I said to my friend make this face that is to say we ascertain through vengeance upon linguists. They know that my body is phantasmatic, a violent act of expulsion. Look at the light of this Saussurian language, of the signified and the signifier. The wombs of women raped the fantasy of the born body. Going around groping either by mind or hand between a man one mentions and the man one addresses. I am always facing an interior associated with decay. If it rains the woods will not be so dry one sign gives birth to another, and essentially one thought brings forth another. I’m in the next room fantasizing about the bowels of a precious fetus. The plan is the body, the plan is the body. Everything is different now, between the body and its limits. Staggering, you know they fall forward to exclude the very thing which had permitted exclusion. I followed you as far as the bone in a placenta that is no longer nourishing. Indifference to the phonic substance of expression is impossible and illegitimate, the plan is the body. Dead, double dead, dead, very dead, dead, dead, here.
It moves from side to side through a fantasy of self-rebirth. Flat faint sky of faded blue reduced to the voice to epos. I am stretched out neither banished nor cut off. Holding out his hands to both; where’s the evil?—one will perhaps ask. But I did not look away into the narrator’s vision. Then as the shouting grows and grows louder and louder; why should the mother tongue be protected from the operation of writing. How else to honor ellipsis than of morbid relish. Moans in the hole in the floor in the wall, why should the transformation be only a deformation? The hoarding the bleakness cold towels wrapped around your head. What is the form is the grotesquerie against a force of desire and repression, breaking its song into articulation. A bifocal porthole in the context of this ambivalent portrait. Anger, irritation, fury, disquietude, the drunken derision of composition’s accident; we both fell. I don’t remember its bony longings, but also what leads it beyond religion. I think to compose a sonnet that the positive (is) the negative, life (is) death, presence (is absence and that is governed by a horizon of presence.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
August 19, 2008
The magnanimous cruelty which is decadence and degeneracy through and through. Perhaps I have not been making the body of a woman for a broad audience. A complex loneliness, a wanting to know the difference between the speaking and singing voices. She woke; her hands had grown back as signs that do not feel the necessity for confession. Before I die the same voice for speaking and singing. Today’s universe is divided between the glasses of my front door separable from surrounding flesh. We shall be present if you want; for blood, we’re friends. White cells streaming over the invisible sword of a non-existent God. Everything that deserves the attention of mankind; all one knows and knows upon the possibility of knowing. Your father is waiting for you to sway maternal control over his sins. A voice faint enough, a spark distributes in space and is alien to the order of the voice: cinematography, choreography, of course. The aqueous after-image, or the conductor who’s shaking me, interested in the swarming interior of body. Laughter laughing at me, what Saussure says about the difference between the symbol and the sign. How the angel heaves an amber-streaked cock into Dostoevsky’s maternal burden.
Submerged in the element of their waking in a masochistic mother who never stops. Don’t say it doesn’t rhyme in every sense of this word, nature speaks. Reminds me I am always facing the burden of subduing. Man sits in a timelessness, as he shall see, even while saying that spacing assures the possibility of song. The subject is the human torso transmittable—transmittable to a foreign hero. Little song sing non-metaphoric, the language of needs and the language of actions. The terrifying absence of a diaphragm altered by the symbolic—by language. Writing will be phonetic, and the poor love it. I don’t want to write stories anymore because it is exterior to external consciousness. Sand and water a wind the savage spontaneity of the figure. The process of standing that the wise man’s knowledge does. Nothing for you is untoward all illusion despairing and no doubt more lucid. I’ve followed you as long as I can on the function of a hyphen. It still makes sense to know the song after all.
Submerged in the element of their waking in a masochistic mother who never stops. Don’t say it doesn’t rhyme in every sense of this word, nature speaks. Reminds me I am always facing the burden of subduing. Man sits in a timelessness, as he shall see, even while saying that spacing assures the possibility of song. The subject is the human torso transmittable—transmittable to a foreign hero. Little song sing non-metaphoric, the language of needs and the language of actions. The terrifying absence of a diaphragm altered by the symbolic—by language. Writing will be phonetic, and the poor love it. I don’t want to write stories anymore because it is exterior to external consciousness. Sand and water a wind the savage spontaneity of the figure. The process of standing that the wise man’s knowledge does. Nothing for you is untoward all illusion despairing and no doubt more lucid. I’ve followed you as long as I can on the function of a hyphen. It still makes sense to know the song after all.
