Wednesday, March 31, 2004

welcome to thee and thou goodbye 2000 plateaus and one

Welcome to the world Jill, Franny and Mona. A space of becoming and multiplicity, a desire-machine opening doors (deterritorializing) and closing (reterritorializing) them. These fictions are the work

missed moi-soi-meme sememe missed massives missives


refired texts ...turn a man to woman, a woman-becoming happen in a text becoming a space of Event and desire, assemblage of nomad spaces and striated times... poet stutters in desire, language stammers, a real communism of desire happens, takes place, the Event. The wound we were born to bear, with love to bear it, to take it to heart.

the goodby and repeat Difference




Wel.....a. A space of becoming an......d multipl......ty, a desire-machine opening doors ...eterri....torializin and closing reterritoria.....lizing them. These fictions are the work of poet Orpheus cdrom. Orpheus w...the "author" two books of poetry, performance poetDo enjoy Do ENjoY yer JoY IntoExcert:

these inspirefired texts retuyrn man into a woman, to make a woman-becoming happen in a text becoming a space of Event and desire, the assemblage of nomad spaces and striated times. A poet stutters in desire, language stammers, a real communism of desire happens, takes place, the Event. The wound we were born to bear, with love to bear it, to take it to heart.


goodbye Orpheus said to the sun and moon and the milleniums rolled in her eyes, she was making the space grow larger.



not a literalism but a freedome of .

Sunday, March 28, 2004

: Mona Gallops

Mona galloped 'back into Town.' "Suddenly" she was Bakhtinian
logic gone beserk haywire carnivalesque smooth bodies that mentioned the motion of the moment. And other dialectial gyrospcopes and monads.

A misplaced sememe say or an escaped morpheme as in words which
sttttuuuuuuttttered about the mouth cavity and never 'got out.' That, was the logic of sense 'at times.' What happens then when everything one said became a matter of single quotes? Or double quotes, or miracle moats, spendid rhymes which never made 'sense.' As in the logical positivism of.
Or fragment boat.
Franny wrote her own pieces and sometimes Deleuze didn't like
that. She was so caught up in her own sibling rivalry anxiety of
influence how could she know her name as author and other self other if there were other authors? Thus the double schizophrenic indemnity of her authorial clause. Now one might ask what is the authorial clause? If the author is'dead' does that mean the writer is living? If god is dead, then god is alive and it follows like the day follows the seasons that the writer is alive and so is the author whether she be male or female. Ah.
that old f-e-mail question. Mona wore galloping f-e-mail as she was trying to work out the Romance business of; She was trying to work out the Romance genre; what does it mean to be a Romantic genre type character?
What does it mean to be a serialized episodic 'character?'
Jill called Deleuze and said: Become woman. Memories of a Woman
becoming man. Man becoming woman man.


become as in the spinning wheels of karma not auto-mobile or
the suturing blessures of rot as with apples that rot and guts which
rotted with all the milk of single kind days and not understanding and the
faith that is understanding in the standing of the moment of times square
as it rounds itself off in the hypotenuse o

Franny called Jill saying I am the translator of memory and desire
I am the plateau which chilled past the place the philo stole
And how you stole the factory of students in the death of the ear
and the child Rimbaud puffed past the sails
and the letter broke bespoke in the similar simile song

she wore her letters like a name imprinted on the body zone


************************** from Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari.

More of Mona and Jill Franny and others available at a web site
soon, 'near you' 'coming soon.' ALl cost publishing and other author's
rights waved and not waived as in the rhyming couplets of day. Or xerox
baby how you broke my heart. and everything is under control. Everything
is under contrition.

Saturday, March 27, 2004

Mona was

Mona was homaging and the night hung along like filters of her hair her lip was a seal of deaf no mind will free the word Dido cannot come to speak at the speech tomb

She homages other, poets, cannot homage themselves, the soul of inspiration is the speaking night, not like the other curls that sometimes when the drum casts heave against the sea forces the sailors to swerve. No one can crush the blood pulse it hears by the time the drum whirls in its bench all in your mind, and the pearl are staring back.

Friday, March 26, 2004

Mona was star'in Caduceus

Mona was sniffin' stiffing around ground Lacan and knew she was a man. Or that
anthropological winters were not trucks on hills nor tents on
assizes. Some day there was a syntax, a body-without-organs or a
hill on a tent, a tent on a hill a suffering on a night that was
made to be perilously down, style made pearls. Was Orpheus the night
that made words blink, -- but the schiz could not see so night was
barking barking bowwow bowwow! he cant be an angry dog speaking to
the night.. Wrote verlainelefou and Orphee were a desiremachine and
could the Amazon arrange spaces an assemblage would arise but none
came from shadows drain pipers piper were piping and death but a
tangent. A tangentleman!
OrOrpheus said, Is that you Eury Eury? Where are you, anyhow?
Eury says OrOrpheus is novel and need to me, to me and then Ororpheus.
Eurydice said OrOrpheus is the new to me, the new to me
OrOrpheus said: I will walk and wear today today, wear away today a-day
I will gather and matter
Euryeury says I am Penthsilea the gamazon the gamazona gamble,
I 'll be the one that walks back jackward
And then we'l find the mountain
. OrOrpheus that's not bad, you know,
that's not bad, but you aint no Penthisilea 'cause yer doing the
dreadss. OrOrpheus looked back and saw another meditation false a
false materialism working, he knew a Euryschiz medications was not a
schizo at all. Some medication was super-permanent addiction not flowing benediction,
but the lose loser stuck on their sutures , so the schiz which used to
be smart and schiz became a fizz, a dead flake a worn heart, a burnt
fry, a soaked bacon, a marked shout, a thrown out cheese, a dead
limb, a cheap walk on hills, and fog, I like the rain, no this won't
work, when I met her, she was smelly from meds, the other one spit
in the second after I met her. It was not the drops pouring over
the end. It was not the frogs hanged in the dark, the svelte sheet
that wronged the air, the thunder of the tide, the mosque where
they made babies. Were the veils the day they seized?
it was not the way it broke continous voice radio self. it was not
bodies breaked on the whacks of everday. not the meds that fired
dead schizos hooked out on spoke on dreads , and the bodies on the floor

at the bottom of the sea, the heavy bearing catatonics

Thursday, March 25, 2004

Other Meaning

Mona was Yona Orpheus inthe femaling it bodies. of.the sheets over
the eyes of a poet? a language speaks gender, child speaks mother?
Mona was con-pleated in the petitit objet A baits boats skip on stones and your tongue
melts in the few
that is none a
lady comes walking the lawn
shallowing her meadow moment and the setting sun makes shadows bow
a boot will be the pleasant figure of a song stinging rhetoric of cliques and
rides a coterie of two fakirs and many muscle men who woo the women
in the trampoline and your still head is a frame to hear the listening painters
they make voodoo that comes in the night with no one walking on them

yes between your eyes there is nothing but the comment something
that stills each stop sign a semiotic of pleasant Queens and Dukes beside
the majestic miracling moment and the leather jacket late on a Monday night walking downtown in the depressing blessed rain
O coucheurs we must make melancholy our sun
quatrains our path trained in the sylababble of height
whirling by Samson’s mountain
priggish insouciance cares not a matter in the snapping of fingers
and the tying of bow-ties

