Not Being and Time
No matter how much time I have none of it is mine. All my time is extemporaneous to me, outside of the time that is mine. In this way even when I seem to be doing nothing, being timeless, I am in fact quite busy, busy dealing with time that is not mine, time over which I have no control. Time; time that is exterior to me, controls what little time I have, my time. I am timeless, lacking in time, seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and tens of years. Something is wrong, definitely wrong, something has gone awry, out of kilter, off balance and tipsy. A pinch bar or hogshead is missing, a fulcrum on which to weigh the balance of my life. I am being without time, a being for whom time is missing, gone awry and off kilter, tipsy, lacking in a counterbalance, non-equipoise. No matter how much I try I have no time of my own, none which I can call, mine, my own. Time to put an end to this timeless time, an end to being and not being in time, timeless intemperate time.
I have awakened in a placental mush; I have been reified, but into what. This all happened without my consent, against my better judgement, without my being aware. Perhaps I have been dematerialized into a Marxist commodity; I am the product of the production, the production of the product. I have Zizek to blame for this; his dialectical Lacanism forced fed on Marxism and tomfoolery, the ideological template beneath which he claims to explain everything, even himself. Has he forgotten what Lacan said, we never say what we mean, or is he just playing with commodities, replacing the production with the product, the signifier with the signified? I am disinterested in his disinterestedness, twice removed from the point of entry, a potato beggar in a burlap sac itchy with placental oatmeal, a hominy of time which is never my own, an noncoporeal timelessness gone sour, corpsegas.
Of A Face
my body has degenerated
to the point
where self-recognition
once a mirror image
of a face
is now a crude sketch
another face within a face
a mouth within a mouth
eyes that avoid eyes
that avoid the sketch
of a face
within a face
the crudeness of a face
once a mirror image of youth
of eyes and chin and nose
now someone else’s
some crude recognition
of a face
No matter how much time I have none of it is mine. All my time is extemporaneous to me, outside of the time that is mine. In this way even when I seem to be doing nothing, being timeless, I am in fact quite busy, busy dealing with time that is not mine, time over which I have no control. Time; time that is exterior to me, controls what little time I have, my time. I am timeless, lacking in time, seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and tens of years. Something is wrong, definitely wrong, something has gone awry, out of kilter, off balance and tipsy. A pinch bar or hogshead is missing, a fulcrum on which to weigh the balance of my life. I am being without time, a being for whom time is missing, gone awry and off kilter, tipsy, lacking in a counterbalance, non-equipoise. No matter how much I try I have no time of my own, none which I can call, mine, my own. Time to put an end to this timeless time, an end to being and not being in time, timeless intemperate time.
I have awakened in a placental mush; I have been reified, but into what. This all happened without my consent, against my better judgement, without my being aware. Perhaps I have been dematerialized into a Marxist commodity; I am the product of the production, the production of the product. I have Zizek to blame for this; his dialectical Lacanism forced fed on Marxism and tomfoolery, the ideological template beneath which he claims to explain everything, even himself. Has he forgotten what Lacan said, we never say what we mean, or is he just playing with commodities, replacing the production with the product, the signifier with the signified? I am disinterested in his disinterestedness, twice removed from the point of entry, a potato beggar in a burlap sac itchy with placental oatmeal, a hominy of time which is never my own, an noncoporeal timelessness gone sour, corpsegas.
Of A Face
my body has degenerated
to the point
where self-recognition
once a mirror image
of a face
is now a crude sketch
another face within a face
a mouth within a mouth
eyes that avoid eyes
that avoid the sketch
of a face
within a face
the crudeness of a face
once a mirror image of youth
of eyes and chin and nose
now someone else’s
some crude recognition
of a face
