The resolve to find the world ugly and bad has made the world ugly and bad.

I fear that the animals consider man… the insane animal, the laughing animal, the weeping animal, the miserable animal.

Let us therefore be natural.

And will your culture and cultivation.  And will in language find your fairest utterance.  And will, and will them.

The one another - the ego ideal encountered in the other, an Other, another Other, anOther.  What does it mean that the space is retracted, desevered?  Deseverance is the jouissance of spotting anOther.  We are enjoiyed (enjoined to enjoyment) at the sight of another screaming “Oh, oh God!”

Our organism is an oligarchy.

His will to infect and poison the fundamental ground of things with the problem of punishment and guilt so as to cut off once and for all his exit from this labyrinth… his will to erect an ideal… and in the face of it to feel the palpable certainty of his own unworthiness…

In New York everything has a story.  New Yorkers celebrate the quotidian because it is quotidian: this is one’s use value.  To be oneself - and with a story.  Two sources of repression and misknowl–

Suddenly all their instincts were suspended… reduced to consciousness… at the same time the old instincts had not suddenly ceased to make their usual demands… subterranean gratifications…

Affect: driving away a pain unendurable to the system perception-consciousness.

Hostility, cruelty, joy in persecuting, in attacking, in change, in destruction - all this turned against the possessors of such instincts: that is the origin of the “bad conscience”….

Jouissance is unrepressed prurience.  Bliss.

There is among them an abundance of the vengeful disguised as judges, who constantly bear the word “justice” in their mouths like poisonous spittle, always with pursed lips, always ready to spit upon all who are not discontented but go their way in good spirits.

—

Living in the midst

gives me

and how much

every moment

—

There is a difference, tween sees and ceases, a letter tacked on - if you will, the one is a bottleneck, the other a bottle.  Liquid gathers in the One.

Master race: beasts who impregnate everything with their progeny - immediate Othering.  “Wherever they appear something new soon arises, a ruling structure that lives“…

What is the Oneself.  The agglomeration of ideals picked up from the confident utterances of others.  And it congeals with itself in a rottenness, a foul odored tendency to apprehend, to say Yes, that does go there; to exclaim Indeed, I heard of that just last week.  A place for all - all in its - a place found right - a in its place - a place right its - in right the should have been - peacebone got found in the dinosaur wi–

Schopenhauer praises philosophic contemplation for liberating the will from the  reproductive drive: but is not prurience the necessary correlate of the active intellect?

Oriented: how can orientation be understood as a ‘looking-eastward’?  Why does symbolic orientation cause us to look east?  What is it that is in the east?  Enlightenment, escape, colony?  Will to power moves to crusade.  Crusade as the necessary result of repressant ressentiment.

The unconscious is the discourse of the Other.

Being unable to put situations to words… a repression of signifiers because prurience seen in everything… only simple naive language utilized because * is seen so far that any description in ordinary terms is precluded.  Preclosure: Ubiquitous prurience.

Proceed: procede.  Correspond: corespond.

We stand before a discord that wants to be discordant.

Let us conclude.  The two opposing values “good and bad,” “good and evil” have been engaged in a fearful struggle on earth for thousands of years; and though the latter value has certainly been on top for a long time, there are still planes where the struggle is as yet undecided.  One might even say it has risen ever higher and thus become more and more profound and spiritual: so that today there is perhaps no more decisive mark of a “higher nature,” a more spiritual nature, than that of being divided in this sense and a genuine battleground of these opposing values.

Another other, another.

You are merely weary.  “Foolishness, not sin! do you grasp that?”

as happens on Pinko’s, production comes in bursts: see below.

here’s a draft of a nonfiction poem I’ve reached a sticking-point on. I know that we on the blog are tired of the BwO and Deleuze, but I’m still of the opinion that mainstream intellectual culture could benifit from internalizing those ideas, so I’m still using ‘em.  Besides, is there any better image for Botox than the Body without Organs?  nope.

