J. H. Prynne
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- 100 god damn pages butchering sontag cooking with propane corpsey why are you so thick deaths from bromo-dragonfly enjoy your journey enjoy! everyone! gravity bong happy to help! jamaican voodoo gang from predator 2 lads vs. dudes martin anus shaun from delaware stoned modernism teat. the albert ayler of the recorder the bee is the messiah the path clears by the use it gets thick as fuck to pollen traitor cow-juice west coast dudes
constant escape
winter withered, warm
Are the dudes the jedi against the order of the lads?
constant escape
winter withered, warm
Who stands where? What?
constant escape
winter withered, warm
My not knowing how to surf is a grievous character breach.
luka
Well-known member
where your parents ever in any cult or pseudo-cult? nothing heavy like heavens gate, like a chilled out one.
luka
Well-known member
hes from Minneapolis! Delaware doesn't even exist. it's imaginary.
constant escape
winter withered, warm
Not to my knowledge. I, on the other hand, am short a few disciples.
Sketch for a Financial Theory of the Self
1. The qualities as they continue are the silk
under the hand; because their celestial
progress, across the sky, is so hopeless & so
to be hoped for. I hope for silk, always, and
the strands are not pure though the name
is so. The name is the sidereal display, it
is what we know we cannot now have.
The last light is the name it carries,
it is this that binds us to our unbroken trust.
2. So then, we should not trust the hope
that is merely a name for silk, for
purity untouched by any Italian hand.
The celestial routine is begging, & a nasty
toy at that; the stars are names and the
names are necessarily false. We choose
to believe in the flotsam, the light glance
passing and innocent because unpriced.
3. Which is grossly untrue, because we
pay for it well enough, I have squandered
so much life & good nature I could hardly
guess the account.
The numbers are out
there in the human
sky, the pure margin
which are the trust we
deserve.
And we should
have what the city does need,
the sky, if we did not so
want the need.
4. The name of that is of course money, and
the absurd trust in value is the pattern of
bond and contract and interest-just where
the names are exactly equivalent to the trust
given to them.
Here then is the purity of
pragmatic function:
we give the name of
our selves to our needs.
We want what we are.
5. And not silk except for ties, or the sky
as even for exchange, the coin of the
face we look up to as a vault ready
for trust. That much
is trickery,
but the names,
do you not
see, are just
the tricks we
trust, which
we choose.
The qualities then are a name, corporately,
for the hope that they will return to us. The
virtue in whose exercise we retain the fiction
of air, silence, fluid round the hub of the week.
6. How could this be clearer? The items are,
that we are bribes and that silk is a random but
by tradition a costly gift. Quality is habit.
7. What follows is where we are now, or where
I am. The old cry about chastity, that we are
bound by the parts of our unnatural frames.
The median condition is the city and not the travel
or the remoteness of travel, in sound. Music,
travel, habit and silence are all money; purity
is a glissade into the last, most beautiful return
8. And how much we hope for it is the primacy
of count. This is the shining grudge of numbers,
the name we will not lose to any possible stranger:
the star & silk of my eye, that will not return.
1. The qualities as they continue are the silk
under the hand; because their celestial
progress, across the sky, is so hopeless & so
to be hoped for. I hope for silk, always, and
the strands are not pure though the name
is so. The name is the sidereal display, it
is what we know we cannot now have.
The last light is the name it carries,
it is this that binds us to our unbroken trust.
2. So then, we should not trust the hope
that is merely a name for silk, for
purity untouched by any Italian hand.
The celestial routine is begging, & a nasty
toy at that; the stars are names and the
names are necessarily false. We choose
to believe in the flotsam, the light glance
passing and innocent because unpriced.
3. Which is grossly untrue, because we
pay for it well enough, I have squandered
so much life & good nature I could hardly
guess the account.
The numbers are out
there in the human
sky, the pure margin
which are the trust we
deserve.
And we should
have what the city does need,
the sky, if we did not so
want the need.
4. The name of that is of course money, and
the absurd trust in value is the pattern of
bond and contract and interest-just where
the names are exactly equivalent to the trust
given to them.
Here then is the purity of
pragmatic function:
we give the name of
our selves to our needs.
We want what we are.
5. And not silk except for ties, or the sky
as even for exchange, the coin of the
face we look up to as a vault ready
for trust. That much
is trickery,
but the names,
do you not
see, are just
the tricks we
trust, which
we choose.
The qualities then are a name, corporately,
for the hope that they will return to us. The
virtue in whose exercise we retain the fiction
of air, silence, fluid round the hub of the week.
6. How could this be clearer? The items are,
that we are bribes and that silk is a random but
by tradition a costly gift. Quality is habit.
7. What follows is where we are now, or where
I am. The old cry about chastity, that we are
bound by the parts of our unnatural frames.
The median condition is the city and not the travel
or the remoteness of travel, in sound. Music,
travel, habit and silence are all money; purity
is a glissade into the last, most beautiful return
8. And how much we hope for it is the primacy
of count. This is the shining grudge of numbers,
the name we will not lose to any possible stranger:
the star & silk of my eye, that will not return.
mvuent
Void Dweller
"euro cuck"??? "the Wienery"???? you're being very cryptic today lindbaugh