what desire!

In these interventions our character, Felix Guattari the Seconde
escaped control of his maker, ran off from the Fictions of Jill,
Franny and Mona and took on his epistemological quest!

Seven Frannies in Search of an Author
-

Discourse
---------------


At Last! said Franny

At Last

At Last! said Franny . We have found a space of our own, not even a blog, but a space/ between the corporate chink chunks/ of the molar rollin' between punches and lunches lingered over by caves and slim naves women whose hair is a slave desiring a tongue and
not a waltz a walk in the yard along the plateau of fourteen-years old.


-- Shiver me timbers he was ruth and couth! Poof and Moof on the phonemes of plateaus and shy was the awkward was the mingling of dusts... she was the text...


What could Orpheus do? he lost his Mia L'Amar and the words vanished in the electronic dust of their creation, invention always being its own space, he took it in stride and danced over the roar of its loss. He recalled the L'Amar as a dance of breaths over the sung skies of magic carpet and walking dancers in the minutes and minutiae of microdots between the chitchats of ramble tag!

But then the pillars of words went, and he sighed from the invention of it, what was past.

So Orpheus so L'Amar. So Mona was crackling the sill of it, and a cup of tea did very well while she felt the delta of her discontent, but across the beaches Mia was praying her way, speeding past the night. His night cycles her day arrivals. He knew the New York of her sky was a distant dance of protection and dillydally dance O swell she said in the emails of France and the worrisomes of day. Some honorary degree of desire was her share.

But she L'Amar was also an Eve, and So Eve,

So Orpheus.

But was that all a pleat of the night harker said? was that it? No way, he said shuddering the sandals of time waiting for the corporate fist to whack! Nut case and beard bard, summer and solstice on the cluuter of benches and breath. Some movement where my time was tend and Beside that the night was straight a glance to day over castle and soul, and which soul was without a name? What hand lived without blame. Was something muttering the blank spaces, between the kitchen dogs and the New York of her sky?

Not so, So Eve So Orphee.

So well.

Franny grins big







Mona was about to Hovosexualed inthe dancer's bum her rocking buttocks she wasa woman who wasa nother one so were the buggers that blessed the meal it was winter coming time it was cold spring was longer in arriving arriviste, not invitee. no accent accent in the slit vowel..


Franny grins big and wide!

Jill demure demurely plays her curtsey up against the tide and the wall and nausea findher way to herself

she joins her buttocks her bellies
Jillwas lost her becoming memory knowing the sill of desire was reached. She fled finding memoryless days in her petal. Some crisis of the tour manufactured the shriek turned the instant into a creak she find old faces invents merit and spits in an old friend's face! a faery friend of treacherous ruin.

Not so, she wearies the moment of desire.

-----------------
Subject: Mister Franny readers

Readers are indolent!

many readers have complaints they have said we read difference not
plenty and repeat! Orpheus said there was a horn and horny of plenty
by his size six,
not so.
Jill was wandering. repeats.

Not so. there was gaps, lacunae. Some saw orthograms as
telegrammatical error, but voiition preceded chance but no matter it
was blind blurred vision from start to complete. Not complete but
paroled for the instanter of .

Scroll to always bottoms of page screens for the secrets of seconds
and returns. there were hard returns where there was no spac.e.
between even the apparent mispuncted.

Miss Puncted and Miss deterritory writhed in the night of bodies
pullulating.

Cumber the lyric saviour of gold. Nothing like that pericope .
something like that dead , 'dead' figure of rhetoric. was it not the
territory that spun the dread dracula?

o ships of Shelley and sheen of twelve year old words

O rinks of WS marked by the plague was her one year old son against
the folly of her avenue street limber down the told days of dents.
Not fans , but catchers in the cough of throat in the kindness of
sent.

will wroughting the stochastic unravel the field of lark and rank
weeds? not so.



J : we cannot breathe

G: no wonder.



So move closer to the schizoanalytic as she shivers in her
nonsenseable s tongues dogtied nor hogrided.

Jill and Mona in chorus


Rimbaudboyo is my lover of choice and desire. Sistermary buttocks
was the choosing of song. After the show, she said to me, the next
day, I went hope and masturbated. Years prior we had taken the
Tuesday afternoon lectures. Yes, it was glorious wild smoke filled
wondrous.