I’m curious whether it’s easy or hard to grasp the organization/structure of it.  Overall, I can’t tell if this is a piece worth persuing.  It’s not done now, like I said, I just sort of got stuck, likw my brain had been injected with a paralyzing agent.

            Their names are G____ and C____, and their ugliness is mythic. G has a face like everything you’ve ever known put into a meat-grinder. His lips are a tube sock and the Sinclair dinosaur and the first woman you ever slept with put into a meat grinder and then reformed into the shape of a pair of lips. C has high cheek bones and blond hair with a lot of product in it. His left ear has been stabbed and a piece of metal now dangles from the wound.

            Black and Blue understand the literary truth of it: these are monsters.

            “I’ll put $15 down on the game,” says Blue. He withdraws his wallet and takes out three crumpled, oily-looking singles and a twenty. He asks Black for a ten, which Black provides, and replaces his twenty in his wallet.

            “Thirteen dollars to win,” says Blue. “I hope you guys are fucking good. For your sake.”

?

            Blue breaks, but the balls don’t break. He misses every single one of them.

            Then it’s G. He breaks. They scatter, one falls; that means they’re stripes. A song comes on about Arms Being Wide Open. It’s a horrible song, and Black and Blue feel sad, knowing how they share the planet with the song’s author.

            “I love this song,” says G, singing along to it. A bounce comes to his step, he grips the pool stick with a certain panache.

            He will make his next two shots.

?

            But something amazing happens to Black as he walks to the table: it is beyond knowing, beyond description, but it is something with a substance beyond time. If held between the fingers, this thing that happens to Black would feel like camphor oil; it would smell like a shampoo that needs to only be used once in a person’s lifetime; this something that happens to Black would have the power to teleport if it were a superhero.

            As he takes his stick, Black begins to see the table: not to perceive it, but to see it, to understand its possibilities. The entire thing becomes a series of angles on a flawless piece of white paper. The cue ball, his stick, the chalk all become extensions of him. He sinks two solids on his first shot—another is on the edge of a corner pocket, it just needs a nudge—after that, two more in a row, and a third in another corner pocket. His body contorts in ways like old dance steps; the motherfuckers at the next table over stop their game to watch him. He sinks another.

            “Jesus,” says G.

            “Jesus,” says Blue. Black stands up and looks at the table—it is a practically empty table. They will win the game if he can sink the eight ball.

?

It’s an easy shot. There is nothing in the way. The 9 ball is in the corner opposite the one he should put the 8 ball into, the 14 and the 11 are huddled together by a side pocket. It’s an easy shot.

This means that it will be impossible to make this shot.

As he gazes at the 8 ball, the night itself becomes a series of angles, of ascent and descent and probability. The night itself becomes speed and trajectory and spin.

Things will end on a sour note at the bar and Black and Blue will take a cab to the Aloha Inn and Blue will take out a little baggy and in the baggy there will be a few grams and they will cook up together and then they will put the thing in them and then they will be awake and then it will smell like camphor oil, and it will be like the first woman you ever kissed and then it will be a shampoo that one uses exactly once and it’s a cross-section of infinity.

That will be the night.

He not only misses the eight ball but he scratches, that’s how hard the shot was. He looks at the thing in his hands and realizes that it isn’t a pool stick but the deadly Black Mamba.

            C hasn’t even shot yet.

?

            The two monsters are $13 richer. They don’t bother shaking hands with Black and Blue, rather they just walk away, grinning and grabbing each others’ balls.

            “I can’t believe you missed that shot,” says Blue.

            “I can,” says Black.

            “I believed in you so much,” says Blue.

            “Really?” says Black.

            “No.”

?

Black’s scream is terrifying and horrible and primordial. It is something that has crumbled from the vast ceiling of the night itself and fallen into him and fermented and swirled in him and then leaped from him like a shaft of light. His scream is so horrible that Blue thinks that the dead will arise, that the earth will split open and reclaim him. His skin crawls and the back of his throat becomes suddenly as dry as a grinning skull.