a lover sees her beloved, we laugh at their desires, at their
unities and splits, their histories and richnesses instead of
wanting can makes the hankering mouths want after after the after
thingness moment of its clutter clack its sound in the embyroyo
youtoo.to a woman, by a woman to a woman or by a man to a man. In him what he thought of the topless "waitresses" who were threading their way
around the "as we wear language it also wears us, and -conjuagated verbs? inflect love, language, a handful? As D. says succinctly, the waitresses were dare spectators, just like the words we and others speak and write, wear
the transition to English each text I am sending have to go that is not language that was spoke to the hilltop of Mary and Jesus. Was she the one against the number?
through neuteralization, de-sexuation Say yer guy wont' gyves.
de-genderization and de-eroticization,. for she poet, therE is no DeGenderization no DeErotic thing. that happend in the tRacsition.
Yona Mona was Yona and Yoni down her tickled breath
Seconded View
Mona was Yona Orpheus inthe femaling it bodies. of.the sheets over
the eyes of a poet? a language speaks gender, child speaks mother?wenches coming your way,
lost phrases never kept, dollar store Syrian arab who
glowed as you did always at your coming,
conversations at four in the morning on the direct connect line,
in the winter of our disconnect, and not eating breakfast,
smoking too many cigarettes and someone ever verved never returning your calls, and one friend away hiding in his cell
phone prison and columns justified and unjustified
lost lives, deaths, more runny nose, thing said and not said,
calling this form calling this taste aesthetics beauty trying
to justify the form by the content, or perhaps the verse vicea
somthing like a sound which could not be spelled but yelled only,
not like the agent of bell canada calling asking again, is there
something I can do, for you, to make you spend, the money you don't have, haved in two by the victory of bell canada and seeing
yourself on the streets with your master's degree remembering the
good old days when you had a credit card to use, and could pay it,
slipping through the cracks, and neglected by her and him and her,
waiting for someone for nothing who Mona was con-pleated in the petitit objet A. and sundry gowns were
worn across the song of her Burydice.is engraved in the signifiers,
there is no 'universal' child, you are either a waiter or a
waitress, a he-cat or a she-cat. Even the poetess

A painter pulls the sheets over the eyes of a poet? a language
speaks gender, child speaks mother?

the verb designates sex, and subjects
- even in I-you relations - adress each other shamelessly D in a
striptease establishment in Paris. G, B, and some others congregated there, and D, thinking that he'd
catch the conservative D off balance, asked him what he thought of the topless buttocks who were threading their way
around the "as we wear language it also wears us, and to replace the word, not ours but looking at us, breaking my breath as and its
referents with some neutered word; or perhaps replace the lovely drifting word nymph with its centuries encounter-things. In hinterland the land of allegory, words speak like bodies, sexuality is engraved in the signifiers, there is no 'universal' child, you are either a waiter or a waitress, a he-cat or a she-cat. Even the poetess can only change sex - sex change make atiny thousand genders and Thou sand of mitre and me - the very fine visually rich word Waitress with the non- word "waitpersons," is to erase its beauty of connotation, and its
richness of history. Some- thing D. would have disapproved of vehemently. As if one could into the needles the thread
through the eye of he replace the word

siren and its referents with some neutered word; or perhaps replace the lovely drifting word
nymph with its centuries of imagistic connotation. How can one do this without falling into the worst sort of conformity to politically
stero-typed postures? Cut to the desire room of evening's shadow.evening's crowd. D, opined "well, you see, they're wearing
us". YMona was con-pleated in the petitit objet A. and sundry gowns were worn across the song of her Burydice.
A painter pulls the sheets over the eyes of a poet? a
language speaks gender, child speaks mother?
Mister D.in a striptease joint in London. B, and congregated there, and W, thinking that he'd
catch the conservative off balance, hailed him he thought of the topless "waitresses" who were saunter here way
around the as we wear language it also wears us, and -conjuagated verbs? inflect love, language, a handful? As D. says succinctly, the waitresses were dare spectators, just like the words we and others speak and write, wear us. If we don
neutered and emptied words, what do they reveal to the reader? Do we Reader spells B.
see desirable, interesting, challening, striking, loving, desiring, chewing the mastications.
wanting, ugly, shapley, radiant bodies, or do we see the conforming body of the late 20th. century? Words are also bodies with sexes
and places, names and colours. Why deny that, and try to dry clean them?
Better that we let the words speak, in the same way that we let try to dread them, the concept of?
bodies speak. In the similar way that we let spaces speak as we similar to pillars that peak
penetrate past the dead holes of subject-object splits and penetrate the nose drop of pells
disavowals. If we see words like a lover sees her beloved, we laugh cry weep sob
at their desires, at their unities and splits, their histories and not allowed to speak their history taken land reterritorialize
richnesses instead of wanting to repress them. Either not speak the And And And
word one finds offensive (euphemism is awlays there as a handy
tool), or choose to be ironic. But to replace the
richeness of one noun, with the drabness of a non-word (really an
Orwellian no-speak nightmare), is to do a disservice to
oneself and to language. "I love you", even each take care, ---, wear different words with regards to whether it is said by a woman to a man, by a man to a woman, by a woman to a woman "they are wearing u s... says D" ... Now let us continue to
wear the words, and be worn by them like sheets and garments, like - she says reached my hands. handsome face. not so. contin. games and caresses, like teeth and charms. Open the door and speak the space of words in their interior movement, to shudder at their inner desire, to let the space between them in the basement of their text filter through to us in their inter-subjectivity and tension. Then their auras, their halos will join us, and be one more piece carrying us on our adventure to a new world. "All words are rest less grains and gods waiting to be opened." The memory of words, not ours but looking at us, breaking my breath as encounter-things. In H, words speak like bodies, sexuality is engraved in the signifiers, there is no 'universal' child, hearing the heralded robots again,
speak th same old jargon again the same old jargon after a thousand years and so the night was not young anymore and blessings were disguises in hatred, and you it was easy to give you advice when you knew you were going down you are either a waiter or a waitress, a he-cat or a she-cat. Even the poetess can only change sex, but not neutralize it, even when s/he despoils the human and the ani
despoils the human body of caress and other collectors mal. Even the stone is a male or a female. Even the verb designates sex, and subjects - as with allegorical digs and nuance subtles of the langage, L'Engage! she says her tongues whored Out. Scoop cave of Schoolmen - even in I-you relations - adress each other shamelessly as female -- shame too can be a revolutionary sentiment or male and speak theirselves from a masculine or feminine stance. Each "I love you", even each "you take care", ---, wear different
words said by a woman to a man, by a man to a woman, by a woman to a woman or by a man to a man. In the Yesdelire deliver we smoke the word transition to English each text sending have to go spending break dance to tone go verses metred selves. through euteralization, de-sexuation, de-genderization and de-eroticization, for H, as the poet[ess] But Mona cannot degender its not likely
her self can perform that besides it's not true in the other tongue Ishmael does the same its similar same Celtic lover Yonamona
puts it, is "sex maniac[ess]al". So across the ocean, this 'person' issue doesn't make any sense -
'sense' -- never the feemale and the emal and the mailman -- not the deterritorialized is male in Here - and it has no meaning - 'meaning' is female. Here, you cannot achieve the neutral, you must work with-in the difference, you have past the dead holes of subject-object splits and disavowals. If we see words like a lover sees her beloved, we laugh at their desires, at their unities and splits, their histories
and richnesses instead of wanting to repress them. Either to cross the words as bodies and as oblivionslate 20th. century? Words are also bodies with sexes and places, names and colours. Why deny that, and try to dry clean
them?engraved in the signifiers, there is no 'universal' child, you are either a waiter or a waitress, a he-cat or a she-cat. Even the
poetess can only change sex, but not neutralize it,
Better that we let the words speak, in the same
way that we let bodies speak. In the similar way She her distant body her enfance language de mama tongues of raddi O Orphiie she's martyrs of love the sirens swishes the stone is a male or a female. Even the verb remains sex, and subjects - even in
as well. _________ Take her text transition to desire makes happy sloes of eye wine red her girl body. Then other to notice change of sex and hip hop cleanser to unneuter it's not that way.
, desiring, wanting, ugly, shapley, radiant bodies, or do we see the
conforming body of the late 20th. century? Words are also bodies
with sexes and places, names and colours. Why deny that, and try to
dry clean them?engraved in the signifiers, there is no 'universal'
child, you are either a waiter or a waitress, a he-cat or a she-cat.
Even the poetess can only change sex, but not neutralize it,
Better that we let the words speak, in the same way that we let
bodies speak. In the similar way She her distant body her enfance
language de mama tongues of raddi O ophiie she's martyrs of love the
sirens swishes the stone is a male or a female. the
dead holes of subject-object splits and disavowals. If we see words
like a lover sees her beloved, we laugh at their desires, at their
unities and splits, their histories and richnesses instead of Words are also bodies with sexes
and places, names and colours. Why deny that, and try to dry clean
them?engraved in the signifiers, there is her beloved, we laugh at their desires, at their
unities and splits, their histories and richnesses instead of
wanting can makes the hankering mouths want
wanting can makes the hankering mouths want after after the after
thingness moment of its clutter clack its sound in the embyroyo
youtoo.to a woman, by a woman to a woman or by a man to a man. In
the transition to English each text I am sending have to go
through neuteralization, de-sexuation, no to the interior steady profiles in death’s stead
makes the share nice, “how are you” Hockenghem something
like that orthography of nasals and pillows steady sharking
down in the death meant missiles
flood the gate[s] of the sky & destroy
ruins further along the Calcutta lane
it feels like the Gaza strip her long head singing straying
I’ve got a blank of unhappiness here an empty head that
makes sense and spells your name
when the severed pulley worked the tray and
humdingers swore setting suns like the Almanac de Gotha
it was a prayer you saying before the avenues and bullets the
bellows made the grand fray clear it was lions and lemurs I
was saying your heart was no good my heart frozen
trepidation as he took me on a kind of tour the
Americans were plotting war when the melting ooze lets
nowhere to go and the splashing
baits boats skip on stones and your tongue

