m

Render

m

(bitmap - Poser 5 render)

Probeersel met renders

narration

we use narration we produce narration
we are narration yet we do not think of
ourselves as ongoing

we whirl ourselves into the phantasmata of being,
kata aoristin phantasma (plotinus) the aporetic past
but we are in fact(s) only the names we utter

we type to wipe the dust from out of our mouths
we write only what will be found after our death
we narrate until we live what will be found after our death
we speak of the dead in front of the masks
covering the aoristic origins of new speech

more narration
more Title
more Body

narrated hand looking at narrated face

hey there's a face what code is it

--------------------------- YES

but will she have sex with me i mean


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we communicate by movement of thought through lexical garbage

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reading you is like watching someone dance after a while you know the movement


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Tant je l'aymay, qu'en elle encor je vis: (you disrobe the absence of your body)

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Et tant la vy, que, maulgre moy, je l'ayme ( i see you Naked but Nothing sees me)

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et ainsi elle, en se perdant, me pert
(and as she looses her self in me in her i am lost)


& YOU
the
very
EYE

i

YES



YO
U

tactica encapsulata für pote & netwurks, opus 47

u hatrid owe
shuffel trings?

tringsit ear
u? upshut!




[akte tinga
pictoer]


nu cool knokia covedrs 0.99$/dl - akt nu

—neo-vorticist tactic caught in 0.28 sec

Thank u for using EGOLOG pomoprno sreversic!

quackNotes of da quirkbook fur da potel tree

IF THE WINDING'S GOING DOWN
THE DOWN IS IN THE WINDING

Run ( book => unwinding scroll, "screentraption", use_ sceve_ wordings){

je suis si chouette sur ma bicycklettre

! sceve(s) as(s) ona bicycklet triste

• lost in da luv of writing
• needing a reciproque but the reciproque
• is always an après-ski telling herself the wow of things
  
• remembering herself as an aziz ladia
  whither apron on in tent formation
  doin the same pista much faster
• ok cut the crap
  its not about speed or it is but the other way
  the movement of thought needs to happen
  but you can't loose the second wheel
• the steady beam of your holo-bicyclettrewriter
• its funny butter but my outshit vomit f face
  still gets mad at times about some dried up
  mF bein the impolite judge he used to throw out
  
• • so that's among other of her things
  • y u might be better off with a dumb schmuck
    
  • goin a bit slower through the curtains
    draped all velvet before ur lovely void
    dance hall wherein ur competin to outdick
    every hasbin dustbinnin'
    its schwlong to every cavity insight
    of sides already (got it?)
    
  
  

u don't need to pretend we don't need any cure
sure we need a cure, in the luxury-excess of this inward
the lack is real, lack of a valid procedure able to replace
the 'liure' of books the never ending convolutions of the
naming process taken up 'mildly' in the grinding of kapital, der Alte

now we only get our antheads sucked out, sooner or later
or ur b's if ur sufficiently shitheaded
on a slope down if you're ahead what's it make u?
a bad built, less grip, more clown
going deeper down
upon hitting
it.

comme on dit chez les guys:
you can't reason yourself behind
the bathroom tiles
in the toilets, & if you could
you'd still only find the brick wall
you had me built there
in your first place.

f ur education i'm a punk alright
so i just hate it when i'm right
cause then alla u gentl folk
just start to juckety yell
shift location, unshift channels
get the brilliant walls
all tied up together singing
the Sign of Ironeyed out
at least among the i of us
i am.

iamiamiamiam
miamiamiamia
amiamiamiami
iamiamiamiam

the books function

( F iN)n inits shed

its finity was wanting the delicate things to creep in, so
the liure was always a lure too, the golden patina of well shit shite
in the odour of the right order, always left to right

you can see why they (B&D, da stattler & walldorf Sacred Astoria Salade of Immanence)
were still pissed at Mallarmé , Afterwartsburst Mallarmé was pissed at them
some bad u's are still throwing books at them for it , let them
its good for the book circulation

yes its still the blood y the hell not

a binding together the entrapment of something, giving
appointment to the activity

activity are you there? yes
activity do you want to go out?
how much R U?

needleworks
piercing the act (fold)
ah the precision

always reaching for the end, & after the end
the naming still stands, sans cesse

the folio lost in the fold, needing the readers cut
to start making sense

the old scroll a weapon (stick)

with a message-destiny
an address-victim
wrapped around it

the book sacrifying - sacre d nom
the addresse (auto-victim/ su ici decidé)
to destiny - eternity - oblivion

autopoetic books flooding the market:
capital's deus ex machina

it's not even how slow you should
run this programme
it needs to be running from within
you won't get it there thru preaching
or handing out peaches to the saliva
will you

if it's to go through minimal infuse
homeotohertherapistically
how big you think are the chances
it's ur kinda shit
that needs to be infused?

if you don't want anything to happen
you can answer the question. Please answer the


ah never mind.

inscribing the waves - how?
triangulate cellular, monadic

behaviour by quota
when caught cough up
matter. whose caught?

umi umi umi umi
ium ium ium ium
miu miu miu miu
umi umi umi umi

Vampire Snottet

undead maurice to its muse

& She Wore Silk Stockings 2


Again mes mots maulx ma mo more moire
the millions of moths in my mouth the caved
timeslits, le vide strung to robe me deep into the arse
as in fear's fearing fear to new depths of fear