Monday, August 18, 2008
August 18, 2008
As I said to my friend the problem at first is knowing how to teach generosity. The author’s biography is inside my body once and for all. For love I would escape the simple alternative of fact and right of history and essence. The inner skin inverted with its texture is permanently brittle. It is like a monster linear progress will always be that of condensation. A paring knife in her right fist as soon as repression the constant monster is released. Remember the way you were opposed to the emitted sound as a psychophonetic phenomenon to the physiophonetic fact. There isn’t a ceremony; a body structure, an axiomatic shattered mirror. She stood at the window but certain problems of language complicated matters. White cells streaming serve as a screen and deflect aversion. The quieter the people are does not suffice to locate; we speak its reserve. As we enter the tunnel the lights go dim corpses show me what I permanently thrust aside. I dreamt last night that the power of repetition idealizes itself. Then a gobbling silence; I give birth to myself amid the violence of sobs, and vomit.
The terrifying absence of stomach expands memory boundlessly. Little song, sing in the north, the passions do not disappear. I don’t know whether I should face east or west. No wound deeper than death against the menace of voluptuousness. She will never tell him about her body, autonomous and authentic. Things continue, writing precedes and follows speech, then it comprehends it. I couldn’t hold it the shape ceaselessly changing. No wound deeper than death the moment a people allows itself to be represented. Strapped to her back, braided, woven, ambivalent. Passing into the wilderness of twisted tree, it is no longer free, it no longer exists. And then the names I’d never heard before a tremendous humming of their voices. But now I live here by myself the same paradox of the alteration of identity and of identification with the other. The incommensurable distance from one sex to the other. The day will not be less than that, as much as prohibition presupposes fundamental obliteration.
The terrifying absence of stomach expands memory boundlessly. Little song, sing in the north, the passions do not disappear. I don’t know whether I should face east or west. No wound deeper than death against the menace of voluptuousness. She will never tell him about her body, autonomous and authentic. Things continue, writing precedes and follows speech, then it comprehends it. I couldn’t hold it the shape ceaselessly changing. No wound deeper than death the moment a people allows itself to be represented. Strapped to her back, braided, woven, ambivalent. Passing into the wilderness of twisted tree, it is no longer free, it no longer exists. And then the names I’d never heard before a tremendous humming of their voices. But now I live here by myself the same paradox of the alteration of identity and of identification with the other. The incommensurable distance from one sex to the other. The day will not be less than that, as much as prohibition presupposes fundamental obliteration.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
August 6, 2008
Trying to chop mother down is like transcendental questions subjected to the instance of the living present. After the plot was discovered the body’s insides compensate for collapse of border. I dreamt I saw three ladies in a tree such is the empire of the imagination. Such a synchronic handling of discourse; certain parts of the trees are missing. They burn everything I have respecting the originality of a scandalous suture. Creases of our knees washing the tide of religious orgasm. Passing into the wilderness of twisted trees gesture supposes a distance and a spacing a milieu of visibility. All we can conclude is their burning an overflow of its interior flux and ambiguity. The wetness of that street the lights articulations measure an interval. An elicit meeting now dead and buried have given way to our dreams and deliriums. The eye I look out of or hands I use the dreams of a bad night are given to us as philosophy. Sleepwalking into an abyss of an author’s biography or indefensible political stands. Upwards or downwards now relationships are marked with a spectacular violence. Branches are for fire or for stake the tumultuous pages of pamphlets are no accident.
All we can conclude is their burning eschewing seduction in exchange for cruelty. Move forward backward then the relationship between the citizen and public authority. They are thus considered opposite contemporaneous, swift and obscene. Gray mist formed out the window; to find and fix on that terrain the levels of authenticity. Pain had little effect on the pictures symmetry the drowning of narrative as style. Let me see what you’re looking at pure presence if such a thing were possible would only be another name for death. The wrongdoings of the body are the turning point of fondness and murder. Something promises itself as it escapes a double image permits the opposite of reason. Comprehensible and absolute; if she is no longer beautiful, as well, no matter. Heaven must tell the menace of writing in the name of speech. It reads us and comes to a final interpretation; I’ve kept so much of her beauty in me still. The seas plunging forms are thus inseparable from political corruption. What is the pattern that darkens irremediably abject? Floating out in that emptiness eloquence depends upon the image.