Mona said she was laying the bareback pages of a novel called
Antioedipus part one we had better eat our machines and mate our
desires not machined by the segment of trees. A hand in the wind/
was screech in the sudden blanket of the breeze. Pierrelefou knew it
was rattle the cage and mute the mother.

not so, saith Lambour@yellowshowsloveodes.co

What speaketh yerdreaded whiskey-batch?can speaksso rain? Not
yet'errr! okiedokie poke! she raddled squeaked her vagina sequence
o'er page and paddle. bad boy. she was mumrummed lake and rummaged
by the erupt of honeymoon. No way

sat out Miss Mona and her strata was an Mp3 player not a loaded
default line in the cupboard.
frantic franny returned from school that day with a painter's
wardrobe and .Catastrophe was at bay for a time and good on her!

It's time to decide Friday of Chinese baloons and rackets in the
slumber. Not slumber saidOrpheus but necking in the woods. Acorns to
be found,

or othering hobby-hats.What of the soot, don't worry that, we can
afford more for the other things like dimes, nickles and showers for
your bedstead. Some

unconscious language was speaked chattered



List O ghost of plasters and father!

Listee o ye wicked ones if yer eyeballs are two then you are true.
Sucked a dandelion up before noon.

Sprocket to the echo. something as shout. agirdle a drindl dress.
some Emma goldman feature. not a silent movie of mute & dumb done
witness of. the baroque pedals and pedlars of fit and tomorrow
fortune. Majestic sails of the air in the aft! summons the triumph
of tomorrow and mellows the afterglance. A tangent of pressmates and
gallow women anointing the frotteur and frills between the buttocks
of Carmelo the oafo, the oafa! replied Mona learning back to back
was besters. galloping trance!



Then JDeleouse call her friend becoming GFradomaine and her nanny.
Not yet, not yet, it was dial a tone.

Itwas here in this space of joined she saw no nape knowing silencer
was but a choice of weak and willow. Not willowy in the trenches of.
ark speak. not so. in the break. grape. o sooth.

Said Eco student I was cartographic in the main humdingering the
stelae of London. Not a forth to become.

Sunday, February 22, 2004

Mona was Jack 's cousin and knew godhead and love. She was homosexualed, in the pedigree of bodies and more. More or less. Crossed

Mona was


Mona was Jack S's cousin and knew godhead and love. She was homosexualed, in the pedigree of bodies and more. More or less. Crossed by the time. Not making the vent, an event of pub, the desire to be seen, or was that an object of radio, Or a petit objet a, or as she said once to Franny, She is a petii Sujet Ababaab. And that is feet not rhymes. Were rhymes the salamander of her salmon, was Anna banana in the ramadan of lime? She said No, I know, I no and I no, I yes, the time of scrap book. Poet in American on hill tree top shall make thunders thy racket.

Mona married Rimbaud when she was 17. She had sex and took ---- in her mouth and then played trumpet. A pet to peeve the putty of his grand desire his coloured sphinx of a hair. No one was interested except Carol somebody or other when she, Mona, I mean MonaFrannyJill was beckoning teenager becoming. With a body like lissome o the jewels. Not to be accepted is best, thy works grow like toadstools and work their melanctha way back forth and more. Can we be Irish at the same time, why celerity we can she replies holding her rose, or rather pretending to hold her rose, but readying inthe meanwhile to blow her nose.

Mona knew to be the case 'cause you see she had a body the body had entered Hubert Selby and Elivis Presley and she, or they had walked down Seventh avenue together not hearing the washing machine knock on the door. The door! You recall the saltimbanques and how we mustered our forces that day tracking along the nights of the snowy wastes! we were soldiers then peddling our wares with Kant and other nobles. We had played playboys to the western world with all its riveting songs.

Jut. Yer chin. Then shake the oasis.

Just remember baby, you married your mother, then me, and we was lovers.

So spoke the jewels in the Saturn of her back.

Meanwhile in English prose
we were moving
a contraction
next to a pipe and a tan hollow space of justiification, relief and emptiness on the Sunday afternoons at the beach. Gavorting we spread the sheets suggested the pags alter their place, made the squires turn 'down their noses' and held the Sunday coffee off til the afternoon, and somebody called that composition! Imagine that somebody or other doing such a thing. Doing it, I mean, doing it. A thing verb muddling along on the mawkish day.

So then Franny I want to write the section called Disjunctive Synthesis. Good Guattari said, Ok Jilly come here I need to kisswhisper something in your ear, and not be an American. Madame-become-Woman Deleuze held her skirts and sneezed! Several Fictions or One... tracks on the spine of desire leave radios on in the night.