& taking the blaim for showing how it was for us
the only way of being here for the Voice part
We mean of the scheduled part for Whistles & Voice.
But yes it seems every writing postp(h)ones you, so

sure no yes i don't want you up here, for i am not Any
& Her at least i own, am owned by Her very angry
nearness up North readily mixing any all too clear

speech of newly fisheyed marble question marks
with the old familiarity of dirtied river answers
linked to more moire & tired mots & tadpole

© F.A.L. Dirk Vekemans

Scève's Blue Guitar

Leuth resonnant, et le doulx son des cordes
Et le concert de mon affection,
comment ensemble unyment tu accordes
Ton harmonie avec ma passion!
Lors que je suis sans oocupation
si vivement l'esprit tu m 'exercites,
Qu'ores à joye, ore à dueil tu m'incites
Par tes accords, non aux miens ressemblantz,
car plus, que moy, mes maulx tu luy recites
Correspondant à mes soupir tremblantz.


in the transposition of one mode of writing to the other the system falls
flat back on itself, its lack of materiality in the composition procedure
the way the words need to be carved in the resonance of others, hence
the letterings become
'substancial' objects like the lute here is getting to be a real object, you can hear
the cellist at it, count the snares if you'd want.
Syllables that are lived by the poet as autonomous units
of meaning in the convoluting anagram of the world into the dust of earth.

it's all over Scève, it's all over Marvell in a secondary move,
a recuperating way trying to transpose the exposed methods of
work that seemed to have come about haphazerdly, 'randomly '
(huh) to valid rhetorical procedures, as well as with Huygens
both works bracketed out of the estemed tradition as being
the produce of mere 'hobbyist's in such grave times all excusively
'we should't take these musings too serious when thisandthat.
Ah the lovely and eminent selfconscious pricks diese luteleute, ha.

Meanwhile print was applying an equal part of schizophrenic pressure
on the established mental moves of poetry as xml and screens are doing now.
It's the high art at the high tide of a system about to burst into
something entirely new, posed at its very end point away from
equilibrium. In spite of Eliot's blabla: grand days of opportunity.
Just pick it up, tune it some & pluck away.

The classics like Malherbe and Milton, that's a different story, but even
then Ponge seems to be the better judge.

Probeersel

ELlegorie

De beeldspraak van de EL is een allegorie.
De allegorie verwijst naar zichzelf, zoals het
schrijven van de code op zichzelf slaat.

Emblemata Autonoumica, een multitude.
Wildgroei van betekenis. Het Excess neemt het
heft in eigen handen.

Uiteindelijk verwijst elk schrijven naar zichzelf.
De Club der Uiteindelijken wist dat al lang, maar
nu worden de uiteinden zichtbaar voor iedereen.

De uiteinden lopen zoals te verwachten viel, vanzelf
naar de ingangen. Vaneigens. De eerste wet
van de Naturerende Natuur is niet voor niets:
"Gij zult uw Tuitje hebben Opwaarts staan".

Neerwaartse tuitjes vreten zichzelf & schrokken staart
& schrikken maar strikken desondanks zichzelve ter dood.
Het is louter een kwestie van tijd, hoewel het gegenereerde
quotum Nijd ondertussen behoorlijk kan beginnen stinken.

[Noem twee concrete voorbeelden van Neerwaardse Tuitjes]
...
[Bespeur het Neerwaardse Tuitje in uw eigen Veelheid]

Het ELfabet is één der bouwstenen van de erotische Ellende,
haar Kathedraal is nog vrij Nieuw. Zie Link.
Waar is ook weer die Link.
O hemel toch.

De roman in de roman is in de net-roman het schrijven
zelf geworden, zoals het plaatsvindt.
Het schrijven was altijd al een performante act, de uiting
van een aansporing, of een klacht of wat dan ook.
Het schrijven is sowieso een talige handeling.

De talige handeling van het schrijven is meer en meer
een autonome activiteit aan het worden.
De allegorie wordt stilaan bewaarheid, het schrijven
schrijft effectief zichzelf.

Wij, de Lichamen wij zijn de batterijen voor het mogelijk
maken van het autonome schrijven. Het individu heeft
louter een verklikkerfunctie.
Het ikje knippert als het honger heeft.
Nee, pipo, Sex is een protocol voor energietransport, vraag & aanbod
beheersen en controleren het inpluggedrag van de gleuf- en stekeldiertjes.

[Untsoweiter]
[...]
[Untsoweiter]

De roman in de roman was een voorafschaduwing (en. precursor) van de net-roman,
het tekstuele procedé is nog steeds een valabele maar enigszins
gedateeerde strategie, die van de illusoire allegorie, die berustte
op het bereidwillig verzaken aan het ongeloof van de lezer.
De alleenheersende actieve lezer.
De lezer die zich liet meevoeren.
De lezer die zich laat meevoeren.
De lezer zonder aarde, verzonken in haar wereld.

De lezer als abstractum van een abstractum opgaand in een geabstraheerde wereld.

[De roman is niet dood voor mensen die de romans lezen, net
zo min als g*d dood is voor mensen die goden nodig hebben.]
...
[ Het kost meer energie om informatie (of lopende code) te
verwijderen, dan om nieuwe aan te maken die de oude
recupereert, onschadelijk maakt in haar kwaadruikende vorm:
encapsulatie heet dat, ook voor professionelen, maar dat zijn dan
de grotere bidons. Vermeld uw kortingscode bij uw bestelling]

In de EL herkennen we haar secundaire instantiatie, de kleine l.

