ladies and gentlemen

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ladies and gentlemen once again

Doctor Almost Dada Duffy has found an-/Other In-Te-Rest in`g site for yer pleasures and jouissanceszzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Dont let the capital get ya. Grundrisse is bad beat. Check it .

Out.

Love and Glu

E to All.

--- Part 2. When she ... was a Renaissance scholar studying under a certain Doc. P. she learned many a thing, and of the things I learnt were these and those and many of them were thosethese, and one of these was fast fast fast to be fast becomings fast. Or thinking of Wordsworth remembering the days he was at Cambridge and the studious gowns of academia. And we became aquainted then with the Duchess of Malfi. Not for the first time, but a time it was....

Mona I admire it--- indeed she does seek to
te
And
She Monaone dances aroundthe high courts and low dives of justice, so-called petty penury of knaves.

--- and so threads of themes walk through her head each day head to head walking inthe sky of your books and eyes, and She am the Eye to the sudden sun screaming with Plath's voice in head, Daddy Daddy. You bastard. Or Mister Anxiety's copulas.



Have you asked yourself why your visceral gut reaction, --- I know ---I know it is not cool to react anymore, we are supposed to respond like fine schizos to the wine of dissent, but dissent is by its very nature, reactive and nonconjuncting, turning around away. A trespass and trope of refusal, a murdering of intent, but that does not mean dictatorship. But it does mean a real discipleship of the proletariat. A dictatorship of the mind, a real dictatorship of the mind.

Ah! my duchess!!

DUCHESS: Now she pays it.
The misery of us that are born great!
We are forc'd to woo, because none dare woo us;
And as a tyrant doubles with his words,
And fearfully equivocates, so we
Are forc'd to express our violent passions
In riddles, and in dreams, and leave the path
Of simple virtue, which was never made
To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag
You have left me heartless; mine is in your bosom:
I hope 'twill multiply love there. You do tremble:
Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh,
To fear, more than to love me. Sir, be confident:
What is't distracts you? This is flesh and blood, sir;
'Tis not the figure cut in alabaster,
Kneels at my husbands tomb. Awake, awake, man!
I do here put off all vain ceremony,
And only do appear to you a young widow
That claims you for her husband, and like a widow,
I use but half a blush in't.


The Duchess is forced, forced forced. She is like me, and Culafroy, forced forced forced to be rough hewn to veil and cover, protec the inner hue, the fine delicacy not sheltered by the economies of love and capital. Death, is our ultimate protection. Death or the becomings that result from a death before death, the death of love and the love of livings that surround the leaf in the fall. In the islands of sense let the wise man speak. He has no shelter but his mouth. This is something I do not detect in voices cried from a far pedagogic dryness, a verse dead to its knowing. Absent from joy, a manque with love and vitality, a crippled vanity at work supporting a neurosis of introspection and over justification, a need to over explain.

Poets of the new station don't do that, they walk to the store, bringing the news with them not in common with anyone else. Groups of poets rarely produce anything but chaos. Groups in France are normal, here they are rivalries. From what I have read the same goes for America.

--I sounded Brownian there , for a second with that Ah! but Browning is a great poet thriving in the darkness of the human soul.


Let us turn to the Duchess andher ponderings.



DUCHESS: I think she did. Come hither, mend my ruff,
Here; when? thou art such a tedious lady; and
Thy breath smells of lemon peels: would thou hadst done!
Shall I sound under thy fingers? I am
So troubled with the mother.
------------------------------ Troubled with the mother, like Jesus she goes to her crucifixion. A tedious lady thou art? Smelling of lemons in a time of stink and rank odours of the pestiforous streets of London and its raggy multitudes. O Please, London is not Malf, yes yes, but the stink of bad breath is . Leman leman let sound your finger for the prey of / Never for a second do I believe in the world of worlds we are not punished. We are only freed of our scourge between the moments. And between is what we have , all we have


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