Monday, February 27, 2006


Struct Destruct
(Feb 27/06)
Today being the first day of my forty-ninth year, amadeus anon et al. A bitterly cold late February morning, so it is--a simple repetition of the day of my birth. The depression settles in, a weighstation for emotions and trapped feelings. It is here, balanced nimbly on the fulcrum of Sartrean no-mans’-land, that the real work begins. The parsing and trimming, the cutting away and excising of wasteful no-nothings. Separating the wean from the chaff, the bone from the socket. Tendons and sinew, ligatures bared in a rapt denudation for all to see and regale in, the endnote to the preface of the middle; no-nothing in between, just dross, bad manners and chalk-gray cartilage.
Here is an in-exhaustive list of people whose birthday’s coincide with mine--Irwin Shaw 1913, Peter De Vries 1910, John Steinbeck 1902, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807, Ariel Sharon 1928, Ralph Nader 1934. And the contrary polar opposite, or, persons of interest who expired on this day--Konrad Lorenz 1989, Harold Acton 1994, Spike Milligan 2002, and Fred Rogers 2003. Thank you for your time, patience and good manners. (aND THE iTALIC-ES)

Sunday, February 26, 2006


Druthery and Vivaldi
(Feb 26/06)
Sitting as I was in the druthers of my thoughts, I thought, no, druthers are for the druthered, I will not be druthered nor sit in the druthers of my thoughts, my druthery. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was playing on the transitory, a floral reminder of music’s panacea, its ability to pull one from the druthers of one’s thoughts. The ambrosia of violins at frolic, the entanglement of the sacred with the profane, all this, these this’, drew me out of my druthers and into the angelic ‘otherness’ of Vivaldi. This ethereal ‘otherness’, however, has its limits, out of which I careened, like a catgut strand of mares’ tail. Now, by force of habit and a prejudice for Freudian repetition, I listen, with an inattentive ear, to a radio-drama on the inauspicious CBC, or Crapulous Broadcast Clamor. I watched no Olympic sporting events, even though the television was in-sodomy of them, an odd and unvaried assortment of jumping and skiing and oval-racing and lute-sledding, skeletal whatnots and whatfors. I have neither fondness nor time for nationalism, as I’d much rather be a citizen of the world, not some geographical disposed subphylum with the appropriate ID bracelet and a SIN card without a photography or thumbprint. May the best he or she win, regardless of race, ethnicity, geographic latitude or taste in haberdashery. Wars are fought over geography, religious precocity, capital gain and national fondness, none of which I feel a particular affection for or attachment to. Perhaps this was the cause of my earlier druthers, or simply a touch of ennui and bad manners for not caring about Venn diagrams and circles in congress, one looped into the other until the vinculum is octagonal and seamless.


The Deconstruction of Deconstruction—Or, How I Learned to Love the Derrida
(Feb 25/06)
Returning I have just returned from a philosophical/theological parley on the Deconstruction of Christianity--or, when did it start and when will it come to a full stop? Or, when is enough deconstruction enough? Or, either or—how does a construct deconstruct without reconstructing itself ad nausea? Either or, or either—who cares? Deconstruction I liken to the snake eating it’s tail, a circularity with neither a beginning nor an end, but a continual becoming or eternal reoccurrence, in the Nietzschean sense. That which is deconstructed in turn propagates the construction of the deconstruction, ad infinitum, or there about. In this manner, or weighsay, we might ask ourselves which comes first, the construction or the deconstruction. The answer, I suggest, is neither, as the two are synonymous, cut from the same bolt of philosophical cloth. The one begs the existence of the other, or more properly, neither one nor the other. More so, neither either nor either neither. Nor either nor neither or either nor neither either—ad infinitum, or there about. The deconstruction is the construction of the deconstruction. To construct is to deconstruct that which came prior to the construction, or, to deconstruct is to construct that which came after the construction of the deconstruction. You see, no doubt, the inherent menace of this construct/destruct phenomenon