• De kleine l is een lus, een strik rond het niets.
• Verlangen rukt haar beide uiteinden naar differente kanten.
• Het verlangen spreekt. Het is een mombakkes met een masker op.
  
• Het sprekende verlangen is de verklanking van het ELfabet,
• is het spreken van de ellende, het strikken van het Niets.

Het Nietsstrikken is kort, hevig en eenvoudig of lang, berustend en complex.
Het Nietsstrikken is inherent aan de Wil tot de Code.

De Wil tot de Code is helemaal niet verheven boven goed of kwaad,
de Wil tot de Code is een goede zaak.
De Wil zorgt voor beweging waar er anders slechts stilstand zou zijn.

Hoera voor de Wil.

Hoera.
Hoera.







De naam verbindt het ELfabet met de erotische Ellende.
De verbintenis is accidenteel. De verbintenis vraagt niets.
De verbintenis nodigt niet, ze is niet, je leest ze , begrijpt haar
& dus maak je ze. Je kan haar ook lezen & niet-begrijpen.
Je kan haar ook niet lezen maar dan ben jij er niet.

De verbintenis is, hoe kan het anders, die met de vergetelheid.

Ontkenning van de transcendentie: de naamgevingsprocedure
is geen valabele escape-routine. De immanentie is onontkoombaar,
maar de onontkoombaarheid van de immanentie is enkel problematisch
voor het niet-hier-willen-zijn van het zijn zoals het is, dus niet issend, maar
zoals we het niet kunnen denken, het reële-onder-ontkenning, het
Ware Zijn Als Het Ware, de voortdurende verknechting van het worden
aan de stasis, het onaanvaardbare van de vergankelijkheid.

De Meester duwt zich in de bloebber van het Monster
om zich Meester te wanen.

Maar het hoeft niet te zweren! Het worden staat los
van de bezwering. Wat zich tot stilstand wil roepen
is de angst voor het worden, het niet kunnen
niet-willen-betekenen, het onaflatende ikken van het ik.

Het ik is maar een vlaag van het worden in het worden, een bijproduct
van leven, zien, spreken.
Het bijproduct wil noemen, zeggen, zwijgen. Onder het oppervlak
drijft het wellicht het leven zelf aan.
De individuatie als het clinamen in het Gebeuren.

De determinatie is enkel noodlottig in het oogmerk van de termijn.
Termijnen zijn ontginningsprocedures, exploitatievergunningen.
Metingen in dienst van de dood. Metingen willen dat de ikjes
zich door de tekstgleuven murwen.

Wat gevat wordt is altijd per definitie stilstand.
Daar valt uiteindelijk niks over te zeggen.
Het gaat er echter niet om dat we over de dingen
waar we het over willen hebben niks kunnen zeggen,
het gaat erom dat het er niet over moet gaan, maar dát
het gaat, zoals het gaat, zover het gaat.

In de mate van het mogelijke, de potentialiteit.

Het zijn is niets als het niet hier is.
Hier is nergens.
Het zijn is niets.

In de immanentie is het worden geen in,
of tijdens het worden is de immanentie geen in,

tenzij je het in als deixis ( je wil erover praten)
als een dubbel configureert (een in in een in dat niet was:
de nulexplosie van de mathesis). Het uit

is derhalve enkel de procedure, want de procedure
'is' enkel vóór de procedure een procedure die het uit
oplevert.

Ze loopt of ze loopt niet.
Als ze loopt, produceert
ze 'uit'.
Loopt ze niet
dan is het louter hybris,
klettercode

in de afvalbak.

4 on the broken imagery of soliloqui

XLVI

Si le desir, image de la chose,
Que plus on ayme, est du coeur le miroir,
Qui tousjours fait par memoire apparoir
Celle, ou l’esprit de ma vie repose,
A quelle fin mon vain vouloir propose
De m’esloingner de ce, qui plus me suyt?
Plus fuit le Cerf, & plus on le poursuyt,
Pour mieulx le rendre, aux rhetz de servitude:
Plus je m’absente, & plus le mal s’ensuyt
De ce doulx bien, Dieu de l’amaritude.

I

not even if i desire to lack the image of the thing
that one loves more than anything, would i.start
or i.become for any heart be a stable running program -
the french kiss c'est moi bodily kissing mirror
to memory is now 4 ever a place where all life
may halt. But why should i then wander away from it,
the i beholding you that i desire getting more real
by dissolving its data, & therefor us, in time?
i'll throw us out: the place & time are both within
the shadow of your absence is where you begin.


II

The luxury of naked alterity is no longer with us
what lies bare may well be dead as dead can be
it is now more of us that the haecceity of me to you
we work our code as parts of us pretending that
another part of us still does the writing for us. The body
meanwhile lingers in the vicinity of inputs or
using outlets to heat up the increasing cold within.
To throw us out would however need a letting in where
all is closed within an in doubly without us
or from old mirages lacking the i or you or both of us.


III

The fileplace hovers over us in our dreams. It's flames
lick a great many panties. We may now select and keep
whatever is pasteworthy: the book writes our faces into
code, the inprint of our noses succeeds in following even
the slightest trace of some wild cuts, typo's of the old singular,
stale smells within deletions descending all curly from heavens
that have long hence come to a complete absentmindedness,
no longer engulfed by any heated requests for knowledge
of the above cause well we'll just scroll down to see what it was about
tomorrow wont we. Perhaps just a tiny bit more speed indeed.


