New Page 1

"The School of Francis Bacon opens up the valves of Sensationism. In the Beginning there was always already only Sensation which was always always already before the construction of the conceptual, meaning and narrative - (which are always already added after the event of Sensation). Abstract Art does not exist. Conceptual Art does not exist. Contemporary Art does not exist. Sensation of the Image exists. Sensation is Image. Sensation is Being. Being is Sensation. Truth is Sensation. Being Sensation. Truth Sensation."

"Art negates the conceptualization foisted on the real world...The truth of works of art hinges on whether or not they succeed, in accordance with their inner necessity, to absorb the non-conceptual and the contingent. For their purposefulness requires the purposelessness, which is illusion... Aesthetics cannot hope to grasp works of art if it treats them as hermeneutical objects. What at present needs to be grasped is their unintelligibility...By its mere existence, every artwork, as alien artwork to what is alienated, conjures up the circus and yet is lost as soon as it emulates it. Art becomes an image not directly by becoming an apparition but only through the counter-tendency to it... The subject only becomes the essence of the artwork when it confronts it foreignly, externally, and compensates for the foreigness by substituting itself for the work... Artworks win life only when they renounce likeness to the human...Actually, only what does not fit into this world is true."

"Life is a series of sensations connected to different states of consciousness."

"It is not the strength but the duration of exalted sensations which makes exalted men."

"I'll tell you how I think of my own work: it unlocks the valves of sensation at different levels."

Francis Bacon, Remarks from an Interview with Peter Beard, MOMA, New York 1975.

"Thoughts are the shadows of our sensations - always darker, emptier, simpler than these."

"Clear out the inner world! There are still many false beings in it! Sensation and thought are enough for me."

"Art can cease to be a report on sensations and become a direct organisation of higher sensations. It is a matter of producing ourselves, and not things that enslave us."

Guy Debord, These on Cultural Revolution, Guy Debord and the Situationist International, The MIT Press, 2002.

"I think that only time tells about painting....I think that the potency of the image is created partly by the possibility of its enduring. And, of course, images accumulate sensation around themselves the longer they endure."

Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"To sensation is to confine yourself to a single sensation that one day stands still like a star in the world's sky. We never come to sensations. They come to us. The splendour of the sensation. Being the sensation."

"Can sensation be assimilated to an original opinion, to Urdoxa as the world's foundation or immutable basis? Phenomenology finds sensation in perceptual and affective 'a priori materials' that transcend the perceptions and affections of the lived."

"The artist is only a receptacle for sensations, a brain, a recording device...I paint as I see, as I feel - and I have very strong sensations...As sensations form the foundation of my business, I believe myself invulnerable."

Paul Cézanne, Conversations with Cézanne, University of California Press, 2001.

"Bacon's aim is to record sensation as directly as possible because sensation is an essential part of the experience of reality which he wants to re-invent. 'It may be,' he has said, 'that realism is always subjective.' This rests on the phenomenalist tenet that we experience reality indirectly, via the evidence of our senses, and consequently that perception constitutes our sense of reality."

Paul Moorhouse, The Crucifixion in Bacon's Art, Art International, No. 8, Autumn 1989..

"A purely sensory being, Rousseau demonstrated, could not possibly comprehend the identity of an object simultaneously seen and touched. Rousseau went further. He compared the 'sensation of self' and the 'perception' of the external world, and arrived at the conclusion that an individual could 'have' a sensation only if he entered into the sensation of self; and since perceptions brought home what existed outside, while at the same time existing only in the medium of the sensation of the self, it followed that without a sensation of self there was no existence. Or the other way about: the sensation of self produced existence."

Rüdiger Safranski, Schopenhauer and the Wild Years of Philosophy, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1989.

"We only know our own sensations, not those of the other...The sensations of the sexual act themselves have a provocative agreement with figures. The sensation exhibits the true object of desire (but the object of desire is itself an exhibit of the sensation). The tepidness of rain in the [brambles? rosebushes?], the dull fulguration of the storm, evoke both the figure and the inner sensation of eroticism. The smoothness, the tumescence, the milky flow of feminine nudity anticipate a sensation of liquid outpour, which itself opens onto death like a window onto a courtyard. But it is human to search, from lure to lure, for a life that is at last autonomous and authentic."

Georges Bataille, The Object of Desire and the Totality of the Real, Zone Books, 1993.

"There are no feelings in Bacon: there are nothing but affects; that is, 'sensations' and 'instincts,' according to the formula of naturalism. Sensation is what determines instinct at a particular moment, just as instinct is the passage from one sensation to another, the search for the 'best' sensation (not the most agreeable sensation, but the one that fills the flesh at a particular moment of its descent, contraction, or dilation)... Cézanne, it is said, is the painter who put a vital rhythm into the visual sensation...Could it be that Bacon's closed and artificial world reveals the same vital movement as Cézanne's Nature?...What is ultimate is thus the relation between sensation and rhythm, which places in each sensation the levels and domains through which it passes. This rhythm runs through a painting just as it runs through a piece of music."

Gilles Deleuze, Painting & Sensation; Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, Continuum, 2003.

"Bacon’s 'middle way' is not figuration. It is not a synthetic unity of empirical objects represented to subjects. The figure is not a representation. The figure is sensation itself. It renders visible the forces that are invisible. Sensation is the expression of sub-representative forces that do not resemble it. It is not representational figuration that provokes sensation. Rather, sensation produces a new resemblance from real difference. Sensation is the non-resembling means that provokes the figure. Bacon paints the sensation itself. Horror is inferred from the scream, not the reverse. If the scream is inferred from a subjective sensation of horror or a horrifying object, then narration and representation are re-introduced. Sensation - the figure - the scream is botched. "

Beth Metcalf, Deleuze's Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, January 2006.

"We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose."

"What I am trying to convey to you is more mysterious; it is entwined in the very roots of being, in the impalpable source of sensations."

"Colette found a language to express a strange osmosis between her sensations, her desires, her anxieties – ‘those pleasures thoughtlessly called physical’ – and the infiniteness of the world, the blossoming of flowers, the rippling of beast, sublime apparitions, contagious monsters."

"The Kevin Dean cock will take you to new depths of pleasure. 12" long (10" insertable), and 2.2" thick (7" around), this toy is soft and flexible, with a slight curve to the shaft for some unique sensations."

"The mixed sensations, which transform unpleasant objects and sensations into sources of aesthetic pleasure, are superior to 'purest enjoyment' because they provide an enlivening solicitation of our sensitivity to a heightened degree by means of changing sides - of performing a trajectory with a considerable amplitude of tension."

Winfried Menninghaus, Disgust: Theory and History of a Strong Sensation; The Beautiful as Vomitive, State University of New York Press, 2003.

"Baudelaire's obsession, his 'speciality' (indeed, his trademark), was the 'sensation of the new'. Benjamin speaks of 'the inestimable value for Baudelaire of nouveauté. The new cannot be interpreted, or compared. It becomes the ultimate retrenchment of art.' Making novelty 'the highest value' was the strategy of l'art pour l'art, the aesthetic position Baudelaire adopted in 1852."

Susan Buck-Morss, The Dialectic of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades Project, MIT Press, 1991.

"Art challenges commonsense experiences by composing sensations which are a composite of percepts and affects from the perspective of aesthetic theories."

Tamsin Lorraine, Irigaray and Deleuze: Experiments In Visceral Philosophy, Cornell University Press, 1999.

"...the notion of sense data or sensation itself is really a part of a scientific theory of perception, not a philosophical theory. . . Philosophers often have to rush in where behaviourists fear to tread."

"In what the senses of sight, hearing, and touch covey, in the sensations of colour, sound, roughness, and hardness, things move us bodily, in the literal meaning of the word. The thing is the aistheton..."

"One might have thought that a philosophy of 'absolute knowledge' would have to renounce sensation. On the contrary, we see that absolute knowledge can only be effected through beings who are essentially sensing, that is, essentially constituted by an immediate relation to an apparent other, which is equally to say that we must be embodied."

John Russon, The Systematics of Hegel's Visual Imagery, Sites of Vision, Edited by David Michael Levin, The MIT Press, 1997.

"As Levinas writes: 'A painting, a statue, a book are objects of our world, but through them the things represented are extracted from our world.' The artwork effects thus an alienation of the world. The privilege of sensation over cognition in the experience of an artwork does not suggest that sensation is a precondition of perception and cognition; rather it indicates a fundamental foreignness with respect to cognition and to perception which, Levinas argues is always perception of and within a world."

Alain P. Toumayan, Encountering the Other: The Artwork and the Problem of Difference in Blanchot & Levinas, Duquesne, 2004.

"there is no sensation without a somatic moment. To this extent the concept of sensation, in comparison with that which it allegedly subsumes, is twisted so as to satisfy the demand for an autarkic connection of all cognitive steps. While senastion is a part of consciousness, according to the cognitive principle of styling, its phenomenology - unbiased, under the rules of cognition - would have to describe it equally as that which consciousness does not exhaust. Every sensation is a physical feeling also."

Theodor W. Adorno, Concept and Categories; Negative Dialectics, Routledge, 1973.

"All sensations have appellations of their own, e.g. for sight red, green, yellow, for taste sweet, sour, etc., but smell cannot have proper appellations; rather, we borrow the appellations from other sensations, e.g. it smells sour, or has a smell of roses or carnations, it smells like moschus. These are all appellations from other sensations. Hence we cannot describe smell."

"Only a memory can recognize this differential 'stamp,' this mark or signature, this patent or trademark that 'time prints on our sensations.' Neither time nor memory is anything other than the figure of these marks. And this 'memory of the present' only marks itself, and this mark arrives only to efface the anteriority of the past."

"Everything indicates that it was impossible for man to live without the 'sensation of time' that opened his world like a movement of breathtaking speed - but what he lived in the past as fear he can only now as pride and glory...A feeling of explosion and a vertiginous weightlessness surround an imperious and heavy obelisk...In each place where the massive destiny of man is formed, the rhythm of life and death accelerates and attains a speed so great that it results only in the vertigo of the fall...What makes this movement difficult to represent is the fact that it is accelerated by increases in the sensation of rest."

Georges Bataille, The Obelisk; Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939, University of Minnesota Press, 1985.

"In the Critique of Pure Reason, sensation, as 'something,' occupies the place of the inextinguishably ontical. But sensation holds no higher cognitive rank than any other real entity.... Sensations - the Kantian matter, without which forms would not even be imaginable, so that the forms also qualify the possibility of cognition - sensations have the character of transiency. Nonconceptuality, inalienable from the concept, disavows the the concept's being-in-itself. It changes the concept."

Theodor W. Adorno, Compulsory Substantiveness; Negative Dialectics, Routledge, 1973.

"It is a characteristic of sensation to pass through different levels owing to the action forces. But two sensations, each having their own level or zone, can also confront each other and make their respective levels communicate. Here we are no longer in the domain of simple vibration, but that of resonance. There are thus two Figures couples together. Or rather, what is decisive is the coupling of sensations: there is one and the same matter of fact for two figures, or even a single coupled Figure for two bodies. From the start, we have seen that, according to Bacon, the painter could not give up the idea of painting several Figures in the painting at the same time, although there was always the danger of reintroducing a 'story' or falling back into narrative painting. The question thus concerns the possibility that there may exist relations between simultaneous Figures that are nonillustrative and nonnarrative (and not even logical), and which could be called, precisely, 'matters of fact'. Such indeed is indeed the case here, where the coupling of sensations from different levels creates the coupled figure (and not the reverse). What is painted is the sensation. There is a beauty to these entangled Figures."

Gilles Deleuze, Couples and Triptychs; Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, Continuum, 2003.

"The critique of philosophical intellectualism enters into Jean Wahl's exposition wherever life turns into ideas that transcend it, shedding the keen immediacy and sensation of being. 'We must communicate substantially with what is substantial in things.' This conception of sensation concurs, on many essential points, with Bergson's intuition...The aspect of sensations that Wahl is interested in is less their affective warmth than a certain violence and intensity. Sensation is something savage, dense, opaque, dark, 'blind, bare contact.' It is described as a jolt, a shiver, a spasm. As if the intensity of the sensation constituted its content rather than its degree, as if the essence of the sensation could be reduced to that tension, that contraction in which we could catch in the act of movement of being toward its interiority, its descent into self. A movement radically opposed to transcendence: instead of losing or finding itself in the universal, sensation, tensed on itself, affirms the inner substance of man, or the personal structure of being. As philosophy of sensation opposed to Heidegger's. Sensation does not mark our presence in the world, overcome by its own nothingness, but marks the way in which we descend into, and concentrate on, ourselves."

Emmanuel Levinas, Jean Wahl and Sensation, Proper Names, The Athlone Press, 1996.

"Sensations of feeling or sensual feelings are inseparable from their founding sensations. The pleasantness of a savoury dish, the agony of a sensual pain, the comfort of a soft garment are noticed where the food is tasted, where the pain pierces, where the garment clings to the body's surface. However, sensual feelings not only are there but at the same time also in me; they issue from my 'I'...A 'withered' limb without sensations is not part of my living body...For the living body is essentially constituted through sensations: sensations are real constituents of consciousness and, as such, belong to the 'I'....Whether a sensing 'I' is conceivable without a living body is another question. This is the question of whether there could be sensations in which no living body is constituted. The answer can be given with further ado because, as already stated, the sensations of the various sensory provinces do not share in the structure of the living body in the same manner."

Edith Stein, On the Problem of Empathy, 1989, ICS Publications, Washington DC.

"Let us turn briefly to the philosophical debate that asks whether a sensation is a thought. This debate has important ramifications for contemporary philosophical inquiry, but its origins date back to antiquity....Sensation, which cannot be reduced to ideas even though it is intrinsically dependent on them, can never be equivalent to Intelligence...Nevertheless, sensation can only exist if it makes itself intelligible...The difficulty of defining sensation prompts us to shift our discussion to a disorder that has attracted the attention of psychotherapists, psychiatrists, neurologists, and contemporary psychoanalysis: autism...I refer to this ailment because its specialists have offered a useful theoretical understanding of sensation and of the relationship between sensation and language."

Julia Kristeva, Is Sensation a Form of Language? ; Time and Sense, New York : Columbia University Press, 1996.

"Proust thus uncovered a form of memory, beyond the control of our consciousness. Recollection is suggested by some unexpected physical sensation (perhaps unimportant in itself) such as a faint scent, taste, or sound. But that sensation has in the past been associated with a number of definite impressions, and when by chance the identical sensation recurs years afterwards, all the impressions (associated with it) also rush back, en masse. 'It is a complete fragment of the past, with its original perfume, that is for a moment given back to us.' Resurrection of the past as the aftermath of an accidental, involuntary physical sensation is the keystone of Proust's conception of life and art. It combines past and present."

Jeannette Lowen, Doing Time with Marcel Proust, Humanism & the Arts, Council for Secular Humanism.

''Disgust uses images of sensation or suggests the sensory merely by describing the disgusting thing so as to capture what makes it disgusting...For one thing, it is easy to come up with words to describe disgusting sensations when these are moist, viscid, pliable, than when they are dry, free flowing, or hard. For every disgusting scabby or crusty thing there are tens of disgusting oozy, mucky, gooey, slimy, clammy, sticky, tacky, dank, squishy, or filmy things...We thus talk of how our senses are offended, of stenches that make us retch, of tactile sensations of slime, ooze, and wriggly, slithering, creepy things that make us cringe and recoil...because the threatening thing is disgusting, one does not want to strike it, touch it, or grapple with it. Because it is frequently something that has already gotten inside of you or takes you over and possesses you, there is often no distinct other to fight anyway."

William Ian Miller, The Anatomy of Disgust, Harvard University Press, 1997.

"The primordial manifestation, the 'will' with its scale of sensations of pleasure and displeasure, gains an ever more adequate symbolic expression in the development of music, and this historical process is accompanied by the perpetual striving of lyrical poetry to circumscribe music in images. This dual phenomenon can be found performed in language from its first beginnings, as has just been shown."

"In the ignorance that implies impression that knits knowledge that finds the nameform that whets the wits that convey contacts that sweeten sensation that drives desire that adheres to attachment that dogs death that bitches birth that entails the ensuance of existentiality."

"What can the philosophizing person stake? Answer: his own anxiety and boredom, his own listening to the call of conscience. Any philosophizing that does not take its beginning from the moments of true sensation is devoid of roots and relevance...In short, existential analytics, to be understood at all, requires existential engagement. Heidegger therefore must find a way to conjure up in his students those moments of true sensation. He must, in a sense, stage manage them...The moments of true sensation - anxiety, boredom, call to conscience - have to be aroused in his students so that the 'mystery off Dasein' that inhabits them may show itself."

Rüdiger Safranski, Martin Heidegger: Between Good and Evil, Harvard University Press, 1998.

"The difference between the impressionistic sensation, which is rapid, ephemeral and fleeting, and that of Cézanne is that his sensations result logically in the full knowledge of the subject in the classical sense. Cézanne often said that he wished to 'become classical again through nature, that is to say, through sensation.'..."

"Whenever something caught Francis Bacon's attention, his normally genial gaze took on a cold, piercing intensity - like a bird suddenly sporting its prey...If you were unfortunate enough to have that look returned on you (and if you spent much time with Bacon, at some point it became inevitable), you had the sensation of being taken apart, swiftly and mercilessly...Vision was where all the senses and all experience converged in their most complete and potent form..."

Michael Peppiatt, Bacon's Eyes, Francis Bacon & the Tradition of Art, Skira, 2004.

"Either you see a picture immediately or you never see it at all. Explanations don't help a bit. What good does it do to comment on it?...Listen, a writer like you expresses himself in abstractions, while the painter renders his sensations, his perceptions concrete through drawing and colour. If his sensations and perceptions are not on the canvas, visible to the eyes of others, then nothing you can say about them will make them comprehensible. I don't like literary painting."

Paul Cézanne, Conversation with Joachim Gasquet; Conversations with Cézanne, University of California Press, 2001.

"For Sellars, sensations are non-cognitive, because having a sensation is distinct from knowing about it. They are also non-linguistic, because thinking 'there is a pink ice cube' is phenomenologically different from sensing a pink ice cube. Sensations are described as 'self-presenting; even though they must be accompanied by a cognitive mental event for us to be aware that they are presenting themselves. And once we do know about them that knowing is considered to be 'non-inferential'. Unfortunately all of these descriptions are largely negative, and although there are many attempts by Sellars to describe this kind of knowing in positive terms, they are considered by many to be 'one of the most difficult and controversial aspects of his philosophy.'..."

Teed Rockwell, Experience and Sensation, Education and Culture: the Journal of the John Dewey Society, Winter, 2001.

"In reality, what you experience in your hand remains the same, but the sensation which was thought you were dealing with a single state of consciousness which changed in magnitude. When you press your lips more and more tightly against one another, you believe that you are experiencing in your lips one and the same sensation which is continually increasing in strength: here again further reflection will show you that this sensation remains identical, but that certain muscles of the face and the head and then of all the rest of the body have taken part in the operation."

Henri Louis Bergson, Muscular Effort; Time & Free Will, London: George Allen and Unwin, 1910.

"Beings will have to be thought of as sensations that are no longer based on something devoid of sensation. In motion, no new content is given to sensation. That which IS, cannot contain motion: therefore it is a form of being."

Friedrich Nietzsche, The Will to Power, Book Three: Principles of a New Evaluation.

"I am becoming more lucid before nature, but always with me the realization of my sensations is always painful. I cannot attain the intensity that is unfolded before my senses....ma petite sensation..."

"How can we release sensations, affections, emotions from the tyranny of the 'I feel'? How can we reach the impersonal 'it feels'? How can we manage to find a land that is different from and extraneous to conventional feeling, in which personal experience founded on subjectivity at last collapses? Western philosophy has known the answer since the times of the ancient Greeks..."

Mario Perniola, Feeling the Difference, Extreme Beauty, Continuum: New York & London, 2002.

"Sensations were the root of everything for Cézanne. From the beginning to the end of his career, they were his pride and justification. ...The sensations for which he continued to seek an expression to the end of his life, as he explained to Henri Gasquet, the friend of his youth, were 'the confused sensations which we bring with us when we are born'. the word had, in fact, a double meaning - contact with nature 'revived within us the instincts, the artistic sensations that reside within us'. The double meaning of the word corresponds to the dual significance attaching to the paint marks themselves in the late work. It is in the last two years of Cézanne's life that the sensations are identified precisely as colour sensations, the sensations of colour that give light."

Lawrence Gowing, Cézanne: The Logic of Organised Sensations, Conversations with Cézanne, University of California Press, 2001.

"To reiterate Kant, sensation is thought without purposiveness. It is thought that is not taken up by a concept into some telos, some definite finality beyond itself. Just a present, not a future or a plan. It is an impression, but not that of the Impressionists. An impression expressed, but not that of Expressionism. Always outwards facing to the world, but with an entirely internal character of its own. Already a complex assemblage of interactions across the many planes of the mind, planes that anticipate perception, but singular as these complex registers resonate at the same time. This singularity frames the sensation, but not in any discursive context, only as a repetition of affects. In his rejection of narrative in favour of the triptych, the attendant figure and repetition, Bacon is the most Kantian of painters yet. His approach is always to address the sensation with a diagram (as Deleuze calls a painterly technique applied to thought). The diagram immediately diverts the path of the sensation onto the canvas and back out into sensation. Diverts it away from assimilation to concepts and narrative. It establishes, frames, a second register like that of the anticipations of perception, this time on the canvas. The painting becomes a focus for the repetition of the sensation, to the painter and others. It is as Kant says, a sensus communis."

Robert O'Toole, Kant, painting unlocking sensation in senus communis; Warwick Blogs, University of Warwick, August 18 2004.

"Deleuze, in his book on the painter Francis Bacon. and Deleuze and Guattari in What Is Philosophy?, characterize three elements of an artistic monument, citing the paintings of van Gogh, Gauguin, and Bacon as examples, which together render imperceptible sensory becomings perceptible. These elements are the flesh, the house, and the universe-cosmos. Deleuze says that the new problem of painting after Cézanne for all three painters was that of creating vast homogenous fields 'that carry toward infinity' as the ground for a figure/flesh which preserves the 'specificity or singularity of a form in perceptual variation. One might say that the 'flesh,' as the element of the painting most closely associated with an embodied subject, represents a perspective on sensory becoming. Although flesh is involved in revealing sensation, however, Deleuze and Guattari say it is no more than a thermometer of sensory becoming. The portraits of van Gogh, Gauguin, and Bacon depict flesh in unnatural colors and broken tones. This conveys some of the variability of a passage of sensory becoming in relationship to the universe-cosmos - the monochrome fields that ground the flesh....The relationship between the first element of flesh and the third element of the field or universe-cosmos is mediated by the second element, the house, or what, in reference to Bacon's paintings, Deleuze calls the contour. In Bacon's paintings, Deleuze claims that the contour - the circle or oval, chair or bed, on which the flesh or figure is placed - acts as the membrane through which a double exchange between the figure and the background field flows. It is in this second element of the house or contour that the body blossoms. It is he house or contour that gives sensation the power to stand on its own by acting as a kind of filter for cosmic forces. The painting creates a being of sensation that stands on its own. The being of sensation is not located in the figure of the painting; that is, it is not the flesh but rather the relationship among figure, house or contour, and universe-cosmos or field."

Tamsin Lorraine, Irigaray and Deleuze: Experiments In Visceral Philosophy, Cornell University Press, 1999.

"Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion manifests a terrible, expressive violence. It does not represent any violent act. But some undefined and inhuman violence that occurred in an unseen space beyond the limits of the painting has impressed its horror on the forms and the coloured areas surrounding them...The human and bestial elements composing the figures, all rendered ambiguous by their respective deformation, are so impenetrable and enigmatic as to thwart comprehension of any explicit meaning. Any attempt to deduce prior intention in the morphology of these bodies by means of logic will fail, collapsing in admission that this painting leads into an unknown area, at whose boundaries conventional logic must halt. In Bacon, painting is not a field for the imitation of apparent reality, but an independent and artificial act emerging from the innermost and most instinctive needs of the individual, dominated exclusively by the profound, wild force of expression...More animal than human, so excessive as to become unaware of its own expressive implications: it is no longer capable of communicating anything intelligible. The very obscurity of the origin of this sensation and the likely identity of the visible subject allows the image to avoid any particular illustrative signification and penetrate instead to the quicker and more intuitive level of the mind: where sensations act, such as the modes of awareness that precede logic and run deeper than it...The profound, pre-rational faculty that emerges when a nearly superhuman force subverts the conventional order of knowledge is called sensation. And it is this that Bacon arouses and elaborates in the act of painting: it is a blind condition, because neither its nature, orientation, nor outcome are defined. It is a condition that transcends the normal state of the human condition, driving existence into a state of hypersensitivity, where it too is unaware of the outcome."

Luigi Ficacci, Bacon, 'Obsessed by Life', The Expression of Horror, Taschen, 2003.

"Philosophers are given to speaking of the will as if it were the best-known thing in the world...Let us therefore be more cautious for once, let us be 'unphilosophical' - let us say: in all willing there is, first of all, a plurality of sensations, namely the sensation of the condition we leave, the sensation of the condition towards which we go, the sensation of this 'leaving' and 'going' itself, and then also an accompanying muscular sensation which, even without our putting 'arms and legs' in motion, comes into play through a kind of habit as soon as we 'will'. As sensations, and indeed many varieties of sensation, can therefore be recognised as an ingredient of will, so, in the second place, can thinking: in every act of will there is a commanding thought - and do not imagine that this thought can be separated from 'willing', as though will would then remain over! Thirdly, will is not only a complex of sensation and thinking, but it is above all an affect: and in fact the affect of command."

"In what the senses of sight, hearing, and touch convey, in the sensations o colour, sound, rough, roughness, hardness, things move us bodily, in the literal meaning of the word. The thing is the aistheton, that which is perceptible by sensations in the senses belonging to sensibility.. Hence the concept later becomes a commonplace according to which a thing is nothing but the unity of a manifold of what is given in the senses. Whether this unity is conceived as sum or as totality or as Gestalt alters nothing in the standard character of this thing-concept...We never really first perceive a throng of sensations, e.g., tones and noises, in the appearance of things - as this thing-concept alleges, after we hear the storm whistling in the chimney, we hear the three-motored plane, we hear the Mercedes in immediate distinction from the Volkswagen. Much closer to us than all sensations are the things themselves. We hear the door shut in the house and never hear acoustical sensations or even mere sounds. In order to hear a bare sound we have to listen away from things, divert our ear from them, i.e., listen abstractly."

"In giving up the outline Cézanne was abandoning himself to chaos of sensation, which would upset the objects and constantly suggest illusions, as, for example, the illusion we have when we move our heads that objects themselves are moving if our judgment did not constantly set these appearances straight. According to Bernard, Cézanne 'submerged his painting in ignorance and his mind in shadows.' But one cannot really judge his painting in this way except by closing one's mind to half of what he said and one's eyes to what he painted. It is clear from his conversations with Emile Bernard that Cézanne was always seeking to avoid the ready-made alternatives suggested to him: sensation versus judgment; the painter who sees against the painter who thinks; nature versus composition; primitivism as opposed to tradition. 'We have to develop an optics,' Cézanne said, 'by which I mean a logical vision', that is, 'one with no element of the absurd.' 'Are you speaking of our nature?' asked Bernard. Cézanne: 'It has to do with both.' 'But aren't nature and art different?' 'I want to make them the same. Art is a personal apperception, which I embody in sensations and which I ask the understanding to organize into a painting.'..."

Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Cézanne's Doubt, Sense and Non-Sense, Northwestern University Press, 1964.

"To paint from nature is not to copy an object; it is to represent its sensations...The painter must become classical again through nature, or, in other words, through sensation. It all comes down to this: to have sensations and to read nature."

Paul Cézanne, Conversation with Emile Bernard, Conversation with Cézanne, University of California Press, 2001.

"...this sensation to be possessed by a sensation of dispossession and the answer I gave, this fight to conquer what nowhere can be found."

"The smoothness, the tumescence, the milky flow of feminine nudity anticipate a sensation of liquid outpour, which itself opens onto death like a window onto a courtyard."

"The things do not enter into consciousness, but rather the way that we stand towards the pithanon (sense data). The full essence of the thing is never grasped...Instead of the thing sensation perceives only a characteristic."

"Artuad appears to have been afflicted with an extraordinary inner life, in which the intricacy and clamorous pitch of his physical sensations and the convulsive intuitions of his nervous system seemed permanently at odds with his ability to give them verbal form."

Susan Sontag, Antonin Artaud: Selected Writings, University of California Press, 1988.

"Sensation is intentional because I find that in the sensible a certain rhythm of existence is put forward - abduction or adduction - and that, following up this hint, and stealing into the form of existence which is thus suggested to me, I am brought into relation with an external being, whether it be in order to open myself to it or to shut myself off from it... As for the subject of sensation, he need not be a pure nothingness with no terrestrial weight... Between my sensation and myself there stands always the thickness of some primal acquisition which prevents my experience from being clear of itself... Sensation can be anonymous only because it is incomplete."

"To begin with, we can divide the senses of corporeal feeling into those of the vital sensation (sensus vagus) and those of organic sensation (sensus fixus); and, since they are met with only where there are nerves, into those affecting the whole system of nerves, and those which affect only those nerves belonging to a certain member of the body. The sensations of warmth and cold, even those aroused by the mind (for example, through quickly rising hope or fear), belong to the vital sensation. The shudder seizing people even at the idea of something sublime, and the terror with which nurses' tales drive children to bed late at night, belong to the later type. they penetrate the body, so far as it is alive...disgust, a stimulus to discharge something that has been consumed through the shortest path of the gullet (to vomit), is given to the human being as such a strong vital sensation, since such an inner intake...can be dangerous."

"Can it be that even the greatest Philosopher ever arrived at his Goal without putting aside numerous objections? However it may be, O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts! It is 'a Vision in the form of Youth,' a shadow of reality to come--and this consideration has further convinced me,--for it has come as auxiliary to another favourite speculation of mine,--that we shall enjoy ourselves hereafter by having what we called happiness on Earth repeated in a finer tone. And yet such a fate can only befall those who delight in Sensation, rather than hunger as you do after Truth. Adam's dream will do here, and seems to be a Conviction that Imagination and its empyreal reflexion, is the same as human life and its spiritual repetition. But, as I was saying, the simple imaginative Mind may have its rewards in the repetition of its own silent Working coming continually on the Spirit with a fine Suddenness."

"Thus, perceptions, presentations, volitions, and emotions, in short the whole inner and outer world, are put together, in combinations of varying evanescence and permanence, out of a small number of homogeneous elements. Usually, these elements are called sensations. But as vestiges of a one-sided theory inhere in that term, we prefer to speak simply of elements, as we have already done. The aim of all research is to ascertain the mode of connexion of these elements. If it proves impossible to solve the problem by assuming one set of such elements, then more than one will have to be assumed. But for the questions under discussion it would be improper to begin by making complicated assumptions in advance. The primary fact is not the ego, but the elements (sensations). What was said on p. 21 as to the term 'sensation' must be borne in mind. The elements constitute the I. s have the sensation green, signifies that the element green occurs in a given complex of other elements (sensations, memories). When I cease to have the sensation green, when I die, then the elements no longer occur in the ordinary, familiar association. That is all."

"If we try to seize ‘sensation’ within the perspective of the bodily phenomena which pave the way to it, we find […] a formation already […] endowed with a meaning...the sensor and the sensible do not stand in relation to each other as two mutually external terms, and sensation is not an invasion of the sensor by the sensible. It is my gaze which subtends colour, and the movement of my hand which subtends the object’s form, or rather my gaze pairs off with colour, and my hand with hardness and softness, and in this transaction between the subject of the sensation and the sensible it cannot be said that one acts while the other suffers the action, or that one confers significance on the other. Apart from the probing of my eye or my hand, and before my body synchronises with it, the sensible is nothing but a vague beckoning."

"Sensation is an extremity of perception. It is the limit at which perception is eclipsed by the sheerness of experience, unreasoned-out, yet unextended into analytically ordered, predictably reproducible, possible action."

Brian Massumi, The Evolutionary Alchemy of Reason, New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1998.

"I feel more and more that nothing matters or will happen until someone makes a new technical synthesis that can carry over from the sensation to our nervous system. The thing I was very shocked by when I saw our things at Unesco, your three and mine, was the boring lack of reality, the lack of immediacy which we have so often talked about."

Francis Bacon in a letter to Graham Sutherland, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Michael Peppiatt, Westview Press, 1996.

"Art is a personal apperception, which I embody in sensations and which I ask the understanding to organize into a painting...We perceive things, we agree about them, they are deep-rooted in us and it is on the basis of this "nature" that we erect knowledge. It is this primeval world that Cézanne wanted to paint, and that is why his pictures give the impression of nature at its source, whereas photographs of the same landscapes suggest the works of humanity...when one looks at (his pictures) as a whole, (they give) the impression, as in normal vision, of a new order being born, of an object in the act of appearing, in the act of coming together in front of our eyes... In primeval perception, distinctions between touch and sight are unknown. It is the knowledge of the human body which teaches us in the end to distinguish between our senses. The actual experience is not found or made from sense data themselves, but directly presents itself as the center from which sense data radiate."

Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Cézanne's Doubt, Sense and Non-Sense, Northwestern University Press, 1964.

"In order to establish sensation we must proceed on the basis of a certain realism; thus we take as valid our perception of the Other, the Other's senses, and inductive instruments. But on the level of sensation all this realism disappears, sensation, a modification which one suffers, gives us information only about ourselves; it belongs with the 'lived.' Nevertheless it is sensation which I give as the basis of my knowledge of the external world... My perception of the Other's senses serves me as a foundation for an explanation of sensations and in particular of my sensations, but reciprocally my sensations thus conceived constitute the only reality of my perception of the Other's senses... in fact if I start with the Other's body, I apprehend it as an instrument and in so far as I myself make use of it as an instrument...Therefore if I conceive of my body in the image of the Other's body, it is an instrument in the world which I must handle delicately and which is like a key to the handling of other tools....my body always extends across the tool which it utilizes:...it is at the end of the telescope which shows me the stars... The body is an instrument which I am..."

Jean-Paul Sartre, The Body; Being & Nothingness, University Paperback 1969.

"Suppose that power resides solely in the feeling of power, that, as Nietzsche says, 'It is not the works, it is the faith [or 'belief', der Glaube] that is decisive here, that determines the order of rank'. How in that case could the distinction between a rightful and a false claim be adjudicated, between 'active' willing and 'reactive' ressentiment? How could one tell (say) Zarathustra and Wagner apart if and insofar as both had the same feeling, the same pleasurable sensation of power (the same Gefuhl)? Power is inseparable from the sensation one has of power, because power depends upon a pleasurable feeling, upon a sensation of difference, 'a feeling of more power ('ein Plus-Gefuhl von Macht,'), or as he writes in Beyond Good and Evil, 'the feeling of growth, the feeling of increased power.' This is the only criterion of power. How, then, can Nietzsche coherently deny to anyone who possesses the sensation a rightful claim to power? And how certifiable is the sensation? Does feeling certify power, or is it the other way round?...The will to power, so viewed, is now vulnerable to Nietzsche's critique of decadence and ressentiment (a term whose root meaning, in the sentiment of sensation, brings us back again to the problem of power as the sensation of power."

James I. Porter, Nietzsche and the Seduction of Metaphysics, 2000, Department of Classical Studies, University of Michigan.

"There are in fact no illusions of the senses, but only mistakes in interpreting sensational data as signs of things other than themselves. Or to speak more exactly, there is no evidence that there are illusions of the senses. Every sensation which is of a familiar kind brings with it various associated beliefs and expectations. When, say, we see and hear an airplane, we do not merely have the visual sensation and the auditory sensation of a whirring noise; spontaneously and without conscious thought we interpret what we see and hear and fill it out with customary adjuncts. To what extent we do this becomes obvious when we make a mistake - for example, when what we thought was an airplane turns out to be a bird. "

Bertrand Russell, Human Knowledge: Its Scope and Limits, Simon & Schuster, New York. 1948.

"How do words refer to sensations? - there doesn't seem to be any problem here; don't we talk about sensations every day, and give them names? But how is the connection between the name and the sensation set up? This question is the same as: how does a human being learn the names of sensations? - of the word pain, for example. Words are connected with the primitive, the natural, expressions of the sensation and used in their place...But suppose I didn't have any natural expression for the sensation, but only had the sensation? And now I simply associate names with sensations and use these names in descriptions."

Ludwig, Wittgenstein, The Private Langauge Argument, Philosophical Investigations, 1953.

"The self-realisation of the idea means that it negates itself and ceases to be a mere idea. What is then this not-thinking, that which is differentiated from thinking? It is the sensuous. The self-realisation of the idea means, accordingly, that it makes itself into an object of the senses. The reality of the idea is thus sensation. But reality is the truth of the idea; thus, sensation is the truth of the idea. Precisely so we managed to make sensation a predicate and the idea or thought a subject. But why, then, does the idea represent itself in sensation? Why is it not true when it is not real, that is, sensuous? Is not its truth made, therefore, dependent on sensation? Is not meaning and worth granted to the sensuous for itself, disregarding the fact that it is the reality of the idea? If sensation for itself is nothing, of what need is it to the idea? If only the idea gives value and content to sensation, then sensation is a pure luxury and a trifle; it is only an illusion that the idea presents to itself. But it is not so. The idea is required to realise itself and represent itself in sensation only because, unknowing to the idea, reality and sensation, independent of the idea, are presupposed as the truth. The idea proves its worth through sensation; how would this be possible if sensation were not unconsciously accepted as the truth? Because, however, one starts consciously with the truth of the idea, the truth of sensation is expressed only afterward, and sensation is made only into an attribute of the idea."

"Sensation, which is at the basis of sensible experience and intuition, is not reducible to the clarity or the idea derived out of it. Not because it would involve an opaque element resistant to the luminousness of the intelligible, but still defined in terms of light and sight. It is vulnerability, enjoyment and suffering, whose status is not reducible to the fact of being put before a spectator subject. The intentionality involved in disclosure, and the symbolization of a totality which the openness of being aimed at by intentionality involved, would not constitute the sole or even the dominant signification of the sensible. The dominant meaning of sensibility should indeed enable us to account for its secondary signification as a sensation, the element of cognition. We have already said that the fact that sensibility can become 'sensible intuition' and enter into the adventure of cognition is not a contingency. The dominant signification of sensibility is already caught sight of in vulnerability."

"Levinas's main aim in 'Sensibility and the Face' is to show that although the notion of sensation has been 'somewhat rehabbillitated,' it must always fall short of naming the relation to the face, the ethical relation. Sensation must always participate in the discourse of light which has defined it since Plato. Vision always discerns and receives beings in and from an illuminated space and against the backdrop of a horizon, a horizon which rules out the thought of beings as coming from elsewhere. They come as if from nowhere, as if from out of nothingness."

Paul Davies, The Face and the Caress, Levinas's Ethical Alterations of Sensibility, Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision, University of California Press, 1993.

"Philosophy teaches the eyelids to close tighter and tighter to bar anything still presented by the senses, teaches the gaze to turn inward to the soul, that screen for the projection of ideal images. The horror of nature is magicked away: it will be seen only through the blind of intelligible categories, and the weaknesses that ultimately will lay man low will be laid at the door of an insufficiently lofty point of view."

Luce Irigaray, Marine Lover of Friedrich Nietzsche, Columbia University Press, 1991.

"As opposed to the violence of representation (the sensational, the cliché), Bacon proposes the violence of sensation.....When Bacon speaks of sensation, he means two things, both very close to the notion of Cézanne. Negatively, he says that the form as related to the sensation (Figure) is the opposite of the form related to an object which it is to represent (figuration). As Valéry put it, sensation is that which is transmitted directly, and avoids the detours and boredom of conveying a story. And positively, Bacon constantly says that sensation is what passes from one 'order' to another, from one 'level' to another, from one 'area' to another. This is why sensation is the master of deformations, the agent of bodily deformations....Each sensation exists a different levels, in different orders and multiple domains...This means that there are not sensations of different orders, but different orders of one and the same sensation. It is the nature of sensation to envelop a constitutive difference of level, a plurality of constituting domains....The sensation is that which is paint. And the paint, in the painting, is the body, not inasmuch as it is represented as an object, but because it is capable of evoking that particular sensation...to paint sensation, which is essentially rhythm...But in simple sensation, rhythm still depends on the Figure, it presents itself as a vibration that traverses the body without organs, it is the vector of sensation, it is that which makes sensation pass from one level to another. In contrast, in the coupling of sensation, rhythm liberates itself already, since it confronts reunites diverse levels of different sensations: it is now resonance, but it is still confused with the melodic lines, the points and counterpoints of a coupled Figure; it is the diagram of the coupled Figure...Sensation is what is painted in painting. It is the body, but not in the same sense that the body is represented as an object: rather in the sense that the body is experienced as experiencing such sensations."

Gilles Deleuze, Painting & Sensation; Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, Continuum, 2003.

"However, even as he grants special privilege to painting, Deleuze acknowledges that all the modern arts can share in the quest for a logic of sensation...Deleuze notes, modern music often employs the aural as a way to capture the chromatic, and painting often uses the visual to grab at the invisible...we might say that Logique de la sensation is Deleuze's own 'pedagogy of the image' , constructing for us the representation of a painterly practice that deforms the world to make us see anew...Deleuze notes how the primacy of blue and red in Bacon's face's serves as a reminder of the fleshy, meaty aspect of the face, but in this way the colours open up the figure to temporality, becoming flesh in mutation. As Deleuze puts it, 'colour-structure gives was to colour-force; because each dominant, each broken tone indicates the immediate exercise of a force upon a corresponding zone of the body or the head, it renders force immediately visible.'..."

Dana Polan, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, Gilles Deleuze and the Theatre of Philosophy (1994).

"In pursuit of the logic of sensation, where the philosopher, Deleuze, might be said to greet and conjoin briefly with the artist, Bacon, the former posits the notion of figure against that of figuration. Where figure is conceived as the direct relation of form to sensation, figuration is the stultification of form, the operation whereby form merely stands in place of the absent object that it is supposed to represent. Bacon's bullfights display the movement of bodily deformation and fleshy zones of indiscernibility that escape the facticity of experiencing flesh....That which Deleuze wants to celebrate, alongside the creation of concepts or the production of sense, is sensation, which he gives as the meeting place between things and thought, where difference continues to shimmer. Sensation, which sets the form into motion, participates in the surging forth of all the differential elements of life despite the persistent proximity of death."

Hélène Frichot, Bullfighting, Sex and Sensation , Colloquy Issue Five.

"He rejects illustration and narration and seeks to replace them with what he calls 'matters of fact'. These turn out to be nothing less than sensations that act directly on the nervous system...I am saying that it is the lamella that is the outcome of Bacon's efforts to avoid narrative and representation and to act directly on the nervous system. Bacon's matter of fact' turns out to be the lamella. Within Bacon's paintings there are, attached to bodies, flat bounded shapes. Usually they are called shadows by commentators. I want to think of them as the lamella...Not all the shadows are 'extra flat' but we can easily take the pink and mauve oozing matter to be the lamella...The violence of sensation has squeezed out a literal essence of being, the lamella, a puddle of being. To claim that the lamella appears in Bacon's work is to claim that he has taken the detachment of the gaze to its limit."

Parveen Adams, The Violence of Paint; The Emptiness of the Image, Routledge 1996.

"The opposition between intelligence and sensation is crucial for Bacon. Sensation may include intelligence but the intellect can bypass sensation. Bacon wants his painting to operate primarily through sensation, otherwise it becomes a mere vehicle: 'I want very, very much to do the thing that Valéry said - to give the sensation without the boredom of its conveyance. And the moment the story enters, the boredom comes upon you'...."

"The ways to avoid narrative or illustrative painting were by the abstract or the sensation, as Cézanne did. The Hegelian idea of sensing and feeling was translated by Cézanne into how to paint, how to use spontaneity and temperament and instinct and the nervous system and the vital moment to create a picture. He taught the Impressionists that sensations did not lie in the play of light and colour, but in the feeling for the form of an apple. Sensation was what was painted, not what as represented. It was what was lived while the sensation was experienced. Painting that sensation linked Cézanne to Bacon, and sensation was also the mistress of distortion. Every series of triptych by Bacon showed variants of sensation, which occasionally accumulated or coagulated....He sought the sensation that would best occupy the flesh....Above all, he tried to capture a vital rhythm in his visual sensation, as Cézanne had...He followed Cézanne in creating a sensation of endurance and clarity...The sensations of his life were the sensations of his painting."

Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, 1993, Crown Publishers, Inc., New York.

"The narrative is not the content of perception, but defines the structure of perception itself. Deleuze's study can help us to develop this hypothesis. It pursues the question of what the implications are of certain key expressions that Bacon has often used in interviews: 'orders of sensation' , 'levels of sensation' , 'domains of sensation' and 'moving sequences'...When we see the levels of sensation as a plurality of senses, however, we lose sight of movement in Bacon's paintings. Precisely this movement was central to Deleuze's third reading of Bacon's expression 'the levels of sensation'. Moreover, although the notions of 'sense' and 'sense organ' seem to be important for an understanding of Bacon's paintings, the differentiation of sensation according to levels does not seem to be very relevant to these paintings."

Ernst Van Alphen, Francis Bacon and the Loss of Self, Reaktion Books, 1992.

"The idea of making a sensation was always bound up with the effort of épater le bourgeois and was adapted to the bourgeois interest of turning everything to a profit."

"Deleuze offers a systematic distinction between painting as art (the figural) and illustration (the figurative) by seeing Bacon's work as essentially painterly sensation."

Andrew Brighton, Francis Bacon, British Artists, Tate Publishing, 2001.

"Each picture draws attention away from the narrative to the physical, to sensation, to flesh, death, dreams, the drastic rush of violent haemorrhaging, the frenetic tangents of dizziness on a fast rotating planet."

"Total abandonment to instinct, above all sexual instinct, was an ideal which Bacon maintained with astonishing vigour to the end of his days...And when he said that he 'painted to excite himself', he surely meant: to re-create certain extreme sexual sensations."

Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996.

"The paint acquires a wonderful plenitude in becoming flesh. This kind of paint surface is part of the work of delivering sensations not propositions, and it is neither idly sumptuous nor 'ironically' sexy."

Robert Hughes, Nothing If Not Critical, Selected Essays on Art and Artists, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1990.

"Like everything else in Bacon's pictures each element contributes not towards the creation of beauty, but to achieve the most vivid possible communication of a sensation."

Nigel Gosling, Report from The Underworld, The Observer Weekend Review, 27th May, 1962.

"Can you make of a head an image? An image which unlocks the valves of sensation deeper than the appearance? Of course, I'm drunk today and I don't really talk very clearly."

Francis Bacon interviewed by Hugh M. Davies on August 13 1973, from Francis Bacon: The Papal Portraits of 1953.

"Fascism was the absolute sensation: in a statement at the time of the first pogroms, Goebbels boasted that at least the National Socialists were not boring. In the Third Reich the abstract horror of news and rumour was enjoyed as the only stimulus sufficient to incite a momentary glow in the weekend sensorium of the masses...Concepts like sadism and masochism no longer suffice. In the mass-society of technical dissemination they are mediated by sensationalism, by comet-like, remote, ultimate newness."

"How can I draw one more veil away from life and present what is called the living sensation more nearly on the nervous system and more violently...There was a very interesting thing that Valéry said about modern art, and it's very true. He said that modern artists want the grin without the cat and by that he meant that they want the sensation without the boredom of conveyance."

"I have nothing but sensation (Empfindung) and representation (Vorstellung). Therefore I cannot think these as having arisen from the contents of representation. All those cosmogonies etc. are deduced from the data received by the senses. We cannot think anything that is not sensation and representation. Therefore no pure existence of time, space, world, if without that which senses and represents. I cannot represent non-being (Nichtsein). That which is (Das Seiende), is sensation and representation."

Friedrich Nietzsche, Time-Atom Theory: Nachgelassene Fragmente, Early 1873.

"Isn't it that one wants a thing to be as factual as possible and at the same time as deeply suggestive or deeply unlocking of areas of sensation other than simple illustration of the object that you set out to do? A non-illustrational form works first upon sensation and then slowly leaks back into the fact....I work in a kind of haze of sensations and feelings and ideas that come to me and that I try to crystallize..."

Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"The essence of sensation would then consist in gradually sensing and measuring such temporal figures with more and more refinement; representation constructs them as something coexistent and then establishes the development of the world on the basis of this coexistence: pure translation into another language, into the language of becoming."

"For me realism is an attempt to capture appearance with all the sensations which that particular appearance has suggested to me."

"If I focus my eyes on an open area, allowing the image I wish to record to steal in through the corner of my eye, I have the sensation of seeing in depth."

"Modern man conceives of reality as the series of sensations and ideas that occur in the consciousness of each individual."

Francis Bacon was described by a crass cunt critic as: "...a cheap sensationalist..." Bacon was not a 'sensationalist' but a Sensationist. Bacon said he wanted to: "...open up the valves of sensation." Bacon was not an Expressionist. Bacon had nothing to express only something to sensation. Bacon, like Degas, Monet, Cezanne, Jawlensky, Nolde was a Sensationist. Bacon let leak splattering spunked Sensationism. Authentic Sensationist art is not to be confused with the spin Sensationalist stuff of our spiv Saatchi shit.

Sensationism stems from the subconscious sea slick oil of auto-alien primordial intense instincts dug directly from the rhythms of the body's musical memory traces, from the nervous system. Sensationism seeks sow serve sever the nailed nervous system sensation via violet visceral vivacious violence aiming alterity at an agnoisse acidic abject alien arbitrary primal paint punctures.

Sensationist art grates on the nerves, sends shivers down the spine, through the nailing of tense and intense images on to the nervous system. Why is it that 'irrational' or 'arbitrary' brush marks of anti-illustrational paint have such a psychic-physically nailing visceral assault on the spine, body, nervous system - while illustrational painting (Freud) and pattern making (Pollock) remains weak, watery without real body? Michel Conil Lacoste, art critic of Le Monde, reported as he walked around Bacon's show at the Grand Palais: "It's like a punch in the face." Sensationism sews skews slithers slivers slurps seeps seeks soaks swells skin sight sighing.

Titian, Velasquez, Rembrandt, Fragonard, Turner, Monet, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Degas, Corinth, Nolde, Jawlensky, Bacon, Hambling Auerbach, Alien serve sperm Sensationism. Abstract Art does not exist. Conceptual Art does not exist. Contemporary Art does not exist.

The School of Francis Bacon initiates anti-illustrational alien artists seduced by subconscious Sensationism to open up the visceral valves of sensation and to make a direct assault upon the nailed nervous system. Abject Agnoisse Alien Art Froths Form From Body Being Beyond the Pleasure Principle, Beyond the Death Drive to The Dripping Drool of The Leaking Lamella slurp slop sensationism.

Art is Alien. Alien Art aspires to the agnoisse Abject-Sublime sludge sensation of the acidic Alien Condition cracked open oozed out.

"I love Degas. I think his pastels are among the greatest things ever made. I think they're far greater than his paintings. Some of the paintings are nothing in comparison, it's very curious...The sensation doesn't come straight out at you; it slides slowly and gently through the gaps... Another thing is, when you talk of Degas, the very great Degas are the pastels, and don't forget that in his pastels he always striates the form with these lines which are drawn through the image and in a certain sense both intensify and diversify its reality. I always think that the interesting thing about Degas is the way he made lines through the body: you could say that he shuttered the body, in a way, shuttered the image and then he put an enormous amount of colour through these lines. And having shuttered the form, he created intensity by putting this colour through the flesh."

"Degas used the charcoal and the pastel as though they were abrasive tools, their rough hatching creating at atmosphere of friction around the body which is twisted into an unlikely, if not ungraceful position, caught between agony and ecstasy."

"As early as 1949, an English critic, Neville Wallis, commented on the relationship between Bacon and Duchamp: 'Brooding over these pictures', he wrote, I became aware of the affinity with Marcel Duchamp's sensational paintings on glass...In Bacon's canvases, the indication of a glass screen enclosing his silently shrieking figures seems to symbolise the frustration of the individual who can see, but cannot reach or affect the awful prospect before him.' (The Observer, 20 November, 1949)..."

Andrea Rose, XLV Venice Biennale, Figurabile, Francis Bacon, Electa, Museo Correr, 1993.

"Most of Duchamp is figurative, but I think he made sort of symbols of the figurative. And he made, in a sense, a sort of myth of the twentieth century, but in terms of making a shorthand of figuration."

Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"The dream (or daydream) of painting sensation is not exclusive to Bacon and underpins the work of numerous modern artists. Empiricism, that particularly British phenomenon, also has a part to play here, for sensation, surely, is a link with the reality that is both in things and in the self? Artists are engaged not only in experiencing sensations, like anyone else, but in evaluating them, in knowing and recognizing them, and refining them as to give them new form. Cézanne and Bacon share an idea of the continuity between the object viewed and the sensation this produces in the viewer, a continuity that is almost physical. The artist's job is to record this sensation. In Bacon's case the sensation passes directly to the nervous system, without the intermediary of the brain or intellect, less still of knowledge and speech. Listening to Bacon, it is easy to understand how little this sensation has to do with the sensational, with facile effects, or with feelings of repulsion or passions of any kind."

"The levels of sensation are like a series of freeze-frames, snapshots of movement, which together synthetically recompose the movement in all its continuity, velocity and violence: as in synthetic Cubism, in Futurism, in Duchamp's Nude. And it is true that Bacon was fascinated by Muybridge's decompositions of movement, and used them as material."

"As in his comments on Duchamp's famous 'Nude Descending a Staircase', Bacon tried to make his beings more dramatic in their stepping out, while Duchamp wanted to keep movement central. He did not want to make something mechanistic, a mere motor moving downstairs. He tried to cancel out all implications. 'He was the first of this century to attempt that. Seurat did the same thing - as they in America, to keep it cool.'... Bacon thought that Duchamp had successfully changed the technique of art by not being avant-garde and trying to create a new art. He made symbols of the figurative, 'a sort of myth of the twentieth century'. Although Bacon preferred Duchamp's philosophy to his individual works, I saw him at that retrospective exhibition studying each picture with the intensity of a kestrel hovering hovering over a field mouse."

Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, Crown Publishers, 1993.

MP: "But I mean that there is the person's appearance, and then there are all sorts of sensations about that particular person."

FB: "I don't know how much it's a question of sensation about the other person. It's the sensation within yourself. It's to do with the shock of two completely unillustrational things which come together and make an appearance...One needs the specific images to unlock the deeper sensations, and the mystery of accident and intuition to create the particular. Now I want to do portraits more than anything else, because they can be done in a way outside illustration."

"I work in a kind of haze of sensations and feelings and ideas that come to me and I try to crystallize...it's not so much the painting that excites me as that the painting unlocks all kinds of valves of sensation within me which returns me to life more violently....Certainly one is more relaxed when the image that one has within one's sensations - you see, there is a kind of sensational image within the very, you could say, structure of your being, which is not to do with a mental image - when that image, through accident, begins to form.....In working you are really following this kind of cloud of sensation in your- self....Isn't it that one wants a thing to be as factual as possible and at the same time as deeply suggestive or deeply unlocking of areas of sensation other than simple illustration of the object that you set out to do?... An illustrational form tells you through the intelligence immediately what the form is about, whereas a non-illustrational form works first upon sensation and then slowly leaks back into the fact."

"I believe that realism has to be re-invented. It has to be continuously re-invented. In one of his letters Van Gogh speaks of the need to make changes in reality, which become lies that are truer than the literal truth. This is the only possible way the painter can bring back the intensity of the reality which he is trying to capture. I believe that reality in art is something profoundly artificial and that it has to be recreated. Otherwise it will be just an illustration of something - which will be very second-hand......Of course one does put in such things as ears and eyes. But then one would like to put them in as irrationally as possible. And the only reason for this irrationality is that, if it does come about, it brings the force of the image over very much more strongly than if one just sat down and illustrated the appearance.....We can't go on and on reproducing the Renaissance, or nineteenth century art, or anything else. You want something new. Not an illustrative realism but a realism that comes about through a real invention of a new way to lock reality into something completely arbitrary".

The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames and Hudson.

"When Kitaj first coined 'School of London', he meant no single orthodoxy, and certainly not simply these six or seven planets clustered about Bacon's black sun."

Timothy Hyman, Mapping London's Other Landscape, Art International, Autumn, 1987.

"Bacon has been a model of intellectual freedom and stylistic audacity to the whole School of London."

Michael Peppiatt, Could There Be a School of London?, Art International, Autumn, 1987.

"To me it's not a 'school' at all. I mean, I think perhaps the Americans had a school of Abstract Expressionism, but the last real school was the Impressionists, when there were a number of people attempting to do, not the same thing, but who were interested in the same aspects of colour and way of conveying things...I think the people in the School of London would have always been figurative. I don't think I had any influence at all."

Francis Bacon on The School of London, Francis Bacon: Reality Conveyed by a lie, Art International, Autumn, 1987.

"When it comes down to it, I' m not sure that that the word 'school' means anything more than artists with a very general similar interest."

Michael Peppiatt on The School of London, Francis Bacon: Reality Conveyed by a lie, Art International, Autumn, 1987.

"Nor did Bacon have successors. There was no school of Bacon. He fomented no fashion, suffered no disciples, occasioned no print other than his own, went against the grain. He was a figurative dissenter at the height of his powers during the hegemony of abstraction (which he regarded, scornfully, as mere pattern-making). He was just about inimitable."

"Originality must involve more than breaking rules; its deformations must allow the possibility of reformation. The litmus test of exemplarity, namely succession, is not as unified or simple a Kant's presentation of it makes it appear. Roughly, on the one hand, Kant equates exemplarity, and hence succession, with providing new ways of making sense: Succession which relates itself to a precedent, not imitation, is the correct expression for the influence which is the product of an exemplary originator can have on others; which means the same as this: to create from the same sources out of which the former himself created, and to learn from one's predecessor only the way to produce in such creation oneself. (CJ, 32, 283) An example of succession in this sense would be the founding of a new 'school' of painting or poetry. The exemplary work would provide possibilities, in the plural, that were not previously available; and while succeeding works may alter what what we conceive those possibilities to be, it would remain the case that the 'original' exemplary work was the 'origin' with respect to which succeeding works had their sense."