Friday, February 24, 2006


Much of Anything At All Much
(Feb 24/06)
I’m not much good at starting the day, truth be known, I’m not much good at anything. Shoe tying, banking, finding employment, keeping employment, asking for help, forgiving those who trespass and anything at all to do with much of anything. I am stolid, prone to anxieties, and acutely aware of my surroundings and have what my barber calls a whirl on the crown of my head. I am overweight, hard of hearing, precocious, almost cross-eyed, fated with fallen arches and intolerant to a fault. I am impatient, impudent, apt to outbursts of anger and vexation, on time, yet unpredictable, hasty and small-minded. I am not in possession of a suit, a sports coat, ties, ascots or bolos. I have neither brogues two-eyelet slip-ons nor fashionable loafers, nor have I cuffed trousers or links. I have no idea how to convey an automobile, van, pickup or sports-utility vehicle. I own a bicycle that I seldom ride, a set of dumbbells, green with silver collars, and a length of elastic band used for physiotherapy pulling and stretching, yellow. My hair is all the same length, with the exception of my bangs, which are receding into the whirl on the crown of my head. I smoke too much, exercise too little, and have an absolute disregard for the welfare of the barking dogs. I eat whatever is handy, drink faucet water and use disposable razors. I read too much, listen badly and eat chocolate, as I find carob unappetizing and chalky. I only wear underwear if my trousers have a tear in them, and denim, never corduroy, rayon or gray flannel. I do nothing well and everything wrong. I am not much good at anything, nor am I good at starting the day, truth be known.


Anal Anon Anal Etc
(Feb 23/06)
A medicate for a mendicant, and this ethereal cacophony, a hosanna Sanso for the herd of hearing and sylph. No Lilliputian’s or a one up the whole-end. That’d be a most unseemly monk and wallop. I say althea hosanna anal impetigo anon. never one am I to neither mince nor monger words swill-brewed and gulped upon gulp. Alabaster bastard’s wearied sole-shoed, neither shod of foot or Achilles’. Lance narks on the manse of his wee feats hackle sod and shoddy. Fucking archly enemas for the faint of Intel and continent. I best get some sleep aft fore the mornings murmur puts a full stop to this murder of words et al anon so seethe me the cord all musty monk and lye.

Thursday, February 23, 2006


With It’s Caw Cawing
(Feb 23/06)
The cinnamon burns the inside of my mouth, the quid of my cheeks peppery and scalloped. I devil the stalk with my tongue, chousing the stick against the roof of my mouth, the sulk of my palate lolling on threads of sweet tartness, stolid with potato vodka and caraway, diuretics curried with ethanol and carob. I am mad, quite mad indeed, as it is, mad, quite mad. Anise, I will have none of that, black licorice and treacle sweetness, too galling and rheumy for the palate, a sacredness best left to rectors and whooplas. The coffee is bitter, nut bitter, bitter lying the twigs of the lingual, ligneous. A crow coddles air with its caw cawing; sluing caws of caw coddled air, as crows are wont to do. I ignore the cawing, as crows are meddlesome creatures with little regard for proper tone and candor. Menaces, some say, winged mendicants so it’s said by some. My head, the inside, cranial inside of my head, is thumping with thumps. These thumps thumping are most disconcerting indeed, very much so indeed. As I know of no catchall panacea for head cudgeling, I best make reference to a medical compendium or a neurological pandectium, even though there is no such prĂ©cis. Winged devils and cretins, and a varied unction of no-do-goods, these I could most certainly do without. I am reading several books, or tomes, as I prefer to call them: Robert Walser’s selection of short stories, The Walk, Bruno Schulz’s The Street of Crocodiles and Sanatorium Under The Sign of The Hourglass, Juan Goytisolo’s Count Julian and The Young Assassins, and Quarantine, should time permit, Louis Althusser’s memoir The Future Lasts Forever, a collection of Paul Celan’s Poems, and several turgid volumes on psychoanalytic theory and philosophy, both impossibly unreadable. All of these, these tomes, as you may well imagine, making my life all put impossible to endure. Mind you, endurance is highly overrated indeed, highly impossible, at least for a cudgel-brain such as I.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