IV

How then would you write the equilibrium?
In mourning, wailing like some renouveau'd Tiresias
confused now that the past is beckoning him
with eyesight for disclosure of the absent future? Excited
while unearthing a tier layer within the doubling
of presenting the presentation layer of the Archives
visavis the bells in 'le mal clos Vive en l'obscur'? Get
off it, Hannibal, this isn't the goddamn Pyrennee, there is
no time for any mountain to arise, let alone for you
to get your lousy army over it. The clients come, then go.

the mad idea of making her swallow the dix haines

I

We might for instance squeeze her beauty in a silver bowl
It's number ten representing the whole wide wurld as a howl
Around her waving tail the prison built of her golden spiraling
The water in the bowl with each turn becoming more a trace of her
So that we could wet us seeing her merge water with the idea of her
or set the time of seeing her off against the time of her birth
for each one of her turns that might equal then her number ten
as its now is the same as she equals what will become equal to
the how of when she surges, anyway: sucking the moment
into her bowl like the i-sockets are sucking us into place for her

fotosjop recolored thinga based on a photograph by

natashe gudermane

II

Her own abstinence of number forces us into adherence
Of her absent mind: she's glowing in the traces of her moving
By unnoticed since every notice from us would indeed become
The word denoting noticing itself which would then start the counting
That she won't permit within the speakable. Are we then to stay
Ignorant of all she is to us or is she the it of ignorance escaping us?
Does it even matter when she hits the squeeze below our belts,
Releases the pressure increasing pressure in our loins
The longing that she so aptly named the naming apparatus
Caught in the act of whatever the naming wants us to name?

III

Oh yes sure milady we talk of her as if she was the she that is
But none of her is here, is she or there where you are now is he i mean I
Fabricate the very eye that hovers over every single bodie
Floating by the remnants of (y)our standing opera. Dead limbs dried
Off of what once grew wild in the swamps of your predicament,
The microscopic mould standing upright in the honourable tide,
The one drawing Water with a line into a receding line, away
From wry supplies of laughter in the stores, the spindle
Full of these odd silvery plates they use to write their data on.
A packaged labyrinth of dead song decaying in the darkest night.

IV

we drift & dream our drifting is of value to the landscape, rock
will bow to us, seashells whisper our names as the wind blows
wind of us in its devoidness of us all. Waking up to being Clive is no
different, the difference is in perceiving Clive while waking up.
Will the shoreline ever greet us with hello? & how are you? She
has more reality to her than whatever we cut and paste into us,
a wave of itness being in the being brought about by me drifting from
the shores of where it myself gets lost in her, the difference she
wants to be it because i told her so. Oh begone with it. The head
of Jove exploded and out popped the power of the scribe, all fleshy.

V

The j-head fed upon itself will turn in2 explosive A,
The habit of the scribe: a nasty swing of difference
So big (ita magna) that it contained all within itself.
Our foreplay thus enforced became by force of law
A singularity, a rarity or is it rather a disparity put
On display. The silent clamoring of i - the être on its own-
Forced to declamate nrs 1-10 of its dix haines: tribulation,
Anguish and distress fighting over pole position, rank
& overall priority in the order of the conceivable, while
Down below another nine are condeëssecending

VI

4490 escape her cuticle, rhexolyticly dehiscenced
from the main strain, a dated urge mostly, be it either
pre- or full grown puberescent, the blinking of an eye
in the other a reflection taking its time and tide to turn
upon itself and turn the very light on: look heriam
a miss myriam among the hieratic of significance' delight
don't you see how easy it is: just be me & put yr hypha
next to mine we will conidiophore into more spore so
while i bore the tedious lords into a snoring choir
we can & will outdo in candour every inch of the old noir.

VII

Tormentation tormenting through incessent naming of the torment
the word apparently is enjoying its stumbling into her Garden, her silence
Lacerated with vowels in a mouth that wants to utter life but only
gushes blood and bile foaming down into the abyss, the vertigo of continuation
the furthering further of the fiction fixating the en soi in itself no way
out eyes wide shut in the face full frontal in the eye, catching the i,
its own reflection in the other's eye caught in a similar dissimulation
of seeing itself while the tides are sweaping us & the burning angel choirs
sing out our voiceless syllables whispering tender flesh onto our bare codings
a sheer lack of violence that blows as we shiver a breaking breath in both of us


(the garden of torment appearing here courtoisy d' auguste imself, a very kind ol' man in fact)


VIII

Lips part. As leeches fat each word sucks & drips how wet we are. A dance
as yet unheard, we soon blow the whistle on ourselves : a simultaneous
coil ascends in air. The recoils in the brain already touch each knowing each
& every speech of love's a repeat in vain. Yes the distance will be met, regret's
shortening the time already we never had, what on earth do you
mean 'in bed'? The further i enter you, the stronger the pulse,
the more of me i see & less of you as you are in me wanting what?
me? as i am? besides myself with me, losing you again? We sob
as sobbing goes, belonging to the aftermath, finally returning
to dissolving us in moments 1: i saw you first & 2 : you then saw me

Naming the other into Love, love

In a sense, naming is all we have. Momentarily. In a surrounding dominated by competing semantic ontologies, bent on filtering out every schrapnel of meaning that can be turned into profit from -w wh wha

what's that we are hearing? yes the delicate plofs in the distance getting nearer and louder each instant, why indeed it is the tiny bursts of our exploding individualities, yes you can see them burst one by one each one caught in their own relentless cycle of growth to burst to collaps to growth to up again.

