A Maze Of Conscious Unconscious Bloodletting, let's go!

WARNING: you won't know where to turn next but it is such that you are in a welkin of some definite plausibilities. Not for the faint of heart or the archaic. It isn't that type of place. There are so many brothers in the world, blood brothers, half brothers, dead brothers and Jacks. There are always the Jacks. You have the doogs and the Lanny's and the brothers of the elk which is a rhyme to the starry blisses. It is a long story of beginnings, endings, tragic and blistering comeuppances. There are no politics in this world. It might be said that Carmen is a fine place to be when one trades one's soul with sisters and mothers, darling kittens. You've got so many Mira Labs but it is only the current one that matters her eyes full of shame and contagion. You help up that dog in the rain: Pip on down through to the bassett hound with three legs moving through a steady course to the most Noble Imposters and Just Buddies. The tricks are all there but you don't know where to turn next. Is it the sea calling? What is it that is ringing? It must be the lilacs again, always ringing and the peaches falling. A rhubarb tale disguised as a hallowed pie. A baptist pie, a cherished fruit. This is the last one of its kind. The machine ex post facto of the Anchorites with the tiny windows, peeking out into freshly fallen snow....freshly fallen snow. A silent kind of reverence towards the ancients of Mogollon where in the deep hollows of summer, fresh from the fears of gypsies up near the creaks, a lonely man sells his Russian memorabilia declaring he is being chased by the wealthy landowners who know for certain Rasputin. Hunted. He is wanted. He believes this with his almighty heart. His windows are boarded up. Butterfly mimics in the flowers have utensils that listen and pray to whatever is going on up there in the lava bombs, a sister walks by because she is in on it. She is totally in on it but we've got to go. The man mentions a place called Hafr Al Batn and we agree to never meet again but only silently. Only in the perfect sun.

http://onethousandblogsbyduffyandbutler.blogspot.com/2006/02/inspecting-rivers.html

A selection fro m the opus of Gilles and Guattari:


inspecting rivers

inspecting rivers can't be taught
or traumas undone
decomposed by light

night wont be teeth
tha t hurt day
or livers cured by treatment
your second relapse in as many
weeks killed the things
we built over a bridge
of terraced songs
a neighboring lull
in the perks and the play
the drama of its greek cotillion


of tragedy and its high ass
pain the fare cost to its dull mirror
there is no play
or taste garnering its shame
its not shame sensing the
cash crop its hub of sense
and shyness of your sex


this is my son in whom you
love his body a taught cross
to lovers




.

Mona stood still an instant longer
that day. waitiign. washing.
the bending thighs of truth.




__ O come on! such lutes of somber
socks!
come off it man Anti shouted to her
high disdain of built in shades
and other super-egos
of needles and pins


Booom ! Boom went the giant of stomps
stupidly making a mute paint of
childish rumours and blongs!

....CD of Canada writes. Oh we aren't sure why he stutters but certainly we know from where, the welkin called Canadia.