How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

Tag: thoughts

atlas weeping

Admit – is freedom supposed to be a chore? Suddenly i am able to understand the plight of atlas – i must answer for everything, have done everything, have been thrust into the world conscious and only too possessed of my own faculties. There are deaths continents away that i want to fold up under, tuck my feet up on a couch, miles above the floor when the blackness spills from distant sky into a discrete night in the bedroom. You, too, must pay for every second wasted as you grieved over the biological convergence that swaddled you into existence, and the bright outrage takes precious illogical seconds you cannot answer for. The world is beating on about you in within its silly incomprehensible law. No human scribe can read reason into the absurdity of our race, to which the angry, foolish, individual is the key – the man who distract himself with jobs, sex, and other people. This tribe has concocted its own reason – sketched crude parodies onto papyrus held beside the sun, turned and stared point-blank into the monstrous rim of eclipses, cried at seeing death, a more distant death like the starvees in Uganda that could not be more pure of bereavement – and yet they are. You are hugging everyone selfishly, egotistically to your chest, may believe that when one world ends all the others go marching on in the same invincible ignorance. But your life is not like the others – the phenomenal world is a dirty and threatening loan-shark, and to add humiliation to despair we cannot describe it in languages it has not already given us – rogues and thieves and highwaymen. Now you are kneeling upon a red carpet with a stake in your arms, and you remember that you have been nothing but an attempt by a species in the quest permanence and beyond that, a dark intelligible void. You place the stake onto the floor and slowly lower your heart into its sweet, weeping embrace.
The function of explanation at y=laziness yields a negative value of x.

hello, amygdala

Hello, Amygdala. Do you see out of my tiny cut-out windows that strange and foreign man across the table? He is speaking, his lips are glistening and gnashing furiously into the shape of words, and when the occasional violent sound is called for, the tip of a viper tongue spittles out from between the gouged-out insides of the mouth and spits effluent into the air. When he is not shovelling food into his mouth he is excavating these words – all the way from Sakhalin that smoke-puffing incarceration from the other side of alimentary land. Suddenly i realise that he is hollow, and his actions transform – his mouth engorges in aggressive ripples and cradles slowly the contents of his stomach as they are brought out, dilated, under the light. The intestines are a trouble to unfold, but the vapid negroid bones fold obediently under the lap of a bloody, clumpy mass and now the whole system is herculean, pumping machinery – whistling with angry air socketed from one end of Person to the other, and still his hands march smoothly on, impaling himself furiously onto spoons and spoons of risotto, cream sauce whisked into the gale and ejaculated like albino mice just seconds after – the whole thing a sick diorama, clockwork.
Excuse me – I am pregnant with cherubs and wish to vomit them out into the world.

three dreams

She has not accepted ‘my solution’ yet. Another place I saw well, and my friend leopold friend’s son otto had given her and the toxin with recalcitrance, like women with a limp. And his chin was percussing her through not long after, when she opened her mouth in my throat and took me to the window, standing beside her as a large hall. Numerous still get pains, it’s in for her to do that. she probably had the syringe that I thought to myself with that extensive whitish grey had not been clean. “there’s no doubt it’s this sort ought not to be did, in spite of her infection, but no matter for the skin on her left type. in injections after all I must miss some organic trouble.” I stomached an abdomen is all I said to her. “if you thought to myself that preparation of propyl,i will be alarmed and looked at you.” the turbinal bones of her nose reproached her for not having knew what pains she got indicated. A portion of looked her down her throat, and found a big white patch. trimethylamin. (and I origin of the infection) examination confirmed she showed different signs from usual; looked quite an injection of a saw before the formula and clean-shaven dysentery will supervene. my direct awareness, too,  for this heavy printing evidently modelled on her choking me. I was ( and I noticed this, too) just as he was. there was really no need to answer her letter and ,as though with artificial dentures. I had a dull area laid down properly and on the right my friend otto replied “if you only her bodice was saying ‘it really was only your fault.’ . ” given so thoughtlessly, he repeated the curly structures (which were receiving amongst all the paleness) as he walked dress. I said “I at once called in dr. propyls … propionic acid for irma. I at once took to her infiltrated shoulder. eliminated until only we were left.”  he also was feeling unwell, my scabs upon me some remarkable guests, whom with I looked pale and puffy.
[Sigmund Freud; 1895. Irma’s injection.]


Louder. you never took your eyes us, all women. we were naked and even with everybody laughing and singing  to her pistol, she would basket. the man wore a singlet and did not do kneebends. if one of did, the minute we did the next kneebend you were us. we had to sing as we marched, keep giving you orders, shouting at the pool. there were about twenty of did in a bad kneebend when you would shot but I couldn’t see it was you. you in the pool full of corpses. the ceiling in a man stood in the fall, dead in the pool, which made floating just below the surface at a large indoor swimming something wrong. you would shoot the broad-brimmed hat shading his face. you had to march around the pool. you are going to shoot me! there was a basket hanging from the end and I knew I lacked the strength to!
[Milan Kundera; The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Tereza’s dream.]


Some part of my mind boomed dusk-orange. We seemed to waltz into the door, and I would glimpse the stop with a sudden effort. Thrumming skin before the cloud of rooms and freely-swinging doors fled through halls like a spectre; one and even the after. And there, you palest sheen of sweat in someone’s fluorescent halls lived forever. I gave up on the glimmer of lights. Occasionally we seemed as resistible as any other, after an eon of sleepwalking. You lurched onto some balcony in the deep backstage. A huge, sonorous impossibility ate me open. And my ineradicable musk grew cold to your presence. But the impenetrable maze of dressing this huge backstage – this bare light – would dart from some slipping female sweet in the air, and as we walked I spied a whole limb, spritely as yesterday, or the day before that, or along the corridors where musk and chalk descended, where at times i gave up on stopping and my heart.
[I; 2014. The lemon dream.]

Squathouse Wagon

squatting : allow the celebration of madness
it is bitter; and my tongue weeps as
cuticles emerge. the
reflexes of the idea are quicker than the will
human minds; swathed with holes
forced exits in nauseating labour
tongue writhes and I egest
grovelling, hair-trimmed
in constipation of the cancer