2008 Sonnet-- Iteration 5

cross-(*fitting (chiffregouttes) scrunch.

& #8232: a sumptuous sack of bold unstirred
stirrings & #8232;
cold journal flashcard mode
& #8232; bed cognational plorts & #8232;
do-eyed hockshop plenum; it's a
& #8232 cipheraid ricochets wretch:
& #8232; a safe haven backyard extravaganza & #8232;
orbiter, a whirl din gravely: or
& #8232 fur erotics in applied gawk & #8232;& #8232

hunchgrip, scutwork or maybe a javelin
& #8232; oversized fibrous s(echo layer
better than refresher- T.L.)hucks
toutes chariot font une désinfecter par
fumigation incertain
tree plank shank to
grey; & #8232)pollinated format tool*
darns une piller nuke sloughs: & le toutes
(& #8232) fits


  1. A smashing of glass.The brick,counterpane to false transparency.Solid image.
    (The brick = an antique brownish clinker blistered with embedded grog in haphazard
    variation,cored with twenty small holes and stamped in the shallow oval frog with
    "Ignatz Brick Co. 1919"),Krazy Kat sez, "heads I'm ebsent,tails I'm not here."
    Flip flip. Coinage of deadweight anchor into thrown-ness of the way things are.
    Whut? The next thing he knew wasn't next,but moments before : a smashing
    of glass.Shards sticking in the slight space between zig and zag. Such was
    zugging the fabric of tapestry which entwined fibers come to unravel until
    rough edges wrinkle or unwrinkle a crest of creases releasing to the fold an
    unfolding blank blanket on cover of coldest uncovering.A quilting in comfort
    of unwrapping old long bones demagnetized from the shattered skeleton
    of completeness.It is gone.A lack of need for enumeration.A loss of thrust
    for propulsion.Zero sum total.Emptied.The nullified scrimmages of image
    lactated by the strange spectacality within inhabited space claiming
    placefulness as prerequisite for becoming an actuality outside or inside so
    many screens projected upon magistrated massings of full streaming
    informations.Outside looking in or inside looking out,he never knew which.
    Up he hove detrital elements of his erosion,dreg by dross seemingly worthless
    bits of himself sunk to bottomdwelling residuum in sediment of any stamp
    claiming authenticity.Another atrocity for exhibiting dustily deformed on his
    simple shelves of categorical confinement.Cozy enough.Howcome his lungs
    suck so much staleness of stifling airs,his breathing without even thinking of
    inhale or exhale - desperate heaving for hell or highwattage regardless of
    any wretched ramshackle to overreach boundaries binding his spine to
    gravitational pullings on backbone close to breakage.(doubletalk)
    Quitchyer dizzyin 'nd gettit right gummy! Spit some straight dopes!
    Who said that? Noticing the niceties of observation in succinct distinction,
    how to begin the ending : match of actual fracture - every single word of which
    was impenetrable.Upon entering the room,he glimpsed a shadowy figure
    smokily standing in the corner.Step by step edging closer to the thing,it
    spoke softly, "Hey man,howzit? They call me Shadfig.These stinking streets
    once yielded such vastness of trove I was fully formed and ever forming,now
    with its trenching drenchery of depthless dank I'm only half the asshole I once
    was - reduced to scavenging gutter crust for my inexhaustible uniquity.My dark
    adapted eyes are essential scanning sensory pickups : pinpointing in saccadic
    fashion just those lost littered things needed to dehisce my hidden innards
    and open up all and for once the stromatic intricacies which we could call my
    essentialness,er,the eeing within being,uh y'know like my ontological
    identity of existence,yeah,my fundamental thingness thrumming sum,cogito,um,
    the is of my isness..." Mumble murmur mumble."Are you still listening?!?
    You look disoriented,lemme tell you about disorientation..." He wasn't listening,
    but he felt an explicable magnetism to Shadfig and he was thinking about
    all the constant phenomena which cannot be fully ascertained or agitated by
    any hypotheses.He wanted to unfuck the fucking and within the danger of
    death a disappearance of maintenance discontinues by spoonfulls of
    nothingness left none less.Nonsoma.Deathbody.Ghostsoul.He was just
    another future corpse lost in fog of dreams,an instant inferred verily that
    an eidolon of shadowy outlasting expresses the films peeled off surface of
    all objects,thus revealing a waking nakedness beneath the idolon : as the
    umbra endures and these sciamachies continue there'll always be the
    pugilism between nonself and selves aspirant.He found himself again
    listening to Shadfig saying something about the "...survival of a savage
    exaggeration,these illusory infallibilities illustrate airy evidence,especially
    ambiguous and exposed an explicit plot to instill anthropological evolutions
    intent on furthering the whole stinking species yet further distant from the
    ghostgod.Of course, this conclusion was reached by erroneous processes,
    thus we,the erorrists,must wear this undone knowledge on our furrowed brows
    emanating as darkest star between our eyes - so that we can't see, you see.
    This belief in our lack of faculties to perceive is that which sweeps our
    faithlessness aside from any retainment of its afterimage so fulgurated
