The president of the general board from the Society of Beings
with Sex
by Claudio Mur
Only after my entrance in the cemetery, already a damned soul, I discover an unexpected competition.
Discussing modes of communicating I think on silent commitments,The relativity, the game of making herself up difficult… until the jealousy reveals the neurosis.
I leave with a smile and a handshake… institutional but without the answer concrete.
I think that there are three boxes with books and scrapbooks of mine,I would like that in them there it were included the fisher ninja man… I fish.
What film character are you?, I ask my self when I leave home.
I have to perform an advanced laze around the web and discoverThe truth go ly may be find some informationWith key words and official records from the SoBwS general board office.
Of so many times the cat goes to the bird nests a recording becomes itself possible:“Alô alô this is a msg from sirius b netsent……tnesten b suiris morf gsm si siht ôla ôlAWar is a white cock's man I prefer we go along the Cheyenne way if you like,Tell M, your phone #, dear M? Oh the buffalo road!Piano chaos hyper soft ware free wear fur production, Please dear M, you're so beautiful in yr black dress,I like your blonde hair, your skin seems so soft, Please tell me: do you have an email address? Spot the differences. Send”, in english because the mistake becomes itself a sounding silence of mystery, a spark.
The scarf becomes itself a nécessaire. It's cold because she doesn't reply.
I wait for the stalker. She manages to get my self the most perfect sublimator. I scribe then.
I arrive home, it rains in my ground zero floor. They may be waiting for my self enter with a gun!The retro music is played live, I use the black virgin elevator. Without sleeping.
The diaries of a drug fiend, they will even call my self a clown if I'll enter gunless!Anaesthetized by haldol my desires are impossible to retain. I am trying to talk about:I scribe: they should have an ink stamp on the forehead reading incompetence: yellow book now!There is a tentative to communicate, to share ideas but my mouth is off.
Future paintings may be but, the fear of, because a free smile, choicesDirected with consequences… today I am a character of a film boring:Didgeridoo, I wanted as a mode of communicating. Boiled blood oven-heated with oilIn a frying pan, I possess this minimum allowance. Stability, comfort? I possess nada.
The lady receptor is missing, whom do I look for? Whom do they look for? Hey! She likes the Gerês mountain.
“Net line. Waiting for miss death, save my simple soul from being frisked.
Are you ok now? L' oeil cloué n'est pas mort.
I smiled and said yes but I felt I wanted to fuck the world.
Yo bunny girl, tu es très jolie. Truthfully natas a sa'nt ann nás,oh. nice talk with the family & friends, nice polen by lunch, I am so happy today, everything went all-right!Bullshit, the times, they are changing miss tambourine!muzak muzak paint beautiful she scribes in a hurry whilst she sees I see her scribingmuzak ganza muzak beautiful guards my sun and paint it my dear with your starsmuzak muzak muzak ad eternum write your self instead of her the brutality of our off-love I'm going to paste posters. I prefer the harlequin to the clown but I reduce my self to insignificance.
I am a petty clown. They pay me some cash. I return.
The will – to be calm, conscious; the intended wish – to have someone, freedom; The anxiety – do not fail; the final essence – my trip is social sexual politic.
My mind forgets remember imagines lies my mind reveals its self as a lie.
Exhausted, I sleep at last. I think I know why I feel my self dead. Remembrance. Pain.
I can't say everything. Everything is without narrative logic. What do I talk about? I vent.
Everything is a matter of language, to interpret the cadavre exquis. Guilt.
'cause nobody really wants to know then I write free of charge. Almost a confession.
Although, nothing is really free of charge, as you know. I feel peace, I sleep at last.
Listen listen listen listen listen: tautology rules.
Flyers flyers fetos de pan flyers flyers: for an arab merchant.
Kofi kofi kofi kofi kofi kofi kofi: in macau ann come on, leave that There.
Ganza agul green gang ganza agul: in the district precint I will offer to your self lapis lazuli.