            “AmyAmyAmyJesusAmywhereareyouAmy?!” That’s what Black calls, again and again.

            Black runs away, past the bouncer, through the double doors, and to the faintly flickering, quick street, where a cab slows, stops, rolls down its window.

            The Man From the Bottom of the Sea is driving. He looks at Black; he smiles.

            “I’ve been expecting you,” he says. As he speaks his teeth look like gunmetal and his teeth look like swords and his teeth look like they were meant to devour the meek from the earth.

He unlocks the door so that Black can get into his cab.

I was about to put this on, something I found on the last page of a notebook written about two years ago, written after I made this delicious resin ball, was about to put it up when I read JoJo’s story.  Read his first, if you haven’t first — it’s better, and doesn’t seem to be written in such quite stoned sophomoric glory as the following rabble of plotlines.

Told by the last page of his notebook he leapt to the purple gloom of fallen death.  In open apathy of all past ties he joined his countenance and confidant in the swallows of the earliest of earthen cave.  By a fire, a caveborne fire Promethial and tremendous, he sits in meditation.  He hypothesizes the far daylight and renounces solitude.  He in the direst reaches renouces soliloquy and takes from among his elders.  But these, these renewed and fabled, they are the devils of trickery and prescience, they devour the very souls of the young.  Our friend is in difficult straits.

He asks the bearer: “For what is this wrought?”  No reply.  He asks a second time, “For what is this wrought?”

“Upon your existence,” answered, “is this very substance of contingency provoked, relentless and turpid.  You bear now young one; go out.”

The soul now hollow exited to the world, a vast Conoran outback flawless and horizonical.  He mopes.  He knows not his casual origin, nor his record of descent.  Wrought has he become unto his burden that he can conceive of no retreat.  To progress he must, to understand he must not.  Linger in dreams, unforgiven by a year in between two decembers.  A sun above to guide him north through the dusty firmament to a grafted line, a line cut furious and without irony to a final point, a cabin deep in woods, a slipped through hole in fence, an iron gate.

He meets a man.  The man holds harm extended, palm out.  Our friend stops, hesitates, and spits on the ground.  The man turns and faces the east, his outline silhouetted by the sun.   He disappears from our friend’s sight in a golden flash and our friend sits down.  He is dizzy from the journey and he sits crosslegged slumping forward.  He wishes for the bottle, for the fire and the dirt.  He prays for the mother, the gross sublimation of each untold memory he can no longer see.  And he raises his head to the vision, the silent tasteless epiphany of redress and calm, he is ready, he lays back to rest.  His knees slacken, his eyes close one last time.  He folds his arms over his chest.  He lets slow his pulse, he breathes one eternal breath, and furtively, he slips away.

Hey,

here is the typed part of a story I’ve been working on. Just want initial thoughts and reactions. Hope you’re all well. I do want to say of regardless of masculinist and psychosocial and subconscious drives, I think there is always something wonderful about sharing art with other people. Especially challenging, thoughtful art, which is what tends to grace the pages of this website. Definitely print something. You can do eet. Eet’s okay. Love,

JoJo

I

Two men meet on 45th and College Avenue as the number 338 bus slithers around 45th and heads north on 15th. Old friends, their handshake becomes an embrace becomes a bear hug, and the one dressed in black fills his sober nostrils with the stink of the other, who is dressed in a blue leisure suit and effeminate white hushpuppies; the smell that greets his nostril is the smell of camphor oil and dried cum. It is not unlike shaking hands with a skeleton.
The two hominids chatter excitedly: women, “how long has it been?”, cigarettes, telephones shoes exactly what do you mean by that?
Blue is thinner, darker than Black remembers him, and he has a sore on his right forearm that oozes angry, white puss from an angry, red crater. Black can’t remember if he is glad to see Blue or if he’s been dreading it since Blue called last week.

