poetry has its limits
edges of expression
edge of (understanding/subjectivity/existence)
wheres my fix?
theres my fix
post-existence addiction as some human condition
there is no solution as there is no problem

time spent
thinking poetry
magnetic absurdism
mean-
ingful
as sensation
and chance

Okay, but really, now that I have your attention: wait, I have to
tell you this in reverse. Or maybe beforehand and then with a final execution in the
end, for once you execute this, your attention will be so complete that you will not
even be able to take this in. Okay, well, basically: you will close your eyes, then type
your thoughts, alright maybe it’ll start out banal, or shit, but keep writing, it will flow
surprisingly well, and just let it go, the concentration kind of maintains itself in
someway its like the writing itself takes over your mind and even now you can see
the future keys light up like some invisible map of the keyboard and your confidence
in its execution and it man oh man it floats so well and can’t you see how nice it
would be if two people hooked up, closed their eyes and just typed at eachother and
would be hit by some kind of buzzer or just come out when they do and enter it so
that each sees it once their brain has been leeched for that moment that would be nice
that I could like imagine that it could all be so nice this technology this infinite
instantaneous Ginsberg howl Munch scream ah he sounds so nice Ginsberg he lays it
out like so nice i fucking love it and realising i love it i somehow realise (maybe
further, maybe remember) my love of Patti (no maybe it is further, this feels new I
guess, something true) then that takes me to how I want to make that zine, some
publication, and then that reminds me of our talent nights, or open mic nights, that
would be nice I want to do that. Hubert Selby Jr rants of infinity.
Ah I went and looked for Pynchon but Ginsbergs relentless “mulak!” gets the better of
me, its fucking good. I love it, its a screaming, moaning, expression of beauty of
crazy mad meaningful/less endless fun danger joy i want it all in my one my only one
to the sky and into some hole and out again and keep rolling it got me yeah it got me.
But yeah I came back to talk about this kind of expression, the freedom of it. But then
strangely simultaneously I was thinking about Pynchon expression, biographies as
presentations, histories, short thoughts, ideas, fucking anything as some kind
expression, even nice, reserved writing about what’s going on, just like the kind of
realism with drawing I was thinking just the careful examination of our world with
words is a fascinating exercise. Endless in itself. You could endlessly talk simply of
what has gone on around you, what you are seeing, feeling, thinking, its fucking fun
you could go on forever.

Desire for destruction
Nietzsches will seems too distant, too tangible, he talks as if we could mould clouds like playdough
My will, my desire, my thoughts I can’t abstract them into golden units strong enough to be talked of unless we perform some total abstraction, some oblivion. But there, there is my destruction, It is obliteration, crushed into my elements by some instigator mistaken for Creator. To be fucked senseless, sexlessly, just obtrusely, bluntly like the feel of some shoe on my verwandelt back. I want my fluid being spread thin, then thick other places – the mark of some squish on her shoes or even between her toes, disgust is welcome just as pleasure.
Or some Pynchonian rocket, the thrill of thrust is worn, movement turned still by uniformity
Now I ascend thrustless, just kind of float by in some theoretical existence I can’t see
Caught in this consistent antigravity despite the sureness of my descent and my written destruction
I can’t shake my confidence in some neverending ascent, some heaven I guess
A gamblers fallacy heaven so transparent so false so made of sound and fury but thats exactly why its there thats what it is
Some impossibility to live for not in defiance of our destruction but because of it, for it. Sounds too nice and romantic but really i mean it if that can be taken beyond that
But then these are the philosophical highs that are counterpointed at every angle by this inevitable destruction
This tantilizing surety of our dissolution
Hyperventilating thinking of this dissolution I feel I’m coming into being with it
The dissolution seems less a part of me as much as I am becoming a part of it
The great falling apart
Lets not tease ourselves and pretend its all for the journey, the existence itself
No, no, to me its the birth its the existence and its the death
And each instant as an expression of this trifecta
So in that we kid ourselves but then keep looking more cracks come up
The peripherals twinkle with this knowledge like some devils grin
Stop-motion cartoons slipped through that time
That gold, that paint you stole from the museum that screen those crystals and all that silicon and electricity
Where’d it steal in from – some invisible space that knows only interference matrices
There’s a crack in the sky-blue, some kind of multi-coloured white silver that makes a web in some crazy wind
In these spaces I’ve felt an affinity for
Some nervous twin I don’t carry don’t follow, something in-between? Steps rhyme some times so well we can’t tell
The dissonance of fear can turn to a lovely medley
As medleys can to some hell song some muses death call
Some animatronic sadness dictated by genetic software
Pataphysical psyche
Driving, just driving, deep down Salesman driving
Ambivilence, deep, down ambivilence
Its driven you, determined you, in some ways
Half-something, american, boy-girl, unfeeling-romantic
The void is sought in some way to dispel its novelty