Peace be with you my love, my beloved my only one.
hahahahahah ThinkIng Boys and GirlSssss of PublIshing... Let me say this I suspect its easier to git publicked as a academic than a poet

Here is what you read where'er you go. Now/ this is Not Bad./It simply Means go yer Own Way

Doant wait for SOme Imaginary Perkins Publicker or what Not Grovers Press or some Small Macro Micro pUblisher to do yer favourSzzzzzzzzzzz for yaaaaaaaaaaaassssssssss

Tis all coteries stuff and that is good

Look athis sAmple from a Lovely Groupo In England

barque publishes experimental poetry and prose, mostly in chapbook and other ephemeral forms. we do NOT accept unsolicited manuscripts -- we do not read or return any which are sent to us. sorry.
Barque Press
Andrea Brady & Keston Sutherland
13 Heathfield Park, Flat 2
London NW2 5JE ENGLAND
info@barquepress.com


nOW u wILL nOTE sAID moAN THE dANCER To me . they do say they publish. but please NO SOLITICITING. which fits with Our theory, right Mona, said Jill
Publishers dont want Poets cause Poets are Whores and Publishers are PimpS!!

O dear its the Publishing Racket!!


Thank goodnes, my word, for the web, and other sundry Items! Said Franny!!

Peace and Love, and Potatoes..... Franny's old signature.

Love

One day Mona married a mugger into her heart at the altar of cities at day break and the pavemnent of poverty the monks sang their song. Silence the power of truth kingdom of mother and child.

Some days were lagger than others.

Other microsenders were worrying the glory of the disjunction and the rattled teams of the nomad machine mother the coffee gulpers and the whisper wanders. She was my mother and lover and can be a no other to me in the tear of my heart at the coffin bray.

Some solace performance of theatre was her hot bed of joy a sick rose pulled up before the great critic's death, and his frightening throes.

"In part two of the performance of Ted Hughes and Jeff Nutall we learn a novel poetic truth. To wit, that the quanta of poetry is limited, and that limits are make what is is and worth worthy, but one of the poets denies this And, the Other derides a generation of wankers , and yields his soul to heaven. Upon arriving at the pearly gates, he is greeted by one Ezra Pound (Father, Helper of poets, Fascist, Idealist etc.etc.) and Tristan Tzara (Jew Communist Marxist whatever Dada drummer poet of the grand style). Hovering in the shadows are thousands. Poets, would be poets, and whatnot, wankers, shaggers, mother fuckers, shit faces and an infinite array of phonies, Englishmen, ratsasses, two bit scholars, minor drunks, major horse shiters, sick translators, and the list goes one, one can imagine, forever, and lastly (O adverbial!) one must not forget George Bernard Shaw there to greet these Germans of the soul, these poets of the dead. One thing is certain there are living beings there, whereas are raspy sounding, and hateful bloodsuckers. Eliot, the old possum, happy only in his later years, sneers at Hughes as if to say, you fool , I told it was a mug's game. Then the voice of the American tart Plath screeches some howlingly bad poem, Mummy Mummy you bitch I am dead! I am dead. What shit greets the dead as they rise from their corpses to greet the underworld of their own loved and hated dead, dread death. En attendant, Jeff the horn player, the snagger of hoppity verses, wheels his corpse into full view awaiting the tenderness of his death. Hundreds of his children, Albion! Albion! pray for him waiting for Poetry to free their name, to bee a true poem himselves the feelers of fire."

All emotive squeezed out from the repressed its return and revenge! Skull bones! Crosses! Masses! the horror of beauty!
Rhetoric of division! imitators of squalid!
Lids of love fluting along
the nose
rapturing at the prose the sentence the sex



Shall sunder the crying thunder of its bread.

Saturday, February 21, 2004

Mona is recovering a text, a found text by Orpheus in the blues speak. That is what you are reading reader, a poetic trance in its entrancing. A speak over the wheels of night and words.
-----------------

Stone
Later when the dark went down, She met him again. She gave him a stone, a stone she had sucked in her mouth. They spoke the name together it was a chord in the sun then. She had lifted him up without knowing. Then the words sang rang with the first toll of the breath she gave him. Of the turning she made him. It was the father dead behind the ruins which had made the pain burst, so when the father walked and woke, they went to the mother, she had found them first. So he spoke the name with her, she spoke the name with he. They wandered over the paddling brooks light feet snatching over stones like metres and musics. She had come back from a dead, her dead was no worse or better than his in the end. He smiled back at her over the ether and the astral spaces which separated thousands of them apart, as they were separate. He smiled over the wind and the sea birds when the night spoke and the albatross fell away.
She-he spoke in the first day of the second hour on the first Sabbath and they were blessed across so many fars.
Wheat fields greeted their final meeting, it was their first.
There had never been a quarrel between two silences, there could have like wise been no quarrel between Eurydice and Orpheus.


