The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

R’n’t all itches to act twinned with equalanapposite counterclocksome itches that push the itch outside of temporal reality into contingent uncertain futures which may or may not come to pass, leaving in its setplace alternative excursions that point down side hallways, crack open doorblocks, and abandon us amidst the clutter of other rooms?

In my father’s house are many mansions, says he

of ten rods given, nine are loaned, and we bloody gutsack men are born in, live in, stay in mud with only scattered starthoughts of other higher beautiful

and procastination, to plan for crastine-day, is it not the beautiful and the hopeful — except not — just another dreamlie to sooth our sourows sores — I am tired today, I say right now, and my thoughts are stews of blackish bile — no sleep, but my lover comes to see me and tell me what my name is —

up, pug, teeth sharpened over two millenia of millenia of left-us women and leave-us love — see the young amoeba heartsad at its failed division — and now we divided make faulty glues of oxygen and hydrogen with schoolboy chemylabs, calf-legs and doe-eyes falling all over each other until banging against bonewalls, biographies shiver and refract, and tongues bruise each other making different shapes, and language drifts and towers to heaven are left undonelike due to miscommunications — in the middle of the word hides an unbreached wall —

share, make common, accept — no wonders that the tower fails. Babble, babble — ancient ziggur zag up to godplace — and it took us four bigears to put Ol’ Humps back together (even harder since we had no boxfront to look at, I will admit some puzzle pieces were forced) and fly up clinging to Sungod’s tearducts into inky darkness.

where does it go from here? chronos emasculated is a one way highway, the journals of journeys all end the same — and foreknowledge of foregones are like pyschic eggshell swaddlingblankets that scare and sooth us into fitful sleep

art, deprecated verb form of the predicate, dropped all together in general semantics which pseudoknowers say make brains run quicker. wind the clocks and drop the predicates, being is a foregone, and unknowable, and the map is not the territory and never nevereverwillbe and dreams and deeds live in separate houses and this brainmush harmonium laying sentences upon the waters like the voidbreaths of allgod create a world but not this one.

Go. Get on with it, you lazy fool, nullity of the major arcana. Take my card and divide by it and watch the universe reveal itself.

List of songs deemed inappropriate by Clear Channel following the September 11, 2001 attacks
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_songs_deemed_inappropriate_by_Clear_Channel_following_the_September_11%2C_2001_attacks

I especially like Rage Against the Machine … All songs. Classic.

And thene there’s 99 Red Balloons.

You and I in a little toy shop / Buy a bag of balloons With the money we’ve got
Set them free at the break of dawn / ‘Til one by one, they were gone
Back at base, bugs in the software / Flash the message “Something’s out there”
Floating in the summer sky / 99 red balloons go by

99 red balloons / Floating in the summer sky
Panic bells, it’s red alert / There’s something here From somewhere else
The war machine springs to life / Opens up one eager eye
Focusing it on the sky / Where 99 red balloons go by

99 Decision Street / 99 ministers meet
To worry, worry, super-scurry / Call the troops out in a hurry
This is what we’ve waited for / This is it boys, this is war
The president is on the line / As 99 red balloons go by

[Instrumental Interlude]

99 Knights of the airway / Ride super-high-tech jet fighters
Everyone’s a Silverhero / Everyone’s a Captain Kirk
With orders to identify / To clarify and classify
Scramble in the summer sky / As 99 red balloons go by

As 99 red balloons go by

99 dreams I have had /In every one a red balloon
It’s all over and I’m standin’ pretty / In this dust that was a city
If I could find a souvenier / Just to prove the world was here
And here is a red balloon / I think of you and let it go

what is the what and who is asking and why does one care to know? whose being is the being? twinkle in daddy’s eye, aye, ‘I’ was willed and now I will and on and down and back and up through jiggly chains of willing and wonting and rocking and rolling serving the primordial itch lolling in prioracle ooze – love is a nonapeptide with a sulphur bridge, the journeyman courier of ancient prioric priapic desire — is it pain that spurs us on or loves promise that leads us — pain I should think and a promise of an end to pain, of safe harbors in arms like mom’s, of warm bodies in cold darkness, of meaning out of chaos, light from night.

why does it will and how does it will and who does the willing and the wailing and the whiling and for what? the question is unanswered and as soon as man spoke he lied and after the lie he blamed it on a woman — typical we say as if the action follows inevitabilty from the type — and its unclear why that Old Wise-Lover Playdoh Graycoh seemed to think that the shapes preceded the clay, seems like wearing your shoes on your hands to this little cavedweller, or why Mr. Ari T. Tottle the Aristocrat thought the clay hid some transcendant clayness, or why such silly linedrawing could be adopted by that Fat Saint, Twinsies Horsies to explain how god got in my cracker — higher forms are higher forms and Neetches got it right, that all that stuff is tripe and gristle laid out like a garnish, a function of plating to make the peas more palatable — hiding behind the Oracleman to fool us into thinking that the world is Lit and not Dark, but bring the Chaos, says Neetch, the World is Dark, and the will is a small thing to stand against darkness, and little campfires singing to the the night only betray your presence to the hunters who hide there.

but doesn’t stop the WZL or the Machtlust, because the Machtlust, even if a lie, is a useful lies and useful lies are remembered in the place of not-so-useful truths. Evillution baby, the christolers are right to dislike, its cold and amoral and has nothing to do with their Hanging Apollo.

Maybe baby, maybe, but we’re all just children of the universe, every little willed and willing, and Hanging Apollo and Crazy Dionysus are children of the universe too, and you can’t fear the darkness because that’s where the Touch is, that’s where the Other Sits, and it’s Other-Touch that gets, that sends chills down spines and children down tunnels and its where the magic happens — the lie itself a bit of magic, in that it sketches the edges of ontology and shows you where I end and Yous begin — and that there is the sacred — Unity of God, but Divisibility Therefrom, the Universe revolves around the Eternal Dialogue not the One-Toned Monologue, and in the Dialogue, God hides, and in the Dialogue, Telos emerges, from foreheads and mortal souls like Pallas laughing at her self in the mirror.

Will to live; will to power; will to know;

Will to touch the other, see the other, to tremble and being looked at; not to see but to be seen; eyes of some great presence, some soul equal to yours or better, glancing and knowing; knowing the gods of your fathers and the gods of your mothers and gods of your brothers and sisters and lovers; walking in the world together, talking.

such is love.