Monday, January 31, 2005

out of a stroke for then

Now when Jill red that noncents she was tipsee and knotty her ben was pen and she was deprespian and had a thespian rongon her route a flute to boot her moot and could not proseed beyawn her tuth a ruththing indeed ittwas. and she was bellows and below the thing advansing from the thunklker of jevHovatentchezvous.
Not so well was the sprungingburd of her lord, the mayfair of anoush and ka the Ka of Anous and her beside her manner Noia was para debola. what was Noush de ka?
besides her mother of thighs and the simple hammer down of me song?
sumthingin her was joystick and merry
the merrier the better becomes the two of us in our
loves for yourselves my hand yours sex yours in the
lips yours is mine the lip that is mine
is yours

________________

Mona wasthe darLing machine of the mass


she wore coloured sticks in her hair



and had feet on her tongs!






________________


A schizophrenic out for a stroke is more excit'd than a morning filewith teeth. It’s death on the night undone unsaying the coeternal beat of the light faded by edifyng glances down the strange of time. Knot some saying along her back playing the girl of night and her hummer back… not lived as nature or walnuts between the tasting teeth of L. the dark lore of her huddle eyed picasso elf eye So much apple in the nut is pleasing. Various gaits not the gate to the door that opened to Song see and its partial place of knock and wood. Then the mist appeared. It was vase and the optic place steered and the high down dead feeling a finely tuned machine by Sheila’s roses we walked. A fantastic tatoo a repression silence drunk deeper than night and Hilda’s highs. Over the ship overboard and starboard the buckets of sheep were crying. Murky caves spade of hand shuffling the deck a tape made in the tee black copper and a candlestick stretching the stellar canvas of her posh her pish posh look gem as in the gleaming not swirled in the lyricism another cynicism in the cunningness of things. Not the unread letters returned the absence of warmth cordiality and near courtesy of day stepped to night. A glass a glass my hand Franny says it does not mean we are tying nature to a pole of schizophrenia but we’re making a pleasure boat that turns over the capital vehicule. Is that possible Jill’s daughter shouted as the check spun in the air fluttering to the ground. What is a stone sucking candy mouth but the motor of its intent, even if that is spurn, and not day says done.


So single in its intent 'must be love' like her body flowin' in the courtyard, the Coupole of sanction and tea, and an endless deluge of w

o

r

d

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awards

Saturday, January 15, 2005

Deleuze happy, smiling, thoughtful, a cigarette --...


Deleuze happy, smiling, thoughtful, a cigarette -- To have done with the judgement of God.... Posted by Hello





ArChive DelIver


Deleuze happy, smiling, thoughtful, a cigarette --...
WHoever Fights
the death of Deleuze
Flinger Fugue
Looked at NoOne In BeTween theRe is Poetry Says Lucas by the Syracuse
slinking to
death derrida, jack
Couples EverYWhere « all yer blue mondays come to back to haunt yer...
sufI ReSoNances End Game? MoNA ReFuteS Some Old SuFi Pie from Son of Genet
they and Us Usssszzzzzssssssss





Saturday, January 01, 2005

WHoever Fights


Mona was Deleuze's daughter, a daughter son of Nietzsche, une

becomiNgsfemme, ~~ a creature of the authorFuNCTiondesrebloc. ~~ MonA

liked to read her daddy Deleuze's father Monster she was loyal

to the demonstrative prowess of the goddess. The goDdEss I surrended,

taken by her my head into her hips between her sex my mouth swallowed

uPThere, InTo her, swept down and up, 'away' not like any maxim, not

like any cock into her vessels, but as a profound lather of night's
bearing on the balls ofthe sea, and its hypnotic train.

Hypnotized hypnotized hip no tized haptic prized by the train the rumbling rambling deepgrowling inward thing bang sound of the train it hypnotized her train flipped her head out of the personal and swung upward , Hurtled High like the Buildings by the powers of dynamic captialism's youthfulsmiling hip swinging upward bounded Energy. O ENerGee. Gee of E and the E of mCsquare, the ballocking hammerslam of the yammerstam and its glamdam the love of godand night. the words runtogether like a smilinglip and its hip shadows a century later, and the phone conversations of a thousand years.


So she read that Father Deleuze was reading 'Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process she does not become a monster.Ah! yes a Monster, I ama pretty Monster my Lover, not my louver! ... when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.'Oh! it looks at me! and seizes! seing a son of the Muse (her abstract fates! de-songstructions, designs,fiddles,belttransmission manners, numbers, equations,baroque cages, neurotic tumblers, etc. other things of metre and might.) And dear O dear she was Re-a-reading Kant with the glasses of Daddy her superego not her superior ego. What was it that Picasso said? Take that sculpture and smash it! What? said Henry as he bounced down the streets of Paris in his particular narrative of desolation and dice, and my narrative is neither desolate nor dice, but the Big One's will as she understand the thing working me a song over the laved sihouettes of desire and her marryings.


She, Mona knew beyond good and evil was a monster's perogative and the submissive of her body was a wept palace for her beatings, her cock a summer song on his thigh, a balanced sheet of whippings and blaze.




Those werE the nights of whippings and blaze, the toe snapping shoes of the arrogant raceof the tribal mannerS, and who gave a damn, was the debted artist paying her dues. Her dues! she thought! what an exclamation! to speak! like this! some dead ! Pah! I've Sung for Cotton and sung for Cities Ive not heard of these and their rank knights! what kind of biographer are you? I am supposed to pursue my own road. The inexact wording always fasting down yer daze. She was Deleuzebetween the sheets and the nighttime horse and the k's of fortune were her body , the lips blowing out ...


And outward



So somber.



We perambulate then and no one believes us it was the death of Derrida.




Dear Son, he wrote, I am not dead, I am merely a ghost living in the past.



Son, she hummed between her teeth and the gown of her sex gleaming at me,


I have not revoked your first class poetic licence. This licence is a licence to love!


What she said, smiling her teeth a round song in his head, a body a loose garment of paves, not meaning to force representation




Re Moona ~~ was a Daughter of Nietzsche, Nietzshce's Daughter, nOw me what is More Poetic than that, the eternal return of