Flyers posters pan fletos posters: they combine with the commercial neon saying: coil.
Sometimes Coil, other times Sonic Youth follow my self in the daily walk.
Sometimes the snow dismisses the golden blues running away from medication of military temples.
While I walk to your gig I imitate the polyphony from virgin Prunes.
I thus tell to my self:“I can not ask for too much lalala lalaãa-ain fif teen days I have wasted all I ha ve get, in fif teen days lalaãa-aExcel lens dis grace… then but if you g e t you lalaãa-amoney extra and the bills don't get straight?In what ha ve u was ted mo ney?I dunno now and 'am will ing to ex plode in front of the gener ator lalaãa-a!”I like your gig, I like beautiful things, I like any you: tonite-itty.
Lovely circus artist. Proud like this I imagine my self at your eyes.
All of you smiling to the photograph which will become part of my dowry.
With whom of your selves will I today paint a picture called Winter Solstice?The car lift decides your self. Your door. The electronic revolution that one urges as a language.
Your most interesting friend that decides her self. She leaves us alone, alone with the plant.
Oh yes sure, this music… cool-ish! But when do you lose that fear, you baby?A nice sunday morning, the sun entering through the skylights over the thousand and one lofts of the language.
Something to remember once in a while: your eyes change when we share the nuts.
But the photograph will indicate the fact around the end of the morning: I am jobless.
She may say tell add up that yes she have seen we have told we have it all add up…Breaking the waves, a film about the faith, in a corea of the chain of your career,You have fear, you are not willing to not have fear, you want to write a book about… I know,You don't have will then you don't believe. End of statement. I listen to headphone music.
You leave at the station whilst writing, vite vite! I tell you the base of your suffering:We when we are born we have nothing to be cleaned and when we die we accumulate.
I have wanted to fight for us and not only because she fought for me, maybe I have said.
Huge mistake: there are things one ought not to have the anxiety, the wish to explain.
I explain on line so many to so many whom have never asked my self for guide lines.
And when and if I will be asked then I will have already moved to a new train line.
You have suck the fury I have acquired. I have exploded with ridicule. The catastrophe is creation.
I felt my self as one of your fathers. You, crumbled in between my teeth,Your eye ignoring my self. I leave the zine and a bomb message I don't send, toWhom? When you'll be cutting the shit out of your head and be in need of a man look out for my self,I am in a bad mood, I can't stand still, I walk senseless, it's though in the Intervals, I need a fix to anaesthetize The pain.
But maybe it's my self who am not tru li a man, fucking xrist Pavese sometimes! Confusion with fusion recasting the gender of Id, so many times asking for the liberation of Id,Options times three fusion with the spare são, healthly in need of my Id,Returning to the past and scribbing: today: I was refused. I'll sublimate the evilness.
I will make of your friend your surrogate, my liberation from that XeR's black shadow…In There. But my self at Derza, I will read her the summary of our two imagined weeks.
The results will follow equal in a few moments:Der neu zeit starts tomorrow night we'll paint the sheet from those dogs who don't smoke,Ma belle I regret my self, tu es très jolie ma belle I know you are,Sleep tight with the fairies… oh psychosis looking to kill a sherry with a newOne, the last days of an hashishin ended lost by voluntary optionIn toilet paper. I couldn't manage to paint the picture with her. She didn't want.
I don't even need to use the explanation of 'literary poligenesis' from Umberto EcoFor that I wake up my self today from the bed with Kim's voice saying she wants to be levitated,For that I turn towards macao in front of the neon saying Coil,For that I ask simply for a gallon of milk and enter with a password at the zon fon free,For that I notice in on more photoevidence of the association-comparison with shit,For that… possible to occur, have I desired this? Ah the unknowing of my self…I know I am a crook but they must want I vote my shares on keepingMy mouth shut up. In the meantime and sometimes, I am as human as you and I choose with conscience.
We are all affiliations around a line, envy of the one who possesses no one.