tHE sIGN of the cLOSS

Cross-referencing the Cross
(Feb 21/06)
I awoke this morning with a neologism in my brainpan: brainpan. I awakened this morning with a brainpan in my neologism: neologism. I have yet to awaken from neologism or brainpan. If I am truly awake, then the Canadian Broadcastic Centro recasted a most impish casting. The casting concerned the battle over the sign, simulacrum and signifier of the cross. There are those Christian brethren in the Biblesash of the United Crates who believe that a cross should not be placed at the roadside where a person or persons have been killed in traffic. The Christian Right, having appropriated the sign of the cross, refuse to share it with anyone other than selfsame Christians. In effect, they, the Christians, own the right to the cross, the sign and signifier of the cross and all its cross-references.
I have a sneakily suspicion that the cross, the sign of the cross, its signifiers and simulacra, were around long before the advent of Christianity. Surely the cross, or the sign, signifier or signified of the cross, was around long before the Christian armies began decimating the ‘other’, the non-Christian other. It seems to me, though I could be mistaken, that the cross was a totemic signifier of the Gaul’s or the Gaelic or the Celts or some such religious faction long before the Christian right appropriated it. Perhaps a middle ground could be staked, one agreeable to all. Let the Christian right have the word Closs and everyone else the word cross. This way they can do what they like with the word without fear of the ‘other’, the heathen hoard, shifting it about willy-nilly.

Monday, February 20, 2006


An Apologia to the Walser and Musil Families
(Feb 20/06)
It has been brought to my attention that I am a scurrilous bore. This comment was made in reference to my postings concerning Mr. Walser and Mr. Musil’s deaths and rottenness, or more aptly, the state of their decomposition. As I have met neither man, nor their remaining family, I see no harm in poking goodhearted fun at their misfortune and anatomical corruption/putrescence. I, too, and perhaps sooner than I am wont, will find myself in a selfsame plight of decompose. Having been party some years past to the discovery of a body in the early throes of rigger mortis, I find all block and tackle of rebus a mnemonic nightmare. Screen memories, whether Lacanian or post-Freudian, make me ill at ease, sickly and peripatetic with loathsomeness. Concomitant to that, or those, is my own encroaching deafness, which has adumbrated my ability to hear the most blaring sonic swell. Con concomitant to that, those and these, is the sorry state of my seeing-sight, which has begun to cross in at the bridge of my beakcove. So if I take it upon myself to do a little poking and goodhearted tomfoolery, please understand that I, too, suffer from a pre-mortis de rigger, albeit one less crumbly and limed.
(And the corruption of the Italic-es)


Sailor’s Knots and Bolos

(Feb 20/06)
Her breath smells of apple peels
left to rot in the summer sun

Hair woven in knots and bolos by
rum laggard fingers scored with brine

And her legs pried open with a smile and
a copper held aloft in a rum laggard fist

Sunday, February 19, 2006


Poetics of Poetry
(Feb 19/06)
Having read Amatoritsero Ede’s polemic on the state of the poetic form I feel propelled to compose my own polemic, a leprotic row, a quarrelsome diatribe, perhaps. Plato’s greatest fear for a perdurable society was the sensual, riotous evocations of the poets. For they were the true antagonists of the Republic, the enemies of the Open Society, the purveyors of poetic sodomy, the sedition of the masses through meter and rhyme. It was Heidegger’s contention that the poet was the true philosopher, the Zarathustrian naysayer willing to plumb the depths of ontological insecurity. The poetic form is the Form of Forms, the template on which knowledge, both sensate and insensate, is predicated.
The German language, as one example, was irrevocable altered with the genocide of the Jewry in Eastern Europe in the 1940’s, never to be fully repatriated or re-appropriated. It was up to those who were subjected to the most horrid inhumane atrocities, a Bruno Schulz or a Paul Celan, to find a way to express man’s inhumanity to man through verse and poetics. They re-appropriated the German language to evoke the disturbing atrocities that man had perpetrated against his fellow man. To write, express and evoke such barbarity, they had to use the language of the perpetrator, the idiom of the genocide. It was only from within this language, this idiomatic slaughterhouse, that they could express the horrors of man’s inhumanity to man.
Poetry evokes the carnal appetite for the ugly and the beautiful. Poetry pushes one away as it draws one in, drawing one into the beatific and the monstrous, but away from acting on the monstrosities that it reveals through its unveiling. Poetry exposes, it does not hide. Poetry encourages dialogue, repatriation of language and emotion; it does not do away with both, with humanness. The poet is a curiosity seeker, a lover of the incongruent and the harmonious. The poet takes great joy in parsing together seemingly disparate words and evoking a sundry whole, a demulcent of the seemingly incongruent.
The poet is a Nietzschean naysayer, a parser of the sensual, an evoker, a lover of the riotous and disparate, and most importantly, a yeahsayer. The poet is a dialectician, an ontological voice for those without a voice and for those voices that go unheard or are discounted as unworthy of epistemic validation. The poet is a theorist whose chosen form of stylus is the hammer, the hammer of ideological/social and political deconstruction. The poet is a blacksmith, the anvil his mnemonic sounding board, the hammer his Thoradic roar and thunder.