let explain she wake not there end of she not there end so go k listen I like I
-eroticization, for, as the poet Yona Mona was Yona and Yoni down her tickled breath...


Come and I will show you a place...


That's the kind it was you spoke to the night
and no one was there just the free trade summit and other
disasters of man and ruins, war and peace, trade death
other sultries tires drags, stolen ships, transvestites,deaths
borgs, pugs of old England, pigs of space, silver plattered dummies, ventriloquists of desire, voices lost in the track, the making matter which makes its perceives,deaths, paychecks, peasants, farmer, French-Canadians, hated them, they were inferior species races, dogs running the country, if you wanted to call that a country, unjustified coloumns, columns of army soldiers marching back and forth, mechanical whores, you were a whore, rouged red lips, hungry on the board, maniacs of the skin,
video pinning eyes, phospate friends, something like this
which was speaking over the ruins, the fences, the con, supposed
glories and wenches coming your way,
lost phrases never kept, dollar store Syrian arab who
glowed as you did always at your coming,
conversations at four in the morning on the direct connect line,
in the winter of our disconnect, and not eating breakfast,
smoking too many cigarettes and someone ever verved never returning your calls, and one friend away hiding in his cell
phone prison and columns justified and unjustified
lost lives, deaths, more runny nose, thing said and not said,
calling this form calling this taste aesthetics beauty trying
to justify the form by the content, or perhaps the verse vicea
somthing like a sound which could not be spelled but yelled only,
not like the agent of bell canada calling asking again, is there
something I can do, for you, to make you spend, the money you don't have, haved in two by the victory of bell canada,
seeing yourself on the streets with your master's degree remembering the
good old days you had a credit card, could pay it,
slipping through the cracks, neglected by her and him and her,
waiting for someone, for nothing, who was in a too much of a hurry
too much of a fury
to live his life, thinking he was going to find something
perhaps believe in it, hearing the heralded robots again,
speak the old jargon again the old jargon
a thousand years and
so the night was not young anymore
and blessings were disguises in hatred, and you
it was easy to give you advice when you knew you were going down



Came she showed him a place Virgilian flocks angels hid faces.
She came to a place shining clips .
A place of . and sundering.

Mottoes of the unfinished With schizoanalysis One no longer... the mama langue

"nomad moviing" from rimbauboyo

Subject: Mottoes of the unfinished With schizoanalysis One no longer... the mama langue



With schizoanalysis is the inverse.

"One sets out to write a novel... One no longer wants to
make a definite object... One does not want to enter into a pre-
established program. One tries to live the field of the possible
that is carried along by the assemblages of enunciation. You begin a
novel, but you do not know how it is going to finish perhaps it
will not even be called a novel... But precisely that would be an
analytic process; you thrown yourself into an analysis without
knowing what you are going to find. It is precisely that notion of
process that to me is fundamental.
One abandons the idea that one must seek to master an object or a
subject - I am not longer "either master of myself or master of the
universe". Guattari A discursive Mode in the Guattari Reader Ed.
Gary Genosko p 136

because of the mama langue and the I/Non I the discursive enfance of
the tongue and its yearning for something in the 'after' and the
after and its partial organs are sites for the scoping of the drives
in the eyes of the sight, the hands of the ears.

for us this is our method. yes. Indeed, as it was the method of
Genet as he lived and wrote. How else live at this moment in
history, when it unravels its disease each day, nay each hour. On
the edge of nerves.

Genet writes a book while jerking off in a prison cell and signs it
with his cock to the invisible bodies of his lovers.

Do you come on the walls of your electronic cell? O ward master of
desire only writing can write the way, as only

language can be Ism'd and only schizophrenia
escapes the four Isms
of death an d truancy

it is only schizophrenia that allows the nonchange to into exchange
and therefore allows an absolute outside. that is why the
schizophrenic is mad.
anyone who believes otherwise is kidding themselves.

more and more

Wednesday, March 24, 2004

she-orphii

As Usual Mona was receiving a mail. An email a fan mail, a feemale, from a freemale a rimbaudboyo nomad moving in the dance.
Eurydice is the disappearance and not the resolution of meeting ~ for Eurydice B.__________________
nomad moviing -- rimbaudboy ...Subject: she-Orphii



Once when Jill was bounding she met Orpheus who was looking for
his sweetheart she-Orphii. when he found her he looked in his
crystal ball and saw she was gone as the multiple winds of sand
desert but she was also the many that come and come again starting
new starts from old spaces and other faces traces of the
transcendent in her daily radio life
when Orpheus was the dancer of dunes and dogs she went and wept at
his knees disappearing into his dunes and devils. The veils of her
thousand eyed face made a mirror in the sky and the lake gleamed
down like the sweet cheeky ass cheeks of a lover her rubicund smile
a tweak on the desire lux board!
Not so something as this. was the special maze of the stipple worn
gown of his lust and
her body farther off
further

a voice
a cone
rounding the ceiling of her spire and calculating the reigns of ants
and other antediluvian beasts O beautiful waitress with a trace on
your smile
the zoo of night spelled your smile in Montreal.

She-Orphii laughed to him and clasped in the

and the wayside border opened like an 'Ouverte' sign his bilingual
stutters
her hasped knocks were his shield.



Tuesday, March 23, 2004

Mona had ways

Mona had her way of becoming Many from the word down to her pants and paints, she panted in the way all panters do after loving making love in the dew dawn morning. Something like the bottles and bottins and bootless shelves of hyacinths. Mona had a rhizome baby and she was the fictions she had read and prosed over the years and time of her money and merde. Or something like I have been a space probe and problem for many and others and others of hell who is not existential.
__________________________

Dear deterritorialized one. I have been a space probe. For a long time. Now. Since the Clinic. I am always wrong, in parenthesis. I breath wrongness and become with it. As desire does. less than probe I am more space. A female space of becoming that no longer flirts with the male stratas and all that accompanies it. One has to critic Deleuze and his women words, Guattari
and his war machine molecules, and perhaps even the rumour, strong it seems in truth that Guattari was fucking when he died. But who was he fucking, I am a NoNo? Perhaps. Perhaps? perhaps C. is the probe of my fanstasm. Best wishes.
J.M. who is your miami and amy's.

Janine Macintosh who is also Jill and Mona as per initial letter of the name of the Mother. Le Qui de la mere. La belle mere. No more orthographies of deaf.

