The Pathology of a Still Life

Leave a CommentPosted by leekwo on February 14, 2013

Activate document February 14 2013/Much has happened since my last post/I have finished the trilogy Pathology of a Still Life which consists of the three books[Homage to Collateral Damage] [Artaud Adjusts his Hat[e] [The Celibate Autopsy] A satirical and parodic series of texts looking at the shift of the paradigm of consciousness as being dominated by the Human to a state where consciousness is dominated by the machinic/They can be read as separate books and yet they are interconnected/Lets unpack this/People ask me why the books are so hard to read and the text so dense/I wanted to comment on the Information Age and so the texts are like super narratives that can be read in paragraphs pages or chapters/I have to say I am also utilizing a cerebral version of Burroughs cut up method and the influences of a myriad of authors from Kathy Acker  to Balzac to Artaud and Bataille as well as many thinkers like Blanchot and Deleuze/The work is hard going even for me and this is a statement on the Age of Information/There is so much of consequence available it would take lifetimes to read all the material we have an interest in/Personally I think the last book The Celibate Autopsy is the most accessible of the texts/I have also published a condensation of the three books as The Lie Detekta much smaller than the 1800 pages of the trilogy/At the moment I have three drafts for new novels and am working on a book of poems which I hope to have published by June/The trilogy and The Lie Detekta and all available from Lulu.com at a very reasonable price/

                                             

