FCF 110

Would
you like
a one-of-

a-
kind, commissioned
portrait of your

,

painted
by Julian
Schnabel? Sorry, unfortunately

you
have not
found the card

entitling
you to
commission a unique

Julian
Schnabel portrait.
However, we encourage

you
to keep
searching for the

priceless
things in
life at priceless.com/search*

There’s
one thing
money can’t buy,

for
everything else
there is MasterCard.

You
are arenot
a maniac. What?

all
the trappings
of a machinic

assemblage,
encountering resistors
(the Sphinx), following

a
program (the
oracle), future determined

at
a bifurcation,
let’s ask that

crossroads
Scarecrow. Hey!
What? uh huh

What?
“You are
only falling on

the
hen-house
o wicked rain!”

What?
It’s not
true that nothing’s

important /
A bird
settles silently in

front
of Kaspar
Hauser / And gazes

at
him with
bottomless eyes / One

cloud
lies naked
in the dark /

“I
CAN HEAR
SOMEBODY BREATHING” / In

The
sentence / There
is breathing / The

crack
in the
wall / Goes to

the
left / Then
to the right /

Continues
down / The
stars are uncontrollable.

Be
of kind
bewilderment, diasporist. Funny

how
one minute
it’s winter, the

next
minute spring.
Like I am

the
turd that
is ready and

the
world is
the wide open

anus
machine. Zina
said put your

microscope
here, Vitya,
and let’s look

at
a drop
of water. This

is
like looking
a dead man

in
the eye,
said Dima. That’s

an
ism, said
Mitya. Already lovers

are
rowing across
the inlet as

the
moon rises.
Color changes the

pages
into a
kind of glass

called
Angels’ Blindsight.
The ordinary grows

enormous,
having swallowed
the sure thing.

We’re
starting to
talk about communism

again
(        ) (         ).
Because only a

sick
person would
take amphetamines as

as
a reaction
to a depressive

crisis.
Oh shit.
That means I’m,

well,
“nothing says
lovin’ like a

large
blow-up
photo of Amy

Winehouse
or do
I mean Anne

Frank” – well, sick isn’t meant pejoratively in any case. For instance:

I DON’T WANT TO LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE is something I shouted in a dream recently.

I can not begin to know

producing difference by deferring

second third person narrative

promising surrender to the dead

acknowledging, I am an unknown participant

something maybe, something blind

consuming scarcity

producing hunger

constructing gender

breathing markers

making someone a thing

scapegoat instance

another perfect occasion

construct of a common sense sentence

out of many different bank accounts

apparently to produce

a final outcome

illumination legible

newspaper flyspeck

on the edge of an abstract noun

sliding affirmation

speaking of poverty

in an industrial world

where the lakes, rivers and oceans

are no longer lakes, rivers and oceans

but mud covered hunger living in bodies

What is humiliation without shame? I went there. Was MORTIFIED through epiphany, a sister system of inexplicable waking, torn by self-inflicted stress against my own nature immediately upon blinking

back
from being
inside the reading

the
tsunami’s waves
were 46 feet.

All we have              -              is-             all we have

cannot calm the blaze of no light

Caught
with pants
below sagging alibis,

“Like
you, you
and you. I

am
deranged and
degraded, my perfumed

silk
undies and
au courant, expensive

haircut
totally useless.
Ditto, my minted

breath,
sandblasted of
all microbes.” Before

photography,
people didn’t
exist. Scientists reclassify

all
plants. The
eyes of a

deer
see best
on the head

of
an ape.
The suit smiled

again …
“It is
true I am

the
keeper of
the list, …” I

then
witnessed my
own liver being

roasted
is one
kind of end,

of
which is
an oral tradition,

“You
need to
have an explanation

ready /
for when
they stop you,

which
they will”:
today old age

is
becoming the
average social condition.

Pico
tells us
that God has

no
more archetypes
in R&D. No

“Don’t
come back
Friday.” “No got.

No.
got.” In
a landscape of.

Only
the cello’s
low notes. Fat,

doves,
round like
suns. Pages flutter

off
the printer
tray. Both librarians

suffer
four ire.
No. four ire.

No,
you fucking
software, fou rire:

the
wicks of
the fingers as

we
pick up
the shit. Some

creatures
live here.
The world rushes

in not by. Stinky but but not not. Tomorrow, whoa:

new fast uploads who want physical bodies that can keep up with their faster brains rose like little tranquil hands from roiling clouds, the

grimacing wounded grotesquely pink & convulsive nethersweet adrenalin menses

of light. They smeared the powerful and prophetic ‘yes’ with 990 objects, 320 of which were made of

gold. The bright yellow repetitive cycles of burning which are active in the production of memory appear to

, how

maximum to make diagonal metaphors (“He feared seeing bliss ‘only from the shores of pleasure’”) from

no, yes, no, yes. Who was it said my disappearing and coa-

lescing’s all burnt only yes it isn’t? Your

gnashing in the unfolding is a parallel order. Green semiotics or the death

of man as a cohesive universal or something. I

dipped my funny and delicious Misch-Masch of tender fornication (monument to the) and pressed where the heat of the sun

wouldn’t rub off. There where the wild elephants are (from the city wall King Dahivanna proclaimed, “I will give the person who can bring this wild elephant under control whatever he asks of me.” Hunchback Nala declared, “Show me that mad elephant so I can ‘subdue’ it.” [Heh heh]. Why

does the hair curtain sing? The hellostat doesn’t have pul-

ses so slow you can see them. One in three calls his own little ah me a

precipitous
language etc.
For some ungodly

reason
I was
happy all day,

[Note: Sources: new arrivals, a bit off the web … And. JBR, Autopoiesis CLVII, Autopoiesis LXXII, Autopoiesis CXII, Autopoiesis CLXIX; Jerry Ann Flieger, Is Oedipus Online?; Jason Smith, preface to Franco “Bifo” Berardi, The Soul at Work: From Alienation to Autonomy (trs. Francesca Cadel and Giuseppa Mecchia), and Berardi himself, from the text; K Silem Mohammad, “Hard Lovin’ Anne Frank”, “Amy Winehouse”, “Happiness Is”, in The Front; CA Conrad, “Mortified before kari’s BHARAT JIVA”, and edwards hirself, at PhillySound: new poetry, 27 Nov 09 (Dear Mr Conrad, you are a hero to me); Jen Hofer, One; Linh Dinh, “Blotter”, “Late Weather”, “Caption”, in Some Kind of Cheese Orgy; headline in The Independent, 23 Nov 98, reproduced as figure 4.3 in Geoffrey C Bowker, Memory Practices in the Sciences; Mark Young, the allegrezza ficcione; Kevin Davies, “Later Argument” and I’m not sure, in The Golden Age of Paraphernalia; “No … Friday”: cf. William Burroughs, Naked Lunch; Martha Ronk, “In a Landscape of Having to Repeat”, “Whenever she speaks to him in that voice, and infrequent enough occurrence”, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and David St John); Bill Griffiths, “Sonnet 1”, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Pam Brown, “Eyes on potatoes”, in Hilson; Elizabeth Robinson, “The Little Matchgirl”, The Snow Window”, in Swensen/St John; Aaron Shurin, Involuntary Lyrics, I, LXXI, in Hilson]

Comments

[Bob]

Before

photography,
people didn’t
exist.

love it...