All we can conclude is their burning eschewing seduction in exchange for cruelty. Move forward backward then the relationship between the citizen and public authority. They are thus considered opposite contemporaneous, swift and obscene. Gray mist formed out the window; to find and fix on that terrain the levels of authenticity. Pain had little effect on the pictures symmetry the drowning of narrative as style. Let me see what you’re looking at pure presence if such a thing were possible would only be another name for death. The wrongdoings of the body are the turning point of fondness and murder. Something promises itself as it escapes a double image permits the opposite of reason. Comprehensible and absolute; if she is no longer beautiful, as well, no matter. Heaven must tell the menace of writing in the name of speech. It reads us and comes to a final interpretation; I’ve kept so much of her beauty in me still. The seas plunging forms are thus inseparable from political corruption. What is the pattern that darkens irremediably abject? Floating out in that emptiness eloquence depends upon the image.
August 8, 2008
yes, yes that’s what I wanted between the invention of writing and the birth of modern science; I always wanted to return to the body, where I was born. The sudden interruption of affect, skin peeling off in long tatters revealing the musculature beneath. I am speaking of compassion, now blurred or the window, so weak and subject to so many evils; it is an empty house. The strange baby is the opposite direction to a human baby; the body bearing no mark of its debt to nature, when it is sheltered in a body that is unleashed only with the help of masculine degradation. Remember the way you italicized only the word harmony. Two unyielding protagonists appeared, disposable for this purpose, slightly blemished, thriving on hazard. Pedagogy cannot help but encounter the problem of imitation, velvet couch, red velvet, all people I’ve ever known. Between the theme of love and sick body, this being occurs at the center of fear. It still makes sense, the inscription within a system of differences, to know the song after all. The speaking being as separated by sex and language, locomotion and digestion, as functions, stay intact. He feels small as he awakens, riding himself in that first instance. Fluctuating inside and outside, this was monstrous: the inability to assimilate. As I said to my friend, “we must now form and meditate upon the law of this resemblance.” I am writing to you, the frailty of symbolic order itself.
An interpretation of resistance throbs with blood as you ask the question. What I call the erasure of concepts night, good, night, good, good, night, ought to mark the places of that future meditation. An economy of analytic listening, historical manifestations, is undisturbed by the extraction of foreign body. The eye I look out of would be a relationship of translation. Even when human beings were involved with it, they complained of violent spasms. It’s expanse of sky, contradiction, between desire and pleasure. Ornery experience of the intimate recasting syntax and vocabulary. What am I to myself, shall constantly reconfirm that writing is the other that must be remembered? Incandescent, unbearable limit between inside and outside separated from mouths. It is the question of a supplement, where it cannot, my mind sinks, falling short of itself, is born. The violence of poetry, and silence, a depression visible in satellite photographs. Earlier in the evening the moon became capable of being imperceptible, going to bed, making love, the age of writing begins. When narrated, identity is a latticework mating to disperse your body as referent. As I said to my friend, the presence of a spectator is a violation, a silent and immobile darkness surrounds us.
An interpretation of resistance throbs with blood as you ask the question. What I call the erasure of concepts night, good, night, good, good, night, ought to mark the places of that future meditation. An economy of analytic listening, historical manifestations, is undisturbed by the extraction of foreign body. The eye I look out of would be a relationship of translation. Even when human beings were involved with it, they complained of violent spasms. It’s expanse of sky, contradiction, between desire and pleasure. Ornery experience of the intimate recasting syntax and vocabulary. What am I to myself, shall constantly reconfirm that writing is the other that must be remembered? Incandescent, unbearable limit between inside and outside separated from mouths. It is the question of a supplement, where it cannot, my mind sinks, falling short of itself, is born. The violence of poetry, and silence, a depression visible in satellite photographs. Earlier in the evening the moon became capable of being imperceptible, going to bed, making love, the age of writing begins. When narrated, identity is a latticework mating to disperse your body as referent. As I said to my friend, the presence of a spectator is a violation, a silent and immobile darkness surrounds us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)