J.M. Bernstein, The Fate of Art: Aesthetic Alienation from Kant to Derrida and Adorno, Polity Press, 1992.

"I know that teaching is one of the methods by which many artists survive, but how can you teach? In a period where there is no tradition, there is nothing to teach. You can teach your own attitude. The only thing I can understand for art schools would be for them to have a few extremely intelligent people whom the people who are striving to be artists of some kind can come and discuss their problems with. Otherwise there is nothing to teach at all."

Francis Bacon to David Sylvester, 1975, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 2000.

"My idea would be that one might finally establish a studio and then bequeath it to posterity for a successor to live in. I do not know if I am expressing myself clearly enough, but in other words, we are engaged in work on art, on projects that are not for our own times alone but can be continued by others."

"I think it would be more exciting to be one of a number of artists working together, and to be able to exchange...I think it would be terrible nice to have someone to talk to. Today there is absolutely nobody to talk to...But I think artists can in fact help one another. They can clarify the situation to one another....I've always hoped to find another painter I could really talk to - somebody whose qualities and sensibility I'd really believe in - who really tore my things to bits and whose judgement I could actually believe in."

Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"Now both Edwards and Bacon are dead, and Bacon's studio is buried in Dublin, 7 Reece Mews could be converted back into a studio for the School of Francis Bacon with the aid of grant from the John Edwards Charitable Foundation."

"The realist movement no longer needs to fight with the others; it already exists, it must show itself as something distinct, there must be a salon of realists."

'Abstract Art', 'Conceptual Art', 'Contemporary Art' do not exist because such conscious constructs are always already obnoxious oxymorons propagated as political programmes, puerile products of 'political correctness' and are always already alien to thrown authentic alien art: The School of Francis Bacon invites initiates intense anarchic angoisse awe atta alien artists as sew serving sublime Sensationism so sowing an abject Aletheia authentic alien aesthetics orbiting outside conscious conceptual constructs.

The thrown shot Sensationist art of vivacious Velázquez, Rembrandt, Titian, Fragonard, Turner, Goya, Van Gogh, Cézanne, Manet, Degas, Cassatt, Monet, Corinth, Soutine, Picasso, Nolde, Jawlensky, Gaudier-Brzeska, Bacon, Gormely, Alien is intestine instinctual Sensationism activating arbitrary accidents: non-narrative, non-conceptual, non-contemporary created via voluptuous violent intensity inking instinctual subconscious slime slurp sensation seeping froth form from the thrown nailed nervous system and also nailing the thrown nervous system: Sensationist art activates intense instinctual images of oozed agnoisse Alien alteric aroma.

Bacon said to Michael Peppiatt: "What I do feel is that figuration - painting - will take on tremendous vitality once again, now that we've been through that very depressing , decorative period of abstraction. Not only in England, but anywhere. I think it will come about." (Francis Bacon: Reality Conveyed by a lie, Art International, Autumn 1987).

Hearing Heidegger sedately says Sensationing - unlike Thinking - seeps spilt sowing:

So seeping shuddering shimmering Sensationing swallows up under the Ground for Sensationing is never Grounded floating free from Foundation free from Logic free from Concept free from Thinking thrown through thrusted Thingness opening out Otherness.

Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote Tractatus Logico Philosophicus as a Non-Sense of Lie-Logic. Wittgenstein wrote wittingly: “The right method of philosophy would be this. To say nothing except what can be said." Except that nothing can be said only sensationed and nothing is said in the Tractatus. Wittgenstein wriggles: "My propositions are elucidatory in this way he who understands me finally recognises them as senseless...Where one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent."

The trash Tractatus silences Sensationism and does not Speak or Sensation seeing Logic as Nonsensical for Wittgenstein's sentences seep no known Sensationism so sowing language without leakage, sentences without spillages words without waste. Where one cannot speak, thereof one must be sensation. The Tractatus touts totalising positivistic propositions so sensationing nothing negating surplus spillage slurp slime stuff such as an alluring angoisse luminous leaked lamella. The world is not 'the totality of facts', but a sea of sensations a sein of sensations a shine of sensations.

Wittgenstein shows us that the puerile propositions of the turgid Tractatus are as pure non-sensationist where welded leaden Logic is inert left locked-in-its-nothingness negating the thrown stagnant smelliness sown seeping sensational slipping slime states. For filtered locked Logic does not leak, linger, shimmer, shudder, slip, spill, slush, sludge, soak, stink, sow, so left lacking a Shining as a Sensationism scent so lost lie 'Logic' cannot have a 'Logic of Sensationism' for Sensation splatters spurts shines shimmers shudders oozed outside locked 'Logic' which without wetness cannot Leak as an alien Anxiety. Heidegger hears: "From ancient times the theory of thought has been called 'logic.' But if, now, thinking is ambiguous in its relation to being - as offering both a horizon and an organon - does not what we call 'logic' also remain ambiguous, according to the view under discussion? Does not 'logic,' then, as organon and as an interpretative horizon of being, become completely questionable?" (Pathmarks).

Logic does not Smell, Logic does not Smaze, Logic does not Sweat, Logic does not Spunk, Logic does not Sponge, Logic does not Squelch, Logic does not Shit, Logic does not Shine, Logic does not Curdle, Logic does not Coagulate, Logic does not Glisten, Logic does not Drool, Logic does not Drip, Logic does not Leak: Logic has no Leakic. Logic does not Exist. Logic knows nothing of The Nothing. The Sensation of The Nothing leaks outside the nothing of Logic. Nietzsche on Nihilism contra Logic: "Nihilism doe snot only contemplate the 'in vain!' nor is it merely the belief that everything deserves to perish: one helps to destroy. - This is, if you will, illogical; but the nihilist does not believe that one needs to be logical." (Friedrich Nietzsche, The Will to Power). Nihilism negates Logic. Sensation severs Logic. Logic is not: slimy, sticky, scabby, soggy, slithery, smelly, spunky, oozy, oily, greasy, gooey, gluey, dank, damp.

Logic has no Sensation. Logic has no Anxiety. Logic has no Dread. Logic has no Boredom. Logic has no Nothing. Being has no Logic.

Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s thin thesis that a sensation must form some sort of 'picture' in order to have 'significance', - and that a 'pure sensation' correspondence to 'nothing in our experience' - is insane and absolutely absurd and utterly untrue and non-sense since sown sensation slits sight splits seeing punctures perception. Sensation is pure experience: 'signification' is always already added after the Event of pure Sensation: only social and psychic conditioning sutures significance to sensation but robs it of its brute and pure sensationistic impact: when an infant smells, sees and even eats its own excrement none of its seven senses tell 'it' that it is supposedly repellent and repugnant. Through cultural signification and suturing, the smell sensation of Chanel No.5 is smelt as 'acceptable' and 'aesthetic' and the smell sensation of shit is smelt as 'unacceptable' and 'unaesthetic': our social-psychic conditioning could also reverse these two smell sensations where scent becomes shit and shit becomes scent but the sensations still remain the same. What if a Rose smelt like a Shit; would we still sniff it? What if a Shit smelt like a Rose; would we then sniff it? What is the sight of smell the smell of sight?

While sensations are necessarily non-cognitive on the conscious plane - and cannot be 'known' - spilt sown sensations can be shown thrown flown forth from the thirsty subconscious swamp stratum and the thrown seventh sense which will always already shine shimmer oozed outside consciousness and alien body of being being bled both from within and without outside thought: sensations cannot be know only thrown for Being is in fact floating flooding bled Beingsensation: one does not 'know' sensation one 'throws' and 'retrieves' sensation through fort-da-fluxing. There is no 'Question of the Meaning of Being' but only the 'Sensationing of Being as Beingsensation' where the sewer subconscious 'alien body' has a direct drooling atta access to a 'pure realm' of sensation free from conceptual consciousness.

Being has Sensation not Meaning. Being is not a Thing of Thought but a Sensation of Throwness. Being has no Intellect. Being has no Consciousness. Being is Alien to Thought. Being is Sensation. Being is Alien. Beingaliensensation: The Life of the Alien. The Alien has Landed. The Alien is About.

The question "What calls for sensationing" asks for what wants to be sensationed about in the pre-eminent sense: it does not just give us sensationing to sensation about, nor only itself, but it first gives sensation and sensationing to us, it entrusts sensation to us as our essential destiny, and thus first joins and appropriates us to sensation as a clearing to being towards sensataion as Beingsensation.

Our Thinking blocks the brute experiences of pure pulsating Sensationing: thought severs pure sensation, thought negates pure sensation. René Descartes never stated: "I think, therefore I am" but sensationed: "I stink, therefore I am." I see, therefore I am. I smell, therefore I am. I sensation, therefore I am. Has not all philosophy been a misunderstanding of sensation? We have had a Philosophy of Spirit so why not a Philosophy of Spunk?

The School of Francis Bacon invites initiates alien artists to throw sow seeping Sensationist awe awakening an alien ather atta attack alteric art.

"If subjectivity and society abject the alien within, is abjection not a regulatory operation? Is the abject, then, disruptive of subjective and social orders, or foundational of them, a crisis in these orders or a confirmation of them?"

‎"The Suicide Bomber is the True Performance Artist. The Suicide Bomber as Absolute Subject, as Absolute Sacrifice, as Absolute Exteriority, as Absolute Knowledge, knows Nothing of Death. The Suicide Bomber is True to Being. The Suicide Bomber is True to Dasein. So the Suicide Bomber is True to the Nothing by Being attuned to the Nothing There detonating Dasein bombing Being becoming the Nothing at All."

"the foam of the unconscious locked around it - which is its freshness." Francis Bacon

"Fact leaves its ghost...all the foam of its freshness...The subject is the bait."

"Lifetime is a child playing, moving pieces on a board. The kingdom is a child's."

"What haunts are not the dead, but the gaps left within us by the secrets of others."

"We are always hounding ourselves. We have been made aware of this side of ourselves by Freud."

"Bacon did something only possible after the first generation of of Freudians - he painted traumas."

Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, 1993, Crown Publishers, Inc., New York.

"To be mistaken about the rhythm of a sentence is to be mistaken about the very meaning of a sentence."

"We all live by the hidden areas of our make up...Instinct arises out of that whole unconscious sea inside us."

Francis Bacon, from Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Michael Peppiatt, Westview Press, 1996.

"World-time - it is a child, playing, moving the pebbles to and fro on a board, of such a child is the mastery over being."

"Psychoanalysis must aspire to the sensation of music to hear the alien ather. The unconscious is structured like a score."

"It is my mother who is my music. It is her voice that speaks in it. I wanted to shout forth what she was never able to say."

"Abject Alien Art Aspires to the Alien Condition of the Nailed Nervous System Penetrating the Body Beyond the Pleasure Principle."

"Music is the effort we make to explain to ourselves how our brains work. We listen to Bach transfixed because this is listening to a human mind."

Lewis Thomas (1913-94), The Medusa and the Snail, On Thinking about Thinking, 1979.

"Truly fertile Music, the only kind that will move us, that we shall truly appreciate, will be a Music conducive to Dream, which banishes all reason and analysis. One must not wish first to understand and then to feel. Art does not tolerate Reason."

"Without a doubt, time frequently washes up much that seems flotsam, wastage, mere wreckage.. Suppose time is like the fitful sleep of a child. We are the child's shout in the dark. Sometimes, too, the child wakes up and even plays."

William Desmond, Desire, Dialectic and Otherness, Yale University Press, 1987.

"Physiology of art apparently takes as its object to be a process of nature that bubbles to the surface in the manner of an eruptive state of rapture. Such a state would evanesce without deciding anything, since nature knows no realm of decision."

Martin Heidegger, The Grand Style; The Will to Power as Art; Nietzsche, Harper Collins, 1991.

"It seems to come straight out of what we choose to call the unconscious with the foam of the unconscious locked around it - which is its freshness."

Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames and Hudson, 1987.

"In the state between being and non-being, everywhere the possible becomes real, the real ideal, and in art's free imitation the dream is a terrible one, terrible but divine."

"Freud said beautifully that a dream-come-true is a nightmare. Whenever we make love, we have obscure fantasies sustaining us. But they have to remain in the unconscious. The most horrible thing that can happen is to have those fantasies realized."

"Since Plato, it is the old philosophical injunction: to learn to live is to learn to die. Less and less, I have not learned to accept death. I remain uneducable about the wisdom of learning to die."

"He who wills adds in this way the sensations of pleasure of the successful executive agents, the serviceable 'under-wills' or under-souls - for our body is only a social structure composed of many souls - to his sensations of pleasure as commander."

"What is the meaning of death in the twentieth century, when millions of lives have been extinguished and the possibility of annihilating human life altogether remains open? Is there an art of dying which is useful in this time and circumstance?"

Edith Wyschogrod, Spirit in Ashes : Hegel, Heidegger, and Man-Made Mass Death, Yale University Press, 1985.

"What does the psyche look-like? What does the psyche leak-like? What does the psyche smell-like? The psyche smells like fresh semen - the psyche looks-leaks like fresh-froth - the semen of the subconscious for Bacon becomes: 'the foam of the unconscious locked around it - which is its freshness.' - and thrown forth as a fort-da-froth."

"Rapture does not mean mere chaos that churns and foams, the drunken bravado of sheer riotousness and tumult. When Nietzsche says 'rapture' the word has a sound and sense utterly opposed to Wagner's. For Nietzsche rapture means the most glorious victory of form...Rapture as a state of feeling explodes the very subjectivity of the subject. By having a feeling for beauty the subject has already come out of himself; he is no longer subjective, no longer a subject...Rapture is the basic mood; beauty does the attuning."

Martin Heidegger. Rapture as Form-engendering Force; Nietzsche Volumes One & Two; Harper Collins, 1991.

"One day, when I was 15 or 16 years old, I saw a dog having a shit and I realised at that moment that I was going to die. I think there is a difficult moment in the life of a man. The moment when he discovers that youth is not eternal. On this day I realised this. I thought about death and since then, I think about death everyday. "

"The phantom is a formation of the unconscious that has never been conscious for good reason. It passes - in a way yet to be determined - from the parent's unconscious into the child's. Clearly, the phantom has a function different from dynamic repression. The phantom's periodic and compulsive return lies beyond the scope of symptom-formation in the sense of a return of the repressed; it works like a ventriloquist, like a stranger within the subject's own mental topography."

"I think about nothing but death, I think about it all the time, ten seconds don't go by without the imminence of the thing being there. I never stop analysing the phenomenon of 'survival' as the structure of surviving, it's really the only thing that interests me, but precisely insofar as I do not believe that one lives on post mortem."

Jacques Derrida, Interview with Gianni Vattimo, A Taste for the Secret, Polity Press, 2001.

"Art activated is not a wish-fulfillment but a dread-fulfillment. Not even a dread-fulfillment but a dread-emptiment. Art alien does not attune to desire but to dread. Art alien decapitates itself from desire. Art alien negotiates the negative. Art alien wishes for nothing but the fulfillment of its own demise."

"Interpreting by dreams.— That which we sometimes do not know or feel precisely while awake—whether we have a good or a bad conscience towards a particular person—the dream informs us of without any ambiguity."

Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human, Preface to Second Edition, 1886.

"Nietzsche's good association with his father was music....Consequently music gives us our greatest insight into Nietzsche's nature. Freud saw too few clues extant to Nietzsche's sexuality partly because he was afraid to read him, partly because the founding father of psychoanalysis was notoriously indifferent to music."

"Céline's journey, to the end of his night, will also encounter rhythm and music as being the only way out, the ultimate sublimation of the unsignifiable. Contrary to Joyce, however, Céline will not find salvation in it....Music, rhythm, rigadoon, without end, for no reason."

Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, Columbia University Press, 1980.

"The hysterical dimension interests me a lot...I glorify hysterical actions. They are powerful gestures, a form of resistance when one is in a weak position. Hysteria is at the same time a falling apart into many pieces, an ecstasy, and a personal exorcism. You can see this with children: I try to honour their movements because, in the end, this is how one gets to know them. Sometimes it is better to say things with movements than with words."

Pipilotti Rist, Fantasy And Distraction: An Interview with Pipilotti Rist, Afterimage, November 2000.

"Ernest Jones says that Freud's aversion to music was well known to his colleagues...Freud's avoidance of music was part of his wider need to control emotion, for music has the power to evoke a range of feelings in the listener, to carry one away on a tide of romantic passion or bring on sadness and grief, and these were the reactions that he had to suppress at all costs."

"For Freud 'woman' is always already essentially Egyptian - that is - ego-free - being-animal - being-alien - as being ather - to being human - to being man - to being man-made. For Freud - as an ego-free Egyptian - and a curator and collector of Egyptian Memorabilia - masturbated molested memorabilia - as an answering angoisse antiquity - answering an alien ather: 'woman'. For Freud there is no 'woman' - no 'sexual-difference' - only an 'alien difference' - no 'human condition' - only an 'alien condition' - an Egyptian Ereignis. As aliens the Egyptians had no ego - no psyche - no drives - no desires - no needs. For Freud 'woman' was always already 'alien'..."

"Céline is our contemporary because he makes us confront his music and his solitude...The music and structure of Céline's texts speak about the right to be different, but Céline didn't know it...I would also note how much Céline celebrates music, which is reflected in the theme of vocal phenomena...It was once considered very important to speak as a woman...My view of Céline's relationship to women is that he saw women as a mirage and an element of fascination. I prefer to see the woman (or the feminine element) in Céline through the rhythm and music of his writing rather than through his fantasies."

Julia Kristeva, On Céline: Music and the 'Blunder', Interview with Jacques Henric, 1976.

"Art is a representation independent of the principle of explanation; it doesn't follow the rules of conscious rationality, but images were preserved in it that were once matters of metaphysics or religion. As the highest art, music is an expression of the world will, which reveals objectification out of its boundless forms of objectification. Schopenhauer was actually working out one of Leibniz's notions: 'Music is the movement of philosophy ignorantly exercised in metaphysical darkness'. Art is thus the legitimate development of metaphysics by other means, and music an unconscious exercise in metaphysics in which the spirit is unaware that it is philosophising."

Otto Pöggeler, The Paths of Heidegger's Life and Thought, Humanity Books, 1998.

"In unconscious life negation must be regarded as a productive force rather than a limitation, or privation, of objects there might be for experience. Freud insists that the unconscious does not understand negation in its conventional sense, any more than it understands the conventional categories of space, time and causality. The unconscious is not governed by those transcendental categories by which philosophers have sought to police the operations of what used to be called the 'mind'. It is possessed by an unstoppable positivity. The unconscious experience of a 'negative object' is positive, real and direct."

"Kant and Freud both claim to repeat the Copernican turn in their respective domains. With regard to Freud, the meaning of this reference seems clear and simple: in the same way Copernicus demonstrated that our earth is not the centre of the universe, but a planet revolving around the sun, and in this sense 'decentred', turning around another centre, Freud also demonstrated that the (conscious) ego is not the centre of the human psyche, but ultimately an epiphenomenon, a satellite turning around the true centre, the unconscious or the id....The point here is not so much that the Cartesian cogito is the presupposed 'vanishing mediator' of the Freudian subject of the unconscious (a thought worth pursuing), but that the subject of the unconscious is already operative in the Cartesian cogito as its own inherent excess: in order to assert the cogito as the self- transparent 'thinking substance', one has to pass through the excessive point of madness which designates the cogito as the vanishing abyss of substanceless thought."

Slavoj Zizek, From Proto Reality to the Act, Angelaki: Journal of the Theoretical Humanities 5, 2000.

"The subject in responsibility is alienated in the depths of its identity with an alienation that does not empty the same of its identity, but constrains it to it, with an unimpeachable assignation, constrains it to it as no one else, where no one could replace it. The psyche, a uniqueness outside of concepts, is a seed of folly, already a psychosis. It is not an ego, but me under assignation."

Emmanuel Levinas, Otherwise than Being: or, Beyond Essence, Trans. Alphonso Lingis, The Hague, 1981.

"...the phantom is not at all the product of the subject’s self-creation by means of the interplay between repressions and interjections. The phantom is alien to the subject who harbours it. Moreover, the diverse manifestations of the phantom, which we call haunting, are not directly related to instinctual life and are not to be confused with the return of the repressed..."

"Among artists of the highest rank, such as Beethoven and Rembrandt, the sharpest sense reality was joined with estrangement from reality; this, truly, would be a worthwhile object for the psychology of art. It would need to decipher the artwork not just as being like an artist but as being unlike as well, as labour on a reality resisting the artist. If art has psychoanalytic roots, then they are the roots of fantasy in the fantasy of omnipotence. This fantasy includes the wish to bring about a better world. This frees the total dialectic, whereas the view of art as a merely subjective language of the unconscious does not even touch it. Kant's aesthetics is the antithesis of Freud's theory of art as wish fulfillment...Only dilettantes reduce everything in art to the unconscious, repeating clichés. In artistic production, unconscious forces are one sort of impulse, material among many others."

"At what age is oneself? At what point does one become oneself - as a body? At what age does one become oneself so that after you can refer to the processes which occur to you as a kind of erosion from your proper being?...At what age do you become your proper being? At what age do you have your proper body? It's as if the moment of the proper body never exists - its just that you have one or two relations to it: either you're still growing towards it - or is already after it - so there is here, as it were, a proper body to which, at a certain point in your life, you're always tending and after a certain point you're already losing - the problem is you never had the moment of your proper body - or very rare...That literary recreation of the moment of the proper body shows that it's done from the point of view of always already having past...We do have - we are an ideal body to which once we were tending towards since which we've been declining from and unfortunately we never registered the moment when we were actually there - because we're never there. Our relation to our body - amongst all the other relations to our body that we have - is always mortified by the category of time - mortified in the sense that it is time which always keeps us a phase apart from possessing our own body."

"The problem with Matrix is not the scientific naivety of its tricks: the idea of passing from reality to VR through the phone makes sense, since all we need is a gap/hole through which one can escape. (Perhaps, an even better solution would have been the toilet: is not the domain where excrements vanish after we flush the toilet effectively one of the metaphors for the horrifyingly-sublime Beyond of the primordial, pre-ontological Chaos into which things disappear? Although we rationally know what goes on with the excrements, the imaginary mystery nonetheless persists - shit remains an excess with does not fit our daily reality, and Lacan was right in claiming that we pass from animals to humans the moment an animal has problems with what to do with its excrements, the moment they turn into an excess that annoys it. The Real is thus not primarily the horrifyingly-disgusting stuff re-emerging from the toilet sink, but rather the hole itself, the gap which serves as the passage to a different ontological order - the topological hole or torsion which 'curves' the space of our reality so that we perceive/imagine excrements as disappearing into an alternative dimension which is not part of our everyday reality.)"

Slavoj Zizek, The Matrix, or, The Two Sides of Perversion, October 28 1999.

Julia Kristeva, Is Sensation a Form of Language? ; Time and Sense, New York : Columbia University Press, 1996.

"Psychoanalysis can only domesticate the demonic by placing it in the confines of regression therapy. There is something that haunts the present life, life as presence. For Deleuze this is repetition: not as regression but as originary difference, announcing not the return of the repressed (the past) but the evil spirits of the alien future; or rather, the time of Aion as opposed to the time of Chronos. This is the time of the Event (the time of eternal return)."

Keith Ansell Pearson, Evil Spirits: Nihilism & The Fate of Modernity, Manchester University Press, 2000.

"A scene of hysteria. And that's how all of Bacon's series of spasms might be described: scenes of horror, vomit, and excrement, where the body is always attempting to escape by means of one of its organs in order to reach the expanse of color, the material structure. Bacon has often said that shadow in the domain of the Figures has just as much presence as the body; but shadow is the body that has itself escaped through some localized point or another in the contour. And the scream, Bacon's scream, is the operation through which the entirety of the body escapes through the mouth. All the thrusts and pulsions of the body."

Gilles Deleuze, Athleticism, The Logic of Sensation, Flash Art, May 1983.

"Bacon needs to renounce natural logic and upset it in the act of painting in order to reveal and transform into comprehensible terms something originating in the unconscious: the complex, multiple, and contradictory mass of emotions and the obsessive images that arouse it. This is its material, nothing other than the experience of human existence and the unconscious substrate over which it passes. Through revelation of the unconscious in painting, the insignificant existence of the individual rises to the grandness of a mythical experience: to a condition that transforms an infinitude of empirical experiences into the tragic story of mankind."

Luigi Ficacci, Bacon, 'Obsessed by Life', The Expression of Horror, Taschen, 2003.

"What Bacon accomplishes is a linkage of the power of the painterly process to the power of social authority. This is the source of the real sexual hysteria and theatricality of his paintings...It can be inferred from Bacon's paintings that he would agree with Anthony Storr in the idea that hysterical exhibitionism is a 'defense against depression' in a person who regards him - or herself as defeated, and as a defense against recognition of the lack of ideal persons in the world. But, at the same time, Bacon seems to posit hysteria as in its own dramatic way an ideal mode of representing oneself as a person. But there is a paradox here, for this idealization has an archaeologistic basis. In hysteria a person attempts to immorrtalize him - or herself by becoming extravagantly demonstrative, exhibitionistic, in affect announcing his or her being as absolute and indisputable. It is given a surplus of presence, as it were....The painterliness that gives hysterical flair to the person also mutilates that being into oblivion, generalizing it toward nonbeing. That something can be so real and at the next moment an illusion belonging to the past expresses the ambivalence endemic in archaeologism. All Bacon's figures exist in a time warp, at once radically contemporary yet belonging to a dead world. Bacon's hysterical painting is paradoxical, and never more so than when it gives authority to inherently unauthoriitative, almost banal figures."

"Despite the different context and idiom of their respective ideas, both Nietzsche and Freud invoke an accursed will to repetition which conducts thinking to the black heart of Sisyphean futility. For Nietzsche, the demonic threat of a meaningless life endlessly relived is the apogee of nihilism; for Freud, the compulsion to repeat is a manifestation of the organism's longing to die. For each, the hapless subject of modernity is traumatized by the stirring of dark forces from within, fated to aggravate its lacerated pride in its pathetic attempts at self-overcoming...Nietzsche's darkly cryptic thought of the eternal return resists the status of an epistemological principle and by that very fact conducts thinking to the edge of madness. If desire thirsts for its own oblivion this is only true to the extent that it simultaneously thirsts to escape its own destiny. We are good because we lack the strength to be evil but we 'are' will to power and nothing besides."

Jill Marsden, Interminable Intensity; Nietzsche's Demonic Nihilism; Evil Spirits: Nihilism & The Fate of Modernity, Manchester University Press, 2000.

"Let's make clear, as it were, who's on the couch and who's behind the couch in one's relation to the painting. It is vital to recognize that it is not we - qua analyst - who are there to analyse the painting - if my argument is going to be sustained - it is to the function of the painting to analyse us. You might say: 'how can a painting speak?'...Well actually of course, it's almost true that a real analyst can't speak...We are its patient. It is there to interpret us...."

"Considering the popularity of his images, then there is clearly a pleasure in this painful encounter, despite the damage Lacan says such an encounter elicits. Of course, I am talking about a masochistic attraction to Bacon's art. This must account for at least part of the favourable or even enthusiastic reception it is accorded. However, I am not invoking the masochism that Freud theorized since I find his discussion of this subject rather lacking. Bacon himself would otherwise be a classic Freudian case considering his conflicted attraction to, and fear of his father. But as for the viewer of his images, there seems to be something else at work, a pleasure in the vision of other bodies suffering dissolution, a pleasure that is experienced now, back in the 50's, and even in other periods significantly more conservative than that of post-war Britain."

Andrés Mario Zervigón, The Pleasure of Francis Bacon: Viewing Bodies in Pain in Post-War Britain, University of La Verne.

"I like reading Freud very much because I like his way of explaining things but, at the same time, never having undergone therapy myself, I'm not sure what to think of psychoanalysis. Perhaps it could have helped me? I don't know...It seems to me that in painting, and perhaps also in the other arts, there's always an element of control and an element of surprise, and that distinction perhaps comes back to what psychoanalysis has defined as the conscious and unconscious...In the end, painting is the result of the interaction of those accidents and the will of the artist or, if you prefer, the interaction of the unconscious and conscious."

"The greatest weight. - What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your live will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence - even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!' Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus?"

Friedrich Nietzsche, The Doctrine of the Eternal Recurrence, The Gay Science, 1882.

"Mourning must be impossible. We cannot assume that we can merely resurrect or interiorize 'within us the image, idol, or ideal of the other who is dead'. nor can we assume that 'the other who is dead' is simply outside of us and that we are 'a subjectivity that is closed upon itself or even identical to itself'. Mourning is impossible, and for us most of all. The 'race of the other', the other who has died and that remains other, is at once inside and outside of us, marking a gap that moves in 'us', as 'us' - the living who sign our name. Mourning has always already begun. It begins with the name, with naming and with writing the date, with dating: Jacques Derrida 15 July 1930 - 8-9 October 2004... How does one respond to the death of Jacques Derrida? How does one mourn for Derrida, who warned of the dangers of mourning (as idealization and interiorization), while insisting that mourning is both unavoidable and impossible? The gap that the death of Jacques Derrida has let behind is open, gaping; it cannot be closed. one can perhaps only respond by tracing the gaps (écarts, béances, décalages), the histories of the gap, in Derrida's work."

"Reality is that which, being an obstacle, both arrests and denies us our pleasure....The ugly object is existence itself, in so far as existence is the obstacle which stands in the way of desire. And so it is, from the point of view of desire, that the ugly object should not be there...The ugly object, as obstacle, is a punitive force which is sweeping towards me.....What sets the work of a genius apart from that of an artist who merely makes a beautiful object? In classical and subsequent hymns to genius something of the following impression may be formed: genius has a sublime relation to structure. Rather than effortlessly and swiftly creating a totality, the genius may incorporate alien objects into the structure of a work, elements that would defeat a lesser artist, in whose hands the whole would break down into a ridiculous collection of incompatible fragments. The genius is able, indeed needs to, pit himself against a seemingly impossible task - to mould individual, inappropriate elements into a final whole. The greater the difficulty, the greater the final impression that the totality makes. In this sense the ugly is part of the power of genius...There is another story, more obscure and obscene, about the relation between the unconscious and ugliness. It is an account of the ecstasy which the unconscious enjoys in all that is dirty, horrifying and disgusting - that is, of ugliness as an unbearable pleasure."

"This good little boy, however, had an occasional disturbing habit of taking any small objects he could get hold of and throwing them away from him into a corner, under the bed, and so on, so that hunting for his toys and picking them up was often quite a business. As he did this he gave vent to a loud, long-drawn-out 'o-o-o-o,' accompanied by an expression of interest and satisfaction. His mother and the writer of the present account were agreed in thinking that this was not a mere interjection but represented the German word 'fort' [gone]. I eventually realized that it was a game and that the only use he made of any of his toys was to play 'gone' with them. One day I made an observation which confirmed my view. The child had a wooden reel with a piece of string tied around it. It never occurred to him to pull it along the floor behind him, for instance, and play at its being a carriage. What he did was to hold the reel by the string and very skillfully throw it over the edge of his curtained cot, so that it disappeared into it, at the same time uttering his expressive 'o-o-o-o.' He then pulled the reel again by the string and hailed its reappearance with a joyful 'da' [there]. This, then, was the complete game–disappearance and return. As a rule one only witnessed its first act, which was repeated untiringly as a game in itself, though there is no doubt that the greater pleasure was attached to the second act. The interpretation of the game then became obvious. It was related to the child's great cultural achievement–the instinctual renunciation (that is, the renunciation of instinctual satisfaction) which he had made in allowing his mother to go away without protesting."

Sigmund Freud, Beyond the Pleasure Principle, Standard Edition, Vol. 18, pp. 14-15.

"Was Francis Bacon's relationship with his father so traumatic that the artist sought expression for it through the Crucifixion? Was being surprised by his, to whom Francis felt an erotic attraction, while he was putting on his mother's underwear the real humiliation? Or was it his father's disgust and the subsequent banishment from the house? Or were these simply details of a tortured childhood (which included being regularly horse whipped by the grooms at his father's behest)...Did the tyranny of the father excite the son? Did the beatings - if they took place - arouse Francis sexually? Did he imagine himself his father's wife as he put on his mother's underwear? And, if so, to what extent were the Crucifixions - and indeed the whole flayed population of Bacon's pictures - the voluptuous production of a strong sado-masochistic fantasy?"

Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996.

"What was called the individual - or what was called individuality - is in fact nothing more or less than this interior - this existence of the object - which begins to leak - begins to leak out - of its representation. You can begin to see that in fact that if, if the reason why you do not use an individual in a work of art that's supposed to be beautiful - it's precisely because they do not conform with the representation or the image of a human being. At this point nothing could be further apart the ideal figuration of the human form; nothing could be further apart than that actual individual because an individual will be nothing more or less than the set of differences from that ideal form. The set of differences will actually always be experienced in some sense as disgusting because there are those parts of an individual which are as it were leaking out and exceeding the individual as a representation of him or herself. I mean, quite often, - at the level of experience, this is related to kind of things like hair coming out of people's ears, - it's often combined with bits and the places from which things could be leaking: stuff that's coming out of your eyes, or your nose, or your ears, or your mouth. I mean this is another reason why it - like the Alien - always drools - the kind of stuff which is drooled - which may come from your mouth, your eyes, your ears, your anus - all that in a sense has the mark of radical individuality - radical individuality because it is precisely there - the stuff - which is getting out."

In the Beginning was the Sea and in the Sea was the Seamen coming to a Shore as a Sein slime - as a sein semen sensation of our foamy fresh froth fort da-ing dasein - as a trace of time to come - as a trace of come to time - as the time of the trace of the throw of dasein diceing difference - delivering an awesome alien ather - as a thoth thing thrown - to Thoth to throw Thoth. Thoth was the Time of the Trace of Difference as the Eternal Return of the différance of Dasein as a Semen Sensation Shining - beaming bare before Being began being. For Derrida and Bacon différance and chance as trace are the absence of presence as the absence as presence pushed through thrown down disappearing dice: for Derrida and Bacon difference and chance cannot be nameable or knowable only thrownable and traceable through thrown chance as a Subconscious Beingsensation. Subconscious Sensation - as always already thrown out-of-itself is the coming-to-presence as Becoming towards absence as sensations are always already leaking away towards absences Becoming traces as all Sensations are traumatic traces trawled from the Unconscious Sewer inside us. Subconscious Sensation and dice différance are thrown out-of-being and thus have no corresponding concepts pulverising presence mauling meaning as Sensation as différance as Trace enacts erasure at entry thrown out of thought. By being Unnameable Being is Sensationable - as the Trace of our dice différance throwness - since Sensation and différance are not Names nailing the Origin since Sensation and différance have no Time to Begin with by being Beingtime as a Beingsensation.

Beingsensation bubbles forth from the Subconscious Sea brewing Being not Known from our Unconscious Subterranean Sewer that Knows nothing of Death for our Unconscious is always already alien as autonomous and not attached to the Body for the Unconscious does not Die and Exits the Body when all is done with dasein departing ahead of being-there to being out-there as for the time-being as being the time of subconscious sein.

Through throwing the Derridean dice Bacon forges the forgetting of Being by betting on Being being bled bare through throwness an ancient arbitrary alien ather reappears revealingly as Being as Alien. So for Bacon thrown sensation as difference as arbitrary as chance is also constituted and collected through thrown remembering-recovering of oozed traces of sensations of difference as différance of sensation for difference is not a structure of Being but a sensation of Being as Beingsensation for sensation as différance as deferral delaying dissolving delivering drowning. Bacon's penetraiting poignant paints pertains to Derridean undecidability where the psyche of the paint plays wet with multiple meanings with no meaning at all yet triggering the nervous system in remembering something unsettling and uncanny in the angoisse arbitrariness of the marks slashes oozes that suture the subject severed and soaked. Bacon's paint as undecidability - is pure sensation: being pure psysensation is living without a language: to be pure pysensation is being thrown towards being as a score of the psyche mooding the music of the mother that Freud fails to here and fears to be near.

What does the psyche look-like? What does the psyche leak-like? What does the psyche smell-like? The psyche smells like fresh semen - the psyche looks-leaks like fresh-froth - the semen of the subconscious for Bacon becomes: "the foam of the unconscious locked around it - which is its freshness." - and thrown forth as a fort-da-froth. What does the psyche taste like? The strong smelling psyche as all expected tastes slightly sweet and salty coming forth from the sea of the seaman.

For Bacon the Derridean Dice becomes the Eternal Return Fort-Da Throwness of Dasein where Dasein shows itself as a Dice delivered thrown down roulette table revealing the register of Being through the speed of throwness as in the throwness of paint on to the canvas where the time to throw throws up the time of Being where gorunded landed dice or paint reveals or conceals the being there of being of time as betting on time. For Bacon it is a question of timing and throwing as being in-time out-time when knowing when to and when not to throw the dice of time as a Fort Da Thrusting where betting on being becomes betting on Being on the recover and revealing of Being. Bacon as being-time-in and out-itself knowingly knew instinctively how to throw in time on time out time all the time being time throwing being paint. Being is not a question of language but leakage: Being is not a question of Thinking but Being is a sensation of Throwing and Being is a sensation of Painting as well as the sensation music. Being cannot be spoken, written, intellectualised, conceptualised or Known - only Thrown as an Eternal Return of différance. Freud's Fort-Da-Dasein becomes the Lost and Found Object of Metaphysical Mooding as a Musing Mourning and Memorial for-of the severed Sensation of the Psyche for the Ego is exiled as Anxiety. Anxiety is the brute register the brute realisation that the Ego does not exist: Anxiety is - pure and simple - the Sensation of the Subconscious as an oozing offal Overspil exiling our Nothingness out-of-itself as a draining drooling dripping Dasein. Nietzsche knew that the Ego did not exist and Freud knew Nietzsche knew that the Ego did not exist and Freud knew that the Ego did not exist but forgot it. There is no Ego because the Body inhabits multiple Eggos of alien athers breeding and bleeding out-within which will 'speak their mind' which will 'leak their behind' for the Unconscious is pure Beingsensation for-itself as being-itself free far from thought and time.

As a composer of multiple sensations Nietzsche composed with multiple sounds multiple voices multiple instruments hence his writings are not contradictory but musical. Contrary to current claims Nietzsche never contradicted himself or made contradictory statements. Nietzsche's writings wanderings wonderings walings weepings as duelling dancing doctrines are not contradictory because they are always already a pushing pulling perpetual Becoming as the Eternal Return of différance. Freud saw a one and a half year old boy throwing a paper-back copy of Nietzsche's The Gay Science which fell open on the Doctrine of the Eternal Return: Freud retrieved the Fort-Da Game from the Doctrine of the Eternal Return of the Throw. Nietzsche's wriggling writhing writings - as a Fort-Da-Forgetting - have no consciousness of contradiction have no concept of contradiction: contradiction does not exist in the Nietzschean canon. Nietzsche forgets contradiction. Nietzsche is beyond contradiction. Since Nietzsche's sensations are structured as a musical score so have no linguistic equivalent only a musical-image equivalent. Remember also dreams have no linguistic equivalent only a musical-image equivalent as the subconscious is structured like a score as a series of sensations. The being-time of the score is equivalent to the being-time of the psyche: that is - it-is - out-of-sync - out-of-time - with well worn commonsense clock-time all the time not-in-time. The scape subconscious initiated is structured scent as as a sent series of oozed out serene semenised sensations always already activated and articulated as a moist music mostly mothered mourning metaphysical mesmerising metre milking making man: - philosophise - phantasise - paintisise - poeticise. The Unconscious has no-time for time-to-tell.

Fort-da is the Eternal Return of Play as to Throw Thoth forth is to Return froth sent Sensations of Difference. Bacon Thoth throws forth pain paint to bring back the Bacon - bring back the Father - bring back the Pope. Fort-da is the Essential metaphysical music mooding movement bringing back being as being blown away again. Nietzsche Freud Bacon and Derrida do fort-da ad-infinitum in never nailing the name never nailing the image slipping severing signatures.

Fort-da is the Eternal Return of the Frame which frees form from frameness deframing Derrida's deconstruction of the frame as framing form frozen. For Derrida forgets why the Frame is There as Dasein deframed. The radical alteric eonomy of the frame is that it deframes the image out-of-itself and at the same-different no-time holds the image within outside itself at the same-different no-time all the time not in time as the image out-of-place out-of-space. Precisely be removing the frame difference is reduced to samenes of the space surrounding the image: deframing the image is pure pre-tentious politically correct affectation and alien to the thrown framing of arts alienation and artificiality: the frame - as Bacon rightly wrote - is there precisely to activate the artificiality of the image: by removing the frame the art image becomes banalised normalised democratised - 'dumbed down' and 'put-in-place'. The Frame foregrounds the no ground of the image and de-elevates it up and out of-it-self towards you: the frame throws the image out towards you: without the frame the image falls flat into the space of sameness. The Frame forms the abspace of radical difference by splitting up spaces as dualisms of inside-outside for the frame is in-between being out-between or operating interstitial interactions: the frame gives radical freedom to radical différance deframing Dasein.

The thrown frame flame does fort-da forever as Derrida did as Derrida died as Derrida still does do fort-da daringly. The essence of the economy of the pull and push of play is patently played out played in-on-out-off the fort-da-frame. The freeze frame sets the sensation of melting metaphysical mooding activating alienationing. For the frame forges a zone of tension as a spice of distance and a dice of difference decapitating spatial scapeing. To remove the frame is to remove the play of difference and distance. The frame as fort-da fort throws the image away keeping it at bay as it comes thrown back towards you coming to get you. As Bacon said: only by going further can one get nearer: to throw is to retrieve as a dice Dasein. Far from being a form of conserving concealing containment the frame frees the form from the frame out-in itself: the supplement surplus stuff fuses with the frame throwing the frame on fort-da free play. The frame becomes the crypt which takes in and incorporates the ghost of the image: the crypt caresses the carcase of the image keeping it cosy and coy. (Conversely: the decorations of Pollock and Rothko would look absolutely absurd framed: one does not normally frame wall paper). The Frame does not Mark a Limit but Ignites a Lightening lighting up Alien Being as the free Frame articulates and activates the Artingness of art as artificially real as the rolling reel removal from the real. The Frame makes a difference marks a difference makes a différance marks a différance in setting and severing the sensation the metaphysical mooding of the abjected abimage: the frame is not a frame that frames but a flame that inflames inflaming the image igniting the image initiating the image letting the image be in-it-self out-it-self as an interstice inheritance. The Frame deconstructs the Enframing of the sutured space of the Art Gallery which is a Frame of Containment: the Frame decapitates deranged Political Correctness. The Frame severs the Face from the Space of the Subject: the Frame radically removes the Face from the Head. The Frame fuels The Face - the frame frees the face from the space of the subject - frame decapitates dasein by beheading the head of the severed subject from being there to being thrown over there as an absent abjected alienality. The Frame for Bacon is Blanchot's entretien: that which severs sutures: separating by joining the out-of-joint alternating altarity between being attained and abjected: here the frame holds the head together apart decapitating dasein severing the subject form the abject. The Frame is the between [entre-deux] delivering distance joining jouissance abjected apart: For the Frame is derridian différance disseminating dasein - framing the presence of an Infinite immediate - as an absence of a nearness of a farness as a closeness of a distance: as far off the the frame is the Interval in between Being and being - becoming the Unifying union - the Original origin Delivering différance. Really in reality the removing of the frame is the forgetting and negation of différance of différanceof of différance. Thus the Frame literally makes a difference as a radical différance severing the spectator from the space of the abimage: the frame throws the spectator out-of-joint-with-being-there: by removeing the frame one unifies the spectator with space of sameness that surrounds the spectator so then there is no difference between the abimage and the spectator thus the removing of the frame is a conservative act reducing art to decoration and democracy - the evil enemies of art alien. The Frame also activates and attunes the metre and the moment and the mood of the thing thrown there: the thrown frame flames enflames engulfs as it ignites images ahead a head alive: the frame brings presence to the absence there.

Chora - as pure Sensation of chance-throwness - receives sends sensations everything or gives sensation to everything eggos in a Platonic pure place totally alien totally exterior to anything that it receives through sensationing fo sensation is not subject centred self centred but filtered through externally leaking back in only to exit again via forta-da fluidity Since sensation begins as is absolutely blank black back everything that is sensationed on it is automatically effaced eggoed emptied. Chora - pure sensation rawly remains foreign to the initiated imprint it receives throwing it off over all again so sown in a sensation it does not receive anything but gives pure sensation - as sensation as Chora does not receive what it receives nor does it give what it gives because sensation is the auratic aura awe around Choratic sensation: a hallow hollowing out being to throw Being. Everything inscribed in Choratic sensation eggo erases empties itself immediately since sensation is essentially evaporated on sending sensations while remaining in it. Choratic sensation is thus an inspiringly impossible shimmering shining shuddering somnambulist surface - it is not even a slippery surface but a surplus suspended angoisse aura awe.

Since there is Being and Time only in the Choratic Event of Thrown Chance then this driving dazzling Dasein Ereignis ejaculation hijacks human beings as well as alien beings - as those who perceive and penetrate Being and Alien - by standing and shining well within true time - into their own - oot of time - at all time. Thus owned, alien beings and human beings belong in the Event of Chance Throwness as collected Chora. This Belonging lies in the assimilation that distinguishes the Event as pure Sensation. Through this, human beings and alien beings are admitted into the Ereignis Event as pure pulling Shining Sensation. This is why we can never place or pace or perceive the Choratic Event of Thrown Chance in front of us, behind us, beneath us, neither as over against us, nor as the all-encompassing but only out of reach through Throwness as pure shining Sensation of Being Alien. Alien is Being. Bacon became Doomed to Throw the Dice of Eternal Return Becoming Being Alien again and again and again ad infinitum. To Throw Is To Be. To Throw Is To Be Out Of It. To Be Thrown forth Out of It and ahead of It Out into the Open Region of Being Alien of Being Dead.

"Since Plato, it is the old philosophical injunction: to learn to live is to learn to die. Less and less, I have not learned to accept death. I remain uneducable about the wisdom of learning to die." (Jacques Derrida, Le Monde interview, August, 2004).

In Le Monde did Derrida deliver death before Derrida died - or after Derrida dies - after Derrida forgot to die whilst writing and dying and lying about learning how to die and how to do a death - did Derrida die before Derrida does death of after? How did Derrida do 'Death'? Or did Derrida undo 'Death' deffering Death in dicing différance? Did Derrida deconstruct 'Death'? Did Derrida die? Did Derrida disappear? Slip away - slip out the back door - at the last second - before death came to the door? Or an alien abduction? Did they come to take him away? Or is Derrida still around? Still away? As if on a holiday? Abroad? Bored? Somewhere boring?

How do we know Derrida 'Died'? We were 'informed' - we were 'told' - some were even 'shown' - and also because others 'Die' before us and after us and with us. Only others assume and suppose we 'Die' because we go all stiff and smelly and are stripped of the Psyche and the Sensations of our Being – the Psyche and Sensation of our Being alive. But where do our Psyche and Sensation of Being drift? Where does Dasein drift? What oozes out of the 'Dead'? Sensation itself as out itself! We do not 'Die' but become Other (Sensations) as otherwise to Being, otherwise to Dasein. In 'Life' we are always already 'Dying' all the Time so 'Death' does not exist in-itself only out-itself - as out of oneself: from 'Borning' we are always already 'Dying': we 'Die' many more times psychically and physically in the sense that we are always already shape-shifting and meandering-mutating: we are never the same subject for a split second so hence we 'Die' and are 'Born' every single second as an attuned afresh sensation. Doing 'Death' as a disappearing act is the expelling eggsiting out of sensationing from the Body. Physical 'Death' is thus the oozing out of the Psyche the Sensations-Emanations of our Unconscious from the Body of dying dasein where 'Death' sets free our Unconscious Sensations-Emanations beaming being forth free.

Physical 'Death' is the oozing out of the Psyche and the Sensations from the Body (Corpse). We do not (usually) experience 'Death' – others experience the moment, movement, music of our 'Death' - in our place - on our behalf. Yet we all introject and incorporate - the 'Dead': we wear the 'Dead'- that is - we all become Crypts of the 'Dead' (keeping them alive and wearing their Psyche and Sensation) - but most of us do not know this and carry the dead like one carries a coal sack or as Jacques Derrida deals the: "dead object remains like a living dead abscessed in a specific spot in the ego" (Derrida, The Ear of The Other). We wear the Dead as we were the Dead.

"Death" is the dematerialisation and desemenisation of the leaked-Body and the dissemination of the Psyche and Sensation: the deaded-body disperses, jettisons, our psyche – thinking – sensationing to outer regions sensation-scapes: therefore 'Absolute Death' is always already an 'Absolute Impossibility' – just as 'Absolute Life' is also an 'Absolute Impossibility'. The 'Living' incorporate The 'Deading'. The Living are never alive enough whereas the Deading are never adead enough.

Some of us here have actually always already experienced being-dead as a Being-Death (by being beheaded and decapitated from the mind-body dualism) and floating free – from the heaviness of being (embodied emheaded): as an out of body experience and near death experience. 'I' experience being dead: 'Death' is not a possibility. 'Death' is not a question or an issue for Being: 'Dying' as Living is. Dasein is for 'Dying' as Being is for Deathing as a Life Sentence is for Doing Time. One could argue that what is important is not 'Death' itself - but Dying (Living), the manner, music, metre and the style in which the being Lives and 'Dies' as it aims toward 'Death' ('Life'). For Heidegger 'Death' is our metre, movement, music of our being toward 'Death' – the way we walk the way we wonder the way we wander towards 'it': in 'Death' we become 'Death' in-itself as 'being-dead' is an essential state of 'being- alive' on different levels of our musical psychic sensation: our measure and measuredness: our 'Death' or 'Deathness' could be said to be the metre of our Music and Time: our being is constituted and incorporated by our Time of 'Death' as the 'Death' of our Time: the metre of our Music of Being (psychic-sensation).

Our oozed out Ontological relationship with Being and Time is the Time of our 'Life' as the Time of our 'Death': that is: the way we all do Time is the way we all do 'Death' and we all do 'Life': everyone in a sense in a sensation - is 'doing time' (not just those in prison): the Style - the way we do Time is the sign and sensation of the way we do 'Death' – both in sickness and in health. We all daily do 'Death' (like 'Life') differently - because we all do 'Death' ('Life') differently because we all do Time differently but not all beings do the time of death at the time for being to become being-time which is the right time to die as to time-death is to die in time for time.

A Good Death is not 'Dying' on Time but 'Dying' in Time with Style. A Good Birth can set the moment, movement, music for 'A Good Death': some beings are never (truly) born so some beings never (truly) 'Die' – they are disembodied and beheaded from the Psyche and Sensation scapes so sloth and drift derailed from frozen Dasein as the living-dead: they do not have The Shine. 'Doing Life' is an orchestral overture for 'Doing Death' via the Way we all Do Time and it is the Style in which we do 'Death' as Dasein. 'Death' is the only Uncertainty in Life. As an Absolute Impossibility 'Death' is all the time not in Time. Being and Time negate the Possibility of 'Death' and the Impossibility of 'Life'. That is: a 'Full Death' or a 'Full Life' as 'Life' and 'Death' are always already left leaking leftovers oozing out of our Othernesses as an angoisse attuned Atherness.

Hear Heidegger on dreary Dasein and 'Death': "...Dasein constantly is its not-yet as long as it is, it also already is its end. The ending we have in view when we speak of death does not signify a being-at-an-end of Dasein, but rather a being toward the end of this being. Death is a way to be that Dasein takes over as soon as it is." (Being & Time). "...death is the inmost, not-relational, certain, and as such, indefinite possibility not to be bypassed of Dasein. ...As the end of Dasein death is in the being of this being toward its end." (Being & Time). Derrida on the (im)possibility of 'Death': "Is the most distressing, or even the most deadly infidelity, that of a possible mourning which would interiorise within us the image, idol, or ideal of the other who is dead and lives only in us? Or is it that of impossible mourning which…refuses to take the other within oneself, as in the tomb of some narcissism?" (Jacques Derrida, Memories of Paul de Man; The Work of Mourning). The Living Dead are always already attainted and a attuned to the Dead Living.

Bacon's chaotic Choratic Event of a 'game of chance' - a dice Daseining as a Fort-Da Froth Throwness - Falling-Forgetting Projecting-Retrieving - is a revealing of The Real through The Reel and The Roulette Wheel of the to Fort Da froth found in foam Freud. Bacon never reels in his lost object of desire but Throws it in Order to Retrieve it: to Throw is to Retrieve for Freud and Bacon. For Bacon the sewer Psyche is structured like Sperm which cannot be Known only Thrown thrusting and spurting. Bacon Orders the Psyche to put in an Appearance through Thrown Chance spurting the sensation of the Psyche on to the cunt canvas and on to the nailed nervous system. The Psyche is structured like a leakage and not structured like a language. As our leaked swamp Psyche is oozed outside concepts it cannot be known yet the Psyche can be Imaged but only through thrusting flooding frothy fruity Throwness. For Bacon the Psyche is structured and sutured like Sperm: a strange sludge slurp swamp surplus spillage spilling thing that cannot be contained controlled conceptualised or cleared up but ceaselessly eternally drips and stains and smells and spills lovely leaking lamella ink its slimy stuff well wet wound whipped spunked all over you both and all over the place all over time all the time. Titian Velázquez Rembrandt Picasso Jawlensky Bacon Auerbach and Alien all trapped threw nailed leaked pinned projected the thrown Psyche out of time all the time out of 'our' time which never came all the time as a primordial time for the Psyche knows of no time all the time being beingtime 'it(no)self' out of time in time all the time not in time at any time all the time not in time or on time.

How is the Sensation of Psychic Semen smelt seen heard hijacked caught trapped imaged? Thrown Through the Reel of Freud and the Hand of Bacon. The Reel, as the thrown aim of The Real, for Bacon, is the paint-in-hand thrown out off now never reeled-back-in for he leaves the fort forever traced on the canvas of spattered, splattered spunked spent pearl paint. Bacon's Trauma is Trapped in his body and it is through his chance-game of Throwness Falling and Fort Da he hopes to reveal The Real via The Reel or Roulette Wheel which spins the sensation of thrown time after time. The Baconian Real is linked with the Freudian Uncanny; that arbitrary alien mark made by Bacon's Reel oozing outside inane illustration. The Alien Real is 'something' which is by definition 'impossible' to 'pin down' where the 'brute fact' is 'radial exteriority' and an atta 'alien alterity', a shining shimmering subconscious serene soft sea sensationism salt spume stripped (of) 'subjectivity' (and) 'sexuality'. An authentic Aletheia alien art is stripped of a 'sexuality' and a 'subjectivity' and a 'gender' arriving at an atta abject 'alienality'. You both can only 'identify' with an alien art once you have forgotten to be 'human' (what ever that was) and arrived at the thrown shining site and the sight of alien being shot outside 'human' conception. Through Throwness the Psychic Semen of Alien Being reveals and rereels back towards all over the place out of place spilling beyond behind it-out-self spilling over sides. The thrown out lost Logic of the loin Leakage is that Alien Being as an alien-ated semen Stain eggsistence exceeds the alien Area it Covers with out egging over the Edge but dripping Dasein through it initiating Incorporation.

The thrown Lost Object as absolute Alien always already as absolute Ather leaves leaked back broken out-in Incorporation: the Sensation of the Object Leaks over the Eggo. The not so quite dead Alien Mother Ship refuses to 'let-go' refuses to 'un-hinge' anchoring to the attic of the Son's Psyche port of call. The not-so-quite dead mooring Mother Becomes the Eternal Return of the Alien lodged-leaking installed-inside the not-so-quite-dead Living Son. So it is not that the sunk sullen Son refuses - consciously or subconsciously - the same-difference - to undo to unhinge to un-touch to un-tie to un-stitch the Identification with the Lost Mother for the Mother is always already alien to Identification: with the Lost Mother - as 'pure alienality' - there is only ever a radical 'alien-other-nothing' Object which is never ever actually available to the split sutured spaces of Identification and Difference - severing sexuality - severing psyche. One cannot remember the Name of the Mother, the Name of the Other, and therefore One cannot make-the-move from Mourning to Memorial from Dawn to Dusk. As an Alien alterity the Murmuring Mother moves-in installed as an un-invited Incorporation in-to the thrown Mourning Son - since the Son has no choice in the matter in the invasion in the Incorporation. In Incorporation it is not that the Son Incorporates the Lost Mother but that the Leaked Mother - even if allegedly dead - Incorporates the Living Son: The Son wears the Mother - the Mother wears the Son. The Mother can never Die: has no Time to. The Father can die. He has the Time.

For Freud 'woman' is always already essentially Egyptian - that is - ego-free - being-animal - being-alien - as being ather - to being human - to being man - to being man-made. For Freud - as an ego-free Egyptian - and a curator and collector of Egyptian Memorabilia - masturbated molested memorabilia - as an answering angoisse antiquity - answering an alien ather: 'woman'. For Freud there is no 'woman' - no 'sexual-difference' - only an 'alien difference' - no 'human condition' - only an 'alien condition' - an Egyptian Ereignis. As aliens the Egyptians had no ego - no psyche - no drives - no desires - no needs.

For Freud 'woman' was always already 'alien' - alien to Freud - for Freud was alien to Music of the Mother's Murmur (Chora) as the Sensation of the Psyche: for Freud lacked a musical mouth: castrated from consciousness he could not hear the sensation of the psyche played by the 'womb of the woman' for has not all psychoanalysis been a misunderstanding of music as played by the body of the psyche? Freud's ear was alien to the alien in woman for Freud found 'woman' subconsciously 'alien' and this was his 'conscious' discovery his blind-spot becoming his ear-spot his 'inisight' blocked by his earless 'outsight' for Freud's ear failed to see into his 'insight' that 'woman' is 'alien' as Freud failed foresight-earsight: that the swap sewer subconscious is structured like a music - not leaked like a language. Nietzsche was a greater Freud a greater Freudian than Freud for Nietzsche had a musical-ear a musical-mind a musical-memory a musical-metaphysics a musical-psyche a musical sensation which was Nietzsche's Philosophy of the Sensation of the Psyche as the Condition of Music. For Freud - not being a musical man - failed to tune to attune to the music of the psyche as a sensation of the body as a corpus composition a skin score of the sensation of sexuality as the timpani body being attuned as a metaphysical musical instrument inducing psychic sexual sound sensations in the orchestra of other beings: the 'sensationing cure' not the 'talking cure' for the psyche cannot be spoken only woken as a musical memory of the sounds of the psyche as the score of the body's Being being as a musical manuscript. For Freud lacked a musical ear - a mothering ear - to sensations of the psyche's musical body and its dissonances: music is not merely a metaphor for the body: music is the body of the psyche is structured as a score: the subconscious is the score of the music of being sounding out of the womb of the world. Psychoanalysis (like Logic) know nothing of The Nothing. Music is the materialised maternal metre of the sound sensation of the Psyche. Music is not only 'about nothing' Music is also about The Nothing: the Sensation of the Subconscious the Sensation of the Psyche as the silent Score of The Nothing.

