An Elegy

smithers:

[Aside] The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious sleep of a man with dengue fever. Tortured sleep. Rivulets of sweat flow into tributaries of liquid linen. Shards of disconnected thought mosaic the global electronic conscious and the matrix of the unconscious. Material and immaterial bridge centuries of temporality. Experiences gained and lost.

The athletic body can’t touch his toes. But what does the body have to do with serenity, anyways? Tactile burden. Trembling hands. Don't get burned, whatever you do.

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious sleep of a man with dengue fever ://

Flow.

A loaded word. Don't think about product, think about process. Grey areas. Resolve the macro, the micro, the nano.

But does it equal love? The poet maudit might say so, but the sadness lining his eyes suggests multiple interpretations.

Bodies without organs.
Bodies without bodies.
_____ without _____.
Fill in your own fucking theory.

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious ://

Writhing mass. Flashes of bright yellow punctuate the deep ochre. Praxis. Be careful now to code what we think, say, archive … control. Writhing neurons envelop all.

Can I get a wit(h)ness?

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious sleep of a man with dengue fever. Tortured sleep ://

"Yes."

Who knew the multiplicity that could flow forth from the desert of this 0/1 as if a fountain flowing forth from the mouths of stone goddesses and gorgons in a public pool? Ambiguity ensures a cloak of defense and self-preservation.

Or perhaps insecurity invites a straitjacket of excess signification.

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented ://

Go do some writing, says the destructive poet, infecting sportsBabel with his dada rap parable, all matrixial psychobabble and encounter events. Asymmetrical. Banal. Cabal.

Shall I cavil?

The hand taught the mouth to speak and the notebook is where the black magic juju is chanted. Rhizomes of blue and brown. Red painted skulls and beauty. Nonlinear meaning percolates to the surface through layers of white noise …

abc …

I muse.

Therapeutic? Hell, I'm burned like a freedom fry.

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious sleep of a man with dengue fever. Tortured sleep. Rivulets of sweat flow into tributaries of liquid linen. Shards of disconnected thought mosaic the global electronic conscious and the matrix of the unconscious. Material and immaterial bridge centuries of temporality. Experiences gained and lost.

[Exit]

(To my friends in Saas-Fee.)

Comments

4 responses to An Elegy

- rss feed for this comment thread
  1. D ROX says:

    i do indeed appreciate it. thank you. so many things i wanted to comment upon as i read, so little importance they all had by the end. can i get a wit(h)ness???? (AWESOME). Anyway, thanks for sharing, loved the whole thing, and truly, i think i got something out of it. and now i have heartburn, oowww. wtf.

  2. sportsBabel » body, surfing, waves says:

    [...] matrixial impossibility of not-sharing with the other is profoundly fragilizing; it demands its price, but also gives rise to its own beauty. Apart from the time-space of art, male subjects are more radically split from this archaic site of [...]

  3. sportsBabel » Male Art says:

    [...] Tell them that you are 38 years old, you cannot touch your toes, you are slightly overweight, your joint flexibility is poor, your breathing stamina is spotty, [...]

  4. sportsBabel » Wolfgang Schirmacher: In Memoriam di Imagum says:

    [...] sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious sleep of a man with dengue fever. Tortured sleep. Rivulets of sweat flow into tributaries of liquid linen. Frustrated, the Spy gets [...]