Friday, December 05, 2008

Jill has



Jill has an amigo whose name is rain. She takes flight there. In the escape.
what other path is there?


Her brother is rain.

Someone says to her
The world is not manichean.

But she knows that god of the
old guard

doesn't exist.


but is a fallow fallacious
singular puffed -up
Wheat

Saturday, November 29, 2008

Ritornell (refrain)

....A child in the dark, gripped with fear, comforts himself by singing under its breath. […] The song is like a rough sketch of a calming and stabilizing, calm and stable, center in the heart of chaos.”
The RitornELLE assists in the creation of a “territory”, a “home”; however, it is also possible to “movements of escape”.

Line of fight

over her face. The guarded lamp in the shaded pair. SHe wishes to be your lover. But wont move her butt. Off a plane of prejudice et territorie. Alors. She worked three x to come. between us. Not reply the missive complainer she is. Buried by hands/Yer Mona comes home.

Yer home Jill

does yer home

equal the distance you spent

between territories of body

and river long?

between

mouth

bite

fish

god

Dagon

Dogone
Mona throw a rope. Catch it with yer teeth. Confetti burnished in the air. Come to me darling. You see the sight is ours. Cupped in our hand, handy brogue of lover you are.

O thy fumble's rich with teeth

yer prose is a camer a inthe offbeat. Game would come. as the being who appeared singular as night was height reckoned by the second. A fat bishop__ SNip SnaP. saith we dont know but we are communisting warping with the grief.

Svelte one come here. Obediant to the call. Missing these purse between us. In medias res.

Friday, November 14, 2008

machine

"An autopoietic machine is a machine organized (defined as a unity) as a network of processes of production (transformation and destruction) of components which: (i) through their interactions and transformations continuously regenerate and realize the network of processes (relations) that produced them; and (ii) constitute it (the machine) as a concrete unity in space in which they (the components) exist by specifying the topological domain of its realization as such a network." (Maturana, Varela, 1980, p. 78)
"[…] the space defined by an autopoietic system is self-contained and cannot be described by using dimensions that define another space. When we refer to our interactions with a concrete autopoietic system, however, we project this system on the space of our manipulations and make a description of this projection." (Maturana, Varela, 1980, p. 89)

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Finite express

Finite express darling Mona. Monocled to her perpendicular self. No way knowing the name of this ride. Through fortune's calender her mess. Is near to breaking. Half past the crockery of salon and saloon, she know it's this must be her maid. Not where it sits, but it's ebb decked with her being. Speaking of the nothing she kow-tows to events, and knowing nothing her vent is ripped from head to toe. Like a veiled soldier she convinced she's dead.

Not being anything she knows as its from the exterior
she's not a pent spent penny but walk to the river in dawn. Aube is her best friend.

JAckEe De ReAder

Jack ee was my reader. hedereader when she can. as went to forth herbecoming can to. reconstruct as deterritory decan.lecan? or was lecan lacan? of the eve R terminal experience of I. mathemed to her goodness sake.

Clare Parnet.

Friday, October 03, 2008

re:Mona GallOpspart 2

_________________________ Once Mona wrote this she knew she was that. Nota shrew on the moon. Or an ass onthe calendear, but a geology of humbler tumbly down. Alonghe face of rarity her river was a climber. Along the lofting peaks of Jill Deleuzy and Fanny Fransome Guattarinee.

Re: Mona Gallops Oh --- baby you are a marvel becoming. Woweezow. You move my belly again. I felt thrill of happpiness when i see the Other readers and their pleasures, I am so happy for you and for them and of course because sometimes mona lives in my light terminal for me. I skim new mona gallop and she's splendid and i always love franny so much but I have to print those girlys out later and read again. Funny yesterday in class i said God is always Dying, which was of course one of the many orphic statements that flew out the window over their heads, and so of course the author is always dying in the becoming. You're beautiful and so full of love and your blessing of me makes me glow. I have to write you more later you amazing writer poet man maybe much later as I have such a busy day. Thank you again for all the ranging and ringing conversation yesterday. Leave no sense unturned was their motto.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

fictions have always been pure desire i poesie is death to the eNunciation of desire all I is false

Add FictiOns and Other Stiff staff of dying ThIs Page, thEsE pagEs Do bE geTtiGn crowded Shoute Fanny! and it was so multiplicity!
Now See The Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari 2 | One Thousand Blogs and One | Rhizomater; schizz flows and flowers with Felix and Franny in their walk through the tunnel of love; remarkable moments with the analyst and his patients, secret recordings of Guattari and his lover differance; conferences with Guattari and the secretive Toni Negri; a brief moment when Genet meets Guattari; Simone de Beauvoir and becoming Cixous not Sixous; Sixeee and the Banshees do the Rhizome dance and the Screens fall Sometime Soon Mona marries Jill ¸¸^.and they have seX breakIng all the Episodic RuleS. I send you this love from the depths of my literature, ligature.These fictions are the news of epistemology.|

Monday, September 08, 2008

over the fifth plateau

do the thunder roll of bodies on the rile. Jill comes bearing rift of . memory.

schhzizz sisters my arse

schhzizz sisters my arse


So, Mona is worse than the Lacanians. They, at least, are only looking forthe Father. But Mona's looking for "daddy". Schizo-sisters of desire myass.