Sometimes we buy, sometimes we trade, lots of times we steal the one whoDon't accept our coin.
Here it will be polite to spell without error, to transcribe a Borges' affiliation:Man is a dead man who, sometime, tries to converse with other dead men whom he thinks as illustrious. The subject I study is psychophysiology.
What I can't think is that these illustrious dead ones may want to talk with dead oneWithout qualities.
If I were the cunt of a red queen or if I were to pay him the conversation hmm… When the muse still liked my conversation I come to talk with her about the red queen.
The muse says the red queen is the worst kind.
When I breed her saying that music seems to talk about my self,And that maybe these suns seem to transform their selves into moons to seduce the red queen,As if the red queen were my self, as if everybody wanted to invert the story,The muse refers the film 'boys don't cry' where the inverse is going on: it's her desire to bite.
In the music Coil ask: What are you going to do if they don't believe you?(A cadence of waiting until I recover my self from the unsafe mail trait.)Then they sing the possible answer: The ink is still wet, make the most noise, theEmpty vessels ring through. Is it so awful to be seen, feel and fail?Manuelle Biezon, a character scribed and appearing as if, the black pussycatMura. I am not Hölderlin, meanwhile today his job is legible, this is told by aFriend. Tells the homicidal literalism may be justifiable, today it's validTo look for the purple fish in the balcony and tint red the shadows andThe darkening of morning in the melancholy of my mind.
The world has reverted its polarity, the end of the world has already ended, I my self had it written also.
The world sleeps today with a sheer belly and naked feet, the ruideness.
The world has turned upside down, yesterday is tomorrow only backwards.
I, everybody I quote, my self, character of film? Borges, blind? The library? Maybe my grandpa… maybe you wanted to have some spare time, wisdom to share with me.
The grandpa, the mothers, some uncles like the pain that only the naïve rebels give.
The affiliated brothers, the invented dads will say awkwardly: go back to yr street,We don't consider you as a friend, you don't resemble me, who is this gadjo?The women maybe they look for virile males exhaling trust, the teeth all and white.
Mr. Cool wakes up with pain thinking on whom have affiliated him.
In the dream he almost say yes to the non-marital partnership and if it is necessary I will ask official credentialsTo date your daughter, daughter?!, daughter of which sir?The mother puts with tenderness the breakfast, she opens the window blinds.
Don't you answer my self, don't you say yes?, Mr. Cool is asking with rheum in the eyes.
His fiancée partner is now one more rheum in the residue of another bad dream.
It doesn't cease to be ironic, even insolent, and because in english the birds moan:'Tanx for the drinking, so goodnight womanHey here it is a lady, a lady finesse in potency, you willBreak a lot of hearts in case you don't followThe nunnery.' Now, as if I was her, I write in english, and because the crooks have motive,And not only the holy pride to be protected, to fake the deafness her answer,One of the possible ones: I don't feel like a sex object, your site is still under Construction. But I imagine that she may have just said: you need to stabilize, to balance.
Over the next month I don't have time to take coffee. Very busy.
I release my self with a phone call 'to the other' and I send a phone message saying that I didn't know how something seemed to run wrongAnd sorry for disturbing your communication,well I don't see you for twelve days now…can you imagine how I feel? Baby?! She says she likes me, she says my energy is strong, She doesn't see me as a friend. It's almost a compliment! Send me to hell this way.
Choices. Options. Alone always but never alone. Lonely always.
I have only remembered after midnight.
What you have done to others today they do the same to you…Nice fucking day birth her! Could it be a sign?? Would I like it? She seemed like the little red riding hood my teeth wanted to suckI have a future myself as a midnight cowboy. Ridicule.
Today: the midday cowboy feeds my ex-future.
I have never made the request nor does it matters if theirs was just: a maybe wedding.
