William Blake did not understand the body-without-organs as
            he marched across the
                                                                        roof of the sky   ~

yet as he tramped the folds
            uncertain as his beholding who
  knew time would reveal his son
   nor the straining nights the knight


And you I wonder


at you I wonder as doing  I am held back by acting whereas I was rash
 like bacon buttering  the fields with my 'fuck juice' what a barbarian

 O there's no loving sonnet in this plucked field 
                 of debt debenture and delay

lady if I said your name

If I do oh lady 




  as a  poem awakens night day tree spring reloaded after the false one and the world

 thursday morning  got up early just before 15 minutes before 6 i love to get up early after sleeping long...  as  a hill gathers moss like rip van winkle like an epic poem in 13 books, and four halfs, and no one remembers the big long one    of the socalled whoevers read that bk there it is! the epic they all wanted! but no one reads it. too long to o short too far too close too less too more
   too  too much book!
even i dont read it   i did however already read it before back then

_ as a text scrolling as a eyeball reeling as a long thing working as the heap night gabs as wind pushes out back rims climbing  overtuning its pitch point like a young woman's make-up or high heels the difficulity of hips and ass her wagging feet the felt out  the worthy becomings of



so then: sow buttons

CP: So then when you're not working on your own things you're working on others?

 C.D  ~ How else to say that working on others is to work on oneself working other to oneself
   as its one literature machine of its becoming other and finding self in other.

That's not avid nor clear. What I meant to say was I am other to the oworking I find to see in the other's breadth of it self to know what it is to know self as the cloud image becomes rain.

    CP ~ So clear! O you are so clear! you are a semicolon!
         CD~ well Borges saysif I recite  aline of Joyce then I am Joyce if I recite a line of my own I am who      then? I am Joyce reciting a line of Duffy who as it is becomes me Duffy   ~.

 So buttons So that So buttons Sow buttons and walk on the water. walk on the turf walk on the water   ~.

Second Interview
: So you is always working? yes i iz, even as i don't ever get paid to some far off places to wonder shade of its knock nor nightingale of fire  ~.

__________-to say that yes I am always working even when Im not writing.
___________ it is like love , it never stops    ~.

re:life wand


                                           He lifts the lifewand and the dumbspeak.

 Now Mister Duffy    ~says the lifewand  mentioned there in finnegans wake has got to be Stephen Dedalus
    in Nigthtown brandishing his ashpant and the brickery and fallery of time space moment as he dashes it all to piece. And hades away with its brickwork

                                                                       the lifewand!

because if Ulysses is not the Wake of sleep then the Wake must be the fun of Sleep. Non? N'est-c'est pas?

__________________and yer own Mona Jill Fanny reframing refrain are surely to become a fantastical remove of these states of enunciativce condition. I.E. the fried fantasy of cartoon and desires______.




86 (sections of the poem)
  87   (r)

    section is going slow    ~

                                                      tthe imagination's  amachine that won't be dictated to   ~ the 

unconsciousdoes its own talking ya dig? dodad ode that machine ~it's unconscious cause it swivel its own 

way and cant be bartered begged or gainsaid    ~

                                                                   as  a lover's hips
                                                                   contradict her fierce face
                                                                             in midstreet tromping




~ shoon

toothpaste is not hand cream not sperm 
not a spot on a dress  a gown a lover

        a body in space smoothing the breaths

(crinkles and hurrahs of halo on the train     women shouting  )

(how their hallowed    )
    a sore neck for a lover's wreath
                                                                nothing is perfect


                                                        and  the cowards  trying to tell us
how to write

love's fluffy body
                                   O sink  (that's a word missing )

                                                  a shampoo for the  dew    ~


Re: Tapaa!


  and who is James Joyce ?
                                                              to this town of the thousand of lps
                   bullion of language  
                                      idiom of patois and hip the riding angel of luster
    civitas and beauty

                         he is a god in the midst of this town of blend and building

          coat of desire  
                                                its cost               of love

         sharing                            and
                                                            the becoming communist   ~

Re: Tapaa!

  and who would dare be a  poet

     must throw away his garlands




downtown  Friday the city is a stellar goddess
   filled with everything
   the city its spring stretching reaching its madness

     (demonstrations to  beauty  the havoc of past tense
                                 ( political polite riot aesthetical  a rune of tune to edge of musical becoming
                                         metamorphosing its becoming)

(thousands demonstrated yesterday what was it? 50,000 students
                  and the diversities of its beauties effable


              (see the photos)

                                                (across  the infinite world news)
   the whole nine yards
a nd
  a  million years

   and sex sex sex
                            everywhere perfect fluid becoming
                                                of change
                                                           and the desire-machine clicking churning shunting