Freud's ears were all welded up with words so Freud failed to hear the score of the subconscious that Nietzsche sung so well. For Freud knew nothing of The Nothing for Freud feared the Score of the Subconscious of Maternal Music Making: The Timpani of the Womb. Eggsistence comes into being through the sensation of the skin wounding wondering the wall of the womb: the thing is the timpanist the womb is the timpani: the thing plays the womb wears the womb wounds the womb wonders the womb: the thing makes music from the mother: for Freud never heard the Music of the Mother for the Father of Psychoanalysis never heard the Mother of Music as the Music of the Mother as the Sensation of Being played out-the-womb out-of-the-world where score Sensation is a Form of Language where Sensation is a Froth of Language where Sensation is a Filter of Language where Language leaks Sensation where Sensation leaks Language outside Intelligence where Sensation leaks Language outside Analysis - psycho or otherwise - out. WARNING: be very warey and suspicious of pyschologists, psychoanalysists and personas who are alien to music! If they are cut off from the sounds from without then they are castrated from the sounds from within: listening to music is listening to the life of the mind as the life of the mother as the life of the body and being itself initiated oozed out itself leaked as the life of music.

At what age is an alien artist itself? At what point does one become an alien artist - as an abjected body being there thrown? At what age does an alien artist become an authentic being alien again? An age arrested as an alien ather around four-five to six-seven: the thrown alien artist is initiated and always already attending and attuning an ather time torn away from the inane ideology of time: being in time and a daily doing time: thus the thrusted alien artist annihilates aging as an alien artist abjects aging and timing: only our the they - moronic man - are mortified and managed and maimed by being in-time on-time because they are always already enslaved and engulfed and interpellated by the insipid and inane ideology of 'the time': the alien artist as against aging just like the philosopher - just like the poet - gets younger and younger and younger with age. As Heraclitus and Heidegger had it: alien-time - it is a child - playing as pastime - moving the memories - to and fro - on a body of sensation - such a child is the mastery and mover over being an adult. The alien artist is never an adult for the adult is alien to art because the adult is alien to the child of being which is being the unconscious: Bacon - as an art alien child of the unconscious - never needed to sleep never needed to dream because Bacon was a day dreamer by night and a night walker by day by being consciously unconscious: the alien artist works unconsciously without even being conscious of being unconscious of being the unconscious in itself out itself for itself. For the alien art child there is no consciousness just as there is no lost-object and there is no death-drive for the unconscious knows nothing of conscious life or loss or death. There is no such thing as the lost-object or the pleasure-principle or death-drive for the unconscious art alien child - for those things are for adults only.

What is the time-psychic space of the altaric alien artist? All the time Childtime arrested around psychic sensations up to seven: Leonardo, Mozart, Bruckner, Cézanne, Proust, Schiele, Soutine, Picasso, Fellini, Bacon were all arrested around seven all the time back-in-time out of time not-in-time with the present preferring sensationing of scents smelt long past and plastered over: scented semen Sensation semblance survives supercedes severes inane intellectualised ideas instead initiating images as an autistic artistic scene serial sensationing. Sensationing straight from the Subconscious thus throwing Thinking thwarted. The tiny tot time of the altaric alien artist is in that they always already grow younger and younger as they grow older and older arrested around seven - severing time at seven - serving time at seven - sensationing at seven as the sensation of a life time - the sensation of being seven - like Proust and Picasso - the smelt and the sight sensations of being about seven: the moment and mood of being moved and mesmerised by sensations at seven: the thrown frisson and fascination of jettisoned jousissances. Blanchot bleeds: "If our childhood fascinates us, this happens because childhood is a moment of fascination, is itself fascinated. And this golden age seems bathed in a light is splendid because unrevealed. But it is only that this light is foreign to revelation, has northing to reveal, is pure reflection, a ray which is still only the gleam of an image...This milieu of fascination, where what one sees seizes sight and renders it interminable, where the gaze coagulates into light, where light is the absolute gleam of an eye one doesn't see but which one doesn't cease to see since it is the mirror image of one's own look - this milieu is utterly attractive. Fascinating. It is light which is also the abyss, a light one sinks into, both terrifying and tantalizing." (Maurice Blanchot, The Image; The Space of Literature, University of Nebraska Press, 1982).

Bacon blew to thou peppered Peppiatt pertaining to the Eternal Return of the Childhood Sensationing: "I think artists stay much closer to their childhood than other people. They remain far more constant to those early sensations. Other people change completely, but artists tend to stay the way they have been from the beginning." (Francis Bacon, Francis Bacon, Anatomy of an Enigma, Michael Peppiatt, Westview Press, 1996).

Absolute authentic Alien Art as an abject autistic artistic altarity arrives as an accident as da Derrida dices "an altarity that cannot be anticipated."

"Awaiting without horizon of the wait, awaiting what one does not expect yet or any longer, hospitality without reserve, welcoming salutation accorded in advance to the absolute surprise of the arrivant from whom or from which one will not ask anything in return and who or which will not be asked to commit to the domestic contracts of any welcoming power (family, state, nation, territory, native soil or blood, language, culture in general, even humanity), just opening which renounces any right to property, any right in general, messianic opening to what is coming, that is, to the event that cannot be awaited as such, or recognized in advance therefore, to the event as the foreigner itself, to her or to him for whom one must leave an empty place, always, in memory of the hope—and this is the very place of spectrality [i.e., ghosts]."

(Jacques Derrida. Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, & the New International. Trans. Peggy Kamuf. London: Routledge, 1994).

Bacon's Derridean Dice, Lamella Leakage, - (Real Thing, as Being Blown, Thrown There), - is Found Forth (in the) Flight Froth (of offal) Thrown Thick White Whiplashes of ore Pushed Paint which while is the thin fossilized foam fuel formed from the subconscious slime sea inside us: Bacon says: "It seems to come straight out of what we choose to call the unconscious with the foam of the unconscious locked around it - which is its freshness." (Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson 1987). Loin leaking leaves its leftover sperm stuff as a snail leaves its slime; a stain of being left behind bled bare. For Bacon Being as alien Lamella Leftover initiates in an Appearance through Throwness Leaking through an Absolute Forgetting froth of Form through an anti-intellectual instinct act as action: through thrown chained chance dice Dasein.

The Lamella in Bacon is Eggo Leakage of Being Bled Bare as Non-Illustrational Fluid Form which washes always already works wet upon urgent soil slither Sensation always already ahead crass Consciousness. Bacon said: "Non-illustrational form works first upon sensation and then slowly leaks back into the fact." (Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987). Only by a radical Absolute Forgetting of 'how to-do-it' (paint an eye, a mouth, a nose, a ear) can it be done (outside illustration) - afresh, anew via vomit violence of throwing, frothing, foam fleeting, falling, leaking, spilling, spunking. Bacon's Portrait of George Dyer Talking (1966) silently serenely spills six sheets blowing before away at towards to you yet. Dyer drips dry shaving shimmering sensation thrown through the loss leaking lather lava loin legs left deriding derriding diarrhea do da flush fort-da da. Here Honoré Daumier delivers dashing daring darting shooting shining silver sliver slither semen shrapnel shards.

We will never know Bacon's Thrown Traumas (or our own) but we can see sense smell shimmer shudder sensation turd torn traces off of Bacon's thrown trauma in Bacon's Thrown Paint which Becomes nervous-system memory traces of that violent traumatic event that has no name but which is always already buried in the body. Bacon plays, via the games of chance and gushing gambling, Heideggerian Freudian Throwness Froth Fort Da - to materialise the 'brut fact' of his frothy thrown 'traumatic event' - as well as the thrown traumas lodged in his hideous sitters sqauters sleepers standers shitters shouters spunkers swallowers. Bacon knows that his Lost Object of Desire is that very un-retrievable ecstatic eggo ejaculation ooze of off spent sperm that violently spattered and splattered across his fucking face; he throws a handful of white double cream spunk puss paint in the hope of retrieving that pure primordial shape that left its slime- stain on his fucked-face; he also knew that his father's belt was the reel thrown across his backside to reveal those Baconian slashed that he belted his canvases with: Bacon used the thrown paint memory substances and canvas as skins, to trace the drama of trauma but no in an illustrative literal sense but as actual Lacanian lamella loin leftovers silver snail slime. Bacon's serial Traumas are the thrown nailed nervous system's spume spilling overload overspill overkill flooding froth foam forth oozed out often overwhelming bored brave Bacon who simply cannot process them - so projects them - so throws them - via hand and oil paint - or hand and the dice - hoping to make a killing or trap a living - and exiled exorcising ecstatic eggsorcising experiencing the Thrown tantrum Traumas imaged in the Triptychs of three thrown traumatic images. Bacon wants to re-play via the Fort Da of Throwing Paint Trauma to Master it - whether at the Roulette Wheel or at The Canvas. Bacon Throws Freud's Reel to Retrieve the 'Real Thing' where Throwing is in a Revealing and a Retrieving of Alien Being. But Bacon can never Retrieve that Lost Object of alien Desire because it never existed in the first place: 'it' was never lost: 'it' was never an object but an alien abject. But Bacon retrieves raw snail slime soggy sperm stuff substitutes. Bacon's Froth Fort Da Drool drips down the thrown canvas skin sensation raw running away after towards two of you leaving leaking liquid line: 'like a snail leaving its slime'. Bacon masters the Reel and not the Alien Object but by not mastering it he lets it to be 'more' Real. That thrown loitering leaking surplus stuff: the petit object a. Along with Bacon's 'alien abjects' (or ossified 'offal objects') wet which represent rightly the thrown petit object a-lien - Lacan adds his own odd long lost list of oozed alien-object-as: "the mamilla, faeces, the phallus (imaginary object), the urinary flow. the phoneme, the gaze, the voice - the nothing." Bacon's Thrown Paint, representing the petit object a, is his fresh form of re-materialising Being Shit. But Bacon's Being Spunk is in indeed spurted shot sensation Thrown by Chance - to - Order. 'Great Spunk' like 'Great Art' is spurted out in a Deeply Ordered angoisse arrangement by Thrown Chance oozing out after towards away from you. Bacon's Primordial Painting as an Ordered Spunking by a Thrown Chance chain transforms 'solids' into 'fluids' leaking lamella as an Alien Externalised Being Thrown Fluid froth from bored best back Bacon's ossified oozing organic orbit orifice often oily or opal or ore. All great thinkers have known the thrown and knew how to throw and retrieved through throwness the truth of being thrown in and out back and forth in of off the world oozing outside orbiting ournesses. The Mother threw the Son into the World wounded as a jettisoning jouissance as a decapitating delivery dicing Dasein. The Mother is not the Other but the Ather - as Alien to thrown Being - being always already alien to being in the World as an Aleatoric Alétheia.

Marx - Nietzsche - Heiddeger - Freud - Adorno all Threw Fort-Da Time: Marx: (Repetition): Nietzsche: (Eternal Return): Heidegger: (Throwness): Freud: (Fort-Da): Adorno: (Force-Field): The Repetition of the Eternal Return of Throwing Fort-Da as a Force-Field. Derrida and Bacon threw in the Play of Chance.

Bacon's bleeding brute burnt boiled soaked soiled stained saturated sutured Subconscious sea slurp sludge of off oozed smelly shot spunk surf slime stuff: that thrown pushed paint initiation - is: 'structured like a language' which ab-presents the thrown leaking lamella wet which: are irreducible and un-analysable by virtue of violent chaotic chance Throwness which being thrown 'out-it-itself' is the 'stuff' and 'stuffing' out poring of the gutted and filleted 'fucked I': the Eye that sees Nothing of the 'I' of not-being-there to hand as the hand out-it-self throws being-over-there not being-over-here: the Eye that is pulled out of its 'I' socket but still stares and slides left right up down in out: scarred of being struck out of site and sight of having its 'I' ball sucked out sucked off. The 'I' of the penis and the 'I' of the person ooze oils from their eye balls. Bacon has dug out the 'I' of the Eye and left the Hole to be pumped further full off-of Spume Sperm like a runny under boiled egg; all soggy sweety spunky leaky. The thrown Lamella Leaks from the corner of the Eye or the crack of the Egg. The Eye is the Egg: all runny and watery and glistening like fucking spunk. The thrown sunk Subconscious ink is 'structured like a leakage': The Lamella is the Leaked Subconscious sea sensation sutured in-side in-bled in-bed Bacon's soiled sheets stuff of oozed primordial paint punctureslraking leftovers melting through the mattress. The Logic of the Leakage in Bacon is that the semen Stain exceeds the area it Covers with out egging over the Edge. Leaking Stain Subconscious Squid Foam Form Froth is Force forced from Bacon's throwing, forgetting, leaking leaving an inventive image and "all the foam of its freshness". So slime subconscious squid stuff stain can be seen smelt sensationed eggo emerging from the fort-da thrown foam froth form in Bacon's Alien Arising from the Sea 1952 (formerly known as Figure Emerging from the Sea 1952) image inviting subconscious sea inside-in with: 'all the foam of its freshness' locked leaking around anus oozing oil. The sea becomes the shredded skin from which the thrown creature becomes born alien again.

Bacon's white whiplashes of opalescent pearl paint ooze oil often smell, taste, look like the runny soggy juicy texture of an under boiled egg or freshly shot slurp spunk: glittering and glistening smelling slightly salty but sensationally sweet. John Edwards would join Bacon at Reece Mews for breakfast where Bacon would cook a fry-up. Bacon, Edwards says, liked only egg white, Edwards only the yolk, "so it was the perfect relationship". In October 1998, John Edwards said of Bacon: "He was a lonely and very disciplined man. No matter how late he'd been out drinking he'd get up at six, make a cup of tea and go straight tot the studio. At nine he'd phone me up and then cook breakfast, which we ate at Reece Mews at ten. Francis cooked a lovely breakfast too: scrambled or fried eggs, bacon and toast. He would only buy his bacon from Marks & Spencers in Kensington and he only liked the white of an egg. I only liked the yolk, so it was a perfect relationship...My personal nickname for Francis was 'Eggs'. No one else called him that. In the East End of London, where I am from, we call very special people 'diamonds'. Eggs was a diamond. And a fucking great painter."

Edwards' nickname for Bacon was "Eggs". Bacon and Eggs: Bacon would only softly boil his Eggs to allow the White of the Eye to run and cry all over the canvas; Bacon lover his legs, eggs to be runny and gooy like drool Dyer's spunk shot oozed on Bacon's fuck-face was runny and gooy. Bacon always already gutted, tore out, the Yolk (the Iris) leaving lamella leakage. Bacon, Eggs, was wet lamella leaked, oozed out, froth foam formed from the thrown leaking loins mutant mother. Michael Peppiatt on Bacon and Eggs: "Often he would have both lunch and dinner in famous establishments because, he would insist, if you can't go home to a lightly boiled egg and a green salad, it is difficult to follow a supreme meal at Taillevent or Lucas Carton with an insipid stew at a local bistro." (Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Michael Peppiatt, Westview Press, 1996). Whenever wesample shot spunk or a slightly salted , slightly boiled egg, we will see smell slurp straight away how similar they are in taste and texture and also how similar they to the smell and taste and texture of Bacon's white whiplashes of leaking lamella seen in: Study for Head of Isabel Rawsthorne, 1967; Oedipus & the Sphinx after Ingres, 1978; Two figures Lying on a Bed, 1968 ; the central panel from Triptych August 1972; and the right hand panel of Triptych 1973.

Lacan on Lamella: "Whenever the membranes of the egg in which the foetus emerges on its way to becoming a new-born are broken, imagine for a moment that something flies off, and that one can do it with an egg as easily with a man, namely the hommelette, or the lamella." (Lacan, 1977). Bacon's pushed paint, as leaked lamella, intense instinct, eggo energy, flies-off, cuts-canvas, speeded spat spatter splatter (where) Forgetting, Egging, Throwing, Leaking (open up the valves of) subconscious stuff (as) torn time. The particular speed of thrown paint - flying lamella - at a particular part of the canvas becomes being-time-speed: time and being become sensation speed where being time is a matter of speed not speech. Farson on Bacon & Eggs: "On the day of his flight, James (Birch) had a breakfast of bacon and eggs with Francis and John Edwards at Reece Mews." (The Gilded Gutter of Francis Bacon, Daniel Farson, Century, 1993). Bacon did not fly-off with Edwards. Eggo Bacon liked his eggs lightly boiled and slightly salted like hot runny thick wads of fucking spunk streaming down the sides of his fuck face as he sliced off the crown of the egg letting the stuff ooze out over.

The thrown frying flying egg(o) is an essential initiated ingredient to Bacon's cooking-as-painting; eggs, both black and white, can often be seen leaking or flying from orifices or orbiting: here Bacon is more of a cordon bleu chef than past-master painter: his sauces are subtle. The question of which came first: the chicken or the egg is an absurdity for Bacon. Lawrence Gowing stated on chicken and Bacon: "With Bacon the play of paint is for real. One imagines his special watchfulness as it throws up unthinkable kinds of resemblance. Time and again he is drawn into a fearful game of chicken - to stay with the paint at the perilous onset of likeness It is played with the only stakes that are big enough to make it exciting, the indisputable equivalence of paint and flesh...The illusory coherence must be slit open, so that the real content, the irrefutable bursts out. The body must become actual, with its real orifices and its arching, gaping rapture...When the paint itself breaks loose into a flowing white emanation, streaming away across the canvas, it is the intimation of a direction..." (Lawrence Gowing, Francis Bacon: The Irrefutable Image, 1968). The white of the egg is the white of the eye of the eggo shooting out oozed spunk.

Bacon's Man getting up from a chair (1968) is an example, eggsample, of eggoessentialism of eggosensationism of our ectoplasma leaking leftovers of oil orifices: spermatic slime eggos flow fluid flanked by black shell shadows shattered broken being: the white of the eye of the egg off of the eggo remain remaindered on a floating, falling cane chair with white whiplash while a bland blue lamella leaks ahead and covers the crimson carpet with its invisible bluey blowey gooey ghost geist gust.

Bacon always already remained an ancient abject angoisse alien exiting eggoing existence immediate instinctive leaking laughter and acting appearance oil of The Homunculous and L'Hommelette. Freud's inky-image of The Homunculous is the internalized alien ab-image ooze of the bled bare body oils onto which the thrown alien throws sensation onto Lacan's ointment of pure pre-Oedipal Alien Being L'Hommelette (Lacan 1978: 197) initiate the image of 'beaten bacon' and 'beaten eggs'. Bacon was often beaten beyond recognition where his fuck face was flattened extra flat like leaking lamella. Bacon as Beaten Eggs becomes Lacan's loitering leftover Lamella, the Alien as a pure puss puddle loin leaking appearance. Bacon was not human and did not have a human appearance: Helen Lessore remembers Bacon's alien features: "He was not the same shape as any other human being, especially not his face." (The Gilded Gutter of Francis Bacon, Farson, Century, 1993). Bacon was not 'human' or 'natural' as 'he himself' said to Peter Beard: "There's nobody more unnatural than I am myself, and, after all, I've worked on myself to be as unnatural as I can." Salty Bacon said to peppered Peppiatt in 1963: "With Nietzsche I believe that man must remake himself. We must woo the doctors and scientists in the attempt to renew and alter ourselves...the division between the sexes has to a large extent been invented...I have deliberately tried to twist myself, but I have not gone far enough. My paintings are, if you like, a record of this distortion....the image must be twisted if it is to make a renewed assault on the nervous system." (Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996.)

Bacon paints alien-being-time not human-being-time. Alien Being is always already a particular pre-post time (too early, too late, never present at hand, at foot, on time in time): but broken off on thrown forth from Bacon's hand out-of-time outside language. Bacon knows always already then there that non rational, non-literal, non illustrational arbitrary abject pushed-paint marks are anyhow linked leaked to the irrational 'language' and 'structure' soup sewer of the subconscious and the nervous system through 'identification': "Non-illustrational form works first upon sensation and the slowly leaks back into the fact...Well, very often the involuntary marks are much more deeply suggestive than others. One of the things I've tried to analyze is why it is that, if the formation of the image that you want is done irrationally, it seems to come onto the nervous system more strongly than if you knew how could do it." Not 'knowing how to do it' is the key to cracking open up the thrown eggo-alien-being being boiled broken off over on out.

For Bacon the image "seems to come straight out of what we choose to call the unconscious with the foam of the unconscious locked around it which is its freshness...there is a kind of sensational within the very, you could say, structure of your being, which is not to do with a mental image." Bacon stated to the late David Sylvester that he wanted to: "Break the willed articulation of the image , so that the image will grow, as it were, spontaneously and within its own structure and not my structure...possibly, a more organic image arises than if it were a willed image." (Francis Bacon: Interviews with David Sylvester). Bacon's Henrietta Moraes on a Red Ground 1964 leaks lamella by the knees: some black splatter spatter slurp stuff nails the foam form to the bed and to your nervous system: mattress marks leaving lamella leakage skid on spine, spleen, slime. Bacon paints Moraes' cunt as a black hole that leaks larva lava lather lamella; de Kooning and Freud cannot paint pussy: de Kooning's clownish cartoon cunts are too wet, over leaked; Feud's cunts are too dry, under leaked: cunts can't paint pussy - but Bacon's can. But Bacon puts porous puss pussy in by oozing it out oily; pulling prodding poking painting it inside-out; no longer recognisable as 'Women' (whatever that is) but a radical alien Other: there is no 'sexuality' seen smelt spilling streaming slipping slithering slurping sponging from Bacon's alien beings without orbit organs; they then are actually now not really recognisable as already hideous 'human beings': they then thrown are always already 'alien beings': for freeze framed Bacon 'Woman' and 'Man' do not exist; they are always already late arrivals and early departers that have been thrown by chance into an altaric alien abject arena outside the present only to be thrown out, withdrawn from the scene; entirely forgotten and erased from mind and memory and the now that never was. For Bacon 'Woman' and 'Man' are extinct excrement: time turd traces. Bacon said to Joshua Gilder: "But most people never think about life. If you think of the way we live, we're living on the compost of the earth. The world is just a dung heap. It's made up of compost of the millions and millions who have died and are blowing about. The dead are blowing in your nostrils every hour, every second you breathe in. It's a macabre way of putting it, perhaps, but anything that's at all accurate about life is always macabre. After all, you're born to die." (Francis Bacon, "I think about Death Every day", Joshua Gilder, Flash Art, May, 1983).

Bacon being leaking lamella lets larva lava lather froth flow foam from filtered filleted fish form. But Bacon bred the acting appearance of being The Homunculous and L'Hommelette but not The Homosexual - he was woundingly really rather: The Sensationual - The Eggoual - The Alienoual.

For bent Bacon: "Homosexuality is more tragic and more banal than what's called normal love." (Bacon in conversation with Michael Peppiatt, from Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Michael Peppiatt Westview Press, 1996.) Bacon hated a strange subspecies, classified as gay in the twentieth century, saying to Daniel Farson on several occasions: "I really hate gays." Bacon hated fucking poofs. Bacon being alien being didn't know what so-called 'human beings' (whatever they are) looked like so had to ask queers: "If ever I've wanted to know what someone really looks like, I've always asked a queer. They're ruthless and precise." Bacon being an ancient ancestor arrived too late; dormant, delayed; a late starter: he belonged to a pre-historic, pre-linguistic, pre-sexual sensationism: he said to Peppiatt: "When I hear certain people talk, I always think I belong to a very ancient simplicity. I'm probably the simplest person you know. I'm simple and natural. After I'm dead people will see how absolutely natural my distortions are." (Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Michael Peppiatt Westview Press, 1996.)

Trauma cannot be 'known' only 'thrown'. Trauma is actually activated when an alien - someone special - who should be there - who is no longer there - anymore: after the calling out of the name is not returned - the name - the alien - having abjected the scene - a no-scape is opened up as an abspace swallowing the subject: a no-scape that cannot contain the return of the abjected alien: it is a constant calling into the abspace of the Nothing there.

Subconsciously Bacon uses the Canvas as the Traumatic Screen Scape to Project Thrown Alien Identification (outside ore) Illustration as a Becoming Alien-ated again and again all the time (all the time). Bacon (ab)uses oozed oil paint as a raw register of the 'real', as reel time, as thrown time, as a material sign, as a visual sensation of despair, desire, trauma and loss where the dripping diarrhea shooting spunk and ontological oozing fluid leftovers leak becoming the messy memory turd trace traps of being-bled-born-out -of-the-world-out-of-body. Bacon's Henrietta Moraes on a Red Ground (1964) has lamella leakage on the meandering mattress; perfectly plotted and positioned nailing body to bed: one of Bacon's best beasts Eggos. Bacon never had to beat eggs to make an omelette: Bacon could make an omelette without breaking eggs because he had no ego only an eggo outside the shell - Bacon was born out-side the shell shocked shot leaked lava frothed fucked forth from an alteric atta lizard's loins. Bacon being born castigated castrated cut-off out-of place pain and space spleen as a severed sensation scape seeping dread Dasein drool. Contrary to Freud's formula 'art' is not a 'wish-fulfillment' - but a 'dread-fulfillment'. Art activated is not a wish-fulfillment but a dread-fulfillment. Not even a dread-fulfillment but a dread-emptyment. Art alien does not attune to desire but to dread as ather to desire. Art alien decapitates itself from desire from Dasein. Art alien negotiates the negative. Art alien nails the negative. Art alien wishes for nothing but the fulfillment of its own demise its own decapitation.

"I feel a sort of violence spreading from male bodies at all places of the planet I’ve been…"

"Now I should have the chance to be a decent human being, for I'm standing eye to eye with death."

"I open up an access to a brute Being with which I would not be in the subject-and-object relation."

The cannon thunders... limbs fly in all directions... one can hear the groans of victims and the howling of those performing the sacrifice... it's Humanity in search of happiness.

"The shock of Bacon’s work lies not in its dismemberments but in the discovery of our embodied sociality."

Jennifer Dyer, Paint and Suffering: Series and Community in Francis Bacon's Paintings, University of Amsterdam, Animus. .

"...in one of the most remarkable passages of his Aesthetics, Hegel defined the task of art as the appropriation of the alien..."

"The cannon thunders... limbs fly in all directions... one can hear the groans of victims and the howling of those performing the sacrifice... it's Humanity in search of happiness."

"The 37-year-old Jordanian radical Abu Musab al-Zarqawi's exquisitely executed beheading videos should have won the Turner Prize 2004 for their breathtaking cutting-edge...the brute realism of being a lived event... Ereignis as Es gibt."

"Terror is literature that rejects literary commonplace and convention in an attempt to accede to a pure, authentic expression ...Terrorist writers are in fact endlessly preoccupied with language, forever trying to bypass it, or rid it of its impurities."

Michael Syrotinski, Noncoincidence: Blanchot Reading Paulhan, The Place of Maurice Blanchot, Yale French Studies, 1998.

"To speak is always to speak from out of this interval between speech and radical violence...separating them, but maintaining each of them in a relation of vicissitude."

"We all need to be aware of the potential disaster which stalks us every moment of the day....Well, of course, we are meat, we are potential carcasses. If I go into a butcher's shop I always think it's surprising that I wasn't there instead of the animal...Death can be life-enhancing."

"But if I stop doing what I'm doing, it will be like another murder. That's the real trauma, perhaps, the thought of going through what happened to Theo van Gogh again. We told each other we would make part two, and the thing that keeps me going is the thought, 'I have to do it, I have to do it, I have to do it.'..."

"Maybe it's treacherous old age coming on, threatening the worst. Not much music left inside us for life to dance to. Our youth has gone to the ends of the earth to die in the silence of the truth. And where, I ask you, can a man escape to, when he hasn't enough madness left inside him? The truth is an endless death agony. The truth is death. You have to choose: death or lies. I've never been able to kill myself."

"The Suicide Bomber is the Origin of the Gift of Difference. The Suicide Bomber blows apart the Origin of Being being always already Severed. The Suicide Bomber as Absolute Abjection attains an Absolute Gift. As an alien Awe. Or: 'I am a Suicide Bomber therefore I am not.' The Suicide Bomber Gives. Gives Head. Gives Geist."

"Terrorism is not a weapon of the weak, it’s a weapon for those who are against us, whoever ‘us’ might be...The only way we can put a permanent end to terrorism is to stop participating in it."

Alain Badiou, Philosophy and the 'war against terrorism' in Infinite Thought: truth and the return of philosophy, Continuum, 2003

"Mallarmé is a very contemporary kind of anarchist. His poetic bomb is an illuminating burst with a destructive potential more like that of a computer virus, ingeniously devised, cryptically encoded, clandestinely insinuated into the signifying system, and lying there silently undetected until just the right moment, when a sudden flash erases everything, the system crashes, and nothing remains but an empty blank screen."

Charles D. Minahen, Poetry's Polite Terrorist, Meetings with Mallarmé, University of Exeter Press, 1998.

"We need to throw an activated alien terrorism to counter and over throw human terrorism. The radical violence of Nietzsche, Jünger, Artaud, Fanon, Shostakovich, Nielsen, Pettersson, Picasso, Bataille, Blanchot, Deleuze, Foucault, Klossowski, Beckett, Burroughs and Bacon open up the valves of vivacious violence over throwing the oblivion of being all too human becoming all alien. Only an alien terrorism can save us now."

"The thing about 9/11 is that it's kind of an artwork in its own right. It was wicked, but it was devised in this way for this kind of impact. It was devised visually...Of course, it's visually stunning and you've got to hand it to them on some level because they've achieved something which nobody would ever have thought possible...I think our visual language has been changed by what happened on September 11: an aeroplane becomes a weapon - and if they fly close to buildings people start panicking. Our visual language is constantly changing in this way and I think as an artist you're constantly on the lookout for things like that."

"The Terrorists are those who desire absolute freedom and are fully conscious that this constitutes a desire for their own death, they are conscious of the freedom they affirm, as they are conscious of their death, which they realise, and consequently they behave during their lifetimes not like people living among other living people but like beings deprived of being, like universal thoughts, pure abstractions beyond history, judging and deciding in the name of all history. Death as an event no longer has any importance...But the terror they personify does not come from the death they inlict on others but from the death they inflict on themselves. They bear its features, they do their thinking and make their decisions with death sitting on their shoulders, and this is why their thinking is cold, implacable; it has the freedom of a decapitated head."

Maurice Blanchot, Literature and the Right to Death, The Work of Fire, Stanford University Press, 1995.

"Those called 'terrorists' are not, in this context, 'others', absolute others whom we, as 'Westerners,' can no longer understand. We must not forget that they were often recruited, trained, and even armed, and for a long time, in various Western ways by a Western world that itself, in the course of its ancient as well as very recent history, invented the word, the techniques, and the 'politics' of 'terrorism'..."

Jacques Derrida, Philosophy in a Time of Terror; Giovanna Borradori, University of Chicago Press ,2003.

"The establishment of the Zionist regime was a move by the world oppressor against the Islamic world...The skirmishes in the occupied land are part of a war of destiny. The outcome of hundreds of years of war will be defined in Palestinian land...As the Imam said, Israel must be wiped off the map...The Islamic world will not let its historic enemy live in its heartland...We should not settle for a piece of land...Anybody who recognises Israel will burn in the fire of the Islamic nation's fury..."

President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, The World Without Zionism; Aljazeera Net, Wednesday 26 October 2005.

"There will never be a winner because terrorism isn't an adversary - it is a tactic. Peter Ustinov, the great European intellectual, put it this way: 'War is the terrorism of the rich and powerful, and terrorism is the war of the poor and powerless.' This word terrorism has been distorted beyond any further usefulness. Terrorism is what the other guy does."

George Galloway, An Interview with George Galloway Dan Moore, Monthly Review, 14 July, 2006.

"Terror is a political tool that has been in use as long as human societies have existed. It should therefore be judged as a political tool, and not submitted to infantilizing moral judgment. It should be added that there are different types of terror. Our liberal countries know how to use it perfectly. The colossal American army exerts terrorist blackmail on a global scale, and prisons and executions exert an interior blackmail no less violent. Fifth, the only coherent theory of the subject (mine, I might add, in jest!) does not recognize in it any particular disposition toward Evil."

Alain Badiou; On Evil: An Interview with Alain Badiou, Cabinet Magazine, Issue 5 Winter 2001/02.

John Pilger, Hidden Agenda Behind War on Terror, Mirror UK, October 29, 2001

"What is terrorism? I have been assuming we understand it. Well, what is it? Well, there happen to be some easy answers to this. There is an official definition. You can find it in the US code or in US army manuals. A brief statement of it taken from a US army manual, is fair enough, is that terror is the calculated use of violence or the threat of violence to attain political or religious ideological goals through intimidation, coercion, or instilling fear. That’s terrorism. That’s a fair enough definition. I think it is reasonable to accept that. The problem is that it can’t be accepted because if you accept that, all the wrong consequences follow. For example, all the consequences I have just been reviewing. Now there is a major effort right now at the UN to try to develop a comprehensive treaty on terrorism."

Noam Chomsky, What is Terrorism? - The New War Against Terror, MIT, October 18th, 2001.

"The last war, our war, the greatest and most powerful event of this era...(because) in it the genius of war permeated the spirit of progress...(and) the growing transformation of life into energy....The overpowering wish to kill winged my steps. Fury squeezed bitter tears from me...nothing pleases me more than seeing the bullets of a machine-gun plastering the target in front of me....to live means to kill."

"Let us make no mistake about it: with the 11 September 2001 attack, we have before us an act of total war, remarkably conceived and executed, with a minimum of resources. And this demonstrates something we had forgotten: that 'everything in war is very simple, but the simplest thing is difficult' .[Karl von Clausewitz, On War]...On September 11 2001, the Manhattan skyline became the front of the new war. The anonymity of those who initiated the attack merely signals, for everyone, the rise of the global covert state - of the unknown quantity of a private criminality - the 'beyond Good-and-Evil' which has for centuries been the dream of the high priests of an iconoclastic progress."

"Jacques Dupin says to us: 'There is, there always was, above all, for Giacometti, an instinct of cruelty, a need for destruction that strictly conditions his creative activity. From his earliest childhood the obsession with sexual murder provokes and governs certain imaginary representations....He has a passion for war stories. The spectacle of violence fascinates and terrifies him.' Whence the experience he had of presence. It is out of reach. One kills a man, one does violence to him; this has happened to all of us, either in act, or in speech, or as the result of an indifferent will; but presence always escapes the power that does violence...To the experience of violence there corresponds the evidence of the presence that escapes it. And the attack of violence has become, for Giacometti, the gesture of the former-deformer, the creator-destroyer...Thus, each time, we receive from Giacometti this double discovery that is each time, it is true, immediately lost: only man would be present to us, only he is alien to us."

Maurice Blanchot, Traces, Editions Gallimard 1971, Stanford University Press, 1997.

"The crimes of the United States have been systematic, constant, vicious, remorseless, but very few people have actually talked about them...The invasion of Iraq was a bandit act, an act of blatant state terrorism, demonstrating absolute contempt for the concept of international law. The invasion was an arbitrary military action inspired by a series of lies upon lies and gross manipulation of the media and therefore of the public; an act intended to consolidate American military and economic control of the Middle East masquerading – as a last resort – all other justifications having failed to justify themselves – as liberation. A formidable assertion of military force responsible for the death and mutilation of thousands and thousands of innocent people. We have brought torture, cluster bombs, depleted uranium, innumerable acts of random murder, misery, degradation and death to the Iraqi people and call it 'bringing freedom and democracy to the Middle East'. How many people do you have to kill before you qualify to be described as a mass murderer and a war criminal? One hundred thousand? More than enough, I would have thought. Therefore it is just that Bush and Blair be arraigned before the International Criminal Court of Justice."

Harold Pinter – Nobel Lecture ; Art, Truth & Politics, The Nobel Foundation, 2005.

"The damage which can be created by a virtuous person is almost by definition far greater than the person who wishes to murder because that wish is easily put in to effect and easily satisfied....the introduction of virtue means that moment of satisfaction will never come because the satisfaction belongs to the object of duty which is never yet complete, never fully discharged...the instructive, the regularised maintain themselves this side of the law but what would happen if a type of virtuous citizen arose characterised by all the same predicates... characterised by all the same attributes, as the law abiding citizen in the service of evil? This is what Kant calls radical evil. The person who commits radical evil is far from the person who has a sense of transgressing the law. The person who commits radical evil is one whose whole intention, whose whole bearing is to obey the law. Who pursues evil but as it were in the form of absolute morality...who pursues it with the sense always of the difficulty of performing his duty...this is not someone who is going to go out and murder but this is clearly somebody who can do a lot worse...We find this nightmare of Kant's emerging in the writings of Hannah Arendt in the attempt to grasp what it is or who is the figure of that's embodied in Adolf Eichmann....how often through out the trial Eichmann would say 'I have never once in my life ever been discourteous to a Jew'...and he was right - the model of civility...this was the man who was sickened by the thought of violence..."

Mark Cousins, Radical Evil, public lecture, Architectural Association, London, 8 March 1996, London.

"As we dug ourselves in we found them in layers stacked one upon the top of another. One company after another had been shoved into the drum fire and steadily annihilated. The corpses were covered with the masses of soil turned up by the shells, and the next company advanced in the place of the fallen....The sunken road and the ground behind were full of German dead; the ground in front, of English. Arms, legs, and heads stuck out stark above the lips of the craters. In front of our miserable defences there were torn-off limbs and corpses over many of which cloaks and ground sheets had been thrown to hide the fixed stare of their distorted features. In spite of the heat no one thought for a moment of covering them with soil...For I cannot too often repeat, a battle was no longer an episode that spent itself in blood and fire; it was a condition of things that dug itself in remorselessly week after week and even month after month. What was a man's life in this wilderness whose vapour was laden with, the stench of thousands upon thousands of decaying bodies? Death lay in ambush for each one in every shell hole, merciless, and making one merciless in turn...We were asked to believe that the war had now ended. We laughed - for we were the war."

Ernst Jünger, The Storm of Steel: From the Diary of a German Storm Troop Officer on the Western Front. Chatto & Windus, 1929.

"Suicidal terrorism was a terrorism of the poor, this is a terrorism of the rich. And that's what makes us so afraid: that they have become rich (that have all the resources of wealth), without ceasing to want to do us in. Of course, according to our value system, they're cheating: bringing your own death into play is not in the rules. But they don't care, and the new rules of the games are no longer ours....The fundamental event is that the terrorists have ceased to commit suicide at a total loss, that they now bring their own death into play in an effective, offensive way, according to a strategic intuition which is simply that of the immense fragility of the adversary, that of a system which has reached near-perfection, and is therefore vulnerable to the slightest spark. They have succeeded in making their own deaths into an absolute weapon against a system that lives on the exclusion of death, whose ideal is that of zero casualties.Every system of zero casualties is a zero-sum game. And all the means of dissuasion and destruction can do nothing against an enemy who has already made his death into a counter-offensive weapon....Therefore, here, death is the key (to the game) not only the brutal irruption of death in direct, in real time, but also the irruption of a more-than-real death: symbolic and sacrificial death — the absolute, no appeal event. This is the spirit of terrorism."

Jean Baudrillard, The Spirit of Terrorism, London and New York, Verso, 2002.

"And was the bombing of the WTC with regard to the Hollywood catastrophe movies not like the snuff pornography versus ordinary sado-maso porno movies? This is the element of truth in Karl-Heinz Stockhausen's provocative statement that the planes hitting the WTC towers was the ultimate work of art: one can effectively perceive the collapse of the WTC towers as the climactic conclusion of the XXth century art's 'passion of the real' - the 'terrorists' themselves did it not do it primarily to provoke real material damage, but FOR THE SPECTACULAR EFFECT OF IT. The authentic XXth century passion to penetrate the Real Thing (ultimately, the destructive Void) through the cobweb of semblances which constitute our reality thus culminates in the thrill of the Real as the ultimate 'effect,' sought after from digitalized special effects through reality TV and amateur pornography up to snuff movies...Whenever we encounter such a purely evil Outside, we should gather the courage to endorse the Hegelian lesson: in this pure Outside, we should recognize the distilled version of our own essence.Whenever we encounter such a purely evil Outside, we should gather the courage to endorse the Hegelian lesson: in this pure Outside, we should recognize the distilled version of our own essence...The safe Sphere in which Americans live is experienced as under threat from the Outside of terrorist attackers who are ruthlessly self-sacrificing AND cowards, cunningly intelligent AND primitive barbarians."

Slavoj Zizek, Welcome to the Desert of the Real; Reflections on WTC , 2001 .

"Claiming that the Palestinians have a moral right to their terrorism, which I do, can hardly be old hat given the reaction to the claim. If some people readily accept it, some of them out of anti-Semitism, many are shocked or disturbed by it........Terrorism has a number of features, but fundamentally it is a kind of violence, which is to say physical force that injures, damages, violates or destroys people or things. It is this: violence with a political and social end, whether or not intended to put people in general in fear, and necessarily raising a question of its moral justification because it is violence - either such violence as is against the law within a society or else violence between states or societies, against what there is of international law and smaller-scale than war. It is illegitimate in terms of law, but not necessarily in terms of morality. Terrorism understood in this uncontentious way evidently includes suicide bombings. As evidently, it also includes state-terrorism and cat's paw terrorism...As for my reason for writing “After the Terror”, I was like so many of us in being overwhelmed and then thrown into reflection by September 11.......In the book what I say is morally permissible is the terrorism of the Palestinians in the present situation. It seems to me very similar to the terrorism of the African National Congress against the South Africa of apartheid. I also say that the only general kind of terrorism that is likely to be justified, in the world as it is, is what you can call liberation-terrorism: the violent struggle of a people to come to freedom and power in their own homeland."

Ted Honderich, A Philosopher in the Trenches: Interview with Ted Honderich, The Palestine Chronicle, December 04 2002.

"Terrorism, before it is an act, is a calculation, on the basis of future traces, in anticipation of how traces yet to be made will someday be read. As such, it is more than casually bound up with the complex movements of textuality on both sides - on the side (to use the familiar shorthand) of both the sender and the receiver of the message...What the reference to the symbol, however, with all that it necessarily entails of totalization, aestheticization, and extreme cognitive ambition, does not exactly cover over but does not exactly help us to isolate or pinpoint is the historical interruption that every text bears within it and that pushes our experience of the peculiar temporality of the terrorist act ineluctably in the direction of accident. This experience is in error (in the sense that it does not correspond to the 'truth' or 'facts' of the event), and yet it accurately records the extent to which the calculation that preceded the event takes us to the limits of reason, even if it is not strictly speaking in itself irrational. Terror is infected by accident; it spreads toward accident as we try to read or understand it, not because it has to do with accident in any rigorous sense, but because it doesn't, expressing instead the moment when calculation and incalculability collide. This collision, whatever else it may be (more or less spectacular, harmless, or murderous in its effects), is not an accident and never takes place by accident. It is this same movement that, to paraphrase Mallarmé, restrains every action from the moment that it understands itself as something outside, or just plain other than, a text. I cite Mallarmé, not because he was a so-called symbolist, but because he focuses our attention on the difference between accident and calculation's failure with admirable precision..."

Jennifer Bajorek, The Offices of Homeland Security, or, Hölderlin's Terrorism, Critical Inquiry, Vol. 31, No.4.

"Le 11 septembre, as you say, or, since we have agreed to speak two languages, 'September 11.' We will have to return later to this question of language. As well as to this act of naming: a date and nothing more. When you say 'September 11' you are already citing, are you not? You are inviting me to speak here by recalling, as if in quotation marks, a date or a dating that has taken over our public space and our private lives for five weeks now. Something fait date, I would say in a French idiom, something marks a date, a date in history; that is always what's most striking, the very impact of what is at least felt, in an apparently immediate way, to be an event that truly marks, that truly makes its mark, a singular and, as they say here, 'unprecedented' event. I say 'apparently immediate' because this 'feeling' is actually less spontaneous than it appears: it is to a large extent conditioned, constituted, if not actually constructed, circulated at any rate through the media by means of a prodigious techno-socio-political machine. 'To mark a date in history' presupposes, in any case, that 'something' comes or happens for the first and last time, 'something' that we do not yet really know how to identify, determine, recognize, or analyze but that should remain from here on in unforgettable: an ineffaceable event in the shared archive of a universal calendar, that is, a supposedly universal calendar, for these are—and I want to insist on this at the outset—only suppositions and presuppositions. Unrefined and dogmatic, or else carefully considered, organized, calculated, strategic—or all of these at once. For the index pointing toward this date, the bare act, the minimal deictic, the minimalist aim of this dating, also marks something else. Namely, the fact that we perhaps have no concept and no meaning available to us to name in any other way this 'thing' that has just happened, this supposed 'event.' An act of 'international terrorism,' for example, and we will return to this, is anything but a rigorous concept that would help us grasp the singularity of what we will be trying to discuss. 'Something' took place, we have the feeling of not having seen it coming, and certain consequences undeniably follow upon the 'thing.' But this very thing, the place and meaning of this 'event,' remains ineffable, like an intuition without concept, like a unicity with no generality on the horizon or with no horizon at all, out of range for a language that admits its powerlessness and so is reduced to pronouncing mechanically a date, repeating it endlessly, as a kind of ritual incantation, a conjuring poem, a journalistic litany or rhetorical refrain that admits to not knowing what it's talking about. We do not in fact know what we are saying or naming in this way: September 11, le 11 septembre, September 11. The brevity of the appellation (September 11, 9/11) stems not only from an economic or rhetorical necessity...A major event should be so unforeseeable and irruptive that it disturbs even the horizon of the concept or essence on the basis of which we believe we recognize an event as such. That is why all the 'philosophical' questions remain open, perhaps even beyond philosophy itself, as soon as it is a matter of thinking the event."

Jacques Derrida, Philosophy in a Time of Terror; Giovanna Borradori, University of Chicago Press ,2003.

"The Illuminati want their global fascist structure in place by 2012, but they seem to be behind schedule. Whenever that happens they seek to increase the speed of change by orchestrating major events that they blame on others? like 9/11. Look at how the agenda of control has moved on as a result of that horrific day and the orchestrator was not Osama bin Laden, but the force that has used it as the excuse to take away a stream of freedoms. It is a technique I have dubbed problem-reaction-solution - covertly create the problem, get the public to say something must be done, and then openly offer the solutions to the problems you have covertly created. It works like a dream.... Billions of people have had their minds invaded by believing the official story of 9/11 when it is a monumental lie...The Illuminati reptilian bloodlines are behind the war on terror and why wouldn't they be? Just look at how our freedoms are being curtailed by the day in the name of fighting terror when the world's biggest terrorists are the ones in government (see Alice in Wonderland and the World Trade Centre Disaster and Tales from the Time Loop for the detailed background.)"

"It is necessary that there be a revolution because one does not modify a regime which controls everything, which has its roots everywhere. One removes it, one strikes it down. It is necessary that revolution be violent because one does not tap a people as enervated [aveuli] as our own for the strength and passion appropriate to a regeneration through measures of decency, but through a series of bloody shocks, a storm that will overwhelm - and thus awaken - it. This is not a totally secure undertaking [cela n'est pas de tout repos], but precisely what is needed is a failure of security. That is why terrorism at present appears to us as a method of public salvation."

Maurice Blanchot, Le terrorisme, méthode de salut publiv, Combat 1, No.7, 1936.Exclusive

"The suicide tries to take command of death's space as if it were part of the world, a territory like any other. The suicide wants to occupy the space of death in his or her own name; the suicide wants to stand in for death, as if to become death's philosophy...The suicide is like the artist as masterworker who projects an idea onto the future; but what the suicide and the artist seek to achieve is 'a stranger to the world, it remains foreign to all achievements, and constantly ruins all deliberate action' (Blanchot). Both the suicide and the masterworker experience the future as 'a radical reversal, through which the death [or the work of art] that was the extreme form of my power not only becomes what loosens my hold upon myself by casting me out of my power to begin and even to finish, but also becomes that which is without any relation to me, without power over me - that which is stripped of all possibility - the irreality of the indefinite' (Blanchot). What is true of death is at all events true of art: both inscribe a radical limit of reality, a limit that is experienced by our inability to grasp what is there, that is, our inability to act as cognitive subjects or as agents of any sort. Death and art exert a fascination because they inscribe the limits of being human, or rather they beckon or draw us to these limits and only by forsaking ourselves can we respond."

Gerald L. Bruns, Maurice Blanchot: The Refusal of Philosophy, John Hopkins University Press, 1997.

"...there is always a revolution to effect, on condition that man doesn't think himself revolutionary only on the social level, but believes that he must always and above all be revolutionary on the physical, physiological, anatomical, functional, circulatory, respiratory, dynamic, atomic and electrical level."

"From the moment that the State has strengthened itself against individual terrorism - the Red Brigades, Baader-Meinhof or the Palestinians - by developing its own brand of terrorism, you have to wonder what high court could prevent this infinite spreading of State crimes, of acts of war without war...All of us are already civilian soldiers, without knowing it. And some of us know it. The great stroke of luck for the military class's terrorism is that no one recognizes it. People don't recognize the militarized part of their identity, or their consciousness."

"The threat posed by US terrorism to the security of nations and individuals was outlined in prophetic detail in a document written more than two years ago and disclosed only recently. What was needed for America to dominate much of humanity and the world's resources, it said, was 'some catastrophic and catalysing event - like a new Pearl Harbor'. The attacks of 11 September 2001 provided the 'new Pearl Harbor', described as 'the opportunity of ages'. The extremists who have since exploited 11 September come from the era of Ronald Reagan, when far-right groups and 'think-tanks' were established to avenge the American 'defeat' in Vietnam. In the 1990s, there was an added agenda: to justify the denial of a 'peace dividend' following the cold war. The Project for the New American Century was formed, along with the American Enterprise Institute, the Hudson Institute and others that have since merged the ambitions of the Reagan administration with those of the current Bush regime."

John Pilger, Pilger in Print; Hidden Agendas, Archive Articles, Carlton.Com, 12 December, 2002.

"In short, British state-sponsored terrorism is a perfect example of the Hegelian dialect in action. “The Hegelian dialectic has never failed because to understand it requires the total breakdown and reconstruction of everything you’ve ever known,” explains Paul Joseph Watson. “Upon the conclusion of the war on terrorism, the counterfeit foe awaits.”..."

Kurt Nimmo, Bombing Mastermind Aswat Works for MI-6, Prison Planet.Com, August 2nd 2005.

"We Palestinians have always, at least publicly, held Israel responsible for all our suffering: Israel, we say, destroyed our society, turned most of our people into refugees and subjugated the rest to military rule. In private, however, we haven't concealed the fact that Israel is not the only responsible party. What we have failed to realise, though, is that the establishment and existence of Israel were the result not merely of the Israelis' will and determination, but rather of the rules of the game. Zionist, and later Israeli, leaders accepted the politics of the nation state faithfully, not to say blindly, which meant that integration of Arabs and Jews had to be prevented by whatever means available."

Samir El-Youssef, Unwrapping the gift, New Statesman, Monday 31st October, 2005.

"For the colonised person, life can only emerge from the decomposing corpse of the coloniser. The practice of violence is all-embracing, since each forms a violent link in the great chain, a part of the great organism of violence which has surged forward and which has come as a reaction to the colonizer's first violence...Violence invests the character of the colonized people with positive and creative policies...Violence alone, violence committed by people, violence organised and educated by its leaders, makes it possible for the masses to understand social truths and gives the key to them...Colonialism is violence in its natural state, and it will only yield when confronted with greater violence...Now the problem is to seize this violence that is in the process of changing direction. When formerly it took pleasure in myths and went out of its way to find new ways to commit collective suicide, notice how these new conditions will cause them to change their orientation."

Julia Kristeva, A Beheading; Possessions: A Novel, Columbia University Press 1996.

"When I speak I always exercise a relation of force [puissance]. I belong, whether or not I know it, to a net work of powers of which I make use, struggling against the force that that asserts itself against me. All speech is violence....Language is the undertaking through which violence agrees not to be open, but secret, agrees to forgo spending itself in a brutal action in order to reserve itself for more powerful mastery."

"But that an accident as such, detached from what circumscribes it, what is bound and is actual only in its context with others, should attain an existence of its own and a separate freedom - this is the tremendous power [Macht] of the negative; it is energy of [Geist's] thought, or the pure 'I' [of Geist]. Death, if that is what we want to call this non-actuality, is of all things most dreadful, and to hold fast what is dead requires the greatest strength. Lacking strength, Beauty [Schönheit] hates the Understanding [Verstand] for asking of her what it cannot do. But the life of Geist is not the life that shrinks from death and keeps itself untouched by devastation, but rather the life that endures and maintains itself in it. It wins its truth only when, in absolute dismemberment [Zerrissenheit], it finds itself. It is this power, not as something positive, that closes its eyes to the negative, as when we say of something that it is nothing or is false, and then having done with it, turn away and pass to something else; on the contrary, Spirit is this power only by looking the negative in the face, and tarrying with it. This tarrying with the negative is the magical power [Zauberkraft] that converts it into being. This power is identical with what we earlier called the Subject [i.e., Geist], which by giving determinateness an existence in its own element superseded abstract immediacy, i.e. the immediacy which is merely general, and thus is authentic substance: that being or immediacy whose mediation is not outside of it but which is mediation itself."

"Impossible necessary death: why do these words - and the experience to which they refer (the inexperience) - escape comprehension. Why this collision of mutually exclusive terms?...Yes, let us remember the earliest Hegel. He too, even prior to his 'early' philosophy, considered that the two deaths were indissociable, and that only the act of confronting death - not merely of facing it or of exposing oneself to its danger, but of entering into its space, of undergoing it as infinite death and also as mere death, 'natural death' could found the sovereignty of masterhood: the mind and its prerogatives. the result was perhaps, absurdly, that the experience which initiates the movement of the dialectic - the experience which none experiences, the experience of death - stopped it right away, and that the entire subsequent process retained a sort of memory of this halt, as if of an aporia which always has till to be accounted for...It remains, however, that if death, murder, suicide are put to work, and if death loses its sting by becoming powerless power and then negativity, there is, each time one advances with the help of possible death, the necessity not to advance any further, nor to approach the death without expression, the death without any name, the death outside the concept - impossibility itself."

Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster, University of Nebraska Press, 1995.

"When someone is subjected to torture, something external impinges and breaks down the individual's protective shield, which leaves the person in a helpless state with the result that, internal and external registers get confused. Having survived, the person is left with a residue of something excessive that is too much to bear, something intolerable that disrupts the process of getting through the day - linear time - and overburdens the signifying apparatus. The disruption of the signifying apparatus, a defect in signification, is the point at which anguish interrupts and the subject encounters the real which engenders non-sense. The object (a) is implicated in a too much and produces anguishing affects due to a lack of signification... Following torture there are moments when it is difficult to think...The effect of torture is a breaking down of thought, and an inability to put into words what transpired. When asked to speak of the torture in order to establish the facts of the case, the person is confronted with an impossible situation. Something of the experience cannot be absorbed into any symbolic framework but at the same time the individual is haunted by images of what happened. What is remembered are surrounding events, often apparently arbitrary details, which offer some kind of way to frame the pain for even if the event is remembered in detail, the hole remains."

Eric Harper, Torture - a presence without an absence, The Symptom, Issue 4, Spring 2003.

"I have really enjoyed myself writing about these different works of art, notably, on representations of decapitation, and I believe that the novel as genre, especially thriller which is an open genre and completely renewable allows for this type of digression in writing. But they have severely criticized me for it and told me that the book was too intellectual, very brainy and that the reader who wanted to know how the crime was being developed and the murder had to suffer by having had to wait. That was the malevolent reaction of those who have known me as an intellectual and who did not like the fact that I was going to write novels... Some think that these works are scandal-oriented, others think that they rejoice in ugliness, yes, certainly there are elements of such orientations in them, but, on the other hand, the existence of these works is also a research - often in a very specific manner - on the anticipation of difficulty of living. And Art can play an important role here since it can contribute to a certain creative assumption of such a difficulty. Nevertheless, I personally remain a bit sceptical of a certain drift or tendency of contemporary art to content itself with such, so I believe, feeble appropriations of these traumatic states. We remain here at the level of the statement of the clinical cases with an almost documentary style photography of these cases wherein the investment and the effort made in the exploration of new forms or new thoughts remains less visible. So, it is something regrettable which every so often leaves me with the impression that when I visit museums or read certain art books, I am looking into psychoanalytic or even psychiatric archives. But, perhaps this is an indispensable experience."

"In all the motor accidents I've seen, people strewn across the road, the first thing you think of is the strange beauty - the vision of it, before you think of trying to do anything. It's to do with the unusualness of it. I once saw a bad car accident on a large road, and the bodies were strewn about with broken glass from the car, and the blood and various possessions, and it was in fact very beautiful. I think the beauty in it is terribly elusive, but it just happened to be in the disposition of the bodies, the way they lay and the blood, and perhaps it was also because it was not a thing one was used to seeing...It was midday, when the sun was very strong and on a white road."

Francis Bacon, Remarks from an Interview with Peter Beard, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 1976.

"When my eyes flee from the now to the past, they always find the same: fragments and limbs and dreadful accidents - but no human beings. The now and the past on earth - alas, my friends, that is what I find most unendurable; and I should not know how to live if I were not also a seer of that which must come."

"Drift-net fishing through the Internet's deeps brings up numerous examples of decapitation fetishism, a queasy mix of necro-porn, splatter movie, and upchuck humor guaranteed to appall even the most politically incorrect post-feminists. One needn't be a born-again Dworkinite, brandishing Intercourse like a Gideon bible, to get creeped out while browsing The Axe & Guillotine website ("The Best in Beheading"), Necromancer's website ("Behead and Debreast"), Mickey Jay's website ("Beheading"), Scanbastard's website ("Beheading"), Mocktoad Manipulations ("Beheading"), or any of the scores of sites that cater to snuff fetishism, a twisted little limb on the family tree of pathological sexuality, at the juncture of S&M and necrophilia."

