Being and Rhyme
(March 25/06)
I live in an implosion, a collapsing variableness, an incontinence, a rhizome without a warren-hole, a way out or back in. I live one step behind the step that encouraged the first step forward—now a backward incontinent atomizes. I have a headache, a warren-pain in the subcutaneous coetaneous. All things, myself included, are coeval, simple rhythms in the greater logarithm. The Being-in, the Being-there, the being-thrown-in-there, that’s all that matters when the metaphysical is removed, excised like a suppurating boil. This thrown-into: a tatting of the inner and the outer, the internal barrister that supercedes the simple Id-eology of phantoms and ghostbodies. No more no-nothings, no being here nor there nor either or. One insufferable primal scene, the coital naysay, the perpetual inking machine fading in and out, no-nothings nor neither or.
I live in an implosion, a collapsing variableness, an incontinence, a rhizome without a warren-hole, a way out or back in. I live one step behind the step that encouraged the first step forward—now a backward incontinent atomizes. I have a headache, a warren-pain in the subcutaneous coetaneous. All things, myself included, are coeval, simple rhythms in the greater logarithm. The Being-in, the Being-there, the being-thrown-in-there, that’s all that matters when the metaphysical is removed, excised like a suppurating boil. This thrown-into: a tatting of the inner and the outer, the internal barrister that supercedes the simple Id-eology of phantoms and ghostbodies. No more no-nothings, no being here nor there nor either or. One insufferable primal scene, the coital naysay, the perpetual inking machine fading in and out, no-nothings nor neither or.
Who am I but the dilemma of dissolution and dimwittedness? The Ego left in the cellars of the ID, the truculently remembered remembrance of that first remember. When one is none, no further calculation’s logarithms or algebraic fistulas need be tried and trued. All is silliness, bad manners and couch-sitting, bringing forth, through hermeneutic and cajolery, the deepest recession of forgotten forgets. A trumpeting cacophony of repressed this and re-repressed that, a nonman’sland of Id-eulogizes and re-interments. Freud was wrong, there is no way out of the cellar, no rabbithole, no (Kafka) door through which to make that great Heideggerian leap, leaping into the ontological fray in excelsior glorious. Being-in-time is Being disguised as Being, nothing more nor, I suppose, less.
1 comment:
it's a bad day for german philosophy, i guess. i thoroughly enjoyed the wordplay throughout, but got rather bogged down in the dissonance. to speak meagerly, from personal experience, philosophy seems too vast to force into poetics: asking, rather, to seep in through the cracks and serve as means to make over 900$ a month - just from having fun! pardon my poorly executed humour, but i'm sure you get my point: it's not a new one, but is sometimes a welcome reminder.
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