    in our many minds resounding an echolalic anthem evermore of the original
    and authentic intent." There was a pause,Shadfig gesticulated with his hand
    the motion of jerking off,and said slowly "...precisely striking is an isolated
    example of the uniformity with biological impulse, to get off, as it were."
    He nodded in response to Shadfig and skulked away from the smoky corner
    thinking of some celestial supremo in skybeing guise gliding oversum and
    atmospheric above any of these agents locked into temporality. He noticed
    on the scribbled wall an offkilter flyer hung with a gilded toothpick, it read :
    ' The end of history is too often just a topic of speculative conversation,
    for us it is the only true work! ' And underneath that, ' Undeath to erorrists!
    Long live terror! ' He felt not as himself,he felt as if he was in character, a
    character which was not himself but an oft read about man with a plan,
    and he knew this couldn't be him, he never had any plans, what with his
    proclivity for inactiveness and withdrawal from the way things as they are.
    Things as they are.A smashing of glass, he remembered as he touched the
    brick hanging around his neck, he had wanted to wear it as a solidified
    metaphor of such eitherorness of his breathing or not breathing, vocal or
    nonvocal. In his throat laid scattered graves of lost words,dead words,
    unworded words. Buried without birth,embedded, the lodging of their
    scratchy tombstones rubbing dust to dirt to which he must return.The brick
    broke through.It was an emblem worth wearing,much more useful than a bloodless
    crucifix.His brick was a possible crime scene, a pure potentiality, a physicality
    of reflex entrenched in memory of quick flick or twist away from the
    catastrophic curtains of anmesistic wakefulness.In that escapement,what
    this meant was meaning must be made.The unmaking was already underway.
    A prisonhouse of definition.He knew then he would become an erorrist and with
    his five fingers each hand he would prod and poke forcefully into the everwatching
    eyes of those judges and lawgivers and enforcement officers with such the
    long arms as an undefeated army of octopi grasping in their inky beaks the
    viral pestilence of the WORDS and lengthy tentacles wrapped in tightening
    tangle around their delicate construct designed for binding and bound on all border
    of concealment, entrapment and impending acts of general skulduggery.
    A smashing of glass.He returned to the first sentence in an instant.The
    foundedness of his initiative reassured him.He was now involved in an active
    enterprise.He felt an immediacy heretofor unfelt.His ecstatic attainment took
    the shape of a bird.He felt semi-embryonic masses of half developed infants
    lying in the earth beneath his feet.In this prefiguration of psychic totality, the
    mathematicity of infinite possibility within the divided state of a deficient
    creation layered polyfacial and polynamed was a dichotomy in its distinctiveness,
    a dimension unfolded for suture to reversability of the rupture.He was spinning in
    wicked shit,then he remembered what Shadfig had said, " You must develop
    a soft head to become a house of dreams." He wasn't dreaming,he still felt
    some sensation of being in the world and having nowhere to go. A gap in the
    narrative.A shoddy prop.There's nothing happening,its already happened.
    A smashing of glass. He had an immediate frightwave as an involuntary response
    upon tactile contact with insect exoskeleton.Shiver,shit.Tremble. His jetztzeit
    was over and gone, the worldwide hitparade of the intractable problem no
    longer superseded his idee fixe of the voidless void.Such suffocating closure.
    In his strange exchange with the trickstertext, he expiscated a truth truly that
    it can be proved that it can't be proved.He wanted to return to the opening
    sentence,to be always in action, not this shitty state of graceless confusion.
    Unfounded to finding.Unable to handle such enormous torque,a stripping of
    straightcut gears in the transmission of a living language blocked all motion to
    a standstill. The gaps between word and meaning blanks,blanks and blanks.
    Velocity of a phantom gearbox in totality of concision placemarking an absence
    of signifying force in inextricable particulars. All this common air sent to myriad
    quarries of query.What? Never heard of such a thing as literal meaning,sensus
    literalis, put into construal of an invisible idea outside any assigned value. In its
    comprehensibility it obliterates the difference of embodied things.In the wordness
    of words, their husk of usefulness only aids the materialism of the way things are.
    The detail,the detail,the detail.Degree by degree undefining itself : perish
    perished perishable.Writ in the official font of wellordered settings imprinted
    indepth by press,the binding of leaves fell from deformulations of nature :
    this nature of naturalization so unnatural.Shadfig had warned him : "What
    would you do if things as they are,aren't? You're defined by it in reactionary
    fervor,it wins by proxy." Shit,again,shit again.He was hinging half-hung on
    linchpin of faulty logic or incomplete argument in pivot fulcrummed only by an