1997

it was called humilation Rimbaud

It was called humilation Rimbaud!

lettre de la soeur Isabelle. Not a real letter, but a fictional thing, dangling in front of the desire called death. Who wrote the working words that made its intent , so strong so long, so belong and longlonely? Not so was the Irish tent from which she deceased.



"Rimbaud, tu veux lamour , j ' en ai pein d'amour pour toi, avec le chapeau, mai j'avai oublie le meurtre de mon soeur dans le coeur de mon pere.. Alors c'est l'amour . Non, c'est la haine. Marche comme moi lecture, comme toi, mon amour tu sais que c'est vrai, j'ai tes ombres dans mon main."

somwhow Rimabud you must blossom that heart of yer trip to the Africas into the merry metamorphosis of the twenties and it will beyer heart to sing the Ouimetoscope of Ardennes, et les forets de ton amour propre. Not so like a bourgeois mais comme moi et toi lecture de cette coeur enviable...


verlaine never saw Isabelle the drunken sod never went to A.A. and he could not exist before its ontology existed, he was not the one to save My Poor Arthur. So many false sentiments, a little psychosis. a little nerve, a little never. nothing, a wee nothing of words repressed and bought back

Isabelle.


was her boy friend at the end of a sentence



and found it there at the end of a subject


Now Jill was certain this was a sexual rapport a hidden catholic incest between things between the buttons as it were of button down shoes and nasty news
and awful asses of women
breaking yer pace to take control of the street


some sex was desirable over loneliness which led to broken legs and crucified cancers

Friday, February 20, 2004

One Day in the~

One day, in the night, between the teeth of buttons and sheets, as dusk was coming down like a tent crowding over the whole sky, Mona got an email. It was yet another fiction in the friction of beings-becomings body. She replied and plied as thus:

Like thee I am a writer not an author. How shall I say my names are many. "I" have had so many pseudonyms I cannot recal them all, but should a ... then we shall. or we will before. O! those modals!!

So how goes ti. Jill saw there were lies in the teeth.
We are busy Having had dangerous idealism for lunch.
as usual with the life roar and some other matters
John Protevi has done some good work with deleuze an guattari as has Keith Ansell Pearson with Deleuze the Difference Engineer.

Havin her territory deterritory she was absolute reterritory and not territory and she was not a Tory either, but either was neither and she was Both and And.

I am working on some other texts these days. THis was ordered by the author function who said we Must Eat!
So send yer book review

the author loves to read!


________________
a dialectic a day keeps the doctor away and I dont mean Doctor Deleuze
I mean
that other doctor
with the pretty blue
eyes
and her name
is Deconstruction
and the nefarious dangers of
morality
O dear
when one line of flight dances
to the tune of art
then philos wi
ll
hump and jump in the river
to die
and
when we show
our Pic of Del. Dr. and Franny do
ing the funkee thing
we shall
see
all modals
are folds.

With pieces of love and other.

Verlaine becoming mother.


The BwO is desire; it is that which one desires and by which one desires. And not only because it is the plane of consistency or the field of immanence of desire. Even when it falls into the void of too-sudden destra-tification

Deterritory:Verlainelefou: write s the Magic words of Desire and Immanence while invisibly quoting the coat of texts~~~

On courtly love, and its radical immanence rejecting both religious transcendence and hedonist exteriority, see Rene Nelli, L'erotique des troubadours (Paris: Union Generate d'Editions, 1974), in particular, vol. 1, pp. 267, 316,358, and 370, and vol. 2, pp. 47, 53, and 75. (Also vol. l, p. 128: one of the major differences between chivalric love and courtly love is that for "knights the valor by which one merits love is always external to love," whereas in the system of courtly love, the test is essentially internal to love; war valor is replaced by "senti­mental heroism." This is a mutation in the war machine.)



So many links and rings

So many links and rings rhizomes around the collar in the colour the velour of her tour the two half beasts missing their Other Parts were still a mused a missed by the shamble alogdown hogways of time,
its petty theft and love.

Franny was more frustrated than a fire hydrant and a hyaline one at that! she didn't know a link from a blaster atom, so instead of doing the fancy footwork she decided to put her links right here and now in the connections of the Fictions.

Ladies and Gentlemen! these are Links and Loops of JoY FerVour and VeLour DesiRe We are New Cyber Poetsspots in the age!!ssssssssssssssssssssssssss


Verlainelefou who lives in a trou! a trousers for to go achoo! in a black hole when it's not a Sunday.

WHo is the author's closest companion and friend.