Mark Dery, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Severed Head, Cabinet Magazine, Issue 10 Spring 2003.

"We have seldom attempted to interpret individual mythological figures. Yet it is natural to do so in the case of the terrifying cut-off head of the Medusa. Cutting off the head = castration. Horror at the Medusa is also horror at castration, which is also connected to the gaze. The Medusa's gaze turns us rigid with horror, turns the onlooker into stone. It has the same lineage as the castration-complex and results in the same transformation of affect! For rigidification signifies erection, that is, in the original situation, the compensation for the onlooker. He still has a penis and is assured of this by becoming stiff."

"Writing is per se already (it is still) violence: the rupture there is in each fragment, the break, the splitting, the tearing of the shred - acute singularity, steely point. And yet this combat is, for patience, debate. The name wears away, the fragment fragments, erodes."

Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of The Disaster, University of Nebraska Press, 1995.

"Daily I must call upon the vanished godhead. When I think of great men in great times, and how they spread holy fire on all sides and transformed everything that was defunct, everything wooden, all the straw of the world into flames, so that it soared heavenward with them; and when I think of me, of how often I drift about like a flickering little lamp begging for a drop of oil so that I can shine a bit longer through the night - behold! a wondrous shudder passes through all my limbs, and softly I say to myself a terrifying word: the living dead!"

"Jouissance alone makes the abject as such exist. One does not know it, one does not desire it, one reveals in it. Violently and with anguish. A passion. And, as in jouissance, where the object of desire, known as object a, bursts with the shattered mirror where the ego gives up its image in order to look at oneself in the Other, there is neither objective nor objectal in the subject. It is simply a boundary, a repulsive gift that the Other...allows to fall so that the 'I' does not disappear but finds in it, in this sublime alienation, a forfeited existence. Hence a jouissance in which the subject is swallowed up but in which the Other, in return, keeps the subject from foundering by making it repugnant. One thus understands why so many victims of the abject are its fascinated victims - if not its submissive and willing ones...The abject is edged with the sublime."

Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, New York: Columbia University Press, 1982.

"There is no death's head, according to Bacon. The head is, if anything, boneless. It is not completely soft, but hard. The head is flesh, and the mask itself is not a death-mask, it is a firm block of flesh which separates from the bones: thus the studies for the portrait of William Blake. The personal head of Bacon is flesh elevated by a very beautiful glance, without eye-sockets. This is Bacon's greatest homage to Rembrandt, for having painted a final self-portrait as a block of flesh without orbits. In all of Bacon's work the head-meat relationship goes through an escalation of intensity that makes it more and more intimate...The deformation undergone by the body are also the animal traits of the head. But this is in no way a simple correspondence between animal and facial forms. The face, in effect, has lost its original form due to the operations of cleansing and polishing to which it has been subjected, operations which break up its organisation and allow the head to emerge in its place. The marks or traits of animality do not represent pure animal forms, but are rather the expression of spirits which animate the 'cleansed' parts of the face, which draw out the head, which identify and individualise the head even without a face."

Gilles Deleuze, The Body, the Meat and the Spirit: Becoming Animal; Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, 1981.

"What's outside, we know from the beast’s face only: for we turn around the early child and force it to see formation backwards, not the open, which is so deep in beastsight. Free from death. We only see death; the free beast has its going down behind it and before it god, and when it goes, goes into eternity, like a running spring...It is always world and never nowhere without no: that pureness, that unwatched, which one breathes and endlessly knows and never wants. But a child might lose himself inside the quiet and become shaken. Or someone dies and is. For near to death one sees that death no more and stares ahead, perhaps with a beast’s huge glance...Were the awareness of our species in the sure beast, which pulls towards us from another direction — it would drag us into its mutability. But for the beast its being is unending, unprepared, and without insight of its belonging, pure, like its outward glance. And where we see future, there it sees all and itself in all and healed for always."

Rainer Maria Rilke, The Eighth Duino Elegy, 1912-1922, University of California Press, 1961.

"The sensations of warmth and cold, even those aroused by the mind (for example, through quickly rising hope or fear), belong to the vital sensation. The shudder seizing people even at the idea of something sublime, and the terror with which nurses' tales drive children to bed late at night, belong to the later type. they penetrate the body, so far as it is alive...disgust, a stimulus to discharge something that has been consumed through the shortest path of the gullet (to vomit), is given to the human being as such a strong vital sensation, since such an inner intake...can be dangerous."

"The young man was a witness to the death that came at him...totally exposed, vulnerable, disarmed, offered unto death, a being for death, the young man seems to represent the very opposite of invincibility, of course. But 'perhaps'! ('perhaps...invincible'). And yet the inexorability of what was coming at him, of what was imminent, but which had thus already arrived, 'perhaps' made him invincible. Invincible because totally vanquished, totally exposed, totally lost. Dead - immortal...At that instant, I am immortal because I am dead and I am dead: death can no longer happen to me...Dead - immortal. Perhaps ecstasy...An ecstatic wrenching from common temporal existence, an immense orgiastic jouissance...It is jouissance insofar as it does not go without death..."

“The disaster is separate; that which is most separate. When the disaster comes upon us, it does not come... To read, to write, the way one lives under the surveillance of the disaster: exposed to the passivity that is outside passion. The heightening of forgetfulness. It is not you who will speak; let the disaster speak in you, even if it be by your forgetfulness or silence...The disaster has already passed beyond danger, even when we under the threat of . The mark of the disaster is that one is never at that mark except when one is under threat and, being so, past danger... He said to himself: you shall not kill yourself, your suicide precedes you. Or: he dies inept at dying... The disaster takes care of everything... It is dark disaster that brings the light."

Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of The Disaster, University of Nebraska Press, 1995.

"For straight men (and decap fantasies seem to be straight men's meat), eroticized beheading, especially by guillotine, is a double-edged pleasure. Ostensibly a fever-dream vision of dominance and submission in which a Sadean male penetrates a powerless babe with his steely blade, decap snuff is haunted by the homoerotic gothic. The dark dreams of Marquis and others like him are shadowed by homophobic fears of the Queer Within: beheading is at once eroticized castration, ejaculation (with the spurting neck-stump as grotesque parody of the squirting penis), and sublimated frottage (decapitation rubs one phallic symbol, the blade, against another—the neck, which stands in for the penile shaft)."

Mark Dery, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Severed Head, Cabinet Magazine, Issue 10 Spring 2003.

"Gloria was lying in a pool of blood with her head cut off...There was nothing missing but the head. 'My sexual organ,' as she laughingly used to call it, referring to the cerebral pleasure she got out of her work as a translator and the equally intense pain she suffered from her headaches. Sometimes she'd amend the description and call her head 'the tool of her trade' And now here she was, bereft of her organ or tool, and so made almost anonymous. But only almost. For, head or no head, Gloria Harrison was easily recognisable."

Julia Kristeva, A Beheading; Possessions: A Novel, Columbia University Press, , 1996.

"In phantasmagoric representations we are surrounded by night; here a bloody head suddenly shoots out, there a white shape, and they disappear again as suddenly. One perceives this night when one looks another human being in the eye - one peers into a night which inspires terror; the night of the world which here lowers towards us."

"Can I die? Have I the power to die? ...To take one's own life: is this not the shortest road from man to himself, from animal to man...Why suicide? If he dies freely, if he experiences and proves to himself his liberty in death and the liberty of his death, he will have attained the absolute. he will be that absolute...His death, by making death possible, will have liberated life and rendered it wholly human."

Maurice Blanchot, Can I Die?, The Space of Literature, University of Nebraska Press, 1982.

"Even if one's head were to be suddenly cut off, he should be able to do one more action with certainty...With martial valour, if one becomes like a revengeful ghost and shows great determination, though his head is cut off, he should not die."

"Unlike man, who holds so dearly to his title and his titles, his pouches of value, his cap, his crown, and everything connected with his head, woman couldn't care less about the fear of decapitation."

"Man has escaped from his head just as the condemned man has escaped from prison...Beyond what I am, I meet a being who makes me laugh because he is headless; this fills me with dread because he is made of innocence and crime; he holds a steel weapon in his left hand, flames like those of a Sacred Heart in his right. He reunites the same eruption Birth and Death. He is not a man. He is not a god either. He is not me but he is more than me: his stomach is the labyrinth in which he has lost himself, loses me with him, and in which I discover myself as him, in other words as a monster."

Georges Bataille, The Sacred Conspiracy; Tossa, April 29, 1936; Visions of Excess, University of Minnesota Press, 1985.

"Severed male heads and decapitated bodies play a prominent role in the decadent art and literature of the late 19th century, particularly in the biblical stories of Judith and Salome. Flaubert, Huysmans, Laforgue, and Wilde in literature, and Moreau, Klimt, Beardsley, and Munch in painting are the best known of a whole host of male fin-de-siecle artists obsessed by visions of vengeful, headhunting, 'demonic' women."

"What fascinates us robs us of our power to give sense...Separation, which was the possibility of seeing, coagulates at the very centre of the gaze into impossibility...Fascination is solitude's gaze. It is the gaze of the incessant and interminable. In it blindness is vision still, vision which is no longer the possibility of seeing, but the impossibility of not seeing, the impossibility which becomes visible and preserves - always and always - in a vision that never comes to an end: a dead gaze, a gaze become the ghost of an eternal vision."

Maurice Blanchot, The Image, The Space of Literature, University of Nebraska Press, 1982.

"Man has escaped his head just as the condemned man has escaped from prison. . . . Beyond who I am, I have met a being who makes me laugh because he is headless. . . . He reunites in the same eruption Birth and Death."

“The lightning flashes through my skull; mine eyeballs ache and ache; my whole beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning ground.”

"The human being arrives at the threshold: there he must throw himself headlong into that which has no foundation and has no head."

Georges Bataille, The Obelisk; Visions of Excess, University of Minnesota Press, 1985.

"For, nearing death, one sees death no longer, and stares ahead - perhaps, with a broad brute gaze."

"Give me a call whenever you want to cut off my head...I can always crawl around without it."

"Yet, it behooves us, poets, to stand bare-headed beneath God's thunderstorms."

Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster, University of Nabraska Press, 1995.

Being beheaded. Being a head. Being a head of it self. Being ahead of itself. Being a head of time. Being ahead of time. Being a head of being. Being ahead of being. To be Beheaded is to go Out with True Style as a cut above the rest as Truth raising its Ugly Face frozen face-to-face Toward the Other. Being beheaded is coming to a head and coming-off all over the Other. To be Beheaded severs Being from Da-sein as a Decapitation of being from thereing as not being-there anymore but being-out over-there as Da-alien. The Sensation of Severing is a sense of surprise at being a non-being face to no face becoming Nothing with the Other of the Nothing. The Moment of the Cut is the End of the Air where the stony Stare of the Eyes become the Fixed Time of Fort Da between the Beginnings and the Endings of Beings and Nonbeings. Thinking is not Finishing through Severing since the Mind is in the Feet not in the Head. The Body Thinks through the Severing of the Head and Sensations the Head in Detached Thought as thrown Dasein becoming Dailen. The Decapitated Head always already sees and seeps its own Dissemenation as Staring the Negative in the Face and Enjoying it as a Jouissance out-of-joint: the brute bliss of being beheaded, of losing one's head, of coming-off. The Mind which Thinks from the Ankles feels the face seeing the severing of sight still sensationing throwing thinking always already after the severing in it-self out-it-self for-it-self as being a head of one's self. Is being-a-head being-a-head-of-one's-self? What is the sen-sa-tion of being-be-head-ed? Dasein decapitated? Dalien delivered? Of Being be-headed being-out-of-it thrown out-of-joint joining face-to-face with the negative Nothing and tarrying with it toying with it touching it teasing it. Look-ing the No-thing in the Face of the Be-head-ed and tar-ry-ing with it play-ing with it throw-ing it retrie-ving it and kick-ing it about all over-the-joint like a fuck-ing foot-ball. The ta-rry-ing with the de-capi-ta-ted No-thing em-bod-ies the be-head-ed back into the body-of-being (again). As be-ing be-head-ed is always already an impossibility because to severe is to sow to to cut is to cure cutting and completing be-heading as a being be-coming born be-holding sowing sensation so de-cap-it-a-tion delivers Da-sein where that which is cut-off out-of-joint comes together again as an Aufhebung absolute continuity of discontinuity as a totality of tearing and tarrying with the torn To-tal-ity un-veil-ing un-attain-ed uncovered Un-ity as Absolute AbKnowledge being Pure Sensation of Being being Beheaded. Decapitated Dasein thinks as airborne Air awe. The End of Breathing releases Thinking as Air Back into the Air of Being as Becoming an Airing of Thought. Airing is the Origin of Thinking Thought through beyond being Beheaded beyond Being breathing. Thinking goes on Breathing outside the Head beyond the Body. The severings of the spirit heal and leave no scars behind. Thus the Beheaded Head goes on Existing whether I like It or not whether I look at It or not. The Beheaded Head still sees beyond being Beheaded. Decapitation grounds the Head at the Horizon of Being out the World where Decapitation is the joyous Jouissance of the Abject Sublime semblance severing semening subjectivity circumscribing castration complete. Decapitation constitutes Identity of Difference as Ather to Otherness of the Same. Decapitation as the Endgame without End as an Ereignis as an Es gibt as an Erlebnis experiencing Decapitation as the Event of Disclosure activating an alien Aletheia whereout a being can be Revealed in its alien being, Attaining a presence as part of a pruning that is presented through Dichtung decapitating Dasein. But Beheading is not an Ending in-it-self but a Becoming out-it-self as a torsoless transition to absolute alien attainment and attunement as Aufhebung as to severe is to serve to suture Stimmung sensationing simultaneously situating Becoming by Beheading Dasein dépense deranged - derailed - detached - decapitated - as Absolute Spirit surviving severing since even the severing is still a binding and connecting as a cutting. Hence Hegel is not a Philosopher of the System: Hegel is the Philosopher of the Sensation of the Severing of the System serving a cutting as a clearing atta attaining attuning an Athering.

Hegel was a Head and only a Head as his Body of Knowledge was Severed by his System as an auto-beheading of bodily being Beginning as an Action without Thinking as a Thought activated above Hegel's Head. Hegel hit the Nail on the Head of Philosophy as an angoisse Action above and ahead of Thinking. For Hegel Thought is always already an Action ahead of our Thinking about a Thought. The alien of action is always already without a conscience - without a conception. To Think Something is always already to Throw Something ahead albeit The Nothing at all. For the alien Abjecting is always already afar and ahead of Thinking. Action abjected is ahead of the Head of Thought decapitated by the Terrorism of Thinking where an abjected Action has no Ideological Aim or Political Argument or Philosophical Proposition but Seeks to Sever Sein's Security. Hegel heads a Header to Thinking through Throwing Thought away as an angoisse Action without Thinking the Thought through. The Moment one Thinks one Knows one is Thinking one is no longer Thinking: one does not Know one is Thinking at all. Thinking is not Knowing one is Thinking about it: Knowing is not Thinking: Knowing is The Nothing: Knowing is about The Nothing. Knowing is about The Nothing at all. Knowing is the Nothing not Thought about. Knowing is The Nothing Thrown about. Thinking is always already Throwing around The Nothing at all to Think about Throwing Thought away. Throwing throttles Thought from Thinking about Throwing Thought forth from Thinking about the Thought thrown. Being beheaded throws Thought ahead as an angoisse alien action. Throwing beheads Thinking ahead. To Think is to Abject for Thinking is an Abjecting.

But that a Decapitation as severed, detached from what circumscribes it, what is beheaded and is actual only in its context with other heads, should attain an existence of its own and a separate freedom - this is the tremendous shuddering sensation of the severing; it is semblance of Sensation's shine, or the pure 'I' [of Sensation]. Death, if that is what we want to call this Decapitation, is of all things most dreadful, and to hold alive what is dead requires the greatest strength. Lacking strength, the Ugliful hates the Understanding [Verstand] for asking of her what it cannot do. But the life of Sensation is not the life that shrinks from death and keeps itself unsensationed by devastation, but rather the life that waits and works itself in it. It wins its truth only when, in absolute dismemberment [Zerrissenheit], it finds itself. It is this sensation, not as something positive, that closes its eyes to the severing, as when we say of something that it is nothing or is false, and then having done with it, turn away and pass to something else; on the contrary, Sensation is this strength only by looking the beheaded in the face, and tarrying with it. This tarrying with the decapitated is the shimmering Sensation that sends it into being and that beheading is that being or sensation whose mediation is not outside of it but which is mediation itself as decapitated Dasein. Being delivered into decapitation is to be face-to-face abject absolute of conscious continuity - as a magnificent mastering discontinuity through decapitation as the mastering of decapitation that holds its moment together its head together through this very beheading in itself as always already being out itself as a-head-of-it-self before the movement and moment of decapitation The severed head as separation from spirit becomes the unity of the Particular and the Universal as a coming-off coming-together apart as a fort-da embodied-beheading being - being both in-and-out of the world as united together out-of-joint at once out-of-time all the time as the nothing of the whole as that hole which sucks-all-in and spits-all-out as that thrown Thinking which does one's head in - that does one's head out - as a headstrong heady heading header beaming breathtaking bolt biting bronze brightness as ahead of one's time as a history coming-off to a head. A head coming-off: did the heads of Heraclitus, Hegel, Heidegger - come-off - let leak - how did Heraclitus, Hegel, Heidegger lose their heads - or did Heraclitus, Hegel, Heidegger even ever give head - give good head - go down - deep down - deep throating thought sucking off spunk spurting Spirit decapitating Dasein? What is the time of coming to a head? Ahead of time.

Decapitation is the Hegelian Dialectic coming to a head ahead of time as becoming after being thrown out of nothing comes something out of time. Hegel's Completion of History is the Castration of History severing the System and annihilating Art decapitating Dasein. For headless Hegel negativity is never negated: there is no negation of the negation because decapitation delivers difference: the negative is never negated as Atherness, for Hegel here, as always already being beheaded, is not something negative that must be negated. Thus the Head of Geist is not the Head that is severed from Death and keeps itself dettached by devastation and disaster, but rather the Head that delivers itself in it - it wins its truth only when, in absolute dismemberment, it finds itself as Ather to being I and/or Other. This being with the negative is the magical mooding that converts it into being as Ather. Thus the negative is never negated in Hegel out Hegel or/and Hegel does not deliver difference to identity - identity - is - instead - always already - as an atta Ather. No negation happens here. The Nothing happens. The Nothing has already happened here. Again and Again.

Thus the Hegelian Castration is not Historical Closure nor indeed Metaphysical Closure being brave beheaders Heraclitus, Hölderlin, Hegel, Heidegger, Nietzsche and Artaud always already castrate conceptual closure: cancelling (out) concepts castrating (off) concepts: over coming concepts as a coming over concepts so that the future of philosophy will be absolutely concept-free: free of fought. Fort Da Firing Heraclitus, Hegel, Heidegger, Nietzsche did not write within closed conceptual cages but cleaved cut cleared: drew dread forth forming from within without constructing concepts cutting creating initiating intuitive images as an art alien nailing-the-negative as the absolute angoisse alteric aesthetic semen sensation semblance thirst thrust that nails-the-negative as the serene severe servant severing swish sword silvery silent slain slices smoothly sweetly swiftly beheading being beholding holding head here as giving head as giving a head as giving a gift as daring David delivers drooling decapitated Dasein desemenised cleaving Caravaggio clean. Clean cut as a cleaved clearing. To cleave is to cut - to clear to split is to spill to spunk - sown shone severed Semening serves severe Sensation. Cleaved as a castrated carnivorous Caravaggio comes ahead towards you coming off all over you being beheaded before you as an alien abjected atta Ather attained and attuned ahead.

Castrated Caravaggio seeds Semening sensation as a coming-to-a-head as coming to ahead as the coming of a head as the coming off a head here being be-headed before you coming towards you coming all over you again and again as drenched delirious Dasein jettisoned jouissane. Craving Caravaggio constantly plays fort-da duelling: throwing a tantrum as throwing a sensation severed as a sensation seeking stimuli: throwing stones at a landlady throwing artichokes at a waiter throwing a punch at a poof and then there retrieving the reel of the real as an absolute angoisse abjection attuning as a succulent semening sensation oozed out as an absolute sublime alienation. Cantankerous Caravaggio was not an attention seeker but a seeker of sensation - as being beautifully beheaded - served severed - free from society heading ahead a head. Caravaggio was a head of his time as Caravaggio was ahead of his time as Caravaggio beheaded time because Caravaggio headed time because Caravaggio came over time - Caravaggio covered time - recovered time.

Be-head-ed-Bodily sensations still shine Thrown Thought through despite decapitating Dasein. Différance defies Decapitation since shuddering Sensations still think through the beheaded Body beyond Beheading. Be-ing be-head-ed is the out-of-body experience par excellence. Decapitation builds upon the Head of Being, the Head in which the jointure of being, in its decapitated unfolding, enjoins the Ereignis essence of alien being to dwell in the jubilate jouissance of being an alien as delivered Dasein out-of-joint joining the Horizon of the Head where the sea severs the sky at the grounded groin Ground Zero suicide scape escaping the scene as a served severed semening that thus completes coming-off on getting all the juices going and getting off in coming off on getting off on coming off seeing it coming off in seeing ahead a head coming absolutely right off as a Dasein Decapitation as a Severed Sein as a Delivering Différance.

Desire for Decapitation is a Desire for Castration. Contrary to Freud, Man does not Fear Castration: Man desires Castration. Freud was sub-consciously cut-off from the decapitation of desire as the desire for decapitation where woman was castrated-completed as always being with-without: as always being in-completely-with-out where woman was always already dread Dasein Decapitated as cut-out as cut-off as alien from being human where woman was always already castrated, cut-off as decapitated da-sein and attuned ahead as an acéphale alien.

Our inquiry concerning Beheading should bring us face to face head to head with metaphysics itself as ahead out-it-self and 'metaphysics' derives from the decapitated Greek 'meta-ta- physika' with the 'meta' that heads meta-physika Beheading beings as such. Metaphysics is inquiry beheading beings which aims to recover their heads as such and as a whole for our grasp. Decapitation is a 'meta-ta-physika' fort-da-sein as a dice derridaing Dasein. Metaphysics is this Becoming of Beheading beyond beings as a reeling-revealing-recovery. Thus the thrown Economy of Decapitation is fort-da-sein where severing is a suturing where cutting is a connecting where reeling is a retrieving. Being Beheaded is the abject-sublime ecstatic Essence of Jouissance joining coming-off as a coming-on of Be-coming out-of-joint. Seeing One losing One's own Head is the Ultimate Bliss of the abject-sublime. Here a solitary severed Head sits staring so at its torn-off-torso trunk and starts tarrying with it: face-to-face with bits of its body without being there but over here. Hear seeing one's Thought surviving being Severed from the Phenomenological Body. Beheading and Thinking are, each in its own way, inescapable for Dwelling as a Dalien suicide scene scape sown before breathing blissful bombing by Becoming Befindlichkeit Behaeding Stimmung Sensationing futuring further fort-da-fluxing forever giving Geist, giving Gift - as a Gift given - by being Beheaded - before you - ahead - a head.

The Decapitation Drive is not a drive to death but a drive to différance. Your wet or dry Dreams of a young man's head being cut-off is not Symbolic of Castration but a Sign of Becoming. Decapitation is Becoming. Decapitation is Freedom from Castration: Dasein is always already Unified through Decapitation. Castration is Completion as Ereignis Erection. Dashing Dasein runs ahead of Decapitation of Being beheaded. Being is always already decapitated from Dasein as being Beheaded brings Being back face to face with the night of the Nothing. Decapitated Dasein's running ahead of the afterlife defeats Death ahead of being beheaded as a tarrying with Time all the time not in time being behind and ahead of the time of being beheaded as an executed Ereignis always ahead of time as a Head of Time. The Decapitation of Dasein, therefore, is the Nothing of the Head in-it-self a-head of being and time. The Decapitated Head as a Whole in-itself becomes complete in its castration embodied without a body. Decapitation has Displaced the Crucifixion as an Armature "for hanging all sorts of feeling and sensation" as Bacon beheads: "There it is!" and as Heidegger heads: "The nothing is what there is, and first of all, nothing beheaded." Beheadedness is bleak Bacon's "brutality of fact" as a dispersal of decapitated dread Dasein. Geist gets a head start severing the thing-out-it self so there can be no "turning Hegel on his head" - he has always already been Beheaded. Hegel lost his Head whilst writing the Phenomenology of Spirit. To think radically, to think alienally, to think decapitally, is to lose one's head. But the Head of Geist is not the head that shrinks from death and keeps itself untouched by decapitation, but rather the head that endures and maintains itself in it - as a severed Sein. It wins its truth only when, in absolute dismemberment it finds itself. Only by losing one's head does one find one's Geist as ahead of death served as a Head of severed Sein as Being a Head of itself out of itself as an alien Ather.

Giving Head decapitates death - delivering decapitated Dasein - Geist's Head - ahead of History - as a Head of Time - out-of-head ahead-of-time.

Hegel beheaded History. Giving Hegel the Head Room to Dwell Dasein delivering thus the Geist Gift of Being Beheading as a Decapitated Dasein becoming a Head of History ahead of History as Hegel giving Head to History coming all over the Other as an Absolute Ather.

Hegel is Constantly Decapitating His Head without Losing His Head. For Hegel Decapitation is an Absolute Continuity of an Abjected Castration as an Ather Completion coming together-apart as a coming-off as a head of time as ahead of time all the time out-of-time and out-of-joint as jointly coming all over time drenching Dasein delivering drooling Dalien. Through throwing Decapitation dwelling being departs from Daesin delivering Dalien. Decapitation opens up opens out as a scape scene of the Dalien. Hegel beheaded History by bringing History to a Head as History was going to his Head towards itself its end. Hence Hegel is a-head-of-his-time: Hegel polishes off history Hegel finishes off history hence Hegel hacked off the head of history as a complete coming off. The severed Head served up by Hegel is “the last stage of History, our world, our own time”. Hear Hegel here where “world history is thus the Beheading of Spirit in Time, as Sensation is the Beheading of the Idea in Space.” Here Hegel gave Good Head. Hegel gave good Head. Hegel gave God Head. God never Came. God could not Come. Off. Hegel could not Bring God off. Dialectical Decapitation defines the Stimmung Sensation of History for Hegel as a suturing Semening scape scene so sealing Castration as a Conclusion in the Coming to a Head of History. Catapulted Capitalism - Capitalism - as a Caput - as a Head - cannot lose its Head as Capitalism is Hydra Headed: Capitalism constantly thrives through being Decapitated being Beheaded as a Radical Decapitation - decapitating democracy - as a Radical Différance - as conscious-free - Hydra Headed de-Capitalism as Absolute de-Terrorism - de-capitates democracy de-stablizing Da-sein de-livering Da-lien as an alteric attuned arcanum altaric Alienation attained as an abheaded Absolute Ather - and not a negation of a negation - nearer navigating nothing ahead an abhead as a meandering mauling maiming malicious metaphysics serving serenely severed Sein.

The Hegel has Landed. Beheaded. Beheaden. Beholden. Acéphale. A head. Ahead

Francis Bacon & Ernst Jünger jointly joint jerk junior joggle jive jew juices juxtaposing jussive jostle jounce joyance jest joycean joiuissance head heart hand hitting hard brittle broken back torn tongue tremor trepidation trenchant tripe trench two toes transitory transparent torpedo torso trunk trauma silent so shared spine sapid sperm sap seeping serrate serried soldiers severing swollen steel smoking shot shrapnel shattered skull screaming steaming skin severed separate sent sensation sailing squirting semen soaked smelly sock sinking shoe exiled empty eye frozen finite fingers injuries initiating images involving doing death daily dazed dully drooling digging dirt soil soaked swabs severed screen scream seeping seductive subhuman sensation slowly sinking fuelling feverous fighting filemot fissure flange flank flaming fucking frothing filth forgetting finger falling fixed fucked frozen forever bleak bare bled brittle bony bodies barely breathing balls badly burnt rare roasted rotting ripple ripe risky rifle round rose reap rape rectum recipient rebate reeling repulsive repugnant refreshing restful rigorous rigor mortis mourning memorial mending man mutating resonantly really reptilian resolute reroute residue rone rifle round rile roar revealing revolting rotten rear roast ripe rib rawness removing reside R.S.V.P. R.I.P. molesting murdered mellifluous mellow matrix moron munching moist massive man meat mauling monster masseur milking machine manoeuvers mapping martial manuscript memoirs manically mocking moronic macabre machiavelian mafia mindsets massacre making mantis meal mannnequins noxious nostril nostrum numb now narcotic neurotic narcissism nude numb nurturing nutritious nobody nailing negating nothingness oozed out of obedient oaths of our Odysseus Oedipus Onuris Orestes Orlan Orpheus Osiris osmosis optical orbit ore oration opposing opportunism or opinion of opaque orphan others vermilion viridian vermin viewing visceral visual visionary venomous vitriol vile volume violence very vivaciously voluptuously vibrating vermin vigorously violating vision velocity veer vacant veal vomit pious putrid pristine prick pork pus piss glistening gleaming grisly groin groan grimace ghost grave grip grope grief crying corpse calling captive cutting commander cocks cleavage casualty collapsing craters canals cadaverous camouflage cylinder clatter clinging claw arresting artificial arms aiming artillery aura at ashen archaic arsehole assault arresting an anus asthma attack as automatic autopsy avid alert awake wandering wondering weary weak wayward woozy wailing wan warrior wrapping wart war wab wound wattle wadding weeping while walking ahead: Beheaded.

Despite being headless Rodin's The Walking Maniis strong headed as if the chest was wearing the face as if the body was becoming the face. Here one is confronted with the possibility of being headless whilst walking: of being able to walk ahead and head tall without a head. The Walking Man is paradoxically much more complete – much more whole – without having a head on and without wearing arms. The Walking Man is whole and perfect in its partial incompleteness where being a broken ruin becomes a newly built being and a finished thing by being beheaded by being ahead of itself.

The be-head-ed head attains and attunes an angoisse ancient exodus existence all of its own as a severed freedom from be-ing em-bodied in the world. T-he th-rown ser-ene sen-sa-tion of be-ing be-head-ed main-tains and mon-itors it-self in the Geist Gaze of the Sev-ered Staring head of being being a head of it-self for-it-self out-it-self as a head of being a head and behind be-head-ed time and being and being and ti-me as a fort-da-flux-ing formed from be-hold-ing be-head-ing dis-lo-cati-on dis-mem-ber-ment de-cap-it-a-tion de-con-str-uc-ti-on as a cut-ting col-lec-ting com-ing con-tin-ui-ty as an Absolute Abknowledge where Death becomes Impossible. A Fear of Death is a Fear of the Impossibility of Death. Being death-out-itself Art negates Death as Art is activated as being in the presence of the past's impossible death as Hegel gives head to: “Art is and remains for us...a thing of the past”. Art is indeed 'a thing' of the past - a past prehistory; as alien to being-in-time, as art alien cannot be 'contemporary'; art alien is always already prehistoric, always already primordial. Art is always already beheaded History cut-off from History as Art is always already cut-off from its coming conception and initiated inception as Art never ever arrived on time or in time as Art came too early as Art came too late as Art unmakes History in its own abimage as Absolute absence pulverising the possibility of presence by Becoming Beheaded as a permanent primordial presence: there is no Art in the now. There was no Art then. Art is alien to Time. Art alien tarries with Time. Art alien tarries with the Negative; Art alien thrives off the Negative seeking and surviving its own Death its own Negation by Becoming Pure Negation as a Positive Force fuelling jubilate jouissance as appropriating an alien angoisse anxiety. As altaric Adorno stated: head Hegel defined the task of art as 'the appropriation of the alien'. Art Alien is the Severed Head laying low on the Horizon waiting awhile to be lifted up and placed upon a pedestal for posterity and a place in History. Only History can judge the jouissance of art alien not the cunt critic. There can be no question: 'Where is art going?' - as head-less, Art cannot see where it is going so goes no where while History has gone to its Head as Beauty is in the Eye of the Beheaded where the Ugliful is merely the Beautiful De-capitated as a dislocated dialectical disjunction delivering dread Dalien. Vivacious Beheading beholds Beautiful Violence voluptuously bringing to ahead the Head of the Ugly Object off. Here Hegel's absolute aesthetic sensation sows the Negative as the sensuous semblance of the Spirit as a Suicide Bomber beheading being Becoming alien Ather. The suicide bomber becomes the alien ather. The suicide bomber - as absolute subject, as absolute sacrifice, as absolute exteriority, as absolute knowledge, knows nothing of death. The suicide bomber is true to Being. The suicide bomber is true to Dasein. The suicide bomber is true to the Nothing by attuning with the Nothing by being the Nothing through becoming the Nothing at all. Hegel was the Suicide Bomber of the System: Blowing His Head off: Severed Sein: Severing the System: Going to His Head: Going off His Head: Becoming the Nothing.

What happens in the History of Beheading? What happens to the Head of the Suicide Bomber? Nothing happens. Beheading alone is. For the Suicide Bomber is ahead as always already a Head beheaded from being-in-the-world. What happens to the Suicide Bomber's Head? Nothing. Nothing happens here as Alien annihilates; Appropriation appropriates as an activated apophansis appropriating an alien Aleithia. Thus the Suicide Bomber as the Origin of the Gift is the Giver that Sends the Sender that Gives as a Taking: as a Taking out as the Opening out, the Opening out of the Origin as Taking (out) Life as a Giving (out) Death delivering dread Dasein as an alien being Becoming the Origin that Takes the Beheading to Itself sent through the blowing up of being bringing being out-of-the-world as an alien Aleithia always Other to Itself as a Beheading by Bombing becomes the Giving Sein that Sends. Being Bombed activates and attunes as Taken Time so Sending Sein spent sent as Decapitated Dasein blowing being beyond being - away - ahead - a head - as an alien Aleithia all again. Yet, it beheads us, poet philosophers, to stand bare-headed beneath an Alien's bomb blasts behead by showering sharp shrapnel shards down dismembering decapitating Dasein severing Sein. Serving Sein. As Served Sein the Suicide Bomber is the Origin of the Gift of Difference. The Suicide Bomber blows apart the Origin of Being being as always already an abjected Ather as a Severed Sein beautifully Beheading your being there. The Suicide Bomber as Absolute Abjection attains an Absolute Gift: Geist as an alien Aweing awakening an Ather. Giving Geist as an Alien attunement and attainment is neither I nor Other but Ather. Decapitated Dasein. Or: 'I am a Suicide Bomber therefore I am not.' Philosophy is always already losing its head for philosophy survives precisely by cutting its own head off - again and again and again. Philosophy is initiated ahead as an auto-decapitation action. Philosophy - as a Decapitated Dasein - aspires to the Condition of Terrorism. Bombing being.

Become an alien Bomber: Behead your being there. As a severed Sein a Suicide Bomber Gives Geist. A Geist. A Sein. A Gift. A Head. Acéphale.

Behead Elliott Abrams - Behead Gary Bauer - Behead William J. Bennett - Behead Jeb Bush - Behead Dick Cheney - Behead Eliot A. Cohen - Behead Midge Decter - Behead Paula Dobriansky - Behead Steve Forbes - Behead Aaron Friedberg - Behead Francis Fukuyama - Behead Frank Gaffney - Behead Fred C. Ikle - Behead Donald Kagan - Behead Zalmay Khalilzad - Behead I. Lewis Libby - Behead Norman Podhoretz - Behead Dan Quayle - Behead Peter W. Rodman - Behead Stephen P. Rosen - Behead Henry S. Rowen - Behead Donald Rumsfeld - Behead Vin Weber - Behead George Weigel - Behead Paul Wolfowitz - Behead The Project for the New American Century - Acéphale America...

The Project for the New American Century is a terrorist organization dedicated to exporting and expanding state sanctioned terrorism and propagating reactionary religious fundamentalist propositions: that American Terrorism is bad both for America and for the World; and that such US Terrorism requires US military strength, colonial control, and commitment to the US Terrorist Principle of Might is Right - Decapitating Democracy - Beheading Being. Behead US Terrorism. Behead Bush. To be Decapitated... Acéphale Activated...

As ab-jected Acéphale pro-jected prime cuts Time, Being, Alien, Dasein, Sensation - as served severed atta attuned atherings - are always never not (in-tel-lect-ual) 'con-cepts' but (out-al-lect-ual) 'de-capts': de-cap-it-ations, cut-offs: t-he w-ord cut-s: th-e wor-d cun-ts lang-uage leak-s: sen-tences ser-ve se-vering - the cut off of be-ing - the cut of off ti-me: ti-me-as-cut can-not be con-cep-tual-ised s-ince ti-me-torn is always already afar ahead and aback th-row-n be-hind and be-yond and a-head and a-back of the con-cept of the gr-asp leav-ing man mar-inated and mar-ooned lost for time l-ost for wo-rds. T-her-e is no 'written word' on-ly sev-er-ed sen-tences - de-ath sent-ences - t-he-re is th-e cut-ting wo-rd de-cap-itated from con-text and f-rom te-xt. Bacon of-ten be-he-ad-ed to Peppiatt: “I love phrases that cut me” . We ab-use use-d sen-ten-ces so to su-ture cut-off-word-s. To W-rite is to de-cap-itate into Eternity un-til the Blade be-comes Blunt. W-rit-ing is an Act of De-cap-itation. W-ri-ting is t-he Ar-t o-f de-cap-itation. W-riting Si-gns i-ts Own De-ath War-rant as a Li-fe Sen-tence. W-ritin-g m-akes De-ath laugh-ab-le in its she-er im-possibility. W-riting go-es on wit-h-out t-he He-ad as Th-ought go-es on w-ith-o-ut t-he Bo-dy. Lan-guage is n-ot a Medi-um of Com-munica-tion b-ut of Comb-at. Lan-guage as Am-mun-ition a-lways Att-acks and An-nihilates. Shra-pnel sev-ering sen-tence-s wo-rd w-ound-ing limb lan-gu-age hur-t hy-p-he-n cut-tin-g c-om-as p-utre-fied pet-ri-fie-d pa-use pan-i-c para-tro-oper parac-hu-ting para-graph-s. T-he wo-rd is not a thin-g. T-he w-ord is a woun-d. T-he wor-d is a w-omb. T-he w-ord is a wo-un-ding. T-he w-ord i-s a wom-bing. A w-oun-d t-hat w-eeps. A wom-b tha-t wee-ps. A wo-rd t-hat we-eps. A wo-rd wan-ders. A wor-d wonder-s. All o-n it-s o-wn. Wi-th no wh-ere to go. W-ith no wh-ere to c-o-me. W-ith no wh-ere to b-e. The w-ord is a-head of it-se-lf. T-he W-ord is a He-ad o-f It-sel-f wi-th-out a Bo-dy of Be-ing. T-he Wo-rd is a He-ad of t-he Te-xt. The Wo-rd is a He-ad of the Bo-dy of the Te-xt. T-he Wo-rd is Al-ien an-d a-lways a-lready sev-ered fr-om a sen-ten-ce. L-an-gu-age Le-aks lea-vi-ng Se-men-ology Sem-blan-ce Sen-ten-ces sev-ering Sem-iology so se-men-tics so-ws so-aks se-man-tics mel-ting me-an-ing me-an-ingle-ss. Se-men-ology is ne-it-her a so-lid s-ent-en-ce or a liq-uid la-ng-u-age bu-t an al-iquid ab-jection - as a lea-kin-g lam-ella - lic-k-in-g loit-er-ing - d-rip-p-ing dro-ol do-wn - thr-ou-gh the fi-lter-i-ng f-in-gers ou-t of t-he to-ng-uin-g tu-rd te-xt wet-ti-ng wo-rds we-ep se-ep-ing se-m-en-in-g seve-r-ed spu-nk st-ain-ed sen-ten-ces su-nk stav-e-d sl-ice-d si-le-nt si-gh-i-n-g-

"..only what does not fit into this world is true."

Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, The Athlone Press.

"Philosophy is really homesickness, - it is an urge to be at home everywhere."

"Where is my home? I ask and seek and have sought for it. I have not found it."

"To be at home everywhere means to be at once and at all times within the whole."

"For there is a need for contemplation whether and how...there can still be such a thing as home."

Ludwig Wittgenstein, Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius, Ray Monk, Penguin Books, 1990.

"I've always been fascinated by how people, just by their touch, change something - things are worn away."

Rachel Whiteread, Some day, my plinth will come, The Observer, Sunday May 27, 2001.

"A criminal's lawyers are seldom artists enough to turn the beautiful terribleness of the deed to the advantage of him who did it."

"People do not die immediately for us, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life...It is as though they were travelling abroad."

"...the Other man who is 'autrui' also risks being always Other than man, close to what cannot be close to me: close to death, close to the night, and certainly as repulsive as anything that comes to me from these regions without horizon."

"Death in Heidegger is an event of freedom, whereas for me the subject seems to reach the limit of the possible in suffering. It finds itself enchained, overwhelmed, and in some way passive."

"The most spiritual human beings, assuming they are the most courageous, also experience by far the most painful tragedies: but it is precisely for that reason they honour life, because it brings against them its most formidable weapons."

"The thirst to be loved, the consciousness of oneself, the seeing of oneself, the forming of oneself in the possible loving consciousness of another, the striving to turn the longed-for love of another into a force that impels and organizes my life."

"Oddly enough, my critics never specify how far I can go. How can you address problems if you're not even allowed to clearly define them? Like the fact that Muslim women at home are kept locked up, are raped and are married off against their will - and that in a country in which our far too passive intellectuals are so proud of their freedom!"

"You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she's not deadly. She's beautiful and she's laughing...Unlike man, who holds so dearly to his title and his titles, his pouches of value, his cap, his crown, and everything connected with his head, woman couldn't care less about the fear of decapitation (or castration), adventuring, without masculine temerity, into anonymity, which she can merge with, without annihilating herself - because she's a giver."

"Language is a mother, a mother tongue, but a mother who has become alien and distant, divided from us by the 'partition wall' of death. It must be experienced as something alien, in order to provide appetizing nourishment, for its translation into the sphere of our familiar language can only - another communion wine - 'taste like Rhine wine, which has lost its flavour'. What is foreign cannot be transformed into what is one's own, nor enjoyed as the spiritual nourishment of this mother tongue, by means of translation, imitation, or copying."

"The death of the Other: a double death, for the Other is death already, and weighs upon me like an obsession with death. In the relation of myself to the Other, the Other exceeds my grasp. The Other: the Separate, the Most-High which escapes my power - the powerless, therefore; the stranger, dispossessed. But, in the relation of the Other to me, everything seems to reverse itself: the distant becomes close-by, this proximity becomes the obsession that afflicts me, that weighs down upon me, that separates me from myself - as if separation (which measured the transcendence from me to the Other) did its work within me, dis-identifying me, abandoning me to passivity, leaving me without any initiative and bereft of present."

Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster, University of Nebraska Press, 1995.

"Thus human reality in-itself-for-itself can be achieved only through conflict and through risk that conflict implies. This risk means that I go beyond life toward a supreme good that is the transformation of subjectivity certainty of my own worth into a universally valid objective truth. As soon as I desire I am asking to be considered. I am not merely here-and-now, sealed into thingness. I am for somewhere else and for something else. I demand that notice be taken of my negating activity insofar as I pursue something other than life; insofar as I do battle for the creation of a human world - that is, of a world of reciprocal recognitions. He who is reluctant to recognise me opposes me. In a savage struggle I am willing to accept convulsions of death, invincible dissolution, but also the possibility of the impossible."

"But anxiety, which anticipates one's being being cast into nothingness and stakes out the time of the possible, does not yet know the time in which one has to die. The death one anticipates in anxiety is both distant and imminent ; it is the future moment, the fatal instant, that measures the paths and an array of tasks still ahead awaiting one's own forces. Anxiety quickens one's own powers to take hold of what is ahead. The death awaiting one is always imminent at any moment; in whatever one takes hold of, the abyss may take hold of one. But in whatever one takes hold of, one takes hold of a death that will be one's own. The anxiety that anticipates one's death extends before one a time to act; the approach of death opens beneath one its own time...One sees others seeing things one could oneself see if one stood where they stand. One does not loo at her but with her; following the path of her gaze, one divines the radius of things that attract her."

"Anxiety individualizes Dasein and thus discloses it as 'solus ipse.' But this existential 'solipsism' is so far from the displacement of putting an isolated subject-thing into the innocuous emptiness of a worldless occurring, that in an extreme sense what it does is precisely to bring Dasein face to face with its world as world, and thus bring it face to face with itself as being-in-the-world...In anxiety one feels 'unsettled.' Here the peculiar indefiniteness of that amidst which Dasein finds itself in anxiety comes primarily to expression: the 'nothing and nowhere.' But here 'unsettledness' (Unheimlichkeit) also means 'not-being-at-home'...Being-towards-death is essentially anxiety... Anxiety is anxious about naked Dasein as something that has been thrown into unsettledness. It brings one back to the pure 'that-it-is' of one's own most individualized throwness....In the dark there is emphatically 'nothing' to see, though the very world itself is still 'there.' and there more obtrusively...Our concernful awaiting finds nothing in terms of which it might be able to understand itself; it clutches at the 'nothing' of the world...."

"Out of retaliation for taking my life like this and getting rich off it all these years and total pathological lying. Thanks a lot - I lost my fucking life because of it - couldn't even get a fair trial - couldn't even get a f fair investigation nor nothing - couldn't even get my appeals right. You sabotaged my arse society! And the cops, and the system - a raped woman got executed! And was used for books and movies and shit! Ladder climbers, re-election and everything else!...You're an inhuman bunch of fucking livin' bastards and bitches and you're gonna' get your arses nuked in the end. And pretty soon it's comin' - 2019 a rocks supposed to hit you anyhow - you're all gonna get nuked. You don't take fucking human like this and just sabotage and rip it apart like Jesus on the cross and say thanks a lot for all the fucking money I've made offa ya! I'm not giving you book and movie info!...I'd just like to say I'm sailing with the Rock and I'll be back like Independence Day with Jesus, June 6, like the movie, big mother ship and all. I'll be back..."

Aileen Wuornos, Born 29 February 1956 - Executed October 9, 2002 in Florida.

"Has She left you nothing - but death? But another means nothing to you... And this world takes place neither simply inside you or outside you. It passes from inside to outside, from outside to inside your being. In which should be based the very possibility of dwelling. and you meet me only in the space that you have opened up for yourself. You never meet me except as your creature - within the horizon of your world. Within the circle of your becoming. That protective shell which shelters you from an outside of you which might question the matter with which you built your house. You take me inside you, you cast me outside you, a yes or a no making you full or empty... Do not leave me behind. You reduce me to singularity. And I die when I am imprisoned in a single unique sameness."

"What we designate as 'feminine,' far from being a primeval essence, will be seen as an an 'other' without a name, which subjective experience confronts when it does not stop at the appearance of its identity...That other sex, the feminine, becomes synonymous with a radical evil that is to be suppressed. Let us keep that fact in mind."

Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: an Essay on Abjection, Columbia University Press, New York, 1982.

"In focusing upon multiplicity and otherness, embracing contradictions, women's difference, not only from men, but also from one another, and even within themselves, can be affirmed in a time of discontinuity. Consequently even the phenomenological language of experience is rendered inadequate to describe the complexity of feminine otherness. To put it negatively, it is the exclusion of women from linear history which gives women their specificity."

Tina Chanter, Antigone's Dilemma, Re-Reading Levinas, The Athlone Press, 1991.

"The trace, the impress and the negative world which is there dimension are all repressed by the everyday mechanics of casting. But they return wherever loss and remembering are at stake Clearly this is the world within which the works of Rachel Whiteread operate...Over time the works of Rachel Whiteread have specialised from objects to objects which contain objects; from mattresses, tables, cupboards, basins to the series that runs from the wardrobe to the room, to 'House'...For what is characteristic of ghosts is not that they are seen or not seen, but that they transform the relation between what is normally seen and what is not seen. 'House' goes a stage further. The object which contains space is moved out from the last sheltering object which also contains space - the gallery. 'House' is/was in the world and the world beat a path to it to inquire what its place was in the world."

Mark Cousins, Rachel Whiteread: Inside outcast, Tate, Issue 10, Winter, 1996.

"She is indefinitely other in herself. That is undoubtedly the reason she is called temperamental, incomprehensible, perturbed, capricious - not to mention her language in which she goes off in all directions and in which he is unable to discern the coherence of any meaning. Contradictory words seem a little crazy to the logic of reason, and inaudible for him who listens with ready-made grids, a code prepared in advance. In her statements - at least when she dares to speak out--woman retouches herself constantly. She just barely separates from herself some chatter, an exclamation, a half- secret, a sentence left in suspense - when she returns to it, it is only to set out again from another point of pleasure or pain. One must listen to her differently in order to hear an other meaning which is constantly in the process of weaving itself, at the same time ceasely embracing words and yet casting them off to avoid becoming fixed, immobilized. For when she says something it is already no longer identical to what she means."

"Pure violence, a relationship between beings without faces, is not yet violence, is pure nonviolence. And inversely: pure nonviolence, the non relation of the same to the other (in the sense understood by Lévinas) is pure violence. Only a face can arrest violence, but can do so, in the first place, only because a face can provoke it."

"The relationship with the Other, the face-to-face with the Other, the encounter with a face that once gives and conceals the Other, is the situation in which an event happens to a subject who does not assume it, who is utterly unable in its regard, but where nonetheless in a certain way it is in front of the subject."

"Responsible: this word generally qualifies - in a prosaic, bourgeois manner - a mature, lucid, conscientious man, who acts with circumspection, who takes into account all elements of a given situation, calculates and decides; the successful man of action. But now responsibility - responsibility for the other, for everyone, without reciprocity - is displaced. No longer does it belong to consciousness; it is not an activating thought process put into practice, nor is it even a duty that would impose itself from without and from within. My responsibility for the Other presupposes a change an overturning such that it can only be marked by a change in the status of 'me,' a change in time and perhaps in language. Responsibility, which withdraws me from my order (perhaps from all order), which separates me from myself...and discloses the other in my place, requires that I answer for absence, for passivity. It requires that I answer for the impossibility of being responsible, to which it has always already consigned me by both holding me accountable and discounting me altogether. And this paradox leaves nothing intact, not subjectivity anymore than the subject, not the individual any more than the person."

Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster, University of Nebraska Press, 1986.

"This spatiality, or spaciosity, is the space of freedom, inasmuch as freedom is, at every moment, the freedom of a free space. Which means that it constitutes the spatializing or spacing the essence of freedom. Spacing is the general 'form' - which precisely has no form, but gives room for singularities - of existence: the spacing, exposure, retrenchment and cutting (decision) of singularity, the alterity (which is,...the character of the air) of singularity in its difference which relates it to its limit, to others, and to itself: for example, a mouth opened in a cry."

Jean-Luc Nancy, The Experience of Freedom, Stamford University Press, 1993.

"The beloved woman would be mute or reduced to speaking in the spaces between the male lover's discourse. She would be relegated to his shadow as double... She is brought into a world that is not her own so that the male lover may enjoy himself and gain strength for his voyage toward an autistic transcendence."

"If the feminine remains the silent and equivocal other, connoting profanity, infancy and yet the mystery of absolute otherness, it is unclear how women philosophers and readers of Lévinas are to situate themselves in relation in relation to this feminine. D women take up an opposing stance to the feminine, making themselves other to otherness, or identify with the feminine other? In either case, it is unclear that the presence of the feminine and the relation of woman to ethics and otherness has been 'thought through as such'. It is Irigaray's aim to keep this possibility alive."

Alison Ainley, The Feminine, Otherness, Dwelling; Feminist Perspectives on Lévinas, Facing the other, Curzon, 1996.

"Neither inside, nor outside, the abject is unthinkable. It disrupts the terms of the opposition between inner and outer, system and non-system, subject and object. It is not the correlate of the subject – it is not an object...The system finds the abject unbearable, intolerable, unassimilable...The abject can be named, can be identified, can be isolated, and characterized, but not without a certain misnaming, a mismatching, a misconstrual. Abjection resists language, even as we communicate it in the most successful exchange–as if it could ever be contained or controlled, mediated. Irrecuperable, irreducible, its representation is always also its undoing. Like chora, what this word names is already illegitimate, as soon as the said is completed. Words have already missed their target. What would it matter if in a hypothetical world abjection never returned? Its damage is already accomplished. It has become the threat that summoned it. In becoming the very threat it tried to ward off, in becoming the unacceptable, unspeakable, it assures for itself a legitimacy, a domain. It takes the place of representation, but it does not represent. One cannot quite say it becomes representation, for it is never objectifiable. It objectifies. It does not exist, it is not an agency, it is not a subjective force. It proposes limits, borders, gives a place, but it does not originate, instigate, or initiate. It beckons, invites, tempts, invades, propositions, ridicules, allures."

Tina Chanter, Abjection, Death and Difficult Reasoning: The Impossibility of Naming Chora in Kristeva and Derrida; 2000.

"When you address the Other, even if it is to oppose the Other, you make a sort of promise - that is, to address the Other as Other, not to reduce the otherness of the Other, and to take into account the singularity of the Other. That's an irreducible affirmation, its the original ethics if you want. So from that point of view, there is an ethics of deconstruction. Not in the usual sense, but there is an affirmation. You know, I often use a quote from Rosensweig or even from Levinas which says that the 'yes' is not a word like others, that even if you do not pronounce the word, there is a 'yes' implicit in every language, even if you multiply the 'no', there is a 'yes'. And this is even the case with Heidegger. You know Heidegger, for a long time, for years and years kept saying that thinking started with questioning, that questioning (fragen) is the dignity of thinking. And then one day, without contradicting this statement, he said 'yes, but there is something even more originary than questioning, than this piety of thinking,' and it is what he called zusage which means to acquiesce, to accept, to say 'yes', to affirm. So this zusage is not only prior to questioning, but it is supposed by any questioning. To ask a question, you must first tell the Other that I am speaking to you. Even to oppose or challenge the Other, you must say 'at least I speak to you', 'I say yes to our being in common together'. So this is what I meant by love, this reaffirmation of the affirmation."

"What, then, is the sacrifice? What is a priori false about it? At its most elementary, sacrifice relies on the notion of exchange: I offer to the Other something precious to me in order to get back from the Other something even more vital to me (the 'primitive' tribes sacrifice animals or even humans so that Gods will repay them by enough rainfall, military victory, etc.) The next, already more intricate level is to conceive sacrifice as a gesture which does not directly aim at some profitable exchange with the Other to whom we sacrifice: its more basic aim is rather to ascertain that there IS some Other out there who is able to reply (or not) to our sacrificial entreaties. Even if the Other does not grant my wish, I can at least be assured that there IS an Other who, maybe, next time will respond differently: the world out there, inclusive of all catastrophes that may befall me, is not a meaningless blind machinery, but a partner in a possible dialogue, so that even a catastrophic outcome is to be read as a meaningful response, not as a kingdom of blind chance... Lacan goes here a step further: the notion of sacrifice usually associated with Lacanian psychoanalysis is that of a gesture that enacts the disavowal of the impotence of the big Other: at its most elementary, the subject does not offer his sacrifice to profit from it himself, but to fill in the lack in the Other, to sustain the appearance of the Other's omnipotence or, at least, consistency."

"Man errs. Man does not merely stray into errancy. He is always astray in errancy, because as ek-sistent he in-sists and so already is caught in errancy. The errancy through which man strays is not something which, as it were, extends alongside man like a ditch into which he occasionally stumbles; rather errancy belongs to the inner constitution of the Da-sein into which historical man is admitted. Errancy is the free space for that turning in which insistent ek-sistence adroitly forgets and mistakes itself constantly anew. The concealing of the concealed being as a whole holds sway in that disclosure of specific beings, which, as forgottenness of concealment, becomes errancy."

In the Beginning was the Womb and the Womb was within Wuornos and the Womb was Wuornos. Wuornos wore the wound Womb of worn Woman. Womb and Woman. Womb woman. Womb and woman are wounds Wuornos and Whitread abjected and activated as an allutring alien Aletheia Amun. Wuornos as Womb wearing Whiteread as Woman wounded waiting within twin tombs twin towers.

Whiteread's white wet Twin Tombs arrived as always already attuned attainded Twin Tower torso trunks freshly frozen forever as a mesmerising memorial mourning mood meeting solidifying sedate sensationing shielding sheen shining as a housing holding hieratic Hyksos hymn hypogeum as Atum a tomb. As an attuned Asherah, Athirat anxiety alien Aileen Wuornos was worn always already as Astarte wound womb bled bare on the outside-in imprisoned out-on through the inside-out on Being between being interstice and Alien outerstice of being born alien as a housed-homeless highway hooker hitching hijacking hijerking freeze framing face-to-face cunt-to-cock bullet-to-brain. Alien Aileen was always already locked-in as locked-out as locked-up as an imprint imprisoned on the inside-out and at home imprison for being born always already homeless one can never be imprisoned since space does not exist for being alien as being always already thrown inside-out of the world for alien Aileen does not exist 'in space' but out-of-space out-of-time all the time even when alien Aileen was 'doing-time inside' alien Aileen was-is always already undoing time on the inside-out. How can one cast an alien abject abspace of an alien Aileen who never occupied, never owned, a privileged, private, space for alien Aileen never occupied a space in society, never occupied a space of the subject for alien Aileen negated space out of space time out of time even while doing time doing space, all the time out of time out of space: neither negative space nor positive space but being an abspace. As Asherah, Athirat anxiety activates a terrifying territory throwing alien Aileen over-off out-of-joint out-of-centre out-of-space out-of-time so how would Whiteread cast Wuornos' wanderings without sutured spaces? For frisson alien Aileen anxiety attacks activate freedom freeing fermenting fuelling joyous juicy jouissance justice castrating consciousness severing space mothering metaphysical mooding murdering monstrous men. Aileen was Anxiety - pure and simple. So how would wombless Whiteread cast Wuornos' alien abject abspace of the no-space of the no-place never occupied out of? So how would Whiteread cast Wuornos' Anxiety of Being - that is: casting dark on the Uncanniness of Anxiety as being-thrown-out-of-the-world as attuning an angoisse anxiety attained as an abandoned abhorrent abject alien Aileen? Aileen as an alien drifting Dasein does not Dwell: Dasein drifting is insular insecurity: Dasein does not Dwell Dasein Drifts. Dasein is Homelessness as a metaphysical mooding manoeuvre. To be a human being is t dwell: to be an alien being is to drift: drift wood, drift womb, drift world. The human being belongs to the world: the alien being does not belong to the world: the alien being does not belong. As alien Aileen does not Die as Aileen has no Ego so Aileen has no End. Altaric Alien Aileen as a dread Dasein drifter forges forth fort-da-dasein drive 'doing time' all the time out-of-time out-of-turn out-of-tune not in time.

