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Jill got home one night. One knight among many, AMong many
multifarities multitudinous murders as in Macbeth I am thy daughter's
sheet. Not ghost silly. She saw that Orpheus was telling tales again again
as in riverruns past bend of wake by pluralities of faces and depths of
divers. She was a having a love-affair arrears in affairs of wakes of a
knight. In infinite faith of oriental delicate body on the metro. and
Other K places. So it was. Orpheus was makin' more stories and narratives
than you could count on the fingers of your toe-nails and emails and
she-males and boy gals such as her body was. She hada body sometimes and
it was nice. She had a pregnant girl she was in love and in love with in
love and in love and love. It was like Glorious and traced down all her
lipstick slides around traced girls thought and thighs. So she found a
text that said I am Clare Parnetti I am the climax of love and sorrow and
I am th e smoking lungs in the light I am the silver dwarf of bended
thought I am the face one next to your text. She was sometimes good at
getting back many moon and week later it was like that she was the one
with Mona who hot-wired the text. So like a puffed cheek she was and it
was magic Theatre Mirror and factories of connections and bodies and
hands between. The sheets and skirt of frilled underthings and scalloped
designed skirts that swirl in the spring winds of rain on the tip of her
lips and tongue and pushed then shovelled it was against the rip of
matter in the canvas and she was the one
On Niveau: 22 1999 Orpheus the poet has sent more tele-grammatical
mythogems.
One - Two - Three - Go.
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CP - when did Michel ever try to take his life? -
GD - never as far as I know. As far as I know this is the idea of
American academics trained in getting the most mileage out of
{It was a great moment for all A SPLENDID TIME Closing Time}
an idea of the Limit. THey never understood Michel. And one can
never understand a great thinker like him by reducing him
to sociological bric-a-brac. By reading his ideas as a
personal critique of an Another author.
(Very Rich, Very Very Rich) [Many Levels Like Tundra&Tinderwood]
CP - Yes, we all know that.
[ But here there are none. There are only positions] She altered
that.
MF - There is apassion for violence in my work that frightens the
academics which is why they bury me with their jargon. I spit on them
from my grave. Of ruin and pleasure. I regret nothing. I am the fierce
spirit of Passion and Ruin. I have nothing to do with Constant Boundaries
and Students that Obey with the reacion of the dead ones. How can Artaud
Adversity have ever put up with any of this. All these dead microspaces.
FG - The Trend in Philosophy Circles is to Define a Boundary. ANd to Shut
It Down. Especially at Con-ferences which are mostly about putting a fast
one on over the auditors, a Con that sends listeners drooling and shitting
as they read the lies and half-truths. Most of the actual lines of Escape
are Shut down, and Covered in the Blather of Bla-Bla-Bla. Most of these
Things are Like the Local Guitar Players: Cons to get position, pleasure,
and Ego-boostings. Little wanks to keep their Cocks Hot and Hard, a sort
of Viagra of the the Mind. There is no Reactionary Status as bad and base
as that of the professional labeler and name caller: this is the current
malaise all of you Suffer from: Name calling... Resentment.. Inventing
more concentric machines to Exclude. This is the shit hole that is why One
never hears concrete matters discussed.... I have a body without organs
and every deadbeat fumiste thinks they know what it is.
Michel and FG kiss. They lock hands. And spin the matrixial space
of their desire whilst doing so making syntax go nuts like any moderndada
poet... whats' neW?
She bows and smokes: My name is Clare Parneti I was their lover I was
their lover None of their remainders Answer me with Anything But silence.
He, FG was fucking when he died.Mona laughs at all this, and spaces out
down the zones of Eyeballs watching out of Dead Gazes and Other Lobsters
SPectacles and Gazes of Passim. Mona is laughter as she dances the walk
pedal.
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Folds of Fodder and Other Fictions
Copyright Clifford Duffy 1999
Since everything was fiction even Jill in her becomings she knew there was
no one there and so it was and then no one there was ficciones as axes of
becomings and benedictions and so it was the chaffed wind scattered
enemies in rain of flight and around and around out of the whirlwind
which said can you measure the thunder as it stings the stolen graves and
coffins of philosophers? I am the world's long gentlewoman and I am
dictionary and metre, the rust of the tongue which speaks in your sex and
tongue
And
and it had been part of that
Of
course,
Jill was
Mona, all
along .
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Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari
Copyright @Clifford Duffy 1998-99.