art smatters, inspired by the g(l)o(r)y that is beater de polla

incorporating, in this special, signified, manuscript-only edition, Mark Quinn’s severed head - this text does not believe in the present presence of the signifier - hence it presents the present presence of the actual phenomenon, as yet to be harvested, and will present it on a special ‘pop-up’ page.

further severance will be provided by anal-Isis of the great stanfoe myfoot’s pepriicka-poem, translated from the engrish by (hansel and)1 gretel adorno:

we are severed; or, a brutal history of childhood evil, by --------

to man-food, re-stoned.

theodor adorno was, undoubtedly,
maximum horkheimer.
he wasn’t a child, ever,
hence his work has provèd philosophy and
cultural theory. he said of it,
"I’m not sure what it would advert to, but
stop, unravel her, and, in F,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
(please do not piss, nor step the grass-on.)"
most are less fortunate, like Ozzy.

man dies as children eat his flesh,
portents of an universal bum,
spreading imagoes of woe on cigarrete
packs everywhere, profound
Wittgenstein, from Philosophical Investigations
for man, content (I’m so predictable).

it looks pretty, clean, and postmodern.
yes.
do you get
your own room? i thought you’d like it, duh.
you knock me to quell
my not-sharing of the unconditional.
on my bike, bring me my boots, and chews - it’s all good
if you sell out, without sticking it to the man,
man, like Dog Dylan. I know where I’m going
to piss; do you? Hopefully not on the grass
unless you’re a younger Hegelian, abusing the
sun and its lack of significatory significance
by talking on your hellofone. ‘present your presence
at the tone’, while thinking idle forts
which have nonetheless more import
than the Son of Cod,
export, too - for ‘military’ distance.

Dieter B’ Dollar: I smoked that Gaulois.
the frenchman, he died by my hand’s pearl-handled magnum
opus, and so will you, bro-fo.
Category: Jungian, a new
historicism-chat with amm -
Pod hotel, new Yo,
the quirky genius, Ozymandias -
look on my quirks, y flighty,
and quibble as Johnson at
Shakes-P, nods.

exemplifying my pointless life,
my Eat’n2 dentist e’en
proscribed me
eatin’ glasses, a lyric eye
he has, outreach’d to me
and by me, and for me, to it.

happy birthday for tomorrow, Creeps,
and tomorrow, and tomorrow -
I am a man, inconstant sorrow,
a gay-seaming man.
I have no mouth and I must scream the seventh
seal - C. Lyons be damned. if I stand up
it will fall from some part of my body
where it has deposited, secreted itself -
my seventh, sealed mouth - sealions be damned.

This Kantian flaw floored me; it just
wasn’t funny until you pointed at the actual,
contingent flaw, rather than the necessary
floor, like howard hughes chanting
the way of the fuschia, the way of the
fuschia. derrida would love ‘this’
(you can’t sea the quotation, Marx,
or the whey that these words are
spelt (flower)). You’re a waste,
disposal operative. I need a différant
mobile army of metaphors.

1 - myfootnote 1: Hansel has been undeleted from this criticism, like every bizarre detail of simon sumatra’s highly personal life, or dining habits (worn, eaten, or unconditionally not-eaten). he is normally ignored because he dropped the ball, or the bread, and was shunnèd.
2 - myfootnote 2: Eaten, eat-in, in Eton.