journal (exitlessness and passing)

tried to walk off the anx
lost in thoughts streaming maudlin out through time
the stack of pasts and stack of futures 
im always sposed to be living
and always failing to live and write down
nested spaceless stacks viral fractal lightless stacks
tried to dump it all by the canal like youre sposed to
but shits all over the place back home
i think of sams binary plaint about form
that i misunderstood and think of the boar of substance
just told my friends i never use foreign words in the poem but
on a raté la substance, on va rater la substance
die sache selbst the thing that counts ever there and always out of reach
i only care about substance
i say to myself and wonder how well still be awesome
even tho were gonna rater la substance and already have
even tho weve more than thirty years experience honing failure
my pasts are stripped off me compressed into atomic virtuality by atmospheric 
pressure skins stripped off my daft grinning face
to make a skin milkshake to drink and carry
along in a stoma pouch hanging out of that hole i accidentally made
and care for it and flush it
into a used milkshake cup and drink it again
and see it back in the stoma pouch and walk again along the canal and carry and care for it
trying to shake off the anx and dump the stacks and hang on to my stripped face and skin milkshake
im pitifully attached to what i must lose
worlds and time are held only in ourselves
stuck inside we carry them cant get them out
stitched and glued and printed over each other and torn and stapled back together stapled 
to the walls of our stomachs riveted to us who are riven who are riveted to this that is riven
nothing but false generic reports of them outlive us
we take them with us as ripley takes the baby alien at the end of alien3
tho no lens follows our fall
attached tho i feel nothing outside the direct of this attach
a cold stuck bolt such that to say love would be null
but what else can language say
attached or linked or funnelled or soldered, bound but severed
like a word to its meaning
its dark hard and poisonous even tho its spring
left notebook in backpack in bar now closed so i type like email
tired and lost with only a threadbare hairshirt of selfhood left
but also serene and mild and gently hurt like unguent drizzled over icecream
i remember lying in a park on richardplatz with fran last summer
coming down off e and 2cb and speed after breakfast and feeling deliriously hot for them and queer and fluorescent
and scared drifting in the rainbow spaces between
our eight giant eyes then the future of us absurdity and loss
time wasted absurd damage after absurd attach and the stark cold and hurt dance of it
how quick it came to be nothing but the empty flow-ons of something 
past and dead and wetvacced up and held in us, im the unnamed person 
they asked everyone not to talk to them about not to invite them to events id be at 
in their online performance of their grief thats me i keep telling confused mutual friends
as far as englands concerned im just the guy who ruined frans life last summer, nice to meet you!
i remember breaking up in bed with leslie in st denis
thirteen months ago both of us with high fever
fucking and crying and panting and blowing our noses and anal thermometers and delirious and trying not to break up and breaking
up without her even being able to say the damn words that would name her will to me
illness everywhere and the accoutrements of illness everywhere
medicines and tissues and dishes and sheets and clothes all crusty all soiled
crushing my selfhood into atomic virtuality with atmospheric pressure
and got onto the train for a febrile ten hour trip and got a tooth infection and
couldnt eat or sleep for weeks the pain so extreme couldnt think
body head heart pain peaking nothing else to do
and whatd we even thought we were doing
just passing times filling gaps between other attaches
the immane concatenation
beautiful absurd and waste all pasts are waste
filling our presents stacks of nested fractal waste
that we trudge through in ultralight synthetic footwear
trailorloads of broken bright blue bin bags stuffed with stacks of lightless nested fractal waste
that line the canal that we trudge through ultralight drinking our skin milkshakes
eyes peeled for a possible fun new lover
stripped of all pasts and face skin and absurdity and fever and toothache
ie ready to spar and scar
im lovesick feel nothing powerless steadfast and still
i carry my leash in my mouth
an unshaven grey crystal chock
helping her dump her stacks
till shes free to make more
and glassdrill someone else who wont be me
the whole borough is turfed into the canal
im so stacked with pasts they tear and burn my anus
and poetry actually isnt simply shit because when you shit out poems the shit 