(Feb 18/06)
I have been asked, by whom is immaterial, to refrain from making false and unsavory statements about dead rotting writers. As an adjunction to this injunction I have been advised to keep my pie-hole shut, else I incur an equally unpalatable libel suit, one I will rue the day of it’s excitation. My response, albeit of the chunter-ish nature, was, you can all go fuck yourselves. If I take it upon myself, which I will, to make reference to deceased rotting oldie writers, it is my decision, and one I will take a firm and unwavering stand on. End of sentence or statement. What harm is there in making false and pretend statements, some invocations, about a Mr. Robber Falser or a Hied Robert Mulish? None, I contend, none whatsoever in the least. Both Mr. Falser and Mr. Mulish, were they alive and not dead and rotting, perhaps diminished to chalky bone and frailties, would gladly commode to my making false and oft unsavory statements, or comments, concerning they’re psychopathologies and rottenness. The are, the both of them, open game, so to speak, and even were they not, they are equally incapable of waging a defense to the contrary. So to those of you whom hold an advanced diploma in comparative literature I say, fuck off and be done with your dillydallying, I will have none of it, none whatsoever, none. End of statement or comment.

Saturday, February 18, 2006


A Request From the Family and Estate of the Late Robert Walser
(Feb 18/06)
The family, the remaining family, of Robert Walser, his estate and trustees of said estate, has asked me to write a novel in Walserian verse and temper. Of course I will jump, or more to the point, leap at the opportunity, being a great lover and admirer of the now deceased Mr. Walser. I will need, however, to appropriate a Walserain mien and tone, which will no doubt require that I a) live out my remaining years in an asylum, b) wear a gray greatcoat at all times, regardless of temperature and climate, and c) become quite mad. The first and second of these may pose some difficulties, but as for the last, or C, I should have no inherent problems in said psychological appropriation, none whatsoever. Madness befits me, or more to the point, I befit madness, quite appropriately and without approbation. First I will need get a haircut, short at the sides and moppet-like at the crown and forehead; loose several unaccounted for pounds of flab and general flabbiness; and remove my beard; albeit a short and faint graying that befits a man of my age and temper, but a beard just the same. The mendicant that I am, I foresee no great difficult in taking on this most auspicious project, none whatsoever. The opening sentence will be the following, though I will still need rework the syntax and grammatical inlay, perhaps: Hello, my name is Robert, and I am quite mad, quite mad indeed.

Friday, February 17, 2006


This Being the Fourth (or is it the fifth?) Volume
(Feb 17/06)
I have recently taken it upon myself to write the fourth (or is it the fifth?) volume of Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities, without his approval, of course, as he is dead and rotting somewhere, where or how rotten I do not know, nor care to quite frankly. Rotting things make me sick and disgusted, especially the human body, the form of the body or humanness of the human body, either way I get sick and quite disgusted, disgustedly sick in fact. The body, by it’s very nature, is a sad and sickly thing, a composite of rotting, offal things. When the body, the human body, rots, or decomposes, it lets off an awful stink, a reeking that is most displeasing to the sense of smell, and the eyes, which are often forced to redden and itch invariably so. Dead bodies, of the human variety, are best disposed of with haste and little regard for family wishes or begging to the contrary. The contrary, in this instance, being liming the corpse or chopping it into sizeable pieces then either incinerating it or burying it in a far off place, a place far away from one’s sense of smell and eyesight. I believe were Mr. Musil still alive, not rotting or completely decomposed, he would surely agree, as he was a man of unvarying principle and good manners. I have begun the fourth, or fifth, of Mr. Musil’s novels with the following opening sentence: I am a man who regardless of my protestations and conniving remain without qualities, none whatsoever. I remain, as I have been and will no doubt continue to be, a man without qualities, sadly enough, I have none. I will, as homage to Mr. Musil, keep you apprised.

