and this time

and this time she was standing onthe corner with the horn in her hand, and it was Arc de Tre... you know, and Felix said is this a fiction, or a farce,

Jill stammers, saying fiacre fiarce. coming around the bend,
bending Stoics and eggs, the visor of her cap
close to the nave the , fictions out of 'control' and Harry says, look this crucifixion is enough. Enough ontology for one day, my friend, and so.

we meandered, slowly to the pulpit seeingthe
statues of Verlaine and Rimbaud floating by
the masthead of its pleat and its

held close to the sky,
a wind blocking its view,

she was about to say ferven wind. but the en a woman stepped around the place where plateaus are born.

shyly tearing down the start of the edifice.

balkin at the glue of truth, her lips, were blood red.

Antioedipus would not see, its results, for many years.
Unlike the others, he was in for the long haul,
not short term gratification.


do you think death could possibly be a boat?*: filozofia

do you think death could possibly be a boat?*: filozofia: "do you think death could possibly be a boat?* "

I dont speak a word of Polish, but love the sound.
I like the title of this post and the name of the blog.

Puts me in mind of those wonderful passages in Henry Miller's
Plexus where he talks about the errie preternaturalness
of the language. something inthe Slavic which calls to us,
which has always call'd to me , at any rate.

What bone inspiring metallic songs call me out,
from death.


the manic depressive and the alcoholic

the manic and the alcoholic

in the intensity of

continue: later


what the

what the paranoiac fails to understand is that the world
does not revolve around the sinthome machine of its desire
the symptom being the singular sign of its upheld mouth

Anti come here, we love you.
in the psychoanalytic knot
one cant help but tie the two

equally one not of dearth
not breath

in its extensive breach of the plates.
plates being like strata, they
are not plateaus
and dont permit surfing