When I’m deictic,
I’m demonstrating that
That I’m the guy–
Not whichever or whoever
Demonstrates that but that
In demonstration for
Nominals’ phenomenum
Dizzy drinks bring Martinis
Spies cries for family ties
And honor to those poisoned
Organs; We’ll attribute and
Refer intentionally or intentions
Will demonstrate nullfully
Let us challenge the warmonger synthesis!
In our forever viewing of the sky
Will categories project no more, and
We will not say they do:
Will we not come out of sleep
Will we not end our journey
Will we not sojourn nonentity
But will we cajole antithesis
And the dreadful container of thesis
Will realize beloved are our chants,
Claims to joy, passion, and positive affects!
Invalid runes are glimmering; and
It pains me when visions visceral
Pass over their propounding vainly–
We dash so suddenly by grades of
Left over but compassionate still–
Waver, waver in waves, tiny runes!
Why can you not see their drifting
Monolithic tumbling; concern, concern!
From permanence will the strings blow
Tussle beyond our parameters; glowing
Distantly from their own–in contempt
Of the errors that pressure our gaze!
In playing with what I say,
To the ends of the thought
Resting repairs rack tenses
Tensely do those tremors
Trod-ah-la-la troublesome
But the haunting is the worst;
It clarifies quickly the spells
Of the spirits and their decay;
Dismay cares not for your
Noisome affirmations of quotes
And how might I say “the beauty of ideas”
Relates to the idea of beauty,
If it in notion relates? If this notion relates,
It presupposes that it relates.
Which precedes, we ask?
Dwindling into itself does the question,
and I careen past it again and again.
In asking, I have taken what of it that is there,
There determining; and I have said what it has
Determined, though sanctioned by that it has
Determined. Standing static to the idea
Of beauty is, presumably, those ideas which
I find beautiful. Does the beauty of ideas
Give me the idea of beauty or is it my act
Of speaking through the beauty of ideas?
The act; the beauty; the idea; no idea acts,
But neither do we see “beauty” acting; or
Beauty acting; is “beauty” an act of itself?
Who finds therein the quote what is outside of it?
The subject entreats its own proclivity as subject;
Politely though seeming, but trampling in fact.
This will be a rant of the sort that seems trivial to most, in a way similar to the perception most have of philosophy. It’s the idle man’s game; as if the presupposition were discreet that any other discourse (most importantly theirs) actually does anything proper; that is, insofar as their “conscious axioms and premises” are concerned. And this will be their charge: you use jargon, whether conscious or not; speak my language! Let’s see you drown in your messy literature; I see you suffocating as if that were an art form (fumble the translation into a common tongue).
Despite those (supposedly) performative trips, the hidden premise is not so couched as one might think; through the fault lines of language, your discourse harbors calamitous wounds. My prayer each day is that proponents as such never see them; the feeling I bear is similar to the one the atheist carries in “defending” the theist’s psychological need. The lies reek of humanity, of humanism, as if the nature of man, supposing their is one, can defend legitimately the extensions of man’s trivial intellectual aesthetic crisis. But we call it now “rational”, now “emotional,” as if we’ve made any real move from our “collective source.”
We find ourselves in situations like the paragraph that precedes, ranting like mad fools through the day as if an engine of victorious wit. We rumble, roar, stomp and persuade from sources we think we thought we knew very well of and even the sentence has been given a “memory.” Language has no memory; what it involves is use. But I traverse the lines and I find no signs of my knowledge on my part or yours. Is language poetic? Is it philosophical?
One will say that it is a simple thing. The simplicity comes from the event of my saying it is so; where the contradiction presumably lies is therein what I say, rather than that I say it rather than that I not. So we stumble, so many think, and despite my shouts (to those naïve: as if I were shouting as a philosopher to philosophers, rather than as an indiscernible, an invalid, a part, like the rest), into what is called “necessity.” Abhorrent lines of philosophical and poetic filth follow like vomit from this concept, as if “necessity” were not only a more emphatic way of breathing, heaving, and shouting–”necessity! necessity!” No; instead, it tells you a story, so they say, of something grand but natural. In those eyes, a “way” is projected. It is a cacophonous event (because I have to repeat it aloud to ensure myself of what has transpired) to witness value prescribed and then transcendentally so; weeping is my reaction to the continual equivocating moans of agents. Yet I have to defend myself as if I had a position. Of course, I know this is where rants usually end up. Necessity is a motherfucker.
My self-referential inside jokes will smother
your outside jokes in an evidently tragic-looking
event of ostentatious flagellation and suffocation,
bringing the embarrassing night to a disturbing
session of gimped witticisms and idle racial slurs.