Boxxy Theory

Life is a series of boxxies (like a proxy, proxies...), a series of annoying phenomena that mutate whilst you scramble - like a bollocks - to try and reap the dignity you sowed into the vile earth, scampering like a pale-dog with ball-in-mouth, summoning masters with a meager yelp, hoping and scrimping and saving with a savage grin sometimes hoping on the lips, sometimes a ball of wax to call your own before some heated discussion melts your notions into unrecognizable muck, and you sing-a-song to yourself, your terrible self, "oh why me, why me", and the others only pass on, pass on, forget it all with a hair's length of effort, and you slap and bounce in the hole you dug until terrible squirming leaves you motionless, sequestered in your own filth, oblong in your squalor, obtuse in your thoughts which strike with acute pain, and your once nimble gestures collapse into a fury of childish-longings, with a weak groaning tempest in your heart, throngs abound in the skull but remain silent only to taunt you with unrequited hate. Thus, 'tis a blessing that a new, skinnier notion arrives, in the form of a girl lacking all lucidity and leaving you - once again - with nothing more than an obstinate soaking pool of uncertainty to swim in.

Battered

You just bash your own skull with strange mannerisms, and - from afar, you see yourself - numb and bleeding, yet you retain a distance - a necessity - you adapt to a "third-man view" of oneself in-order-to collapse back - finally! - into a "first hand-man", and then you whip yourself out of such stupor, you fall back again on ideas seldom seen but brought back into the light, yes, again, and you don't wait any longer for clocks to tick-tock to the dime and nickel of numbers and hands, you wait-not for hand-on-hand proper-time to get things done, you smash the stately temporal affinities and you jump up like a foaming-mouthed dog and scream like a bitch for all Christ's Sake, and you demand of all things - of all beings - that they cease to bumble and hamper the joyous struting of the strong bodied magnets (nesting, nesting [+/-]) . . . no!, the magnetic antagonisms will shatter the temporal, the tepid, and the temperate wankers. The boastful yet lazy souls will collapse into inertia-inducing pits and this will do no harm to those with tears and laughter, tears and laughter, for just a little bit of frailty cannot detract away from the immensity of a shining sun, nor can the squalor of piggity-poo-ha sequester the nimble into lousy lousy lousy days.

Sugar Scum Bastion (Fortitude, Fortification? I don't care...)

toffee taffy toffee
mouth and spitting tobacco-sugar
glucose
fructose
dextrose
artificial sugary treats with black tobacco
tar-mouth and
potty mouth and
cotton-mouth and
smoking mouth of tobacco and spitting black tar
and coal
and sugar - as well -
in the mouth
like a toffee-tobacco smoking hole of black sugary hell
and coal
and like a phallic toffee-crunch bar of
sugary-tobacco-phallic destiny
for a fractured temporality.

Think of it:

Like a cigarette, but a sugary-smoking tar-taffy.

Like a molten hot goo of sticky, black sugar-scum.
Like a motherfucking award-winning obesity-machine.

Diabetic and surgical removal of the self.
"Sugary Sweet Machines", even (see Jeff Mangum),
but more sinister as to the results and method and
what else...taffy...

Like a gum from hell, chewed back into itself
Like a mobius-strip of gum to chew and suck
back to primordial hell hell hello baby
bringin' back the goods from the Holiday in Jolly
"Folly for to..."

(More) Useless commontion (as per usual?)

I know it was wankery,
but I should be forgiven,
at least once. . . this time 'round. . .

No strategic citation,
or site,
or sediment to conjure up...
but...

sedimental (not sentimental) citation of excitement...

Excrement is an excited citation of previous
engagements with nourishment.

Nourished: nouns to nibble.

Nimble: thumbs & thimble...tumble in the
mud.

Muddy: Ruddy PEI potato-blood-soil, near beaches...

Sand: and you guessed it: Sandy beach-towelette (wet-nap time in
wet sand).

Glasses: sun glasses, strike the sand (you made your
sun glasses out of the sand, sand made your glass-eye,
your water-glass, your eye-glasses... [glass-eye eye-glasses?]

From here: hear on out, hear me, hear me out, out of it...

"She was right out of it" - Perhaps, but so was He.

Herald (Herold?) - Trumpets rusty and dusty.

