The Savant’s Imagination
Something is not right, the savant’s imagination that is forever at odds with the possibility of the other. This philosophical premonition that whatever it is or is not be the case (we have Wittgenstein to thank for that) language will always be the only way in and out of the other. There is no other way, no other passage in or out. This paucity of thought, this wound not yet scabbed over, is the result of too much analysis, word-salad, a wound that makes the victim a victim of language. The wound cauterized by thought then tossed wholesale into the dustbin of uselessness; this trivial moment of thought has no final exit or retreat (we have Sartre to thank for that). Matters less what you think than the manner in which you think you think (we have Kant to thank for that). Deleuze was inside yet always had a perspective given from the outside. Deleuze was so entrenched and mitigated from the inside that the outside was too painful and repugnant to contain in one man’s thoughts. The dirty little secret that keeps the Oxon. Moralists busy calculating and ritualizing ad nausea, and then some. That which in the end is too belly-swollen to be contained is uncontainable, beyond containment. This perspicuous eye that sees behind the containment (of thought) that never sees anything other than the other that it contains. That, in the end, is what kills a man. A man takes his own life when containment is all that is possible, when there are no multiplicities, only lacuna and moderation. That which is built upon the scaffolding of thought is all that language allows us to see. Milky eyes always ruminate upon those things and objects and thoughts and patterns of thought that have ways out, they never see the inside from the outside as Deleuze did. There is always apprehension hidden behind the postmortem. The other will never be found other than in language, which we control and subjugate, for selfish needs. I suggest a joyous Nietzschean premortem, a joyous Deleuzian canonical ass-fuck
High Fashionable
High Fashionable
And the scold of her face and an indifference to men and high fashion and being eaten up between the legs and my tongue spiced with onions and rime
And her fashionable face meets my jaw jawing hard and down like a chisel beveling stone thick skin and ointments and salves and balms to leaven the
dryness where fashion meets the cusp of my tonguing lolling and indifferent to her high fashionable want for pointy shoes and a handbag to match the
colour of her eyes and she points a hard red nail like a railhead in my high unfashionable face lips biting down hard on Majorca and Minorca in that
place between her handbag and the colour of her eyes not blue and her indifference to my wishes never to be fulfilled by Freud or high fashion
Clicks of Lice
Clicks of Lice
a bundle of clothes
happed over shoulder
feet drawn like stones
over mud and brick
(caulked with lice)
souls worn through
with fear and reason
and the clicking
(of lice)
in the bundles
of clothes
