Sunday, August 16, 2015

A Funny Torture I Hallucinated the Other Day [Reconstructed from Elder Notebooks]

of Maxwell Clark

Peering about panoptically is not not reconcilable with the schemata of Hegel’s weltgeist (?) INCARNATED as the stupid fresh mode or fasces of production translated across an intervallic extension of periods called history, rather than spacing.

Detailing the nameless.

Sleep, nameless love, it is so easy.

Hips jut pubis forward to search for my erection.
Hips roll pubis, gyrate, smother my big dick. My dick is so under-in the pubis-maw.

Poesy of absolute perfection.

Hips roll pubis and maw smother-over my big dick. The mystery is not happily unrecognized, needs realness, needs to feed off me more than I am. So many easy things to do.

The math of mind-gun poesy.

There is no need to write now. I must write now.


“Matter is that which is indifferent to form.”
–Hegel’s Science of Logic (as quoted in Marx’s Grundrisse).

This is a poem about fucking nobody for years.


Omnilucent face, so small, because not everything, but everything alone. Measureless but small, like nothing else, except the exception. Everything concretion must begin with an abstraction; you count the possible meanings, like an estimation without number. The varmin are not elaborated upon sickly sweet.

Sloppy queer numbers of outer space.

“If in a sequence of things to be investigated there is something that our intellect cannot intuit well enough, we should pause there and not examine others that follow but, instead, we should refrain from doing fruitless work.”

Norman Rockwell and Andy Warhol.

Can you feel the love? The triangles?
What did I just spray?

I ain’t need no flex, but I gotta ball.

Will I complete the mystery of my flesh?

I love you so;
I want you to know,
I love you so;
Go as you will,
My secret still
Will be you;