My ArSeing Lord
what's happend to the gambit
at half mast!


Mona's a jewel roughs up the pages of all ages. Camps on the bivouac of buttocks standing room only her only cope.

Love is a buck. Not a reindeer> What plateau of threshelded subject passes this cutting dracula?

Sunday, August 17, 2008

les 3

==
Les Trois malédictions sur Le DÃsir

c'est :

rapporter le dÃsir au manque,
rapporter le dÃsir au plaisir,
ou à l'orgasme, voir Reich, erreur fatale,

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Jill has lyotardation

Mona and lyotards,....

shiver me gimble. Ive wrought the high standard of love!. she married her hood. Her hoof was wary to her beast breast.
Not easily paradised its wishing to hoping makes the thing.A
ll our rivers are sumptuous.





Mona never reads anyone but her Dad Deleuze. She has no time.Besides. Mona and Jill are the schizo sisters of desire. So why read anyoneelse when its already so rich and ruche?

Friday, July 25, 2008

o'er




O'er these hills Jill has seen. What silence greets her! hip hip hooray! she has power in her kneecaps, As any Greek heroine she's hubby to her hubcap hussiness. Not winned by her wine, but sovereign to her ink.


Will she fiddle a country in her smoothing, soothing, backbone break?


Jill has a hand down her back the hand ass of any lover. Doing the dime on any routine she's kept her mistress on subway passages. A passing thing, it's nymph to her gardened heel.

THis way she knows bussing is best for blessing. Hooking on alliterative stamp on another. Hooked to her fair pence, love's sudsy duddsy in her monkey bast.



This i s no votive candle but best to her breast.


On this plateau there's no calender not even hypertext has she hounded the setting suns, faltered to her ass staring at the darker copper darkered coloured girl.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Mother born after reeling backwards children

From: Orpheus
Monsieur Malliez now perhaps you are understanding a little about
fiction as in fiction time goes backwards and reels! as you say... I am
the mother Born after her children...

Best living unborn loving wishes... Clifford Duffy who is a
fictional image figure..

On Plateau 16 1899, Malliez wrote:
that in
> Plateau 6 Orpheus said:
> > Further more since these characters were born in 1897 in the
> > spring they are not even 200 years old yet! So you do not have the
> > permission or the authority to write a biographeme of them yet!! I am
> > their mother! I forbid this!!
> >
> > best wishes, their mother.
> >
> > CLifford Duffy
>
> That's odd, because, as far as I know, you, Clifford Duffy, are less than
> two months old! The mother is younger than the children!! The mind
> reels!!!
>
> Malliez

________________
In t he ending Malliez and Orpheus kipped making up doublebecoming of their sward selving.

Kissmiss to them ~ ,.

Monday, June 30, 2008

the hog

The dog of war has raised his head

under cover o sheep and vessel

martyring his still self



long may his peace shit

p's and q'

s

.

Jill queries the tent. Long may her fallow

b e raised against the foul barrier of

tented wounds gleaming in light



this might be better today tin flute

bucketing the marrying type.

Monday, June 02, 2008

clench to frog

He's clinch to her throng. The million body city has its hazards.



Clench to frog.hail as the deed desert city ....she's veiled wrapped around to everything


except her ass.butt sticking out .as usual . her four hundred dollar thong wear


.jerked off in her mouth.imagined fancy.

Saturday, May 31, 2008

Mona had



Mona had bodies of immanece, by the dozen wave and more. her heart shelfed was heat. heart.? heart? on she had a heart on her sleeve, her cellphone a_leave. Like any knickering she was grief to her toes, but spilled leaves to her toes.

her scandal was scan scan to sandal sand. Trimming the ruth coughing aorund the ringing tear~

Saturday, May 17, 2008

may

May

's pregnancy time its maypole its my pole and yers. Jill kickaboot. Wrappedher hair in sellophantom. Yes. Cubbed to her buckled feet. Ranked and reared. her heaving horse forward. was her grave to intent. Kiss me Kate! and will please to sticks, but ugliness won't do.

may

May

's pregnancy time its maypole its my pole and yers. Jill kickaboot. Wrappedher hair in sellophantom. Yes. Cubbed to her buckled feet. Ranked and reared. her heaving horse forward. was her grave to intent. Kiss me Kate! and will please to sticks, but ugliness won't do.

Friday, April 18, 2008

cheeky feline

Mona is this yer Monday or Maunday or or yes, yes or or de gold. Galloping spleen paired by her dreadlocks. This filth is on the veins. Sutured by 'rare' air, you come round this memory as a witch do on the gliding bloom. Yer sorcerer's apprentice appealing to winding feminine rhyme as a cup under thistle and down on the forest of the cheek.



