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But nary a night passed by with infinite faith to say.
One day and one night . Jill to her silence and dismay. Realized
that. That she, had paid plenty homage to the selves other verse.. But lo!
They were silent as the grave wherein my friend is laid. And laid they were in
the silence and anonymity of the grave.
If one knight upon a verse a poet came. There was Samuel
Beckett. And Celan who had all transferred in the deferral of tongues the
poetspoems from one lingo to another . What was it, but word smugglers
rustling the branches of desire and words, and between the war games of a
thousand million years of unacknowledged legislators of the world. As her
friend Shelly had written once and upon a many times in her texts about La
Poesia. Jill called Pierrette Felix and said many times over what is the
use of sending when there is no receiver
[That was Shelly the poet, a friend of Keats the poet and not some
half-assed pretender to the throne of expression]
Was that not bad engineering? Or what? Or what she said, and kicked her
Hegel around. And kicked her Alexander Pope around, and kicked all her
deathly verses around and around they went the square boards of
immanence like Jesus Christ idiot of grace and loving yer enemies. If this
was a new form of epistolary epistemes and ologies were the place to be,
were Mona Mona and and other other unknown transferrers of the word
not getting their second best a bed in the constellation of recognition
and territory? Were the slaves not first in the resentment game of pick a
word and sally down the gardens of gain and fruition? Were the gains to be
gainsaid whiles real pirates of the word starved in the stars.
Jill bowed before a word called Philosophy and the invention of
concepts and her daddy JackDeReader knew her turn had come. So it was. In
the many folded knight of the words made flesh and grapes.
The great lesson of all great creators was this: never take it personally
as you are not really there, and Fuck them if they cant take a joke.
Guattari called at that instant saying, Hey I need a place to pirate my
works and days of hands and plateau after plateau. Even the sarcasms of
Orpheus were done with the love of true grit and true love. But not being
a plane rider what could Orpheus do, but be the woman she was in a
Eurydicean way. What did the men know about woman-becomings when she was
the flow and gates of flood and moon and mense and tidal of spit water and
knock-knees and thighs and Boticelli? I wish you all well, shesaid in the
wishing well of your lives. Oh I love these ones, I love a these ones in
their knights and days of my handy-andy work man machines a delire. I
remember once I was wrought down the well river of darkness. It was there.
It was night. There was. There was. There
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Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari
Clifford Duffy copyright 1998-1999.