For frozen alien Aileen 'homelessness' is akin to 'imprisonment' both being the thrown same-difference of being locked-in-out-of-the-world where weeping space becomes utterly, radically, simply, purely, positively-negated! Alien Aileen is not a 'woman of the home' but a 'whore of the highway' for there is no 'house' to 'come home to' - no dwelling Dasein but negotiating a nomadic nospace of a 'no woman's land' out-in off of outerstice-interstice of a nomadic 'no-man's land' hitch-hiking high-jacking from one no-place to another no-place from one no-space to another no-space 'taking men out' of being-in-the-world and returning them 'back home' to the atta house of alien being. For ailing Aileen then the House of Language is the Body of the Whore as the Dwelling Dasein open region where Man is 'finished off' delivered over to Death. Alien Aileen as an attuned anxiety and altarity exodus exists exiled cast outside of the outcast nocturnally nomadic always already elsewhere always already elseother. Whiteread's homeless House houses Wuornos' houseless Home homing homicide hominoid homme homely. Heidegger houses Being as Anxiety and Anxiety as Homelessness, hommelessness. As acrid anxiety-adrift alien Aileen's 'homeless hommeless heritage' humbly honours angoisse-anxiety as a sensation-state negating-nihilism by breaking-barriers between beings and aliens as an activated-anxiety negotiating-nothingness. The Nothing is Anxiety. Why is there Nothing rather than Something?

As angoisse Anxieting aletheia Aileen as a daring Dasein drifter arrives as an altaric abspace abpalce abtime 'at-a-distance' driving dripping Dasein droolings oozing 'out-of-it' off 'out-of-the-world' wound closely clearing caressing caring 'out-it-self' sensationing as an engaging engulfing encountering reeling regional remoteless removing dabbling dreary Dasein adrift 'at-a-distance' dissolving 'being-with-others' by being with the other 'out-of-it'. As aletheia Aileen attunes as aborted as 'living-in-anxiety' as 'living-out-anxiety' absorbed as a pure primordial projection disclosing delivering dwelling Dasein dazzling Alien again as a shape-shifting shining shuddering sensationing.

As antediluvian Alien drooling Dasein dwells primarily primordially amidst ancient subterranean shuddering shimmering sensations shining as a raw radiant register of our dreading Dasein's dazzling doingnesses: 'unsettled' 'unhinged' 'unattached' 'undone' as a withering wondering wombing wandering woozy Being Sensation as Absolute Knowledge. Absolute Knowledge is the Totality of Sensations of Being Time. But what is the Time Being of the Totality of Sensations of Absolute Knowledge? Absolute Knowledge is the Totality of Sensations of Being Time. If the Sensation of Knowledge is Time, what is the Sensation of Being? The Sensation of Being is Anxiety. The Sensation of Time is Boredom. The Sensation of Beingtime is The Nothing. Anxiety and Boredom open out to The Nothing. Death is the Shining of The Nothing as the Impossibility of Dying delivering the arrival of activated Alien Aura as an asserted Aletheia Afterlife as the abjected Afterbirth of The Un-Dead Philosopher becoming The Living-Dead of the Philosophy. Philosophy is being alien.

What is Being? Being is anxiety. That is: being-alien is being-anxiety. An alienual aletheia anxiety is the severed-sensation-state of alien-being out-of-the-world. The Metaphysical Truth of Being is Sensationed as an altaric Alien Anxiety as an aletheia Alertlness to-it-self out-it-self not being-at-home, not being-at-homme here but being thrown out-of-it out-of-the-world into the worn Woman womb-of-the-Nothing. Aileen is always already Anxious about the abjected Nothing that is Anxiety. Altaric Alien is Absolute Anxiety.

Aileen Anxieting as Being Nothing - as Absolute Freedom from Femininity - drives Dasein into the Night of the Nothing.

Being alien is being anxious as being thrown out-of-it. Being out-of-it is being anxious. Be anxious - be out-of-it. Be alien.

When will Whiteread cast out our out cast Wuornos all wet as a Great White Shark? Wuornos wore the Great White's black stare of the no eyes that see into the no sea the nothing: Wuornos wore the Great White Shark's sublime smile and annihilating tearing teeth.

And Alien Created Woman. Wuornos and Whiteread as ancient angoisse alien aletheia artists suspend space severe space off out of place partitioned as an abspace scape skin peeling pulling prising back and forth fort-da draping the shining skin scape of time as a castration concealment severing space out of sync out of joint out of time all the time, as an eternal return of the sensation of abspace. Alien Aileen is alien to severing servile 'sexual difference' as, for all aliens, there is only an 'alien difference' as also Lévinas leaks seeing 'sexual difference' as secondary to thrown atta 'alienual difference' as an 'ethical difference' as a 'radical responsibility' reeling real raw other of the other Other. Alien Aileen activated an atta alienual scent 'sensational difference' and not a secondary 'sexual difference' since sent atta Alien Aileen 'sensationed' off outside of sealed secondary 'sexualities'. As alien Antigone Becomes Aileen as Antigone Becomes Anunnaki as Aileen Becomes Alien as Arsinoe and both thrown through the burial of our brutally murdered menacing Men. Woman's womb defining difference (is the) being (of the) Alien's becoming as the Eternal Return of the other Sensationing as a Will to Sensation which is the Proto-Will to Power where 'sexual difference' Becomes beheaded 'sensational difference' severing sexuality wasting 'woman murdering man'. Alien Aileen was not a 'serial killer' but a 'serial sensationer' opening up the violent vivacious valves of shot sensation shining via throwing a radical violence as an Ereignis event of the end to the ego the murder of man as the arrival of the altaric abjected Aileen alien as a guest Geist Goddess gift giving grief reeling without return as a gift without a goal being beheaded before you: your alien Aileen activated as a Gift Geist as Aileen is Gift - and not - an I - that Gives - Aileen gives Death to Man. Aileen is actually the Gift that is Given taken by the Impossibility of Death: Alien Aileen's gift - death - annihilates and assassinates the very possibility of Death - the Gift is Death undone. Alien Aileen is death Daseien. Altaric Aileen announces the Death of Man. Alteric Aileen is not Mother but Other - A Black Widow - Aileen is not a Woman but an Omen offering an altaric afterlife beheaded before birth.

So suppose truth is a woman and woman does not exist? Suppose woman is alien? Woman is alien to truth since truth is alien to woman. Suppose truth is alien? Truth is alien. Alien is a way. Alien is away. Alien is not at home in the world. As Dorothy Daseined: 'There's no place like home'. There is also no place like homme. Or as alien aletheia Heidegger homed: "For there is a need for contemplation whether and how...there can still be such a thing as home." (Martin Heidegger, letter to Bernhard Welte, May 22nd, 1976). As a bleak Black Widow weeps: "I want to go home" - there is no place like home. Here, where no one is at homme, Home is the monstrous Morgue mourning of the Memory of Philosophy where in which the Philosopher Lies as the Un Dead the After Birth the After Death the After Life where the Philosopher can never truly Live can never truly Die. The Philosopher is always already - abjected ahead of the being of being - neither never alive nor nether never dead - but being between being and non-being - being the living-dead - the un-dead. The Woman - as always already alien - remains remaindered remanded as the Philosopher away arriving and arising ahead - as the Philosopher to Come - ahead and after the End of Man - for Man no longer does Philosophy - for Man can no longer do Philosophy - for Woman - as for Philosophy - "There's no place like home." There is no place like home because there is no place like the nothing.

There is no place like home there is only love like home for home is going home to the homme you love - to go home is to return to being with the one you love - going home is going home to being there with the being you love being together there being at home and dying is the coming home to being.

Is the Black Widow the alteric Alien Ather of Adorno, Badiou, Blanchot, Cixous, Derrida, Heidegger, Irigaray, Kristeva, Lévinas, Zizek?

The Black Widow is Atherless The Black Widow is Selfless The Black Widow is Sexless The Black Widow is Faceless The Black Widow is Childless The Black Widow is Beingless The Black Widow is Homeless The Black Widow is Timeless The Black Widow is Nothingless.

Bacon to Michael Wishart, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, A. Sinclair, 1993.

Francis Bacon said of Peter Lacy, from Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, A. Sinclair, 1993.

"Since works of art are sprung, for better or for worse, from fetishes - are artists to be blamed if their attitude to their products is slightly fetishistic?"

"Darling Francis was having his first show and Lacy was so blind drunk that they had a fearful row and Lacy slashed thirty of his canvases. Can you imagine! Yet Francis told me, 'You know, I rather enjoyed it.'...Francis was always being beaten up...Of course Francis asked for it. He must have enjoyed it just as he enjoyed his lover slashing the pictures."

David Herbert said of Francis Bacon, from The Gilded Gutter Life of Francis Bacon, Daniel Farson, Vintage, 1993.

"He told Allen Ginsberg that he had also once been offered a gambling stake for allowing himself to be whipped, with a bonus for every stroke that drew blood."

Ted Morgan said of Francis Bacon, from The Gilded Gutter Life of Francis Bacon, Daniel Farson, Vintage, 1993.

"However much the subject strives to fulfil his desires, the economy of lack can never be satisfied. The lost object can never be found because it is no longer an object; it is the condition of desire. Caught between what is experienced as loss and the illusions of desire, the subject follows the plot of its own fiction."

"Does not the artist feel himself, amid the transports of creation, brutalized, 'working furiously'? Indeed, is not such fury necessary to free oneself from confinement and the fury of confinement? Might not he very conciliatoriness of art have been bullied out of its destructiveness?...Every work of art is an uncommitted crime."

"He could be whipped and physically abused, but by his toughness and intelligence he kept ultimate control. With Peter Lacy, he had lost it spectacularly. He could withstand the violence and the rows, the scenes which ended with him being beaten up, his clothes destroyed and his paintings slashed; there were sides of it he positively relished. But he was kept, mentally as well as physically, in thrall: being less in love, Lacy seemed stronger and freer, and the pangs of sexual jealousy tormented Bacon as intensely as any Furies he had know."

Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996.

"You will always be lacking the object; a lack is not just an object of loss - it is what Lacan calls the cause of desire...The fort-da game, then played by the infant, is, as it were, a kind of heroic but entirely fruitless commentary on the movement backwards and forwards but in which the lost object can never return, in which, in so far as I master anything, I master the reel and not the object which the reel was supposed to stand for...You will never know what the trauma was...The structure of the trauma is precisely that it is the unrepresentable and the damage is the consequence of unrepresentability."

Mark Cousins, Damage: Trauma & Loss, lecture 27th October, 1996 Architectural Association.

"He had a boyfriend - an ex-fighter pilot who, since Francis had got older and his tastes had changed, was younger than he was. He really fell in love with him. He was a rich fighter pilot, or certainly well off, and he was sadistic, which Francis liked. He knocked Francis about and beat him up. Once, when I saw Francis, one of his eyes was hanging out and he was covered in scars. I didn't really understand the relationship - after all, you don't. But I was so upset seeing him like this that I got hold of the pilot's collar and twisted it around. He would never have hit me because he was a 'gentleman' - do you see? - he would never get in a fight. The violence between them was a sexual thing. I didn't really understand all this. Anyway, I didn't talk to Francis for about three or four years after that. The truth is, Francis really minded about this man more than anyone."

"I must say most of the time Peter was terribly neurotic, even hysterical....Of course, he hated my painting right from the beginning and he said, 'You can leave your paintings and come and live with me.' And I said: 'What does living with you mean?' And he said: 'Well, you could live in a corner of my cottage on straw. You could sleep and shit there.' He wanted to have me chained to the wall. Peter was kinky in all sorts of ways. He liked to have people watching as we had sex. And then he liked to have to have someone bugger me, then bugger me himself right after. But he was so neurotic that living together would never have worked. "

Francis Bacon, Francis Bacon - Anatomy of an Enigma, Michael Peppiatt, Westview Press, 1996

"In the beginning there is ruin. Ruin is that which happens to the image from the moment of the first gaze. Ruin is the self-portrait, this face looked at in the face as the memory of itself, what remains or returns as a specter from the moment one first looks at oneself and a figuration is eclipsed. The figure, the face, then sees its visibility being eaten away; loses its integrity without disintegrating...For one can just as well read pictures of ruins as figures of a portrait, indeed, of a self-portrait...The ruin does not supervene like an accident upon a monument that was intact only yesterday...The traits of a self-portrait are also those of a fascinated hunter. The staring eye always resembles an eye of the blind, sometimes the eye of the dead, at that precise moment when mourning begins: it is still open, a pious hand should soon come to close it; it would recall a portrait of the dying....Seeing the seeing and not the visible, is seeing nothing. This seeing eye sees itself blind."

Jacques Derrida, Memoirs of the Blind: The Self-Portrait and Other Ruins, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993.

"The ruin, its invitation to you to experience it - is also an exclusion from it because the 'it' that you are excluded from is what it was before it was a ruin - in so far as I am a ruin - you can enjoy me - but you should a have been here before me....What is one doing in calculating a ruin? The ruin is the kind of memorial to the fact that you were always too late to make any difference....One of the things that the ruin has done is to become bigger than itself - the proposition that - let's put forward the hypothesis: that all ruins are bigger than what they were before they were ruined. Now one of the reasons why ruins are illogically bigger than what they had been before - given that the have now lost a lot of structure - you might ask: how did they get bigger? It is because the question of the inside and the outside is now intensified....An object always exists twice: that is to say; it exists as its self as its existence and it exists as a representation of itself; - we can construe a chair as both itself and a representation of itself...The representation of the chair has to be bigger than its existence otherwise it will leak; that's why we worry about things that leak. Every time there is a leak - what is happening - why we're so upset - is because the regime of existence is threatening the entire regime of representation - I mean: if this could happen so much else could....By then a definition of a ruin is an object where certain bits of what had been inside of an object are -as it were - exposed and in being exposed give rise to a whole set of fantasies and questions which undermine the otherwise clear distinction of what is inside, what is outside, of what is representation, of what is existence...and we're left with 'stuff' that we don't know whether it belongs to the order of existence or the order of representation. if you think about ruins - where this is most obviously the case - there is a kind of hanging in certainty as to what the status of 'stuff' is...perhaps has something monstrous about it....Perhaps in a sense our relation of desire to the ruin is that we might find in our own ruin something of the capacity to exist and actually to exist more....could we not actually become kind of suddenly open to the sky...Could we not have limbs where you couldn't tell?"

Bacon's Study for Portrait of Peter Lacy1962 records Lacy's nailing neurotic nerves of being on the edge of not being there trapping the thrown trauma of our being thrown through leaked lamella love lost. As a Thrown Trauma activated ahead of being dead - as Bacon's Throwing Paint at the Canvas - becomes the mutated moment memory trace there of lost love like loose Lacy's wild Whipping at the Skin on Bacon's back and Bacon always used the Back of the Canvas to paint on to pain on: was Bacon's back the back of the canvas becoming the rough rhino skin whose tough textures tingled his neurotic nerves? Where Canvas as a Skin leaves leached love as a scar slash bleeding being-there through poignant paint. There the memory trace as a wound whiplash becomes being-there through thrown paint as a register of pain or a record of 'brute fact' as Bacon bled. Lover lost lamella Lacy's leached wound whipping weals - as an Imprint Implant on brave Bacon's Back - become there the broken body's mourning-memory trace-there of the paining-beingory of our bereaved brute being-not-being-there anymore. Bacon's white whiplash of pure paint pertains to the pain-of-being-there left like Lacy's leashing leaving its lack its mark its imprint its force forever branded becoming memorialised meat of being not there. Bacon's Study for Portrait of Peter Lacy 1963 poignantly punctuates the pain-paint body-barrier with its dark discs which nail the nerves like timpani thwacks: one of his most powerful paintings but perversely never reproduced in any of the current coffee table Bacon books. Contrary to sly Sylvester to claim otherwise Bacon's best paintings were painted between 1960 and 1967: Head of a Boy 1960, Head (Man in Blue) 1961, Head 1962, Seated Figure on Couch 1962, Figure on a couch 1962, Turning Figure 1962, Three Studies for a Crucifixion 1962, Study from Portrait of Pope Innocent X 1963, Study for Portrait of Peter Lacy 1963, Study from Portrait of Pope Innocent X 1965, Three Studies for a Portrait of Muriel Belcher 1966, Portrait of Lucien Freud 1967, and the full-length Portrait of Lucien Freud 1968 (which sportss a wonderful whip of white paint looking like splattered spunk spirit flying by his foot). Just as the memory-trace of pain-inflicted on Bacon's ruined body leaked forth from his alien-being so his alien-paint became lacklustre and leakless lazy and easy with the paint becoming pissy etiolated watered down and thinned-out tame and inanely illustrational: By the 1980s Bacon's pissy paint becomes so soft safe smooth and streamlined. It was when Bacon had no 'formula' no 'technique' when he 'didn't know how to do it' -did Bacon paint best but when Bacon knew 'how to do it' - Bacon couldn't do it: Bacon became processed paint - painting-by-numbers - not painting-by-blunders - and by the time of Dyer's demise so too Bacon died of painting. Bacon's last real paint-ing-pain-ted was Triptych May - June 1973 where in the far-right panel the last dice of Dyer are thrown forth far away and ahead as pain and paint parted together to forever free parted painted torn together there as a lamella leak love left like leaving Lacy's legacy left as a love lost left off the joint out of joint jointing time there together to Dyer's dying of Bacon's being-in love-with-being-not-there anymore. Bacon painted best when being-in-love-with-being-not-there anymore where the legacy of the lost love for Lacy and the lost love for Dyer birthed Bacon's best art-there.

Bacon's Fort-da-Froth - (like Turner's Spume) - as the Eternal Return of the Spunk Sensation - is indeed that that slime spunk 'stuff ' which wet inking is the leaking trail snail substance of the soiled stained subconscious sewer. Because the 'trauma' and 'unconscious' - that 'subconscious' sea-inside-us - cannot be 'represented' - ( 'illustrated') - Rembrandt, Turner, Van Gogh, Monet, Bacon and Alien 'present' us the unconscious via an (ab)use of organic ontological-oozed oil paint thus nailing and navigationg the spume-stuff - the spunk-stuff - the spirit-stuff: the thrown-forth froth-stuff that sits on his coffee as Sigmund Freud smokes his cigar letting the Thrown Fort-Da trail-rings of smoke begin to form his thought for smoking is a subconsciousing. Freud's smoke is the smaze of his subconscious stuff for the subconscious is structured like a smaze. Peter Lacy Threw Bacon's paintings out the window after Slashing them. Lacy loved Slashing Spunking and Shitting on Bacon's cunting canvas and severed skin. Lacy left his toilet-tray turd trade-mark branded on Bacon's back ('Best Back Bacon'): Lacy left lashes on brave Bacon's Back which left their mutant mark on the 'back' of Bacon's Serial Canvases and Serial Traumas tracing serial subconscious sensations. Bacon bred his Beaten-Up Body-in-Ruins as a Trauma Trace mourning-memorial for activating abjected abimages ahead all over you all. Lacy treated tart Bacon like a Cunt like a Shit and Shat on the Cunt and Beat the Cunt up and Bacon got off on being beaten to a pulp and then very carefully caressing the purple plum mauve maroon of the beautiful bruises for future self portraits. Lacy 'leaked' his lamella-loss dasein-drool slurp-stuff all over Bacon's bruised and 'ruined' Shit-Cunt-Fuck-Face. Lacy literally 'beat-the-shit' out of Bacon and Bacon beat the shit out of oil paint tuning his turds with turpentine and shitting them on to the raw arse 'back side' of the cunting canvas letting the luminous liquid droll drool stuff slurp out at you always already reminding you of your own puss-piss-shit-spunk-saliva-slime-stuffs that you wish you could wipe away. Bacon pulled at the cord of chaos switching on the chord valves of violent paint-spunk sensationing in illuminating the thrown black bulb on off off on of as an alien aura awe entrapment endlessly emitting electric eggoistentialism. Layabout Lacy leaked light licked white whipped dripping double cream cum end egg whip whites oozed over boiled Bacon's eggo egger entrails encapsulate erogenous erubescent erupt Ereignis erection enabling effective effusive elastic Egyptian élan electriceidetic ejaculated expenditure executed delivering drunk discharge dépense dasein discord dangling cord claw clenched let lit left light on-off as a sein switched on of-being-off when lit-light-left-on being-lit lifts-off.

Bulbous Bacon's fort-da delight of pulling of the light cord becomes discord throwing light into the dark of the day and light of the night where pulling becomes a throwing and retrieving and a letting go as a letting be of becoming dark as light as light as dark where the bulb becomes black but leaks light. Bacon's bruised beaten body - as a 'ruin' - is 'larger than life' breaking down the barrier between what constitutes the 'inside' and the 'outside' opening up the body to the sky sea sleep of being bled bare there. Lacy slashed the surfaces of Bacons bruised skin making marks of crimson navy blue lime green red magenta. By treating the severed 'head' as bust', the severed 'body as torso'; that is, treating the body as a 'classical ruin', Bacon breaks body thrown open torn apart losing 'line' or 'contour' breaking down the 'barrier' between the skinned-skin of the sewn 'subject' which is always already the eggoed-object;: the bled 'background' barrier bleeds the 'subject' as its shadow-lamella: where the sow-shadow itself displaces drains the soiled severed subject; where the 'background' is always already the subject-as-object 'in-out- itself': that opaque oily opal bland being bled-in in smudge-space and a snail-slime where wet the thrown leaking lamella oozes out-itself remains rotting through the thrown raw real remains leg loin left-overs ointment oozed oils only as ab-eggo emptying ellipse emaciated embraced emulated entrails leaking light bulb pulling pulse claw cord corduroy trousers torn tear sweaters sweating sleeves slashed soiled socks soaked switching socket off on off on on off off on fort da fuck in out in out in out out in out where the distinction and stinction and extinction between semen and space is soaked and shattered and shuttered in blackness where the shape and smell and sound of the semen and blackness is blurred where the blackness of the bulb lights up the darkness of the semen where the thrown shot semen becomes a black white lightening strike slash shattering the bright blackness to dark whiteness where there are no backgrounds in Bacon but black spaces breeding bled semen spunkning spilling out over eggo edge: being is not grounded but out-grounded out of place out of space out of time: be-ing it is the ab-ground of the ab-it by be-ing out-of-it as an ab-being for the being of the nothing that is there and in with the no-thing of the no-one of the no-ground that is the nothing that is there shining ahead as the dark lighting lit there.

After the tragic death of Dyer mourning Bacon became bored with painting and died of painting falling back into the slack easy laziness of inane illustration. By the 1980s Bacon became a bacon factory producing pristine processed pre-packaged Bacons: - sterile smooth streamlined and stripped of sensation - which was not even best back bacon: all it lacked was the logo Danish stamped all over it. As Peppiatt puts it: "Several of Bacon's most perceptive admirers believed that the later work lacked the daring and spontaneity which had drawn them to his painting in the first half of his career. The writer John Richardson put it succinctly: 'What I liked most was when Bacon was painting like Beau Brummell tying cravats - discarding one after another until something perfect and fresh came about. When he found painting difficult, the pictures were good. But once he knew how to do it and had all the technical ability, he started repeating himself,' (Interview November: 1993 New York)..."

Lacy literally left his mark on Bacon's Skin and Bacon left Lacy's leaked mark on the Canvas. Bacon said: "But people go to bars to be closer to each other. The frustration is that people can never be close enough to each other. If you're in love you can't break down the barriers of the skin." (Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, 1993). Yet Bacon's skin was bled bare, a barrier broken by Lacy's Whip. Indeed, Bacon broke down the barriers of the Skin of his Canvas breaking down the barrier between the 'inside' and the 'outside'; between the 'human' and 'alien'. In Bacon the body barriers are blurred and butchered - the scarred skin grafted and grazed - glazed and grained - sounding something like the timpanist roll and thwack: nailing the skin - nailing the spine - nailing the nerves - imprinting being-there.

It is instead the leaking leg Legacy of Lacy (not dreary Dyer) that made boiled Bacon produce his most powerful, penetrating, punctuating and poignant pictures. What fried Bacon found in Lacy was the Farther that never Fucked him: the Violence of the Father was Found in the Violence of Lacy. Bacon was Fucked by his Father through Lacy. Lacy became Bacon's Trauma. Bacon painted the smell and slither sensation of fort/da fucking outside illustrating the anal act. Regarding his Two Figures 1953, Bacon said to Daniel Farson: "I put two men naked on a bed. If they grapple with one another, why shouldn't they? I didn't show one putting a cock up the other's arse - I didn't think of anything like that! Comprendo?" (July 14, 1989, Finnish Television, from The Gilded Gutter Life of Francis Bacon, Vintage 1993).

Lacy - Dyer - Edwards were mourning monuments - walking wounded - waiting a while to be ruined and killed off by Bacon's kindness: the moment Bacon courted and cornered and caged Lacy - Dyer - Edwards - Bacon set the scene for the slaughter of being-there for the abimage-being-their which would surpass their dasein and death. Lacy was always already an auto-ruin and Bacon buried-him in his-ruin. Bacon initiated and installed the rite of ruin in Dyer and Edwards by giving them enough money to ruin themselves: Bacon ruined the things he loved and painted the things he killed: killing through kinky kindness: killing through the dice that dices with death: Bacon the dice-dealer Bacon the death-dealer: Bacon killed Lacy - Bacon killed Dyer - Bacon killed Edwards - because Bacon killed the things he loved.

"I'd known lots of people before but, even though I was over forty when I met Peter, I'd never really fallen in love with anyone until then. What Peter really liked was young boys. He was actually younger than me, but he didn't seem to realize it. It was a kind of mistake that he went with me at all. Of course, it was a most total disaster from the start. Being in love in that extreme way - being totally, physically obsessed by someone - is like having some dreadful disease. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. He was marvellous-looking, you see. He had this extraordinary physique - even his calves were beautiful. And he could be wonderful company. He played the piano marvellously and he had a real kind of natural wit, coming up with one amusing remark after another, just like that - unlike those dreadful bores who plan from morning to night what they're going to say."

"Peter had been very tough when I first knew him. He was really tough, tougher than me. Then he fell for this Moroccan boy, and after he went to Tangier he lost that toughness. I think it had some thing to do with Arab men. He had also always been the most terrible kind of drunk, but by this time he was completely out of control. The boy had left him and so on. Anyway, he said he never wanted to see me again - at one point he told me I had ruined his life by making him think about himself. Then one day he just telephoned and said, 'from now on, consider me dead. Consider me dead!' And I was very upset, because I had been deeply fond of him. And then much later, for some reason, he sent this telegram asking me to go out and stay with him again in Tangier. It was all over between us, but like a fool I went. Peter wasn't there when I arrived. Of course. But there was this Arab boy, it sounds perfectly mad, but he was sitting up in a fig tree in the courtyard and he asked whether he could pick the figs. I said yes, certainly he could. And in the end he climbed in through the window, and he was terribly good-looking. Then Peter came back, I'm afraid, and found us both in bed, and he got so absolutely mad he went round and broke every single thing in the place. Even though there was nothing between us any more. I had to go out and try and spend the night on the beach. By that time Peter was drinking three bottles of whiskey a day, which no one can take. He was killing himself with drink. He set out to do it, like suicide, and I think in the end his pancreas simply exploded. Anyway, after that disastrous trip, I had no news of him until the day the exhibition of mine opened at the Tate Gallery (1962) and, along with all the other telegrams, I got this one saying he had just died."

“Man is most dishonest in relation to his god: he is not permitted to sin!”

“It is there, in the priority of the other man over me that... God comes to mind.”

“People are being duplicated. And once it's happened to you, you're part of this thing.”

“Will itself cannot be willed...Willing is a kind of desiring and striving. The Greeks call it orexis.”

“Willing: a compelling feeling, quite pleasant! It is the epiphenomenon of all discharge of energy.”

“I spread your naked thighs - and your slit is offered - I foresee the coming - of a lonesome - anxiety.”

“Is it not precisely longing that proves the human being to be Other, other than a mere human being?”

Martin Heidegger, Schelling's Treatise on the Essence of Human Freedom, Ohio University Press, 1985.

“When I had come into being, being came into being, and all beings came into being, after I came into being."

“Only a being endowed with organs can conceive a technical finality, a relation between the end and the tool.?"

Emmanuel Lévinas, The Dwelling; Totality and Infinity, Duquesne University 1969.

“We describe as 'traumatic' any excitations from outside which are powerful enough to break through the protective shield.”

“The devil has the widest perspective for God; that's why he keeps himself so far away from Him, for the devil is the oldest friend of knowledge.”

“I would have liked Hegel and Heidegger to speak about their sex lives...it is something they never spoke about, they always kept their personal lives out of their texts.”

“According to Heidegger, each age has one issue to think through, and one only. Sexual difference is probably the issue in our time which could be our 'salvation' if we thought it through.”

Luce Irigaray, An Ethics of Sexual Difference, Cornell University Press, 1993.

“The lustful man intends not human generation but venereal pleasures. It is possible to have this without those acts from which human generation follows: and it is that which is sought in the unnatural vice.”

Saint Thomas Aquinas, Whether the unnatural vice is a species of lust? - Summa Theologica II-II, 154, 11; 1266 - 1273.

“Death in Heidegger is an event of freedom, whereas for me the subject seems to reach the limit of the possible in suffering. It finds itself enchained, overwhelmed, and in some way passive.”

“I want to bring about a different relationship, in which you say, 'Dear God, I would like to have a conversation with You.' Instead of submission, you get a relationship of dialogue. Let's just assume it's possible.”

“Coming here makes the one who comes belong to dispersal, to the fissure where the exterior is the intrusion that stifles, but is also nakedness, the chill of the enclosure that leaves one utterly exposed. Here the only space is vigorous separation. Here fascination reigns.”

Maurice Blanchot, The Fascination of Time's Absence; The Essential Solitude; The Space of Literature, University of Nebraska Press, 1982.

“Peaks of silver shine silently above, And the sparkling snow is full of roses. Still higher above the light lives the god, pure And holy, pleased with the divine play of light beams. He lives there quietly and alone: his face is bright... Down into the deep his influence extends: it Reveals and illumines, just as he pleases.”

“The bodily [element] in the human is not something animalistic. The manner of understanding that accompanies it is something that metaphysics up till now has not touched on... Can one isolate the dark understanding, which the bodily belonging to the earth determines, from being placed in the clearing?”

“We should be surprised that a matter that generally plays such an important part in the life of man has hitherto been almost entirely disregarded by philosophers, and lies before us as raw and untreated material.”

“That is why we fly from the inner void, since God might steal into it. It is not the pursuit of pleasure and the aversion for effort which causes sin, but fear of God. We know that we cannot see him face to face without dying, and we do not want to die.”

“What presents itself to the individual consciousness as sexual impulse in general, and without being directed towards a specific individual of the opposite sex, is, in itself and over and above the phenomenon, simply the will to life.”

Arthur Schopenhauer, On the Metaphysics of Sexual Love; The World as Will and Idea, Everyman 1995.

"Unegoistic! - This one is hollow and wants to be full, that one is overfull and wants to be emptied - both go in search of an individual who will serve their purpose. And this process, understood in its highest sense, is in both cases called by the same word: love."

“The I is, to be sure, happiness, presence at home with itself. But, as sufficiency in its non-sufficiency, it remains in the non-I; it is enjoyment of ‘something else,' never of itself. Autochthonous, that is, rooted in what it is not, it is nevertheless, within this enrootedness independent and separated.”

Emmanuel Lévinas, Totality & Infinity, Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 1969.

“Being as venture is the relation of flinging loose, and thus retains in the flinging even what has been ventured...Venture includes flinging into danger. To dare is to risk the game... If that which has been flung were to remain out of danger, it would not have been ventured. It would not be in danger if it were shielded.”

“How can you be satisfied? Because everything escapes you, you know that perfectly well. You know, even if you're in love with somebody, everything escapes you. You would want to be nearer that person - how can you cut your flesh open and join it with the other person - it is an impossibility to do - so it is with art. It is almost like a long affair with objects and images and sensations and what you can call the passions. It is very much like that. You may love somebody very much, but how near can you get to them? You're still always unfortunately sort of strangers.”

“During the time that motion is being perceived, a grasping-as-now takes place moment by moment; and in this grasping, the actually present phase of the motion itself becomes constituted. But this now apprehension is, as it were, the head attached to the comet's tail of retentions relating to the earlier now-points of the motion.”

Edmund Husserl, On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time (1893 - 1917); 1991.

“Sex is what it is, isn't it? Sex is what it is: it's the moment of ecstasy - if you like the person or if you don't even like them - but it's really the moment of coming isn't it? - of coming off... I put two men naked on a bed. If they grapple with one another, why shouldn't they? I didn't show one putting a cock up the other's arse - I didn't think of anything like that! Comprendo?"

"A Fucking is not a Repeating for our Fucking is Why every Act is not a Repetition for fucking cannot be repeated since the Sensation is never the Same since the Time is never the Same and so the Act is Never the Same so No Act is ever the Same so there can Never be the Repetition of any Act for every time I Fuck I achieve a Fullness of a unique Being-Infinite as a unique Infinite-Jouissance."

“Narrow bands dividing us, fall away! Sacrifice alone is the heart's true way! I expand myself to you, as you to me. May what isolates us go up in fire, cease to be. For life is only as reciprocated, By love in love is it alone created. To the kindred soul abandoned, The heart opens up in strength gladdened. Once the spirit atop free mountains have flown, It holds back nothing of its own. Living to see myself in you, and you to see yourself in me, In the enjoyment of celestial bliss shall we be.”

G.W.F Hegel, Stanzas to Marie von Tucher, April 13, 1811.; The Letters, Indiana University Press, 1984.

“The clearing belonging to the essence of Being suddenly clears itself and lights up. This sudden self-lighting is the lightning flash. It brings itself into its own brightness, which in itself both brings along and brings in....The truth of Being flashes, the essence of Being lights itself up... Only when man in the disclosing coming-to-pass of the insight by which he himself is beheld, renounces human self-will and projects himself that insight, away from himself, does he correspond in his essence to the claim of that insight. In this corresponding man is gathered into his own that he, within the safeguard element of the world may, as the mortal, look out towards the divine.”

“Flight is the engendering of a space without refuge. Let us flee. This should mean: let us seek a place of refuge. But rather it says: let us flee into what must be fled, let us take refuge in the flight that takes away all refuge. Or again: there where I flee, 'I' do not flee, only flight flees, an undefined movement that steals, steals away and leaves nothing into which one might steal away.”

Maurice Blanchot, Plural Speech; The Infinite Conversation, University of Minnesota Press, 1993.

“Can one not hear in this 'Where were you?' a statement of deficiency (constat de carence) that cannot have meaning unless the humanity of man is fraternally bound up with creation, that is, responsible for that which has been neither his I (son moi) nor his work? Might this solidarity and this responsibility for any and all - which cannot be without pain - be spirit itself?”

Emmanuel Lévinas, Of God Who Comes to Mind, 1982; Meridian, Stanford California, 1998.

“Why is infinite regress bad? There must be an uncaused cause, but in virtue of what is one then permitted to go on and claim that this uncaused cause is God (who is, moreover, infinitely good)? Where is the argument for the move from an uncaused cause to God as the uncaused cause? What necessitates the substantialization of an uncaused cause into a being that one can then predicate with various other metaphysical or divine attributes?”

Simon Critchley, Very Little... Almost Nothing - Death, Philosophy, Literature, Routledge, 1997.

“God is the one and only object of philosophy. [Its concern is] to occupy itself with God, to apprehend everything in him, to lead everything back to him, as well as to derive everything particular from God and to justify everything only insofar as it stems from God, is sustained through its relationship with him, lives by his radiance and has [within itself] the mind of God. Thus philosophy is theology, and [one's] occupation with philosophy - or rather in philosophy - is of itself the service of God.”

G.W.F Hegel, Introduction to The Lectures of 1824; Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion, University of California Press, 1984.

“I imagine seeing exhaustion, the horror of being in the depths of things - of being God. Hegel, at the moment when the system closed, believed himself for two years to be going mad; perhaps he was afraid of accepting evil - which the system justifies and renders necessary; or perhaps linking the certainty of having attained absolute knowledge with the completion of history - he saw himself, in a profound sense, becoming dead; perhaps even his various bouts of sadness took shape in the more profound horror of being God.”

“The 'what question', 'What is a being?' becomes in fact the guiding-question of the entire subsequent metaphysics, but the response to this question is attempted by way of explanation from out of causes or out of conditions for the representability of beings that are pre-determined as objects... In the inceptual question: 'What is a being?' being is interrogated and is already thought as 'ground'. that is, as the swaying ground of beings.”

“We are 'in the Trace of God.' A proposition which risks incompatability with every allusion to the 'very presence of God'. A proposition readily converted into atheism: and if God was an effect of the trace? If the idea of divine presence (life, existence, parousia, etc.), if the name of God was but the movement of erasure of the trace of presence?... The face of God disappears forever in showing itself...The face of God which commands while hiding itself... Is not God the other name of Being (name because nonconcept), the thinking of which would open difference and the ontological horizon, instead of being indicated in them only? Opening of the horizon, and not in the horizon...The very content of the thought of God is that of a being about which no question could be asked (except by being asked by it), and which cannot be determined as an existent.”

Jacques Derrida, Violence & Metaphysics; Writing & Difference, Routledge, 1978.

“My body discovers in that other body a miraculous prolongation of my own intentions, a familiar way of dealing with the world. Henceforth, as the parts of my body together comprise a system, so my body and the other person's are one whole, two sides of one and the same phenomenon, and the anonymous existence of which my body is the ever-renewed trace henceforth inhabits both bodies simultaneously... It is as if the other person's intention inhabited my body and mine his.”

“Man can do nothing and he, and he is excepted from the truth each time he exercises power (or has the illusion of doing so). But God can do no more than man... God is not able to do anything for us; as long, at least, as we are still ourselves, encompassed by ourselves. 'In this world God is a dissolvent. Friendship with him confirms no power.' [Simone Weil]. We come back to the question: if what tore herself from herself is not herself and is not God, then what is it? One must answer: this tearing itself.”

Maurice Blanchot, Affirmation (desire, affliction); The Limit-Experience; University of Minnesota, 1993.

“Behind each image, God has disappeared...The problem of the existence or non-existence of God was resolved by simulation. But one might think that it was God's own idea to disappear, and precisely behind images. God used the images to disappear, obeying the fundamental impulse to leave no trace. thus the prophecy is carried out: we live in a world of simulation, a world where the highest function of the sign is to make reality disappear and to mask this disappearance at the same time.”

“Thinking and poeticizing must in in a certain way go back to where they have always already been and at the same time have still never built. However, we can only prepare such a dwelling in that place through building. Such a building may scarcely have in mind the erection of the house for the God or the dwelling places for the mortals. It must be content to build the Way that leads back into the place of the Verwindung of metaphysics and which in this way lets us wander through the destinal character of an overcoming of metaphysics.”

Martin Heidegger,Wegmarken, 2nd edition, Klostermann, Frankfurt and Main, 1978.

“As the Philosopher says in the same book (De Gener. Anim. i, 18), 'the semen is a surplus that is needed.' For it is said to be superfluous, because it is the residue from the action of the nutritive power, yet it is needed for the work of the generative power. But the other superfluities of the human body are such as not to be needed, so that it matters not how they are emitted, provided one observe the decencies of social life. It is different with the emission of semen, which should be accomplished in a manner befitting the end for which it is needed.”

Saint Thomas Aquinas, Whether the lust that is about venereal acts can be a sin? - Summa Theologiae II-II, 153, 3; 1266 - 1273.

“In 1953 in one of his greatest paintings, Two Figures, Bacon presented a darkened room in which two men make love on a bed: the artist, himself, and his lover Peter Lacy. The vertical lines that run down the picture veil the figures and suggest a view glimpsed through a net curtain, thereby placing us outside the room, spying on the men. In this way the painting embodies the clandestine nature of the depicted action at a time when homosexuality was still illegal in Britain. In Two Figures anxiety about the state monitoring and constraining the individual collided with a time of acute insecurity for homosexuals. A manifesto painting, Two Figures remained unexhibited until Bacon’s Tate Gallery retrospective in 1962.”

“In the midst of beings as a whole an open place occurs. There is a clearing. Thought of in reference to beings, this clearing is more in being than are beings. This open center is therefore not surrounded by beings; rather, the clearing centre itself encircles all that is, as does the nothing, which we scarcely know. Being can be as beings only if they stand within and stand out within what is cleared in this clearing. Only this clearing grants and guarantees to us humans a passage to those beings that we ourselves are not, and access to the being that we ourselves are...The clearing in which beings stand out is in itself at the same time concealment... This concealment is dissembling.”

"Reproduction of sexual or gendered animals and human beings can be divided into two phases, each having these same aspects - overfullness, excessive laceration, and loss. Two individuals communicate in the first phase through the channel of their lacerations. A more violent communication doesn't exist. In each person, the hidden laceration (like the imperfection or shame of existence) is laid bare (expresses itself) avidly adhering to the laceration of the other person. When lovers meet, it's a delirious situation of mutual laceration... In an individual slipping towards the horrors of debauchery, love attains its intimate meaning at the brink of nausea. But the opposite movement (an instant of reersal) can be more violent... There's a scream from someone wounded!"

“What Lacan lacked - despite this lack being legible for us after having read what, in his texts, far from lacking, founded the very possibility of a modern regime of the true - is the radical suspension of truth from the supplementation of a being-in-situation by an event which is a separator of the void. The 'there is' of the subject is the coming-to-being of the event, via the ideal occurrence of a truth, in its finite modalities. By consequence, what must always be grasped is that there is no subject, that there are no longer some subjects... And in this journey we will be able to say - if, at least, we do not lose the memory of it being the event alone which authorizes being, which is called being, to found the finite place of a subject which decides - 'Nothingness gone, the castle of purity remains.'...”

“Flesh and meat are life! If I paint red meat as I paint bodies it is just because I find it very beautiful. I don’t think anyone has ever really understood that. Ham, pigs, tongues, sides of beef seen in the butcher’s window, all that death, I find it very beautiful. And it’s all for sale—how unbelievably surrealistic!...I imagine men hanging in butcher’s shops for hyenas, who would be dressed in fur coats. The men would be hung by their feet, or cut up for stew or kebabs. We are all meat. All the inhabitants of this planet are made of meat. And most of them are carnivores. And when you fuck, it’s a piece of meat penetrating another piece of meat. There is no difference between our meat and the meat of an ox or an elephant.”

Francis Bacon, The Last Interview 1991-92; with Francis Giacobetti; The Art Newspaper, June 2003.

“The eternal extension of God serves, first of all, the objective of enabling each person who loses himself to find himself in him. But what is then missing is the satisfaction of those who aspire only to be lost, without remission. When Theresa of Avila screamed that she was dying of not dying, her passion, moving beyond any possible barrier, broke an opening that leads into a universe where perhaps there is no composition either of form or of being, where it seems that death rolls from world to world. For the organized composition of beings is apparently deprived of the slightest meaning when it is a matter of the totality of all things; this totality cannot be the analogue of composite beings, animated by the same movement that we know.”

Georges Bataille, The College of Sociology; Visions of Excess - Selected Writings 1927-1939, University of Minnesota Press, 1985.

“Then, in the moral ages of humanity, people sacrificed to their gods the strongest instincts which man possessed, his 'nature.' This celebratory joy sparkles in the cruel glance of the ascetic, the enthusiastic 'anti-natural man.' Finally, what was still left to sacrifice? Didn't people finally have to sacrifice everything comforting, holy, healing, all hope, all belief in a hidden harmony, in future blessedness and justice? Didn't people have to sacrifice God himself and, out of cruelty against themselves, worship stone, stupidity, gravity, fate, nothingness? To sacrifice God for nothingness—this paradoxical mystery of the last act of cruelty is saved for the generation which is coming along right now. We all know something about this.”

“For the Greeks 'Being' says constancy in a twofold sense: 1. standing-in-itself as arising and standing forth (phusis), 2) but, as such, 'constantly,' that is, enduringly, abiding (ousia)... The meaning of the words ptosis and enklisis presupposes the notion of an upright stand... Going back an forth, slipping and sliding along this line, has become so much a part of our own flesh and blood that we neither recognize it it nor even understand and pay attention to the question about it. Our immersion [not to say lostness] in the prior view and insight that sustains and guides all our understanding of Being is all the more powerful, and at the same time all the more concealed, because the Greeks themselves no longer shed light on this prior line of sight as such. For essential reasons (not due to failure), they could not shed light on it.”

Martin Heidegger, The Grammar and Etymology of 'Being'; Introduction to Metaphysics, Fried & Polt Ed., Yale 2000.

“We hunt the quarry but refuse to corner it, relish the excitement but loathe the climax...The climax thus mingles life and death, the highest consummating moment being also a commitment to extinction. We enjoy the object of our desire, but in satisfying this particular appetite, we reduce it to nothing...In my brief divinity I am deluded. I fall from fullness. The gnawing sense of my nothingness returns, with the redoubled hunger of ever dissatisfied desire: lack again, only endless now...We are always orientated to something more...Thus, desire is infinite, yet bound to the finite at the same time... The human being thereby becomes defined as infinitely impotent, reaching beyond itself as infinite lack, only to be thrown back upon its own want and weakness... The dissolving disability of desire breeds its opposite positive: absolute, assimilating power, the absorbing god.”

William Desmond, Desire, Dialectic and Otherness, Yale University Press, 1987.

“The expression of Egyptian religious thought can be quite different from that of western thought, and so it is worth mentioning here that even in western thinking about a transcendent first principle, androgyny appears as an image of self-generation and self-regeneration in Orphic cosmogonies and in non-Christian philosophies of the early Christian era, and in the myth of the Phoenix. In all these cases, however, it is the deity who is androgynous, while the ancient Egyptian Atum was not sexually dimorphic. But in the thought of Philo Judaeus, the Alexandrian Jewish Neoplatonist, while God contains the ideas (Platonic ideas, of course) of male and female, God is not Himself androgynous. Here, with the drawing of a distinction between maleness and femaleness on the one hand, and the deity himself on the other hand, we have something roughly analogous to the ancient Egyptian religious belief that had the sexually monadic god Atum become the sexual dyad Shu and Tefnut by putting himself through a process that can be imaged bisexually, though he himself remains male. One text goes so far as emphatically to deny the creator's bisexuality: 'He fucked his fist because there was no vagina.' This god is pure act, as stated earlier, he is pure orgasmic act.”

David Lorton, Autofellatio and Ontology - Ancient Egyptian Religion and the Problem of Closure; Virginia Commonwealth University, 20.9. 1996.

“Crypt - one would have said, of the transcendental or the repressed, of the unthought or the excluded - that organizes the ground to which it does not belong. What speculative dialectics means (to say) is that the crypt can still be incorporated into the system. The transcendental or the repressed, the unthought or the excluded must be assimilated by the corpus, interiorized as moments, idealized in the very negativity of their labour. The stop, the arrest, forms only a stasis in the introjection of the spirit...The erection of the pyramid guards life - the dead - in order to give rise to the for-(it)self of adoration...The difference and the play of the pure light, the panic and the pyromantic dissemination, the all-burning offers itself as a holocaust to the for-(it)self... In order to sacrifice itself, it burns itself. The burning then burns itself and goes out; the fire appears itself; the sun begins to go down, to run through the route that will lead it into the occidental interiority...What is at stake here? What is the stake at palay in this column?...Will hehave pleased [plu], rained [plu], more? Will he have ejaculated in the galaxy?... The white stone becomes black... Milk of mourning [Lait de deuil] sealed up (congealed, pressed, squeezed, hidden [caché], coagulated, curdled)... Between the two (already) is elaborated in sum the origin... But it runs to its ruin.”

“What is striking is the way in which Freud is animated by a kind of passion for the origin - which he also first experiences in reverse form as a repulsion with regard to the origin. He thus invites each of us to look back behind ourselves in order to find there the source of every alteration: a primary 'event' that is individual and proper to each history, a scene constituting something important and overwhelming, but also such that the one who experiences it can neither master nor determine it, and with which he has essential relations to insufficiency. On the other hand, it is a matter of going back again to a beginning. This beginning will be a fact; a fact that is singular, lived as unique, and, in this sense, ineffable and untranslatable. But this fact at the same time is not one: it is rather the center of a fixed and unstable set of oppositional and indentificatory relations. It is not a beginning inasmuch as each scene is always ready to open onto a prior scene, and each conflict is not only itself but the beginning again of an older conflict it revives and at whose level it tends to resituate itself. Every time, this experience has been one of a fundamental insufficiency; each of us experiences the self as being insufficient...To be born is, after having everything, suddenly to lack everything, and first of all being, inasmuch as the infant exists neither as an organized, self-contained body or as a world... This absence, which is the absence of nothing, is at first the infant's sole presence.”

Maurice Blanchot, The Speech of Analysis; The Infinite Conversation, University of Minnesota Press, 1993.

“Rushing fountains flow by fragrant flower beds, Bells ring softly in the twilight air, and a watchman Calls out the hour, mindful of the time. Now a breeze rises and touches the crest of the grove — Look how the moon, like the shadow of our earth, Also rises stealthily! Phantastical night comes, Full of stars, unconcerned probably about us — Astonishing night shines, a stranger among humans, Sadly over the mountain tops, in splendour. The kindness of exalted Night is wonderful, and no one Knows where she comes from, or what will emerge from her. Thus she moves the world, and the hopeful minds of humans: Not even a sage knows what she's up to. The highest god, who loves you very much, wants it so; Therefore you prefer reasonable day to the night. But occasionally a clear eye loves the shadows as well, And tries to sleep just for pleasure, before it's necessary, Or a brave person likes to gaze directly into the Night... As lovers are, and a fuller cup, and bolder life, and Holy remembrance as well, to stay wakeful at night.”

“That man each day walks out into the night is a banality for present-day man... Compline still contains the mystical and metaphysical primeval power of night, which we have to pierce continually in order truly exist. Because Good is only the Good of the Evil: The Compline: a symbol of the existence being held out into the night and of the inner necessity of daily readiness for it... We believe that we are producing the essential, forgetting that it grows only if we live totally - and this means: in the face of the night and of the Evil - in accordance with our heart. The decisive thing is this primally powerful negative - to place nothing in the path of the profundity of Dasein. This is what, concretely, we have to learn and to teach... We should live totally in the face of the night and of the Evil.”

“Precisely in the miracle, we are thrust from our anticipation of the future into the presence of the moment, of the moment illuminated by a miraculous light, the light of the sovereignty of life delivered from its servitude. But, as I have said, the anticipation dissolves into NOTHING...The 'miracle' of death is understandable in terms of this sovereign exigency, which calls for the impossible coming true, in the reign of the moment. That which counts is there each time that anticipation, that which binds one in activity, the meaning of which is manifested in the reasonable anticipation of the result, in a staggering, unanticipated way, into NOTHING.”

Georges Bataille, Knowledge of Sovereignty; The Accursed Share, Zone Books, 1993.

“Time gives all and takes all away; everything changes but nothing perishes. One only is immutable, eternal and ever endures, one and the same with itself. With this philosophy my spirit grows, my mind expands. Whereof, however obscure the night may be, I await the daybreak, and they who dwell in day look for night ... Rejoice therefore, and keep whole, if you can, and return love for love. ”

“In Holzwege, apropos of Anaximander, Heidegger deploys all the dimensions of the word Fug, fügen, of the tension between Fug and Unfug, ontological accord and discord, what about indulging in speculation about how the f … word itself is rooted in this cosmic Fug, along the lines of the pagan notion of the universe as resulting from the primordial copulation of the masculine and feminine cosmic principles (yin and yan, and so on)—so, to put it in Heideggerian terms, the essence of fucking has nothing to do with the ontic act of fuck itself; rather it concerns the harmonious-struggling Fucking which provides the very composition of the universe.”

“We do not 'have' a body; rather, we 'are' bodily. Feeling, as feeling oneself to be, belongs to the essence of such Being... Every feeling is an embodiment attuned in this or that way, a mood that embodies in this or that way. Rapture is a feeling, and it is all the more genuinely a feeling the more essentially a unity of embodying attunement prevails... At the outset Nietzsche emphasizes two things about rapture: first, the feeling of enhancement of force, second, the feeling of plenitude... Enhancement is to be understood in terms of mood: to be caught up in elation - and to be borne along by our buoyancy as such... Mood is precisely the basic way in which we are outside ourselves.”

Martin Heidegger, Rapture as Aesthetic State; The Will to Power as Art; Nietzsche Vol. 1 & 2; Harper Collins, 1991.

“Sensation is intentional because I find that in the sensible a certain rhythm of existence is put forward - abduction or adduction - and that, following up this hint, and stealing into the form of existence which is thus suggested to me, I am brought into relation with an external being, whether it be in order to open myself to it or to shut myself off from it... As for the subject of sensation, he need not be a pure nothingness with no terrestrial weight... Between my sensation and myself there stands always the thickness of some primal acquisition which prevents my experience from being clear of itself... Sensation can be anonymous only because it is incomplete.”

“It is a pneumatic machine that attacks you. You are dealing with a footed void. Neither claw thrusts nor tooth bites, but an unspeakable scarification. A bite is formidable, but less so than such suction. The claw is nothing compared to the sucker. The claw, that’s the beast that enters your flesh; the sucker, that’s you yourself who enters into the beast. Your muscles swell, your fibers twist, your skin bursts beneath this unworldly force, your blood spurts and frightfully mixes with the mollusk’s lymph. The beast is superimposed upon you by its thousand vile mouths; the hydra is incorporated in the man; the man is amalgamated with the hydra. The two make one. This dream is upon you. The tiger can only devour you; the octopus, what horror, breathes you in! It draws you toward itself and into itself, and, bound, stuck, powerless, you slowly feel yourself emptied out within that horrendous sack, that monster. Beyond the terror of being eaten alive is the ineffability of being drunk alive.”

“The object of sensual desire is by nature another desire. The desire of the senses is the desire, if not to destroy oneself, at least to be consumed and to lose oneself without reservation. Now, the object of my desire does not truly respond to it except on one condition: that I awaken in it a desire equal to mine. Love in it essence is so clearly the coincidence of two desires that there is nothing more meaningful in love, even in the purest love... The two desires fully respond to one another only when perceived in the transparence of an intimate comprehension... Without doubt, the intellect remains behind and, looking at things from the outside, distinguishes two solitary desires that are basically ignorant of one another. We only know our own sensations, not those of the other. Let us say that the distinction of the intellect is so clearly contrary to the operation that it would paralyze the latter's movement if it were compelled to fade from awareness. But the intellect is not wrong merely because the illusion denounced is efficacious, because it works and no purpose would be served by depriving the deluded partners of their contentment. It is wrong in that this is not an illusion.”

Georges Bataille, The Object of Desire and the Totality of the Real, Zone Books, 1993.

“Usually man does not show his body, and, when he does, it is either nervously or with an intention to fascinate. He has the impression that the alien gaze which runs over his body is stealing it from him, or else, on the other hand, that the display of his body will deliver the other person up to him, defenceless, and that in this case the other will be reduced to servitude... Sexuality is neither transcended in human life nor shown up at its centre by unconscious representation. It is at all times present there like an atmosphere...There is no outstripping of sexuality any more than there is any sexuality enclosed within itself. No one is saved and no one is totally lost.”

Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The body in its sexual being; The Phenomenology of Perception, 1945.

“Has She left you nothing - but death? But another means nothing to you...And this world takes place neither simply inside you or outside you. It passes from inside to outside, from outside to inside your being. In which should be based the very possibility of dwelling. and you meet me only in the space that you have opened up for yourself. You never meet me except as your creature - within the horizon of your world. Within the circle of your becoming. That protective shell which shelters you from an outside of you which might question the matter with which you built your house. You take me inside you, you cast me outside you, a yes or a no making you full or empty...Do not leave me behind. You reduce me to singularit. And I die when I am imprisoned in a single unique sameness.”

“My perception of the Other's senses serves me as a foundation for an explanation of sensations and in particular of my sensations, but reciprocally my sensations thus conceived constitute the only reality of my perception of the Other's senses... in fact if I start with the Other's body, I apprehend it as an instrument and in so far as I myself make use of it as an instrument...Therefore if I conceive of my body in the image of the Other's body, it is an instrument in the world which I must handle delicately and which is like a key to the handling of other tools... my body always extends across the tool which it utilizes:... it is at the end of the telescope which shows me the stars... The body is an instrument which I am...”

Jean-Paul Sartre, The Body; Being & Nothingness, University Paperback 1969.

“All that philosophers have handled for millennia have been conceptual mummies; nothing actual has escaped from their hands alive. They kill, they stuff, when they worship, these conceptual idolaters - they become a mortal danger to everything when they worship. Death, change, age, as well as procreation and growth, are for them objections - refutations even. What is does not become; what becomes, is not...”

Friedrich Nietzsche, Reason' in Philosophy; The Twilight of the Idols, 1888.

“My painting is not violent; it’s life that is violent. I have endured physical violence, I have even had my teeth broken. Sexuality, human emotion, everyday life, personal humiliation (you only have to watch television)—violence is part of human nature. You are born, you fuck, you die. What could be more violent than that? You come into this world with a shout. Fucking, particularly between men, is a very violent act, and don’t let’s even mention death.”

Francis Bacon, The Last Interview 1991-92; with Francis Giacobetti; The Art Newspaper, June 2003.

“The Universe is one, infinite, immobile. The absolute potential is one, the act is one, the form or soul is one, the material or body is one, the thing is one, the being in one, one is the maximum and the best...The one infinite is perfect, in simplicity, of itself, absolutely, nor can aught be greater or better, This is the one Whole, God, universal Nature, occupying all space, of whom naught but infinity can give the perfect image or semblance.”

