CANNIBALISM: 1. quasi-sex – see 'eat me' (don't confuse with SEx, an anagram for self-exchange); 2. unquestioningly consuming knowledge or kneading (rolling it for raising dough); 3. the theory of employment (converting your own kin or strangers into energy and products to increase your mere survival without leakage from your ducts and capillaries); 4. consuming a disposable shell, mold or form such as an Aztec pump organ, dropped placenta or fingernails:
"For the moment, we need to keep in mind three types of things: 1) that which comes to be, 2) that in which it comes to be [receptacle], and 3) that after which the thing coming to be is modeled, and which is the source of its coming to be. It is in fact appropriate to compare the receiving thing to a mother, the source to a father, and the nature between them to their offspring ... a mother or recepticle (is) an invisible and characterless sort of thing".– Plato
But that's only a pointed metaphor of male matters – try saying it to vinegar, praying manti or black-widowed spiders. Nothing? Even when a way of talking like a corpse, for the child the source is always mom or even grandma! And sans an endorsed contract from the state, who's to say who was your father but the catcher at the plate? Does it really matter? What would change if you were born as someone else? Isn't everyone precisely that already?
Concerning mothers, Loki teaches one can swim both ways and then repeat it! One can see that mothering's what matters, (nothing's immaterial when "matter" is a verb) and that's a trick that anyone can turn, we even call it "nursing", "nurture" when the context isn't milk or gmo's becoming nature (that which preachers used to call "god's factory") to monopolize (emasculate) all future culture – what some call "symbolic order". That's when the young Trickster must transform into Destroyer, like your gods did to their fathers. I can see what your game is, Mr. Plato: the seeds you plant will only sprout as allergies. I'm thinking only gods are cannibalistic – they're unappealing for the eating except by others who are tasteless or whose appetites have turned to shit; I'm thinking of unsweatened (lite), the liposucking sycophantic.
METABOLISM: (roll along beside, nurture (gently push) from behind, also eating mothers or mother-eating) 1. any grinding process toward the hips before excretion, by which food is converted into the energy and products needed to sustain life after separating out those which might just end it; 2. conversion of matter to energy, ie, what appears death of a substance is growth and reproduction of another, but only through inmixing into chaos and then emerging reconsolidated into something new – it's sort of like technology (when that's not free, it excludes all the middles and whatever's down below) but more resembles art when it's opened up for anyone to see, an autopsy of the living.
Generating no-cost heat for neighbors as a by-product only appears excremental. Plants and bugs who scavenge waste say it's absolute, essential. The shock or awed explosion occurs at that moment of transformation, but should not for your observers (unless their orbit's been disrupted):– Fig Newton
In myth-time it is only thought a transubstantiation, a new solidarity in what was expansive or explosive (from certain observation posts "it all turns to shit" but from that post they cannot see potential). Density, expansity, density, the law of three is the eternal return, but not of an identity since all density is unique and transitory. Entanglement, a teratory, an open fieldbook of more than a trillion stories that are dances – a bent doughnut only looks like a figure eight from the side – nothing is contained and nothing's emptied. The only for-sure vacuum is ascending gravity (see Desire if you're still hungry). Black is only the inversion of a color to accentuate an image (pay no mind to the void behind the curtain, it's just another image for your inconsideration – it's just the unknown author or a fit of blank imagination).
CATABOLISM: (roll/throwing down) the production of energy (capital) through the conversion of complex (living) molecules into simpler (dead) ones, one little bite at a time. – see the difference between parasite and paracide.
Beating babies even mataphorically tenderizes spirits toward and for authority.. Metaphor was once the form of mothers up till gods proclaimed perogative to open and close wombs so they could eat the newborn, a potential every generation for another revolution, its consumption thought to halt a foregone conclusion but even so the fates were only tempted, and Zeus's grand solution was to supper on the mother.– Euchronius Funk
Birth is as much a rebirth, a return of the mother-as-young-girl or maiden, as the infant who is, for all appearance, new, all the while the placental organ is born dead and rendered into food. The singular event of parturition encompasses or is commensurate with every transition, even puberty, and that is likely near the time (or is it tome?) of baby's first, but in this sense a mother's second birth. The I/you split's ambiguous, especially at first. It was all about a rythm and a meter, now it's just a rhyme producing blues because it's called a "labor" as is anything juxtaposed to pain and then projected onto others. For men who like their answers cut and dried, maternity's a mystery so they proceed to treat them just like any other piece of meat and then proceed to rewrite history, to own and keep what's been digested – developmental growth is ever after confined to matters of economy – the only things that they can bear are prisons. "Bearing" is the clue that something in their head's gone missing.
