Lyrik

96

Suicide Revolutionary Jazz Band

Lostalot Redux

I love you.
I know that saying so, making the statement, has startled you,
because I barely know you,
and I haven’t declared my intentions, and while there was a…
flirtation, is it safe to call it that?
Since then, the feeling has passed,
so I can now, without reservation,
say that I am in love with you.
I’m sure that the saying so puts you at rest,
but that is how you’ve made me feel,
so I am saying so.

I think you have been careless with my heart,
I think you were unsure, and now you’ve hurt me.
I was probably too vulnerable to begin with.
You put a hunger inside my heart, which I had lost.

If you think I mean to thank you, you are out of your mind.
Now that I am here, at this place of writing, I know nothing else can be said.
So I am lost, and you were careless.
I was lostalot, not Lancelot.
Now all that is left is for sad music, and time to go by, and I will
be in love again. You counted on that. That is why I love you.

When you said that you wanted to kill me I believed you, and locked the door.
Your suicide was not a surprise. Everyone expected it.
I am sorry I got my skin cream all over your telephone.

You pretended your friendship.
When you said it was going to end, you were intimating.

I always wanted you to disclose the situation by calling it directly
what it was, but you noticed the weakness of language, that it is
spoken to create the reality that must be, and comes from a place of
pleasure. An expression must formulate the response of desire, which
you kept close track of, referred to. You played within words,
gestures, your touch, but you did not play on them, as to put them in
play, except at the end, when you erased the value of every word you
ever said, in one vain gesture, that told me everything that I needed
to know about you.

Nothing. And now that I write you, it is only the remainder, my
failure, my silence, that powers every word that I write, because I
waited for you to tell me about your pleasure, to be seduced, like I
thought you wanted. Now, it discloses itself completely, there is no
field or context except for the disclosure of the love we could have
lost, of what you were, like me, lostalotlostalotlostalot

You were always lying to me, and you thought I was a fool. An idiot,
would be the better way to put it. Always acting. I was action, I
could sense your inertness. I expressed what you could not.

ANTIMONY
"Oh, it's sickening," replied the beadle. "Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!"
{A + 1} or how 2 = (1+1)
Remember when we liked to get wasted and fuck?

ANTINOMY
Nothing is a part of anything.

This difference of recursion splits me from you, as I am alive, and
you are dead. Two different strategies that can result in
self-destruction, or impediment from the outside, seem dependent, but
are separate. I am killing myself over this, just killing myself. You
were not self-isolating, I isolated you, you were a disaster and I
destroyed you.

A paradox:
I am writing this and I am dead.
Maybe I killed myself and you are writing this?
Why is this paradox a quantity? What is inspection? Why do I inquire?
And to whom? Or as what? I am dead. Or you are. Or we both are?

Living is sinking, so we don’t dare.

I know what you think. Yes, it has been done before, to write
a thing where the characters talk to each other to discover if they
are dead, and my making of “you” as an ambivalent reader, and
"me" as anonymous yet deeply familiar author, still poses the same
structure of dialogue that inhibits us from life, whether as living or
dead. It would be better, you think, if I instead decided to tell a
story, explored an environment as your guide, and gave us names, even
if they aren’t us, or the names for who we were. We need to play, to
love, and escape. So I’ll give you a character name, and attributes,
and then you can do the same for me, and we’ll go out into the world
and make whatever we want of it for ourselves, ascribe whatever
motivations or powers we need, and we’ll be able to restart at any
time, to infinity, to re-do or edit the moves we make, ridding
ourselves of the tireless compulsion to link passing events with the
making of being. We’ll be whomever we want, have total remote control
over our bodies as minds, as we collide with whomever we can imagine.
Everything we imagine will be real, but then we will imagine the
unreal. It will last forever, we’ll never have to die, and we will
move forever then. The future will have no meaning, and there will be
no name for the time we were together, or the time we were apart, or
for any time at all, because there will be no such thing as time, and
with no word for it, it will finally vanish too.

Freezing

Often warm glorious lapidary
a silt oboe

now frozen gravelankle

soon skybubble
your hearts content.

Faceless

I am defaced, and free of Facebook. Contact chickeninthefield@gmail.com.

