February 23, 2009

Lady, sitting on the bench there is painting a man’s portrait from his corpse. A contemporary literary experience pressed against a blood-speckled window. I want to lie down and die producing the signs of signs. The one that cannot be found goes somewhat like this: come by blood from that city. I’m worried about leaving the limits of a human universe. Writing is somehow fissured in its value—I’m going to beat everything I can. Full stop on non-stop thrust aside. The political order is applicable also to the graphic order, a big assed beauty. This is a map of my wanderings, fluid demarcations of unstable territories. I wish we could eat without masks. I am preternaturally still, a constitution of object relation. The supplement is neither a presence nor an absence sucking like mad to get fed. The compelling conviction throws a veil over primary narcissism.

The entire earth would soon be covered with nothing but trees and ferocious beasts. I remember the opening line only. The sight of the flames from which animals flee is attractive to man. Different symptom patterns are detected in migrants. Days, days, and nights and more of the same thing itself in tropical hieroglyphics. That condition only is cathartic. All in the mind it comes and goes, the possibility of its own repetition of its own image. Here is a story of schizophrenia, a demonstration circumscribed by thrust. I want to sing the signifier as broken or constellated into a system. Symptom is soaked commercially and covered in small cuts. When they come to get me I’ll give them an atomic itself entering into the composition. Only a few rare flashes of writing are beyond horror. Faded, last night’s dreams did not reduce the voice to itself it incorporated it into a system. This project makes me feel that I am not a writer at all.

Within the blanks that separate dislocated themes I put my fork down and feel my jaw. We break things in pieces like an organ of capitalization. Rotation, vertigo, or infinite quest, if you are not born you are not dead. At last walk out and into another existence the metaphysics of presence. The question remains within the rigidity of splitting. All words are a vibration within the horizontality of spacing. Perceive the imprint of that affect. Mouths nuzzling all levels of life organization that is to say the economy of death. It is the scheme of love, hatred, enthusiasm and damnation, a courtyard of red clay. In the light of the morning we must borrow our tools if only to destroy the former machine. It delegates phantoms, ghosts and false cards. How to call back, or speak forward the necessity of the already there. For the present object, petrification on one side, falsehood on the other. I cannot be more than the man who watches.

One of the two faces is the most ridiculous and miserable of creatures. In both instances the faces appear in order to uphold “I” within the Other. Can I eat what you give me? Membranes covered in small cuts. The sky is a sudden black cloud that gives more care to the image than to the object. As a result they were occasionally led to stray from literal translation. Thinking of Olson-if they desired to sleep with their wife they must enter from the foot of the bed. Priests collected the mother’s body, her breast, and thus threaten her with defiling me. Be the wake that produces itself in self-substitution. Let me bow and touch your feet while I am alive. On a velvet couch, red velvet, you sacrificed more for profit than for liberty. In such a case, pleasure has a beautiful geometric form. The great sweetness of nature fumbling at the mirror. I am not saying that correctly despite light pouring in from space.

Two seemingly contradictory causes are incarnations of speech. The life of the world seems to be approaching its own exhaustion. To speak of want alone is to be frightened. We will stand it up in the garden the entire field covered by the cybernetic grapheme. It is necessary therefore to stem the flow. What she says she wants she wants she says. That kind of confrontation appears. At the edge of the house the concept of linearization is much more effective. Contradict avoidance when filth becomes defilement. There was a path through the field down to the river with respect to the mechanisms of ethnocentric assimilation/exclusion. Bataille constitutes collective erotic existence. Root as rocks and trees to cry to sing to sigh. Lacking illusions, lacking shelter, our dreams are increasing anguish through depletion. Perhaps his system is false; but developing it, he has painted himself around the corner.

Let us conserve all the indeterminacy of the word for the moment. For the stray considers himself equivalent. The crowd milling on the bridge is the pure emotion of nature. And if one imagines, and imagine one must, the revealed subject is captivated and then replaced. That maternal law is a voice trembling with delight. Artaud is the inescapable witness smuggled across the border. I want to fuck the passage of virtue and good passion without pity. Translators tended to be squeamish. Walking down backward it is analogy itself. Again preternaturally still. Don’t go away mad there is harmony already within melody. Although we are interchangeable with temptation. The origin of the sign and the breaking of immediacy is in me like a hill. Nevertheless upon the body.