Tu prends burin, stylet, poinçon, vrille et tu surines la peau de l’entendement, cribles l’écorce de la conscience, la crèves à maints reprises et bientôt la moelle des lochies commence à couler, caillée en des limaces blanchies grouillant par milliers (les “larves lochastiques du langage,” comme disait un poète), et ça sèche et ça durcit et ça devient le goudron du méconium de l’enfance du signe, et certain d’autre de ça suinte une résine dorée à l’odeur de cannelle et de séné, résine qui gèle et emperle la portée de ta frénésie en une myriade de gouttelettes étincelantes, soit petites, soit grandes, et la masse intangible de cet amas intuitif que tu avais soupçonné d’être là pendant tout ce temps, pullulant et tressaillant dans le phloème et le xylème et le parenchyme occultés sous la croûte immaculée, devient trop tangible et trop réelle et tu cueilles un bouton de prose pliante (parce que c’est ça ce qu’elles sont, ces pustules mucilagineuses qui poussent doucement dans ces entailles parturientes que tu as infligées) et tu pétris ce mastic malléable entre doigts et pouce, le façonnant dans une boule aromatique que tu lances avec une petite chiquenaude dans le terrain vague d’écarts et d’oubli mais la chaleur de tes doigts pendant que tu malaxais cette boule d’enduit poisseux a dû démarrer quelque obscur processus moléculaire, entraîner quelque force virale et quelque petite arthropode innocente cherchant de la nourriture la repère et la pince et la trimbale au nid où elle partage le baume parfumé avec ses sœurs voraces qui s’ignorent que les germes qui poussent dans leurs jabots sociaux vont les inciter, une nuit de pleine lune, de tuer leur reine et joindre leurs corps pour se faire une tige tremblante jusqu’à ce que les hyphes sensibles jaillissent à travers la chitine de leurs mandibules soudées l’une à l’autre, à travers leurs gastres innombrables et les réunissent en une épaisse bête-cordage, une haute liane-animal qui pousse comme un arbre et qui ombrage le plus inattendu des lieux il te semble quand tu le croises dans une friche et sa lisse écorce argentée qui séduit la main et qui répand vaguement l’odeur de camphre t’évoque quelque chose qui te rappelle quelque chose que tu n’arrives pas à te raconter, quelque chose que tu as lu quelque part, peut-être, peut-être quand tu étais enfant, et il te semble que des minuscules fourmis symbiotiques sont en train de nettoyer le tronc et les branches, leur donner une surface pure, cireuse, polie et veloutée comme du papier vélin, mais quand tu t’approches l’œil de plus près, ce ne sont que des cils infimes, des funicules qui se retirent et se cachent dans des stomates noirs et hermétiques, et froissé, effrayé, confondu, exaspéré par ce stroma cryptique avec ses orifices étanches et ses chimériques animalcules timorés, tu prends burin, stylet, poinçon, vrille et tu le cribles furieusement.
You take bodkin, awl, gimlet, auger and stab, pierce, bore into it, the skin of sense, the cortex of consciousness, stab it repeatedly and soon the lochial marrow bleeds out, clotted with thousands of sluglike wriggling white things (the “lochastic larvae of language,” a poet has called them), some of which dries and hardens, forming the meconial tar of meaning’s infancy, some of which continues to ooze out in the form of a dense golden putty-like resin redolent of cinnamon and cinchona that coagulates and beads the compass of your frenzy with myriad gleaming droplets, large and small, and the intangible mass of the intuitive mess that had been seething and pulsing there all the time, in the phloem and xylem and parenchyma concealed beneath flawless bark, becomes all too tangible and real and you pluck a slow growing polyp of pliant prose (for that is what they are, these mucilaginous beads budding out of the parturient wounds you inflicted: PPP) and mold the malleable mastic with fingers and thumb, shaping it into an aromatic ball which you flick into the ravaged commons of distance and forgetting but the warmth your fingers gave it as you shaped the pliable glutinous gamboge started some unsuspected molecular process going, set some viral force in motion, and some small innocent arthropod doing its exploratory rounds stumbles upon it, awkwardly drags and carries it back to its nest where it shares the fragrant balsam with its hungry sisters who do not suspect the spores growing inside them will spur them, on a bright moon night, to kill their queen and then swarm and lock their bodies in a quivering stalk-like mass until the sentient hyphae burst through the chitin of their countless conjoined mandibles and gasters and bind them rope-like in a new plantbeast, a tall shade-giving treelike thing growing in the most unlikely of places, it seems when you stumble across it in an empty field and its smooth gray bark pleasant to the touch and smelling vaguely of camphor reminds you of something you can’t quite recall, can’t quite recount to yourself, something you read somewhere, perhaps, perhaps when you were a child, and the flawless waxy paper-like surface of trunk and limbs seems to be kept clean by tiny symbiotic ants which on closer inspection seem to be bound by cilia-like funiculi that retract into black stomata that clamp seamlessly shut when you get too close and confounded by this cryptic stroma with its impervious apertures and timorous chimerical animalcula, you take bodkin, awl, gimlet, auger and stab it furiously.