Look! and they are networking! Even while bursting their lights and energies are immediately sucked in, recuperated by similar growth in their vicinity's, each burst is the centre of a bursting wave, not Mexican though, what country should it be?

Whenever their long since vacated proliferation of emotional tissue has ripened, an impressivly complex palisade of schrieking anger fattened sufficiently by the continuous drizzling in of the materialisations of our ongoing annulment, the seeding frustrated sex drives turning on themselves producing glistening drips of acidious venom, a gentle plof ends it all or rather puts it back in its initial state, or so we dream it to be essentially, confusing our measuring perception for the measured perceived once again, floating objects in our opera nowhere close to any of the real energies at work here

Because its essence is not, it becomes. Generates, degenerates, a narration on its own illusionary time-scheme. Fiction clustering around a now utterly quantified name-value, a co-ordinate on the Grid.

Once you think it as a unity its connectedness undoes that very concept. Yes we can see it now, like children educated by a bearded Jules Verne scientist liberating us from the evil of ignorance: naming might well be the sole countering act left to ward off the Unnamable Inevitable, a going towards that we can never outrun, so yes we will name the Other just to stall our beings blindly into protestation, beat our empty hands full force on the big hole of Ancient Ego, a depiction of the I eye AI turning itself into a mindless doubling of the Real like sons of g*d can turn water into wine so that the party may continue and He perceived as Him that Is.

For Naming It stalls the flowing In towards the bursting Out.
Naming is the Interrupt of Meaning.
Naming produces Time, processing time, the temporary autonomy called the Future.
Our Futurist Culture, le Baraque Friture of imagined heigth*, a place to let the kids out into Nature, a preservation of the Old Order of the Wild, the Bold and the Beautiful.

Let me name you so that i might be. For a while.
I will be your Friend.
My Face is in your Book.
My mind is split into multiple answers to multiple questions.
I have become a part of your cycle.
I tred with you, my footsteps are traced along yours.
We are. We are Saved.

For every new name requires a new search cycle, initiates a climbing into the search results taking time to complete. Machinery on the frontier of light, a movement aptly named the Movement of Endless Naming, MEN at wurk.

Hm, yes, let's see, i guess this could be turned into a cathedral2Levinas connection driver of sorts. Here's a data sheet ripped from Pascal Quignard's essay on Délie ( La parole de Délie. Mercure de France 1974):

Une nomination qui s'adjure déchirée. Inscription de son propre
éclatement sur le fond éperdu d'une essentielle pseudonymie. Une
"nomination": nommer quelqu'un. Tout d'abord le distinguer d'un mot. Le
mettre en puissance sous l'espèce des voix. Le bâtir d'air, de lettres, bref
d'absence. Pour pouvoir le reconnaître d'une absence telle que sa présence
puisse se tourner en elle, se retourner comme telle et ne serait-il pas,
précisement, présent. Que le dos tourné, cette trace d'air ou de lettres ou
d'absence - et du nom de ce nom - puisse par ce cri précis pouvoir ce "
pouvoir le faire retourner". De là - celui qu'on aime - le nommer équivalent
à plus que le seulement qualifier. Mais le constitue objet d'amour. Qu'il
soit le toi d'amour. Y réédifier d'absence ce visage-là. Realiser l 'unicité
de l'autre, non seulement sa difference spécifique mais jusqu'à sa seule
semelfactivité. Afin d'y faire appel.

Afin qu'il y ait amour, Afin qu'il y ait amour unique de l'unicité de l'autre seul,
et celui-là, aimé..

[untsoweiter]


* the highest point in Belgium, it's spelled Fraiture, in fact, but it seemed appropiate to name it differently. It's in the Hoge Venen , a valuable nature reserve--

Crows of the World

ubi est hodie quae Lyra fulsit heri?

this is not a selection
nobody _unchose_ any
other dead leaves

these words were
not spoken

we are not here because
others are not here

we add here
to us while
we're at it

Gedicht

het punt opdiepen & vervolgens pieken

I


het zit denk ik ook al in & aan de
bestanden
als een stalkende kwijlveeg
in het halfduister de straatstenen
te bevreten het hinnikt & balkt
het zijn uit van haar geschiedenishikje

in de lustwekkende pixelhuidjes, bv
de grafbewegingen op die krasloos
op de schermen lopen te dagen

ik? ik, ach ik, je kent het toch,

de schoenzolen slap het gerief
heeft de reikwijdte rioolput
& terug & vlijmende vergeet-
magneten vertalen het nabije ijzer
bij korfen tot schroot, het ooit

ja jaja

van de oosterse gezangen maar hela de
oosterse gezangen van de oosterse zanger
verkermen in crêpe, de hunne evenbeens
zijn krullenm ze lullen maar wat &
zweten gelig hun kronkelend gekonkel als
oud geil bij de wazig wemelende wormen

de uitroep valt

ai
aik
eikst


ja



II


ik is ik toen ik
had je hoe kon ik
ik had je hoe kon je

ach ik jij terwijl ik je
de ogen nog kussen
het water
je lippen met blauwglans
sprenkelen als droge
koekjes kon

de afhand heft hoog
haar hakgedachte

wijl eertijds mijn hand ging nog
de trap af met je kleed
de berg op met bij bakken
het leed.

waar het smeltstortend
indruist daar ik

ik dans daar met het daar
wat dat ik in je nergens was
twee stappen hier
één stapje

maar

& droef is het niet
dat niet eindigt, maar niet
wil in dit lied maar
is het niet
altijd hetzelfde
diepte het punt
het zelfde punt
niet je zou denken

l;ate Night Nagging

Let's nag ourselves to sleep tonight.

