The News Feed and commentary continues to update themselves. Guido Cavalcanti says, BTW. This is precisely what I suggested Dante make evident with Vita Nuova after the death of Beatrice. Death resides like the shadow of Mars in the hollow of love, its condition as infinite commentary. His little book is a diagnostic manual for poets and lovers, both therapeutic cure and viral poison. Guido Guinizelli says, “Some people would never have been in love, had they never heard love talked about.” La Rochefoucauld. Beatrice dei Portinari says, ALL people. Cecce Angiolieri says, Oh not that tired old cliché :( You’ll be getting out your Barthes and Winterson next ;) There was a young girl from Firenze / Who met an old Priest called Mackenzie / she … [This content is currently unavailable]. Dante di Maiano says, Everyone knows it’s important to name the symptom; you have to give a name to the trauma, it is the first indispensable step on the way to a diagnosis. Nomina sunt consequential rerum. Then you take your piss to the doctor. Lulu says, You know you make me want to SHOUT! Nicola Masciandaro says, It’s like trying to name a beautiful, dangerous, and indifferent animal passing through the room that no one else seems to see […] Beatrice dei Portinari says, I am the faceless face of nameless horror! LOL. Donna Gentile con 7 l’altre donne like this. Cecco Angiolieri says, @ Beatrice: you are the number 9, babe, the de-mathematization of number – not measure nor metrics but diagram. ;). Professor Daniel Charles Barker says, 9=0, the key to decimal syzygetic complementarity, the graph of abstract intensive waves of distribution controlling the social networks of competitive decentralization. Robin MacKay and Ray Brassier like this. Lulu says, You know you make me want to SHOUT! Professor Challenger says, Voila! I read and read. And my persona is personafictation of lignes des fuites and sorties des bordellos. Zigzag lineaments. In the winter balloons. Count Myshkin returns to Russia from Switzerland where he underwent treatment at a mental hospital. On a train, he meets with Parfyon Rogozhin, who tells him of his passionate love to Nastasia Filippovna. Upon his arrival to St. Petersburg, the count introduces himself to his distant relative Mrs. Yepanchin, her husband General, their three daughters as well as to the General’s secretary Ganya Ivolghin. The portrait of Nastasia Filippovna, the count sees at the Yepanchins, makes a great impression on him. Awards: 2 wins. Prof. Challenger took out his old Baruch. Doctor lens doctor Lens: what is, for instance, a joke? How does a proverb differ from a maxim? And a maxim is not an aphorism, and what is a saying, an expression, an ‘old saying’ and how does the cliché … PleasE RemoVe yer hat when coming to this parole. One can speak of the good mental health of Van Gogh who, in his whole adult life, cooked only one of his hands and did nothing else except once to cut off his left ear, in a world in which every day one eats vagina cooked in green sauce or penis of newborn child whipped and beaten to a pulp, just as it is when plucked from the sex of its mother. And this is not an image, but a fact abundantly and daily repeated and cultivated throughout the world. Perhaps that is why I was under the impression that the Solar Eclipse that occurred yesterday was scheduled as a 7-day anniversary of Eugene Chadbourne playing Café Oto, but apparently that wasn’t true. It should have been … just had a not unrelated thought about Rib Eye Steak, having a food called such a thing makes me wish that we had eyes in our ribs, eyes in faces ONLY are SO old skool … Anyway Eugene’s music reminds me of blowing raspberries on a cow’s stomach on acid while it gently strokes your head with its hoof … I mean, me on acid, not the cow. When he started his Banjo introduction to the lullaby chamber I was caught up in the contrast between his blue shiny shirt (I wanted to get up and rub the shirt through my fingers while the banjo acted as a theme track to me doing so) and his electric rake at the bottom of a rabbit’s burrow, I wanted to sink into a grapefruit, I needed to grow spots for a new form of fish, I mean, a young American couple sat in front of me with thoroughly and awesomely shampooed heads, flopping over each other in a moon formation. I spent the majority of the time starring at their amazing scalps while in my peripheral vision I experienced brown and green trees flying into each other some bizarre shit lo-fi time lapse. I can only imagine that the result would be the creation of a new planet or listeners turning purple and developing horns on the stomach that sporadically spat out different forms of the egg. With the restraint of time being against us on pondering such questions a report is due, scrapp slarrkk ar ca … I always thought of storing my radio in cous cous but then I felt that this was being weird.
Security Guard: “Errr what are you doing ?”
Psychedelic Bolshevik & NN: “Reading…”
SG: “Are you here with the pantomime group upstairs?”
PB NN: “We’re here with the reading”
SG: “You can’t just be in here “
PB NN: “Where can we read then?”
SG: “You can hire a room”
PB NN: “How much?”
SG: “£25 an hour”
PB NN : ” We’ll give you 90p?”