    inattention to the details at large within the smallness of his evershrinking head.
    An impingement on his fine filters,mere specks of dust clogging any filament
    from which to light his fuse.He wished he had a necklace of sparkplugs instead
    of his dirty worldly brick.Never a moment of ataraxy for him,an ongoingness of
    aboutness.Where? Enuxplainable.The invasion began as soon as he was grunted
    forth from womb, or was it the moment of ejaculation,inswimming toward his
    other half in relentless instinct.A game of holes and putting something in them.
    Echo of bones.He wanted to grind and polish his fulgurite heart to the thickness
    of a single atom,so sharp to slice himself from his epic of emotions.Therefore
    incommunicable.Winging silences.Phantasmagoria wrestled in sense of speaking :
    nothing ain't, if anything ain't, it can't be known, if anything ain't
    and can't be known, it can't be aint'd in speech or spook.Knowable.No nevermind
    nohow.Of glashing a smass.So long and seeya later sodapop and superdope!On no
    connexion.So much ormolu to grace this shitless turd floating amid torrid purulence
    encapsulated so strikingly in this golden toilet bowl flushing flesh thru digestion
    back into and unto that cloaco maxima snaking ways under surface of ground
    laying maze beneath sheer veneer of this bubblegum machine-gun pathos so
    integral to the way things are.Awaken the dei otiosi and gather wrath to destroy
    this state of things as they are and fill the forgotten skies with these lost gods
    thundering cloud to ground and ignition with the forge of lightning strike.Rewrite
    the cosmogonic narrative to reveal an indecipherable bloomday doompage always
    open in action and humming not with language but with wranguage wrangling the
    ranges of strange in high energy of spin-charge and mass within the riddle of
    four fundamental forces.Be done with thralldom! Ditch all dissimulation! Slapdash
    this spasm to highest contrast with center nowhere and contact points everywhere!
    Fusedness of the primary pith.No north for southing west or easturn stars guiding
    coordinates of compass,the evershifting horizon.And not knowing what to know,he
    resigned himself of all signage replete with easy readability and ever aiming
    interpretability layered upon the layers of densely packed recognitions in tight tight
    bindingness.No movement.How to go forward was more a matter of smashing atoms
    down to split or splice for recover or digest of any essence bound and bundled to
    the original propulsion- such an origin of unattainable energy frozen in modes so static
    as even to resist default entropy.He could sense the latent possibility.He had heard of
    hearing,but ears needed eyes to decipher such masses as miniscule as that thisness and
    his macrolens relied in no small part on an ocular integration of auralness hinting to
    the hums of everhumming humes which oscillated in rhythm of his heart,this mere pump
    was just one slight segment of a system pushing nervy intricacies fro and forth :
    such dependent relations relying on response and reaction to keep the being being.
    In this bebeing lay the residuality of cause,whose effect had left lasting impact or
    simply implanted in such remote tangle that any implication to authentic programming
    had been lost to the evervigilant bugbear of sociocultural conditioning.There was
    another long pause,then the next line appeared as if a head was a hand and eyes guide
    rightness left over endless zag or path which led so swiftly to this unfinished finality.
    The thing is,(the thing is just the thing),that it's never finished,this will is easily
    misidentified as desire but but the longing for synopsis of short shrifting ends is simply
    a will to be, to do, to too - last breath left lasting where no air can invade this vacuum
    of concealment and it was that exact container in which he wished not to be contained.
    Constrained to the last ashes of ember when full flame has rested to a soft luminosity
    of what once was,this small hot heat smelt melding into a completed object of singular
    purpose something like a spoon,but unbending and sticking to the specific task at hand,
    which was to eat meaning and purge the results.After that trapdoor shut so solid, an
    escape seemed necessary,however,his disbelief forfeited any force for lacing upon those
    superspecialized running shoes so vital to any good getaway.Such is the pits,the tarpits
    of motionless fossilization waiting to lay any conclusion from rocksolid undeniability to
    this amorphous mass of embalming gluck mucking muscle to surrender.It was this
    unconditionality of defeat with what he finally let go any and all recipe for triumph,it
    was simply to drenched in loss of propulsion to attempt semblance of any movement.
    No glass for smashing.

  2. Krazy Kat :

    A great K.K. resource :

    (heads i'm ebsent,tails i'm not here" is from # 19 of 204 in the 1919 daily

    "My theory of technique,if I have one,is very
    far from original;nor is it complicated.I can express it in fifteen words by quoting The Eternal Question And Immortal Answer of burlesk,
    viz."Would you hit a woman with a child?-No,I'd
    hit her with a brick."Like the burlesk comedian,
    I am abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement."