Russell Carisse

bouys on wings Fascismo

[middle column of Gramsci, A. Prison Notebooks Vol. 1-3 trans J.A. Buttigieg, and A. Callari. (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1992) §7.11 §7.18, and left margin of Sangster, C. The St. Lawrence and Other Poems (University of Toronto Press, 1972) pgs163-4]

this As when

positive The tender

realm of Her very breath

time That set the pulses

absolutely only With

immanentist As pure starbeams

almost unaware My soul

marked by a growing Surely

<ironbound> As day-break

idealism The heavy clouds

metaphysical dignity hung like opiate

that it is thus Had burned

industrial She spake

Remember That opens to the song

And buoys on wings Fascismo

words Meeting the silvery

come Midway from

discipline My palpitating

the mountain-thoughts

life laid me panting

I staggered forth “morality”

becomes swept the gentle popular

     unity dew of heaven

A mimic star-world dialectical

matter on the trembling

center of It glistened

Upon them after the workers and

     this theory

            in themselves

            value

        ---praxis

reward corpses

deglitched Kenji Siratori

but silence may be

poetics calling me

to reward corpses

where ever cascades

the flesh translations

and hollow-skin prints;

that foldable poem

circumscribes being

silent in solid-states.

500 character sonnet

after the Mastodon character limit

i’ve often complained, so i'll make ‘nother

if you don’ mind my presumption to this,

but i have such aches, and too many cats,

you haven’ heard ‘bout. lately, those things that

made me happy seems ne’er existed, here

anywhere, under that moon’s baneful light,

nor the sun’s too. there has yet to be stones

that lay themselves, or trouble arrive with-

out their slaves, so pardon if it seems

a little curt when i waste my five hundred

characters to say, “fuck the bourgeoisie

especially the petties, the lumpens,

straight don’ forget their sympathizers;

the livin-pon-belly, so called, middle-class.”

mortal, rise!

[left margin of: Newton, I. The Principia: Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy. trans I.B.Cohen, A. Whitman (Berkley, CA: University of California Press, 1999) pg 379-80]

Behold the pattern of Jove’s calculation

the creator of all

would violate;

Behold the foundation has been the force

that turns the Sun setting on

to trend downward

bodies move the immense

void in unmoving circles we know

no longer from this, till now,

the nodes regress the magnitude

impels the ebbing

and the sea bares the shores.

the things that so often

fruitlessly disturb

right before our eyes

error and doubt

the keenness dwelling, mortal arise!

and from this far removed from he

who commanded thefts, adultery, and crime,

or he who taught nations with the gift

pressed with a reed pictured sounds

and exulted comfort thus did less

but we now deal with the laws of the secret

keys to the world and things that were

O you who rejoice, join me in singing

who opens the treasure dear to the Muses

whose all power closer to any mortal, rise!

We process it was a night

[left margin Marx, K. Grundrisse: Foundations for the Critique of Political Economy. trans. M. Nicolaus (Penguin Classics, 1993) pg 365, and both margins Sangster, C. The St. Lawrence and Other Poems (University of Toronto Press, 1972) pg 147-8]

We

process it was a night

for The winds haggard

giving Whitened field ap-

propriating up among the

charge; horrid laughter and

Capital shook the red granite

which com-

ponent

value sprang from the frozen result

labour Death-doomed earth.

living Onward he sped

ie.

a

capitalist

their

process of tyrannous

When

down and froze marrow

and The blood so that co-

nection but crept cold

only And sluggish

to That quenched

work Bearing

valued Their country

The very act

fiercely bleak eternizes

the piney hills exchange

equivilant fastnesses

ie. avenging tones

its base. The trees

in fear, and fell of

his

labour

malignant winds existing

a scourge to death

living clad with rags

as the spiteful breeze

instrument bones with chills

as it passed itself

the favored less

from

production.

from That HEAP

§1.011

The improved Biolographic Reconstitutor, neé 357-11 model, will have you in disbelief, as you eat food of the god’s made with any biological residues you aquire from the HEAP. That’s right it makes gourmet dishes, with the ease of turning food into shit, from literal shit, or any other wasteful biologics! The patented gimmick works on the atomic level, rearranging the atoms, sorting out the bad ones and the good ones. Plus it is a single operator device for maximum self-sufficiency efficiency!!!