Thursday, February 16, 2006


Her thing between Her
(Feb 16/06)
Her cunt is like a boilerroom, all soppy and porous, like melbas and rye thins, or smooth and honed like a fish belly or a lime peal left out to curl in the hot August sun. Or is it a mud ovum, a kiln where sharp objects are prodded and jimmied, no soft roe or steelheads, but precocity of things, things and not things, things with no names or purpose, labial things, melbas and toeholds with neither purpose rime nor meter. That thing--these things--between her—her—legs, in between her legs and thighs and pubic pong. Ah the ubiquitous pong bone, the harbinger of clear sailing, red reddest sunsets and japanned fish bellies left out too long in the broiling august sun. Curled up like sleeping fetuses with cleft palates and jujube-round finger nubs. And I ladle the pip of my tongue, a long sorptive flay, and melange the inner inside of her majolica maracas.
My grandpapa was a boiler man, a stationary boiler man, a brown—maybe gray--fedora hatted boiler man, man. He wore a hat, the fedora hat, on the crown of his head, his balding boiler man’s head, head. Unlike her cunt, my grandpapa’s boilerroom was neither soppy nor porous, but noisy and clangy and full of steam and loud whistles and other selfsame likeminded boiler men. Men, some with fedoras—brown or gray—and some without—neither gray nor brown, but opaque, or rather no hatted, neither coloured, felted fabric, neither couture or haberdashery. Her cunt, as would have it, is neither a hat, a fedora hat, nor a steam whistle or a loud noisy clanging. Neither nor of these. Boiler men are now called stationary engineers, not boiler man or boiler men, neither of neither these nor the other of these or them. No selfsame or likeminded, nor selfsameminded or likeselfsameminded. Suffice it to say I will neither sop her boilerroom nor my grandpapa’s fedora hat, hat. Neither the one nor the other, nor the selfsame or likeminded. Neither either or nor.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006


(Feb 10/06)
Tongue pong and teeth banded into chisel-edges. And me, off to have my pulmonary/slash/respiratory province given a good going-over. Treadmill and weasel shoes, laces buckled round poleaxes of ankle.
Pedagogical Sycophantry
(Feb 08/06)
The etude of the intellectual is to engage thought with action, theory with practice, to subvert complacency into insurrection, social obsequiousness into Hobbesian anarchy. A prolapsed state of nature, a free-for-all caponized of all canonical Eucharistic debris. A hard and steady Deleuzian ass fucking, with all the bells, whistles and subversive STD’s included.

Anvil of the Hips
When the hammer hits the base
Of the spine
The anvil of the hips chimes
And beneath the ruckus of night
Olives breach oil and sun
And light

Monday, February 13, 2006


Cudgel and Lime
(Feb 13/06)
I awoke this morning to birds atwitter in the standing timber contiguous to my windowsill sills, awakening from milt-heavy dreams of coital this and that though neither either or either that nor this. More news of miscreantism in the War on Terror: a video of British boycotts beating Iraqis with sticks and hobnailed wellies. A lager and lime, if you please, with a Cornish pasty and a rasher of mutton entrails. A sloppy egg, yolk-side up, with a rue of chips and batter and a cod tongue on the opposable, pleas and no thank ewes, if you please. Another plume in me hat, or beret, depending on the climate and judiciary. Or was that a cretin’s cap, tilted to no side with a ferret of no-hair and mullet?
Sad cunts the lot of ‘em billeted in tarpaper and commode. If you please, a roll of Roebuck’s and a ream of Punch and rudely, for ass wiping and General’s lavations and fob soiling. Sticks and stones produce such heckler’s gloms, sad pathetic cunts, not a man’s jigger amongst ‘em. All that punting and flack jacketed armory. Time to put the wee ones to bed, with a punt to the chops and a Jujitsu to the kidney sop, venal failure for the laggard and rimed. I best mind me manners before the brute constabulary comes punting down me door with hobnailed and cudgel.


