In the House of the Hangman 1223

The towelette flutters punctually in the window. The neighbor who never talks silently combusts on his patio in choreographed figure eights. The phone clicks: Click, click — Click, click. “What’s that sound? Is it you or is it I?” It’s not you, and it’s not me. Just the fact of the phone proves it’s is the secret police. I suspect we had similar childhoods. Did you ever do that thing on long family™ road trips where you plug and unplug your ears real fast with the window open to create a “wah-wah-wah-wah-wah” effect? So far so good. Our appraisal of vampyroteuthic history and culture has begun to take shape. Like us, it gathers information. This it does by emitting a cone of light into the world, by extracting units of information out of this light with its tentacles, and by paralyzing these units into data. Now she says Hi, with my fingers running up over her shoulder like a courthouse staircase, she’s a pencil sharpener, I’m biplanes, at competing high-concept kennels, it rained pawns. Scan City? Oh, it sure was. And man is it warm there or what? Like a heap of steel piñatas. Like the acupuncturist wants the Christian lady to think acupuncture is not totally wack. It’s all bioart tho, a rabbit capable of glowing green thanks to the introduction of a jellyfish gene into his DNA … Nah. It’s not art, it’s all the life-life (it is a crossroads where the dead come to meet) /// not poetry, revolution (note tabooed term, container driver). Meanwhile we are still grateful for the compression provided by the city / private home complex. A single tube for eating, puking & squirting ink. Is that macho? or the gentrification of your own poetix / mirror fermented (as storefront::: port of entry to engagement with personal identity). A diagram of human passions. There are parts of the town are inexplicable, are made of complex moans and fierce scratching. Evil patch? X-rays? Dark mass? Sweet Jesus in heaven. WHERE THE FUCK IS THE CENTRAL LOBE? (upper left) A diagram showing the helidrusic stucture of the branchial system. (upper right) A cross section of a lunochromahydre showing where the ascouiobolic saccules produce venom before it is emitted by the ducts of the slenopsusiste. (center) The chromohydre is secreted by the mimeshyrdic vacuoles. (lower left) Flying faster into position our bodies a far off alarm sounding the stars. The ground is one note held long and old pianos. And still the end will be more difficult, the simple symptom, that we will fail in our misunderstanding, enter warchild; war child is naked and dirty, covered in flesh old blood and oil, full of knives and silk and peacocks and breast milk and ghosts and fetuses and orchards and wounds, shifting continually between horny and cruel tones, meditative and exacting tones, stiff and puffy images, swallowed up somewhere in the space between all bodies, where nature mutates and crushes you and grinds against itself like a Jacuzzi full of semen or a sky-blue hacksaw or a moon, kin to Plath’s moon bald and wild, in vomition out our foaming mouths. “That’s a stunk.” You can fire dirt in a kiln, but it will still be dirt when it comes out. Out of this material, my father and I made a number of quasireligious creek creatures — turtles and snakes, mainly; we called them water elves. Because these creatures were earthenware and sometimes just greenware, they were porous and seasonal. Childhood belongs to the thing known as “childhood,” which it produces out of itself. Nature is a strange idea all on its own, and it is even stranger when contemplated apart from a child. Ten or so years have to pass before this moment or this story will become that thing known as “nature” or “Chinese.” This would be the summer of 1976, but it might just as easily be called a patio. Parse error: syntax error, unexpected T_VARIABLE. „Asger, over, the wind is now blowing really strong here in Stedlike plaza, out“. „I know, Constant, we had expected a rising of the northern wind towards the Baltic in the night, right at the centre, moving to Dredike are, where we are adrift, out“. „Over, we are proceeding at measured pace with eyes slightly tilted up, out“. „The perception of space is actually more unitary, isn’t it? A significative growth in attention to detail, out“. [...] „Over, we’re following the tinkling of what seemed to be a domestic animal collar. We’ve arrived here from Marionetten Theater at the Waag’s, right behind Neuw Markt, Oude Zijde quarters, out“. „Constant, we’ve stopped in front of Centraal Station, muffled, waiting for the wind blow to strike on us. Let me hear that tinkling sound through walkie-talkie, out“. Imagine all the clocks on the planet were melted down, and each of their separated minutes, past and present and future, were enclosed inside a wall about five metres thick, all stacked vertically and sealed with lead, the whole covered with a smooth wooden map, a system of financial bukkake, an infrageography that would never could never be ours.

[Note: Sources: Vijay Seshadri, “Secret Police”, at Fence, Winter 2012-13; Sarah Fox, “The Marrying Maiden”, at Fence, Winter 2012-13; Vílem Flusser and Louis Bec, Vampyrotuthis Infernalis: A Treatise, with a Report by the Institut Scientifique de Recherche Paranaturaliste (tr. Valentine a Pakis); Brandon Downing, “Dick Carla Astro”, at Fence, Winter 2012-13; Adam Robinson, “Transubstantiation”, at Fence, Winter 2012-13; JBR; Élisabeth de Fontenay, Without Offending Humans: A Critique of Animal Rights (tr. Will Bishop); JBR (Wavy Gravy used to say there was the show-show (time on stage) and the life-show (the rest of the time. Someone, can’t recall who, told him he only had part of it, that he was forgetting the life-life); Sean Bonney, Document, as quoted in John Armstrong, “Sean Bonney and the political poem”, at Bebrowed’s Blog, 6 Sept 010; Vaughan Bell, “the dark patch of death”, at Mind Hacks, 5 Feb 013; JBR; Tomas Weber, “untitled”, “untitled”, at The Argotist Online; Bebrowed’s Blog, 5 Feb 013; VICE magazine and Danielle Pafunda, blurbs for Rauan Klassnik, The Moon’s Jaw, at Black Ocean; JBR; Tan Lin, The Patio and the Index, Or “The Anthropology of Forgetting in Everyday Life.” A sampled novel. Alt: A field guide to a family (I think), at Triple Canopy 14; result of search for “pdf file of an interview with Anselm Hollo in VORT magazine back in 1972”, at Tom Raworth, 5 Jan 013; “5) PSYCHOGEOGRAPHIC DRIFT, AMSTERDAM 1959, ASGER JORN AND NIEUWENHUYS ANTON CONSTANT VIA WALKIE-TALKIE”, at Greyhoos, “Objets Sonore, II and III”, at Our God Is Speed, 5 Feb 012; Sean Bonney, “Cell 1 / Suite 3 / as in Self-Defence”, at Abandoned Buildings, 5 Feb 013]

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