Ascending Asyla

For Antonin Artaud

I am a . . . perforated tongue . . . a dead little girl . . . asleep in me . . . yesterday . . . only specters . . . neither the unconscious nor the subconscious . . . the monkey hand . . . it falls . . . the earth which I will eat . . . and what is chance? . . . limbs fighting among themselves . . . thought from below . . . in the middle of the void . . . a window . . . vampirizes . . . compenetration . . . to break one upon the other . . . a city besieged . . . nothingness . . . at the bottom of nothingness . . . etc. . . . I do not want to know . . . I don’t want . . . I don’t want to sleep anymore . . . the heart liberates its own thirst . . .

Which indeed is not in philosophy, but in the pan of fried potatoes, square perhaps and with the handle of the cantilever which bears like the spoon in the perforated tongue of the sex organ forever denied by the heart.

What is philosophy? The pan of fried potatoes, the spoon, the sex; and in the heart – the which, the in, the but, the of, the perhaps, the and, the with, the by, the the, . . .

Bone by bone, tongue by tongue, cock by cock, I’m exhuming the dead within me – to free them, to free me.

He would free his body from suffering by making it understand – even if he had to put it on the rack.

Specter-haunted mirrors, rats dreaming of Freud.

His perversion was not yet invented. (In his body’s darkness, they multiplied.)

Everything I need to know, every book I want to write, everyone I love fit neatly in my mouth. (Yes, you too.)

I never listen to myself, except when I need a good laugh.

Ideas don’t come without limbs, and so these are no longer ideas but limbs, limbs fighting among themselves.

Eyeless ideas groping in the dark. (They scratched each other’s eyes out.)

The only sensible way to judge an idea is by its smell.

Th body is the body, but the mind is not the mind. (Yes it is.)

Patiently polishing his glassy essence, he turned his body into a translucent asylum.

All thinking is pornographic.

Language is always fucking me up the ass – and I like it.

Inside and out, hordes of undead assailed him.

A black nothingness mirrored by a bright emptiness . . .

Everybody’s waiting for something to happen.

The philosophy of etc.

I don’t remember what I did yesterday – I don’t want to remember.

I want to wake the others that are sleeping in me – I don’t want to dream anymore.

Free yourself from yourself – unnot your heart’s knots.

The bewildered lair of the knot through which the heart liberates its own thirst from being before what we call nothingness.

<< Death Journal
>> Petal Fugue

eXTReMe Tracker