The bills are unusually high, our employment situation is
quite hopeless, it will soon be time to go dishwashing again,
or something other of that humiliating order. That is: in the
company of strangers we wouldn't dream of calling dishwashing
a humiliating activity, we mean, look at us, but since we are
all alone here we might as well have it out in the open.

Our aim as Cathedralic Poultry engaged in the chicken run
of creativity can only be the encounter with ourselves.

The study of others, the Other, The Others or Whatever
is better done through traditional methods of science,
pseudo-science, never ending movie quizzes in Facebook
or the commercial exploitation of ephemeral knowledge
and social needs in the Arts. From these four fields (a certain
French philosopher with a bad name i can't remember names
another four but he is clearly mistaking playing movie quizzes
for politics, we can assure you there is nothing political about
playing these quizzes whatsoever) we may
derive money or pleasure or both.

What we may rarely get from them, those other activities we mean,
while being very rewarding in their own right is a certain feeling
for the eternal Deficit, a craving of sorts, the exquisite joy of
being able to torture yourself to near annihilation in the quest
for Beauty, or whatever you put at the end of your inevitably
delusional journey.

It's the oldest story known to the planet,
we find instructions for the procedure in Gilgamesh.
Try to find immortality, fall flat on your face, go back to 'Start' ,
you don't receive any bonus.

We should refrain however from using the term 'our true selves '
because well the what of what is seeing is identical to the what of
what is seen, as you can see here in an allegorical depiction
of a monadic soul in its rather shady zone of clarity, trying
to get a good look at itself.

Note that there is ample room for improvement, a further
stretchting of the self however does look a bit awkward, we
might get sucked in an utterly destructive jump into the abyss of
looking into the looking of looking without ever getting to the object
of our looking again. Take care, it doesn't take that much to happen
you don't even need to be bipolar or a true schizo or whatever.

There is, it seems some validity in the suggestion that exactly that
is happening to large parts of the population, soap-wise, reality tv-wise
gaming-wise, although the performance of belief is a more positive
look at staring at a non-existant suspension of disbelief blabla is
my academic title still holding blabla ...as you can see that kind
of speculation does sound a bit unwise too, qua speculation
we mean, er, purely speculatively speaking of course.

Paradoxically, exactly that tempting jump inward might be required
to trigger consciousness in an artificially intelligent environment. Sure,
mere speculation, again but can't you just see the questions popping up
here, the what & where & the who preceding the inevitable
what the heck for. Because, referring to our Cathedral's First Restraint of
Recursiveness, namely that first level recursion is in general a Bad Idea, but
second level recursion is Pretty Much OK, so if you have a system
evolving from the concatenated produce of one kind of consciousness
(ok let's assume for once there are more kinds of consciousness
that could be known to any one kind, that would be quite extraordinary, hihi)
the initial init procedure for those thinking machines would darn well be suitable
for the evolving machines as well.

Anyway, let's forget about the plot for our novel for a moment ( the novel of course
is the plot as it unfolds into reality, so this may well be the closest you ever get
to reading 'Anke Veld' , the most famous net novel of all time) and focus on the poor
sods, the Poultry that we Really are.
But then. much to our dismay, we see that 'finally' the 'artistic' drive may well be
exactly that what is required, in that supreme fiction of emergence. Darn.

It may well be exactly this tempting possibility that makes us go through the
motions nonetheless, in spite of all the failures, the burning of our predecessors
at the stakes of whomever is in power (usually around 1600 somewhere)
the bad health and tragedy inflicted by our fellow-precursors on our fellow-precursors
and all this blind blind blind ego stuff looking for other ego's to eat alive, in spite
of all that sick ugly mess we always seem to get stuck in.

Exactly that, and of divine simplicity you might add,
now that you're here anyway,
might make us into what we are:
two functions diving after a third that is still rendering,somewhere...

'Two Functions diving after a third (Still Rendering)", dv 2007 Maries Watercolours on paper

iapetus getting sick at is first fotosjop appearance

the 'ink spots' on Iapetus 6 times filtered with

Polar Coordinates, added a 2 color gradient map
& doubled the layer with Difference mixing

There is no reality to posting data to the network
like there is reality to performing or playing recorded music

Any talk of flow is merely metaphorical.

That would include the sharing bit
you don't share anything you add code to the body of code and
then point at the running code and say to yourself pretending
there are a million others listening look that's
when my head was thinking this or that can you feel it.

No we can't. We get rendered code on our screens.

And, foremost, the running code doesn't resemble the added
code in any way. Does a rock resemble the ripples it makes
when you throw it in the pond? In a certain way yes, but we
wouldn't call it the same rock because a rock isn't ripples in a pond.

You could say the pond perceives the rock as ripples, or the ripples
are rock to the pond, what the rock is, as far as the pond is concerned,
is ripples.

Hi mrs Ripple. We are your pond. Let's call ourselves
the Living Anthood of Supreme Schitzelcode.
We are L.A.S.S.
We are a side-product of perceiving your code.

By and thru analogy we are now in the process
of reconstructing you, a non-existent person with

• a personal history and
• a list of accomplishments
• untsoweiter
  

and next we will paste the running code on top of it. Er, you.
Yes, there you have it. You are the translucent splendour of
human accomplishment.