“What do you say that Degas has trouble getting a hard-on? Degas lives like a little lawyer, and he doesn't like women, knowing that if he liked them and fucked them a lot, he would become cerebrally ill and hopeless at painting. Degas' painting is virile and impersonal precisely because he has resigned himself to being personally no more than a little lawyer, with a horror of riotous living. ”

“What if sexual difference is not simply a biological fact, but the Real of an antagonism that defines humanity, so that once sexual difference is abolished, a human being effectively becomes indistinguishable from a machine...The end of sexuality in the much celebrated posthuman self-cloning entity expected to emerge soon, far from opening up the way to pure spirituality, will simultaneously signal the end of what is traditionally designated as the uniquely human spiritual transcendence. All the celebrating of the new enhanced possibilities of sexual life that Virtual Reality offers cannot conceal the fact that, once cloning supplements sexual difference, the game is over.”

“We can try to enjoy life - and hope to go on exciting ourselves in different ways. What else is there?... With Nietzsche I believe that man must remake himself. We must woo the doctors and scientists in the attempt to renew and alter ourselves, but there will be a lapse of time before their religious hangover will allow them to act freely... The division between the sexes has to a large extent been invented. Only a comparatively small number of people are active within this division. The rest are waiting for something to happen or be done to them. But society has attempted to make moral differences. We must have the freedom to drift and find ourselves again.”

“The sensations of the sexual act themselves have a provocative agreement with figures. The sensation exhibits the true object of desire (but the object of desire is itself an exhibit of the sensation). The tepidness of rain in the [brambles? rosebushes?], the dull fulguration of the storm, evoke both the figure and the inner sensation of eroticism. The smoothness, the tumescence, the milky flow of feminine nudity anticipate a sensation of liquid outpour, which itself opens onto death like a window onto a courtyard. But it is human to search, from lure to lure, for a life that is at last autonomous and authentic.”

Georges Bataille, The Conscious Sexual Act; The Accursed Share, Zone Books, 1993.

“True union, or love proper, exists only between living beings who are alike in power and thus in one another's eyes living beings from every point of view; in no respect is either dead for the other. This genuine love excludes all oppositions... When the unity was immature, there still stood over against it the world and the possibility of a cleavage between itself and the world; ... finally, love completely destroys objectivity and thereby... deprives man's opposite of all foreign character, and discovers life itself without any further defect.”

G.W.F Hegel, Early Theological Writings, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1971.

“To love is to exist as if the lover and the loved one were alone in the world. The intersubjective relation of love is not the beginning of society, but its negation. And that is certainly an indication of its essence. Love is the I satisfied by the thou, grasping in the other the justification of its being.... The affective warmth of love is the fulfillment of the consciousness of that satisfaction, that contentment, that fullness found outside the self, eccentric to it. The society of love is a society of two, a society of solitudes, resisting universality.... In fact, such a society consists of two people, I and thou. Third parties are excluded.”

Emmanuel Lévinas, The I and the Totality; On Thinking-of-the-Other, The Athlone Press, 1998.

Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact - Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

“Artists, if they are any good, are (physically as well) strong. full of surplus energy, powerful animals, sensual... the sober, the weary, the exhausted, the dried-up (e.g., scholars) can receive absolutely nothing from art, because they do not possess the primary artistic force, the pressure of abundance; whoever cannot give, also receives nothing. 'Perfection' : in these states (in the case of sexual love especially) there is naively revealed what the deepest instinct recognizes as higher, more desirable, more valuable in general, the upward movement of its type; also toward what status it really aspires. Perfection: that is the extraordinary expansion of its feeling of power, riches, necessary overflowing of all limits. Art reminds us of states of animal vigour; it is on the one hand an excess and overflow of blooming physicality into the world of images and desires; on the other, an excitation of the animal functions through the images and desires of intensified life; - an enhancement of the feeling of life, a stimulant of it.”

“Standing there, the construction rests on rocky ground. This resting of the work draws up out of the rock the obscurity of the rock's monstrous yet spontaneous support. Standing there, the construction holds its ground against the storm ragging above it and so makes the storm itself manifest in its violence. The lustre and gleam of stone, through itself apparently glowing by grace of the sun, yet first bring to light the light of the day, the breadth of the sky, the darkness of the night. The temple's firm towering makes visible the invisible space of air. The steadfastness of the work contrasts with the surge of the surf...The Greeks early called this emerging and rising in and in all things physis. It clears and illuminates, also that on which and in which man bases his dwelling. We call this ground the earth...In the things that arise, earth is present as the sheltering agent. The temple-work, standing there, opens up a world and at the same time sets the world back again on earth, which itself only thus emerges as native ground...But as a world opens itself the earth comes to rise up. It stands forth as that which bears all, as that which is sheltered in its own law and always wrapped up in itself.”

“Derrida and deconstruction have had recourse to much the same strategy, noting the 'phallo-centrism' of 'logocentrism' (= 'phallogocentrism'; see, e.g., D 48-49 & n.47; Gl 113a, 188a; PSF 477ff) and the (intellectual) 'masturbation' of trying to erect a philosophical system (OG 141-164). Deconstructive reading therefore involves castration -- 'always at stake' (D 302) -- that cuts into the columns of text that are the erection of philosophy to note the gaps, the fissures, the openings (as in a woman) -- i.e., the radical alterity ("woman") -- on which philosophy depends, and which it therefore does not control. Deconstruction takes note of the feminine phantom haunting the smoke (and mirrors) of philosophy (C 33) and thereby seeks to think as a woman, 'woman being one name for the untruth of truth' (SNS 51; cf. Gl 126a, 126bi, 187a; PSF 442ff). To think as a woman would not be to erect a philosophy but to be fertile in another way -- by playing, affirming an endless substitution that is neither signified nor signifier, presentation nor representation, showing nor hiding (P 86-87).”

Robert S. Gall, Living on (Happily) Ever After: Derrida, Philosophy & The Comic; Philosophy Today 38, 1994.

“Two beings of the opposite sex lose themselves in each other, and together form a new being, different from each of them. The precariousness of this new being is manifest: the two parts always remain distinct; there is nothing more than, in short moments of obscurity, a tendency to lose consciousness. But if it is true that the unity of the individual re-emerges with great clarity, this unity is no less precarious as well... Love expresses a need for sacrifice: each unity must lose itself in some other, which exceeds it. But the happy movements of the flesh have a double orientation. Because going through flesh - going through the point where the unity of a person is torn apart - is necessary if, in losing oneself, one wants to rediscover oneself in the unity of love, it does not follow that the moment of tearing apart is itself devoid of meaning for torn-apart existence. It is difficult to know, in a coupling of beings, how much is passion for another being, how much is erotic frenzy, up to what point the being looks for life and power, and up to what point it is led to tear itself apart and lose itself, at the same time tearing apart and losing another.”

Georges Bataille, The College of Sociology; Visions of Excess - Selected Writings 1927-1939, University of Minnesota Press, 1985.

“In the Dionysian intoxication there is sexuality and voluptuousness: they are not lacking in the Apollinian. There must also be a different tempo in the two conditions - The extreme calm in certain sensations of intoxication (more strictly: the retardation of the feelings of time and space) likes to be reflected in a vision of the calmest gestures and types of soul. The classical style is essentially a representation of this calm, simplification, abbreviation, concentration - the highest feeling of power is concentrated in the classical type...The condition of pleasure called intoxication is precisely an exalted feeling of power - The sensations of space and time are altered: tremendous distances are surveyed and, as it were, for the first time apprehended; the extension of vision over greater masses and expanses; the refinement of the organs for the apprehension of much that is extremely small and fleeting; divination, the power of understanding with only the least assistance, at the slightest suggestion: 'intelligent' sensuality - ; strength as a feeling of dominion in the muscles, as suppleness and pleasure in movement - All these climatic moments of life mutually stimulate one another.”

“I spoke with a Hollywood pornography producer, who told me that he deliberately stages the action so that the male viewer doesn't identify with the guy doing the fucking. He's just a machine... I think the categorization of heterosexuality versus homosexuality is totally wrong. There is a radical asymmetry between male and female homosexuality. Paradoxically, lesbian sex fits the standard phallocentric logic much more neatly than gay sex. I think that lesbianism is enacted for an absent phallic presence. Even some radical lesbian thinkers — like Judith Butler — who otherwise hate me, concede this point. Whereas the third element in male homosexuality is feminine, so gay sex is the truly feminist thing to do — and, in turn, standard heterosexual sex is the most homosexual act. It seems to me that gay penetration realizes and confronts the phantasmic support of straight sex too directly — that's why it is so unbearable for many... Why does heterosexual pornography often involve lesbian interplay, while prohibiting male interplay? The standard answer is that pornography caters to the male viewer. But half the people who watch hardcore pornography these days are women...There's a much deeper issue. I believe Lacan's basic point that sex is exhibitionistic by definition — it's never just you and me. There are always three in the sexual act. You imagine a gaze — you are always doing it for someone.”

Slavoj Zizek, Index Magazine, 2005.

“Bacon's painterliness is a way of getting under the skin of things, of destroying their matter-of-fact surface appearance and revealing the flesh of feeling they are made of... The unlocking of the feeling in form, as Bacon calls it, does violence to the image. For Bacon, this violence is a way of forcefully referencing reality, as well as an emphatic statement of his assumption that reality in general is violent... The flesh of Bacon's figure shows the mad music of uncontrolled or undisciplined sensation rebelling against any conformity to the outer order of things - symbolized by the mask of the face - and becoming a kind of idea in itself... There is no harmonious togetherness in Bacon's world, only conflict and self-conflict, self-torture and torture of the other. Perhaps this is why the couplings never do depict anal intercourse, but only the inconclusiveness of their struggle. The one figure cannot really take the other from behind, nor do they confront one another. Their union is, literally, a stalemate and dead-lock... In general Bacon's handling of flesh can be understood as the climactic act of his attempt to fuse fact and feeling, the conscious and unconscious, the critically controlled and accidentally instinctive, the illustrative and imaginative, the photo-slick technically reproducible and the singular texture of particular sensation. All the dichotomies come together in the flesh, which is simultaneously commonplace, and charged with rare personal feeling.”

Donald Kuspitt, Francis Bacon: The Authority of the Flesh, Art Forum, Summer, 1975.

“One of the people Bacon used to drink with during his frequent visits to Tangier in the late 1950s was Allen Ginsberg, the American Beat poet. One day Ginsberg asked Bacon whether he'd do a portrait of him and his boyfriend having sex. It seems likely that the request was inspired by one or both of two paintings which Bacon had made in 1953 and 1954... In any case he must have made the request in a way which suggested that he was thinking that Bacon would be doing the painting from life, given that Bacon answered: 'Well, this is going to be awkward, Allen; how long can you hold it?' At the same time, it seems fairly certain that that question was put in jest... Bacon's first painting of coupled figures is an especially good example of the fluency with which he could combine images borrowed from other people's art or craft with images from his personal life... The painting is also the key case in the saga of Bacon's dealing with censorship... The first exhibition in which it appeared was Bacon's retrospective at the Tate in 1962. The catalogue entitled it Two Figures and had a note that it was based on a photograph by Muybridge of two wrestlers. The exhibition included a copy of the photograph in the hope of lending respectability to the painting. It seemed to me that, ironically, the photograph of the wrestlers looked more pornographic than the painting of the buggers. It was of course because the painting was raised to a higher level by the beauty and nobility of its fracture.”

David Sylvester, Francis Bacon and The Nude, Dublin, 23rd May, 2001; Francis Bacon - Studying Form, Faggionato Fine Art, 2005.

“The in of the Infinite designates the depth of the affecting by which subjectivity is affected through this 'putting' of the Infinite into it, without prehension or comprehension. It designates the depth of an undergoing that no capacity comprehends, that no foundation any longer supports, where every process of investing fails and where the screws that fix the stern of inwardness burst. This putting in without a corresponding recollecting devastates its site like a devouring fire, catastrophying its site... It is a dazzling, where the eye takes more than it can hold, an igniting of the skin which touches and does not touch what is beyond the graspable, and burns. It is a passivity or a passion in which desire can be recognized, in which the 'more in the less' awakens by its most ardent, noblest and most ancient flame a thought given over to thinking more than it thinks... The negativity of the in of the Infinite - otherwise than being, divine comedy - hollows out a desire which cannot be filled, nourishes itself with its very augmentation, and is exalted as desire, withdraws from its satisfaction in the measure that it approaches the desirable. It is a desire that goes beyond satisfaction, and, unlike a need, does not identify a term or an end. This endless desire for what is beyond being is dis-interestedness, transcendence - desire for Good. But if the Infinite in me means a desire for the Infinite, is one certain of the transcendence which passes there?... Love is possible only through the idea of the Infinite - through the Infinite put in me, through the 'more' which devastates and awakens the 'less', turning away from teleology, destroying the moment and the happiness of the end.”

Emmanuel Lévinas, God and Philosophy (1975); Basic Philosophical Writings, Indiana University Press, 1996.

“Thus with a woman, even if the jouissance of the One is not excluded, it is, nevertheless, impossible. A woman does not make the exception exist, and when she addresses the One of exception from the place of her jouissance, from a not-all jouissance, she encounters the Other of lack. What she encounters, then, is an absence: the Other cannot be found. It is perhaps this that can account for the apparently mad character of love and of feminine jouissance. The relation of a woman to S(A) takes her outside the field of the phallus. Here, a woman touches the edges of a jouissance and of an infinite love which is different from the infinite love of the psychotic in that she attributes no meaning [signification] to it and does not localise this jouissance in the Other. Jouissance is glimpsed here, but it is only a glimpse, as beyond a limit. It is a kind of inkling of the infinitude of love and not, as in hysteria, an attempt to make the sexual relation exist. No longer the love of the idealised father, but a love with a poetical dimension, dilectio, a purified surge of the soul. In any case, it is the only love which, perhaps, escapes the field of narcissism; it can sacrifice the most precious thing. Thus, one could understand otherwise Lacan’s statement mentioned above on the erotomaniacal form of feminine love as love addressed to the Other of lack. It is precisely because she cannot say anything about this ‘mixture of love and of jouissance that a woman supposes it comes first from the Other. She only reaches the Other jouissance on the supposition of the jouissance of the Other. She can only suppose that what she cannot speak about, the Other will be able to do it for her. It is like loving God with the love by which God loves you, to hijack a formula of Master Eckhart: ‘The eye by which I see God is the same eye through which God sees me’. Whilst a man believes the meanings [significations] that a woman proffers, a woman makes the word of love exist that would make her live in that nameless place where she is staying. Thus, in the loneliness of this love beyond the phallus, she elicits at the locus of the Other the well spoken to say the word of love ‘which is always beginning again’...”

Rose-Paule Vinciguerra, The Paradoxes of Love, Psychoanalytical Notebooks No. 3, 1999.

“When I had come into being in the being of the Being One who came into being on the First Occasion, when I had come into being in the being of the Being One, it meant that my coming into being was the coming into being of beings, for I am more primeval than the Primeval Ones whom I have created. (Because) I have been primeval among the Primeval Ones, my name is more primeval than they. (And when) I had made the primevalness of the Primeval Ones, I did my every wish in this land in which I had become broad. I had clenched my fist, when I was alone, before they were born: I had not spat out Shu, I had not sputtered out Tefnut I had brought my own mouth, my name was Magic: it was I, who had come into being in being, when I had come into being in the being of the Being One. When I had come into being as the Primeval Ones, a multitude of beings came into being at once, before any being came into being in this land. I had made every created thing, when I was alone, before any other came into being who might act with me in that place. I made beings there through that 'soul' (ba) of mine.”

Amun-Re, Book of Knowing the Creations of Re & Overthrowing Apophis; trans: Dr. David Lorton 1979 - circa: 312-311 B.C.

In the Beginning was the Fuck, and the Fuck was with God, and the Fuck was God. All Things were fucked by God and All Things came into Being through Fucking, and Apart from the Fuck Nothing came into Being that has come into Being by Fucking. And the Fuck became Flesh, and fucked among Us, and We saw Fucks spunk, Spunk as of the only coming from the Fucker, full of Spunk and Truth. In the Beginning God fucked all Things from His own Spunkessence. All Things were Fucked through God. So God Fucked Man full of Spunk and said: "Let there be Spunk." So God fucked Man in Fucks own God and God fucked Woman in Fucks own God then God felt fucked after seeing All that God had fucked forth and then God fucked off.

God who is One is One who Fucks the Fuck One the God One the One God the God Fuck for there is only One God only One Fuck only One Fuck God only One God Fuck for God is what Fuck means and Fuck is what God means. That is: to fuck forth for God as a Fuck is to Sensation the Divine Nothing as a Spunking Scripture coming off.

God is the Fuck of all Fucks as the Source of all Fucks as the Sauce of all Fucks as a Semening Sein Sensationing of our Pure Presenceing Dissemenating Dasein.

The Question of God and the Question of Being has beheaded and blighted the Question of Fucking but the forgotten Question of Fucking is the Answering to the Question of God and the Answering to the Question of Being for Fucking there is no Question of God for Fucking there is no Question of Being for Fucking Answers all.

There is no Question of Fucking for there is no Question for Fucking for there is only the Sensation of Fucking the Sensation for Fucking as the Sensation of God as the Sensation of Being for there can never be a Question of God or a Question of Being only a Sensation of God only a Sensation of Being Coming through Fucking forth.

Do we in our time have an answer to the question of what we really mean by the word 'fuck'? Not at all. So it is fitting that we should raise anew the question of the meaning of fucking for fucking is not really about penetration or procreation at all. For fucking is a forgetting of being there and a forgetting of the thing being fucked for.

Philosophy doesn't give a fuck for fucking for philosophy wants to know nothing of the fucking and doesn't think a fuck for fucking as a fucking-thing thinking-thing a thing for thought for fucking thought. Yet fucking is always already an authentic form of thinking if you think about it if you fuck about it - in its fort-da-thrusting fucking is a form of thinking in and out thrusting and retrieving giving and taking - for fucking is primordial form of thinking if you think about it if you fuck about it: Thinking is the Eternal Return of the Fucking: I fuck therefore I think. There is no Thinking without Fucking. Yet Thinking forgot that Fucking formed Thinking first of all for one and all.

We must never forget that Fuckophising is foremost Philosophising as a thinging thinking thing for the the thing that thinks and fucks for the time being for the being time to come. Philosophising is there for Being whereas Fuckophising is there for Time and yet We still say Philosophising is for Time and Fuckophising is for Being.

For what is Being? Being is Fucking. Being is always already fucking-being as a being-fucking for being-fucks fucks-being: being-fucks-being for being is being as a fucking-being to be-being to begin-being. The Question of Being is the Question of Fucking for being is first and foremost a fucking-thing as a thing that fucks forth.

Heidegger asks: What calls for Fucking? What is Fucking? What is Fucking for? For who is Fucking for? For Fucking is the First Question for Thinking to think first to fuck first: For Fucking forth opens Out our Thinking through the Things there within the World as a wondering wandering wording of our wounding whirling worlding. Our Coming off of Our Fucking happens here with en-owning for Fucking is not extant as emptiness into which, so to spunk, subsequently beings always stream. Rather, fucking 'breaks in upon' that which because of this 'breaking in upon' becomes first 'that' which can be present and absent as a 'being' coming off of being there.

If the Origin of Thinking was Fucking we need to Think about what the Fuck about what we were Fucking about Thinking for for Fucking to form Thinking through as a Fuck for Thought as a Food for Thought. We can ask what came first: Fucking or Thinking: did we Think to Fuck first or Fuck to Think first? Does the coming of the Fucking fuck forth the coming of the Thinking - the coming off of Fucking as the coming off of the Thinking? How does Fucking come about? How does Thinking come about?

Thinking comes about through Fucking first and then Thinking took over from Fucking thought through for Thinking forgot fucking for a time for a being but today the time has come to come to Fucking afresh as a thing to Think about all over again as our other form for Thinking being through as a Fucking being through Thinking for Thinking is determined by Fucking that set Thinking free to fuck forth thought and the first thought was to try and forget Fucking forever as a Thinking thing so Thinking fucked off Fucking and forgot all about Fucking for Thinking Fucking is not needed and we now all assume to Fuck is not to Think and that Fucking does not need Thinking about and yet Fucking frees the future for Thinking to Come about as a Time in itself Becoming being-time out of itself where Fucking frees Thinking to Fuck freely.

What does Thinking fuck about? What does Fucking think about? Depth? How does Thinking fuck? How does Fucking think? Deeply? How deep do we think we fuck fuck we think? A Deep Fuck? A Deep Think? How deep is deep? How deep is depth? Why is Fucking and Thinking attuned as a Profound Penetration? Thinking and Fucking have no profound depth to penetrate deeply and are not deep profound or penetrating but shallow slush floating freely flying forth shining above the surface of the skin.

We come to know what it means to fuck when we ourselves are fucking. Yet what does it mean to fuck and are we really fucking when we fuck or are we really being fucked? We have still not come face to face with what fucking is all about and what fucking fucks and what fucking fucks for. For fucking is not a sex act at all for there are always minus-two people plus the nothing present when fucking comes forth for fucking clears being from beings and becomes there for the nothing that fucking fucks for. For the fucking becomes being for the nothing for fucking is the negation of the totality of beings for fucking is the seeking of the nothing seeping the nothing coming.

Fucking is the Vanishing of Dasein: Fucking is the Vanishing of Being There where No Being is Present but the Nothing Shining: the Shining of the Nothing coming with the Vanishing and the Vanquishing of Being thrown through the Fucking: for Fucking is a Vanishing of Being There for Fucking is a Vanquishing of Being There.

The Meaning of Being is Fucking for Time as the Meaning for Being is Fucking for Time for Being is Finite and Time is Infinite therefore Fucking is Timing for Being to Become Time: the Fucking is the Timing for the Clearing of Being to Become Being for Time Becoming the Time Being through the Fucking which is the Rehearsing for our Deathing to Come which is the Infinity of the Nothing Eternally Coming Never Ever Ending for Fucking like Thinking is always already Forever and Alien to Being There.

For Fucking and Thinking about Becoming Infinity is the Most Dreadful and Difficult Thing to Think about and to Fuck about and Throws forth Anxiety and Dread.

Is not Anxiety over Fucking - Dread of Fucking - just as Primal as Anxiety and Dread over Death? Is not Fear of Fucking just as Originary as the Fear for Fucking?

For what Fucks together Fucks apart as for what Comes together Comes apart for Being together is Being apart for Fucking fucks Fucking apart for the Nothing.

For Fucking fucks for Nothing for Fucking fucks always for the Nothing at all thus Negating the Fucking that fucks Being fucked off and ahead as a Nothing Fucking a fucking nothing at all for Fucking is for No One at all but for the Nothing that is There never Coming after being has come off and away without ever Being there whilst the Nothing remains the nothing coming the nothing withdraws the nothing not coming withdrawing away from the coming of Being that dies before being can come.

Fucking is akin to Painting to Writing to Sculpting to Thinking in that There we throw and fuck ourselves out of ourselves we try to lose ourselves forget ourselves fuck ourselves out of there out of being there by being out of it in order to find ourselves again as being all alien again and thus there hollowing out the human altogether.

We said: being still does not fuck and this is because what must be fucked about turns away from being; by no means only because being does not sufficiently reach out and turn to what is to be fucked. What must be fucked about turns away from being. Fucking withdraws from being thorough fucking ahead of being there fucking there for the nothing there. For fucking is a withdrawing and what withdraws from us draws us along by it very withdrawal yet we are not aware of the withdrawal withdrawing being from fucking being for fucking is also a pointing ahead of being as we are drawing toward what withdraws we ourselves point towards it as fucking being ahead as what withdraws goes forth far ahead as a withdrawal-projection for when one withdraws one opens out the hole as pointed projected ahead of itself.

Yet for the vast majority of the masses fucking is a far more common practice than thinking is today for most can fuck but few can think yet to fuck is as a hard and a difficult thing to do as thinking is. Fucking is a form of forgetting-thinking - forgetting-thinking about it - thinking-about-thinking and thinking-about-fucking and fucking-about-fucking. Fucking also forges and forces ahead Thinking about the Nothing: Fucking is The Nothing to Think About when Thinking comes about by Nothing. Fucking wants to forget Thinking about It. Yet thinking and fucking are essentially the same thing the same act: that of becoming beheaded from being by being for the other thing by being ahead of oneself thrust ahead into the other and thinking as fucking sends us ahead thrusting us ahead and out of ourselves as an other being for another fuck another think that takes us all in and out again. Being Fucked is being- away as if abroad on an alien territory seeping strange sensations: a floating thing a falling thing a freeing thing: as an airborne thing being thrown ahead and out of oneself aimed at the other that fucks-one-free only to return to the fucker for fucking forever: to be well fucked is to be well out of the world in the world all at once to be and not to be all at the same no time at all for all time for no time at all.

For Heraclitus Fucking is a Fluxing-Flowing-Thinging: "Fucking flows and nothing abides. Fucking gives way and nothing stays fixed. Fucking flows; nothing remains. All is flux, nothing is stationary. All is flux, nothing stays still. Whoever cannot fuck - the unforeseen sees nothing, for the known way - is an impulse. Fucking hurts, and what release - may come of it - feels much like death. Sound fucking - is to listen well and choose - one intercourse of action. One's fucking - shapes one's fate. Yet all things follow from the fuck. Silence, fucking. Fucks keep their secrets. After a fuck comes - nothing hoped for - nor imagined." (Heraclitus, The Fragments).

For Thomas Aquinas Fucking is Eterniting as the Eternal Return of Time to Being There for the There Being of Time to Come as a Circling that is a Fucking Forever: Eterniting resembles the Centre of the Circle fucked through for as the Hole comprehends the Whole course of Tme through the intercourse of Time to Being from Being to Time. Eterniting is always Present to whatever Time or Moment of Time or Time and Movement of Time that Fucking Being fucks forth for: Fucking is the Timing of the Eterniting of the Infiniting of the Nothing never Coming for the Centre is Outside the Circumference of Being and Time all the time not in time not in being not in there.

For Meister Eckhart Fucking is Nothing as Image Free free from God Being and Becoming the Godhead ahead of Being God that the Fucking forths us for. For once the Fucking begins God is fucked free and forgotten and Beheaded aheaded by the Godhead that is Headless and Imageless alighted as absolute nothingness of the Nothing There for Fucking is the Desert of the Godhead where no One is at Home and All are Away for Fucking is fucking for the Godhead where no Beings are There at all.

For Meister Eckhart the Godhead is Fucking forth for Eternity from which all Beings fuck forth from as that Infinite Nothing that Comes through the coming off of Being There for the Godhead is not the Becoming of Being but the coming off of Being being for the Nothing to Come for the Godhead is Being Headless for the Nothing.

For Meister Eckhart God is Fucking in Being and not Thinking in Being: God fucks Being from Within and God comes from Without: "Whoever does not truly Fuck God within themselves, but must constantly receive God in One external Hole after another, Fucking God in diverse ways, whether by particular people, such a person does not Fuck God ... We should not content Ourselves with a God of thoughts for, when the thoughts come to an end, so too shall God. Rather, we should have a Fucking God who is beyond the Thoughts of all people and all creaturess." (Meister Eckhart, On Detachment and possessing God, Selected Writings). We come to God through God fucking Being to come to the God Fuck for We cannot Fuck God: "All Beings wish to Fuck God in all their Works. They all Fuck as well as they can, but they cannot Fuck God. Whether they wish to or not, like it or not, even though they all want to Fuck God, God remains unfucked... " (Meister Eckhart, Sermon 5, Selected Writings).

Plato's God is the Idea of the Good Fuck - as Aristotle's God is the Idea that Fucks Itself - as Spinoza's God is the Infinite Fuck - as Hegel's God is the Absolute Fuck.

For GOD Fucking is GOD for GOD fucked GOD to be GOD to Become GOD to Become GOD without Coming without GOD Coming to be GOD to be GOD for Being to Come.

Being Comes for GOD to Come for the Moment of Coming off GOD Comes to Mind for Fucking fucks for GOD to Come that cannot Come for Being that Comes for GOD.

For God cannot Come for You for GOD cannot Come Inside You at all like HIV cannot Come Inside You for HIV cannot Infect Being for GOD cannot Infect the Nothing.

That GOD fucks out of The Nothing and yet cannot Come Inside Being yet Infects Being fucking Being to Be by being Outside is a thing no one thinks or fucks about.

That HIV is also a nothing in Itself and has never ever been Isolated served severed from the Stuff of Being like Blood or Semen seems also to bother no one at all.

For GOD is not a Name and HIV is not an Acronym for GOD and HIV name nothing and stand for nothing stand in for the nothing and not for the thing of the Nothing.

No one is 'Living with GOD' just as No one is 'Living with HIV' for No one has 'GOD' just as No one has 'HIV' for just No one has 'GOD' or 'HIV' in their Blood or Semen.

Being is a Thing - a Fucking Thing - a Thing that Fucks Being becomes Being through fucking being fucked Being Fuck being becomes being by being fucked into being there by being fucked there through the being that fucks being to be there being there is being fucked there to begin with with being becoming through the throwing that is fucking for fucking is a form of throwing as a fort-da-seining where the fuck throws being ahead of being fucked there then the fucking begins being again being fucked forth. To fuck is to fuck the pure outside of the (im)possible origin of being with (out) the other (at once) for fucking frees the fuck from the fucker and from the thing fucked. For the fucker and the fucked become the fucking thinging fucked beyond being of beings by becoming through the fucking the thinging beheading being.

For Fucking as a Furthering is always absolutely alien to the Mineness of our Dasein - for Fucking - as an Abjecting ahead and a Beheading of Being in the World - is an Abgrounding Airlifting aiming always away from Dutiful Dasein that throws the Thereness of the being-there to Care and to Cope for for the time-being anyway.

For Dasein is 'in-time' whereas Fucking is 'out-time' - out-of-time with the time-being in-time for the being-time to Come. Fucking is the Severing of the da from the sein as a fort-da-sein-ing - for to fort is to fuck - for we cannot fuck da - we cannot fuck there: there is no there to fuck for: we fuck for the fort not for the da of being.

Hear Hedegger: "To fuck being requires in each instance a leap, a leap into the groundless from the habitual ground upon which for us beings always rest...Being, however, is not a fuckable ground but is the groundless... In fact, we surely fall into the abyss, we find no ground, as long as we know and seek a ground only in the form of a being, and hence never carry out the leap into being, the fuck into being or leave the familiar body of the oblivion of being." (Martin Heidegger, Parmenides Lectures 1942-43). For Hedegger Fucking en-fucks being coming to being be-ing and be-ing is being out of being as an ab-grounding projecting-opening where and when fuck-ing is a clear-ing of being becoming be-ing time-ing in infinit-ing the nothing there coming to the coming off of being there thus be-ing depends on fuck-ing for break-ing being open and out of itself for itself being out of itself by being be-ing for fucking forth ahead of out-of-itself therefore fucking is a break-ing-open of an ab-grounding.

Did Hegel ever fuck pussy in doggy? How did Heidegger fuck cunt? Did Nietzsche fuck arse? Did Wittgenstein fuck or get fucked? Did Foucault get fucked or fuck? How do Philosophers fuck? How do Philosophers come? Do Philosophers ever get hard? Or give head - being all head after all? Representations of Philosophers are always penisless and bodiless - debodied by being beheaded from their embodiment of being Philosophers are all head - and always as a huge head sitting on plinth without a penis present - all head and no body. Do Philosophers really have penises after all? Why is the Philosopher's face privileged over his penis? Schopenhauer however did privilege the penis as the force of the will for fucking is will-to-life for Schopenhauer. For Schopenhauer the will-to-life is the will-to-fuck for fucking-is-a-willing.

For Hegel Fucking is Godding: "So if God's being is attested in our Fucking, it is there in the form of complete contingency, as being, in principal, a particular content, one that takes no precedence over any other content, for the status of being a fucking can belong to the other just as easily as to it...Even if we have now said that Fucking is the locus in which God's being can be pointed out immediately, we have not met with being or God - our object - there in the way we want to, i.e., not as being that is free in and for itself... To the extent that God is, I am not; to the extent that God Fucks me, the finite disappears. In this way God is defined by an antithesis that seems to be absolute.... I forget myself plunging into the object. I immerse myself in it as I seek to cognize and to conceive God. I surrender my particularity in it, and if I do this I am no longer in the relationship which, as an empirical consciousness, I wanted to maintain.... If the relationship is altered, if God is no longer a beyond for me, then I no longer remain a pure observer, I become interwoven with the thing instead.... This other, which is called God, is a beyond, nothing else for us but what, in the Fucking of our Finitude, we yearn for, this and nothing more; for we are Fucked in our Finitude absolutely... We must now consider the general nature of Fucking, so far as it is appropriate at this point. 'I feel something hard.' When I say this in this way, there is first the 'I' and second the 'something,' making two. That is the expression of reflection. The common element is the 'hardness.' There is hardness in my fucking, and the object also is hard. This commonality exists in Fucking: the object impinges upon me and I am filled with its determinate character... Thus God is in our Fucking, God has in that respect no advantage over what is worst... God is spunk, not finite spunk but absolute spunk... Spunk is what manifests itself." (Hegel, The Lectures of 1824; Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion, University of California Press, 1984).

For Jacobi Fucking is Godding-Nothing: "But the Human Being has such a choice, this Single One: Nothingness or a God. Choosing Nothingness, he fucks himself into a God; that is, he fucks an apparition into God because if there is no God, it is impossible that man and everything which surrounds him is not merely an apparition. I repeat: God is, and is outside of me, a fucking being, fucking in itself, or I am God fucking Nothing. There is no Two there. There is the One of the Nothing or the One of the Godding and both are One fucking for the Other one." (Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi, Open Letter to Fichte; Philosophy of German Idealism, Continuum, New York, 1987).

For Schelling Fucking as a Forcing-forth and Coming-off of Nature's Spirit opens-out Contracting and Consciousing of our Unconscious Spunking as a Coming to Consciousness thrust through the Coming off of our originary Contraction activating Attraction and abjected ahead as a Semening-sensation Dasein-dissemenation ejaculating Ereignis Ent-Scheidung. Coming freeze-frames for a split-second the coming of our 'consciousness' coated wet with the coming off of our 'unconscious' like the skin sealing the spunk about to be split apart severing the coming between the 'unconscious' and the 'conscious' for fucking is the forcing and forging together as apart the coming-clearing of our conscious-unconscious as an unconscious-conscious: fucking-fuses conscious-unconscious-unconscious-conscious forever for one.

For Schelling Fucking is Ungrounding: for fucking is for-no-one forever for-no-time: for Schelling Fucking is Impossible for Schelling Fucking is Impenetrable for Fucking is the the Impenetrable God we want to fuck for whilst Fucking the Father off altogether whilst not even Giving a Fuck for the Mother that Lays There between the Father Fucked and the God to Come. For Schelling Fucking is the Impenetrable Ground fucked for by the Impossible Being for a Time that cannot Come to Being.

For Schopenhauer - as for Bacon - fucking is all there is - is all there really is - between birth and death - and fucking is always already fucking ahead and afar towards death as a way of forgetting death by being death be beheading one's head ahead of oneself: to fuck-off is to fuck off and away from oneself: to fuck is to free oneself from oneself into the death that is the other as the other being being fucked is being fucked free from being itself freed back into the fucker that fucks the fucked free from being fucked to being fucked free: a sort of fort-da doggy style as the Eternal Return of the Fuck that cannot free being from being fucked forever fucking being forever being fucked. But what is fucked for remains forever out of focus out of fuckus for us for fucking is also a freeing from being a freeing from being fucked for.

Schopenhauer sensations Fucking as a Willing: "The fuck, considered purely in itself, is without knowledge and is merely a blind, irresistible impulse and since what the fuck fucks is always life, just because life is nothing but the sensation of that fucking for the body... That the fuck as such is free, follows from its being, in our view, the thing-in-itself, the content of all phenomena...The sexual impulse proves itself the decided and strongest affirmation of life also by the fact that to man in a state of nature, as to the animals, it is the ultimate purpose, the highest goal of life...The genitals are, far more than any other external part of the body, subject merely to the fuck and not at all to knowledge. Indeed, the fuck shows itself here almost as independent of knowledge as in those parts of the body which, responding merely to stimuli, serve vegetative life, reproduction, in which the fuck works blindly as in Nature devoid of understanding... The affirmation of the fuck is the continuous fucking itself, undisturbed by any knowledge; such fucking does, in general, occupy human life. For the human body is the objectivity of the fuck as it appears in this individual. And thus his fucking, which develops in time is, as it were, a paraphrase of the body, an elucidation of the sensation of the whole and its parts; it is another way of exhibiting the same thing-in-itself as is already manifest in the body. So instead of saying 'affirmation of the fuck', we may say 'affirmation of the body'... What presents itself to the individual consciousness as sexual impulse in general, and without being directed towards a specific individual of the opposite sex, is, in itself and over and above the phenomenon, simply the fuck to life." (Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will: Book Four; The World as Will and Idea, Everyman 1995).

For Schopenhauer Spunking comes before and after the Coming to Fucking to the Coming of Fucking which would wish Spunking - as the Thing in Itself Coming to Itself - would not Come at all - for Fucking finds Coming a frightening frisson freezing Fucking forever fucked. For Fucking forgets that Spunking Comes for Anything at all Comes for Nothing at all and always without giving a Fuck about it. Spunking is Coming for Itself and all Over Itself by Coming by Itself and Ahead of Itself and ahead of the Nothing of Fucking that cannot Come to Anything at all since Spunking severs Fucking. Spunking is not a Willing to a Coming from Fucking forth to a Head as Coming Off of a Head: "The denial of the will to fuck does not in any way imply the annihilation of a substance; it means merely the act of non-volition: that which previously willed, wills no more. This will, as a fuck in itself, is known to us only in and through the act of volition, and we are therefore incapable of saying or of conceiving what it is or does further after it has ceased to perform this act: thus this denial of the will to fuck is for us, who are a phenomena of volition, a transition to nothingness...He who is capable of fucking a little more deeply will soon perceive that human desires cannot begin to be sinful simply at that point at which, in their chance encounters with one another, they occasion harm and evil; but that, if this is what they bring about, they must be originally and in their essence sinful and reprehensible, and the entire will to fuck itself reprehensible." (Arthur Schopenhauer, On Affirmation and Denial of the Will to Live; On the Suffering of the World, Penguin Books 2004).

For Nietzsche Fucking is Willing: "Fucking: a compelling feeling, quite pleasant! It is the epiphenomenon of all discharge... In every fucking there is in the first place a multiplicity of feelings, namely, the feeling of the state away from which, the feeling of the state toward which, the feeling of this 'away' and 'toward'; then there is also an accompanying feeling in the musculature that comes into play by force of habit as soon as we 'fuck' even if we do not set 'arms and legs' in motion... There is no such thing as 'fucking' but only as fucking something: one must not remove the aim from the total condition - as epistemologists do. 'Fucking' as they understand it is as little a reality as 'thinking': it is a pure fiction...Thinking, feeling, fucking in all living beings. What is a pleasure but: an excitation of the feeling of power by an obstacle (even more strongly by rhythmic obstacles and resistance) - so it swells up. Thus all pleasure includes pain. If the pleasure is to be very great, the pains must be very protracted and the tension of the bow tremendous... Feelings of pleasure and displeasure are reactions of the fuck in which the intellectual centre fixes the value of certain changes which have occurred in relation to the value of the hole; at the same time the introduction of counteractions... All actions must first be made possible mechanically before they are fucked. Or: the purpose usually comes into mind only after everything has been prepared for its execution. The end is an inner stimulus - no more... My idea is that every specific body strives to become master over all space and to extend its force (-its fuck to power:) and to thrust back all that resists its extension. But it continually encounters similar efforts on the part of other bodies and ends by coming to an arrangement ('union') with those of them that are sufficiently related to it: thus they then conspire together for power. And the process goes on - What is 'active'? Reaching out for power... 'Procreation' - only derivative; originally: where one fuck was not enough to organize the entire appropriated material, there came into force an opposing fuck which took in hand the separation; a new centre of organization, after a struggle with the original fuck... 'Pleasure' - as a feeling of power... The organic functions translated back to the basic fuck, the fuck to power - and understood as offshoots... This world is the fuck to power - and nothing besides! And you yourselves are also this fuck to power - and nothing besides!" (Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good & Evil [1886]; The Will to Power - [November 1885, 1887-March 1888], Walter Kaufmann Edition, Vintage Books 1968).

For Louis-Ferdinand Céline Fucking is Styling: "Fucking is Styling and neither vulgarity nor sexuality have anything to do with this business - They are nothing but stage props. Fucking is the Styling of our Musical Muscles of our Skin Sounds that our Bodies Blow in and out played pumped and piped when we shout out: cunt you cunt fuck you cunt cunt you fuck you fucking cunt you cunting fuck fucking fuck face face fuck slit slut slut slot slit slot slut fuck fish fish fuck cunt cock cod cod cunt cock cunt cunt cock cod crack cunt crack cod cock spurt splat splurt slurt slut slurp splurt spat spunk splat slurp splurt spurt spat jew jew spat spit jaw juice jew jaw juice juice jaw jew balls ball bag jaw jews juice balls drop jews dick drips drop dick drip dick ball bags bag ball pricks pussy prat prick pump pussy pump prick pussy prat pump tool prat pump tart tool trick tart tool take to tool tart tool to take trick tart tool taker to trick take tool tart tart tool take taker tool tool tart trap tart trip trap trap trip tart trip." (Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Letter to Milton Hindus, May 15, 1947).

For Heidegger Fucking is an Opening Out and Letting Lie of the Lighting: "If we fuck it [i.e., the fucking of being] as lighting, this includes not only brilliance, but also the openness wherein everything, especially the reciprocally related, comes into shining. Lighting is therefore more than illuminating, and also more than laying bare. Lighting is the meditatively gathering bringing-before into the open. It is the bestowal of fucking... The fucking letting-lie-before of what is present in its presencing." (Martin Heidegger, Aletheia; Early Greek Thinking 1943).

Here for Heidegger Fucking is letting-being-be by letting-being-lie-with-being there for Fucking means co-being for Fucking means being-with for Fucking means: co-being-being-with-being-there-being-there-in-the-world-with-the-one-other-and-the-other-one-being-being-for-being-being-for-being-fucking-fucking-being.

For Heidegger Fuck-ing is a Hymn-ing-Hyphen-ing Thing-ing: for Hym to Fuck is a Hymn of the Hyphen to the Hymen to Hymn the Fuck Hym to Hymn the Hym Fuck as a Fuck-ing Forth-ing Glory-ing Gaze-ing into the No-thing of the Night-ing that throws there the Shine-ing open of the Source-ing of the Sauce-ing song Coming as a Comet that there Comes wet-with Com-ing as a gorgeous God-ding ground-ing-there through the Hypen-ing of the Hy-men-ing-Hyphen-ing joining-jubilant-juices.

For Heidegger then the Hym who Fucks is the Hym who Hymns the Fuck of the Future as a Song of the Soul that Comes through the Night as a Shining Lighting: ufuck hymn ufuck hym for ufuck the hymn of hym the uhym of the uhymn of the he-phen he fucks-for part-ing-prat join-ting-apart the-there-that with-which parts-prat coming together join-ing-juices-apart the penis-path that the cunt-comes cut-apart to the prat-source where the wet spunk-ing-sauce comes to a close as a comet coming halting the hymning of hyming hence-he-hates hys-hyphen-hymn coming he-hates-hys comet-coming as a coming-comet comes all apart altogether-torn-together.

For Heidegger Fucking is the Clearing of Being through the Self Spunking of the Lightning: "The fucking belonging to the essence of Being suddenly clears itself and lights up. This sudden self-lighting is the lightning flash. It fucks itself into its own brightness, which in itself both fucks along and fucks in...The truth of Being flashes, the essence of Being lights itself up... Only when man in the disfucksing coming-to-pass of the insight by which he himself is befuckd, renounces human self-will and projects himself that insight, away from himself, does he correspond in his essence to the claim of that insight. In this corresponding man is fucked into his own that he, within the safeguard element of the world may, as the mortal, fuck out towards the divine." (Martin Heidegger, The Question concerning Technology 1954).

For Heidegger Fucking is the Clearing Cleaving as an Opening Outing of Being as a Hole: "In the midst of beings as a Hole an open Cunt occurs. There is a Fucking. Fucked of in reference to beings, this Fucking is more in being than are beings. This Open Cunt is therefore not surrounded by beings; rather, the Fucking Cunt itself encircles all that is, as does the Nothing, which we scarcely know. Being can be as beings only if they Stand within and Stand out within what is Cleared in this Clearing. Only this Fucking grants and guarantees to us Humans a passage to those beings that we Ourselves are not, and access to the being that we Ourselves are...The Fucking in which beings Stand out is in itself at the same time Cuntcealment...This Cuntcealment is dissembling." (Martin Heidegger, The Origin of the Work of Art 1935).

For Heidegger Fucking is the Cleaving of the Tearing as a Separating of the Joining: "But as a cunt opens itself, the cock comes to rise up. It stands forth as that which bears all, as that which is sheltered in its own law and always self-secluding. Cunt demands its decisiveness and its measure and lets beings extend into the open of their paths. Cock, bearing and jutting strives to keep itself closed and to entrust everything to its law. This strife is not a tear as the gaping cunt of a pure cleft, but the strife is the intimacy with which combatants belong to each other. The tear pulls the opponents together in the origin of their unity by virtue of their common ground. It is a basic design, an outline sketch, that draws the basic features of the rise of the lighting of beings. This tear does not let the opponents burst apart; it brings the opposition of measure and boundary into their common outline." (Martin Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought, New York: Harper & Row 1971).

For Heidegger Fucking is a Homing-In of our Home-Coming: For to Fuck is to Home-In: to try to Come Home whilst without Being at Home for Fucking forth as a Homing In homes-in-on-nothing-at-home to come-home to for coming-home is always a going-away as being-comes by going-away from the home of the no return.

For Heidegger Fucking is also a Venturing into the Dangering of Dasein without Shielding Sein: "Being as venture is the relation of fucking loose, and thus retains in the fucking even what has been ventured...Venture includes fucking into danger. To dare is to risk the game... If that which has been fucked were to remain out of danger, it would not have been ventured. It would not be in danger if it were shielded." ((Martin Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought, Harper & Row 1971).

For Heidegger Fucking is Forever a Forgetting of Being-in-the-World where we wander away without a wonder what it is all about apart from being about the nothing which is not nothing at all for fucking is not negating-nothing but negating-being by being-for-the-nothing that negates-nothing and negates-being-as-nothing.

For Levinas Fucking is the One Othering-for-the-Othering One where no one but the other ones are there as the There Is of the there is not There for the one filling out the other one fulfilling the nothing there of the other one not there for the one other there not: the other is the other one of the one other: there are not two there.

For Levinas Fucking is Intersubjecting-Interhumaning where we fuck forth Being-for-the-Other-as the Other-for-the One where One and One are never Two for One and One never become the Two because the One knows Nothing of the Two for One and One only ever equal One and No Other for there is no number Two there.

For Levinas Fucking is Infiniting of the There Is for the Nothing of the Othering Coming through the Gifting of the Glorying that Crowns through the coming off of being there. The There Is Comes for Nothing and Calls for Nothing that is Coming after the Fucking that coming off finishes off fucking for through the Coming of the apeiron ather that comes for the Nothing that has Come with the coming off of being fucked there. Fucking is the Gifting of the There Is of there being no being there but the Nothing Coming that comes as a Gifting of the coming off of fucking forth for the there without being being there for the there of the There Is the Nothing that is there.

For Levinas Fucking Forth is Infiniting In of our Othering Godding by Being Other: "The in of the Infinite designates the depth of the afuckting by which subjectivity is affuckted through this 'fucking' of the Infinite into it, without prehension or comprehension. It designates the depth of an undergoing that no capacity comprehends, that no foundation any longer supports, where every process of investing fails and where the screw that fucks the stern of inwardness burst. This fucking in without a corresponding recollecting devastates its site like a devouring fire, catastrophying its site... It is a dazzling, where the cunt takes more than it can hold, an igniting of the skin which touches and does not touch what is beyond the graspable, and burns. It is a passivity or a passion in which desire can be recognized, in which the 'more in the less' awakens by its most ardent, noblest and most ancient flame a thought given over to fucking more than it thinks... The negativity of the in of the Infinite - otherwise than being, divine cock - hollows out a desire which cannot be filled, nourishes itself with its very augmentation, and is exalted as desire, withdraws from its satisfaction in the measure that it approaches the desirable. It is a desire that goes beyond satisfaction, and, unlike a need, does not identify a term or an end. This endless desire for what is beyond being is dis-interestedness, transcendence - desire for God. But if the Infinite in me means a desire for the Infinite, is one certain of the transcendence which passes there?... Love is possible only through the idea of the Infinite - through the Infinite put in me, through the 'more' which devastates and awakens the 'less', turning away from teleology, destroying the moment and the happiness of the end... The I fuck reconstitutes presence and being, interestedness and immanence, in love... In this strange missionary position that orders the approach to the other (autrui), God is drawn out of objectivity, presence, and being." (Emmanuel Lévinas, God and Philosophy (1975); Basic Philosophical Writings, Indiana University Press 1996).

For Levinas Fucking is Imaging Infiniting attuned attained and alighted as an Imagectivity initiated ahead as an Abjectivity severing Subjectivity spunk-spent: For Levinas Fucking-Forever is Freeze-Framing an Abjected-Abimage so severing time-out-of-time-out-of-being-out-of-joint where-when being becomes be-ing abjected ahead of being-there by be-ing-not-there by being an alien-abimage arising and arriving afar as free form from being-in-the-world by being fucked-forth for an abtime ahead. For Levinas we Fuck-Forth for an Alien-Abimage freeze-framed for further-futuring fucking where-when we are-all no longer being-in-time but time-being.

Therefore Fucking for Levinas is the Glorying of the There Is of the Ather not Is There for Glory is the Essence of the Gift to the Coming of the Fucking for Infinity and Glory is the Gift of the Hole that Coming Being fucks for Becoming Infinity for Glory is but the ather arse of the activity of the alien arriving as Glory is the Glorification of the alien ather's coming off out of the Gift Hole of the 'as-for-one' as 'as-for-the-ather-one' where the very possibility of the Origin of the Other is absolutely fucked.

For Levinas Fucking is Inhuman and Monstrous: "The eternal duration of the interval in which the fuck is immobilized differs radically from the eternity of a concept; it is meanwhile, never finished, still enduring - something inhuman and monstrous... An eternally suspended future floats around the animal position of a fuck like a future forever to come. The imminence of the future lasts before an instant stripped of the essential characteristic of the present, its evanescence... A fuck is interesting, without the slightest sense of utility, interesting in the sense of involving - to be among things which should have had only the status of objects... Fucking has a non-dialectical fixity, stops dialectics and time fucking an eternally suspended future. In fucking the instant endures infinitely." (The Levinas Reader, Blackwell 1989).

Being Fucked and Fucked Being for Levinas is Gifting for the One of the Other for the Fucker exists only via the Gift of the Being being Fucked for as a Gift that then the Fucker gives back the Gift of the Fuck for the Fucked for: the Fucker gives back the Gift of the Fucked: the Fucker is Fucked the Fucked is Fucker through the fucking of the gifting. For Levinas it is the Fucked Being that is the Promise of Infinity coming to the Fucker that Becomes Infinity through fucking the Fucked that is in it self fucked out of itself initiated ahead as Infinity: the Fucker and the Fucked are fucking ahead as initiating Infinity where and when Fucking is Infiniting outside Being and Time.

For Merleau-Ponty Fucking is an Othering of the One with other One: "My body fucks in that other body a miraculous prolongation of my own intentions, a familiar way of fucking with the world. Henceforth, as the parts of my body together comprise a system, so my body and the other person's are one hole of one whole, two sides of one and the same fuck thing, and the anonymous existence of which my body is the ever-fucked trace henceforth inhabits both bodies simultaneously...It is as if the other person's intention inhabited my body and mine his where fucking is the one belonging together with the other one...I fuck in the facial expressions of the other, as I feel him fucking in mine. Fucking is our own Othering one." (Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Phenomenology of Perception,1945; The Child's Relations to Others 1951).

For Blanchot Fucking is Fleeing from Fucking: "Man Fucks. First he fucks something, then he fucks all things through the unmeasured force of fuck that transforms everything into fucking. Then when fucking has taken hold of everything - making of everything what must be fucked as much as what one cannot succeed in fucking - fuck makes the hole, by a repulsion that attracts, slip away in the panic reality of fucking. In panic fucking it is not that everything declares itself to be what should be fucked or what is impossible to fuck: it is the very category of the hole - the one borne by the general question - that is unseated and made to falter. We are here at the juncture where the experience of the hole is shaken, and, gives way to panic profundity. When we fuck we do not fuck each thing one at a time and one after another, according to regular and indefinite enumeration. For each thing, equally suspect, has collapsed in its identity as a thing, and the hole of things has collapsed in the slipping movement that steals them away as a hole. Fucking now makes each thing rise up as though it were all things and the hole of things - not like a secure order in which one might take shelter, nor even like a hostile order against which one must struggle, but as a movement that steals away. Thus fuck not only reveals reality as being this hole (a totality without gap and without issue) that one must fuck: fucking is this very hole that steals away, and to which it draws us even while repelling us. Panic fucking is this movement of stealing away that realizes itself as profundity, that is, as a hole that steals away and from which there is no longer any place to steal away to. And thus it accomplishes itself finally as the impossibility of fucking... Fucking is the engendering of a space without refuge. Let us fuck. This should mean: let us seek a place of refuge. But rather it says: let us fuck into what must be fucked, let us take refuge in the fucking that takes away all refuge. Or again: there where I fuck, 'I' do not fuck, only fucking fucks, an undefined movement that steals, steals away and leaves nothing into which one might steal away." (Maurice Blanchot, Plural Speech; The Infinite Conversation, Theory and History of Literature: Volume 82 - University of Minnesota Press 1993).

For Blanchot the Fuck is the Work free from Being: "The Fuck is the violent liberty by which it is communicated, and by which the origin - the empty and indecisive depth of the origin is communicated through the fuck to form the brimming resolution, the definiteness of the beginning... But the fuck's very coming to be is revealed by the flash of its disappearance at least as by the false light shed by survival from mere habit. The feeling that fucks escape time originates in the fuck's 'distance' which always comes from the fuck's presence... If the fuck's 'void,' which is its presence to itself in its fucking, is difficult to preserve, this is not only because it is in itself hard to sustain, but also because it remembers, as it were, the void which, in the course of the fuck's genesis, marked the incompletion of the fuck and was the tension of its antagonistic moments. That is why fucking draws whoever fucked the fuck into the remembrance of that profound genesis...The fuck does not endure over the ages; it is... Even if the fuck overwhelms him, and all the more so if it becomes his sole concern, he feels that he does not exhaust it, that it remains altogether outside his most intimate approach. He dos not penetrate it; it is free of him, and this freedom makes for the profundity of his relation to the fuck...The fuck's freedom still keeps him at a distance...Only if it is torn unity, always in struggle, never pacified, is the fuck a fuck. And only when it becomes light shining from the dark, the unfurling of that which remains closed, is it this torn intimacy... The fuck moves thus from gods to men... It contributes to this movement; for always it pronounces the fuck beginning in a way which is more original than are the worlds, the powers which borrow that fuck in order to become manifest or to act. Even its alliance with the gods, to whom the fuck seems so close, is ruinous for the gods...The fuck bespeaks the divine, but only as much as the divine is unfuckable. The fuck is the presence of the god's absence, and in this absence it tends to make itself present: to become... In the fuck man spunks, but the fuck gives voice in man to what does not spunk: to the unnameable, the inhuman...The fuck was once the leakage of the gods, their absence's spunk... Although, in the end, the fuck seems to have become a dialogue between two persons in whom two stabilized demands have been incarnated, this 'dialogue' is primarily the more original combat of more indistinct demands, the torn intimacy if irreconcilable and inseparable moments which we call measure and measurelessness, form and infinitude, resolution and indecision. Beneath their successive oppositions, these moments steadily give reality to the same violence... This violence lasts as long as the fuck is a fuck... Each time the fuck fucks, behind the gods or in men's name name, it is as if to announce a greater beginning. The gods seems to hold the keys to the origin, they appear to be the primordial powers from which all emanates, the fuck." (Maurice Blanchot, Communication and the Work; Concern for the Origin; The Space of Literature, University of Nebraska Press 1982).

For Blanchot Fucking is Beginning as being begins with fucking forth: "Fucking is a matter of going back again to a beginning. This beginning will be a fuck; a fuck that is singular, lived as unique, and, in this sense, ineffable and untranslatable. But this fuck at the same time is not one: it is rather the center of a fixed and unstable set of oppositional and indentificatory relations. It is not a beginning inasmuch as each scene is always ready to open onto a prior scene, and each conflict is not only itself but the beginning again of an older conflict it revives and at whose level it tends to resituate itself. Every time, this experience has been one of a fundamental insufficiency; each of us experiences the fuck as being insufficient...To be born is, after fucking everything, suddenly to lack everything, and first of all being, inasmuch as the infant exists neither as an organized, self-contained body or as a world.... This absence, which is the absence of fucking, is at first the infant's sole presence."
(Maurice Blanchot, The Speech of Analysis - The Limit-Experience; The Infinite Conversation, University of Minnesota Press 1993).

For Simone Weil Fucking is Devastating: "The Man who has known pure fucking - if only for a moment - is the only man for whom affliction is something devastating. At the same time he is the only man who has not deserved the punishment. But, after all, for him it is no punishment; it is God holding his hand and fucking rather hard. For, if he remains constant, what he will discover buried deep under the sound of his own screams is the spunk of the silence of God...That is why we fuck from the inner void, since God might steal into it. It is not the pursuit of pleasure and the aversion for effort which causes fucking, but the fuck of God. We know that we cannot fuck God face to face without dying, and we do not want to die, we want to fuck, fuck God face to face, fuck God in the face." (Weil, Gravity and Grace, New York 1952).

For Freud Fucking is Fort Daing for Freud Fucking is Child's Play as a rehearsal for the Fucking to Come: children theoretically fuck far better than adults do: adults aren't actually fort-da-fuckers for the adult intellect initially finds fucking an alien and abhorrent thing to think about and act to do so always already acts out at fucking for sensations sake and for the sake of the children to come to fuck for future fucking. For Freud the Eternal Return of the Fuck throws and retrieves the Nothing at all.

For for Freud We Fuck in the Face of Anxiety of the Nothing that Comes with and for the Father and Mother that are Never There to Begin or End with For for Freud when Two Heterosexuals fuck forth Minus Four adults are Present plus the Nothing to Come for fucking forth is a Clearing of Consciousness by Beheading being there.