and pathogens and language and pasts are still there in your gut youre still drinking your own gut juice
even after you drink it its still there in the cup in front of you, flat and dumb
and virtual and real, shit inside your stoma pouch and outside your stoma pouch in your mouth
on your lips in your used skin milkshake cup full of language and shit and fever and skin and gut juice
no choice but to hold them and love them swallow and regurgitate them shit and re-eat them coz these losses 
are substance the one we are failing and no ones immune we are only half human
half beings and double beings and everythings so calm 
and straightforward in the presents just pushing skinned counters around on a waste board
as tho it wasnt real but afterwards when theyre crushed into virtuality you see how real it was 
how ludicrous you were no idea what you were doing and you were destroying your very
compass and territory to boot you tossed them proudly into your dahl and ate them thinking youd become direction
you watched them bobbing in your stoma pouch
with the dead fractals and green tissues and anal thermometers waiting to be eaten
and then they all push you around like a skinned counter on a waste board
god just realised ill get bowel cancer ill have to suicide
we are all in different times swirling currents of times freighting all these other stacks of time in us its a miracle
we connect them theres no simultaneity or co-presence 
only the synchronicity of the non-synchronous all these different nows in different ppl and nothing but
language links them precariously virtually and remotely
in their non-synchronicity in their contradictory nows in a peculiar way awry
leaving them all still apart nothing connects anything to anything but metaphor
that radically unnatural impossible string and all whats derived from it
how lonely the trees without metaphor that only have people cutting them down
people with metaphor hallucinating thought building tools calling trees lonely and trashing everything
because theyre so lonely stitching two trees together thanks to stupid fucking metaphor
sequencing new life forms as they extinct millions
will any of this last should i even try
nothing lasts but in other transient people atoms in other whirling currents of medical waste
in other soma pouches filled with gut juice and phlegm and blood and cum and shit and stripped off face skin
and isnt lasting just for the bourgeois who fear mutability because 
of their private property im in love with time like the avant garde art destroyers
but maybe theyre all contrite in hell
the bundeswehr will last and outlast should i also get defensive
i dont mean last as in eternitys epitaph i mean how to not be crushed at every moment
under the utterly indifferent eyes of my non-synchronous neighbours taking shelter from me
is facing off mutability hybris should i kneel down and blow it off instead will i ever find shelter
, enchanted by the traces of the destroyed, will you
is time a kind of armour is language
my skins torn from my face and so is my friends
is that doubling anything do we just point at our skinless faces in isolation
and drink milkshakes should we not build one another shelter
or inject a new skinless-face-friendly gas into the atmosphere so we can breathe
we could synthesise it from the fumes in our stoma pouches
is shelter only fantasy i think of spahr texting all those i love yous a kind 
of shelter without shelter precarious and remote and how i cry whenever i read it my parents
are bourgeois and they have no shelter but their fantasies and theyre unhappy as avant garde artists in hell
especially as we abandoned them to the shelterlessness of their fantasies
rather than helping them build their fantasy shelters
which doesnt prove its impossible only that theyre failing at substance like we are
they thought wed be their substance but we are people instead
and theyre failing coz we wont help them in their doomed ventures
i say no shelter but that just excuses the pain of their exposure
should they try metaphor or the army or giving mutability head
is their failing negatively determining my failing, highly likely!
ill fail in exactly the opposite way ‘a difference which is none’
the immane concatenation
do i care can i do anything should 
i even try or should i just amor fati quia absurdum and be it thrice as absurd and hot and hard
and not even try to escape my invert chock destiny which would only realize it anyway
just live the loss that hurt people so much they invented religion
and shit it and drink it and pin drop and get bowel cancer and a stoma pouch bursting out of that hole i accidentally made like a baby
                                                      alien stack of worlds whose acid blood burns through everything and bite its head off and eat it and die