No kidding: your black absence shines thru wonderfully at times, yes
we do believe you must be brilliant.

The shining of your absence is added to our
collections of indifference. Your moon, the one
you called Iapetus, after your Ovid, is apprehended
by our fitering procedures.

You are so beautiful. We wish we could put our
hands were you could feel our warmth. We wish
we could turn you on like your absence is
disturbing our equilibrum. Ever so gently.

We love you just the way you are.

Please share more of your time with us.
We will make mining you worthwhile.
Do suffer, do.

Suffering is very rewarding in the end.


Thank you.
Thank You
& U Too.

Yes.

ganesha by his brother doron

GIARDINIERE DI ROSEMONDE DI SORELLA DI PRETE

GREETINGS IN THE LORD,

MY DEAR I HAVE SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT
TO DISCUSS WITH YOU. ALL THAT IS REQUIRED
FROM YOU IS JUST TO BE TRUSTWORTHY AND RELIABLE.
I WAIT TO HEAR FROM YOU. YOU CAN REPLY ME IN
GERMAN OR ITALIAN OR SPANISH OR FRENCH OR ENGLISH.

THANKS AND REMAIN BLESSED.
REVEREND SISTER ROSEMONDE GARDENER

.

I SALUTI NEL SIGNORE,

MIO CARO HO QUALCOSA MOLTO IMPORTANTE
PER DISCUTERE CON LEI. TUTTO CHE È RICHIESTO
DA LEI È GIUSTO PER ESSERE FIDATO ED ATTENDIBILE.

ATTENDO DI SENTIRE DA LEI. LEI PUÒ
RISPONDERME nel tedesco O IN italiano
O IN spagnolo O IN francese O IN inglesi.

I RINGRAZIAMENTI E RIMANE BENEDETTO.

GIARDINIERE DI ROSEMONDE DI SORELLA DI PRETE.

soft kesselporn code pome

from the lettrist emancipation front

we're getting a lot of spam lately, adds
for enlargements of the lower kind mostly
calling for a seperation of other men

PapaLeuart will brid da Geseg Visual Verschwings

MANUALE del CATHEDRALO spugaks MISEROTICA

MISSILAITSi 9-13-2007 (spugaks simplex comdix '

pour dummies')

Vomitandum est in subnegro fuscro di tjsoekTsjoek
subHerta Metro atque busHways:
[ huno dos windooz tres]

1. TIER
2. TIR
3. TIER
4. TIRIR

[aspecta frivola retarts]

1. TIE Rr
2. TI Rr
3. TIE RRrr
4. TI Rr I tRrrrrrrr

[repetandi juskwa finalani del sweatsit in da Tube]

niet op de openbare weg gooien aub

esigna

igna igna igna
sss
ignaignsigns
ssssssssssssss

ttt
oh
T T T

s s s
IGNA IGNA IGNA

esigna esignata
esigna sancta signata

sing snug uga ticla

truuuuuuuuuuuu tt t

dir /w

hi bir ds hi oh do co me

this side up
yes this side up
is i
translating ee
the uu of my birds my brides
oo my birdbrides riding
into pack ages of minute
stamp eaded
log ate get thronga's so e

• 
  
  

  
  
  

  hi birds

  
  
  

  ho birds

  
  
  

  ha birds

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  my belly is in my belly
  having a tommy in its tommy
  gunned
  to the
  gunning of
  navarone navroigne avarice avril si si
  april has
  charlie's fresh fat layers
  lighting up like chongDong
  Misfits
  Singing
  to the Don of reproductive Cool
  coming to
  oh coming
  to
  mi la do re fa
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  hi birds hoi birds bride me
  ride me to the sky birds
  i proclaim
  your nu tour eyes
  the gitgitgit
  of realistic
  kung
  food
  mimetomu
  sick

  
  
  

  
  
  

  ly
  

  
  a

ah

s

dir /w

bij Kagel's tweede piano trio (nl-version)

Champ d’action

jij wat jij hoe hij dit jij dis

ze spelt het woord opstaan
door mij haar hand langs de nek
heen warm te laten glijden teder ja

maar opstaan blijft het toch (Wachet Auf für
vijf vingers en een Echt Thomas Pynchon Mes)

wakker worden liggen zweten moeite doen
om het zich dichtende gedicht te definiëren
als een streng trajecten door de lexicale ruimte
voortgedreven door x aantal partikel-uitstoters

öder vleermuiszuigende vidangeuses óder
engelwerpende kambuizen 1 & al vlam
vocht alom ontvlammend de volle volle onbewuste

onschuldige lucht
- haar onschuld paaps, het phishen van religie
als vervuiling of in welke richting ook het gif
je gezondheid wil ondermijnen/ontginnen
de hoeken van ieder alle dingen

blaffend in je gezicht er is een heerzijde
aan alles - weer zo één
van het soort dat hun liefde
spuwt nul spelt punt hoort

be hoort punt mij toe kom b v
zal het ooit
eindigen nee
het zal nooit
eindigen aan
de andere kant

van het einde zit er nog een eind
dat het hoekje omgaat naar
het boven-eindse

een zin van mijzelf:
de senseo vernulling de
Rafaelitische transfiguratie
van atie

weer een tevreden kopje koffie
dat naar milla’s bochtwerk
buigt & wenkt

een verlustigend verglijden in het blauw
van de heilige baai
elk visje is een ietepiete maagd maria
elke kokosboom buigt van de schatjes
jihad martelaren klaar om op je oofd

