Monday, December 15, 2014


6926  The philosophical question is not whether or not the things of this everyday world are softly formless and Deconstruction rules just out of sight.  Of course it is just that.  That is the way of balmy falsehood in the meringue of this gently spinning Platonic mixing bowl.  Rather the question is whether or not the well-formed Forms exist in another place.  And are they reflected anywhere here.

6925  He seems to have left me.  But maybe not really.  So many things could be going through his mind.  This may happen next, or that.  In essence he is … the possibilities are varied.  The combinations entangled.  Which Form is actual?

In this everyday world no Form matches perfectly.  Ambiguity reigns.  The edges are all porous.  Existence leaks.  So where are the Forms?  In literature and our day and night dreams.  There every outcome, every explanation, exists; you have drunk the Soma.  The rod, the post you are tied to, in this multi-verse of ideas quickens/deadens you.  Choose to go this way or that, follow your leash back, retrace your steps.  And enter yet another place.  A perfect, otherworldly place.  But back in “real” life, you still don’t know if he will come back or not, nor does he.  And you will never know what happened.  Except in the Ideas, so well-formed and eternal.

6924  In philosophical writing, in all of art, in romance, timing is more than important, it is of the essence.  And of course when one is attempting to climb up the sky-hook to ejaculation.  Such delicate maneuvers.  A slight and aggressive touch.  Breath forcefully, softly caught up.  A barely audible voluble. Petrified spirit.

It’s nerve-wracking.  And tiring.  And always standing, waiting with a musk-dripping hand on the doorknob of your brain.  Maybe something’s on TV to distract you.  Or you could iron your shirt for tomorrow.  Dalliance.  Then the vision appears.  Just as you open the refrigerator door.  The bright light.  The cold.  Words tumble, wanting to move your fingers over the frozen keyboard.  The nonchalance of time.  You manipulate it perfectly.

Saturday, December 13, 2014


6923  Why am I always reflecting on my writing?  No one else utters a word about it so I am my own critic.  I mirror.  And now I am mirroring the mirror.  And that is nothing.  It was inevitable.  I am God.  I am.  Or some such Sufi ultimate wisdom.  I await my impaling.

My martyrdom never comes.  And I so wanted to watch it.  A mirror is a perfect witness, but it cannot be thought.  Is that pain enough?  I suffer being divided from myself.  I have eaten the body of God.  I am become that flesh.  I stick out.  While the Advocate argues my existence.

There is no mirror.  There is only reflection.  Another bothersome external relation.  Bent.  I am screwed into the Cheek of Night.  Torque.  Etc..

May I use your pretty face as a stepping-stone up to heaven and outta here?  Scala Paradisi pucker boy.  You are my drill.  Sergeant.  Surge and in the brig.  Don’t blaspheme the great god Eros; he’s a brigand who will steal your heart (and any other organ he can turn into a fast buck).  While he lies on your bed doing facebook.

Why did I write that?  I was forced to.  My writing isn’t mine.  (This is so old hat.)  I’m merely a scribe, a reporter on the gazette, the little gaze for big gays, who have enough problems of their own without all this nonsense.  I will mind the boy, for them, and keep him corralled in my words.  Have a nice day.  He said.

6922  Metaphysical silence.  I write short pieces.  Tight, reductive, seductive.  A gloss, a glossy picture, a pouty blossom.  An eromenos.  Soon gone.  Leaving only the thing itself, a metaphysical conundrum.  On the windy heath.  He beats his drum.  And sucks his thumb.  Ho hum.

The discursive cur barks outside, but under my covers only aphasic asiatic jinn.  Nothing has ever changed.  You are chained to eternity.  And the blast of the phallic head.  Again.

In the silence thought swells.  Fears pale.  Power rises.  Eyes prowl.  The tiger jumps.  The owl thumps.  The trigger pulls.  A gossamer naught drifts anon. 

The sheath retracts.  Time to plan.  And the exit.  


6921  "What we cannot speak we must pass over in silence.”  That was clearly intended as a statement of metaphysical impossibility, not scientific.  And, as it happened, it made all of metaphysics unspeakable.  Which turned metaphysics into less than nothing at all, and, more than something to be sneered at, it made it evil.  That history is well known and still with us.  I speak metaphysics.  Which probably accounts for the paucity of comments I get.   No one wants this god pawing on their fair skin. 

So it’s silence.  And a passing over.  A few paragraphs read and then “just leave it”.  And then there are those boys.  “The love that dare not speak its name” and all that.  Is there a connection between that daring not and metaphysical silence?  I bet I could find one.

Pederastic Platonism is untaught in the schools.  Could it be?  Do words exist that could speak it?  Is it more than socially unspeakable; is it essentially the Ineffable itself.  I have spoken it—sort of.  Silence surrounds my words.  I have spoken metaphysics and the Boy is there.  He always has been in the long history of Platonism.  And that remains untaught in the schools.

Words have come to me as an avalanche and nothing more than a snow job is left behind.  Your behind and That One and a freezing chill.  And your silence about the whole affair.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014


6920  Separation.  Openness.  Nothing is hidden.  The boy stands bare in the clear light.  Everything is external in the public eye.   Smooth clarity.  The Sky.

I said that the Forms, each one a thing separate from the others, were God.  It seems that I have made God be a multitude, but I haven’t.  Rather, God is the externality of all things to each other.  The Form of Form.  The Openness.  The naked Boy with the clear forehead.  In the public eye.  The Divine Eye gazing back.  Perspicuous perception. 

In my realism all things are directly seen and known.  Facts happily reveal their ontological parts.  There is no unseen substance beyond appearances.  The appearing exists.  We see the final things.  Even existence itself.

This is all an extension of Russell’s Doctrine of External Relations.  If the pupil of the boy's eye is greater than the sun, then the relation of “greater than” is external to both his eye and the sun.  God is all around him.  Just as that little “is” you slipped by so serenely is outside everything it connects.  Nothing is internal and out of sight.  The Son shines apocalyptically. 
 

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