II

The bartender swallows at air with two nostrils almost as wide as Dixie cups; his is a handsomely upturned nose, and his lips are thick and contain a set of teeth as white as snow on Christmas. He has terrific hair, hair like a clamshell but the color of sunset. The overall effect of his body is similar to that of a giraffe. Or else a cobra, poised to spit.
Black shudders as the giraffe-cobra takes his order for two Bloody Maries.
Blue says, “Make it quickish” in an Irish accent.
Quickish sounds absurd to Blue, Black, and the giraffe-cobra bartender—it’s not something people say in this area of the world. Black wonders why Blue would say it; he turns to him in order to study the lines of Blue’s face, which is a handsome, sad, smiling, dark face with an overly bold jaw and a jutting nose.
“Spicy,” Blue says, using the accent again. “And quickish, like.” It’s really quite absurd. Black would feel embarrassed, but…
They have a deeper, more nuanced discussion of “how long it’s been.” The air feels slightly radioactive; it feels like heating up McDonald’s french-fries in the microwave and wondering if it’s true that you can get tumors in your retina if you stare at a microwave.

III

Two Bloody Maries arrive, and a bottle of Tabasco sauce.
“Cheers,” says Blue, and the bartender sneers as Blue upends the Tabasco sauce and empties a quarter of the bottle into his drink.
In a partially obscured corner of the bar, a rat trap announces success and the giraffe bartender grabs the animal by the tail and tosses it into the trash can by the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen, sowing his movements with enough ambiguity that it is only Black, an ex-bartender himself and the tenant of a rat-infested apartment in Mount Baker, who guesses what has happened.
Blue sips his Bloody Mary, grimaces as sweat leaps from his brow. He has Tabascoed his drink to undrinkability.
“You’ll pay for that,” says Black, “with your ass.” His drink is gone, so he motions to the giraffe bartender for another. He doesn’t mind about the rat.

IV

Another bar.
The bartender is a blonde, blank, pretty-looking woman. She has cruel, squinting pig’s eyes; if she is beautiful, it is a beauty kin to the beauty of a rainbow reflected in an oil spill.
As he motions her over, Blue says, “She’s beautiful like a Monet painted in blood.”
“I was just thinking that,” says Black.
Blue orders two car-bombs, and the pubescent boys at the bar begin to holler excitedly about the car-bombs.
“Lookout, car-bombs,” says one.
“Car-bombs, people,” says another. Somebody slaps Black on the back. It becomes clear to both of them that they’ve wandered into one of the lower circles of hell and Blue’s eyes are pale gray in the dim lights and he grits his teeth and jams his finger into the sore on his arm.
When their drinks arrive, they plunk the Bailey’s in the black stuff and drink their drinks quickly and without relish.
They leave quickly. They walk so quickly away from the hellish experience that they are a half a block down the street before they realize they never paid their tab.
Blue smiles and his tongue darts out from and then disappears behind his broad-toothed smile. Black notes with some interest that Blue’s grin is in the shape of a sickle.

V

It is called an Irish pub, and Blue points out that it is full of motherfuckers.
“Jam-packed,” he says, ironically not using his Irish accent. Their eyes are drawn to a dark corner of the bar where there’s a half-empty pitcher of beer on an empty table. When they’ve taken their seat, Blue discovers a black leather jacket folded neatly on a chair, which he puts on. Black pours Blue a pint and then takes a deep draft from the pitcher itself.
They’re looking as pale now as two full moons, their bodies don’t seem to fill their chairs.
When the man returns he doesn’t seem upset and that seems very strange.
“Please, gentlemen,” he says, “have some beer. And if you’re cold, then please wear my jacket.”
“Sorry,” says Black, putting down the pitcher.
“Sorry,” says Blue, taking off the jacket.
“Oh, no, no. By what right is that jacket really mine, other than that I paid for it?” Blue stops taking off the jacket and examines his knuckles, which are gnawed at beyond skin and muscle and down to the faint traces of a purple film.
“No right,” says Blue.
The man laughs suddenly; it is the exact sound of a spider monkey’s distress call.
“I’ll buy another pitcher,” says Black, standing up.