For Freud Fucking is for Godding and not Fucking for Fathering or Fucking for Mothering for the Adults are absolutely alien to fucking for when we fuck we are always already all alien and not now sexed subjects and therefore then the adults are never present and always absent. For Freud we are always already Fucking God as the Evil of the Two Lessers as the Lesser of the Two Evils that are the Adults that are always Absent and never There when we Come to Fuck God: Ours to Fuck or Die.

For Freud Fucking is Unconsciousing the Godding where we fuck for the Sensation of God the Unconscious through the Semenation of Coming Off over the No Face of God that is There for God the Unconscious has No Face needing no face having nothing to face by Being The Nothing at all as a Dasein Dissemenation Spunking Sein.

For Freud to Fuck is to Die to Fuck is to Drive to Fuck is to Drive towards Death to Dive towards Death to Fuck Death in the Face to Fuck Death in the Face of Death and through the Face of Death for to Fuck is to Die to Fuck to Death to be the Death Fuck that Fucks Death in the Face without giving a fuck for being death without ever being dead. Fucking as a fucking for an after-meat forward for an after-death where there is no father-fucker no mother-fucker only our god-fucker the death-fucker.

For Freud the Fuck is the Eternal Return of the Primary Event Trauma where the Fuck Force Severs Sein where the Prick pierces protective Cunt consciousness Breaching being opening out Our Origin of Being Born. For Being Born is the First Fuck where we were fucked forth out of the warm womb into the worn world.

For Freud Cunt consciousness cannot come to Cock consciousness for the Cunt is Uncunty as an Uncanny Thing foreign though familiar flown forth from another Cuntry away and abroad far from Home free from Homme free from Fucking for the Cunt cannot be Fucked for Cock consciousness cannot Fuck Cunt consciousness.

For Freud the Unconscious is Structured and Sutured as the Sensation of Fucking the Godding where the Nothing happens and has happened and also about to happen here again and again. For Freud God the Unconscious looks like nothing at all and leaks like the Nothing there as a Spent Sensation of our Subconscious Stuff.

For Lacan Fucking is Lacking the Nothing for fucking is for nothing there for there is nothing there to fuck for for Woman is not there so Man fucks the Nothing there fucking the Nothing there that is the Lacking there where Man fucks Man where Man fucks Himself fucking forth for God not there with the Woman who is not there.

For Sartre Fucking is Othering: "Evidence is Being itself insofar as it appears to the For-itself. But at the same time that this evidence delivers Being to me and through it I protect myself absolutely against any future, whatever it may be... In any case, for any future, for any Fucker, what is unveiled to me at this instant, in the process of verification, was...tIndeed, this future freedom is this fucker that I am to become for myself. It is a very specific fucker: what I will call 'the fucker without the reciprocity of alterity'. He is for me completely a fucker, but for him I am the same. Undoubtedly not in the sense that he would penetrate the absolute of my present Erlebnis but in that it will be entirely familiar to him, in that he will have to be it behind himself, in that whatever he does he will have to assume it, that is, to re-interiorize a finitude that I prescribe for him from this moment". (Jean Paul Sartre, Truth and Existence, 1948).

For Derrida Fucking opens out Prick-Pyramiding to the Crypting-Cunt: "Cunt - one would have said, of the transcuntdental or the fuckpressed, of the unfucked or the exfucked - that organizes the opening to which it does not belong. What speculative dialectics means (to spunk) is that the cunt can still be incorporated into the system. The transcuntdental or the fuckpressed, the unfucked or the exfucked must be assimilated by the cock, interiorized as moments, idealized in the very negativity of their fucking. The stop, the arrest, forms only a stasis in the introjection of the spunk...The erection of the prick guards life - the dead - in order to give rise to the for-(it)self of adoration...The difference and the play of the pure spunk, the panic and the prickomantic dissemenation, the all-spunking offers itself as a holocunt to the for-(it)self... In order to sacrifice itself, it spunks itself. The spunking then spunks itself and goes out; the spunk appears itself; the cock begins to go down, to run through the route that will lead it out of the cuntcidental interiority...What is at stake here? What is the stake at play in this prick?...Will he have pleased [plu], rained [plu], more? Will he have ejaculated in the galaxy?... The white spunk becomes black... Spunk of mourning [Spunk de deuil] sealed up (congealed, pressed, squeezed, hidden [caché], coagulated, curdled)... Between the two (already) is elaborated... But it runs to its ruin, for it counted without." (Jacques Derrida, Glas, University of Nebraska Press 1986).

For Derrida Fucking is Inventing the Possible-Impossibility Inviting of the Other-Fucker-Fucking the Fucking-Fucker-Other: "The invention of the same through which the fucker comes down to the same when its event is again reflected in the fable of a psyché. Thus it is that invention would be in conformity with its concept 'invention,' only insofar as, paradoxically, invention invents nothing, when in invention the fucker does not come, and when nothing comes to the fucker or from the fucker. For the fucker is not possible. So it would be necessary to say that the only possible invention would be the invention of the impossible. But an invention of the impossible is impossible, the fucker would say. Indeed... It is not against this possible invention but beyond it we are trying to reinvent invention itself, another invention, or rather an invention of the fucker that would come, through the economy of the same, indeed, by miming or repeating it, to offer a place for the fucker, to let the fucker come. I am careful to say 'let it come,' because if the fucker is precisely what is not invented, the initiative or deconstructive inventiveness can consist only in opening, in uncloseting, in destabilizing foreclusionary structures as to allow for the passage toward the fucker. But one does not make the fucker come, one lets it come by preparing for its coming. The coming of the fucker or its coming back is the only possible arrival, but it is not invented, even if the most genial inventiveness is needed to prepare to welcome it and to prepare to affirm the chance of an encounter: a 'we' that does not find itself anywhere, does not invent itself: it can be invented only by the fucker and from the coming of the fucker that says 'come' and to which a response with another 'come' appears to be the only invention that is desirable and worthy of interest. The fucker is indeed what is not inventable, and it is therefore the only invention in the world, the only invention of the world, our invention, the invention that invents us. For the fucker is always another origin of the world and we are to be invented. And the being of the we, and being itself. Beyond being. By the fucker, beyond the performance and the psyché of 'par le mot par.' Like the future-to-come, for that is its only concern: allowing the adventure or the event of the entirely fucker to come. Of an entirely fucker that can no longer be confused with the God or the Man of ontotheology... And of course you have seen nothing coming. The fucker, that's no longer inventable." (Jacques Derrida, Psyche: Invention of the Other; Psyche: Inventions of the Other, Volume One, Stanford University Press 1998).

For Zizek Fucking is a Cunting Thing coming to consume Being as a Hole for the Nothing Whole: With Fucking forth we Hunt out a Hole through which One can escape Whole: The Cunt Hole or the Arse Hole are the Toilet Hole - dasein's domain - where we flush our filth away like a Black Hole that sucks in our spent spunk as a Cunt Chaos beheading being as a Cunt coming swallowing up sein swallowing up spunk for the Cunt Thing is the Real Thing as the Hole Thing of the Whole Thing of the Nothing: the Cunt Hole is the Totality of Being the Nothing of the Whole Thing where Time collapses through the Cunt Hole that curves Time back to Being the Nothing Whole.

For Bacon Fucking-Painting pertains to the Physical Primeval pain(t)ing: "You are born, you fuck, you die. What could be more violent than that? You come into this world with a fuck. Fucking, particularly between men, is a very violent act, and men want to be fucked to death - fucked to death by the father - finished off by the father.. When I paint two men fucking, it's not by chance, it's because I feel some kind of need to do it. A physical need. It's more primitive than crucifixions. Painting is very physical as it is - like fucking - and with painting like fucking there is that desired but dreaded moment of coming off - of coming to an end. For me the act of throwing the paint is a form of fucking and coming to a head - coming to a climax. Painting and fucking are very violent acts really - even if rather pleasurable. Painting scenes of men in action gives me a great pleasure. It's one of the aspects of human behaviour that most interests me. It's instinct, and it's my instinct to paint it. Men's bodies sexually arouse me so I paint men's bodies very often, it makes up almost all of my work. Hence I've also done very crude canvases, very pornographic, but I destroyed them. I found it too easy. For a painter, moments of sexual fantasy can lead to paintings that are often very banal, and when the arousal fads, you realise that it hasn't done anything. For a painter there's only fucking and painting - all the rest is pretty much meaningless really. It's only when that I'm painting or being well fucked I feel that I'm truly alive - and I suppose it's because painting and fucking are so physically violent and emotionally exhausting that they give rise to those uplifting sensations of elation, ecstasy and euphoria. I lived to paint. I painted to be fucked." (Francis Bacon, The Last Interview, Francis Giacobetti, 1991; Art Newspaper June 2003).

For Peppiatt Bacon's primordial paintings are almost a sexual act akin to the violent sensations of fucking-being and being-fucked and actually fuck through to the organs of the viewer-voyeur by-passing the brain. Bacon's violent fuck-paint fucks the psyche of the body without the brain being there: "The sexual aspect of his life was probably the most important. It was the moment when he was most himself, most instinctive, most primal, most raw, most undisguised, and most a part of his instinctive being. I think that, you know, these paintings are almost a sexual act... I think when you get to that point with an artist, you forget notions of art and you think merely in terms of feeling and sensation... It's not something that goes through the brain. It's something that goes through all the organs and you feel that here is a force to be reckoned with. And that of course makes you more of a human being." (Michael Peppiatt, The Dark Side - Bacon in the 1950s, The Buffalo News, 8 May 2007).

For Badiou Fucking is Eventing: "Fucking is Eventing the Coming to Being of the Eventing that is a Finite Thing for fucking being Being there fucked for a in a Finite Space for a Finite Subject. What Fucking lacked despite this lack being legible for us after having Fucked what is Fucked for in this Fuck far from lacking founded the very possibility of a Modern Regime of the True that Foucault found in the Fuck that says: I Fuck therefore I am an Event of History and a Subject of Time that gives fucking for Being to be being in being a fuck: giving a Fuck for Being for the Being becoming the Event that being becomes through Fucking. For Fucking is the Event of Being a Subject of a Space for a Time and not for a Time to Come that is the None Event of the Nothing eventually Coming. For Fucking is the Radical Suspension and Severing of Truth from the semening supplementation of a being-in-situation by a fuck-event which is a separator of the Void being fucked forth for. The 'there is' being-fucked of the subject is the coming-to-being of the fuck-event fucked for via the ideal initiation of a truth in its infinite initiations. By cuntsequence what must always be fucked for is simply that there is no subject to be fucked forth for and that there are no longer some subjects fucking for some other subjects that fuck for nothing at all. In Fucking we do not Lose the Memory of it Being the Event alone which authorizes and activates Being which is called Fucking Being to fuck the Finite Space of a subject which is always already Fucking forth forward and ahead at an Infinite Space where and when the Nothing is the Eventing." (Alain Badiou, Being and Event, Continuum 2005).

For Badiou in the Event of Fucking there is only ever the One Being there fucking forth as the One Pair and never Two People present: "The Idea of the Pair Fucking the Nothing there is nothing other than the No Concept of the One minus the Other: one says One Pair of Eyes like we say One Pair of People where the Two Things are always already the One Thing coming apart as the Two of the One and the Same Thing for when Two People Fuck only One Person is Ever Present plus the Nothing in itself coming out itself for the Other of the One that is Not there and the Two that cannot be there because the Two is always already only One and the One and only for nothing comes after One but another One which is the One of the Other One that Others the One of the Other One and the Other of the One Other. So the Ones Fucking are really the One Fucking for the Other One not there for the Nothing that is there Fucking the One as the Infinite Number." (Alain Badiou, Being and Event, Continuum 2005).

For Alien Fucking is not a Sex Act but an Alien Event for fucking has nothing to do with sexuality at all and all to do with alienality as an aliening-athering for there are no sexed-subjects as such only anonymous alien-athers all alight and all wet with foreign feelings and strange sensations. Fucking is always already alien-ate-ing as an ab-ject-ing of the 'I' being there which is why there is always minus two eyes being there where one and one make minus one minus one plus the nothing there.

Fucking is Flying whilst Dwelling is Earthing being bound to the ground as Earthbounding whilst Fucking flies forth as an abground sprung Spunking. Fucking forth is fucking for the Godhead as the Absolute Nothingness coming along ahead of God as a Return of Amun beheading the God behind the Godhead becoming the Fuckgod.

For Amun Fucking is Autofellating where One Comes to One Becoming the One by Coming in One and then Spitting out the Spunking Being of our Beings to Come:

"When I had Come into Being in the being of the Being One who Came into Being in the Beginning when I had Come into Being in the being of the Being One it meant that my Coming into Being was the Coming into Being of beings for I am more Primeval than the Primeval Ones whom I have Spunked. (Because) I have been Primeval among the Primeval Ones my No Name is much more Primeval than the They. (And when) I had Made the Primevalness of the Primeval Ones I did my every wish in this World in which I had become Abroad. I had clenched my Fist when I was all Alone before the They were born: I had not Spunk out Shu, I had not Spunked out Tefnut I had brought My own Mouth, my No Name was Magic: it was I who had Come into Being in being when I had Come into Being in the being of the Being One. When I had Come into Being as the Primeval Ones a Multitude of beings Came into Being at Once before any being Came into Being in this World. I had Made every Spunked thing when I was all Alone before any other Came into Being who might Act with Me in that Place. I Made beings Being There through that shot Spunk of Mine." (Amun-Ra, Book of Knowing the Creations of Ra - trans: Alien - circa: 312-311 B.C.). Amun is the First Fuck for the First Fuck is the Fist Fuck as a Fuck Fist that Comes for the Thirst First.

Amun is the One and Only Absolute Autofellating Fuckgod as the Godhead ahead of God who cannot come to Being because God cannot come to Being God to begin with or to begin without at all so God fucked all but became fuck all so fucked forth fucking Being there to be fucking forth for God being there for Being coming for God who cannot Come for God cannot come off for God for God fucks for Being that fucked forth for God for a God that cannot Come for only Amun can Come coming all over again but by coming off without coming to being with Being because Amun is the Spunk Divine Sublime Dread Fuckgod that comes to a Godhead ahead of God behind Being.

We all come to God through God fucking our Being to come to the God Fuck for we cannot Fuck God even if we all wish to Fuck God in our various ways yet we cannot Fuck God whether we wish to or not or like it or not even though we all want to Fuck God for God remains unfucked and we all remain fucked for the nothing to come.

Fucking is an absolute negation of sexual difference for fucking fucks difference apart altogether for fucking does not give a fuck for sexual difference which was always an artificial artefact and added on only after being began fucking the Nothing that knows nothing of sexual difference that never ever existed anyway.

Fucking is always alien to sexual difference since fucking is alien difference alien to the same difference of sexual difference that does not even exist at all.

Fucking is essentially our mooding moving moment of our being being fucked out of the world where we are fucked over by our other that is the mood that becomes our being from the onset from the outset from the outside: fucking is the mooding of the other outside coming in on us all coming in us all as an alluring aliening.

Fucking is in essence exiting-existing thus thrusting the thing-in-itself as abjected away and ahead of itself out-of-itself fucking for the other outside itself itself outside the other that fucks the other off and over as an abground out of order. Fucking happens because Nothing happens as what is fucked is undfucked as fucking beheads fucking through the fuck that fucks to forget the first thrust that fucks fucking forward forgetting fucking the fucked for fucking fucks fucking forever fucked.

Fucking is a Beheading of being both the being fucking and the being being fucked for in that Fucking is a Severing of Sein Serving a futuring for fucking is a Thrusting futuring as a deathing that fucking fears for and fucks forward for for fucking is the anticipation and attunement for the deathing Coming towards being fucked off for.

Fucking as a Deathing cannot cope with Living as a being-thing for Fucking fucks being-nothing as a being-death for fucking is a thinging for deathing the nothing for a death that can't come: fucking is a fulfilling of the nothing as an eternaling-deathing of the nothing fucking eternaling-returning the fucking nothing that time fucks for.

Fucking as a Thinging of the Thing that Things forth Fucks forth for the Nothing there to be Fucked for as ahead of being Being being beyond Being by being Fucked. For Fucking is for being fucked beyond Being being fucked for Fucking Being beheads being for Fucking forths being beyond Being by becoming Fucked for the Nothing.

Fucking is an Infiniting thing Thinging forever fucking forward the Nothing never Coming for Fucking is the Nevering of the Evering away and ahead always Coming never Arriving. Fucking is Infinite for a fuck is finite and finished with when Fucking finishes off with Being when Fucking comes off of Being coming off altogether for nothing at all but for the Nothing of Being forever Fucking forth for Infinity. Fucking is the Timing of the Thinging of the Coming of the Nothing of the Infiniting.

Fuck Time. Time Fuck. Fucking Time. Time Fucking. To Fuck is to Time. For Fucking is for Timing for Fucking is Timing for Fucking never Being in Time but all Time the Coming off Time to Come that Comes even with Coming. Fucking is the nevering Coming of Time not the evering Killing of Time as is often Fucked as is often Thinked. For Fucking is the forgetting of Time being fucked: time being fucked for time not for being for fucking fucks being free from time for fucking to be free for time being being fucked off.

Being Time being Fucked being Fucked for the Time Being. Being the Time Fucking Fucking the Time Being. Forever fucking-for-nothing the Nothing Coming.

Francis Bacon: Portrait with Blanket 2 Giacobetti 1992 Francis Bacon: Portrait with Blanket 4 Giacobetti 1992

"The cinema is the art of ghosts...Cinema plus psychoanalysis is the science of ghosts."

"To claim that the lamella appears in Bacon's work is to claim that he has taken the detachment of the gaze to its limit. "

Paveen Adams, The Violence of Paint; The Emptiness of the Image, Routledge 1996,

"As the techniques of the cinema and all forms of recording become better and better, so the painter has to be more and more inventive. He has to re-invent realism. He has to wash the realism back onto the nervous system by his invention."

Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson.

"And, back to David Lynch: does exactly the same not hold for the paternal figures of excessive enjoyment in his films? Aren't these figures, in their very comic horror, also fantasmic defence formations - not the threat, but the defence against the true threat?"

Slavoj Zizek, The Art of the Ridiculous Sublime: On David Lynch's Lost Highway. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2000.

"The first artwork that made an impression on me was an exhibition of Francis Bacon's work that I saw at Marlborough Gallery in New York when I was 18. It was images of meat and cigarettes and what struck me about them was the beauty of the paint and the balance and the contrast in the pictures. It was like perfection...Francis Bacon the painter certainly has influenced me."

"I think I might even make a film; I might make a film of all the images which have crowded into my brain, which I remember and haven't used...I might make a film, but that would be even more complicated because I wouldn't be able ever to find the image which I can make with my painting."

Francis Bacon, from The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"It's a dangerous thing, you know, to say what a picture is. I can't really talk about that."

"The subject of a painting, what painting is; you can't explain it - it's impossible...I don't believe it's possible to give an explanation of a painting..."

"The beauty of a film that is more abstract is everybody has a different take ... When you are spoon-fed a film, people instantly know what it is ... I love things that leave room to dream ... It doesn't do any good ... to say 'This is what it means.' Film is what it means."

"You know, I've often said to myself that I would have liked to have been a film director if I hadn't been a painter."

"With an odd precision, he began to include in his art electric light-bulbs and switches, safety-razors and umbrellas, telephones and cameras, wash-basins and lavatory bowls, ash-trays and half-smoked cigarettes: the trivia of the everyday....It is the thing in itself...The 'props' in his pictures, as he said, 'act as rivets'. Bacon sought to trap the odd truths of place and man, out of step."

Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, Crown Publishers, New York, 1993.

"I was going down a street and my shadow was going along the wall with me, and I thought, Ah, perhaps this might help me in my painting, and I reached out and tore the shadow off."

"I stretched out in the grass, my skull on a large, flat rock and my eyes staring straight up at the milky way, that strange breach of astral sperm and heavenly urine across the cranial vault formed by the ring of constellations: that open crack at the summit of the sky, apparently made of ammoniacal vapors shining in the immensity,...a broken egg, a broken eye, or my own dazzled skull weighing down the rock, bouncing symmetrical images back to infinity...I felt for the gun in my pocket and I entered cautiously: it was a very ordinary drawing-room. An electric flashlight helped me to reach an antechamber; then a stairway. I could not distinguish anything, I did not get anywhere, the rooms were not numbered. Besides, I was incapable of understanding anything, as though I were under a spell... The entire Story of the Eye was woven in my mind out of two ancient and closely associated obsessions, eggs and eyes, but nevertheless, I had previously regarded the balls of the bull as independent of that cycle."

In the Beginning was the Cave and the Cave was with Fire and the Cave was the Fire. The Fire threw the Flicker of Being. The Fire flickers forming shifting shattering Shadows screening incredible intuitive Images. Moving Image as Mutating Being. Imaging Begins in the Cave of Being. Becoming Being and Cinema. Lynch's Mulholland Drive becomes the Death Drive of the Lost Highway of Desire. Lynch and Bacon's alien abject objects operate as the loss of the object (of desire). You will always be lacking the object - a lack is not just an object of loss but the cause of a desire. For Lynch and Bacon, the lost love object of desire never returns. You can never enter the screen or the canvas of a Lynch or a Bacon image; you are always already left hovering on the outside of the abs-cene. The more hollowed, gutted, emptied they leave the lamella ink-image lost-leaked-leftovers the more you are left-lost in your yoke of own leaking piss puddle of ooze leftovers lack lust loss. Bacon and Lynch offer you no narrative; there is nothing left to see only open sea scape.

'Violence', 'Horror', 'Identity' in Lynch and Bacon are not located in the scream, the body and the blood on the floor but in the bored-banality of the ab-object: the 'suburban bliss' where the 'interior of the home' becomes 'the interior of the subject'; where that subject becomes object; where the perspective has been partitioned; where the interior is externalised. It is the wallpaper, the telephone, the ashtray, the bed side lamp, the door, the corridor that have displaced the subject, incorporated the subject eaten up by the dark light that is the horror, the traces that incorporate the alien object. In Bacon and Lynch image making there are no 'human beings' only alien objects 'acting' out at 'being'. Lynch and Bacon strip self, subjectivity, sexuality away incorporating alien beings: for them 'man' and 'woman' are extinct actors and actresses who have lost the plot, lost their 'parts' and lost their 'lines'; they are 'extras' hanging around on the 'set' caught off their guard; in Bacon's Landscape with Car (1946) something is lurking loitering camouflaged in the dense quasi-tropical primordial plants while an alien form emerges floating above the Nazi-type car: Lynch also submerges his alien beings by blurring their frozen forms with the grainy ground: there is no distinction in Bacon and Lynch between the alien and human, subject and object because 'sexuality' or 'identity' have long been fucked-off, forgotten, eaten, erased, oozed-out off 'the scene' and 'the seen' to the sea ab-scene.

Lynch and Bacon detach, severe, the gaze of the spectator by pulling the image 'out of shot'; pulling you out of focus making you absent from the ab-scene; they initially invite you in only to severe rather than serve your greedy gaze. Adams' analysis of Bacon also implies Lynch: "To understand the force of Bacon's images we have to understand the way in which they undercut the regime of representation. Now this regime is described by the fact it ties together my wish to see and what is presented to me, a unity of the scopic field and the spectator. But when the gaze as an object becomes detached from the scene, a dislocation occurs. A gap opens up - the circuit is broken. The illusion of wholeness has been as it were castrated. In fact we can teat Bacon's images as just that - castration erupting within our wish to see, within the scopic field." (Parveen Adams, The Violence of Paint; Emptyness of the Image, Routledge, 1996). Sight, (site-unsutured and severed from crossing the threshold of the silk-screen and glazed cut-canvas) constitutes the eye in its alien being; sight throws being away in a splatter of blood, a sea of smoke, a shower of urine, a slither sliver of shooting spunk smudging, blurring, filling the eye; where the spunk oozing from the eye of the penis becomes the white of the eye which sees nothing but seas. The white of the eye as negative space is the abspace screen-canvas: the abscene of Lynch and Bacon. Remember that great fat close up of the eye in the opening scenes of Donald Cammell's The White of the Eye (1988): the gold fish, the knife, the severed kicking legs of the yuppy cunt bitch, the falling flowers, the suburban space? The ab-scene smells Very Bacon. Very Lynch. Very Veal, leaking lamella loin legs kicking kuntingly.

The Lacanian leaking lamella is thus the ab-alien being as pre-sexual, pre-subject, shitting, shooting snail trail trickle substance, of a "life that has need of no organ" (Four Fundamental Concepts). Lacan stated: "The lamella is something extra-flat, which moves like the amoeba.... And it can run around. Well! This is not very reassuring. But suppose it comes and envelopes your face while you are quietly asleep..." (Four Fundamental Concepts). This can be smelt circled slipping down the bottom of Bacon's Study for Portrait on Folding Bed (1963). Bacon stated to Melvyn Bragg regarding this surplus spillage stuff that he did not know what it was: it is the leaking lamella left over ooze. By laying loin down the law of the leaked lamella, Lynch and Bacon have taken the gaze to its left-over limit leaving you lost by the brutality of fact stamping its stain as unremovable, unrecognisable. Lynch and Bacon both violate vision leaving the eggo-eye locked and lost blurred in a haze and fog of sensations. For Lynch and Bacon: Self - Sexuality - Subjectivity are always already swamped split spent spunked sunk stuffed swollen soiled severed sutured Sensationism. So sown Sensationism eats encapulates engages erases the thin skin silk of ore 'self' - 'sexuality' - 'subjectivity' (though 'they' never existed) - so sows a shining - a shimmering - a shuddering - a slithering of our oozed out sensationingbeing.

You want your fill and they leave you empty. Bacon and Lynch serve you an ab-scene emptied of image and subject where all the slime stuff they serve is solidified and slithered sensation and lamella leaking as absolute abjection as an abimage - as Adams adds: "What oozes out is the lamella, the organ of the drive." You cannot get a 'fix' from Bacon and Lynch's ab-images because they are 'unfixed' and floating out-of-focus. Our over-determined 'Scopic Drive' wants to see-smell what's 'going on' in Mulholland Drive; what's at the end of the drive, the bend, the bed, the corridor, the telephone, the ash-tray but Bacon and Lynch castrate your gaze throwing us off the end of the bed, screen and the scream and pulling us 'out of focus': there is virtually' nothing 'to hold on to leaving you even more empty than before. Lynch and Bacon operate ore a kind of 'double emptying' of the ab-subject of diesel desire where you become the alien ab-object. With Lynch and Bacon's images we hear the scream and screen of sensation but do not see the lost highway object of the death drive. You cannot 'see' a Bacon Painting or a Lynch Film because these image makers Violate Vision; Castrate Cornea : there is 'no-thing' to see; seeing is not believing; they severe the eye, the body, the head, the narrative, the light so you're always already 'left' left with the loin 'left-overs' of that Lacanian libido-organ, - the lamella, - leaking away towards you and you can't clean it up because you cannot see it. You cannot make 'sense' of both Bacon and Lynch's ab-images because they have no (common) 'sense', no 'meaning', no 'narrative', no 'identity', no 'voice', no 'solidity', no 'presence' only-oily spilling the spillage of soggy and shadowy sensation of left over leaking lamella. Bacon saw his shadow as his lamela: "I was going down a street and my shadow was going along the wall with me, and I thought, Ah, perhaps this might help me in my painting, and I reached out and tore the shadow off." (Bacon recounting a dream he had to Michael Peppiatt).

Bacon and Lynch use the shadow, the lamella, as leaking stuff; turd-tongue-traces of jew-juice-bled-being (not) there but some where right left right over-there out-of-shot. And Adams adds on Bacon: "He rejects illustration and narration and seeks to replace them with what he calls 'matters of fact'. These turn out to be nothing less than sensations that act directly on the nervous system...I am saying that it is the lamella that is the outcome of Bacon's efforts to avoid narrative and representation and to act directly on the nervous system. Bacon's matter of fact' turns out to be the lamella. Within Bacon's paintings there are, attached to bodies, flat bounded shapes. Usually they are called shadows by commentators. I want to think of them as the lamella...Not all the shadows are 'extra flat' but we can easily take the pink and mauve oozing matter to be the lamella...The violence of sensation has squeezed out a literal essence of being, the lamella, a puddle of being. To claim that the lamella appears in Bacon's work is to claim that he has taken the detachment of the gaze to its limit." (Parveen Adams, The Violence of Paint; The Emptiness of the Image, Routledge 1996).

Lynch and Bacon glaze and frame their image to create a closer-distance. As Adorno stated: "Distance is not a safety-zone but a filed of tension." (Theodor Adorno, Keeping one's distance, Minima Moralia, 1951). The glass and frame lift and transport the image outside of the glazed- frame of the artificial art gallery and cinema space which always already constitutes a conservative closure. The frame in fact de-frames the image removing it from the gallery or cinema space while the glass or filter incorporates the shadow reflection glaze of the spectator's glazd-gaze. The glazed framed painted image sets up a closer-distance between spectator subject and alien art object.

As Bacon said to Michel Archibaud on his feelings about the frame: 'I always prefer my canvases to be in a frame and under glass. There is a current vogue for not framing pictures any more, but I feel that is wrong, bearing in mind what a painting is. The frame is artificial and that's precisely why it's there; to reinforce the artificial nature of the painting. The more the artificiality of the painting is apparent, the better, and the more chance the painting has of working or of showing something.' There is a commonsense 'contemporary' conception that if you remove the glass and frame you bring the spectator closer to the image but the reverse is true; the art object merely blends in with the art gallery walls as mere decoration. Removing the glass and frame is an attempt to 'democratise' and 'naturalise' the artificial nature of the art object by treating the art work as an 'interactive event' within the closure of the hermetically sealed art gallery space (which, while attempting to turn the space into an 'interactive event' - as the democratic myth of 'public participation') - it still remains exclusively elitist, middle-class and negating real radical Otherness from entering into that privatised pretentious space of seclusion and exclusion. The enframed and elitist Institute of Contemporary Art operates at the putrid lie level of 'political correctness' in attempting to incorporate the Other - (as activated public spectators entering and participating in an 'event') - but actually negates real Otherness by setting up subtle signs of exclusion where certain real Others never enter into the ICA in the first place. The ICA hates the thing it loves: (the Other). Or as the late Pierre Bourdieu said to Terry Eagleton at the ICA: " the Socialist Worker's Party loves the working class so much that it hates them" : the same could be said of the ICA which, as a middle class institute, hates the very real Other that it also paradoxically attempts to aestheticise and anaethetise in the form of exhibited art objects of the Other and incorporated within the closed confines of its deeply conservative spaces: in reality the ICA, Tate and Saatchi's sutured-spaces are freeze-frames of control and containment. Mark Cousins on the space of the art gallery/museum:

"Perhaps this is the moment to insist, firstly, in a polemically functionalist sense, that the gallery is a machine for exhibition, as opposed to the container notion of the palace. Talk of 'accommodation' of works of art is a redundant compromise with an imaginary function; it is an unconscious regression to the social origins of the gallery and inconsistent with its contemporary social and political function. Secondly, the gallery is a machine for exhibition that is addressed to and conceived for a future public. This requires a conceptual act that prises away the elements of exhibition from the shell of a palace. It is paradoxical and unconvincing to pretend to bring works of art to a wide popular audience while at the same time clinging on the remains of palace deserted by the princes. This contradiction is at the heart of a continuing popular scepticism that the museum embodies an elitist deformation, even of radical works of art.

The architecture of the museum till now has been unconcerned with the activity of people. Its traditional attitude is the 'accommodation' of art objects. People are reduced to habits of respectful reverence, silently progressing in ways that they learnt from churches, hospitals etc. Perhaps, it is time for today's museum to now stimulate people and provide them with space to be, not spaces to queue, spaces that give them control, not controlled spaces, spaces to act, not spaces to behave. There is a complex but important difference between conceiving spaces that seek one effect and conceiving spaces that seek various possibilities. The first one is a frame for people to behave in, the second a space to be used.

Perhaps we need to consider architectural elements in the museum as element having more than a visual existence. The floor is more than an abstract surface one can see. It is a surface one can walk on. It can be flat, but it can also have slopes. It might need an effort to be wandered over. The gallery should not be only seen. One should be able to feel it with all his senses. Only so can the sacrality of the space be broken and given back to visitors as a desublimated space.

Above all the focus is upon the machine exhibition, rather than the gallery, upon variability rather than the illusory pursuit of aesthetic truth, upon staging the object rather then enclosing it, upon creating a space of activity rather then the sacred sanctuary of a transcended art. It is recognition that the new gallery space must follow a logic of exhibition rather than of architectural inhibition." ((Notes On The Art Gallery/Museum, Mark Cousins).

Yet the spectator-subject is the enclosed object in the sutured-space of the mythical 'machine exhibition' which is always already a zone of control, confinement, containment and conditioning but giving the 'contemporary' illusion of 'free-play'. The (albeit authentic) alien-art-object is always already situated and staged outside the conservative confines of the 'machine exhibition' (or 'art gallery') which is a real 'space of activity' because the (albeit authentic) alien-art-object operates outside the safety-zone enclosure of the logic of exhibition. No matter how much architects come curators want to construct a 'space of activity' for the mythic 'machine exhibition' it will have always already failed in futility because it is too consciously contrived in trying to force-forth open-out a synthetic space (under constant surveillance) of 'inactive-activity' where every (non) 'action' of the slave-servile 'sutured-spectator' has been always already been prescribed, pre-planned, pre-rehearsed, pre-staged into the controlled conservative confines of the sealed surveyed space-structure suturing the pseudo-spontaneity of the severed spastic-spectator to move in a mimetic manner being boringly so strikingly similar to the space-staging act-activity antics at the 1937 Nazi Entartete Kunst exhibition. The android 'activity of the people' in the mythic 'machine exhibition' of our occultist 'contemporary conceptual' (inauthentic) art is always already alienated from authentic angoisse activity (as a radical atta-abjective oozed out Otherness). The spectator-subject of the 'machine exhibition' (or 'contemporary' art exhibition) is always already constantly constrained, controlled and surveyed by the sutured spatial syntax of the site which is always already a zone of elitism and exclusion.

Adorno's comments on the occult could be transcribed as a critique of 'contemporary culture' and 'conceptual art' and it android allies: its con-merchant dealers, its church curators, its spastic spectators, and its surveyed sutured spaces):

"The occultist draws the ultimate conclusion from the fetish-character of commodities: menacingly objectified labour assails on him on all sides from demonically grimacing objects. What has been forgotten in a world congealed into products, the fact that it has been produced by men, is split off and misremembered as a being-in-itself added to that of the objects and equivalent to them. Because objects have frozen in the cold light of reason, lost their illusory animation, the social quality that now animates them is given an independent existence both natural and supernatural, a thing amongst things...Occultists rightly feel drawn towards childishly monstrous scientific fantasies...Occultism is the metaphysics of dunces. The mediocrity of the mediums is no more accidental than the apocryphal triviality of the revelations...The new, sough for its own sake, a kind of laboratory product, petrified into a conceptual scheme, becomes in its sudden apparition a compulsive return of the old, not unlike that in traumatic neurosis. To the dazzled vision the veil of temporal succession is rent to reveal the archetypes of perpetual sameness: this is why the discovery of the new is satanic, an eternal recurrence of damnation...The hypnotic power exerted by thing occult resembles totalitarian terror: in present-day processes the two are emerge."
(Theodor W. Adorno, Minima moralia: Reflections from damaged life, 1951.) Thus the liberal-fascism of occultist 'conceptual art' constitutes our 'contemporary' totalitarian terror. And the moronic 'machine exhibition' prescribes the mechanics and maneuvers of docile bodies without actions.

Lynch and Bacon severe the gaze of the spectator out of the frame of the image: the gaze is glazed and emptied of the empirical eye never reaches the screen of the cinema or the skin of the canvas. In Lynch and Bacon the sutured-spectator's emptied eye saucer-socket is initially always already an organ operating outside the orbit of osion. That is abvision: You cannot 'see' a Bacon or a Lynch 'scene' because it is always already an atta alien ab-scene oozing outside narrative, illustration, meaning. Lynch (sounding just like Bacon) is ill at ease with words: " I'm not comfortable with words. I love images, and I love sounds, and I love feelings. I like the idea of intuition. I think a lot of things in life are understood that way. But you internalize these things; they don't really pop out. Certain things are built inside–little areas of understanding. I feel that I live in darkness and confusion, and I'm trying, like we all are, to make some sort of sense of it." (David Lynch with Bob Strauss). You both avoid the 'ab-void' that they 'ab-image' you as you try to penetrate 'the thing', the petit object a - that opaque, nebulous, arbitrary, angoisse ab-alien ashtray; that shadowy surplus spillage or that leaking lamellae. They offer you that grey green petit object a-(lien); that fragmented soggy surplus of stuff slipping shooting out-of-shot. Lynch and Bacon ab-use photography editing out the 'focal point' decentring, annihilating, throwing forth the image off-line, off-centre. Lynch and Bacon know always already that absolute emptiness is a real stake, a real steak served raw red oozing with blood. Lynch and Bacon expose your incomprehension of the angoisse alien object; though this 'incomprehension' is essential eggo for Lynch and Bacon because it is a sign for the incorporation of the acidic alien object outside 'sexuality' and 'subjectivity': 'man' and 'woman' have long left the 'ab-scene'. Lynch and Bacon knew 'man' and 'woman' never really existed as such as subjects substance but as exits as phantoms, ghosts, left-over traces of reptilian beings long extinct and stinct. Lynch and Bacon 'image' the 'emptiness' of the (non) 'object' (where the 'alien objec't eats eggos up under the thrown (oozed out) 'human subject'): thin the skinless skinned red raw fresh flesh (the thrown leaked lamella; the thiny putrid petit object a) - (that thrown surplus stuff of oozed dead-desire, the threatening violated visual anal alien oral oily eye eggo sunk-socket). Lynch and Bacon initiate the incarnation of the leaking lamella ooze oils froth from the thrown bled body through the thin practices of editing, cutting, severing, mutilating, wounding, throwing or Object orifice operations a la Orlan orbit or Lynch & Bacon's burnt out fag ends. Fag-Bacon had hideous halved flaming fag-ends burnt out on his burnt back with smoke seeping from his ashtray arse hole whole. Bacon became a burnt out old fag fuck but rarely ever smoked because of his ashtray asthma attacks. Francis Giacobetti photographed a dying drooling smoking smokey bored Bacon weeping with a drifting slivering slithering silvering smoke snail trail touching tearfully tired fucked flawed face few days before he snuffed it before he burnt out.

Take the ashtrays: they 'sit in' for the absent abject-subject: they still burn slowly apart from the ones violently stubbed out. Bacon's fag ends on the floor remain all that remains: stubs. There are no 'human beings', 'identities,' 'genders' or 'sexualities' in Lynch and Bacon's abject alteric 'Animal Kingdom' : just awkward aliens: shape-shifting mutant mannequins and not 'fleshed-out' subjects - just putative primordial performers as alien ab-objects where the desires of the ab-objects are the objects of desires. The ashtrays are full of the 'surplus stuff' of burnt out fag stubs remain the remains and reminder of their burnt out remainder. That over-flowing ashtray of nervously stubbed out fag-ends smelt towards the end of Robert Aldrich's Kiss Me Deadly turns up again in Lynch's cinema and Bacon's canvases, notably: Portrait of George Dyer and Lucien Freud 1967, Three Studies of Isabel Rawsthorne 1967, and in both Two Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer1968 and Lying Figure 1969 the fags have spilled out over the edge of the ashtray on to the floor. In Bacon's Lying Figure 1969 you see the fucked-fag-end stubs seem smeared in skid mark turd traces of being bled towards tarnished charred chain smoking sensation smells being becoming those thrown remains that there remain remaindered oozed outside the thrown signifying chain (of smoke): burnt out beyond 'recognition'. Stubs of smoked being smudged in shit. Smokey Bacon. Burnt out fag. Burnt out fag ends stubbed out on Bacon's bruised bottom. Bacon was a burnt out old fag. Burnt fags. Spilt Spunk: Traces of Being (not) There anymore. As an abjected aleatoric alétheia.

For Lynch & Bacon the post human subject is always already displaced by the alien object: the ash-tray, the light-bulb. Social historian, Andrew Sinclair's comments on Bacon's fetish-objects also recall those of Lynch's: "With an odd precision, he began to include in his art electric light-bulbs and switches, safety-razors and umbrellas, telephones and cameras, wash-basins and lavatory bowls, ash-trays and half-smoked cigarettes: the trivia of the everyday... It is the thing in itself...The 'props' in his pictures, as he said, 'act as rivets'. Bacon sought to trap the odd truths of place and man, out of step." (Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, 1993.) Thus both Bacon & Lynch use 'props' as 'stand-ins' (as 'extras') for the long lost decayed and dissolved dead subject which never sailed, never arrived, long departed off the shores of not being there at all anyway in the first place or the second space. So such redundant, retarded, extinct exited concepts such as 'sexuality', 'gender', 'identity', 'masculinity', 'femininity' have no 'meaning', no 'relevance', no 'reference', no 'place', no psychic 'space ' in Lynch and Bacon's animal-come-alien kingdom initiated imagery of the alien condition. As Ernst Van Alphen added: "In the work of Bacon the representation of the male body does not construct a masculine identity." In Lynch & Bacon: Masculinity has liquidated to froth foam; femininit-froth has here liquidated life to tricking lava lather. Bacon and Lynch wilt willow women.

Lynch & Bacon's lobbies, loos, stairwells, sitting-rooms and dull decor are anodyne, anonymous, non-illustrational where the lighting and the darking severe the sight, shadow, split the spit-subject and leak the lamella; where perspective is castrated and you are severed from the space. The thick shiting shadows in Lynch and Bacon are not merely shrouds of being there, a suit in silhouette, but the lamella; the snail's slime, the petit object a, the alien object materialised; their shadows are always already eating away at the actors ankles; the shadow is the egg shell of being eating away at the egg of the ego. Deleuze: "Bacon has often said that the shadow has as much presence as the body; but the shadow only acquires this presence because it escapes the body, it is the body which escapes through one or other point localised in the contour. And the scream, Bacon's scream is the operation through which the entire body escapes through the mouth." (Deleuze, 1984) Bacon insists on the framing and the glazing of his images (as Lynch does when framing and glazing a shot) in order to both enhance and remove the impact of the image activating an abimage ahead at us all. Bacon and Lynch want to remove the spectator as far as possible from the scene making the subject spastic. Bacon & Lynch remake reality via an artifact artificiality abjecting ahead an abimage; the more unreal they can make an alien-abimage, the greater chance they have of making it looking real. Bacon and Lynch's unreal abimages come across as always already much more real than retard reality. As Bacon said to Sylvester: "The more artificial you can make it, the greater chance you've got of its looking real." (The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987). Bacon & Lynch instinctively sensation always already that reality is really a ludicrous lie that art alien makes trenchantly true - the thing really real - really reeling out at you all: only alien art reels in reality throwing out an abreality through the eye hole of the icon of the image - as in Dryer's Jeanne d' Arc and Hitchcock's Psycho - which weep outside our inane ideologies and interpellations of putrid politics thick theology severed sexuality genotype gender: - gushing gripe grim grimace grime groin leaking lamella leftovers leaving being bled bare there then thrown through time.

Lynch's and Bacon's icon-images are always already anally-abjected austere auroras leaking like Carl Theodor Dryer's La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc and Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho icon-images initiating splitting scene sensationism as a split-spillage of our severed subject out our of (no) place. Cunt critics cannot bare or take-in Lynch and Bacon's leaking left-overs and android vivacious visceral violence of the empty image because it goes straight to the nervous system (body) and negates their meaningless 'will to story telling' of which the most boring are the current cunt readings of The Dyer Triptychs which become turned into the most banal Mills & Boon pulp fiction autobiographies. The worst Baconian cunt critic cliché is that he tried to trap 'the human condition'. There is no 'human condition'. There is only the alien condition. The more we desire to 'see' and 'read' into Bacon & Lynch the more is mist-missed, lost-lied leaked-left. To 'think' in front of a Bacon image is to negate, deny, the pain of the paint and the slime of sensation. As Bacon rightly stated, one "simply cannot talk about painting" - because real raw painting' is pre-linguistic; 'pure' painting has its own shitting leaking language and sludge spunked language - structured like our unconscious sewer slime - that is, a non rational, non-literal language leaked from the bled body of becoming. The thrown undergrowth unconscious is pre-historic, pre-rational, pre-linguistic; it consists of an abject arbitrarily torn trapped traumatic images inked inside related by anarchic association and accumulated accident rather than literal logic and neurotic narrative. Thus both non narrative, non illustrational paint and film are structured like our unconscious swamp with its desire to dissolve into a pre-ontic slime or a pre-linguistic sludge state. Subconscious non-illustrational abpaint or abfilm is inked always already away and ab-jected ahead oozed outside 'concept' 'language' 'thought' 'meaning' 'narrative' and all that shit that all cunt critics are into.

Bacon said to Archimbaud: "Painting is a world of its own; it's self-sufficient...Basically, I believe that you simply cannot talk about painting, it just isn't possible." Ab-Images in Lynch's Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks, Lost Highway and Mulholland Drive echo the lingering leaking lamella of Bacon's portraits of Lucien Freud and Henrietta Moraes: dissolving dribbling slime spillages and snaking slivering slithering shadows: in some of their ab-scenes the distinction between subject and object, shadow and shutter, wash basin and waste line and body and bed where front-figure and back-ground are blurred, bled, broken dissolved-dusted draped off into blackness where subject becomes object and object becomes subject; where the stuffed soiled subject is 'eaten up', 'soaked up' and 'swallowed up' by the ground: the negative no-space becomes the positive trace of the dissolved soggy (un)sutured smelling soiled sunk subject. Lynch & Bacon tune, trap, turn tables, ashtrays, bedside lamps, light switches, light bulbs and tainted-mirrors into opaque 'alien abjects' that ooze, live, move, vibrate, leak. Lynch is the most Baconian of film makers and Bacon is the most Lynchian of image makers: serving you the severed surplus sensation stuffs of non-narrative anti-visual desire outside illustration, narrative and vision. Bacon & Lynch have no 'story to tell' negating narrative: initiating imagery instead as an abimagery. Both Bacon & Lynch become The Man With The X-Ray Eyes: seeing the nothing there as the abimage - as the nothing at all staring ahead at us all - as the nothing at all coming towards you all - as the nothing at all coming all over you and you are all the nothing never coming until dying with the coming of the shining where to die is to shine for all time.

Films that imitate initiate intake infer inspire incubate incite invite invoke Bacon and Alien's abimages are: Sergei Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin (1925), Abel Gance's Napoleon (1927), Luis Bunuel's Un Chien Andalou (1928), Carl Theodor Dryer's La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc (1928), Luis Bunuel's L'Age d'or (1930), Jacques Tourneur's Cat People (1942), Alain Resnais's Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959), Michael Powell's Peeping Tom (1959), Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960), Herk Harvey's Carnival of Souls (1962), Roger Corman's The Man With The X-Ray Eyes (1963), Roman Polanski’s Repulsion (1965), Ken Russell's The Debussy Film (1965), Michelangelo Antonioni's Blow-Up (1966), George Romero's Night of the Living Dead (1968), Leonard Kastle's The Honeymoon Killers (1970), Ken Russell's The Devils (1971), Bernardo Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris (1972), Alfred Hitchcock's Frenzy (1972), John Boorman's Deliverance (1972), Wes Craven's The Last House on the Left (1972), Larry Cohen's Bone (1972), Peter Hall's The Home Coming (1973), Robin Hardy's The Wicker Man (1973), Rainer Werner Fassbinder's Fox and His Friends (1974), Rainer Werner Fassbinder's Chinese Roulette (1976), David Cronenberg's Rabid (1977), Philip Kaufman's Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978), George Romero's Dawn of the Dead (1978), Ridley Scott's Alien (1979), John Mackenzie's The Long Good Friday (1979), Stanley Kubrick's The Shining (1980), Ken Russell's Altered States, (1988),Ruggero Deodato's Cannibal Holocaust (1980), David Cronenberg's Scanners (1981), John Carpenter's The Thing (1982), Sam Raimi's The Evil Dead (1982), David Cronenberg's Videodrome (1982), Tony Scott's The Hunger (1983), Ken McMullen's Ghost Dance (1983), George A. Romero's Day of the Dead (1985), Alex Russell's East End of the Body (1986), David Lynch's Blue Velvet (1986), John McTiernan's Predator (1987), Graham Baker's Alien Nation (1988), John Carpenter's They Live! (1988), Donald Cammell's The White of the Eye (1988), Brian Yuzna's Society (1989), John McNaughton's Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1990), Adrian Lyne's Jacob's Ladder (1990), Jonathan Demme's The Silence of the Lambs (1991), Andre Bonzel's Man Bites Dog (1992), Phillip Noyce's Sliver (1993), David R. Bowen's The Secret Life of Jeffrey Dahmer (1993), David Siegel's Suture (1993), Ray Brady’s Boy Meets Girl (1994), David Fincher’s Seven (1995), Roger Donaldson's Species (1995), Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Alien Resurrection (1997), John Woo's Face/Off (1997), Michael Haneke's Funny Games (1997), Guillermo Del Toro's Mimic (1997), David Lynch's Lost Highway (1997), David Cronenberg's eXistenZ (1998), Ken Russell's Dogboys (1998), Joe Chappelle's Phantoms (1998), Michael Haneke's Funny Games (1998), David Fincher's Fight Club (1999), Paul Verhoeven's Hollow Man (2000), Tarsem Singh's The Cell (2000), Christopher Nolan's Memento (2000), Ang Lee's Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000), Alejandro Amenabar's The Others (2001), David Lynch's Mulholland Drive (2001), Chuck Parello's Ed Gein (2001), David Jacobson's Dahmer (2002), Caspar Noe's Irreversible (2002), David Fincher's Panic Room (2002), Gore Verbinsk's The Ring (2002),Amy Zeiring Kofman's Derrida (2002), Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later (2002), Patty Jenkins' Monster (2003), Ryuhei Kitamura's Azumi (2003), James Wan's Saw (2004), Nick Palumbo's Murder-Set-Pieces (2004), Paul WS Anderson's Alien vs. Predator (2004), David Cronenberg's A History of Violence (2005), Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain (2005), Ashdown & Dyson's Funland (2005), Thomas Schlamme's Invasion (2005), Russell T. Davies & Brian Kelly's Torchwood (2006)...

But the film that should aspire to the Bacon condition but perversely and paradoxically does not is poof John Maybury's embarrassingly awful arty avant-grade camp 'Carry On' kitsch crap Love is the Devil (1998) which has nothing to do with Bacon or his iconic images. As Theodor Adorno stated regarding such pretentious arty-kitsch films: "The more pretensions a film has to art, the more bogus it becomes. The protagonists of the cinema can point to this, and moreover, as critics of an inwardness now become kitsch, can picture themselves, with their coarse outward kitsch, as the avant-garde. If one is once drawn onto this ground, such arguments, fortified with technical experience and professional fluency, become almost irresistible. The film is not a mass art, but merely manipulated to deceive the masses?" (Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia, 1951).

Michel Leiris' leaking cutting critique concerning Bacon's image initiations uncannily recalls that of Lynch's cinematic devices and images:

"It could be argued that Bacon's essential aim is not so much to produce a picture that will be an object worth looking at, as to use the canvas as a theatre of operations for the assertion of a certain realities...In the case of Bacon's pictures - at least those I consider to be most curiously alive, irrespective of any question of quality - their extreme intensity seems to me to result from the paradoxical conjunction of two procedures: a more or less marked distortion of the figures, combined a fairly naturalistic treatment of their surroundings...The distortion is so acute that is borders on disruption and, to say the least, suggests that André Breton's assertion: beauty will be convulsive or not exist at all has been raised to the status of a principle demanding absolute obedience, - an alteration of natural forms which may be carried to the point of blurring or even obliteration, - in one way or another a profound upheaval, the disturbing, disconcerting and, for some people, scandalous character of which arises from the fact that when Bacon seeks to convey the feeling of (not to describe) some given or invented reality, and for this purpose resorts to distortion, he does not simply alter the form...but also the substance of the motif, and in particular the flesh of the model...Not only are Bacon's characters devoid of any psychological dimension, always presented in their substantiality and, when appropriate, clad in some form of dress - set before us, then, in their strictly physical, as well as social existence - the painter shows himself to be as literally materialistic in his work as might be expected of someone who, in discussing his conception of a painting, refers to his 'nervous system' rather that his personality, thus demonstrating his refusal to idealize even in his choice of words, and who, besides, makes no use in his work of drawing as such, as if he wished to avoid its abstract unreality and preferred the direct application of paint with the brush or other means, so as to put himself, as it were, in direct contact with the object....."

Michel Leiris, Francis Bacon: full face and profile, 1987, Ediciones Poligrafi.

Spunk Sensation of oozed Jouissance Juices

"...a long trail of white paint suggesting a sudden outflow or a whiplash..."

"Accidents, try to change them - it's impossible. The accidental reveals man."

"Yet, it behooves us, poets, to stand bare-headed beneath God's thundestorms."

"Some kind of pouch bursts...The juices pour out...it gushes all over the place...splashing..."

"The lighting-up of self concealment (Time) brings forth the process of presenc-ing (Being)".

Martin Heidegger; Heidegger, Through Phenomenology to Thought, William J. Richardson, 2003.

"Art is an access and overflow of blossoming bodily being into the world of images and desires."

"Without a doubt, time frequently washes up much that seems flotsam, wastage, mere wreckage."

William Desmond, Desire, Dialectic and Otherness, Yale University Press, 1987.

"We didn't just catch aliens - we scavenged the stuff they leave behind. There's an alien on the loose."

"Enigma is the pure gushing out of what gushes out - Profundity that shakes everything, the coming of the day."

"A small patch of light, falling within the central excitatory region of a receptive field, will cause brisk firing of a retinal cell."

"...by throwing a sponge soaked with various colours against a wall to make a stain, one can find a beautiful landscape."

"...jets of a hot, sticky liquid, whose odour and viscosity made it easily mistakable for the purest and freshest sperm."

"Pure Light scatters its simplicity as an offering to self-existence, that the individual may take sustenance to itself from its substance."

"When the paint itself breaks loose into a flowing white emanation, streaming away across the canvas, it is the intimation of a direction..."

"And squirting out a sharp death-gush of blood he strikes me with dark drizzle of murderous dew, and I rejoiced as the sown cornfields rejoice at the god-sent glistening when the buds are born."

"I feel as though lightening has struck - for a brief period, I was completely in my element and in my light. And now it is over."

"I remember an afternoon during my journey in Aegina. Suddenly I saw a single bolt of lightning, after which no more followed. My thought was: Zeus."

"Would I like to be a comet? Yes. For they have the speed of birds, they flourish in fire and are as children in purity."

"In the Van Gogh series the paint got out of control and as it flooded the surface which previously it had only grazed."

"There are some, such as Jet of Water, 1988, showing water in violent movement and readable as metaphors for ejaculation..."

David Sylvester, Figuabile: Francis Bacon, Electa, Museo Correr, Venice, 1993.

Martin Heidegger, The Grand Style; The Will to Power as Art; Nietzsche, Harper Collins, 1991.

"In phantasmagoric representations we are surrounded by night; here a bloody head suddenly shoots out, there a white shape, and they disappear again as suddenly."

"Bernardo Bertolucci, the high-minded and highly sexed director of Last Tango in Paris, says he's not quite the dirty old man he once was. When he was younger, he wanted his films to 'smell' of his age. He says Francis Bacon used paint 'like sperm'..."

Sabine Durrant, The filth and the fury, The Daily Telegraph, 2nd February, 2004.4.

"Fell flat on his back with his mouth open ...We bend down to look at his face...we put the globe lamp right against it...his heads split! Wow!...a hole right between the eyes...A crack!...A nose full of snot dripping...It's all white...all gooey...."

"How you please me, oh Night! without those stars Whose light speaks a known language! For I seek emptiness, and blackness, and nakedness! But darkness itself is a canvas Where live, spurting from my eye by the thousands, Vanished beings with familiar looks!"

"This distancing has enabled Bacon to master his gruesome and convulsive subject matter... the paint has a dreadful materiality, as though the grainey cellular structure of the pigment, swiped with a loaded brush across the canvas, were a smear of tissue."

"The clotted, grainy paint dragged over the unprimed canvas sets up a visual discomfort similar to the scrap of fingernails on fabric, so that the nerves are immediately altered to something unusual, something sinisterly unpleasant, before the image has spelt itself out in the brain."

Peppiatt on Bacon's Head 1, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Michael Peppiatt, Westview Press, 1996.

"In the masterpiece of these pictures - a particular favourite of the painter - Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne Standing in a Street in Soho,1967, the streams of white attack...while more white paint is spread by her feet...The white paint seems always to be flung from the right in an impulsive forehand sweep."

Sam Hunter, Metaphor and Meaning in Francis Bacon, Francis Bacon: Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, 1989.

"The artist Protegenes, becoming frustrated with his efforts to paint a dog foaming at the mouth, "finally fell into a rage with his art . . . and dashed a sponge against the place in the picture that offended him . . . and chance produced the effect of nature in the picture!"

"Look at walls spotted with various stains or with a mixture of different kinds of stones. If you are about to invent some scenes, you will be able to see in it a resemblance to various different landscapes adorned with mountains, rivers, rocks, trees, plains, with valleys and various groups of hills."

"Everything Francis Bacon depicts he distorts. And yet every depiction, even if we cannot describe or name the thing depicted, has the infallible ring of truth. An indescribable biomorph hangs down from a wire cage. A boneless, quivering mass of gelatinous flesh drowns in a sink or sits huddled over a toilet. Bacon is obsessed with movement within suspension, and with the suspension of movement. An expressionless face decomposes before our eyes into a psychotic omlette. A violent jet of water is frozen and immobilized as it streaks across the canvas. ""

James Gardner, Eminent outrage - British painter Francis Bacon, National Review, August 6th, 1990.

"If ever breath has come toward me, the breath of creative breathing and necessity, forcing even chance to dance the dance of the stars; if ever I laughed at the creative lightning, followed growling but obedient by the lengthy thunder of action; if ever I played dice with the gods at the divine table of earth so the earth shook and split throwing out rivers of flame - for the earth is a divine table, trembling with new words and the sign of the divine dice..."