If she comes and you see her, you'll tell me what u think: she is space. She is time, time of the breath of the spirit.

Friday, March 19, 2004

Poetic Deterritory Reterritory a

From: Deterritory


Rimbaud wrote back to Mona and Oona, this is impossible this fist odd desire of trick and track of what spillbinds can this be frayed to claim hurt and pert?



Shall Orpheus sing the sad song of pinched buttocks and prosed negates on the patchos of deleuze and guattari? was really there for noone except la Borde? Was sin of genetics really clamber of celanesques? was royces choices in the zamber of zimber? was multiplication actually stultificfricationzzza? Were Dante rante? Inside the shufflebuggers rubbed biglouts of recret?? was Recrete an Anaximander of Alexandre? the supreme symphony of your pities and paties? Mettle and making the night of his humdinger plates they went to Paris pais and stared at the face of gods saw the subway lurking in the discounts of riverside bedfellows and wonder if the phallus was palace and the b.w.o. was near the side of the girl eyeball than the shrinking vein of her thought a blast of zinkos and so the line was puddling along bashing into waterfalls and between the slipstream of strata she stared her makes down and worked her matter up then down the lathering O to bear floods against a fiddle of mountains of
ants to see the midnight metaphor turn progging over into the

the near miss and hit the only place her hip could be joined was the execution of desire and not radios of motherszz with their oedipus mickle. So she sized her inside along the cutter of betweens and knew the archive was linked to loans and blackbirds as . It went. And then Mona. Spelling backward as Differences over petitions and faded for the verb eluded in the instant cafe au lait . Mothers be damned and weight was her mocko and motto. Shallbe quipped in the pedallion of to borrow and ending Li Poe on the


Deterritory wrote:


Deterritory wrote:
From: Deterritory
Subject: Somethings a Love Letter de Baramba! Ocheepa
To: and From Orpheusdeladada


rimbaubdoyo
"Kappax ,
breurydice
,
delyah felix ,
jill franny ,
Felix Guattari ,
mona`s home maiden made at ,
nietzsche the one ,
janinemacintosh@desiremachine
others@rams.com
realize@unreal.com
noway@comedown.com

Brothers One!! ZZ, I really we are really baffled and baffed that you did say all of this to us about money. Money is for the something something. If we clickky clickedy-click it is because we are both from nowhere.

Did I ask why you were not rich? It was a canard!

Never justify yer selves to us!
Not possible.

I am merely a hardened case of not believing and I could care less what the americans think or do, and I do not believe in doom!!
why sob over the stupidities of politics.
be a writer and do yer job, and Mine too!!
So you see I have sent a massive cut to the groups -- nil response from nary a soul.

And my Mona texts, no comment from any!
What piteous gorillas of death have left my table.

I wish you well, and do go ahead with yer projects an yer projects!!
I mingle the tongues of accents.

MoogaMooga  Joshone __ I been an artist for many years and know that everything I do is art. so to publish is merely a by feature. which i would love.



don’t misread as in troping us errly!!

Beneath my many roundabouts, I must admit I was some what hurt, could this be the right word

that u said very few words about the texts I sent you earlier this week.

Was this a deliberate evasion over texts that did not appeal to you , Big man of the brick move from camp to camp, and cap

to cap

in the Gulag!

Yes,

Mister B. is Mister do do !!

Here forlorn one.

If you wish to be the greatest writer of

So yes,

these texts of yers you sent me

many all are well and fine.,

err if I see you hurt that I did not speak of them,

and my marlowe outdistanced your shakespear!!

hahaha

I am nedongo de Shella

SHella dinongo was Tzarasthina de ratcha!

So wellchewade Mogo!!


Speegyou in Guessengers!


Poetry is a way of life.

Make yer own bloody body without organs.
We are difference engineers, ok?

well and fine.,Shee spink her spak!

her bodies a tongue in the "single quotes before " dots

err if I see you hurt that I did not speak of them,

---------------------------------
Do the age
then fear nothing of politicos and do thy work

news changes nada the age

then fear nothing of politicos and do thy work

news changes nada

when your work is done then undone by time

all pizzers are pizzicato.

learn to be a genius like our father unsignifier Genet!

when your work is done then undone by pizzers are pizzicato.

learn to be a genius like our father unsignifier Genet!

time

all pizzers are pizzicato.

learn to be a genius like our father unsignifier Genet!



______________________

Thursday, March 18, 2004

Charmin'

Dear People do not force a repression. Pray tell how your charming
plateaus of text are elements of the Fictions of Deleuze and
Guattari? Are these expository ravings and dingling discourses
fictions? are they sense creating machines?


This space is a place of work and play: the continuing Fictions of
Deleuze and Guattari that Fictional Biography. Each posting moves
over/across older and newe/r/unreal/real/the pseudo destiny of the
name/fictional email/the handle all the names in historyThe series
of fictions - known also the Fictions of Jill, Mona and Franny, are
written by Clifford Duffy, and the copyright remains his. A
fictional deterritorialing prose poem. A knight of infinite leap and
faith.

subtract the body without organs refreshed

body without image

The body without organs is not the proof of an original nothingness, nor is it what remains of a lost totality. Above all it is not a projection; it has nothing whatsoever to do with the body itself, or with an image of a body. It is the body without an image.

_____________
tired of trees

We're tired of trees. We should stop believing in trees, roots, and
radicles. They've made us suffer too much. All of arborescent
culture is founded on them, from biology to linguistics. Nothing is
beautiful or loving or political aside from underground stems and
aerial roots, adventitious growths and rhizomes.
AtppppppPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPAAAAAAAAAAAAATttttttttttttPPPPPPPpeeeeeeeeeeee
oR a ThoUsANd TromBones 15
________________
Mona was in a tree created by Milton and God
and the Lucifer of Love. She got out and ended the Chomsky
phonologies of dual.


---------------i, fucked again

There are those who will maintain that the schizo is incapable of uttering the word I, and that we must restore his ability to pronounce this hallowed word. All of which the schizo sums up by saying: they're fucking me over again.
_______________________ Anti-Oedipus 23[rd disjunctiONonion] aunTy eeEdePuss
secret language

To be a foreigner, but in one's own tongue, not only when speaking a
language other than one's own. To be bilingual, multilingual, but in
one and the same language, without even dialect or patois. To be a
bastard, a half-breed, but through a purification of race. That is
when style becomes a language. That is when language becomes
intensive, a pure continuum of values and intensities. That is when
language becomes secret, yet has nothing to hide, as opposed to when
one carves out a secret subsystem within language.

One attains this result only by sobriety, creative subtraction.
______________

Patois idiolect sign-language was Jill's burrow a sneaky snake
crawling along the surface of hidalgo of becomings and coming
again / not spelling or sliding the signifiers. Satan was the
psychotic subjective made by the Godmonster. None wanted to wan to
wont its pellmell mutations of letters in Finnegans Wake. If, a
stoking was becomings intensive was Mona in the sheet down days.
Against copyright I have stoned by continuity . O shit of fools and
the luggage of linguisitics. More later
she said

and hummed her movies

------------
sell out and/or explode

At least spare us sublimation. Every writer is a sellout. The only
literature is that which places an explosive device in its package,
fabricating a couterfeit currency, causing the superego and its form
of expression to explode, as well as the market value of its form of
content.
_______________________Spare Is SuBLImation! Ssszzzzzzz
Anti-Oedipus (p.134)


"Write to the nth power, N-1, write with slogans: Form rhizomes and
not roots, never plant! Don't sow, forage! Be neither a One nor a
Many, but multiplicities! Form a line, never a point! Speed
transforms the point into a line. Be fast, even while standing
still! Line of chance, line of hips, line of flight. Don't arouse
the General in yourself! Not an
exact idea, but just as idea
(Godard). Have short-term ideas. Make maps, not photographs or
drawings. Be the Pink Panther, and let your loves be like the wasp
and the orchid, the cat and the baboon. As they sing of old man
river:

He don't plant tatos
Don't plant cotton
Them that plants them is soon

forgotten
But old man river he just keeps rollin

along.