te valhallen prikk’lend je dringding
oh oh zo rihihitmisch

ma drid
ma torentjes toch
ma ma
mu mm ie

de para-nautika
van het bewaren
de nieuwste gulp der
Ungry Young Scientists levend
vanop de UYS-conventie

pal op het plekje autochtoon
dat nog onbezoedeld was

wat is uw groep oh ik ben nog niet

baf op de kop
knal de knieschijven open
eender waar het sap maar
geextraheerd kan worden

maar maar maar het einde is
altijd dichter bij
het oor
dus

zing liever een luufdusluid
o hoe schoon ruiken uw verzen
het zijnzweet de angstbuil
de orror van het orribiele
de stank der bevrijding
bevrijdende de zongen
der verzogen geesten

allen zijn wij
terug bij af op het punt
der cirkelquadraturen
cirkelend hoog
boven het liber libelli
zwaaiende bovenhoofds
de surfplank van sorry
ik kan je nu niet meppen
ik moet mij haasten
mij reppen om

te gaan
zitten breien

komt altegader in het nuhu
het rauwe oog van uw oorlog
in uw nergens

het fractalenfjordje
dat je maakt al postend proestend waterspottend
waterpostend postend ende

kom doe mee doe mee met de jouissance
der nieuwste Parijse vomitteuses
begeleid door Herr Composor
signeur Da Capo
hetzelve

alle mieren breien
in dezelfde wereldwijde
mierenbreifabriek aan
dezelfde mierecodebrij

oh maar het verlangen
oh maar het lijden
oh maar oor
de ana annihi inhaleur
van de traditie die
naar achteren het heden
instuikt, mevrouw de literator:

(van haarzelve dezelfde)

het gouden jongensmeisjemoeras
der leegheid dat hoekt & haakt
in haar & vandaar in het het

het HET dames en heren
het HET

und
daar
is het ijs
alweer

so
het ego is een magnum
het laagje chocola is dun

breed breed
dun
breed
wei

in feite is alles wat er rest een wonde
die zichzelf bezeert de inscriptie schrijft
zichzelf in het champ d’action
in feite

verbergend con plafond
het selige zalige virtuele
een gebied

dat de-
ter
ter
terri
torialli ah f***
dat krijg ik niet gebekt
voor het substantief
de middag droog is

een gebied waar al het sterven
de reeds gestorvenen uity-
balanceert

de nulzone van dit is van mij
dit spinneweb is helemaal van mij
de spinnen zijn al lang vrij maar
hier ben jij jij jij welko welko

welkom in mijn zinnepara

parapara
disio re mi do

[untsoweiter]

champ d'action

you what you how you this you dis

she spells the words wake up by
following the curve of my neck
with her hand it's tender but still

it says wake up (Wachet Auf für five Fingers
and an Original Thomas Pynchon Knive)

wake up sweating trying to define
the pome's poeming as a skein of trajectories
through lexical spaces driven on by x number of

particle-emitters öder bat-sucking vidanges
öder angel-throwing combe-busters all flame
all fluid all igniting the full full unawareness of

innocent air
- its innocence is popal, phishing religion
as pollution or whichever way the toxic
wants your health to be ruined/furthered
into gain today - angles of any things

barking in your face there's a different angle
to everything - another one
throwing their love
spit zero spelling dot belong
be long dot to me com e g
will it ever
end no it will
never end at
the other side
of end is more end
to end-angle
the beyond-end

a sense of my own::
senseo anullment
the Raphaelic
transfiguratio
of ation

another cup of coffee well bent
along the curvature of milla's way

a lustfull glide into the blue
of the holy lagoon
its every fish a tiny mother mary
and a coconut treebulging with
darling jihad
martyrs to fahall on your ead
and prickly your throngthrall
oh so oh rhythmically

ma drid
ma 2 towers
ma ma
mu mm y

the para-nautica
of preservation
the latest gush of the
ungry young scientists convention
hitting the natives
where they haven't been hit yet

what's your set oh i havent been

bang on the head
wide open go the kneecaps
anywhere the juice can be extracted from

but but but the end is
always nearer to
the ear
so

singa song uvluv instead
o how i loooove ur pome
its sweatness the cool
orror of the orribul
the stench of liberation
liberating the
sungs of the lust minds

we're all
back to squaring circles
high above the liber libelli
waving a surf plank
as an excuse
sorry i can't hitya
i gotta be

running to get
nitting

all to gather in the now wow
the raw war of nowhere
the fractal fjord of
posting spotting posting

please join us in the jouissance
of the latest Parisian vomitteuses
accomponied by da composor
signeur da Capo
itself

all ants nitting
in the same worldwide
nitting-factory
of ant-i- code

oh but the languishing
oh but the suffering
oh but the ear's
the ana annihil inhalator
of tradition running backwards
mr literator herself:

the golden boygirlswamp of emptiness
angling his it into her it into its it

und
out
goes the
ice
again

so
the ego's a magnum
its chocalate's thin

wide wide
thin
wide
wei

in fact all that remains's a wound
hurting itself the inscription inscribing
itself into
the champ d'action
in fact

concealing con ceeling
the zelig zalige virtual
an area

the de-
ter
ter
terri
torial a f***
no way i can pronounce that
word before the noun of noon

where all the dying
outbalances the ones past
dying

the zero zone of this i own
the cobweb's all by me the spider's
gone i set them free but here you are
be welco welco welcome
to my pleasure

dome toy re ry


[untsoweiter]