A Christmas Evening Conversation With Misanthrope

Jw
Merry x-mass George!
01:19

George
Merry XXXmas to you John!
01:19

Jw
Hah! No such luck fella. Sad but true.
No pussy blues
01:20

George
haha
goood
01:20

Jw
HAHA
01:20

George
i don't even remember what it's like to touch another person
what's that like?
01:20

Jw
Horrible
01:20

George
is it...nice?
01:21

Jw
NO
01:21

George
you're right
01:21

Jw
It feels sad and sweet
01:21

George
when i think about it, my penis retracts into my pelvis
01:21

Jw
HAHA
01:22

George
mwahahaha
so you'll be in nyc in jan. right?
we shall have to fuck something up
maybe kill some jews and blacks and homos
or just nb
01:22

Jw
No killing
01:23

George
oh, man!
wtf?
01:23

Jw
Maybe rough em up, but no killing~!
01:23

George
you should hang out with me and riggers
we killed a guy in soho once
but he deserved it: he was gay
01:23

Jw
HAHA
Say salute to Rigby. I like the cut of his cloth
01:24

George
actually, rigby is fucking awesome
i think you two would hit it off really well in person
01:25

Jw
Oh, I hope so! If the man doesn't off me or top me or whatever they say.
Or I him.
The British, as a rule, suck.
01:26

George
he's half brit, half aussie
01:26

Jw
WORSE, he's crazy!
!
01:27

George
hahaha
he grew up in leeds
that'll tell you something
01:27

Jw
Scum.
Brilliant!
HAHA
01:28

George
hahaha
yeah
01:28

Jw
Dude, merry x-mass~!
01:28

George
merry xmas to you too. i'll be seeing you in a couple weeks
01:29

Jw
!
01:29

George
i'm getting there on the 6th
01:30

Jw
!
01:30

George
staying till the 12th
01:30

Jw
HAHA
01:30

George
if i ever go back home, that is ;);)
01:30

Jw
HAHA
01:31

George
so get out the acid we'll slip dennis some
01:31

Jw
Shit man, NY'll kill you. Chances are it'll get me too.
01:32

George
fuck new york
01:32

Jw
All of it
01:32

George
i'll do new york like mohammed atta
01:32

Jw
HAHA
Make that your status update!
HAHAHA
01:33

George
i should
i think i will
01:33

Jw
HAHAHAHAHA
01:33

George
on jan. 5th
6th
01:33

Jw
AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH
HAAAAAAAAAHAAAAAA
Funnneyyyyy
01:34

George
i wonder how many 'friends' i'd lose on fb
01:35

Jw
If you miss me then you've got me, George, forever
01:36

George
i think i just cried
01:36

Jw
But dude, I love people so much
I love them
O I dunno
I feel wasted
01:37

George
who, all those little eichmann's up in nyc?
01:37

Jw
They ain't all Eichmann's either, trust me.
01:37

George
supporting that fascist obama with their 'work ethic'
01:38

Jw
Work sucks
Obama is a cuntlord
What can I tell you
?
Good people everywhere
DUUUUDE you knowwww
01:39

George
u know the best people in nyc? the 3,000 in the WTC 8 years ago
01:39

Jw
"Work sucks
Obama is a cuntlord
What can I tell you
?
Good people everywhere
DUUUUDE you knowwww"
New poem on CITF!
Love it!
HAHAHA
01:40

George
hahaha
what is citf?
cunts in the fucker?
01:40

Jw
HAHAHA
01:41

George
or is that html giant with actual cool people who know how to write?
01:41

Jw
INMETHECUNTISINME
NEW POEM
!!!
01:41

George
yes
see
?
we inspire each other
01:42

Jw
htmlgiant is tremendously cool
01:42

George
no it's not
it sucks ballz
01:43

Jw
This whole dialogue George goes on my blog. You are retarded funny, fuck it. HAHAHAHHAAAAA
01:43

George
oh fuck
you wouldn't believe what i was just about to say
01:43

Jw
HAHAHA
01:43

George
okay, i'll say it anyway
01:43

Jw
HAHAHAHA
01:43

George
hehe
htmlgiant is cool until slatted gets on there and writes one of his 40,000 word convoluted treatises
01:44

Jw
Convoluted?
40, 000 words though, I know
01:45

George
yeah, he talks in all these circles
01:45

Jw
I know
Dude writes so MUCH
Fucking kills me!
01:45

George
keeps folding back in on himself
01:45

Jw
Amazing though
01:45

George
argues shit to death
01:46

Jw
TO DEATH
01:46

George
even when he's wrong
01:46

Jw
Sweet though
I love sweet
Even when he is wrong
01:47

George
answer me something honestly
01:47

Jw
What?
01:47

George
did you like the wigger chick cartoons?
01:47

Jw
NO
01:48

George
i thought they were funny as hell
01:49

Jw
I get no joy from pain but yes funny as hell, yes. Little black kids outside my window in the snow tell me otherwise, laughing