A rhizome doesn't begin and doesn't end, but is always in the
middle, between things, interbeing, intermezzo."

Rhizome by Doctor Guattari Daddyio Deleuze
____________________
.


impatient for rhiz-o-mating?


In truth, it is not enough to say "Long live the multiple," difficult as it is to raise that cry. No typographical, lexical, or even syntactical cleverness is enough to make it heard. The multiple must be made, not by always adding a higher dimension, but rather in the simplest of ways, by dint of sobriety, with the number of dimensions one already has available -- always n-1 (the only way the one belongs to the multiple: always subtracted). Subtract the unique from the multiplicity to be constituted; write at n-1 dimensions. a system of this kind could be called a rhizome.
_______________________ ITIS NOT ENOUGH
A T tHOUUsAND bATEAUS teaus (p.6)

_______________________

fringes not tribes

Of course, the great bodies of a modern state can hardly be thought of as Arab tribes. What we wish to say, rather, is that collective bodies always have fringes or minorities that reconstitute equivalents of the war machine -- in sometimes quite unforeseen forms -- in specific assemblages such as building bridges or cathedrals or rendering judgments or making music or instituting a science, a technology....
_______________________ sOMEWhere near the end of A Thousand Plateaus .366 'AntiOedipus wa still too academic'
round unlike the circle

The circle is an organic, ideal, fixed essence, but roundness is a vague and fluent essence, distinct both from the circle and things that are round. (a vase, a wheel, a sun). A theorematic figure is a fixed essence, but its transformations, distortions, ablations, and augmentations, all of its variations, form problematic figures that are vague yet rigorous, "lens shaped," "umbelliform," or "indented." ...

The State is perpetually producing and reproducing ideal circles, but a war machine is necessary to make something round.
_______________________ We're fedup with pages __367_.


word

The prophet is always being forced by God, literally violated by him, much more than inspired by him. The prophet is not a priest. The prophet does not know how to talk, God puts words in his mouth: word-ingestion, a new form of semiophagy. (Nice word! good try translator!)
_______________________ One twenty Four Thousand Plateaus


planular

The unconscious no longer designates the hidden principle of the transcendent plane of organization, but the process of the immanent plane of consistency as it appears on itself in the course of its construction.
_________ Plateau 284

Wednesday, March 17, 2004

Reader

Gentle readers: no typos where none intended:please adjust your
grammar sets as given in the -- broken busted syntaxes accordingly



Out In

Mona narrator recovers infinity there is infinite text in the infinite and the revision of complete and next. Not so,s ays the clock and time is dying on its way.

_______________________________
In those days again and those nights again Jill never got past her
monsters the ones in her asshole immaculating conceptions as she misread
her Mister territory Hegel as she misread her Herder and Fichte as well,
but that was fine it was a misprision of the first order that made things
was they were. Even when she was the double negation of a negation and her
faded tatters of reason were ranged along monstrous couplings and
creation. What monster taken from behind can make her body of thought the
sole place of consistency along the dead zone of threshold and desire?
What place can her zoom lens of close reading lead to her closer
understanding of cloud breath? Why should she read synthesis when there is
phenomena? Why read a reading of Plato when she Plato was the very air she
breathed was conceived and so like any other Plato she read her postcard
and lunched.

I read much of the night, and go deleuze in the winter. April is
notthe cruellest month, you are. No way Noway. I have negotiations in my
pocket rocket and that is the tiny and one thousand sexes of my files of
need and night. No way. What way?

she said my name is Jill Deleuze and I am not reading anyone but
myself. As I suffer from the anxiety of influence and music. And Money.
Too . Economical. IT is ALL ALL economical. Which is why Dereader is dead
and I am alive. Not me, Not me not me Jill Jilly Deleuze I am not dead. I
am not.

Plato told me: I wrote the books because of the beauty of the
youth of Athens.

God is a grammatical illusion. Franny Guattari told me this, in
secret rolls while he wore a burnous. yes I am the one she is . I am the
double disjunction of schizo-place. In French too please. Not the first
book in traditions and its talents, butthe place brokers go when the
subjectivity and the subject is reject in body love. And what is there to
live for, and what is there to live for? She asked Jill and Jill asked
Shem and Shem asked Antioedipus and Antioedipus asked pyschoanalysis dead
analyze why there stops in her gaps.


No it was not Plato, it was Plato Alto and besides,, I mean Hegel,
Hegel.. Yes those beautiful passages in Glas. Quote by Jacky deReader
when he was writing about Jean Genet our Father in Heaven. Does that make
me queer subjectivities and other nights? Am I the author if the dead
author is dead?

I Jean Genet's restless daughter send you this from the depths of
purgatory and nugatory as it is I am the Baudelairian strife of
schizoanalysis. I am the double edged scissors cutting the double dustbin
disjunction of lips and ass. My ass yer face? My feces yer faceless face
is that a strata you got there, or my face in your micro escaping line...
and yer guitar gently weeps and yer cell phone glibly rings, and your
virtuals self is a whore like your real self is, whatever that is. She
said. To me. and to her.


What is a minority philosopher? an immanent base for the nonpower running bases of which we are

What is a minor philosophy? It is Jill doin this and the other portraits.


What is a philosophy but something you wear to bed with your bodies and
brides and bodies without organs. So.

there./ She said. I love you Lion again and again.

Tuesday, March 16, 2004

And

And then the night was wrapped like an echo in the first plane and
the second partition was the last light and the wings were floating and
hunger like a storm was re-wed pain in the design of her eyes and the
broken horn made the gypsy man and the ragged cloud against the church bell
steeple and the child woke in the book like day. But there was no help in

the silver territory when the gods drove and their names were banished in
the second hammer of the God like beast taking the plains back the
mountains [back] the rivers flown over their summer[.] And the goddess silent
rang against her silenting down the river bed where the flow backed against
the cistern death in the city mourn and the cinema reels agile as the night
bird walk and the bordello of hungry haunted lovers.
So it sang maybe there were others who knew how to sing to love
against the pressed thighs of death. And Breath then was an allegory of
the tribunes of thought and the triumphs of misery and so Francis said to
old man I see the night as a hungry hand that meddles its forests with the
phonology of desire and there is no hunger like that. And Old man said
I am the one who plays symbol against death, and death is the weak knee
between the woman's thigh. Then the night rang and the challenger backed
off and the wrought iron of her shield was spent against the arrows
cluttering the sky, and her greaves shone and the dancers paused and the
merry buskin elfs and weight carriers stayed a moment. But the nano second
fled and the first field cried and the woman laughed and the woods
clambered and the street was light and the rooms were bare and the pent
rage of countries was broken down and the pillars bent. But the cymbal
clapped and the baby born left the high dry and the lectern woke in the
reader's hand but her foot was dry. And the robber mated with his bandit
girl and the tree was a swaying buckling crown but the rogue smiled and
the mother keened and the knife was still in the air's aerate lamp and the
cut air waited and hoped for the forgiveness plate and the donation plate

on the collect time and the bread was readied as the God sang and he spoke
his members over the air of memory desire and love. Love forever after in
the chamber love life of the night in her bed, and the knight in her sigh
was a lover half ruined in the body bare and broken . O Penumbra of their
sighs O penumbra of the light hand kiss and the glovered lover hand of the
intent to breed and the Arabs sang after they came became what they were
in the desert high nomad place. Oh hammer his thoughts on the ironed door
there and the bronze wilderness spoke. and the Wounded boy who weathered
the boar's tusk attack then and her lips cried high on the soft night
feather down. And the glove was dust.
But the broken book stayed and the split infinitive worked against
the split face image.

Monday, March 15, 2004

Mona was spaced out of her faces across the faces you invent .