(Feb 12/06)
Fear and trembling unto death do we part. Bowels, innards, guts and viscera unto death do we part. Parting is such saccharin woe. Woe is I unto death trembling do we part. Do we part trembling in woe is me sorrow. Death bowels, innards, guts and glistering saccharin fear. Parting post death and mortem is such treacle and sweetshop sorrow and woe is neither you nor I. Sorrowful sorrow woe Noah onto ark unto covenant and roe. Ovum over easy does it unto death trembling do us part parting. Viscera, guts, innards and the largest bowel NAG till fear do we Miracle Mart. In the parking lot do we part trembling in fear of innards, bowels, guts, viscera and mopeds. Fear of trembling and part. Fear of mopeds and trembling. Fearful of death, mopeds, innards, guts, viscera and the smallest bowel trembling in disgust and saccharin woe is you not I nor not I. Nietzsche’s nag woeful and begotten to death do he did part trembling. Hobbled and flog to wobbly knees trembling unto death did he (F.N.) parting sorrowful part. Part we do death unto trembling and fear.

Sunday, February 12, 2006


Gonorrheal Meiosis
(Feb 12/06)
What you are and have been reading, if reading at all, is the slow degradation of a mind, my mind; the slow crapulent decadency of a once fine and ample mind. My mind is no longer my mind, but some variant, some reutilization of a ‘once my mind’. Early onset dementia brought on by an undiagnosed syphilitic contagion, a virulent strain of gonorrheal meiosis. A Meistersinger encouraged by an intractable oedipal strangulation. Once one sees the trope of the Nietzschean-nag, hobbled, blood issuing from the bray of its nostrils, its rider beating it to an early death, madness is inevitable. Softening of the mind, so they said--a concupiscence unto death.


Philosophy 101
(Feb 12/06)
Aristotle is an imbecile, Aristotle is a sentient being, all sentient beings are Aristotle. All Aristotles are imbeciles and sentient beings. All imbeciles are Aristotelian imbeciles. All Aristotelian imbeciles are sentient beings. All equals Aristotle and not Aristotle. I am Aristotle and not an imbecile. I am a sentient imbecile. I am a human imbecile. Aristotle is an imbecilic Aristotle. All equals all imbeciles with Aristotelian leanings or not all. Plato is Aristotle. Aristotle is Plato. All Platonic Aristotles are imbeciles. All Aristotelian Platos are sentient imbeciles. All Aristotelian Platonists are Aristotelian imbeciles. All Platonic Aristotelists are Plato. I am not Plato. I am neither Plato nor Aristotle. I am neither either or. I am either or neither either or. Neither am I either neither or neither either. I am an imbecile. I imbecile I.

Saturday, February 11, 2006


Centenary 250
(Feb 10/06)
An exegeses on exegeses’, a theory on praxis’, prodigal lacuna’s. The Pieta brings a weep to my eye, scabbard-hard calluses and chisel stabs. Gods’ only know the amnesty of the praxis, of the theory, of the exegeses, fit for a Saul or a Lot, or the treble-maker Wolfgang A. M., Spinnerets Savant, the Solemn of Gomorrah, the sylph of dryads, the messianic miscreant full of warm oily flatulence. I could give a dog’s ass about Mozart, or his 250-year benefaction, sad fucking cunt, a mouthful of bonbons and an infuriatingly vexing cackle. Lime-abscessed and roiling round in his own fecal soiling, sad pathetic cunt, nary a harpsichord or a piano to piss in. Fiddler crabs and the Magic Fluke and Don Eremite’s pensile-thin moustache, and that damnably annoying symphony with oboes and Frenchy horns, the horror, the fucking horror. I attended a Mozart Opera, Don Giovanni, at the NAG some years ago, besotted on grape-milt and potato skin vodka, haberdashed in an ill-fitting suet of black serge, and was the last of my troupe to fall willy-nilly to sleep. Amide a pox of rich fucks, not a Lacanian purloined letter to be seen. Troubled as he was, the wee prodigal savant was an annoying Viennese pipsqueak with an equally annoying habit of making mountains out of volehills. Happy 250 birthday you crapulous little shit.