Hear no trumpet, here no beaches, hear no heralds,
Here no glasses, no toasting to the event,
no events,
no muddy souls,
no nourishment (satisfaction is nil).

"Just move around, move around, move around...
I hope that you die in a decent pair of shoes, you got a lotta
long walkin' to do, where you're going to..."
[Song: Idiot Heart / Sunset Rubdown / Album: Dragonslayer (2009) /

2:05 AM - April 25 / 2009 / Chatham, NB / (((D))) / ?!8.

Deference [Deterrence?].

Turbid.
Ovid (never read).
Idiomatic.
Void.
Video:

Video-idiot droid in a void of drapery (turbid, again).

Maledictions and Invectives:
long-term and short term (terminal, regardless).
Tense and tension (past, present, future, perfect, otherwise).
Most and least (yeast risen and rising and blazon and hidden).
Moist and laden (rich and full and emptied out).
Wept and lazy and ...
Who cares? Now?
Emptied out and mumbled (crumbled).
Ahh....
You guess but miss and hiss once more (frequently now).
Hmm....

Q: / A: (100%).
A-Z. 0-9.
+/-. <...>
?!*. (X).

A simple divergence is what you get.

Searing blood runs in a stream alongside highways,
Blood of fate, of screaming wankers, of old waste...

Of serotonin surrendered and sequestered into pill-form.
A foliage of souls burning in a gold pot.

Nimble brambles scuttle like bitches in breezy night.

Holes are quivering now, waiting for events.

Long walks take the toll on old feet.

Members degrade each other at the mercy of nothing.

Temperatures are falling like glasses.

Nodes and notes and nodes and notes.
Boats come glacial-like,
old ice sliding down the river now.

Hum.
Hum.
Hu,
Hum.
Who om who um who hum who um who um.
Omi Omu Omuwho.

A valid quest for vowels
is ended.

[Listening: Junior Boys - Work / Album: {2009} Begone Dull Care]

Dig a Hole?

Value Judgments and Judgments of Value. . .

The Dead Labour Depot, in conjecture with...er, yes, actually, and... in conjunction with the Dead Letter Depot, would like to extend a welcome to the minions of Value, but only as a challenging welcome, an invitation to give-up on "value" and step-out of the marsh of stagnant waters.

"The symbolic order of culture is not value, value is an economic structure. With infiltration or contamination of signs by an aesthetic circulation, and the rise of cultural goods as aesthetic goods, that's the beginning of the end."

You want balanced books,
You want stale bread,
You want A=A out the ass.

You want text-book tranquility,
You want brooding heaps of trash...
You want to suck the barrel dry,
and then ask - politely - for seconds.

You want a canker sore to bitch about
You want slow decay to be your savior.
You want Value to bestow happiness upon your
aching bones.

Well, why stop there? Don't wake up,
as if from dreaming. Don't smash idols,
as if they were false Gods. Don't surrender
to Validity, that other pious creature.
Don't take the Notion of "for granted" for granted.

What you need is something more drastic than
these tiny, baby steps out of paradigmatic
hindrance. You need a
Royal Strabismus of the soul.

Yes. That's the key.
But the door is no easy walk-through, either.

You'll heave your guts before you'll take one step,
I know it.

You'll only see with clarity when all the fog of certainty
has collapsed. This is the issue at-hand: certitude is your
crutch and your dead-idol.

Dead Labour invites you for a round of drinks.
The Dead Letter Depot ships off a manuscript to your door.

Either you christen these gifts with smiles and whips,
Or you suffer like a Hog on Ice for eternity.

This is your plight, now deal with it.

1:03 AM / Chatham, NB / April 22/09

Labo(u)r Pains. (Dead Labour Depot)

Lenin: (jesting?) What is to be done?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Estragon: (giving up again). Nothing to be done.

Vladamir: (advancing with short, stiff strides, legs wide apart). I'm beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I've tried to put it from me, saying Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven't yet tried everything. And I resumed the struggle. (He broods, musing on the struggle. Turning to Estragon.) . . .

The Taming of Things

To Holly,
"On Insignificance"

It's one of those animals that cannot be tamed, perhaps...rather not the case? This animal is the one you refer to: Insignificance. Let it be, let us maybe shed that paltry robe, and walk into the light of things instead of allowing that thick, loathsome murk to hinder our smiles.