Mona reads this and sees wonder and wanders over the edge of the text of the face generated by the author probing the diamond of thought as it peels off the back of the head. Notre Dame des Victor Hugo makes her space and sexes the desire of night. Shall it be? Or not radio head? Radio self radio self www. orphee.pirate.org coming soon to a wave near you across the bounded seas of death and its other minorities . Shall it speak the same? as Satan and other choices? across the simile of epic and nausea or the existential calendar of debt and death? blind man at the hotel wearing her progressive gendered glasses looking for the two in one sale. O shall the night be a gerund across its generative faces? O question O horribilitas. The slur of slouched back couches across the season's death makes space for the roomy guy.

And Love.

Saturday, March 13, 2004

revue chimere...






Mona reads: Revue Chimeres

... Jill has real audio streams of Felix, my uncle Guattari, and others if
anyone is interested. Mona sends her love down the line of flight.



[The pack-multiplicity is] created precisely in order to escape the
abstract opposition between the multiple and the one, to escape
dialectics, to succeed in conceiving the multiple in the pure state.
Deleuze, Gilles & Guattari, Félix (1988)
A thousand plates
was writ by Her Daddio Deleuze and Her Uncle Felix.
the translator in to the language of Anglo-Saxon was

Mister Brian Massumi, and she knew he was cool, like an L.P. from an album,a long playing high fidelity record. And so it was.


How can one write

Mona was recalling the words of Daddio Deleuze her mother. Jill was hair hilled nigh on the desire dells and shelled the moor. Of breath and halfcut.


How else can one write of those things which You write with a spoon and fork, and love the gloveacross the space lines of the sickness, the world's great psychotic heart.
Knowing -one doesn't know, or knows badly? Oh it is ~~ It is precisely there that we imagine having something to say. Something to say my lover of bellies and crooked ways of thinking and needles ~We (yes, We, do write and write dazed and knighted) write only at the frontiers (Frontier Town of our childhood a grief of belief) of our knowledge, at the ~~ mythos knowledge of lover's bills ~~ border which seperate our knowledge from our ignorance, Ignorance he wrote back to me inthe love in his fingernails was my sanity, of the Chinese worker woman on the 55 bus that night, that night raining, transformed the one to the other.
Only in this manner are we resolved to write. Only by these victories, these virtues of love and the factory and the song of the fabric worker can we taste, and taste our cancer too. To satisfy ignorance is to put off writing until tomorrow ~ O tomorrow never comes, to the one who hums with a dagger in her teeth, my finger in the sweet anus of your hole my lover across the seas ~ Yes Papa they make it impossible. O we write to the silent masters of our death ~ Perhaps writing was a relation to silence altogether more threantening that that, Each different repetition was a pealingof belled stills in the axis of her Oriental eyes almond eyes of the yes and the passport
which is supposed to entertain with death ~ but not entertained by death, but danced by it, Joe is dead, Joe is dead like John Mac was. but they are not dead, they are only sleeping ~~


Was Mona the Spent

Was Mona the spent desire of night, the serpent of repent, in the nag down Pierre leFou in the follies of remember and the Stultifera Navis plus the fins plying the waves by Jill Franny’ s desire maculate the zebus of hopes and hidden in the shelter of her bliss was the blossom carried away heart. What does her father want, Mona wants to wander has nothing to do with the Nazi god Father the One god gangster and his desert tribers and their minions murderous only one bloody booty Mona’s character’s wander stream through the real escapado and the barrel of petals and the monkeys of hate the trumpets of capital love dripping from her lips and her cunt hung high to capture and kill the dead beat the nondifference paranoid spellers of power. Not nature or Man Mona marbles the difference of exquisite prose in her shamble downy shack. Clustered by Franny’s lips she hums and, then shuns the caliper of lobster gods the double articulation of desiring production and its delires. Her stroll of anus brings her back the shrill and collage of face the word of her elbow her flanking arm. Under her hand was the one gone bent and tinkle round of Ibolya and her clutter names of love and Mona could not love Jill in her sweater her breasts were heaved and her eyes crossed with the crossanger of kiss mouth lips. Not like some place of the antioedipus and the hammering knock. Not like the one god simile and its decrepitudes their prose expository of death and scholarship denying the poles winkering their ends. A horn played her end her Edda and sylvan as the waste that flickered silver in the stream her argent hosts creating her name.

Friday, March 12, 2004

I, Jean Genet's Wicked Son.

“I am a transgendered pronoun” “I am the chronopolis of Jesus Christ” so I am with my cock in hermouth the sweet religious experience of the cone of the template the templing fountain of her mouth

Our Father Jean Genet who art in Heaven
Residue is the word:
Residue of Word Bit..t..ts/

I, Jean Genet's orphan son.
I, Jean Genet's wicked son, send you this from the depths of hell. This day of our Lord, 1999. My son, who was never known by his papa. Because his papaaah was a homosexual he disowned him. His son, Or(r)phée, is a schizo in the tabernacle of the self. The soi-meme (verify the reference)-- he is the son of the orphan, the bastard, (and) another sort of non-filiation is the result. Of this particular whoredom of demomomocracracracy(this is a stutter) democracy on the corners. Like dogs which trot and meet. From the lake district to the city. Wordsworth meeting Tristan Tzara and refinding his (female) love from the French Revolution olden days and others who cover and uncover their paradise losts all feasting lands of approximation heavy on the haunches and the light hunches hurdles of desire O Somme of freedom lips and speaking even insects danced the song of the toga danced thee ice around the caper o joy and sphinx and those were the days gone by. From the lake district to the postal office between the stations, genders, buttons, hurly-burly hail-well, expression of you and me meeting the postal station of desire station to station.

(Before I was working I was a hero I am the son of the father the eternal father in heaven whose rest is well and well payed for and paved for I am the night and day (that which) speaks his speak easy song I am the hippie girl with the alphabet on her back. (the hippie gothic chick around the cathedral, it was I walking in Pére Lachaise cemetery the black wrought fence copied by the city watered by the sea) I am the sun the moon and the god. The God as you like to say, who failed us. He never failed me, she never failed me fair reader of this long missive which (shall) go on forever. I am also the daughter and son of Tristan Tzara who was born on this day many centuries in another country not under my name but he was my name nonetheless and I am him and shall be him until the end of time as I am all the nights and days of your spoken word and love so when I speak I speak in the names of those groups which I am a part of and not a part of and I am the whole Son-In-Law which escaped. Call me Jesus Christ, call me Christ Jesus son of Adam and Eve and God but all the gods of the proper names of history or history as we ride around the great buttocks of the body-without-organs without a shovel or or Or Or so I must go lest I go sleep here and die like the Hunger Artist did.) ( I am the Hamdam of Song and right, I am your cunt of your clit[s]oris[ies]. I am Hanaan de More. I am James Joyce I am the Eiffel Tower and the dread locks of the Medusa I am my friends and enemies I am the slut who has made love a thousand times and I am your body your boy your girl your young woman.) (Call me Jill, Call me Franny Call me Fanny a translator by trade and a lover by [k]night and gloves Call me Call me, call me call meee I am there the single breathless deterritorialized.) (I am the slut mouth of your single desire, you see. I shit in your son's face, and then, like a hen I eat his shit and hit your dead face while laughing at it. I am the morpheme of it, you see so kiss my ass and toes, climb my stratas and be my baby,baby.) ( I am the fuck you wasted, I am night and day and the daughter of knight.) (I am sutras and dutras I am the dharma roller.)