VI

A boa constrictor is draped over the bar, two or three inches thick.
Black shouts, “Jesus Christ!” and jumps back.
The space around him hiccups—the pubescent boys in the bar turn and stare: the name of the Buddha Jesus has been uttered in vain.
Black watches as the boa constrictor rears up and grows an arm and then delicate shoulders and breasts and a slender neck and a face. The face has hair.
“Your shirt,” says Black, “has the exact coloration of a boa constrictor.”
She doesn’t understand—how much should he explain?
“Your arm has been known to eat men whole.”
Too much.

VII

“Sorry about your leather jacket,” Blue is saying when Black returns with the blackest beer any of them have ever seen. Black notices how much the man resembles something brought up from the bottom of the ocean: a rare fish, something caught off the coast of Okinawa every ten years, all hooded eyelids and eccentric folds of flesh. He is a man from the bottom of the sea.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he says. “You’re o-kay.”
“He bought the pitcher,” says Blue, flicks his thumb in Black’s direction. “Even stevens.”
“Yeah,” says Perry (the man’s name is Perry), shifting in his chair like an oarfish. “I know he bought the pitcher.”
“I’m just saying: we know we were wrong and now you should have some of the pitcher, we can all drink some of it.”
“Yeah.”

VIII

Perry talks about Israel. He knows a man named Leon who has had so many concussions that he retired at age 38. There are certain parallels, says Perry, between Palestine and poor Leon.
“Leon was a dishwasher, a bellhop—like Tel Aviv. How he got so many concussions is beyond me. Not dumb, but slower than shit off a shed. Understand?”
Black and Blue indicate their understanding.
The Man From the Bottom of the Sea continues, “The argument for an Israeli state is ultimately biblical—the bible, gentlemen.”
“I’m Jewish,” says Blue, whose last name is H____, who comes from the row of townhouses named Orange Court (by the elementary school), who once shouted about the cougar in the backyard, and who left the hereditary lands of the Left Hand Arapahoe for the hereditary lands of the Munsee Delaware, and who was obliged by his parents (a surgeon and a psychologist, respectively) to return.
“He’s a zionite,” adds Black, whose last name is in fact H____, who is not Jewish, and who comes from the opposite side of the valley that constitutes the hereditary lands of the Left Hand Arapahoe, and who, for the sickness that he shares with Blue, came to the hereditary lands of the Duwamish, and stayed there, and met Amy. She is the medicine for his sickness.
“A Zionist?” provides the Man From the Bottom of the Sea.
“I just mean I don’t know the bible that well,” says Blue. “If you’re like a Jehovah’s witness or something—“
“Fuck no,” Perry says.
“God, I feel awful,” says Black. All but a few words have crumbled from beneath him.
“No, I’m talking about—“ the man begins. His cheeks puff. Suddenly, they understand: written in the strange folds of his aquatic visage are decades upon decades of boozing.
“I’m talking about a two-state solution. Two states. Israel and Palestine.”
A silence lumbers by. Black and Blue stare at the man, who tips his pint into the dark, final space between a pair of billowing lips.
“Gentleman,” says the Man From the Bottom of the Sea, “I’m off to work.”

IX

Forgotten is the Man From the Bottom of the Sea; now they will play pool with the motherfuckers.