Now due to Mona's current inability to recreate the effects of the past layout from wordperfect to word to blogspace of the fictions leaves unfolding she sends an old text of her Orpheus self.
_______________________________________________________________________________________

From: Orpheus
In those....//

Fictions of ....//
In those days Orpheus had never seen his lover. She was death as
it spoke the wheels of moon and sun. As it went down dark and she was the
lights at the end of tunnel and it was Eurydice who had said she loved
him with her figures so floating and standing. So he said, I am the gender
which passes. Past the night of figure and fragment past the fragment
which was a whole and is now a part; O Part part machine and desire of
which are you, oh sentence oh lover. He never saw his lover. They never
met she was not the night of space between the sheets of beds where lovers
woke. Letters flew in their stead. Some ghost rollicked their beds some
ghost distance - never having seen how could they hurt, how could they be
coiled against the precious night of something and more like that. Grammar
escaping each time. She met, and so did he and she left again heading for
the plane. But what was there to say, when the face that was a mask was a
face before preface and endowment of bodily desire? Was there to say
anything except old love, trying to retreat itself? Then the niveaus
flattened down and SheHe could do no harm.

Jill said: First you lose your pronouns.

Then you lose your grammar.

Then you lose your body

and mind.

After finding them call me, and please make an appointment.

I need to see students when I am territorialized.

Okay, she said. I am her . I am him. So grammar got left

before pronouns did. Or something. Like that.
Then when you have seen how the logic of sense is like the logique
of desire, I shall introduce you to the phantom of shadow and mix. Got
that, she said. I am the becoming telegraph of your woman self.


Five minutes later the telephone rang. It was Franny, she said: I
need a revolution and bad. Okay so let us meet and rhizome the whole
thing. Okay? remember Isabelle, remember The Moment we prayed by the river
for an atheist rain?? They thought I was something. I was not. I was not
anything that close.
Jill said “Listen I dont want to write that book while I am
drinkign anymore. I want to know I am really there... my subject loss is
getting serious….”

Then Mona walked in and said: Orpheus I love you. I want you to
double-bind with me while I disarticulate a plateau, I am sticking into a
plateau again. She means she has no space in which to rove or flow anymore
than a minute at a time. things get very fast and sparse down here. So I
see you have a flattery machine going again. October must be love. Love
for you and me of strangers and other lover friends that meet and not.
Orpheus was Mother. Of all desire with a D. Okay. Okay she said. I
am him, the photocopy of your love. No way. Yes, way. It goes the way it
goes. No way. No way.
Jill writes. I can't finish the book there are too many holes in my
way. All that counter-transfer is getting on my nerves. Mona says, Yes.
Yes speak to me my never never nerves are ‘bad.’ Tomorrow never comes. She
said. And came in his mouth. No way. Remember the Links Between Day and
Desire. And that day was something, something. Take a thing, a thing
microdot, blastula, anything. Where the covers lead. When I am your body we
always make love. Love. Take a thing. A thing, anything.

Fictions of Deleuze/Guattari & Orpheus


So Mona whispered I am him when I am myself a picture on a wall
beside books which whisper hooks and desire. Oh scholar of schizo-whirls
and Blakean dream warmth. Like a silver plaster before a columnar hate. Or
a speaking sign before the index of revolution. And the surplus of desire
shall be the plateau of amazement. And so your content will be an
expression and your nerves will always be the fragile health of the smoker
and the man with kidney disease. And the child will be the birth of
Miranda. And the May 68 will peel and purl over autumn and fall and
Orpheus knows Sappho when the carriage makes it way. And DeSade falls on
the street finally understanding Pascal's wager, and God will not be let
in the back door because I am Jesus Christ Deleuze dying for all your sins
of schizophrenia and more, and the night will be immaculate by your
celibate chastity belts and the machine spits out more. As Mona meets me
in the hotel and we are poor and we scrap out the fleas which this Paris
hotel this flea bag hotel has greeted us with. Yes I am God some of your
time when I am not slipping into the false drunkenness of the street. And
it ten thousand machines. And Father Lacan will not beat the drum once
again with his mathesis of material wellbeing again and again and your
lips sing by shores and lips. Like my cunt and its cell bound boats where
men come to play and lift their mythical games and the full fullest body
is my sharing name and the Jill that I was becomes the moan that you are
between the c and d of the gender that passes between the finest intensity
you can imagine and I am Professor Nietzsche at Sils Maria and the silence
is the silence is more like that moment when he stepped off the edge into
the future that is always returning always making my way easier and So
I Artaud have no mother even though the Dada could do all the Voices and
I do the Poets in different Voices and I am part of the Beat hotel when
your lips are kissing me like any junky's lips meeting her lover's in
the space of between and limit O my lover.



She saw

it was the edge where the
allegory

was and there


was No-Body.