, a nd hospital and riot police and men women women the hundreds thousands
                                       the city held its instant breath
               beholding its greatness
                                   its future its courage even perhaps in their desire to become what they wanted to become
a  future without blindness





 And the stellas were shinings. And the earthnight strewed aromatose. His pibrook creppt mong the donkness. A reek was waft on the luftstream.He was ours, all fragrance. And we were his for a lifetime. O dulcid dreamings languidous!Toboccoo!
   It was sharming! But sharmeng!
 And the lamp went out as it couldn't glow on burning, yep, the lmp wnt out for it couldn't stay alight.

Finnegans Wake Bk 3 ~ P 427


We may ... hear nothing if we choose... though every crow has its several tones and every trade has its clever mechanics and each harmonical has a point of its own.... But they are all there ... as he lays dormont from the macroberg of Holdhard to the microbirg of Pied de Poudre. Behove this sound of Irish sense. Really? Here English might be seen. Royally?

 Finnegans Wake 12:25_13:2

    Hear? ... T'is optpphone which ontophanes. List!Wheatstone's magic lyre.

13_14 _________________________________________16_______7

It is their segnall for old Champelysied to see the shades of his retirement and for 
young Chappiellassies to tear a round and tease
their partners
lovesoftfun at Finnegan's Wake .

And it's  high tigh tigh. Titley hi ti ti.

Finnegans Wake 607  


slipping sly by Sallynoggin, as happy as the day is wet, babbling, bubbling, chattering to herself, deloothering the fields on their elbows leaning with the sloothering slide of her, giddgaddy, grannyma, gossipaceous Anna Liva.
He lifts the lifewand and the dumbspeak.

   FW ________________194.12-195.6


in the library


 Shakespeare    ~INfinite   ~   bboooks.. dizzy walking 'down' the aisles, but one doesnt walk 'down' the vertical passage of desire but sideways along an infinite loop of eternity?

 as a man creaking / pushing / like a baby / from the womb
 this being /

of the overheat
in the planet warm /fire /ice

 of desire's love

of faces unreachable

find my joy

in spite of all


it seems draft of a draft


   thoughts waking waking thoughts in reverse

It seems to me that

                      I've been hungry all o                 f my life

  that I'm still hungry and

   I'll doie hungry

                  that brutality, violence, and the pleasures of the few
     are just those  ,, the pleasures of the few


that being hungry all of my life separated me

from others
 and continues to 

those who are not hungry 

stay distant

_____________ a little work done on the long poem last night /
but a sleepless restless 


___ it's my stomach and the poem    ~
  the  irish've always been
    and so the irish-canadians



and fortitude

  Tired /heat/ like wild summer ~  ahead of its time/ but dropping like a  parachuting
    woman this weekend

    and summer bodies  stares, look, smile, winks, hints ,    _O body of summer.

   In march, strange day of its heat as the wax. Of the sun. bearing its weight. but why call the sun
   call the Sun she  ~  a heated lover bearing her kisses. is that  a cliche? or lichen. 

 Another question: does the moon move the sun, does Milton ring home in the  / what
backyard blues, absent empty bed, arms numb with its achieving.

   and fortitude was a place where you lived. between where and who.
   an awkward dame answering her summon. and the thing answering
   a reply to distant sea  and see its sumptuous bed of roses.

 as arm around arm and loving eyes beginning to come to see in the sun    ~.

but because you are tired /alone/ live between speech and doubt/custody of the eye
 (as) (parenthesis) the lover speaking /he looked away at the symbol
 after seeing her ass    and her                              e               y                 e            s
       months before                    that                    said O that's where god lives

No one really knowing what that was. god being a beginning  a becoming of wave.

  and undulating water. furled on its seacape coat.   you in the space of its virtual love
and diamond.

  a s               any whisper does speak.



joan of arc


__________________________  Carl Dreyer's version of the story  Passion of Joan of Arc

                Renee Maria Falconetti, Eugene Silvain, Andre Berley, Maurice Schutz, Louis Ravet Antonin Artaud

__________________ Ubu______________


U bu
                     w                               e                  b

'Most importantly, UbuWeb functions on no money: all work is done by volunteers. 
Kenneth Goldsmith, one of the organizers and founders of  Ubu:

  describing and writing about this fa n t as tic and worthy project___________

It's amazing to me that UbuWeb, after fifteen years, is still going. Run with no money, Ubu has succeeded by breaking all the rules, by going about things the wrong way. UbuWeb can be construed as the Robin Hood of the avant-garde, but instead of taking from one and giving to the other, we feel that in the end, we're giving to all. UbuWeb is as much about the legal and social ramifications of its self-created distribution and archiving system as it is about the content hosted on the site. In a sense, the content takes care of itself; but keeping it up there has proved to be a trickier proposition. The socio-political maintenance of keeping free server space with unlimited bandwidth is a complicated dance, often interfered with by darts thrown at us by individuals calling foul-play on copyright infringement. Undeterred, we keep on: after fifteen years, we're still going strong. We're lab rats under a microscope: in exchange for the big-ticket bandwidth, we've consented to be objects of university research in the ideology and practice of radical distribution.