Thursday, February 09, 2006


Chancres, Wens and Purulence
(Feb 09/06)
Sick people make me sick, all that coughing and soughing and bubonic inflammation. It’s all quite unseemly and intolerable. If it weren’t for an intractable Munchausen affliction and a black inquisitiveness, I’d surely stay clear of hospitals and walk-ins. All that skeletal bending, pustules and chancres, weeping suppurations and boils wen with purulence. But as I am required, by virtue of bad health and post-surgical follow-ups, to visit sanatoriums and doctor’s bedsides, I best shore up on my ill-temper and abhorrence of the sick and infirmed. This one sickly bastard in a wheelchair, a hose roiled in the abscess of his legs, white hairless spindles, had a hacking fit that almost rendered him unconscious, sad sickly bastard. Ether rags and janitorial abrasives, and a stiff bristled toiletry brush with a few teeth missing, for good measure, of course. A wire brush, the sort used for scrubbing the enamel clean off of soakingtubs and shit cisterns, black sebaceous footprints left by cretins and general miscreants, and those lacking in purgation and proper hygiene. Makes me sick with hatred and disgust for the unfortunate, ambulatory and syphilitic. True, they are in need of empathy and kind regards, but when it’s a thrice-weekly occurrence, I dare say they can all go fuck themselves. Soon, too soon perhaps, it will be I who am on the receiving end of such unwholesome and loathsome depurations. But until that time, to hell with them, every last bandy-legged one of ‘em. Fucking sickly bastards.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006


Bogslut, Molly Blum
(Feb 07/06)
Molly Bloom, bogslut. Blazes Bouillon’s gobspit slathering thigh and tailbone, Plumber’s Kettle meats soiling, sullied bed linens and pillager’s sheets, molt and scummy with crumb-bites and jujubes black, no red ruddy or cerise, but lemony-scented lavations for brisk scrubbings and morning’s halvah. No lento or bog-edged postcards, with lipprints and oils of olla and scurvy, for the fair-skinned and paunch of tripe and minnow, nay a one nor the other, just plain same and addle more nor less. No comeuppance or lightly broasted crumpet, from friar's pox and rector’s purse and satchel. Come yew and none to forge Liffey and arbor, with politick and almsman’s joss, tote-sac full of bread ends and patties serge from meat bye’s and mix of oleo and rot from the insides out. Damn Gingham dead rioting from lime-soil and loam, like a pretty near bulbsore, feet crinkled and threadworn from rum-rummaging with tankard, trove and till-bracket. Say nay, no more for ewe or mean other, just wedgings and ample Adam’s with tie tied round mantle and Merisel. Noah’s bark is a worse than his bite, so Seth the Lorry Allmusty and bracken with cog-rushes and bogsporn and milting more no less. So seethe the Word Allmolty and full of hale and Hardy, fatso with brimcap and fullsteam no-ahead. I needs new tri-spectacles for light reading and rote taking, as perhaps would have it, a new eyespot to recollect the earnest deafening thunder. Gods’night and one, two heave ho, with Puck charm and sonorous chaffing, dishes-splattered in sunbonnets, and a rue facsimile of he himself, the lord Sake Peer, and some and none to send scrubbing fair-heeled totow.

Monday, February 06, 2006


February Snow Snowed Snowing
(Feb 06/06)
A killing frost of Snow White white snow. A killjoy of snowy snowed snow. Kilocycles of snowed snow snowed then heaped in Snow White heaping heaps. Snow White sniggering credit card cants of snow white snowy snow mitered with a Visa, no, an Amex, with a curlicue beveled edge. Eyelids like moth’s wings, flypaper and velum, no, tarpaper, oily and sebaceous, shanty shack and unwholesome. Curbstone slush sluiced into mounds of slushy snow, not snow white or ivory caste white, but brownstone, blotchy and unseemly to the eye, the beholder of the eye-I. February snow is mercenary, white whitest snow clubbing it into a gored-red skin, seal pelt bloody red snow, an insanguination. Snow and blood are selfsame, cut from the same bolt, skinned from the same eviscerate. Bogspore: paella of castoffs and mealworms, bowels and tripe, intestinal linings and pancreatic slurry. Milt and pensile carrion, left to molt and scurvy into bread ends and black mold. Pennicillin for the sugar weary and insulin pale. It is snowing, yes indeed so it is.