___________________________________________________________________________________

Now the lay-out in that last part of the "original" is less than satisfactory, but we'll go with it anyhow. An unconcsious factory of making and filters, not filter coffee but the tongue of her Park Avenue apartment and the girl wanted to go back to the Bible.

O sing low O sing high sweet chariot!

Of Franny and Mona
on their ways along the waist of its mackled desire.



Fictions of Jill D and Franny G and Mona
Written by the Author is Not Dead in 1997.


Thursday, February 19, 2004

_Glimmer

Shimmer in the night she said to Jill creaked by the day another dog night. It was not welfare that kept Franny going but love. Love and hate and its friends, the philosophemes of desire untangled by the airy nights, the hills and breasts, and the tracking down of tygers sent to their cement. The frolic play of madcap and the studied of desire. One repeated the word, a thousand times, and then some, thou sand thou sand thou and S.
In this newer episode of the episteme the harlequinade continues with the introduction of Orpheus as a separate voice, a voice whose ship sails difference directions. And yes, reader, We did say difference directions and not just different. Because what is love, if not difference, the difference that makes a repetition a petition, a glance away today , the immanence of the earth , its miracle, its apocalypse.

So Hail! Orpheus and other natty narrators and rueful stillers of cities. The opera of desire begins again again, the lorgnette of love in their fingers foces shelves to dream, reverie . Space between the vowel s. Space that cannot be. A mind not under stood
but a heart that stood.
new changes from the dance doctor Franny and Jill make the race!

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

Orpheus was dying but the girl didn’t know that, how could she have in her spinning and his dying away in the cyber electronic world of death and cigarettes. His body, such of it was, dying. Lack of body arms around his created the bracelet of death, the teeth of the earth mother wanting her revenged. On bus, in metros, a year he lived and more, in fear to go O nowhere and be a bleeding man more than past the halfway port. And her garden gone her valley of love soaked leaves, and the Garden were gone, was away from his, no offer there, the Gadarene swine had ripped them up, (their name is legion will steal love from us) chopped chopped him to bits bits and fits shreds of bittering bits the morsels of dogs, in the city of looks and glances no lover his, no friend of the heart, (fiends and demons jumped out everywhere a kind contemporary gargoyle night maze of panic, pain and trouble vice and voices from the world over) and the eyes going spotty , how could he now, and youth had passed, and then the great temptation came the great jinx to death him down into his crappy state of being. Was that lyric , or was that lyrical, knowing the spaces she lived in was so far from his breathing and his death sense more so each day, a death would be a release, for what did this Woman know of his suffering , she who had said, I wish I had been your mother as he lay away in her arms, I wish I had brought you up, but no one brought him up, death brought him up, forcing him, always since childhood to what he was not. He lost control of bits of his body at first knowing that the only option, death was fast becoming the stead of his impossible to find home. No forging on the plains would do. He loved her, and that was a death, a good one or bad one depending on the breath. And death got closer each day, every moment alone, a solitude of death made punishment, a dead old god haunting his cause, a cross fabricated by others turned his sense of the divine and the spiritual into a sense of hell is a farce we all get to act out. A dead god pleating his threads.
Then suicide or the jumping became, a drowned in the river, the river bed, rocks and mud under its pulling shores, the shit silt of not so Romantic, once on the bridge with the razors, readied, he was ready, but the turning back came, but it yes, it self-death became his name in the dry dead bone of unhappiness and nothing nowhere to go, and then years on the road trundled his Ulyssean self past in the wheel barrow of death, and capitalism like drug addiction, alcoholism and communism, in the end the Isms were all the rotten founding rock of his death, and theirs too.

So he sang So he prayed past the hubcaps of the night,
but she was somewhere billowed in the death of her own choice.
Was love the force to break the chains that held them, and eluded their happiness from there, even in the moment of its greatest realization?

She held the sea by the clatter of stone. So perhaps he asked for life and got death in the teeth in its place a kick in the teeth for loving. Loving loving and loving ready to die. Of it. Sacrifice and the blood of his heart hallucination that day when he saw her name written across he knew what that was, that was Love.

and so it was on the fourth time of their encounter
but the lines of flight were also preparing, the lines of flight of their love, their union.. Happiness and joy were yet to be his friends, that was not clear or obvious in the scheme of verdant pain, and who said a poet could not use adjectives in his death


So he sang her, her voice and bottom of her being her becomings.

He sang and dyed in the dying of it.

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

act of bloggin is a further fictionalization

Mona went and read all this and ripped out the page. There was hue.




Clarifications


In this blog the act of bloggin is a further fictionalization and a twisting inward of the form, the dance of form pressed against its shape in the diamond night.

