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.