Prose-Paean to a 1996 psychotic breakdown

Endless digging
like a clown in
any Shakespeare play

When psuche realised
that she breathed
with the plant

time became a taught rope
of sense and nonsense
and happiness

and it didn't matter
if the word plant
was an actual plant

it didn't matter
I thought numbers
were things
that I could ask
their what of?

the jumping
over chasms
faith has enough holes

It's a ground I walked
M Rosencroyzer
and Guildernstern died

and I dug
sung
gave clouds names

The play noted
man bites dog
in my suburbs today

and I claw this truth
by nail
and hammer
and sawfish tooth

hacking at the stone
that is the memory

I planted a flag
on the forgetting island
it held writing

the soil of the island down to
magma silo depth
forged on herald

was no colour
symbol or army
cheer

but the plant
that breathed
with psuche

intervening
prior towards
my vegetal flesh

swich licour antigua
was the plant
was actually constellation
as signified

the signifier became flesh
the signified was anything else
universals

Becoming a plant
in my own spyring
this scope
of Uraniborg as glass

Becoming the signifier
not the word
the signified pointed at
the universe

picture the butterfly nebula
blown apart by a studio
of airconditioners

was the signified
meaning was image

signifier over signified
or here as fractured matheme

word is

Sf
__
Sd

so

word as becoming the thing it describes
________________________
D

and
D = E + F

E being an image of the universe
elicited from just the butterfly
nebula

and F being a universal image
or universal thought-image

E and F are chiasm to each other

D there is the chiasm conflated

The word becoming the thing it describes
is the loss of the vinculum of the sign
and all conflations and condensations
occuring from that loss

and only then did the sign reassemble
to the psychotogram

as there's no allegory
and just talk

it's a map

Borges makes the map a territory. Jabes deserts sparked

Some maps are lost in themselves
and territories that we've not onedered but twodered
and now we've threedered and can fourded.

I can afford my fare and fairness today.

That's the price paid and no quid in return
but for the quiddity of wool and wolves
is where I can see ahead
but I'm not ending there

Poetry being the play
writing the consumable
thing, that costs me.

To remember what those
who remembered better said
I could not
is only my victory
because this poet
is also a person.