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

From the lake district to the city
I, Jean Genet's wicked son, send you this from the depths of hell. This day of our Lord, 1999. My son, who was never known by his papa. Because his papaaah was a homosexual he disowned him. His son, Or(R)phée, is a schizo in the tabernacle of the self. The soi-meme(verify the reference) he is the son of the orphan, the bastard, another sort of non-filiation is the result. Of this particular whoredom of demo-[stutter] democracy on the corners. Like dogs which trot and meet. From the lake district to the city. 
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sunday, March 07, 2004

Mona's Meta Talk ship shop

Ce n'est pas, ce n'est pas l'ecriture. C'est par la repression que je lutte contre l'oppression. La psychanalyse a inventer une police, une inquisition: l'auto-analyse. Il faut substituer a tout cet litterature de la nevrose une ecriture de la pyschose. Pierre Guyoat.
And I add the psychoselarose

"We shall never ask what a book, signifier or signified means, we shall not look for anything to understand in a book; instead we shall wonder with what it functions, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit intensities.... A book exists only through the outside and on the outside. A book itself is a little machine; Fourth thought from the Rhizome

"A book has neither object nor subject; it is made of variously formed matters, and very different dates and speeds.... First thought of the Rhizome
"there is no language in itself, nor are there any linguistic universals, only a throng of dialects, patois, slangs (argots and brogues, accents and idioms)and specialized languages.... (what I call my narrator - my idiot patois-self) Language is a community, a broken and spare parts community - There is no ideal auditor-speaker, anymore than there is a homo-geneous linguistic community..." Rhizome Seven
"We shall never ask what a book, signifier or signified means, we shall not look for anything to understand in a book; instead we shall wonder with what it functions, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit intensities.... A book exists only through the outside and on the outside. A book itself is a little machine;:rhizome Quatre

(this book is a confession too -, and or confessional work)- yet this work will remain loyal completely loyal to my own aesthetics...]
a confession that does not confessbut digresses to avoid the punishments inflicted on its various narrators

"The trinity Hoderlin-Kleist-Nietzsche already conceived writing, art an even a new politics in this way: no longer as a harmonious development of form and a well-ordered formation of the 'subject', as Goethe, Schiller or Hegel wanted,
but successions of catatonic states and periods of extreme haste, of suspensions and shootings, coexistences of variable speeds, blocs of becoming, leaps across voids, displacements of a centre of gravity on an abstract line,
conjunctions of lines on a plane of immanence, a 'stationary' process at a dizzying speed which sets free particles and affects." Dialogues with Sister Parnet


See how my little machine interrupts everything. See.



One can add to this trilogy, Guyotat-Genet-Klossowski... And Many Other Combinatories of not so known Ones and Twos working away in the Minoritarian Night -- especially the bits and businesses about speeds and states of haste and so on; this is celerity itself with modern writing; the lives and writings of Genet and Burroughs exemplify these points as does my own and this work, Leibniz’s Fairytale. Artaud is of course implied in all of this; He is, Artaud the plane of consistency in all these writers - the very mud of their creation.

One add the Fictons, and the Orpheus Quartet

One can add Any Number of Others





there be others and so many others cutting the minoritarian edge of immanent writings... writings which im instead of them that trans...

there are

and so many others et tant d'autres et tant d'autres

Saturday, March 06, 2004

A Practice

Here is what the Fictions are: here is their machine/their days and nights
--------------------------
of non totalizing fields which break and cut. Recently it was suggested in some quarters that d&g, and one which echoed so many others, a claim was made that D&G are to the left but sympathetic to fascism. I don’t and And Neither has Mona
never have seen that as an element in their work, neither individually or How could Franny many be one?
severally. How could they be seen in this way I ask myself, since they Jill we are always several becomings
were as they already several. It strikes me that their that very One and Many Jills and Guattaris'
several ness is what allows, permits, encourages and invites the Is that plural or orthography
non fascising practice and way of living and thinking that their work Chaosmosis makes better lovers
speaks to and for. It calls to each of us to pick up the non totalizing One never do enough for the throng and the welfare state
and disinterested position of one on the move, nomadically pocketing the pick pocket of desire lovers
rainbows of their thought while taking them to other places, other niveaus other shambles of
and plateaus. Thus the following snippets from Foucault’s introduction to Michel met Mona and her sex was trimbled!
Antioedipus. Also I think that rationalizing one’s own powerlessness, or Michel met Mona in St. Michel in the quartier Latin and they
lack of disinterest does not encourage an authentic reading of Deleuze and Yes yes authentic it's a funny word but only to the rich
Guattari’s work, or their legacy. Mona had a legacy in her toe and was the lover of bracelets

No fascism is sympathetic. That seems obvious to me and you but to some nut cases
Thus Mona re read the old introduction by Michel to AntiOedpus
and she was so happy reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaddding it she went
andamsterbated and started a
reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeevvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvoooooooouuuuuuuultttttttttttion
Amsterbated.

wekcome to badspeliing

Suchwasnthennighta castaboom catluctea teh schiozpan akn woil; gfp Ok? saiIth Franny Koo0k

Archive and Chronology

Jill knew Franny the dates were boggled Chronos and Archive confused the mutter of the matter was the satter of the fatter. And bifurcate was her game. Sometime ago was a low down slow. Was a work round park and sop millinery catch. Spades of lilacs crumbled in the air and the backpay went Pierrelefou I am the clatter of matter. Some tamboura of repeat word. Not capable at all but failure of will and volition, no command only remand. Some Jill like on the first page it works believe her believers she satires the page of stares and false arrest. Can no adjective widow window snow. Flimsy sheet of half-repression.
What can you see in these but yahooism of the hoooynnnhhnnnnnnnns of yer selfimpossibility.

Come again, Said Artaud I cannot break these things they are broken and the Others have the Power. It won’t cause you pain knowing a million others are richer stealing your work and garments your garbs of god that the American poets are richer better paid more well off ragging the tooth of desire.

Come be my Artaud. said Franny and was Jillah in her morning vows of spent and sigh the body long dying in its grace of pent up waves of furnished moments of plastered segment nothing is kept all is lost foundered in the factory

apocrypha according to the rules you re supposed to add a period here

thanks to bb

Friday, March 05, 2004

Mona was having Fun with F. the fatty tissue of the Molar Re Visions We did Not Invite you Into Our Studio and Never would…

Mona was having F the Fun the fatty tissue of the Molar Re Visions We did Not Invite you Into Our Studio and Never would…

Fun Frany versus the fatty tissue of the Molar

Once upon a time Mona met a paranoid loser/she called him Madame Paranoia and her fat hat.

"We have nothing to learn from you, because you are a pedantic in the extreme dear Madame de -- and also you don't go to school with Jill and Franny -- filled with bile, it comes out every time you get critical.... That is the papaistic paranoia, your need to help is hate..helpers in our Studio no sireee! .... Do you think this does not show, it does become thee, Madame Paranoia! That you don't have a program (balance sheet programme for desire-machines) that I Mona can and do laugh at myselves and yet be deadly serious about our lines of work and flight work... Speaking of yer programme is not the one we saw on the icebergs of France...."


Mona was corresponding one day that was a year with a Bitter gal known as the slow bone and here is what she wrote/ but what does her correspondent know of life and love when he lives in the fat shell of self-imposed poverty.

Mona says to Franny about the punk in the island:Ah! but the midnight desert Islands are beautiful!... We knew they’d react that way. We don't make mistakes, and are fat or spiteful like yourselves who do not go to where the power is..... If you want to fight us ... you will lose... we hope you realize that... we cannot lose as we don't play yer game... we don't believe in fighting and we don't go crashing into people's studios and then expecting them to be grateful... fat man like you changing genders with yer loyal lies of the instant are death…
We have nothing to learn from you, for one because you are a pedant -- and also you didn’t go to school with Jill and Franny --
filled with bile, it comes out every time you get critical. That is yer papaistic paranoia, your need to help is hate....Do you
think this does not show? That you don't have a program and that we
do, and that I Mona can and do laugh at myselves and yet be deadly serious about.. and yer denials… games with psychiatry…
our lines of work and flight work.

How vile you are in your carbunclely ways, with your
fluttery eyes, so grand dragdaggyaggy poohpah wasting yer life away .. blathering on...chitterybittery ... Yer a nasty little critty aren't you Flinky, is that the way you was taught Latin and Greek and to be a nice man? O so then go and reread yer Father Deleuze and Mother Guattari said Mona wondering at the whine of his tone..

