p rose poems

Prose poems rose poems the only way t o break the 'that' pe rsonal vo ice introdu ce the fr ee flowing turre t the machiner y of language to let it walk on its own feet s macking the night hippin' the waves of balled feet not so poetic as to ma ke life death and death li fe but to mak e the two meetthe great prose poems o f the p a st R the present not athEory but a doingsimulataneity im manence and movement in it-selfCe n'est pas, ce n'est pas l'ecriture. C'est par la repression que je lutte contre l'oppression. La psychanalyse a inventer une police, une inquisition: l'auto-analyse. Il faut substituer a tout cet litterature de la nevrose une ecriture de la pyschose. Pierre Guyoat.And I add the psychoselarose"We shall never ask what a book, signifier or signified means, we shall not look for anything to understand in a book; instead we shall wonder with what it functions, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit intensities.... A book exists only through the outside and on the outside. A book itself is a little machine;( rhizome p.4dg)"A book has neither object nor subject; it is made of variously formed matters, and very different dates and speeds....(rhizome. 1)"there is no language in itself, nor are there any linguis tic universals, only a throng of dialects, patois, slangs (argots and brogues, accents and idioms)and specialized languages.... (what I call my narrator - my idiot patois-self) Language is a community, a broken and spare parts community - There is no ideal auditor-speaker, anymore than there is a homo-geneous linguistic community...." (Rhizome .7, massumi&johnson)"We shall never ask what a book, signifier or signified means, we s hall not look for anything to understand in a book; instead we shall wonder with what it functions, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit intensities.... A book exists only through the outside and on the outside. A book itself is a little machine;( rhizome p.4dg)a confession that does not confessbut digresses to avoid the punishments inflicted on its various narrators"The trinity Hoderlin-Kleist-Nietzsche already conceived writing, art an even a new politics in this way: no longer as a harmonious development of form and a well-ordered formation of the 'subject', as Goethe, Schiller or Hegel wanted,but successions of catatonic states and periods of extreme haste, of suspensions and shootings, coexistences of variable speeds, blocs of becoming, leaps across voids, displacements of a centre of gravity on an abstract line,conjunctions of lines on a plane of immanence, a 'stationary' process at a dizzying speed which sets free particles and affects." Dialogues Deleuze 95One can add others to this trilogy, ____, especially the bits and businesses about speeds and states of haste and so on; this is celerity itself with modern writing; this text -- Leibnitz’s Fairytale.Artaud is of course implied in all of this; He is, Artaud the plane of consistency in all these writers - the very mud of their creation.the Fictons by CD. and his Orpheus Quartet________________No.[2]is it a sonnet modern lover or the other way round a round around rondelay roundelay the other way the way others are lisping the way others are listening their chins to the ground terra firma terra sancta but is it a sonnet makes me so digress when I'm in pain and you in the bath the long eyes of history are on us informed by pain long history rolls by there is no cell to step out of there is no cell to escape out of or into for that matter and [for that matter] bit particle that is upon me I have a little less than 15 years to complete this chronicle this bout de ma journee then you will be there you will be here you will be her you will be tearing at the dirty musty sail I can't stand dreaming about you all the time thinking about you all the time armoured in pain I wander weary bones pray on the sands of time delicate dears delicate ears is it love if so what of it do you love me do you pray for me in my sleep do you know how unhappy I am I am delirious with pain I can't speak to Sappho it hurts too much what did you expect firm rolls the boat in the wind you knew I was vulnerable you gave me no prediction coordinates for my map how's that you couldn't do that didn't do that after I payed you out to supper that night night that night that night of clouds and canes in my eyes when I walked home alone agony as I had not seen in a long time alone in the street my back my bag and books gripped piled underneath under rather my arms how lonely it's been without you terrible just about you and my ex-terrible love for you fearing all losing all perhaps pride and shame play a dirty a game you didn't understand my strength my weakness my wound bleeding all over the place you would appear to have taken advantage of this knowing or unknowingly I can't tell don’t know I don't can't a cry caught in the throat my mine hanging up in the air the scream you screamed stole mine didn't allow mine I don't know you won't see won't know ever it's gone now you'll just be ugly as before when I rescued you with Love his cupid's bow an arrow in hand now you'll just cancel and not have been at all really not have been at all isn't that terrible and the pain I suffered learning not to love foolishly [revised draft of the first -not complete] ------------------ present heroesHow to read this; with yer breath, between your teeth whistling the desire machines of capitalism and paranoiathe breath hanging on your lIps