______________  it's well worth seeing while it lasts for  as

he writes

And yet . . . it could vanish any day. Beggars can’t be choosers and we gladly take whatever is offered to us. We don’t run on the most stable of servers or on the swiftest of machines; crashes eat into the archive on a periodic basis; sometimes the site as a whole goes down for days; occasionally the army of volunteers dwindles to a team of one. But that’s the beauty of it: UbuWeb is vociferously anti-institutional, eminently fluid, refusing to bow to demands other than what we happen to be moved by at a specific moment, allowing us flexibility and the ability to continually surprise our audience . . . and even ourselves. 



more work done  
          yesterday and earlier on the big prose poem. over 120 pages. but to be read 


  the text of breath as the text written and spoken a fine dividing between the two
  and spring's arrived 

           no more snow

                      and thoughts 


light a cigarette put it out,
sleep, no sleep, walk ,  t alk 
 visit  , go out
 return ,,  eat   ,   , 
  a s    s  u         n           

 warming city bones

             warm heart 


.. are ...


words are magic counters  ~

                                                                   ~  me too  ~



seein ~g watching


the m o vie by Edward Šelganov. ~.

  it's beautiful   ~.




 The truth is that we live out our lives putting off all that can be put off; perhaps
we know deep down that we are immortal and that sooner or later all men will
do and know all things.

 from Funes the Memorius p 64

Labyrinths Selected Stories & Other Writings of
Jorge Luis Borges

 Edited by Donald A. Yates & James Kirby
 New Directions Paperback

palimpest (anlais) palpsete (frenchpalimpsestnglais) limpsete (french)


  palimpsest (anglais) palimpsete  

(french)palimpsest (anglais) palimpsete (french)palimpsest (anglais)                    


                                                              palimpsete (french)  caress caresse  



1 and (2) part

                                                              ‘I still have no control over this other world
                      of systematic academic work, secret         
                   programming over dozens of years.
I lack too much. Too much lag has accumulated .'

These are notes  Guattari  to himself after Antioedipus was published. thequote is from the Anti Oedipus papers.  

Ah~ this is fun sayi ng Mona jumpingjack ass.A nd the fine fiery of her name. (her) Nome de plum(e)! Nomme de plum? Plum de grace the easy greeks in the firing squad.A quad for yer banks and care.  Mona's ruinous fox. Treader to the  .. something something . Beak.

‘There is an end to schizo-analysis: it’s deterritorialization
and the schizoidation of desire. All artifi cial means and suggestions are
good for arriving at this, a kick in the ass included!’10

I'll blog this into Antioedipus blog and the Guattari Complex.

7 Guattari, F. (2006), The Anti-Oedipus Papers, edited by S. Nadaud. New York:
Semiotext(e), p. 399.
8 Ibid., p. 400.
9 Ibid., p. 404.
10 Ibid., p. 32

_______________________________ Hungry , it is morning; back to sleep; 


poet    ~ your eyes your beauty
 poet ~ your eyes your beauty 
          your eyes your beauty

 to be loved by dark night


not with


...'because ...'  ... ' i am a prisoner?'


i dont see anything there but a fake smile with cheeks and a wide smile like faye dunaway what is she  doing sitting there with Mister Tatoo and don't tell me Mister Tatoo is not wearing a sign of violence. She sits on her hands. Slightly cold. I don't believe she's with. Not with.

The vanity of ecstasy is not . The vanity of stats  .

the ghost of grahame mckeen just walked .

