Abstentious-Most Ghouls of Mass-Psychedelias

((( http://06515.bandcamp.com/ )))

Venation (i.e., nervation, or nervature) evolves into itself, as it were (please excuse throughout the pittance of my phraseology's poetically berserk intuitiveness and the wild flourishes of queerly ambiguous conjectures that are attendant upon its being so --- as such is sharply contrariwise and perhaps even flagrantly antithetical to the exacting metrical precision of today's officially institutionalized medical science of venation), as the "opening-out" or externalization of corporeality, the dawning of a face -- or datum -- across an -- alone hereafter -- ambient cosmos, the fuzzy complex of a sensory focalization around about the reception of its beyond---as 

Noise-Makings

of Maxwell Clark

The blacks of Northern
America/ have contributed
The most value to its/ economic
Elaboration.
____________Black labors, i.e.
____________Black cultures/metabolisms
/Have ever been the most fecund/ here
Since the putrescent stench of chattel-ships/
First assaulted the/assumedly/a bit
Romanesque nostrils
____________Of/ my matrilineal patriarch
____________John Woolman.
And of latter days/many moons/since,
The supremacy
Of black eth(n)ologies/ecotechnics (((corporeal genericisms)))
Is their re-poeticization of popular-/folk noise-making.

waY uP!!!!!!!!!!

of Maxwell Clark

"Waaaaay up!

Way up then!

Waaaaay up!

Stay up then!"

---Popcaan

Inner light, extinguish thineself.
Outer chorus, uplift me.

Lift me up, oh,

Out so way-up-up-up high that, oh, oh, I transcend,
I transcendeth beyond any but the least few---the most alive.

Oh, then, likely nowise including you:

You, yes,
You,

That monstrously greater part
Of my reception,

Whose inane butchery of my art
Be, to me, but the most ruthless deception.

My worst banes: your hyper-cancerous profusions, oh!

Oh how viciously stigmatic be now your normalcy!
Oh how eerily brutalizing also your eternal mediocrity!

And, oh! oh! how undead be thou swarm's serial massives!

You; oh, you are the greater logic
And the most common reason
And the purely-most spread of lights
Ever goading me again to self-murder,
To doom, to wanton terrors and ugliest horrors,

Undead thus also as to delights.

4u

of Maxwell Clark

"All is in danger.

Are you a stranger?"

---French Montana

The is the.

This has this.

Overcurlings taper, hanging; gliding.

Forever was once already.

Thrust abnormally individual character into maws.

Alongside, facing---like

A point of resolution infinitely shatteredlyzz.

Above Audience: A Critique of Intentionality

of Maxwell Clark

"If you don't understand what I am talking about then I am talking about nothing and it makes no difference, if you do then there's enough said."

—Gertrude Stein, Q.E.D

Intentionality involves the ruse of creating for others not merely external traces of who you yourself are, as all of creation is also this, but moreover creating traces of oneself that seem to have forgotten, in their attention being focused upon their audiences instead, that traces of oneself is all that one can ever create. Intentionality degrades the glory of the signal expressed by oneself unto others precisely in this forgetting of oneself, of caring more for others than for oneself—as if one could give them something other than oneself, something more like them and less like me.

Intentionality is the desire to control one’s relation to others, is a normalization of the self at the expense of others. But already I witness these critically referenced to forms of intentionality writhing so delicately into delineation before me as supermassively bleak. There can be no intentional abolition of intention, as the very act of its abolition would thereby also reaffirm its own endurance. The most I may do is witness myself, as herein, performing an otherwise unintentional mode of social relation—witness myself making this testament to you.

                Intentionality isn’t even actual. In the absolute flow of creation, it doesn’t exist—the psyche is infinitely determined by its exteriority without exception. Intentionality signifies, not anything of reality, therefore, but rather its confusion in the psychic world.

Never Forever Again Once

of Maxwell Clark

Donating one’s own humanity to the wastes.

Then it was like this.

                Giving away our humanity because the world is so.

Pretty much so, yup.

                                I have no mouth to pee lazers of curly shapes.

Then I abstained from culling my everyday life for this.

Black is a night in somewhere.

Give up the trial of humanity, because pizza.

                Hope to win the pizza always.

This is not what it is enough. I must do what it is. It can only be done like this.

A bland lazer-beam of artichokes. DID YOU KNOW?

NO, I HAD NO IDEA. GOOD! THANK YOU. LET US GO NOW.

Then I said what I said.

Nobody can understand this that well because they are too busy masturbating.

I wash myself with waters that are a liquid of chemical combinations.

A system of transferences.

Did you know that this is what I said?

I need rules to tell me what to do.

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

of Maxwell Clark

https://nongenreaudio.bandcamp.com/album/happy-pretty

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.

FUCK SEX.

“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.

Thanks.

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.”

–Descartes

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;

Truly,

Max.