Poiesis of a Ludic State
The truth of the ludic abides by no belief; instead, such truth is entertained as one of many hypothetical alternatives. It is merely a Potentiality.
---C. Bok---
Are you writing these days?
no not much.
---from Conversations with The Sister---
By Sir Kowski circa 2006 when the author was engaged in violent pataphysical experiments with his penis for an indeterminable extension of time beginning around the age of Skein Pulp till the present (possible and unprovable.)but there were utensils involved. And a paternal hammer. The Mother found It next to a large hole in the wall above the bed. A mining expedition. The bed covered in plaster. All the liftable furniture had been thrown out the window and the author, (referred to at the time as, The McGoo.) was sitting on the ledge and dangling his feet three stories above the ground. The Sister is unaware of these experiments.
An Entrance.
With the currency of madness, we walked up Broadway to the Sipple. The music there is always atrocious. The patrons even worse. It boiled down to whether or not he wanted to get shit faced. George was always up for shitty. That was his problem. Not ours. Lily and I had our own.
Your tiny hand around my cock. George thought of this while entering the bar. The tiny one reminded him of his X. Shiny straight black hair. Large dark eyes that changed from black to Hazel and then black again. Salem, Massachusetts. He would tell me later between his D.T.s That time we did it in time to Metallicas, Ride the Lighting album. He said. They were the best days of my life.
Drunken thoughts. His. In the cold, George clinched his toes. The feeling was gone. The Upside-down Love Forest, where the Cuckoos screamed Russian Love in rain drops and vaginal blood from the Northern Annie was far away. Very far and it made him sad. Irina was Russian. Irina was small and crazy. When they kissed you couldnt tell who was eating who.
George was a quiet drunk. He slid his drink forward. The wait staff knew him only as the communist. It was the way he dressed and paced about the restaurant. The facial hair. He looked like Trotsky, only lighter. He wore a news boys cap. Slid his empty glass forward. George was a socialist. His X was Russian.
Fucked her good and hard. Blew his load right on her face. She reminded him. There was nothing he could do about it. It came to an end. You had to wonder what happened to him. Poor Irina full of repose in love, (Here to unheard of.) with ripple ribs George who will die one evening on a beach by the hands of Hate Boy. The wound was not so mortal and he could have lived. But he didnt. It was his broken love that finished the job. His missing rib.
Hate Boy will die too. He will die in the mountains of Brazil. He will be beaten to death by a petrified potato. Purple potato. The difference between the two. Between Hate Boy and the Local girl. The difference between the two had more to do with the lack of Poo soup. Yes Poo soup if you could imagine Poop soup: Lily and I had it. Lily did not kill me. Not yet.
Remember the Poo soup? Poo soop. Soop do poo. Soup Du Poop She called it. She made it with watery Liverwurst like beer soaked cat food, that night on the Hudson while anchored next to the bilge barge. Brown slop. You could have used a straw. The vegetables were desiccated. Watching Lily over the pot tinkering with that spoon beneath the pear yellow bulb, and grinning too, you had the image of someone dying out back in the grass. The tall grass with the lost rake. The lost ball. Red. But we were on a boat. The only grass to be found was along the Jersey shore and this was not the grass that came to me. (Nor the grass I would weep into.) The bitch ripped me off! Sold me a lie. Sold me shit. The bitch said it was because of Cum and that we should fuck, but not in public because the peoples would be watching our penis holes in and through microscopes and beaver damns. And then the anger left when she smiled at me and said, Soup Du Poop. Youll be surprised. Try it. She use a pound and a half of Liverwurst because she had no other meat. We cracked a jug of red wine and broke a loaf of Dark Rye. That night we ended up puking together. The captain of the barge shaking his head waiting for the two of us to pull it together and push him down the river. But we were puking. Simultaneous puking is odd and wonderful. We hung over the rail into the nacreous river our, gutted mouths dripping. Fish mouths. Side by side. During the cessation we could almost smile at each other. Theres no way in hell, she said, Im kissing you.
What about later?
She spit. The captain of the Barge was yelling down to us. Are we gonna anchor here all night? We looked up at him. Dark silhouette against the night sky. Hey! He yelled but we didnt answer. And then again: Hey! You guys alive? Turn your fuckin radio on!
I barked back at him a fat okay and stumbled back inside with Lily.
That night she did not kill me with a petrified potato. We dismantled love with a caress. We drank wine and ate her rotten food. Years later she told me that she had been trying to poison me that night. When I asked her why she had partaken of the same poisoned food, she said, I was jealous. That you should get to die. It reminded me of a conversation we had while running from the law. I told her that we should be dragged out into the fields and put to rest. We should be so lucky. She said.
After we had pushed the barge to its destination we fell asleep in each others arms. We lay there like eight white snakes tangled in the moonlight.