Father Deleuze once had a boy like you write him a nasty letter maybe you should read it... Yes old Gilles Deleuze himself had to write a Letter to Michel Crepsole... I, Jill was there, I saw it, leaning over is shoulder

That is the difference between the paranoid pole and the schizo and that is why Artaud was different from Jacques Riviere, which is the role you have invited on yourself.

what comes from almost being a convert to a religion of dismissing those who you don't understand of keeping your commitments safe, which is fine, but has nothing to do with us...

is that what justifies yer rage and violence and yer lost life?

yes yer a fambly Paranoiac man woman a fambly fumbly Ooman

And what is worse is you are a coward. but you are missing the cows and their Moos and their Mooske and my Moose cause you're a Cariboo.
and not a Caboose.

You wouldn't talk that way "in person" never dare the love that speaks not its name - never dare speak to me this way to us in person/ she cut the edges of her sown sword Salieri to her Mozart of Mona and her Finnegans Wake of Awake Mona and Jill and the gals
Cause you ain’t got a person. Not a person But a dried up drink is what you are… as "We" destroy deterritorialize yer arguments so fast... Franny moves Fast says Jill and can't notice her enemies...while laughing in their faces laughs with one face weeps with the other...
Gutless little man little arrogant American little coward who does not face the real battles of writers and the shit we have to deal with it...
you ... you you snorting little winkee poo, you cute little fart face with nowhere to go but the taxman! O Poor laughed Mona

you with your greek and latin coming onto my friends... trying to steal my Jill and Fanny!

Look finicky, its time for you to get on yer fatty little knees and pray
not us not us

We are a parrying prayer already reading the lines of flight down the long to heaven and escape...

Speak to Me and Mona Me Jill Deleuze and Franny Guattari! of sobriety I who live in the mountains of a Thousand Plateaus.

You know nothing about sobriety, you know about hiding behind your
unpaid bills, your backlog of taxes your evasions, your pretences to
be like others whom you are not like at all,
your envy

your pedantry which is fanatically and repulsive

You want to pick a fight with me, I Mona?

You, you little fat man in the back woods of pathetic Pickled Edward Island?

Go read Deleuze and Guattari and Grow Up.



Then Mona laughed and knew Fatty was finicky and fudgesome in his own Queeny way. It was ok fatty she knew, fatty would get over it when Fatty realized his persona was a send up , a duck shoot, a bore.

That not being in the machine fatty could not be in it.


Then she suggested that Fatty wear a gown the next time he went out as his ass would be covered. Hahahah, she laughed with her flesh and undone and her body and undone and her very unhappiness a joy.

Mona might have been sad for a second but didn't believe in sadness and besides that she didn't experience it... and rage was not justified nor bullying blindly one’s opponent the Orphic just couldn’t take that!
O no she swept away her gown and went for a promenade picking girls’ asses as she swayed.

Thursday, March 04, 2004

wORd

there is no word like the real. a little bit of the outside.


Jill called it Pragmantics. Combine the real/le vrai varia

avec the actual. Anyhow.

So Mona breathed and sighed and read stories to her child.


A wlatz with Lenz? a looking lens to see yourself and your body through my molecules of disease and hope , not the dualistic fantasy of real perfect dogs, and pluperfect tenses, and declensions in sentences , lover. So the inevitable perpendicular starts, her rhyming rushing selves speeding acorset across his body of punishment and desire.


And she says, Jill million to her arms, and his wrists, her tatoo.

Wednesday, March 03, 2004

Now - Relative

Now when Jill knew she was relative she was the moon sliding down
into her perspective and knew her immanent self was immanent. She knew she
was transferable past upon the dead conceptions of god she held in her
heads. And there were many as the many headed-hydra could would and did
attest. She was the one who sang futility under the sun. As potters spoke
back to their makers and knew.

Jill had been to Cannes. With Oona and Mona. And Franny of course
discourse into her inter-course . On scholarship-shop which paid all the
bills. Imagine that, flapping bills paying the fare while the reels
rolled. Then Rembrandt in Amsterdam. A dame she was when she was becoming painter and the paint was there for her eyes to see visible like goggling in the morning sun. Then there was the visit to Baruch's house. Too. That was very much. Very much. Later to F's grave, then G.D's '(that's good daddy Deleuze) and it was. Yes, then the spot where the body landed. What astrange place. And video was made as she that flying fallin' body. O, what a fall that was in the was of is and the becomings of life splitting from itself death. Death and dumb and life and wife and I speak the words to thee the word hoard.
OVerboard! Men overboard and sharks flaying fish and nights were heard of
the words Palestrina.
Mona was very airy, and the night was. She missed them -- who they were, and were them whose names were them and them . And Someone made the whole thing, it was not a blog, it was a book chasing on the outskirts of time enter space next to the nuts of desire. and Jerusalem was praying, no one was forgetting , the body was hungry, andthere was night, andthe jewl thiefs of time, could not speak, say, it was, was. It was. and then some..Not quite recognizing but stammering down its truckload of fire and fuel. Not like the walk along the walls and by the sea of cement and blood.

Orpheus knew the Oedipus in his eyes and loved her, the One gun of her burnt out shell a mask a pediment throng of desiring-bodies becomed by the force of night its fuse cut by the source of And. And the telling of if. It had not changed its pain.

Tuesday, March 02, 2004

new physics ...?

Ever seen the Tao of Physics? thought Jack, that loved R and
laughed because he was so happy. Then walked in the wind to the nearest elevator to outer space and
find a relativity vector and slipped along the cyber winds of desire. Meeting her on his magic carpet. He spoke song her name. All the laughter in herstroy and herstory and history too! He laughed physics all day long, especially when he went into
the inner temple of R and they sang all day like bird walkers in the rhizomatic mood of the movement of the moment. Bye for now, he said.

Yes, Jack was very happy in them days encountering her with a coffee, and her deconstruction was very fine, and matched his deterritorialization perfectly, fibrillating like net wires, a realization of two then one. And one and
two in tow clicked their heels along the strata of god`s rhinocerrus, and her pledge to calibrate the loving hills.

--------------->>>>>>>>>>>

Monday, March 01, 2004

Breath Left

Suddenly the wind blew a cloud, there was a wind coming, a breeze,
the left end of the sky had lit up again. In the post-communist world,
there was something shattering, the ennnui of death husks of dead
political thinkers, ravaged profs, dead beats, weird strangers on the gulf
of time. next the antioedipal strains would explode and she would see the
multiple self revolution everywhere. Beware the clinging oedipii in yer
skins, the fascist territories of denial and evasion.


A left in France was a sight for joy, she said . AntiOedipus
turned
to her sister[s] noted the sky was brightening red a husk of eternal
return in thundering apocalypse of renewal. Whisper the night songs of
twin
ships as the old island and old mainland hugged the main land dream and
the old beared guy laughed. At last he sighed, at last the old dream
died.

Money burnt a crisp in the wind

Orpheus saw the sky

Eurydice heard the voice

Antigone held her hands and the children

Sappho balanced the books .

Where
did it
go?

Her selved needed in in past all the languaged need when the
fostering began, the shelter of the sky was hugging down into their bodies and
trespass, it was the sky they saw moving. With it the ships skipping
overland carrying the massses of dark works and the night. Find the place
said Eurydice, hand him the collected vocables said Sappho. She span the
words back, hearing the language flow backward. Find the place
she said below her beneath her breath. Flow back ward and the breath hung
the plane down, over the trees reflected in the water. The water a mirror
gazing into the sky. Sappho pulled the gowns garment closer to her feet.
It was the left, the left side of the earth that had the gravity. Eurydice
lifted her feet and crossed to over there where they. Stood knocking over
the elbows of the sky, the future. It was inevitable.


so spoke her words into his whisper ear

then she-she sauntered past the desk

over to where the opera played.

Lorgnettes and fancy dress.
Someplace, someplace she had spoke.