                                                         Hitch hiking out of Paris 1974

Life a cheap excuse for passion/

Leave a CommentPosted by leekwo on April 13, 2013

The Recycling of Semantic waste by divergent appropriation/The movie starts with the present reality which is starting to disintegrate with telephoto frames of the wilderness out of which god led the people and ends with relentless views of industrial complexes/The future is history but you wont be there you are barely here as it is slowly losing control the fingers slip/The only evil acknowledged is to not refuse to agree to be a visible substance but to take up instead a position of invisibility/So many tears we talked so little my time taken up with composing music and yrs with the mischance of the hour that arrives with the distances of 3am standing in the shadow with burnt shoes and the linguistic slur of Prozac to maintain control of the psychosis/the music played in his head was outside of his control and always came to him in his dreams but he could never recall the tunes/She was invisible when she entered the room/These days people are terrified of them selves and the wide range of possible corruptions available/you know the price of everything but the value of nothing/as he said to regain ones youth you only have to repeat yr follies/Who winds the clock knows the hour/People die of common sense/One moment at a time/Life is a moment in time and there is no room for error/The crimes committed by the lower classes have the resonance that art has to the middle class a method of procuring extraordinary sensation/They are out there and you know it/The flight of the raven leaves no trace/In so far as and whatever are both modes of retreat/The outskirts of the boarders and their tracks thru the mountain passes are what are worth knowing at the end of time/And amid all this confusion the debacle of noise/is there room for him within the state of exclusion zone a talking crow who came from the land of suspicion born of doubt and unconscious violence this urgency to defeat never a matter of aesthetics eventually colonized by consumerism and mass culture an archaic culture based on magic and a sense of the sacred and its inevitable destruction at the hands of the modern rational Police Force because they are the arm upon which every power structure is constructed/Suit wipes the strings of his Fender and puts it back in its case he love the way the catches click into place like not universal or particular reduction a renunciation is a terrible weariness that fills the stomach like fresh pizza at 3am with a cold beer/Travel is for those who cannot read or feel who only have the need to keep walking and changing scenery/Suit lifts his eyes up from thinking/he got that hertero-zygote feeling such good reflections as the air is full of Black Hawks on full beam tracking the deserters and those missing in action hiding under the Network of Stoppages/Duchamp does it with a hammer and blames the removalist for not taking enough care/Warhola does it with the soup can torn label/this wonder to resolve disputes cause everything to come undone but it’s the surrealist manner not really in it for the rebellion or the revolution but the looting of all of Western Civilization words images thoughts cerebral damaged and left hanging in the geometry of the window open to weather you got to fill the mind with noise and wait for the right moment to grab the inspiration/Once Suit took yr smile as an insult just because he was nervous and guilty about his habit/when he was conscious but when insomniacal or asleep breaking thru the unconscious not just anything that comes to mind but the gem in the midst of a raging booster rocket hurling that missile up into the stratosphere are you with me I wouldn’t do this for anyone else it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time you must keep the fingers moving between the breaks/came here to deface the original trace of identity or me avoiding the I off his trail took to room in dust corridor Motel wasteland of ash and lava rocks/ This is the way dont you know says Zuk packing her snub-nosed and a dozen rounds should be enough/done the dead body thing many times produce one hero it’s the chaos of the bent strings and the punishing of the speaker cones that give the punk thing its edge don’t you reckon says Suit/satisfied with the performance the name doesnt matter its all a lie only done in one sense her presence a texture of brutal anger and frustration or rather ethos to someone as Elite as Zuk Suit though well before he made his move/He was sick of the civilization scam but got one good idea keep so its place they all witness to false evidence and is position to paint falling silverfish the future doesnt lie in the hands of individuals better this way than scatter control so that contradictions are absolutely vital/and with the spectrum of social rules and codes dispersed and where pigs whose bellies can hold an entire social class in their bellies and when he packs a/the Fender drowned out the mean chain saw and the acetylene torch welded the ragged edges of the torn pages full of high stringed anguish in the sounds of the world he hears your voice calling saw thru the muscular thighs of the rusted body of the pig iron you know they injected rust virus into the metal and has ill intent on an old shack and a bent table strewn with fan leaves red spiders filters and paraphernalia the sand is a voice of gestures in the wind and Suit is a pilot of the wind running into a force factor of his youth a memory of that afternoon of the same day she arrived on shooting stars a chance of once in a lifetime elevation and night that you are missing outside his window tortures his mind the most precise instrument on the planet on the rusted cedar box with embossed monogram NSU from any trip even a small one or a short one Suit return full of encumbered islands life throbs in his distant hearts the ace of spades is in her tarot deck which she deals with alacrity and he is immediately suspicious that she is pretty as you feel thus the days keep fading and passing and mounts up to a summit that must be climbed with a multitude of trails that must be blazed and instead of their being less time there is more times and it piles up and blocks the view of point life being fundamentally a mental state not imagined but at least preconceived totally out of it a dream no different from anyone elses horizons my ears ringing dial tones from surrealistic pillows float full of Andy Warhola precious breath the day he was shot he thought he would never see the afternoon he should have stayed in bed that morning he had a feeling and for ever after that he had morning feelings that passed judgment on what the day might bring life or death of a waste of time/somebody to love not fokken likely a waste of real time I got plenty of hyper reality left and you know there are people who eternally suffer because they don’t know how to live?/does now make any sense NOW the INTERVAL of times passage article succeeds in movements especially Schoenberg and Webern wrote a symphony that’s lasted 6 and one half minutes him with lost worth Webern's total output amounted to three hours of recoding and he was shot in the stomach by a fascist American soldier who mistook him for a black marketeer called Andy Warhola all our heart got a grey of the tone of his matching tie and shirt with torn buttons the saw was teeth caught in cotton this ordered tear away the shadows see impact of the full weight of the National Guard once the order to fire is given they just fokken shoot at everything that in the way shell cases hit the noon day sun and De Chirico makes a last minute appearance to get a image of gril with hoop in black shadow of the colonnades and the pillars of melancholy a conversation that he doesnt have very often since Breton kicked him out of the Manifesto on the grounds of insolubility and all that wears down kills errors carried out to excess afraid of the ones who will finally steal his image hence the need for a mask of contrivances slowly uttered this sentence ten years to life without parole you got to do the whole thing Suit with no respite and he was afraid of the contortions of the sun under the glaze of the morning dew all that burns and gnaws the stars will always be his guide Suit need randomness to address the crowd and their sway not hot nor yes men just the allocation of clapping hands and resolute hard nose to the highway attitude afraid of dying tired of living Suit was sitting in the chair listening to Robert Johnson on the radio under spheres of wings then walks to back porch for a pipe and is afraid the Throw-Away boys will ax or X him before he lights up all at once this time only his full lungs of long drig smoke Suit pulls out all the possibilities the persistent bell signals dangerous territory the sacred invaded by the profane explore the destitution of Umerica big change in life style of the poor and starving listens to me and understands Suit has no fears but he is afraid as this is the facade of feelings limits there is no rewards for the stolen flowers of youth dying in the wastelands of ash covered in those missing in action the so endless mind now could Texas Rangers have found out 100 bodies of savages wasn’t enough the world of static knowledge always Notes of usurped Interrogation not enough innocence though the burnt book washed with urine was great idea Suit put it in suitcase for later evidence increases the situation are you there have you ever been there I eroded at the overflow of more images/Is its own vapidity thats for sure/The such a situation as I hate being connected to things not this planet not this universe not this crappy Motel room with the handy stomachs of the pigs ate everything down to the last poor button and grunted at the dying culture of the sad and lonely bring metaphors bar all firewalls all justification of Police power bellies hold pigs grunting cant blame them poor take any job they can get into the poor as Police are under nourished know about nothing of you fokken Zef and the underworld on the margins of the City a Cinema of poetry revolution against the dominant repression a racist hatred of the poor

Lee Kwo has abandoned the world of substance and taken refuge in the where do we go from here...

The Forgotten Memory of the Future/Insanity and excess of vision and sound/ Consciousness is not the seat of identity/When you have gone as far as you can you are only half way there/Reality is not enough/We dream of the inside which is the unconscious and the outside which is the imagination/What is the connexion between the unconscious and the imagination between twins/Do we only imagine in the conscious or is it a direct production of the dream of the other  that we have forgotten as real and think that it is an inspiration of the conscious/A limit experience that prevents us from remaining in the dream/Or are we permanently in the dream becoming other within space and time a rational thought or a non-thought/the unconscious/ How do we maintain the boundaries?/The process of constructing identity is creative  and the creative individual creates many selves/What do you dream of and what do you dream of becoming/Is a dream a process of desire or are desires limited to the conscious/Is the dream the thinking of the unthinkable/Lets construct the unthinkable/

A question of Form

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