Schizomythological clitalysis of the author’s text (SCAT)
Lochastic larvae of language
“Those lochastic larvae of language called conjunctions: and, but, or, if, then, however, maybe, although” I’m sure Sagarch (my colleague, friend, and former fellow inmate of GWIFA, the Gertrude-Wells Intrussyan Free academy of that city) wrote that, all I can find at the moment among all those clippings of his poems I gleaned from the Gertrude Glebe are lines like (related, indeed), “Question: what / are words but squandered / memories, pulled screaming / from roguish earth? / The red earth clings / to them like lice, dropping / when they’re gorged. So we / cope with threadbare / miracles, regretting what a worm / is proof of: death is a word only” (from “Worm’s Metaphor,” Spring 1992), and, “Such religion / Is blind injunction to leave all / Illusion intact, to slice // Light from the power to light, / Words from the tenacity / Of grammar, root, and rhythm (from “A Certain Aspect of Faith," Fall 1991). I’ll keep looking.
Cinnamon and cinchona
In Michael Sean Strickland’s Words to Make a Story Out of (in prog.), § 2. Glebe, D. I. Swopes defines the Sanskrit word for memory and desire, smara (स्मर), as a “gold-and-cinnamon infusion your true senimalist brews somewhere between occiput and blepharii.” That author also regards, à propos, “the schizomythological analysis of texts as senimalistic praxis,” as the subtitle of his or her article (“SCHAT v. SNE”) in issue nº 2 of JYazS puts it.
Compass of your frenzy
In the aforementioned author’s Compass of That Sea (Owlstain and Paris, Editions MSS, 2001), Dado Udidi (Hamiltonian) declaims ad nauseam that he was “the corpse of that seizure” (passim).
Mold the malleable mastic
Likewise, Swopes claims that “par reliant chaque graine d’experience à d’autres qui lui ressemblent, we lynx-eyed text-rats construct a heterolexical constellation of contingent percepts and inconclusive presentiments in the reticulated strata of the mnemonoclastic midden of fiches bristol et feuilles de chou: certain nourishment amidst futurity’s random brumal tempests that never cease to accelerate in direct proportion to the number of warm waxy malleable seeds of text we accrue” (op. cit., § 16. Accelerate). Cf. also, “The fictile textwork demanded by plagiary, as far as [the Institute of Lexical Ecology] was concerned, is as integral to wordism, senimalism, and paperism as any other aspect of textuality, whether ductile, refractile, promiscuous, or delitescent” (ditto, § 7. ILE).
Kill their queen
Although la feue Ada Romer (referred to somewhere as the author’s “compatriot and companionable senimalist in promiscuous textuality”) was not multiply stabbed like some houris we’ve known (viz. Gennifleur Schlame, who miraculously survived (as Mona Coltrane and Skid Slekton report in their four-handed experiment in literary frottage [How I pity the poor monosexuals who must each needs cast two ballots to yield a single suffrage in the cosmic partouze! (A place, by the way, where sex is but a special form of mutual feeding, birth is but one of the many modes of dying, and death is but a means of dispersal — but that is by the bye.) — N.d.l.R.] in the Owlstain SCAT of 9 August 1995: “Gennifleur Schlame dismissed that pain, semi-detached, in her dismissed legs. Semi-detached master of her dismissed head, her semi-detached soul. // Almost detached from her pain, master of her soul, dismissed from her head, almost detached, and her legs, semi-detached.”) to show her scars utterly unabashedly at the drop of a hat or lift of a blouse: just ask her), but was pushed rather (pregnant to boot) down a flight of spiral stairs... a tragic incident strangely portended in M. S. Strickland’s “Incipient odd sonnet n° 1,” composed a good lustrum avant la naissance of said “star former minion, sexy whore” (vid. Swopes’s Piste article as well as that author’s obit on the poor dead girl in the Owlstain SCAT).
Flawless waxy paper
That same New Lexican capital where Swopes put out for his or her curt memento mori anent Ada (cited supra), Agua Prieta, also boasts a soi-disant “Institute for Paperist and Senimalist Investigations,” said institution being occasionally referred to in addition as the “Institute for Paperism and Senimalistic Investigations” in Strickland (op. cit., § 6. Ipsi).
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