In by to deterritorialize his guest. Not a symbiosis.
but the true territorial ghost of his self. A guest.
what is a guest. a knock knock knock. On the battlement
hearkened at night nigh to night!

dadadisco29;                        (that's my poem)          (proem)

            (proms      think of 'high' school )

its your semicolon

theres a weirdo i assumea second rate secondecup dealer with his doberman! gofucken figure

     and  like

the students like drove groove i was wrong you were wrong this knight goes gift oriental  not a slumber but a sleeping giant fiared to ground and workered to ground and it drifts you say? somewhere how

and works the point 'what's up guys's?' says guy to girls pretending its the conceit pretence

its nota pretence its  acommon conceit 'that bears examining?' notso wel so not. puffs a cigarette  from ontario and parts elsewhere

fucken jesus everyone else is connected but what the   is this about ?

not for you high fi disconnected wifi fuck



it does_re touches

______________________So the question really was __ What is  (what can) a blog-body (does)                    what is it capable of ? 
 should I do before a reader does the virtual space of my body live 
  in the 'livre' of the body of memory?

 imagine our  bodies making love the actual kiss and thrust   ~ taste of lips. 

                     the text of human beings becomings
how does the text work over 
codes  etc


  it works 'better' in this chrome browser it's lighter


now it's cold
go sleep
_________________ night is dark
day  goes fast
  the artist works at night

between the verses of bodies and souls
distance   ~



so How does a body appear? this question is not dissimilar to Deleuze's: what can a body do?
 direction of verse bodies virtual rings around the planet

how does  a line break with the spoken thought of its virtual becoming?

or the pause of space of a window

un peu de fiction

un peu de fiction pour forer le réel

– Aujourd’hui, enfin, Nous triomphons.
– Nous ? Qui est encore ce Nous ?
– Nous ! C’est-à-dire les meilleurs morceaux de chacun d’entre nous.
– Des morceaux, maintenant ? Et contre qui ces morceaux triomphent ?
– Contre les autres Nous.
– Encore des Nous ?
– Oui, les autres bouts de Nous, ceux qui sont contre Nous.
– Je ne comprends rien.
– Mais si ! Il faut apprendre à se couper en petits morceaux. De la m


ême manière qu’ils Nous débitent par petits bouts.
– Je ne comprends rien.
– Arrête avec tes Je. Je n’existe plus.
– À vrai dire… il était temps.

______________________________ c'est comme ca on travaille un peu
______________________ extrait de

DEDANS ~ DEHORS 1, une dichotomie tactique,



____________________   art and

  and no schools nor dogma

I quote myself


the expository abstractions machines startdesire-machines desireday and nightA place of writing of writing that cuts and gets out. Re-winds the false desire machines,undoes the old repressions. "

"May the wild ones get hold of culture and doing so, transform it. Everybody should have the right to write, recognize to himself the right to write." Roger Gentis


______________ because art like poetry is a way of life



                                                                                    B   l  o g                   

                       a      t       the   c l e a n e r s

  Archives and posts   under  revision ~.


----------------------------------------around and chins

Clifford: I think this works better in chrome browser  ~.
   Yes, Okay!

                                                  browsers are  a little bit schizo! no? yes,
   yet not your chin

who writes the verse says I?

Okay Mister Duffy

this text
is something you can work off and around

<anted to, but she didn’t, I didn't, she wasn't__, and I regretted this, thinking there was just that moment when her breast was so there so there it ‘d have consoled me later, knowing I’d felt her breast my hand grazing her breast would’ve warmed the cold night suppled my frozen hands thawed out my numb fingers fingers of leaf And later that day when I came saying her name and another’s who’d caused pain so  

it was my first pain in the new else something wise sagacious and loaned from God I was broken broken by the spitoon of it its graciousness pain pain graciousness in my mouth   lding the steeple to God standing in my pain shooting right through right through shooting pain that pain the pain of bodies lovers got Later her long body took the pass up and she 'landed' on my bed No, we were not sculling teams but lovers on the long bed

t was my first pain in the new game the game of not beingbeing something else something wise sagacious and loaned from God I was broken broken by                                                           the spitoon of it its graciousness pain pain graciousness in my mouth holding the steeple to                   God standing in my pain shooting right through right through shooting pain that pain the pain of bodies lovers got Later her long body took the pass up and she 'landed' on my  __

<I came to write these 



to your face



fingers gnarled



I came to write these 



to your face



fingers gnarled


OveR~r the wave She went her air

                                  Over the wave.... She went..... her air.... went hair. wet hair. clutter'd clouded

        . it was .
cumulustheE spare  was her gla        n                                e

                                   lOver the wave.... She went..... her air.... went hair. wet hair. clutter'd clouded. it was . theE cumulus touch. as sparing as was her glover.over.


Для Вас

                                                             She meant. he meant   love    or well as                         water swirls atth'a bottom of lover's throat    
 curling back

cleaning the darknight, handsome as a rose

as when water swirls atth
the bottom of lover's throat cleaning the darknight, handsome as a  

looking  away at the screen

 her face