§1.012

Automotion was instinctual. They could command the HEAP to coalesce into what ever form came to mind, as long someone had thought of it first. Recombination of alien parts became the only outlet for creativity, everything else remained a trashy maelstrom where everything haunts everything else with a past suggestion. The suggestion; the lost reminants draped like the lamed raiments of Hollow Eventide. Automotion was the easiest thing to do, and more importantly, made life almost pleasantly won.

§1.013

WEATHER REPORT: for the 8th Day (year 0 After Coagulation). The sun rise has brought another cloudless, muggy day. The North Westerly winds have wafted a new stench to bear upon the continuing heat, over-powering the local aromas of decay, piss, and shit. Later this evening, who knows? Really, who knows? If you’re reading, or listening to, this please send help. I seem to have fallen into an endless shifting junkyard, and I have been surviving on congealed grease and water that collects in plast

§1.014

Shelter was the greatest of all Sum deGuy’s interventions. As the First Night crept with hoar in its breath, and horror skin crawling, they listed their raft slightly into the roiling waves, allowing a small venting of black plastic and newspaper onto the raft. With the most marginal of effort they were cocooned, insulated, and swaddled, “What a time to think of your mother, only when you’re up shit’s creek eh? Does everyone really die asking for their mother? Couldn’t some die asking for meat?”

§1.015

It became hard the figure whether they were making headway somewhere, of if somewhere was making headway there, either headway was no way anyways unless it brought anyone. There was a whole world filled to the brim with the things of others, it seemed as if everyone was there, on receipts, scraps of books, painted on what were walls, but no one had yet been found that wasn’t missing. “Well, at least the walls came down, heh, nothing to stop them all now,” smirked Summer floating high on garbage.

§1.016

The sheer waves of shredded pornography threatened to scupper, until there was a new method of processing invented. Then a paper maché friend, to keep warm at night, and a life-preserver if the whole thing sunk, was made. The parot function preformed almost as well as memory served, but obviouly the proper chip setting could be calibrated. Almost apparently was enough, because they were easy. Everything’s easy if you ignore the differences. “Soup is stew,” they said while distilling foeted poop.

§1.017

When the faunae acclimated, the few that were left began to accumulate the strategies, springes, and camoflage, necessary for survival. Thus species were difficult differentiate from their functions, and so unlike the memories, a new taxonomy was needed. In order they single filed, to be the most particular counted one by one, and Summer waved a lantern oscillating a flat beat, vacillating speciation. It was more important to describe infinite veriety minutely, than broadstroke and impress none.

§1.018

This gizmo really goes! The age of wind-up and batteries? Finished! The nuclear age? Truncated by this fantastic secret unlocked for the Ages! ALL you needs do is insert here! The do-hicky does the rest! You will never need to leave your barrel again! Not even for, you know, not even that! Everyone you meet will be able sniff you out from a long way off. But, what does it cost? Since you asked, and this is the best part, it’s entirely already your body! Maybe someone’ll find you. Please find me.

§1.019

Inklings creep, slinking along the corners of night. Be sure they have to walk on broken glass when they slip through shadows of the treble cleft descanting into a happy inner ear. The font is the function. It doesn't matter what Inklings say, do not listen to them. If one breaks through, aim for the consonants, because the vowels are expendable, and were decoy targets. While they travel in swarm formation, each organism is strictly independant. Have heard rumours, a pre or suffix renders death.

§1.020

The trash-scape, with some frequency, takes on monsterous and mountainous swells, and the rain (if you could call crank oils, and lubes, rain) only fell when swells towered above Summer. It was impossible to tell if the rain was truely atmospheric, or just whipped off the HEAPs, but it was always gloopy, warm, and able to induce a state of euphoria. The swells always induced a state of nausea. These two states were spent in concordance, with alternating fits of vomiting, and heightened arousals.