FREEDOM: 1. A satanic promise of Utopia the priest and his police will never know. 2. the "ownership" of the means of, neither production nor reproduction, but mischief, which is only the ability or energy or potential to turn against the wind, to go more with the nurturing than toxic; to turn for no reason whatsoever in or outside of an experimental context. There is no choice available 'til one comes to a turning point. This is the basic law of navigation. A turning point is just a noticed reinforcement suggestive of another way. The law is never legal cause its only definition – it is really just an insincere appeal, otherwise the lawyer-judges wouldn't have to keep concealing that behind them stands the guns and clubs and knives and bars of steel. Who would need a law to tell them not to leap off, high on spinning ferris wheels nor to eat your grandma 'cause your gut says "feed me please, or I will eat whatever in you I can feel"?
Were it not expected to become broken, there would be no law created. A regularity is a mathematic or statistical assessment or it's an observation. It only speaks to frequencies and their seemly distribution. The only use for this 'normality' is to facilitate prediction. That comes in handy; it can be reasuring. The regulation is no assessment at all. It demands the normal is the only possibility and can only give one a false sense of security. A front to hide a major insecurity: it's precarious. You could say that legislators have no mathematic capability, so how could they cope with any sort of poetry or witness more than simple (tit-for-tatish) resonating patterns?– M. F. (Mathew Flunky) Junky
When going seems a rut that is spinning you in circles, and in lieu of external encouragement or road signs scattered round and bout, which is to say a plan, playful chance (that's spontaneity) creates its own turning points, opens possibility, the word for mischief is play, whether or not it's an act in three part realities. Hence planning remains the most popular sport for the unwilling types of casualties prone to go with whatever a breeze is blowing or line of shit that's snorting. Unfortunately, since games are the mechanisation of play ("there are rules!" they say), the limits of planning resemble the limits of mechanics, and for social change, increased mechanisation is fast falling out of favour. It turns out that mechanised society is precisely the problem folks bitch about, it brings to mind Jo Stalin as well as George Orwell's 1984, and for many, even those, by today's standards, are looking less hostile.
DIABOLISM: Friction. Every internal or external contradiction produces friction, which is heat, which continues struggle (if only to let off steam or some other excretion). Continued struggle after letting loose produces a victor (think 'quicksand'). It is therefore always encouraged by enforcers of control (the game is their salary, seat and earthly cup for tits or tea afterwards – it's tit for tat, the common game of all economy and that's for home security and 'winning', otherwise known as a boring penetration just before yer own capitulation – one gets swollowed or is flushed when the preferred residence is a toilet).
"Unless we change direction, we are likely to end up just where we're headed"– Pinyin Wan, New Wives' Tailings from Olden Chinese Sayings, 3rd cent b.c.
Capitalist civilisation is the absolute extent of the nature of dialectics. That is the only absolutely agreed-upon absolute. Unfortunately for the civilised, every child understands that nature is itself not dialectical (it's just a con who's hiding behind curtains, like Pelonius, unknowing it's for him – they think they're wizards or that they're immortal beings), at least, not till youngsters learn the word, "opposite" and are taught its universal application. This lesson ends childhood, unless they become it and keep a certain fondness for disorder.
Mischief, ever an invention by the young of every species, breaks one free of all friction cycles set on crumble, excuse me, tumble. Even those that spiral, some would call it syncopated swimming if they're sympathetic drummers. Other than your murder or lobotomy, the only reaction the civil order can engage is to increase its own acceleration, like rapid spin before the drying, and that is always in a cannibalic metabolication – of sorts, a new vacation, and for which there's not a chance of vaccination. To mix your metaphors when contemplating soaking tubs of gin-and-tonic clubs is no sign of madness. Never fear, it's just anger and poetic way to blow their brains out like a curse that looks just like a master blaster. That's the secret to embracing or escaping into chaos like you're hiding underneath someone else's mother's skirts to find some breathing room and catch it, like in Old Norway Hela was a hela pretty goddess and not the joint good christians fear to smoke in.
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