dASEIN on the lIFFEY

Heidegger’s Ulysses
(Feb 06/06)
I have a response, better yet, a supplement to Heidegger’s Ulyssean ‘Being and Time’. Time is memory, or a recollection of a past, a passing, or an almost past, as in the Freudian notion of the unconscious. Point in case, those suffering with dementia praecox or Alzheimer disease share a neuro-psychological co-morbidity. They have little to no short-term memory, and in some cases, no long-term memory whatsoever. Without access to, or in this instance, recourse to memory, time becomes moot or non-linear. There is sanguinity of dates, events, recalls and time, meaning, no time or concept of time other than the present, the moment, the now. If time is memory, or recollection, then time ceases to ‘be’ when memory stops, or when the capacity for recollection or recall is stilted or altogether missing. What time is it? I have no idea. I have no past, no memory of anything, not even the present, the moment, the now. In fact, I can’t be absolutely clear that I have a ‘now’, or a present, or an ‘in the moment’ at all, none whatsoever. I can’t even remember if I have a present, as I’m always in the ‘now’, the moment, the ‘this’. I have no concept of ‘that’, or ‘this was’, or ‘that was that’, or ‘then not this’. Time is memory or the recollection of something past or in passing, the leverage on which the present, the ‘now’, the ‘moment’ rests. Without a past to reference the present in, or from, there is no moment, no ‘this is now’, no ‘this is’. The Freudian repressed blocks and tackles the need (the often cautionary need) for a past, a storehouse of memories, rebuses and past events or traumas. But then again, what the Hades’ do I know about memories, cool or not, or things that go bump in the night or neuropsychology? Nothing, I assure you, not a damnable thing whosoever, nada.

Saturday, February 04, 2006


Post Partum Post
(Feb 04/06)
I have awakened--perhaps not. How would I know (one know) if I (if one) were not dead, breathing, wheezing, lapping grubs of disagreeably damp air? This disconcerts me, so terribly so. Perhaps, maybe, perhaps, I have always been dead, yet to awaken, to live a life living, not a death dead dying, a Heideggerian misstep, an ontological charley horse, an inaccuracy in logic, an existential trip-up. In 1968 the intellectual landscape in France changed, and with it the desire for a raison d’ ere, a philosophical rebuttal: student uprisings, resurgence in Marxist dialectics, an end to Hobbesianism and capital greed and gain. We needed less structure, so the Sartreans and Althusserians gave us (pre)Structuralism(post) and Postmodernism. We needed more structure, so the Foucaults and Lacans offered us Truth as Power and an Unconscious structured like language, lacunas, pedagogical onerism, philosophical missteps. Foucault died from Aids related complications, Sartre with a pipe in his mouth (sometimes a pipe isn't a pipe), Lacan left early, analysis interminable, and Althusser from an irresolvable depression brought on by matricide and shoddy reasoning. Post, like Kellogg and Battle Creek, is a breakfast cereal, not some post-pre-ideological unintentional stance. But then again, madness brings out the best in a man, does it no?

Thursday, February 02, 2006

IP Address 131.107.0.# (Microsoft Corp) iTRIGUED iNDEED

Brecht and Brach
(Feb 02/06)
A cold Sartrean day, dogsbodies everywhichwhere: and me, like some Brechtian antihero, recreating the primal scene, just for the lark of it, no nothing more. I drink water like it’s going out of style, unfashionable and passe. Never was one for Rum and trope, too salty and syntactical. Herman knew tics, or some such nonsense. Achley had a scalpful of ‘em, crawly little bastards, crumbing up his skulkcap. Hoyden throwing it to his Alma Mommy Mater, the old ‘in and out’, as the old lactose tolerant Alex was a prone to do. Fucking scurvy world we live in, syphilitic and allsorts, not a span-mixture in the lot. Me mom’s doughy fingered whist-partners pocketing fistful’s of the polychromatic ones, the ones that look like beach sandals. I promised myself I would get to bed earlier tonight. I am a promise breaker, a mountebank and a palter, a skinflint, a jackofnotrades. I’ve been meaning to read Peter Weiss’ ‘Bodies and Shadows’. Maybe perhaps I will. Too much He’d, Joyo, Fred, and whoever, has made me a knotty boy indent. Gods’night and Oyo to the lot of you, and then sun.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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