The tug boat was red. In those days there was just the two of us. I would steer and she would blow me. Or she would steer and I would fuck her from behind. pass the wine. She would say. And I would
The truth of the ludic abides by no belief; instead, such truth is entertained as one of many hypothetical alternatives. It is merely a Potentiality.
---C. Bok---
Are you writing these days?
no not much.
---from Conversations with The Sister---
By Sir Kowski circa 2006 when the author was engaged in violent pataphysical experiments with his penis for an indeterminable extension of time beginning around the age of Skein Pulp till the present (possible and unprovable.)but there were utensils involved. And a paternal hammer. The Mother found It next to a large hole in the wall above the bed. A mining expedition. The bed covered in plaster. All the liftable furniture had been thrown out the window and the author, (referred to at the time as, The McGoo.) was sitting on the ledge and dangling his feet three stories above the ground. The Sister is unaware of these experiments.
An Entrance.
With the currency of madness, we walked up Broadway to the Sipple. The music there is always atrocious. The patrons even worse. It boiled down to whether or not he wanted to get shit faced. George was always up for shitty. That was his problem. Not ours. Lily and I had our own.
Your tiny hand around my cock. George thought of this while entering the bar. The tiny one reminded him of his X. Shiny straight black hair. Large dark eyes that changed from black to Hazel and then black again. Salem, Massachusetts. He would tell me later between his D.T.s That time we did it in time to Metallicas, Ride the Lighting album. He said. They were the best days of my life.
Drunken thoughts. His. In the cold, George clinched his toes. The feeling was gone. The Upside-down Love Forest, where the Cuckoos screamed Russian Love in rain drops and vaginal blood from the Northern Annie was far away. Very far and it made him sad. Irina was Russian. Irina was small and crazy. When they kissed you couldnt tell who was eating who.
George was a quiet drunk. He slid his drink forward. The wait staff knew him only as the communist. It was the way he dressed and paced about the restaurant. The facial hair. He looked like Trotsky, only lighter. He wore a news boys cap. Slid his empty glass forward. George was a socialist. His X was Russian.
Fucked her good and hard. Blew his load right on her face. She reminded him. There was nothing he could do about it. It came to an end. You had to wonder what happened to him. Poor Irina full of repose in love, (Here to unheard of.) with ripple ribs George who will die one evening on a beach by the hands of Hate Boy. The wound was not so mortal and he could have lived. But he didnt. It was his broken love that finished the job. His missing rib.
Hate Boy will die too. He will die in the mountains of Brazil. He will be beaten to death by a petrified potato. Purple potato. The difference between the two. Between Hate Boy and the Local girl. The difference between the two had more to do with the lack of Poo soup. Yes Poo soup if you could imagine Poop soup: Lily and I had it. Lily did not kill me. Not yet.
Remember the Poo soup? Poo soop. Soop do poo. Soup Du Poop She called it. She made it with watery Liverwurst like beer soaked cat food, that night on the Hudson while anchored next to the bilge barge. Brown slop. You could have used a straw. The vegetables were desiccated. Watching Lily over the pot tinkering with that spoon beneath the pear yellow bulb, and grinning too, you had the image of someone dying out back in the grass. The tall grass with the lost rake. The lost ball. Red. But we were on a boat. The only grass to be found was along the Jersey shore and this was not the grass that came to me. (Nor the grass I would weep into.) The bitch ripped me off! Sold me a lie. Sold me shit. The bitch said it was because of Cum and that we should fuck, but not in public because the peoples would be watching our penis holes in and through microscopes and beaver damns. And then the anger left when she smiled at me and said, Soup Du Poop. Youll be surprised. Try it. She use a pound and a half of Liverwurst because she had no other meat. We cracked a jug of red wine and broke a loaf of Dark Rye. That night we ended up puking together. The captain of the barge shaking his head waiting for the two of us to pull it together and push him down the river. But we were puking. Simultaneous puking is odd and wonderful. We hung over the rail into the nacreous river our, gutted mouths dripping. Fish mouths. Side by side. During the cessation we could almost smile at each other. Theres no way in hell, she said, Im kissing you.
What about later?
She spit. The captain of the Barge was yelling down to us. Are we gonna anchor here all night? We looked up at him. Dark silhouette against the night sky. Hey! He yelled but we didnt answer. And then again: Hey! You guys alive? Turn your fuckin radio on!
I barked back at him a fat okay and stumbled back inside with Lily.
That night she did not kill me with a petrified potato. We dismantled love with a caress. We drank wine and ate her rotten food. Years later she told me that she had been trying to poison me that night. When I asked her why she had partaken of the same poisoned food, she said, I was jealous. That you should get to die. It reminded me of a conversation we had while running from the law. I told her that we should be dragged out into the fields and put to rest. We should be so lucky. She said.
After we had pushed the barge to its destination we fell asleep in each others arms. We lay there like eight white snakes tangled in the moonlight.
The tug boat was red. In those days there was just the two of us. I would steer and she would blow me. Or she would steer and I would fuck her from behind. pass the wine. She would say. And I would