Dates and archives are not necessarily
sequential , but order finds its own space in the nodes of the texts, as each unfolds, or unravels between the buttons of its metaphor, its metamorphosis.


Regards, the Author.
The arthur of her buttocks and spleen, her kettle and drum, dumdumdrrrrrrrrrrrrrum,dum.
Jill knew the future was in the past, and the past the future, of the gully of the billow wave, and her hands broken at my plate. She turned the corner of her page, and saw the dunning down of the sun and suicide. It was not like that, s.o.s. signal from the gift of the flamning barrel of the sky, and the traps and ticks, the rickets of desire and its crumbled bodies plural. Like Mona always said your bodies were yours, when they were yours. Round and round the lips drain we go. Not like Oedipus, nor comme Orpheus but something like the southern disjunction of streak and night. Inside the plateau where she shot her bolt, it was nadir and timber the tender run. A broken voice in the telephone He stuttered the jamboree of thighs clambers the night rollicks what's left of his little cone head, a microscope of Paris and death, along the Seine river.
Hear the creaking of the stratas, the Judgment of God and Man, Heliotropics and Heliogabolus, the way of surrender is the way to win loser takes all the existential
and the essential have and being the having of being, and Bean the Nothingness was the Song of Allegory in her crunch truck. Oh, all the trucks of your dreams when you walked the wild hotel of lost cities metropolises and death by night. Could not the pain of love be a badge of god's award. But God was dead, may it rest in peace, in pieces along the humour of her smile, and whoever she was. Infnite was the told of her song,
and her hands
and her walking legs
in the dew donned night with the cap down the head of her heart the wild one the Irish girl of her loves and lies

He never left her, he only moved a space away for a time to save her life, to save his life, to redeem what might of future they could have in the future of love and its great vestments


O bride of mine in the night
O voice of my self
O hand of this heel

Sang the busted silence of his voice, hoarse with its definite death of self. An Abelard of love wringing his heart's juice in the pages and rages, wringing his heart's blood over the spilled years of his love, for her, for her, and his fear , his fear of the deaths it could bring, so he left, runninng to save what could , what salvageable part of the future might be.

And Jill saw his pllight as Mona, spun by his many gender changes of death and life, wracked his guts. Waited. Prayed. Parried the death thoughts that haunted his house. Mona was a man a woman becoming talking between the nights and death.
and there were other postings behind the more of the present.


Fanny flittered in her famine, unvoiced and reshined an old postin' in the pistin' of its heartclerk.

___________________________________

Subject: Biographical ‘Pages’ ad[ied]itio


Yikes! More Good Book
Take any other window said Franny that night before Jill thought
of the wind pass [age] :::: Spinoza was there to greet him:at the window
ledge
the WindHover: Baruch: It speaks and sings her
love as she waysails
d
o
w
n
through the sails of her desire to meet up with the
‘other’ Girls __________________girls in Paris where the wind sang,
and bagpipes played, or computers
matched and others slept._______________ And girls became boys in
their Walk ; her legs like Forks High Buttocked in the
Pinioned Wind of Cold: A youngish kind of Colt:
Hiefer and the nights were Young: Jill turned off the pages and
found the soothing thoughts of whirl pins and desires: what writers write
‘happens.’ Hamlet: Seems, Madam, I know not Seems, It is. I am the
seducer of the purveyed Eye that is Nothing but your death. I shall sing
all the nights you have shelled my disjunctions:
____________ And besides
that when the boy and
the body deterritorialized there was nothing left to see except wind dust
particles light motes moats of (Gherasim was stuttering A B C staggering
engineer of the handy andy walk around the walls of the Living room then.
and Daniel said: Papa I ain’t got no Home, I ain’t got no Home, I’m a
lonely boy, and I only got a Rhizome, I ain’t got no Sister, I ain’t got
No Brrruudddrrr; I got china and the grass that is way over my head, and
then Orpheus shouted back to Jill: Bring me more sin more sin I am Nicolas
de Cusa’s Daughter, not Nietzsche’s daughter, Mrs. Porter and her father
they wash their feet in iambic waters ___________________________
knights in bed with quick sand and bodies without organs
all over the
place they were cutting and kinking down all the muddy rivers and there
was hegel screaming give me back my sun and god saying give me back my
dance and shouting give me back my tabernacle and parisians shrieking give
me back my tabacs and other Other petit petty objet a’s’ squeezin’ their
ways into a form called shape and then the night was worn away as the
broken language pieces of their cousins and Franny could not eat anymore
as she was having a heart attack at the border where all spaces grew
in time and so it was and the ruins of the castle fort were the same as
the void and the children had necklaces around their necks and the verb
was a plural dissent and the men in robes wanted mental, full mental
consent, as well and with that style they could guarantee their fascist
metal and keep their yayas down
{Word}: And Jill coughed once again and that was the time she knew she was
going down fast, no matter how much becoming woman she became; and thought
was lost on her then. So Franny called Mona. Mona came over quickseeing
the deadbody of the particles onthe floor and there was the narrative in
its usal trippy shape. She wanted a search for a method, and instead
therewas another deadhumanisn. She wished then she could see ray like
through the skies of intent and body bone lovers.