I mix her with her and thinking on her I write:You should think more about the othersIt's not only you that there is,It's not only you that does work,You are afraid of my self and you send me to hell,Saying you respect my self, shall I put my self to cast a spell?Any day now you will be no more of a burnt photocolourless odourless.
All this is going on a long time agoYou know I mix always your identity in the false copies that suck seed your self.
I don't even know if you were good for my self, I never knew what I wanted to be with you.
I have only fought for you when there were already no us, only my nuts.
I have burned tour image due to lack of care, today you are a cd's aura.
You are the muse and mother of my surrogate, I my self equally a surrogate.
The president of the general board of the society of beings with sex, the nickname I write about.
But the nickname she wears with proud, that name she didn't explain to my self.
If she tried she, she would have repeated simply as she said:I don't like you don't like me. She she she always she consume your self yes you uh! I want to overcome the vanishing point,I want to find some sherry and no surrogate woman,I want to find someone bigger and different than you, uh my escape plan.
But to sleep well, certainly well, ah hope.
I will like to climb the next bird nest, oh phado.
Where's the moon in my room? Only in my head because:The ones of you that become interested by me you demand platonic devotion. No sex.
I know you know I will not let my self be easily a belonging of any cane moon.
The discovery of my self ecologically integratedAround the world, at the telephone I imagine a beauty like this,Some happiness that will not be seen as sad, fanciful.
I imagine also a dada boxing fight between the bush and the insane,This will be beheaded after the hanging, the history channel informs my self.
The honour of saying goodbye before being fired.
Friendship could be enough if there was humour.
Hell hell, in the living room heaven heaven, in concert once in a while.
Crazy singer him, I? Us!,Whilst offering you nuts at the hospital the acting singer will always ask your self:The lady saves, the lady dances, will the lady smoke with my self?,I will not need to use the literary sleep for you to replyYesUntil the day you get sick of my muses and my smoke in your drawers,Until the day you menace to throw my books, my records – the umbrellas I exchanged with Satie – out of the window,Until the day you wish to laugh out of my self: as if, a dead one revealed as a fishHowling – some psychopath oxymoron, some rumble old man.
Ladyfriends will give your self all the reason, they will say that is not right to do to a lady.
Men will say: He were always a cabron very bad, every loath has what he deserves.
My Gudrun is a character of a D. H. Lawrence's book: the woman whom will neverBe woman of some man and the woman we all want to possess during eternity.
Everyman at some time has conversed with a Nico's permutation.
Every one of these Nicos are different, it's just we that in this stretched end-of-world we don't notice.
Huysmans got tired of his fin-de-siècle, he entered the monastery.
In the metaphor I have spent some time in There but I am not Huysmans.
My president of SoBwS never was, she tried in some way to seem like, ChristaPäffgen. I-smoke-the-dis-illusion-I-am. I finalize with the residue of my winterSolstice, one psychophotography destroying all the beauty of your language.
Fuck language! I want a woman and not a muse.
“I would like to dedicate to my sweet M so sweet flower, so it goes like dis: I like when You make me smile in puss off y of panels, Vegetable dishes laughing cocks le coq sportif with the river Flow in g organic, Criminals imagining all the crippled people dancing cozy cozendo sewing,Kiss mushy jazz Lie dead dad turning to her rehto rectus correct inter sect,Fun like ass bin-assar-dor pain burn Being burned,Ganga blue SG pallas less Callas a passa-r inha queer(?) queen…Stay PLEASE call me On the phone my ears years, Yr voice so sweet, yr my lovely flower, yr life-style my green tie on a still photo.
Smelling yr touch on a sunday Nico morning tin teen time thine and where? Hands searching faith, Lights night neons of cum… I tell ya what, A glass ov Port with a lemon-asphixiating heroin…Querida caro dear beloved wanted darling sweet with sherries.
I got sick of it. I will not trust any more your charity tea parties. I prefer my self alone and well married.

Source: http://edi-cassiber.net/pdf/FairyTales/08_The_President_of_the_SoBwS.pdf


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