Wednesday, 7 November 2007

DISAMBIGUATION HOOP: ornately a flower to be pissed on.

I propose, over against the haptic image of gleeful canine tonguing viz. "let's talk about literary trends, let's eat the leaf pie straight from the deep freeze", the following re-reading. For "poem" see "psychopathology", that is to say 'the' (hoho) gulph is a positive phenomenal datum, it is given. Its being given inaugurates the crisis you see yourself fit enough in to encircle like cake icing or molluscs, not the other way round. Epistemology isn't first, it doesn't 'discover' this thing - it merely prettifies it with credibility. I don't know. Chew the fucking iceberg. This isn't a 'cleaving' thing. You think, tediously, that e.g. coitus or love might stand in to suck up the gap but even if we do not know that this is not the case, why the hell should it automatically make the to do list? This isn't the SWP. This isn't a crying club where we share our 'common' experience of alienated intentionality, that crass nominalism isn't taking us anywhere but back to "pack of green rizlas mate" e.g. I see what you want but have no idea what it is that you intend to mean. Transmitters and receivers flipped blissfully to 'later'. Maybe a more flexible mode of receptivity is ATTACK hermeneutics. Get out your knives, my bed's already full of them. You scorn my bewailing the passing of the golden days. No shit, my bed is full of knives. You smugly accuse a glass of milk of being 'opaque'.

I do need to sort out the reply posts sitch, tho, and not (at all) in the interests of some kind of democratically flavoured analgasm I have no intention of sharing with you. No, what I want is for ballistics to kiss in the same room, with the lights on.

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