Oil, essentially, hedges bets that engine size and aromatic
output will make big cities smell like French whores before long car-dicks
compete for the stinkiest automotive necessity for fucking. Guilt is wastefulness, the feeling that overcomes
the binged spirit, if only it weren’t ad encouraged to binge on commercial
things! Spoiled children feel rebellious
and act lazily. Tanning sidewinder
feeling/sensing Jungian law, radiating the Sun of this world below gets the
wrong idea about Omar Rodriguez Lopez, General Schwarzkopf, and non sequiturs. “Do not, I beg you, look for anything behind
phenomena,” Goethe, from Decline of the West, Spengler, O. p84. “They
are themselves their own lesson.” Denial of my own Jungian intuition takes me
outside the red zone, another football Sunday brain scrape. I’m imagining
contusions in running wonder pads.
Rhetorical cynicism silences what was never there to begin with, and
from nothingness, disbelief suggest zee polish antithesis, a cleansing. In situ machine errands spin me, describing a
sentient clock ticking, tocking, or cycling?
What is
not good? That which is open to debate (‘that’s
rhetorical!’). High-demand serum,
high-potency essencier (attuned to the local freakwensee) that the local freak
went to see, attuned to the particle vector vibrations, nose all atweek. Feel-good ways blast awhile before regularity
claims subservience, nowowned by me, completely fragmentary to debate, taking
both sides, seeing Janus, possessing and being possessed, giving and taking, no
apologies, we all strive for our own perfection, even if it be at the hands of
another (et tu…?) Interference…thoughts…feelings…action
necessitates…
Christmas
durations adorn a Douglas Fir, decorated especially for the 25th
imitation of the December imitations, desinence (“termination or ending; as in
the final line of a verse”). What luxury
for the worth of sacrificial ideals? What slaughter, what umbrage would abdicate
duration of loss-leadership? Hard-heart
distillation, off with the head, keep a little tail for complexity, aging
potential.
Go on, Tight-face,
you emotionless, detached wad, you easy reader.
La fin du monde, celebrating civilization’s end, my New Year conflict
resolution, tomorrow’s ornament, imitation, mirror modification. ‘“I’m afraid,” she whispers. “Everything. My
face in the mirror—when I was a child, they said not to look in the mirror too
often or I’d see the Devil behind the glass…and…” glancing back at the
white-flowered mirror behind them, “we have to cover it, please, can’t we cover
it…that’s where they…especially at night—“’ Pynchon, T. Gravity’s Rainbow,
p444.
Who’s
baby? Whose interpretation? How can I get through to her, especially at night,
surrounded by cats, the Devil’s intermediaries, walking in her father’s
footsteps, blind, smarting...
Meanwhile,
I run around photographing fall forgiveness, a rainbow in the sky, hoping to
capture God’s abstract sense of humor, aperture gaping, making a change to make
it seem as though there had been no change.
What is Forever maintaining? Keeping
it up… I pledge allegiance to a ghost in the night under covers. I maintain there’s nothing I could know for
Thomas’ sake. Damned if you know,
blessed if you don’t. Hell, my primary
education, kindergarten, where I lay smack.
Bully Bestoy, racing marbles, who’s first? There can be only one in series and
sequential imitations. Dusty dreams, old
saws, my problematic wing, more garments, more pests (pestilences, I think,
they want me dead). The sacerdotal mass
debater, objection homily, on encouraging differences, schisms, leaving behind
hot Aryans.
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