_____Plateau 120 1991______________________________________________

{Gest:} Jill didnt really want her otiobiographeme to be about D.,
and the Cynics, but to be about Lovers who wank alone while slipping
through the pages of say her fifth book ... by her and Frany G. Or about
triads (with a little saucy hegelian dialectics thrown in for good
measure) and triangles and lonely skidooers between the tracks of
rail road cars. And other third world countries of welfare recipients,
alcoholics, 24 year old girls who say they love you on the way to work.
That would have been a Biography! Anything but that!____ Give me a
Ficciones anyday. ANyday of night or rhyme in the planes of telephone
desiring machines a coudre.____________________________________

{Face:} To have had her sex displayed on a counter for all the
world to see was of no interest to her at all. To have had a lover who was
famous was of no interest to him. He left university to become a teacher
south of Paris in 1961. Michel helped him to do that. Later they did not
speak, and he was a supporter of the P.L.O along with Jean Genet. Michel
could not to do that, he had had problems with that. Meanwhile Franny was
talking to strangers on the street about machinic assemblages, and
transversal cutting of abstract machines and other rhizos. She Mona,
did not really want her biography to be published. Jill said, why read a
biography of Deleuze when you can write one. You know I am okay, and he
loves you who, why bother with all this stuff. Claire knows everything
that went on when we lovers and waiting for the world to end, we were sure
we could see visions of Genet and the rest of the third world galloping
through the Champs Elysee wild cowboys and African goddesses trampling the
statue of Reason to pieces.__________________ And what solacecould that
offer?____________________________________ Piece No.18 1902.Dementiadada.
___________ Mona knew that Jill and Fanny were dead. But she wanted to read a
story, something about a war machine or some kind of dead man. Jill was
alone like the night of hazards was, when the suicide came rumbling down
like a truck on his head. Jill was always the naughty girl of her dreams.
Jill was herself when she was other. Other than her self was her other
self on the edge of democracy and drama. Jill began to write her thesis
when she was five. She had a vision of tennis players and matched doubles,
mixed arcane doubles of thoughts and visions of Borges and Shakespeare the
great hidden influence of her cunt when she was a youngish and frisky
philosopher. So that is when she first met Franny Guattari and they read
Ginsberg together. They were nine years old. That was when Jill was
forgetting her already learned latin, her high latin and church latin and
her pig latin too! Pierre (who was Franny and Fanny and frantic) taught
him how to do that to forget and to read and to adore the back of the
woman he loved. So they made up their first assembling machine that day,
long before they even had met. They met, or rather encountered many years
later when the May 68 revolution almost changed the course (and the
intercourse) of history. Instead what they got was a discourse instead,
but that was okay, they needed a discourse and someone to do it. And Michel
was fine in his Foucault way, and his labyrinthine passions. Then there
was the old man of the eye and the sea of his totalities in his passion
for existence versus essence. SO that was how it went, sometime back then
in the late 50’s while others read Lacan and Freud they read the clouds
the wind the summer sense of the sky. And night was a great offering they
had read. ___________Gesture and Icon Here________ The Hands HEld High______
__The Years of______________Winter____Plateau 1988______
But in those days it came to Pass that:

(LOVERS) something stopped the process and the agencement escaped
the utterance of her death and her detailed wandering in the fifth
arrondisement. She was a book reader, not a writer after all. Even though
she had a repetition compulsion and her desire was wanderlust and she
liked to think she was “becoming” wild and free like an Orchid. Something
like that. She said to him one day desire with me always wanders, but that
was not it either. That was not it either: no siree Mister AntiOedipus,no
siree. Carves the metal moment of its verb and shatters the sound.
The phone “rang.” “It” was Jack and Mona saying Jill come out and
play, we love you. “We love you, we love” you. And the person was pronoun
that had run away from its sense, all paradises’ long gone, all Didos’s
and Virgils in the runaway moment of its anxious influence.


One cannot confuse a repetition with a key change, a difference in its dawning. And juxtaposition was the break of the line of flight which made sense and wrote backwards into the sunset.