The cheek of her! the nerve! the gall!

Friday, March 07, 2008

they call it

Through fast darkly her longly goods were haven spent. Across the narrowing strait where her cities went. Not so this tent of appeals and narcotic sunsets ~


They call all night knights to this nard scent tracking over the bushwhacked hill. Rivered where Franny fallen flapper hooded her gown by trestled sunset railyywars, and hoofs of feet. You ca nt say hoofs of foot. Why not. Called out camber me along the canoe woe ~

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

doctor

doctor in theheart of things. schizo your heart's friend. barrowed. not broken by the time of time's things.
is it true he was dying those months away as you lectured sang spoke the word forming the shape of its hesitation not as any farrier but a long diamond to ray or vanish, or really burnish tear tracks
resulting in a diamond necklace for your true love?

we'll never know Mona, only the hour knows for certain. Play ~

Friday, February 22, 2008

more of

would whirlingthru the gigs help? is plateau the neat spell of room/doom? we're not sure. excepting our geology of morals i s mystery

Sunday, February 03, 2008

pardon

pardon fat fête of festive of fictioned to finger to is which one as which which : EKscape|

She hooligan. Holler that to her obscurer selves. Ranging acorn the kitchen thinking blue bells, radical urn, and pleasure boat over the mantle of Ganges. this is her geology of manner, her predictable predicate . No! yes, murmur Mona the bag in her finger , swinging , chase filed field lover.

fiction to death

to death fiction diction to fests fess feces fester . come along. linger. ma linger Ma linger Pa linger. finger a real dinger . a reel dinger. finger linger coming along reel dinger

Finger ? no a finger of speech. not somethng for fake schschicschizoor rich kid

Hmm sounding sounding . deep and dollop of money round. ring .coinof realm~ .

Saturday, January 19, 2008

Mona speaks to Orpheus


this might be the second of a series i n the fictives known
as Orpheus series. secondary set Orpheus to Eurydice ~

____________________________________________
Eurydice Gift


And if Orpheus turned back far enough, would he turn so far, the shadow stretching his neck, that he might find the children that she bore? There. in the other place, down there in the dark funnel downward to the earth. And the sore necks might make sense then in the hindsight gathered of love (fathered of his love). Would the twisting silhouette he pulled in the darkness resemble something like Lot's daughter, and the pillar of salt might be then the pillar of desire? A question would be floated to the quester the kidnapped one and her harvests alone in her abandonment. In
places where words could not speak.
And the vowels broke. Over
across the lips .

The dancing speakers would take over pain would pay its price its price its punishment the sending down nights of wound would waken the child she held in his arms all across the sand. Where desire never met its name, its mate. Or its Irish king, in the land of the sand across the sea where Shehe had wandered broken feet with hungry soils
under them calling her name and the gaze then, his gaze, the gaze of Orpheus could not harm her, nor hinder the nights of their love once stolen back then. Back then, always back then when he could not look, could not see. Now he wants to be blind so the pain, the pain of beauty's thrust won't injure (him).
Eurydice would say the name from below as he walked up the sky pulling at the gravity of her feet. Don't look yet, my darling, don't look yet. My children would crawl at your grave then, and I would fall away for centuries, I swear. I swear and sweat she said her words like tons of heavy rock pushed over his shoulder a boulder. He could not be bolder,
bolder than her desire to surface out of the break neck speed, its pace followed up behind, its thread of walk their thread, their safety. The book they spoke-walk together. The word sprinkled its noises, its roses on them. As they staggered up the stairs, the mystery girl was waiting for them. With her dark leather suit and silver belts tied around her waist, and her cervix throbbed, she felt his innards tap and pull at her inside. Her endometria’s desire for her egg seeds. His grain self hungering down back to her, before their harvest, their fruit.
Breath at moments like that was heaven, heavy in the heaving of her pushed up forward to his lintel steps. The baby would speak in his ears, as he caught the women up, his hands arcing past the places where they disappeared. First he finds her then, night speaks past and plugging up the death trouble. She finds him, and birth is the death they must speak. What will the gaze be gentle, interstitial between them.
Her pushed up forward hips to the birthing they were giving. To the world, and the long charioted lover's body all glued in one desire delirious of its birth. No song could be theirs that was not stolen.
Father cried Mother cried baby cried Eurydice cried Orpheus cried "Adam" spoke "Eve" woke the angel flew at last finally made of flesh Now somewhere near where they lived he (Orpheus) came to meet them now that summer haunted the veins of her body. Which had captured long in that space made room for giving birth after death.
It was tired, it was morning. Heads were words filled with visions of her face. Her face like stars spun past his eyes lost too many times to the looking backward, coming back and the child sang in his arms.
Her arms too, also sang. Sang she said and rested back, relieved. Eurydice all in blur painted his sung eyes, eyes hurt with the down darkness and below. They reposed, breathed easy in the boat taking them past.