***At this point we were escorted from the site of our creative bumble, condemned to the cold, ostracised when all we wanted to do was read (over the top of each other in loud and quiet ways, experimenting with delivery and intonation) instead we went for Funky Pie and confused our politics further. So when Swamp Dogg asks “Why wasn’t I born with Orange skin and Green hair…?” I can say, oh, you were, brother. But it’s not that I want us to apprehend the world in this way, it’s that we in fact do apprehend the world this way – perhaps not exactly in the way I’ve explained, but still in some way that is more-or-less comparable. Thus were secrets of the trade made available on key-chains. Limited edition, and locally grown, and locally grown, and the end of the world. Then the comic book ended. There were so many pages unwritten or drawn on, but the reader was required to come to halt. I kept turning the pages. Nothing happened. Something happens. It is aleatory, then it isn’t. It is contingent, then it isn’t. It is determined, then it isn’t. It is a satire and a ritual. It is pastoral. It has a lot of heft. I was there, man… Will you tell me what conventions do I get to flaunt in my dotage? Have I mastered the country-house poem? Pablo / O Pablo O where / have you been / / except in the garden / to talk to the dithering / swarm of inordinate pulses that give us that / hanged man look / goes on looking great now it’s tomorrow / here’s the brittle part of us looking great / How melting crayons communicate / I stop at the observation of the ashes, capture, colorless. Oh, I love that the word “need” is like a cupcake. Yet while I write my doubt, fear manifests. How to reduce thought to lawsuits such as the world and its wonders are infinite? But in truth, must be the desert, the culture of this place, March, because when someone comes to my house and sees a rag on the stove and addresses him with claw hands and captures and holds, then brings it up my nose saying “no-no-no-no lady, this is very dangerous” and then bend patiently on the handle and your environment? Well, not to mention the sincere intentions of my friend I finish no fire involved running around the house before falling in the garden (I would go towards the flowers, I bet) converted in the great and ridiculous Lady of Coal, tying ropes and tails. I think a cute full of hope but with little chance of actually exist momentum. Like all of us! Three months and I did finally a space in the cellar of the house. Yesterday saw All About My Mother for the fourteenth time and for the third time. I’ve already talked to them of my obsessions and last night during insomnia, heard the phrase she is a big woman, followed by a lot of friends, but whenever I try to observe her closely the spaniel and the Spaniard appear and form a triangle with her. I usually lose sight of her in the ‘magical’ triangle, utterly lost in the fog. Incidentally, a few days ago I read a mystery in which a murderer is ambushed by the assumed victim. You know what? However hard you try to flee from your giant or your fellow dog, you can’t, because they’re a part of what you are, like the CGI favelas superimposed upon the intricate-lit sheen of Zoe Saldana’s left tricep as she nuzzles a handgun between praying hands, barrel kissing her brow, like the rare form of pica during which the afflicted scarfs national flags, like the Champagne of Sodas, surreptitiously containing your first and last taste of that gross Coors Light, like that body part that’s been rubbed with a coffee marinade and garnished with rare, edible orchids. As I am the freshly minted Poet Laureate of Bent-Neck Village, my dentist is a Yale PhD. He insisted that I do a deep cleaning. He stands on the Himalayas teaching Nepalese children to brush their teeth. Brushing in the sunshine and smiles — modern industrial society takes smiling seriously. The snowy mountains flow downward. That’s from a poem by Ma Lan, who, as the name might suggest, is Chinese.
[Note: Sources: Scott Wilson, “Prosopopeia to Prosopagnosia: Dante on Facebook”, at Glossator 5; Clifford Duffy, and Antonin Artaud, “Van Gogh: The Man Suicided by Society”, quoted in Duffy, various, at Radio Deleuze, 2009; JBR; HBDPB, “A Slice of Marmite for a Slice of Toast: Eugene Chadbourne at Cafe Oto 2015-03-13”, at Association of Musical Marxists, 23 Mar 015; “Spontaneity : The Cauldron Melvin Made His Soup In”, at Psychedelic Bolsheviks, 30 Jan 015; JBR; Justin E. H. Smith, “For a Non-Ideal Metaphysics”, at Berfrois, 19 Mar 015; David W Pritchard, “I Was a Teenage L=a=n=g=u=a=g=e Poet: A Memoir in Verse”, “Someone Is Watching a Western on the Train”, at [“IT’S TIME TO HOP TO THE BLUES.”], 22 Mar 015; “Last Examples (2)”, “Last Examples (1)”, at A Seated Pigeon Turned Makes Sculpture, 22 & 21 Mar 015; Dolores Dorantes, various (tr. Google), at Dolores Dorantes, 22?? & 23 Mar 015; Yoko Danno, “Wild Nights”, at a glimpse of 14; JBR;Lemon Hound, 23 Mar 015; Ma Lan, “Writing a Love Poem for a Tooth” (tr. Charles A Laughlin), at Circumference; JBR, but see previous]
Comments