I like light funny

Those were, uh.
01:50

George
i know tons of black peeps who would piss laughing at those
01:50

Jw
HAHAHAAAA me TOOOO
HAHAHAHAA
STILL THOUGH hurts to laugh
at things
sometimes
Laughing at things vs. with things
Or better at people vs. with people.
01:51

George
ah, i think a joke can just be a joke
you wanna hear a good mexican joke?
01:52

Jw
True, depends on who is telling it and how though. I've met you, I know some of your background. If you were serious I wouldn't talk to you. Now tell me the Mexican joke
01:53

George
yeah, that's the difference, though, isn't it
how many mexicans does it take to clean a bathroom?
01:53

Jw
HAHAHA
01:53

George
none.
that's a nigger's job.
01:54

Jw
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
1:54

Comment to Dennis Cooper

Damn if I know about any of that. I mean, I'm familiar with certain arguments regarding Adorno, for instance, that he did not appreciate jazz, and even though I'm told that these positions are faulty, I don't think so, and care even less. I think it has to do with where one takes pleasure. I think anything that gets in the way of lightness and freedom, as an argument, for some rightness of distinction or category, has to do with an errant desire written toward the future. It isn't pretentious itself, or I can't say so at least (even though I am saying so, thus I should stop writing and start performing... I am better in person). If you feel pleasure doing something, why shouldn't you do it?

I'm inclined toward sweetness, lightness, openness. Whatever happens happens. I'm writing the passage of being a happy person. Something has changed very deeply in me, even if I can't have what I want, I won't be the same, and that is what I want. Or maybe it is the coincidence of coming to some level of control. I'm 33, it took a long time for me to realize who I am, but there is still some time left.

I can't listen to Beethoven for very long. I like music that is ecstatic without the weight of things. Matter can be created and destroyed. So, what matter? Lightness, lightness, music that is pretty, and sparkling wine over beer. No more smoking. I will be 170 pounds by my birthday, and all the love I can get, is what I'm in for. Simple.

I'm looking forward to January and seeing you, friends.

KRAMPUS

THalItTlegubgrubgRUB, tAsTy, my lil likl I WHooP ti, I whuP it, ti whiPPEt I WhIpi t I wHip it, sLash sASh, ClopOcloP sTeal bbUBY TEAy tBubBy now thhorrN pricKsoRES CcLd fJordShoRsbirChgo IwhUP ti, I WhUP tis, whusTLeme i wOOsttle a toOnTOo fR uu KrISpy bTY fir i mk fir Leern HoW 22 tecc UuoU mY nw bubbY til i eaystyu FKbUbbYbuMMFUKBUMBRapTREbUBBY, EaTzBuBBYBUMBZTStybUBBBUMZ! Q!
!!!

LEZ Frist then MBmz, lEGS, FIdst, fiRst, eATzBuBBYSLEGSFIRTSTHNBUMZ
tORmENST efierst WANZ TO TORMESNT
TORMENTFirsrtthenLEgztHENEATBUM

Paradis

On Photonostalgia and the VS

No writing. You cannot read this. This is not written. You want plot and action and not immediate digression, not to mention how personal and epochal, or randomly poetic, will this be? How messy? How tangential, morose, disembodied, or unqualified? Will it answer any questions? Have a conclusion, a development, a fact? Will it depend on analogy, or visual reference only? Is the world of art a world of puns? Making art depends on making things that people will recognize as art without ever looking at a book about art... The belief in the abstract essay died when the word died, and correspondingly, abstract art fell to pieces, getting cut-up. There could be no free statements, except in an ideal performance with no analog, but that also needed to have a recognizable detachment, and therefore qua-nihilist absorption, in order to work, typical of all Romantic statements. Digitization for a time posed the problem of a native text, but like any artifact always does (see Singer's 'History of Technology'). Photo historians are nostalgic and oft far removed from an understanding of artistic forms. All recitation has had this effect, has this affect, including psychological recitation which was the "lesson" of photography. The body, as a mechanism, is thought, recitation is memory. If I annotated this text to make my assertions appear as fact I'd be writing art criticism, but language is fascism (always said as more than the truth), so that is why I am not a writer of art criticism. My one critical citation is meant as an ironic deployment (the second, the first is a still from Eisentein's 'Potemkin'). This is certainly not employment, so to speak. Working to disable the affect of the still is the art of today, to push the world back into movement, just as it has been to express anxiety over decline. Art is the shove, the push, the punch, the putsch, for the overthrow of the senses. (This to me means that the greatest artists of the twentieth century were chemists, or atavists, or to be more accurate, they were both).

ARABPARROT

ANIMA

Anima