In view of the last number of posts and discussions here - well, in view of all the posts and comments, all the redactions, the updates, the proposals, the critiques of pure reason, most importantly the beautiful rambling nonsense offered by all the contributors over the years - in addition to some long-simmering ideas - and piqued by the wondrous capricious never ending trudge of the calendar dividing itself and us so abruptly, so loudly, so expectedly, and yet so silently organizing and disorganizing our movements and objects - I think it is entirely pertinent at this point to begin to “publish” Pinko’s Copies in a physical, incremental fashion. By this I mean, with the sympathy and help of those of you who are reading or writing this, that we should begin to print and distribute what we are reading or writing. I envision this working only with a very heterogenous methodology. The beauty of the internet, having this zine here on this internet, is that it allows us to create, and not only to create, but to recreate. Our work interconnects rhizomatically, constantly forming new relations, constantly being rewritten. We achieve here a great balance of process and product, or rather we often collapse that distinction. How then, can we recreate this recreation in the physical world - Can we take this form and inject it into the linear moment, to alter, transmogrify the deferral of the passerby, cold and real, covered and rubbing, on the way to the gas, on the way to your pew, on the way to forget, on the way to the jukebox, on the way to away, on the way to another, on the way back again? I would like to see these roots we have mingled and willingly confused begin to extend beyond the borders of our screens to reach the things that they hold from view.

And now I ask, in the tradition and only reigning ideology of our site, what are your thoughts on this?

Ah yes, the simple life—at least that’s how it felt a moment ago, all set on the left and right liking the water of life, two schoolgirls on the corner stop me and laughed: “Go forward don’t go back!  Beer and ice cream yeah!”  Falling about a store I was, what else you going to do but complain?  I’ll be glad when I get mine, kept trying to put all of me right on in there squeezed into beer and ice cream, yeah.  Tell me how to do it.  I vaguely recollected then the cold in Boston, smeared plunging third beats in songs to recollect life giving waters taken for granted quietly under stand

I try very hard but I am your pet.  They have no climates where I have left.  We were in the compound do you remember when.  Signs all around but pointed to God, you know I need more than a mouth.  Cell phone in the bathroom, but not anywhere either

Well, in any case, without guessing I was in the shower thinking about the indoor kitty.  Bauble babies are too preternaturally anywhere you like.  This is not a memorable, things are not the rules.  Ah!  Gods we immortalize, ancestors in the shape, grotesque and circling like a vulture, circling, closer still, park your satellite anywhere you

Getting closer, sure it is!  Judging, oh too many gentle noises, judging heading our way CAN we help but love it!  Us now content to get narrow, a quite different story altogether but not started on it won’t that be a sight.  Anyway the weather doesn’t judge, and speaking through my cloud, “Get it tonight.”  Sheepskin climbs the mirrors of a library where books scream from shelves to plummet dinosaur bound into dead smoke in the display.  Why don’t you ever ask them why?  Speaking to my cloud, a billboard advertisement gently whispered the sanctity of dinosaur bound encyclopedias (I believe once owned by Mr. R.T. Baumer), but I don’t know Japanese and the bauble baby was outside snowing smoke? well no, it was not quite so big as that, not like cowlicks laughing at me, not like marrying men nor like the first bunky, the first married judgment of weather to the gods

Send cakes you meant: sing it.  Off a rack for just so lucky a red tag clearance: tea it!  Plush plush crush crush smear smear stale secret in the bathroom for

The third beat tenor bassed along library walls for my Oedipus, this is mom, this here is mom two, load me up gavel boot: the new mom.  We are in the library, warm and frigid really, as many boots to the rib cage if you want, if you want, if you want.  Scuttled like road flies into the picture because how I want wouldn’t be talking about it too much, this is mom five, this here is mom six!  Bloat me up, late from good and late for, where is mom?  Stuck in the lobby of mom, you’re late you run, Jimmy Stewart makes you walk back up, just like Jimmy Carens on his trip to France, toilet speaks from your heart down.  Ah!  Towards the edges a little more under these conditions, so that’s our little secret you say?  But we’re in the library where there is no speaking and the coffee, the coffee is good too, the gavel boot rise up dead mom robot team Toyota for mom, hysterics and I am your son, curtains, Thailand, toilet water know what I want, I want some cheap entertainment.

You’re a great dancer and hardly stale, just a little towards the edges, you whisper the answer in threes, but it’s all greek to me.  Maybe I’ll learn Japanese, thriced single you’re a great drinker, but it’s all with your utensil, and it oughtn’t to be under these conditions.  Listen.  This minute is a good minute.  The horror has past.  The library shelves almost over so I will bask under these conditions, and besides it’s mostly just crust.  Mostly just springtime.  ANOTHER DANCER AND BESIDES IT’S WHAT GOOD BREAD GUIDE AND CONTROLLING ME, this minute is a good minute not like the last, the coffee is good too so that’s our little secret, we say, and oh, there, hardly stale, it’s almost over so let me bask, was it my foot or my mouth, wait those schoolgirls then it’s Sunday so they couldn’t have been, it’s Sunday so the third beat in the library where books scream off mirrors and resound a black gavel boot ribcaged in the smoke of the display, bunky me first, bunky me second, resound an echoed tenor bass in the library where a punk band plays too many notes for the books on the shelves not to dance dinosaur bound into

Good bread it is you see, salted with oatmeal in the nice lighting, in the nice lighting where small children? I told the jury it’s over, leave from the flight.  Intricately formulated under the new porch light, it’s good bread but with a kind of seed in it, leave from the fight.  You can just see it sit in the pulverized grain, write to them, right to them, right left and middle men, right left and middled.  Thrice breaded, act animals unite.  Go home now!  (Smoke in the display, leave from the fight, life given waters taken for granted, they quietly my red, so confidently) fight the fight.  Drift over.  Leap from the flight, and mechanized delicately into quietening, ever so quieter but all on the side unbuttered, unbuttered for toast to land face up and still a friend to lick, in the library and still a friend to lick, still the coffee is good because it doesn’t really exist, in fact you’re under it where the horror has past, the library shelves almost over so I will bask, this minute is a bunky first, bunky second, oooooooooooooooo.  Doesn’t really exist because the third beat tenor bass just picked up again but the zombie snare hesitates, hesitates into a gong, gongs into a woman’s voice, voices into a bass tenor cut, library shelves go home now, leave from the

But when you are even on it you are not in it either, you drum the third beat and with you, with me, relax.  We’re the coming to catch us!  We are bread off its fucking face, with you with me we’re the only as far as we eat, left right and middle.  Coffee is good, this is us, come over playbe.  Oat, meal, with you with me we’re the pulverized and coated flake of a falling and rising star.  With you with me oh please don’t ask, I guess we’re gonna let us.  The third beat.  Library dinosaur bound on the mirror scratching mirror under these conditions, the third beat.  This is us, come over playbe.

In fact you’re under it and cannot be, but only so far as the bread is buttered.  (Please you wait for me now).  Coated and swirled like the flake, watch the way it moves its mouth.  See it speak and wonder with your utensil, than ever before, please you wait for me now.  Some more.  As good as I remembered, those school girls it can’t be on the side on which we aren’t, shouldn’t be, what is and what should never be, and if you said to me tomorrow, my red so confidently flashes trophies of war, bread off its ever before.  Dreams deploy the ever before.  ((Please you wait for me now some more)).  Please be there intricately formulated and mechanized delicately, how strange to be all on the side unbuttered, seeing it speak and wonder how, bread off its shame because, fucking doesn’t really exist then, eyes loose, library bound the third beat dinosaur, from me to you please, ah, we say and oh it’s good bread too like the bookshelved coffee, and it is good coffee too- ah, we eat our doesn’t really exist but when that’s a shame in the display: please you wait for me now, some more.  please be there now, be there more.  watch the way it moves the mouth.  see it speak and wonder how.  trees deploy your more nothing every day by the time, don’t really, it doesn’t really form, it doesn’t really exist, then does it

(Bibliograph: Welcome, “Sirs.”  cf. Jimi Hendrix ‘Bold As Love’ and Led Zeppelin, ‘What Is and What Should Never Be.’)