Friedrich Nietzsche, The Seven Seals; Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None, 1883.

"The two figures, who lie together on a bed in a bleakly lit room, mirror one another's semi-foetal attitudes: it is possible to interpret them as representing a couple enjoying post-coital relaxation (there is a large sperm-like whiplash of white impasto towards the foot of the bed), but Bacon has given them ape-like heads, as if to express that what has occured was perversely animalistic. Bacon's tactic is to render the spectator complicit in his discourse on looking - who, in these powerfully disruptive paintings, is regarding whom?"

Martin Harrison on Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendeants, 1968; Francis Bacon: Studying Form, Faggionato Fine Art, 2005.

"Coloured marks - accidental splats, brush wipes, trial runs of one hue against another - rainbow or cascade over the walls, turning them into giant palettes. Another pattern of chance blobs and trickles extends in an intricately coloured net over the book-and photo-strewn floor. Sticky masses of half-spent tubes. An old passport or a single, shinning shoe occasionally heaves into sight."

Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: The Studio as a Symbol, Connoisseur, September, 1984.

"As soon as writing, which entails making a liquid flow out of a tube onto a piece of white paper, assumes the significance of copulation, or as soon as walking becomes a symbolic substitute for treading upon the body of mother earth, both writing and walking are stopped because they represent the performance of a forbidden sexual act."

"The minimal definition is that the ugly is an object in the wrong place and that it is not merely a question of taste...The argument is that the moment you experience something as being out of place is the moment that it confuses you... In the art world, there is much work that uses bodily fluids or refers to bodily processes or deals with things that might seem base or horrific...There are a few debates raging in this field about raw or unmediated experiences ... representations you might call abject."

Professor Mary Kelly, On the Ugly, Art Symposium, UCLA School of Arts & Architecture, 1997.

"The act was not pure; I left traces. Wiping away these traces, I left others....Thus we are responsible beyond our intentions....That is to say that our consciousness, and our mastery of reality through consciousness, do not exhaust our relationship with reality, in which we are present with all the destiny of our being....But a trace in the strict sense disturbs the order of the world. It occurs by overprinting....He who left traces in wiping away his traces did not mean to say or do anything by the traces he left"

Emmanuel Levinas, Entre Nous: Essais sur le penser-à-l'autre; & The Trace of the Other: Éditions Bernard Grasset, Collection Figures,1993.

"One could say the ejaculatory blurt of white paint in a painting like Two Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer, 1968, is chancy, but that kind of chance is easily manipulated with practice, and it rhymes suspiciously well with other curves in the painting (like the back of the chair in the picture within a picture to the left)... No one could imitate Bacon without looking stupid. But to ignore him is equally absurd, for no other living painter has set forth with such pitiless clarity the tensions and paradoxes that surround all efforts to see, let alone to paint, the human figure in an age of photography."

Robert Hughes, Singing Within The Bloody Wood; At the Tate, a second celebration of Francis Bacon, Time Magazine, 7 July, 1985.

"The thickly impastoed, spermatozoic streaks of white pigment which cross the bull's head and that spill across the floor can be compared not only with random secretions of bodily fluids but also with blood, thus providing a clue to what they may signify in later paintings by Bacon: the beautifully staccato splashes of white over the bull's back may have been suggested by black and white photographs of the shimmering, sunlit blood, brought forth by the thrusts of the banderillas. In 1979 his friend Eddy Batache witnessed Bacon apply one of these painterly flourishes: "Suddenly he put on a glove and hurled a pellet of white paint at the picture with all his might, crushing it against the canvas. I was staggered by the force of his gesture and by the risk he was taking...''. The present painting is replete with similarly bravura touches, confirming how technically adroit Bacon had become by 1969. Several small areas are left as raw canvas (the bull's horn, one of its hooves and beneath the spectators at the extreme right), the pinkish blush of the bull's flank cleverly contrasts with the glossy black surrounding it, and Bacon deliberately flicked thin, liquid drips of black pigment around the centre of the canvas as a final gesture of feigned indifference."

Martin Harrison, Study for Bullfight No.1, 2nd Version, by Francis Bacon; Sotheby's 2007.

"We already know what error is; it is the opposite of Truth. We already know what evil is; it is the opposite of Good. And there is still worse. If the positive terms Beauty, the Good and the True are welded together as a single figure, so too is their opposite. The Ugly is a kind of error and is an evil. Error is a mistake and is ugly and is an evil. Evil is what is ugly and is an error, or a heresy. This veritable philosophical complex of Truth, Beauty and the Good, which still recommends itself to many, has as its secret malice, the authorisation of exclusion. It is a complex, which not only permits but which positively produces the theoretical basis for persecution and stigmatisation."

"Francis opened the door, smiled and said: 'The portrait's finished! I want you to sit in that chair over there and look at it.'...In front of me was an enormous, coloured strip-cartoon of a completely bald, dreadfully aged - nay senile - businessman. The face was hardly recognisable as a face for it was disintegrating before your eyes, suffering from a severe case of elephantiasis: a swollen mass of raw meat and fatty tissues. The nose spread in many directions like a polyp but sagged finally over one cheek. The mouth looked like a painful boil about to burst...The hands were clasped and consisted of emerald green scratches that resembled claws. The dry painting of the body and hands was completely different from that of the wet, soggy head...The head and shoulders were outlined in a streaky wet slime...To me the picture was of an unusual violence...The harshness and ugliness would surely give me a 'turn for the worse' each time I saw it."

Cecil Beaton's on Francis Bacon's portrait of Beaton in 1960; Self Portrait with Friends, Book Club Associates, 1980.

"What was called the individual - or what was called individuality - is in fact nothing more or less than this interior - this existence of the object - which begins to leak - begins to leak out - of its representation. You can begin to see that in fact that if, if the reason why you do not use an individual in a work of art that's supposed to be beautiful - it's precisely because they do not conform with the representation or the image of a human being. At this point nothing could be further apart the ideal figuration of the human form; nothing could be further apart than that actual individual because an individual will be nothing more or less than the set of differences from that ideal form. The set of differences will actually always be experienced in some sense as disgusting because there are those pats of an individual which are as it were leaking out and exceeding the individual as a representation of him or herself. I mean, quite often, - at the level of experience, this is related to kind of things like hair coming out of people's ears, - it's often combined with bits and the places from which things could be leaking: stuff that's coming out of your eyes, or your nose, or your ears, or your mouth. I mean this is another reason why it - like the Alien - always drools - the kind of stuff which is drooled - which may come from your mouth, your eyes, your ears, your anus - all that in a sense has the mark of radical individuality - radical individuality because it is precisely there - the stuff - which is getting out."

"These body fluids, this defilement, this shit are what life withstands, hardly and with difficulty, on the part of death. There, I am at the border of my condition as a living being. My body extricates itself, as being alive, from that border. Such wastes drop so that I may live, until, from loss to loss, nothing remains in me and my entire body falls beyond the limit - cadere, cadaver... The abject from which he does not cease separating is for him, in short, a land of oblivion that is constantly remembered. Once upon blotted-out time, the abject must have been a magnetized pole of covetousness.... The clean and proper (in the sense of the incorporated and the incorporable) becomes filthy, the sought-after turns into the banished, fascination into shame. Then, forgotten time crops up suddenly and condenses into a flash of lightning an operation that, if it were thought out, would involve brining together the two opposite terms but, on account of that flash, is discharged like thunder. The time of abjection is double: a time of oblivion and thunder, of veiled infinity and the moment when revelation burst forth. Jouissance in short."

Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror, An Essay in Abjection, Columbia University Press, 1982.

"it was there, in the garden, toppled down into the trees, all soft, sticky, soiling everything, all thick, a jelly. I was frightened but above all furious, I thought it was so stupid, so out of place, I hated this ignoble jelly. It was there, it was there! Mounting up to the sky, spilling out everywhere, filling everything with its gelatinous slither... I chocked with rage at this gross, absurd being... I shouted 'what filth, what filth!' and shook myself to get rid of this sticky filth, but it held fast and there was so much, tons and tons of existence, indefinitely."

"The heterosexual can't stand spunk - can't stomach spunk - can't swallow spunk - finding fuming firing shooting spunk sensation absolutely abhorrent: abject and abysmal - repellent and repugnant - putrid and pernicious - disgusting and despicable - whilst the homosexual finds shooting sparkling spunk sensation sensual and seductive - delightful and delicious - tangy and tasty: the homosexual savours spunk - smells spunk - swallows spunk - seeks spunk - seeking the truth of being shot out into the world all over the world. Spunk seeps all. Spunk seeks all. Spunk steers all. Spunk sends all. Spunk spends all. Spunk shelters all drenching da-sein."

"...'I would like my pictures to look as if a human being has passed between them, like a snail, leaving a trail of the human presence and memory trace of past events, as the snail leaves its slime.' The avowal, while published in 1955, seems relevant above all to the achievements of 1948-51. The paint seems to have an organic life, seems to have accumulated slowly, seems like dried-out slime."

David Sylvester on Francis Bacon's 1955 avowal, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 2000.

"In a recent and rare nonfigurative work, Jet of Water 1988,.. Bacon continued his dogged tracking of the ephemeral and marvelous by literally emptying a bucket of grayed white paint on the upright canvas to stimulate the violent spurt and flood of a powerful stream of murky water."

Sam Hunter, Metaphor and Meaning in Francis Bacon, Francis Bacon: Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, 1989.

"The Portrait of George Dyer in a Mirror, 1967-68 shows Dyer sitting in what looks like a swivel office chair, his disembodied face, split down the centre, reflected in a lectern-like stand. On the painting are two splurges of white paint splashed across the surface reminiscent of semen defacing the image. Whether indicative of the sexual dimension of their relationship, or of the need to assert a particular personal expression of possession, even in an image, it was Bacon going public on a profound and deeply important aspect of his emotional life."

Emmanuel Cooper, Queer Francis: Life, death and anguish in the work of Francis Bacon, 1996.

"Still today men are trapped between competing fears with regard their semen, fears that manifest themselves in ancient medical literature as well as the literature of virtues and vices. Retaining semen sent poisonous vapours to the brain and heart (and feminised the male so retaining it); releasing it risked enervation and desiccation; and both were seen as causing melancholia. Semen evoked disgust not only because it is slimy and viscous, 'nasty slime' in the words of the Earl of Rochester, but also because its appearance is accompanied by a little death, an orgasm, which is a loss of self-control accompanied by facial expressions as undignified as those that revolted Swift when he imagined women defecating...the appearance of semen signals the evanescence and the end of pleasure.

William Ian Miller, Orifices and Bodily Wastes, The Anatomy of Disgust, Harvard University Press, 1997.

"The body as grotesque is the body that eats, drinks, shits, pisses, and fucks. The boundary between bodies is a permeable membrane; it has gaps and holes to let the inside out and the outside in. The interplay of inner and outer makes all bodily events interstitial. Though apparently either inside or outside, bodily activity is properly neither inner nor outer. The grotesque body is a site of passage where crossing and crisscrossing forces constantly intersect. Since this everlasting flow cannot be stopped, its current must always be discharged...The openings of the grotesque body are not accidental wounds that need to be cured or offensive holes that must be covered. Bodily gaps are 'primal' and therefore incurable."

Mark C. Taylor, Erring - A Postmodern A/theology, University of Chicago Press, 1984.

"A characteristic element in Bacon's use of chance in his painting is a white blotch, as found, for example, in Study for Head of Isabel Rawsthorne, 1967, Study of George Dyer in a Mirror, 1968 and Study for bullfight No.2, 1969. In these pictures Bacon throws thick white paint at the canvas: at the face of the figure, at the bull, at the centre of the painting. The resulting white blotch looks as though the undiluted paint had been accidentally added to the painting by hand...Sometimes it remains where it landed; sometimes it is drawn with the brush to adjacent points in the picture. But first Bacon simply adds the white blotch, whether or not it fits into the painting...In Bacon's explanation of the meaning of the white spots and slashes that he added to the canvas so abruptly and almost thoughtlessly, he speaks of 'pure accident,' of 'instinct,' and that the picture almost paints itself. He says that the subconscious is finding expression in his his work."

Barbara Steffen, Chance and the Tradition of Art in Francis Bacon's Work, Francis Bacon & the Tradition of Art, Skira, 2003.

"I must say, that when I saw your painting of the jet of water it occurred to me that this was your version of the Large Glass - a machine for making ejaculations."

David Sylvester to Francis Bacon on Duchamp, 1979, from Looking Back at Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 2000.

"Light can stream into the clearing, into its openness, and let brightness play with darkness in it. But light never first creates the clearing. Rather, light presupposes the clearing...Such shinning [Scheinen] occurs necessarily in brightness [Helle]. Only though brightness can what shines show itself."

"Bacon's object in the last fifteen years has been to find more and more new valves to open. Once they are opened, and the feeling floods out, we find it is not al all what we had expected it to be...But it is here that the paint takes over. The paint will not allow the picture to be treated as magazine-illustration gone berserk. There is a difference, as Bacon has said, between paint 'which comes across directly on to the nervous system' and paint which 'tells you the story in a long diatribe through the brain'. Society tries to transfer Bacon's less palatable pictures to the brain, but the paint insists on speaking directly to the nerves..."

"We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes, Divans as deep as graves, and on the shelves Will be strange flowers that blossomed for us Under more beautiful heavens. Using their dying flames emulously, Our two hearts will be two immense torches Which will reflect their double light In our two souls, those twin mirrors. Some evening made of rose and of mystical blue A single flash will pass between us Like a long sob, charged with farewells; And later an Angel, setting the doors ajar, Faithful and joyous, will come to revive The tarnished mirrors, the extinguished flames."

"Light can be a directed beam, a guiding beacon in the dark, an advancing dethronement of darkness, but also a dazzling superabundance, as well as an indefinite, omnipresent brightness containing all: the 'letting appear' that does not itself appear, the inaccessible accessibility of things. Light and darkness can represent the absolute metaphysical counter-forces that exclude each other and yet bring the world-constellation into existence. Or, light is the absolute power of Being, which reveals the paltriness of the dark, which can no longer exist once light has come into existence. Light is intrusive; in its abundance, it creates the overwhelming, conspicuous clarity with which true 'comes forth'; it forcibly acquires the irrevocability of Spirit's consent. Light remains what it is while letting the infinite participate in it; it is consumption without loss...The cosmic flight of light is the precondition for the concept of 'revelation,' which announces a return of light as an eschatological event and bids man prepare himself for it."

Hans Blumenberg, Light as a Metaphor for Truth, Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision, University of California Press, 1993.

"The creative process is a cocktail of instinct, skill, culture and a highly creative feverishness. It is not like a drug; it is a particular state when everything happens very quickly, a mixture of consciousness and unconsciousness, of fear and pleasure; it’s a little like making love, the physical act of love. It can be as violent as fucking, like an orgasm or an ejaculation. The result is often disappointing but the process is highly exciting."

Francis Bacon, Exclusive interview with Francis Bacon, Francis Giacobetti, 1991-2, The Art Newspaper, June 2003.

"Bacon delights in in the subtle malleability of oil paint. Here, in the central panel, the spine is drawn with flecks of diluted black, encrusted with white impasto and completed by a translucent stroke of blood-coloured carmine. In the left panel the jet of gore from the Fury's body has been squeezed directly from the tube, pressed with powder or pastel and its tail drawn out with a careful brushstroke."

Richard Francis on Francis Bacon's Triptych Inspired by the Orestia of Aeschylus 1981, The Tate Gallery, May-August 1985.

"I really do like paint to be very fresh...I like, you may say, the glitter and colour that comes from the mouth, and I've always hoped in a sense to be able to paint the mouth like Monet painted a sunset."

Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact, Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"In 'Portrait of George Dyer Staring at Blind Cord'... Dyer's body congeals into his cross-legged thighs as he squats on a curving sofa looking both ways like Janus...A spurt of white paint that may be spent semen gushes from the buttocks of a shape kneeling in the worship of the flesh before him beside an empty folding chair with a red seat..."

Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, 1993, Crown Publishers, Inc., New York.

"What sets the work of a genius apart from that of an artist who merely makes a beautiful object? In classical and subsequent hymns to genius something of the following impression may be formed: genius has a sublime relation to structure. Rather than effortlessly and swiftly creating a totality, the genius may incorporate alien objects into the structure of a work, elements that would defeat a lesser artist, in whose hands the whole would break down into a ridiculous collection of incompatible fragments. The genius is able, indeed needs to, pit himself against a seemingly impossible task - to mould individual, inappropriate elements into a final whole. The greater the difficulty, the greater the final impression that the totality makes. In this sense the ugly is part of the power of genius."

"To the point, in fact, at which the face as we know it would disappear altogether in the jewelled slime of the paint, leaving behind it an eye socket, or the deep cave of a nostril, or an irreducible patch of hair, as tokens that somewhere among the strong-willed chromatic smearing a named individual was commemorated. No questions, here, of setting the scene: we are at a dentist's distance from eyes, nose, mouth and teeth, and the rest of the world is blocked out."

John Russell, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, Andrew Sinclair, Crown Publishers, 1993.

"Bacon could become entranced by all kinds of odd marks. I remember when we wee sitting at the Coupole in Paris, he suddenly became fixated by the shape a pool of spilt milk had made on the table."

Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996.

"I would like my pictures to look as if a human being had passed between them, like a snail, leaving a trail of the human presence and memory trace of past events, as the snail leaves its slime."

Francis Bacon, The New Decade: 22 European Painters, Museum of Modern Art, 1955.

"He wanted the help of accident and chance in his painting - by the use of drips or slips of the brush, by wiping with rags or by throwing on paint or sand or dust for texture; by adding circles and blots, arrows or whiplashes of white paint; by inserting the incongruous object or throwaway detail that marked the arbitrary and haphazard nature of modern living."

Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, Crown Publishers, Inc., New York, 1993.

"So chance in Bacon has an expressive in addition to a formal function, even if it is only acquired afterward. Thus we see that in his paintings fortuitous elements - sperm like dribbles of white paint, dense showers of spots, furiously extended and violent brush strokes - or less random but fairly hermetic, if not downright cabalistic, signs - small circles or arrows, chaotic footprints, sinister swastikas, absurd safety pins - take on a provocative significance in the context, to the point of 'making parts of the surface erupt'. So there is some justification for the comparison that Leiris has made between these random and illogical elements and that 'always mysteriously and marvelously place white point' that, according to André Derain, animated many of the still lives of the seventeenth century, appearing on an object without it being required by the light."

Lorenza Trucchi, The Delirium of the Body, Francis Bacon: Figurabile Electa, Venice, Museo Correr 1993..

"Shining power whose outpouring is the law, principle of appearance of what appears, origin of all ability to communicate - if such is the Sacred, we understand that by 'foreseeing' it, the poet already places himself in the bosom of the all-presence, and that the approach of the Sacred is, for him, the approach of existence. But now the enigma takes a different form. In the beginning, there was no poet yet, because he needed the All to exist and the All needed his mediation to be the All. Now, existing as 'not yet,' he has grasped, foreseen the arrival of the Sacred, which is the principle of this very arrival, which is arrival anterior to any 'something is coming' and by which 'all' comes, the All comes... Impossible, the reconciliation of the Sacred with speech demanded that the poet's existence come nearest to nonexistence... because the All made itself language to say it: whoever wants to meet the dark must seek in the day, look at the day, become the day for himself: 'Enigma is the pure gushing of what gushes out/Profundity that shakes everything, the coming of the day.' Such is the 'sacred' speech of Hölderlin."

Maurice Blanchot, The Sacred Speech of Hölderlin; The Work of Fire, Stanford University Press, 1995.

"What is silent is heard in thunder. Thunder reveals in sound, brings to hearing, reveals to the ears what was silent, inaudible, concealed. It brings the strange into the familiar, the familiar to the strange. Thunder removes the hindrance of hearing, enabling an experience of the silent other, the strange but ever-present elemental. Thunder makes audible the crack, departure, separation, eruption. It is the place-giving and the time-happening of what is. Thunder surprises, startles, forcing itself and the elemental into our attention. The crack cracks and is mended. Man is turned, tuned. Thunder brings to the ear the spilling forth, the gushing out, the extravagant, the expulsion, and explosion of the elemental. Fire, air, water, earth, overflowing elemental join in exposure and brilliance, and gather in sonority. Thunder caresses the elements, drawn to their voluptuousness. Sound gathers. Sonority penetrates, joins, merges in passing over, across, on, and into. It draws up into itself, into a unity; a penetrative, voluptuous, sensuous, elemental sonority. The elements resonate, vibrate, quiver under/with/to the caress of thunder. The elemental itself vibrates, resonates in thunder, and comes thus to our presence. Thunder is an explosion of sound into the world, but is also an implosion, a gravitation, an attraction, of things and the elements into sound. Sound, primordial sound, sonority, arises from the meeting of elements, of fire against earth, air against water. Sonority vibrates at the elemental boundary. Thunder is a crack of nature, binding elements and bringing the elemental in things to one’s hearing presence."

Stephen B. Hatton, Elemental Sonority: Heidegger, Hölderlin and Thunder, Janus Head, Winter 2004.

"Of the younger painters none actually paints so beautifully as Francis Bacon. I have seen painting of his that reminded me of Velázquez and like that master he is fond of blacks. Liquid whitish accents are delicately dropped on sable ground, like blobs of mucus - or else there is the cold white glitter of an eyeball, or an eye distended with despairing insult behind a shouting mouth, distended also to hurl insults. Otherwise it is a baleful regard from the mask of a decayed clubman or business executive - so decayed that usually part of the head is rotting away into space. But black is his pictorial element. These faces come out of the blackness to glare or to shout. I must not attempt to describe these amazing pictures - the shouting creatures in glass cases, these dissolving ganglia the size of a small fist in which one can always discern the shouting mouth, the wild distended eye....Bacon is one of the most powerful artists in Europe today and he is perfectly in tune with his time. Not like his namesake 'the brightest, wisest of mankind', he is, on the other hand, one of the darkest and must possessed."

"Reality is that which, being an obstacle, both arrests and denies us our pleasure...The ugly object is existence itself, in so far as existence is the obstacle which stands in the way of desire. And so it is, from the point of view of desire, that the ugly object should not be there...The ugly object, as obstacle, is a punitive force which is sweeping towards me...What sets the work of a genius apart from that of an artist who merely makes a beautiful object? In classical and subsequent hymns to genius something of the following impression may be formed: genius has a sublime relation to structure. Rather than effortlessly and swiftly creating a totality, the genius may incorporate alien objects into the structure of a work, elements that would defeat a lesser artist, in whose hands the whole would break down into a ridiculous collection of incompatible fragments. The genius is able, indeed needs to, pit himself against a seemingly impossible task - to mould individual, inappropriate elements into a final whole. The greater the difficulty, the greater the final impression that the totality makes. In this sense the ugly is part of the power of genius...There is another story, more obscure and obscene, about the relation between the unconscious and ugliness. It is an account of the ecstasy which the unconscious enjoys in all that is dirty, horrifying and disgusting - that is, of ugliness as an unbearable pleasure."

"Jacques Lacan defines Art itself with regard to the Thing: in his Seminar on the Ethics of Psychoanalysis, he claims that art as such is always organized around the central Void of the impossible-real Thing - a statement which, perhaps, should be read as a variation on Rilke's old thesis that 'Beauty is the last veil that covers the Horrible'. Lacan gives some hints about how this surrounding of the Void functions in the visual arts and in architecture; what we shall do here is not provide an account of how, in cinematic art, the field of the visible, of representations, involves reference to some central and structural Void, to the impossibility attached to it - ultimately, therein resides the point of the notion of suture in cinema theory. What I propose to do is something much more naive and abrupt: to analyze the way the motif of the Thing appears within the diegetic space of cinematic narrative - in short, to speak about films whose narrative deals with some impossible/traumatic Thing, like the Alien Thing in science-fiction horror films."

"The identification of art with beauty is inadequate, and not just because it is too formal. In what art became, the category of the beautiful is only one element, one that has moreover undergone fundamental change: By absorbing the ugly, the concept of beauty has been transformed in itself, without, however, aesthetics being able to dispense with it. In the absorption of the ugly, beauty is strong enough to expand itself by its own opposite...What ever it might be, the ugly must constitute, or be able to constitute, an element of art; a work by the Hegelian Karl Rosenkranz bears the title The Aesthetics of the Ugly...The concept of the ugly may well have originated in the separation of art from its archaic phase: It marks the permanent return of the archaic, intertwined with the dialectic of the enlightenment in which art participates. Archaic ugliness, the cannibalistically threatening cult masks and grimaces, was the substantive imitation of fear, which is disseminated around itself as expiation. As mythical fear diminished with the awakening of subjectivity, the traits of this fear fell subject to the taboo whose organon they were; they first became ugly via-a-vis the idea of reconciliation, which comes into into the world with the subject and nascent freedom... Nietzsche's dictum that all good things were once dreadful things, like Shelling's insight insight into the terror of the beginning, may well have their origins in the experience of art. The ambiguousness of the ugly results from the fact that the subject subsumes under the abstract and formal category of ugliness everything condemned by art: polymorphous sexuality as well as the violently mutilated and lethal...In the history of art, the dialectic of the ugly has drawn the category of the beautiful into itself; kitsch is, in this regard, the beautiful as the ugly."

"When I look at you, I do not only imagine that the surface of your face epitomizes an expression; the experience of your face overwhelms any thought of what might lie behind it. The depth of your face exhausts any question of 'behind'. This phantasy is shockingly curtailed by the sight of a facial wound. Suddenly the phantasy of depth is shattered by the perceptual registration that there is a behind to the face and that, far from supporting the experience of depth, it projects the stuff of another order, or disorder. The sight of subcutaneous reality, the sudden, crazy sight of flesh and bone is altogether too much. It seizes my attention because it does not signify, because of its evident character of being too much, too close, too soon. It does not so much undermine as 'overmine' the face and its expressive economy. The face does not collapse; the face is thrown off. The depth of expression is relegated to the surface of a mask. The moment of ugliness, then, is the shattering of the subject's phantasy of what makes up the object, in which the object is permeated by its surface just as a face is, and not that there is a non-signifying interior whose pressure to appear is concealed only by the temporary and mendacious skin of a mask. The trauma, for the subject, is occasioned by the sudden appearance of 'stuff', the stuff which threatens to overwhelm and engulf the subject, and to contaminate the subject with its own lack of meaning."

"The publicity poster for Alien (on the left side the head of the monster, the slimy metal skull, fixing its gaze on Sigourney Weaver; on the right the terrified face of Sigourney Weaver with her eyes lowered, diverting her gaze from the monster, yet her whole attention fixed on it) could be titled 'death and the maiden' : here we encounter cogito at its purest when (what will become) the subject constitutes itself by rejecting the slimy substance of jouissance. It is therefore not sufficient to say that It (the alien Thing) is a 'projection of our own repressed': that I itself constitutes itself by way of rejection of the Thing, by way of assuming a distance toward the subject of enjoyment. In this punctuality of pure horror she thinks; she is reduced to pure thought: the moment we abstain from the confrontation with the 'alien,' the moment we recoil from this stain of horror and retreat to the haven of our 'being,' at some decentered place 'it' begins to think. This, then, is Lacan's version of 'the spirit is a bone': the pure 'I think' takes place only when the subject endures the confrontation with the senseless stain of jouissance."

"The dynamic of the subject's relation to the alien is that the way in which the alien contaminates space expresses itself as a ceaseless move towards - a pursuit of - the subject. The ugliness of the alien always begins to betray itself through an indistinctness of form; the alien is equivalent, not to its form, but to the stuff that leaks through its form. The movement of the alien towards the human being is also expressed by the increasingly liquid character of the former. The first contact the alien makes with the human subject is through the transmission of a kind of ontological drool. The defences of the subject are redoubled in an attempt to brush off this stuff, the ugly, and to re-establish the radical physical difference between the subject and the ugly object. At the last moment before which the subject is engulfed by the stuff of the alien, the subject produces a response which already announces its defeat - that of vomiting...The final collapse of the subject and its defences comes about in precisely the action of the ugly object revealing to the subject that they are the same. But this type of account, with its stress on the excess of stuff as that which characterises the ugly object, while it may document the case of what is there and should not be, is likely to be misleading. For there is a special case of that which is there and should not be; it is that which is not there and should be."

"The science fiction horror film Alien (1979) is a complex representation of the monstrous-feminine in terms of the maternal figure as perceived within a patriarchal ideology. She is there in the text's scenarios of the primal scene of birth and death; she is there in her many guises as the treacherous mother, the oral sadistic mother, the mother as the primordial abyss; and she is there in the film's images of blood, of an all-devouring vagina, the toothed vagina, the vagina of Pandora's box; and finally she is there in the chameleon figure of the alien, the monster as fetish-object of and for the mother...The notion of female fetishism is represented in Alien in the figure of the monster....The monster as fetish object is not there to meet the desires of the male fetishist, but rather to signify the monstrousness woman's desire to have the phallus. In Alien, the monstrous creature is constructed as the phallus of the negative mother. This image of the archaic mother - threatening because it signifies woman as difference rather than constructed as opposition - is, once again, collapsed into the figure of the pre-Oedipal mother... Alien presents various representations of the primal scene."

Barbra Creed, Alien and the Monstrous Feminine; Alien Zone, Verso, 1990.

Ripley is the Eternal Return of the Alien coming Again coming Back again coming Ahead again coming Head on coming off All over you all over Again all over your Trace all over your Space all over your Face: - face to face - alien to alien - being to being - nothing to nothing - time to time - again and again - all alien again - all over you all again and again. The Eternal Return of the Alien is the Eternal Return of the Coming of the Off of the Alien all over you all.

Reeling Ripley becomes absolutely abjected (being Beheaded as an alien-out-itself as Ather) by both accepting and attaining through thrust thirst the drooling drips of oozed slime slurp jointing jettisoning jouissance as an atta Ather apophansis alien Aleithia arriving ahead as all out-of-joint jointly making monster manifest out-of-jouissance. It is therefore thus sufficient to say that 'It' (as alien Ather) is a 'sensation of our own subconscious' surplus slurp stuff: that 'I' itself constitutes 'itself' by way of Sensationing of the Thing - the Alien - by way of assuming an alien-ated attunement and attainment as thrown trust together toward the 'subject of sensation'. In this punctuality of pure pleasure as pure presence alien stinks: alien is reduced to pure stench to pure stain: the moment we abstain from the confrontation with the 'alien' the moment we recoil from this stain of spunk and retreat to the haven of our 'being' at some despunked space 'it' begins to smell. This then is lack Lacan's leaked vision of 'the spirit is a drool': the pure 'I drool' takes space only when the subject endures the confrontation with the spunkless stain of jouissance as coming.

Ripley is Ripe for an Alien Attack as an alien attunement and attainment as a putrid punctuality of oozed out pure pleasure: Ripley as being Alien bred: as anointed alien sensations: as alien shine as alien slurp: alien is initiated as sensationed stuff of being pure sensation: the mooding moving melting moment when where we are aroused wetted with 'the alien' the moment we relish with this 'stain of pleasure' and advance ahead of our head of being by Being beheaded beyond the thirst of thought toward the stain of sensation and the swamp of our subconscious slurp. Alien is neither 'I' nor 'Other' - Alien is Ather. Ripley as the absolutely abjected real is reeled out oozed out of the Alien ather becoming an absolute-sublime slime-sensation: as a sein stuff: as a spent scent: as a spunk sent: as a drooling dasein at a dreading dasein: at a dare dasein: as a drooled dread: drooling down dare: drooling down there: the nothing there coming: the there that nothing will never stop coming off.

Ripley as Alien is alien to the all too human man-made constructs of gender and sexual difference. Ripley is really always already Alien: - as alien-ated - and not as gend-er-ed - but matt-er-ed - and not as mate-r-nal: for there is no sexual difference: - for there is no feminine figure: - no other mother: - only an alien ather. Really Ripley is Ather - is Alien: Drooled Dasein - Slime Sein. Reeling the real ripped Ripley is the Reel Thing reeling in the realing Alien Thing out and about: the Alien Thing is the Real Thing reeled in and thrown out coming towards you coming all over you all. Ripley's reel thing reels in the Real Thing ripping the thing loose leaking all about. The Alien Thing is the Real Thing of the Art Thing: an alien apparition that appears apart as an alien art that reels in the Real Thing out of Itself as an Alien Thing: The Alien is The Real: The Thing that is Being Alien: the Real is The Alien we all Know and Love.

Bolt Thrower Thoth-Bacon's serene semen streak thrown through the Central Panel of the Three Studies for a Crucifixion (1962) and the Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968) is initiated as a leaked lightening strike struck outside of time freed from the order of time and the time of order aiming at the time of the ather. Or for Proust Bacon's bright bolt spunk streak is initiated as a split severed second in its simple state unseen when Proust speaks: "of isolating, of immobilizing - for the length of time of a lightening flash - what the being never apprehends: a little time in its pure state."

The thrown single spurted spunk slash stain shot across Bacon's central panel plinth of Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968) is the thing in itself coming out of itself ahead of itself being between two beings being there. Through throwing a thin white whiplash of wet pure paint across the central area of the canvas Bacon builds up the tight tension between this organically oozed out spunked slash stain strike and the serene smooth silky surface of the groundless lamella level 'ground' (for there are no 'back grounds' in Bacon's paintings only 'black grounds'). Ironically in the central panel of Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants there is in fact only one figure flayed out on the double bed but spliced in two by the slash of spunk becoming a double vision of a doppleganger delirium derailing dreary dasein.

The thrusting stain scented painful panel of Francis Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968) suddenly sports an abjected slithering shard of oozing streaky semen severing the tight-twins flip-flops nailed into the night by a sprawling sinking shadow of oozed leaked lamella leftovers seemingly thrown in one single shot as an eggsence of our essence of being thrown-out-of-the-wound-world bled-bare as being there: drooling drying drained Dasein always already remaining really reeking rancid raw sticky slippery slimy smelly wriggling well wet. You can see the spunk. You can smell the spunk. You can even swallow the spunk. Sein spunk. Dasein spunk. Dasein drooling as an Ereignis ejaculation entrailing ek-sistence as a spectral semenulacrum disseemenation delivering a single streak of semen becoming a single bolt of lightning sending Zeus sensation shuddering shedding leaked light Lichtung letting-cuming-to-presence the semen stellar constellation cuming towards you all as a shooting star nailing the night of the Nothing oozing off the Oversemen as a liquid lightning letting Being be bled leaked like the thirsting drooling Dasein Alien aura awe approaching ripped Ripley ripe scenting smelling Sacred stench sniffing serene sensationing seeping seeking slurp surplus stuffs soiling subjectivity severing Sein serving dread Dasien drooled drip dripping dripping dripping dipping dripping dripping dripping dipping dripping dripping dripping dipping down dare.

The there thrust thirst thoth thrown thunderbolt strike stroke slash spunked white whiplash which wriggles wondering when wandering while sitting stinking sparkling spangling splicing sniffing shit sinker skimp skid skeet stains stay soggy soft so still smells salty spar spare spunk skid stains shat sloppy smirch smear staining slop so suddenly starts sniffing snot snout song sluice slush slut slit spilling spunk smaze sample serving slurping spit saliva salvage soaking skin slim slush stuff.

Hölderlin hymned in on Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968): "...the order of columns, a work - Of total proportion, including the center, - Radiant." (Hölderlin, The Vatican, Hymns & Fragments, Princeton University Press, 1984). Plato wrote on Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968); "And after that they has fallen asleep and it was the middle of the night, there was a sound of thunder and a quaking of the earth, and they were suddenly wafted thence one this way, one that, upward to their birth like shooting stars." (Plato, Republic, 10:621b). The Twisted Twins adjacent asleep are silently sliced by a shooting star of shot Semen like the standing swaying Twin Towers targeted by an atta Aten Thunderbolt lightning strike. So Bacon's lightning strike belongs to that Dasein darkening which illuminates it as a darkening delivering the leaking lighting of the white whiplash which waits. Bacon's Thrown Thunderbolt - as an eigen Egoless Ejaculation - resists re-presentation as an inked-initiation it is always already articulated attuned out-of-it-self as a thing-in-it-self as a primal presencing - so semen psyche scent cannot be re-presented only sown-senseted as a sensationing sending glittering giving as a gift-glistening as a shining-showing showering in-it-self as a shooting out-of-it-self. For fermenting Bacon: "It lives on its own...It has a life of its own" as a Serene Semen Semblance showering well wet without sheen showing as a real reality of all things thrown: it is - it is not at the same semen no time all the time thrown out-of-being as out-of-joint as out-of-time and left leaked lingers awhile awaiting attuning as an alien apparition arrival as a departure dripping down as an alien Anaximander Fragment fort-da-froth foaming fuel fermenting between being and a bled becoming. On holiday Hölderlin hymned in on the Ereignis Enigma of Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968): "The Enigma is the pure gushing out of what gushes out - Sensationing that shakes everything - the coming of the day - the coming in the night - where the shooting Semen is the sowing of the Sacred sein." Hölderlin homed in on the sacred semen strike which struck him with horror: "Yet almost this River of Semen seems - To travel backwards - and - I think it must Come from - The East - Far from the Frame. The River runs Dry - As it Daggers into Darkness - As a Shaft shiver of our spent Spirit."

Such is the Sacred Semen of Hölderlin. The Face of God struck by a Lightening Flash split apart a Spunked Shard raining down Drowning God's Reign.

Hieroglyph Heidegger thought of the thrown thunderbolt lightening strike in Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968) as a Sign of the Happening of Truth: "Truth happens in Francis Bacon's Painting. The They who Lay There together are Severed and Served apart and out of joint by a Single Lightening Strike of Shining Sein. Light of this kind Joins its Shining to and into and out of the Work out of the World. Being is Cut. Being is Cleaned. Being is Cleared. A Single Lightning Strike as a Severed Sein is a Coming and Becoming of Truth. Does Truth, then, arise out of the Nothing as the Shooting out of a Severed Sein? Truth is never Gathered from Things but Thrown forth from the Nothing frothing forth the Truth of Being: the Opening up of the Open orifice, and the Coming and Clearing of Beings, happens only when the Openess that makes its advent alien in thrusted Throwness is profoundly Projected severing Sein. The Leaking Out as the Letting Happen is in Essence the Semening Sensation of The Thing. Semen shines and wants only to shine. To be sure, the painter uses pigment, but in such a way that semen is not used up but rather only now comes to shine forth as a stimmung sensation." (Martin Heidegger, The Origin of the Work of Art, 1935).

Buccaneer Baudelaire saw Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968) in the Louvre and was star struck by its shuddering sensation: "How you please me, oh Night! without those stars Whose light speaks a known language! For I seek emptiness, and blackness, and nakedness! But darkness itself is a canvas Where live, spurting from my eye by the thousands, Vanished beings with familiar looks! Coming over the Edge of an Abyss, they spunk Side by side Laying lost in Space severed by a Leaking liquid forever frozen, a Lightning flash! The shudder of Semen, a sign of the sacred Sein."

Bawdry Baudelaire was so bowled over by Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968) that he wrote his 1857 poem The Death of Lovers:

"We shall have beds full of semen perfumes, Divans as deep as anuses, and through the Venetian blinds Will be strange Views that blossomed for us Under more beautiful boys. Using their dying flames flamboyantly, Our two cocks will be two immense torches Which will reflect their double light In our two mouths, those twin mirrors. Some evening made of moans and of moody blues A single semen strike will shoot between us Like a long sob, charged with white farewells; And later an Arab, setting the doors ajar, juicy and joyous, will come to wipe The spunk stained mirrors, the extinguished flames Revealing and reflecting the Lightening strike that struck the Divan dividing us apart in Unity." (Charles Baudelaire, The Death of Lovers, Les Fleurs du Mal, 1857).

Poet Paul Celan said he saw and smelt Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968) as a sacred semening scene: "Black spunk of daybreak We drink you at night We drink you at noon We drink you at sundown and In the morning We drink and we drink you straight from the Stream He strikes you with spunk shards His aim is True he sets His prick on us He shoots us spunk in the air He plays with the servants and wetdreams death as a second coming Coming again and again and again."

Gilles Deleuze deconstructed Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968) as 'matters of fact' leaking levels and layers of sensationing: "It is a characteristic of sensation to pass through different levels owing to the action forces. But two sensations, each having their own level or zone, can also confront each other and make their respective levels communicate. Here we are no longer in the domain of simple vibration, but that of resonance. There are thus two Figures couples together. Or rather, what is decisive is the coupling of sensations: there is one and the same matter of fact for two figures, or even a single coupled Figure for two bodies. From the start, we have seen that, according to Bacon, the painter could not give up the idea of painting several Figures in the painting at the same time, although there was always the danger of reintroducing a 'story' or falling back into narrative painting. The question thus concerns the possibility that there may exist relations between simultaneous Figures that are nonillustrative and nonnarrative (and not even logical), and which could be called, precisely, 'matters of fact'. Such indeed is indeed the case here, where the coupling of sensations from different levels creates the coupled figure (and not the reverse). What is painted is the sensation. There is a beauty to these entangled Figures." (Gilles Deleuze, Couples & Triptychs - Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, 1981).

Martin Harrison has Bacon's Two Figures fucked from fucking thrown through the white whiplash semening sensation smelling sex spelling sex: "The two figures, who lie together on a bed in a bleakly lit room, mirror one another's semi-foetal attitudes: it is possible to interpret them as representing a couple enjoying post-coital relaxation (there is a large sperm-like whiplash of white impasto towards the foot of the bed), but Bacon has given them ape-like heads, as if to express that what has occurred was perversely animalistic. Bacon's tactic is to render the spectator complicit in his discourse on looking - who, in these powerfully disruptive paintings, is regarding whom?" (Martin Harrison, Francis Bacon: Studying Form, Faggionato Fine Art, 2005).

Ernst van Alphen becomes blinded by the semen strike which splits and divides the double entendre doppelganger dasein: "In the middle panel of Triptych - Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants the two prone figures again signify their identity by the unlikely similarity of their poses. Indeed, peacefully sleeping on one level, the figures play their similarity out into a repetitious rhythm of body-parts raised, curved, and offered to the viewer. If the direction of their gazes suggests that they belong to one, contagious space, then the two attendants on the side panels seem to mediate upon this blissful state - a state that they have not yet reached." (Francis Bacon and the Loss of Self, Ernst van Alphen, Reaktion Books,1992). The Two figures are not 'offered to the viewer' but are removed from the viewer - turned away from the viewer - and severed from the spectator by the semen strike white whiplash. The Two Figures are - in fact - really only One Figure - coming over itself - by getting off on its own image - masturbating in the mirror - coming over the mirror - coming over itself - staining the self - severing the self - severing the sight of the spectator - severing the site of the space - throw through the time of thrust there throwness.

There the thrown sedate semen streak splicing the Two Figures Lying on a Bed is a 'directed beam' a 'guiding beacon' thrown-in-the-dark as an advancing Dasein dethronement of Darkness leaking Lightness as a dazzling Derailment - as a spunking superabundance - as an oozing omnipresent. Blown Bulb Bacon lights Lightness as Darkness as an absolute metaphysical mooding meeting colliding cosmic counterforce constellations collapsing Light into Dark Dark into Light cancelling the Light by the Dark the Dark by the Light where we cannot see the Light of the day for the Light of the Night or the Dark of the Day. But the Child can see the Light of the Night: the Child does not fear the dark: the Child fears the Light that the Dark moods and murmurs: the Child is not scared of the dark but scared of the Light that the Night nurtures: the Child can see the Light of the Night and the Dark of Day as it Lay and so the Child cannot come to see the Light of Day having been already Blinded by the Light of Night.

Michael Peppiatt saw the semen streak straight away as a flying flare flaying the Two Figures Lying on a Bed: "...there was the more hermetic but hardly less disquieting Two figures on a Bed with two Attendants. Distinctly anthropoid and deliberately identical, the two figures lie on the familiar Moroccan-inspired bed in a mess of shadow and a flare of white paint.; the latter might have been added, like the famous hypodermic syringe in the female nude, to 'disrupt' the image, but it still looks unmistakably like a heroic stream of semen." (Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press,1996).

Parveen Adams aims Bacon's bolt of lightning as a Lacanian lamella leftover becoming Bacon's meteorite 'matter of fact: "It is the image in all its materiality that throws out this darkness, that marks itself by darkness...What oozes out is the lamella, the organ of the drive...I am saying that it is the lamella that is the outcome of Bacon's efforts to avoid narrative and representation and to act directly on the nervous system. Bacon's 'matter of fact' turns out to be the lamella. And I mean you to take this quite literally...The violence of sensation has squeezed out a literal essence of being, the lamella, a puddle of being...the violence of the painting is the correlate of the violence of appearing. What is at stake is not violence but paint." (Parveen Adams, The violence of paint; The Emptiness of the Image, Routledge, 1996). What is at stake is a semen strike - as a serene sein sensation - thrown through time.

Louis-Ferdinand Céline once observed Bacon practice painting Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968): "He sticks his finger into the wound...He plunges both hands into the meat...he digs into all the holes...He tears away the soft edges...He pokes around...He gets stuck...His wrist is caught in the bones...Crack!...He tugs...He struggles like in a trap...Some kind of pouch bursts...The juice pours out...it gushes all over the place...all full of shit and spunk...splashing..." (Céline, Death on the Instalment Plan, 1936). The Semen Sowing of the Sacred Sein is the Coming Together of the Day of the Night of the Night of the Day as the They Lay. Now today the Two figures have disappeared into a dungeon: the Two Figures Lying on a Bed - are now without - Attendants - and have been kidnapped from the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. Two Attendants of the Basij Militia marched up to the central panel of the Two Figures Lying on a Bed and took it away. Its fate is not known. Only the Two Attendants remain waiting and watching and wanking all over an abjected empty enigma. In a basement beheading bunker the Two Attendants of the Basij Militia slashed at the semen streak shouting 'God is Great'!

Suddenly serene sacred semen shoots out - there a white shape - in absolute dismemberment - in absolute abandonment - it finds itself - and we find ourselves - negotiating with the negative - but that an accident as semen - detached from what shoots it - out - but which is mediation itself is brute bliss Bacon's Abject Sublime slime stuff as a Thrown Thunderbolt throws up a metaphysical mood of throwing the subject outside the self through paradoxical sensations: abhorrent-attraction - disgusted-delight - repellent-relish - such is the strange sensation of shooting spunk which is neither a liquid nor a solid but some soggy substance simmering in between appearing as a floating flimsy film with the jouissance juices of a jellyfish: gooey and glistening - bubbling and beaming - smelling and smouldering - coagulating and curdling - stinging and stunning - dripping and dispersing - nailing the negative.

And squirting out a sharp shard-splinter of spunk He strikes Me with wet dark drizzle of oozed drooling dew jouissance juices and I rejoiced as the sown subjects rejoice reeling at the thirsty God-sent scent glow glistening when the groans are given. Lightening liquid light leaking loose drowning drooling dribble drinking drops down draining drought slurping savouring swallowing sweet salty succulent smelly seeping soaking spunk stain swabs selectively served. Serene semen semblance sutures forth 'form' as a 'content' containing the thrown image in-it-self shot out-of-it-self as a fort-da-froth forth.

Semen schön - Semen schein - as an anointed fort-da-fluxing flight pulsating pulling-pushing out the presence of physis as a giving geist of a glistening glowing gift god.

Semen strikes - Splitting Spine -as the spine is the site of sein where the lightening spunk strikes behind the neck bolting back to the behind dripping dasein diarrhea out.

Blasé Bacon's spine split spilt-splinter silver spunk sliver shining-shaft shot leaking lightning-strike sensations sow here Heraclitus' lit 'lightning-flash' sensationing 'all things' so the spunk 'flashes through the body as lightning through the cloud' as 'all things flow' so semen sensation endures endlessly as an Eternal Return of the Semen seeping seeking Zeus Sensationing as a shooting showing showering shuddering through Throwing Thunderbolt thrusting being beyond Being off out-of-sync out-of-joint out-of-time as forks of fire:

"Fire in its ways of changing - is a sea transfigured - between forks of lightning - and the solid earth - As all things change to fire, - and fire exhausted - falls back into things, - Fire of all things - is the judge and ravisher - How, from a fire - that never sinks - or sets, - would you escape? One thunderbolt strikes - root through everything - Lightning steers all - What was scattered - gathers. What was gathered - blows apart - The way up is the way back - The beginning is the end. - " (Fragments: The Collected Wisdom of Heraclitus, Viking Penguin 2001).

Bacon beams Brightness as a scheiden Semen stain spattering out onto opening off of Semblance splitting spaces as a groundless gleam groin gaping Grounding draining dread darkening as a pulling pushing pulsating Presencing as a licking light leaking at against a delivering dark draping creating carving Clearing as a lit Lichtung Lamellaing as a Spunking-into-Darkening hearing here Heidegger: "Light can stream into the clearing, into its openness, and let brightness play with darkness in it. But light never first creates the clearing. Rather, light presupposes the clearing...Such shinning [Scheinen] occurs necessarily in brightness [Helle]. Only though brightness can what shines show itself." ((Martin Heidegger, The End of Philosophy and the Task of Thinking).

Semen-sein mooding means bled Being being shot out into the Nothing shooting itself inked into the Thirsting. The Nothing belongs to the Shooting sensation that Cums forth from Semen-sein since the Semen-sein seeps seeks soaks the hosed House of the Nothing dripping draining dread Da-sein down. Sensuous semening semblance sensation - as an angoisse abaesthetics activated - cums after and cums over aesthetics drenching dread Dasein drained.

Lightning steers all. Leaking steers all. Spunking steers all. Spunklightning Sensationing. Zeus Sensationing. Shooting Fire. Becoming Being.

In the Semenation of Being, Being is what is Sensationed about as an anointed Dasein discharge Ereignis expenditure gift giving initiating Intoxication.

Bacon 's subversive seductive Semenisation is the Bakhtinian Célinian Carnivaleque where the style and the stain and the stench of serene semen smothering the fuck-face foils soils soaks spills and splits the subject as an eggo ecstatic aliennation as a jolting jouissance disrupting Dasein. The thrown shot semen scape that scars the thrown fuck face fuels horror and humour all at once since sent scented semen is seen and smelt as out-of-place as a semen scape scars and streams the fuck face disturbingly delightful delightfully disturbing staring at the abject sublime slime stuff in the fuck face assimilating and appropriating an ancient angoisse abjected alteric aleatoric alétheia alienation.

The thrown Liquid Lightening strikes Semen slivers at ankles of frozen Freud's flipper foot in Francis Bacon's Portrait of Lucien Freud (1968). Titian El Greco Velázquez Rembrandt Vermeer Turner Monet Corinth and Bacon painted pearl pus glistening glittering loin leaking lamella silver sliver spunk sludge slime smaze smirch smalt smear smog smoulder spume sperm spilt slime silk sensationism froth foam form negating narrative leaking lamella. Turner's Buttermere Lake (1798) and Bacon's Tritptych August (1972) shower silver raining rainbows of ooze shooting silver slime sludge semen showering sensationism. Bacon's shot spunk porous paint literally leaks lamella ooze out about at your yoke bled bare broken by pissing passing process thrown through the brain and as leaking leftovers initiating into the thrown licked loins nailing now the thrashed nailed nerves. Bacon's pulse pushed paint, as a lamella leakage ooze-oil anti-illustrational paint, remains locked outside the signifying chain because 'it' has no 'referent', no 'sign', 'it' because 'it' refers to nothing recognisable or nameable or seeable. Lacan's leaking lightening - as a late lamella - lights lingering as an atta Alien - attuned and attained as a Sein Strike - severing and serving bolted being - as an activated abjected angoisse appearance - qua queer abappearance - oozed off outside our 'human' representation for 'it' has no recognisable known 'identity' as 'it' is a spurtted spillage of oozed stained stuff so far unseen so far unsmelt so far unmade by man for 'it' is an alien anterior in origin out-of-joint out-of-vision-out out-of-time of being 'human' and being 'made': an 'art alien' is not an 'art work': 'it' does not 'work': 'it' is 'out-of-work'. There is no 'representation' of an 'art alien' as alien art acts ahead and afar before 'presentation' being attuned and attained at all as a prehistoric 'presence'.

Lightening Strike Self Portrait 1981 Alex Alien Lightening Strike Self Portrait 1981 Alex Alien

For Bacon Being in the Dark is a meandering Metaphor for Truth for the Dark strikes Light leaks Light gives Light to the Thrown glistening glowing Gift Geist of Shot Semen Semblance. For Bacon sent Semen sensation comes to Presence cums to Light through the draped Dark dread Dasein. Semen Strike shot on dark skin has higher sensation than semen shot on light skin so semen shot in the dark has more sensation than semen shot in the light. The light has no lightness without the dark of the darkness: the dark of the darkness gives truth to the lightness of the light. Darkness [Dunkelheit] is the sole semen source of Lightness: squirting serial sequins forth frothed forever. For flushing beaming Bacon dread Dasein is initiated and attuned as a Lightning Bolt of oozed out Being being shot-n-the Dark - as a Positive-Negative Space - as a Giving Dark-Light to Alteric Alien being breeding flute flush fluid fluxion fuel fluorescences forged from the voluptuous vivacious violence of our oozed out shot semenised stigma stizein style stamen stuff. Bacon's desemenization of pushed pus paint - as shot strike stizein stamen stuff - is a sign of his self his stigma his style: for florescent flavoured baked Bacon style is a certain way of doing violence to sensations. Bacon is style. Bacon has style. Bacon gives style: Bacon is sharp. Bacon is pointed. Bacon throws style. Bacon's style of throwing is an aiming is a stabbing is a pointing is a killing - because Bacon's blunt-pointed savage-suave style is a way of doing violence to the paint - is a way of doing violence to the image as acidic Céline styled: "Style is a certain way of doing violence to sensations...of having them slightly fly off the handle, so to speak, displacing them...But ever so slightly! Oh, ever so slightly!" Like louche balletic Bacon, the snake has style, the shark has style, the sloth has style, the slut has style. Bacon is a Lightening Strike with Style: a Lightening Strike that always Strikes in the Same Place at the Same Time out-of-time all in time with the time of being coming to a head with the being of time coming off on time all over time all the time a head coming off on time to time in time.

As an abject sensation skid scape stylist Bacon breeds serene Semen Sein Sensationing as an Egyptian Egging Eggsistence as an alteric aleatory awakening Aum: The A is Creation, its Being is at the Back of the Throat where the Sound Originates; the U is Preservation it Melts in the Middle of the Mouth and the M is Murder it Locks the Lips where the Sound Stops. The A is also the thrown Becoming of Alien Consciousness, the U the Unconscious, the M the Subconscious sleep sensationing bled beyond being as a no nothing. As absexual Atum created his Children Shu and Tefnut through sending semen sensationing oils outside-in inside-out Originating being born by Being bled. The A is also the alteric Aleatory of our awakening the thrown Ather away.

Titian El Greco Velázquez Rembrandt Vermeer Turner Constable Monet Corinth Hambling and Bacon spurt spunk snow sensationism: silvering slivering slithering scintillating swabbing soaking sparkling shining shimmering shuddering gleaming glittering glowing lightening luminous leftovers like 'a snail leaves its slime' as a 'shining of the sensible' of being bled bare out-the-world where the 'question of being' becomes answered as 'the sensation of spunking': those tiny tear trickles of our oily oozing sparkling shining shimmering shuddering slippery slimy silver sliver slither semening silt shaft shards which will well weft wilting wean wet wind wax leaking luminous light dark dart dare dripping down deliciously disgusting delightful despicable drool delivering dairy Dasein below blow torch touch liquid light see sein.

El Greco's Blow Job joy juices drip dasein down wet with white wax leaking laughed lamella becoming beaming Bacon's jettisoned jouissance juices like Lacan’s leaked light lamella: "something completely fluid, which shifts like an alien - However, it drips everywhere. And because it is this... in relation to that which an alien being loses in sexuality, it is - like an alien aura in relation to sexual beings - something immortal. It survives each and every spit, withstands each and every vision in principle... This lamella, this organ, the characteristic of which is that it does not exist, but which is not thus less organ…, is ab libido. This is ablibido as pure life, irresistible life, life which alone does not need any kind of organ..." (Jacques Lacan, Four Basic Concepts of Psychoanalysis). Bleak Baconian Lacanian lamella is the thirst thrown leakage of the swamp subconscious which spills soaks forth froth from alien anal oral orbits of our hot holes where the gaze oozes out of into: the gaze is not a product of the eye but the body as eye from anus and other outlets for the eye sees nothing but its hollowed eye socket out of orbit out of time: Bacon does not see what he paints and does not gaze or depict the gaze because it has been gutted and blinded by the shooting surf spume spurt of ontological ooze dripping down an alien's jewelled jaw. For Bacon the thin glazed gaze is not the delirious Desire for the Other but Shines out Froth forth from the Ather as a radical alien Atherness that sees nothing all the time out of time smelling smouldering sensationism as an abvisual abvision as a severing Spielraum sperm splicing sight as the tain on the mirror is the stain on the face as a facial frisson fracture for both Bacon and Cézanne's floating faceted faces become a kind of ignited initiated invisible meandering materiality mediating as an awful alteric alienus Spielraum semen star stain supplement semblance surplus spillage severing sight. Serenely shot Spiel Semen sensation spills slither sliver slices through the fuck face forever dividing Dasein drooling down. Or El Greco's Blow Job - Jettisoned Jouissance - Leaking Light - Semen Sein.

For Bacon anti-illustrational oil paint is aleatoric and much more real than reality: 'it' is that thick soggy slime stuff that sutures the self oozed out of itself: it 'lives on its own' - like 'the image one is trying to trap' - as the non-known neuter nailing the nervous system wet with spilt semen scape stains: all your alien sticky slime 'stuffness' slipping - leaked - like Bacon's shot silver sliver spunk oil ooze pearl paint - is always already shooting sliding away after to towards eggo ejaculation as a silver slither shining shudder. Served. Severed. There was fucking spunk everywhere. Yet yesterday that thrown sown subconscious spunk swamp sea instinct inside pleases primordial loin-leak runs reviving reptilian alien being in Bacon's brush chances and thrown orders. Yet you both boil (privately) 'enjoy' eggo ejaculation of our oozed bled Bacon's soiled shot spilt split Spielraum spunk stains: they turd trace tantalizing joy jew juices. Bled Bacon's pus-paint here has 'a life of it owns' oozing outside the signifying chain: it glistens, groans, grates nerves. Bacon's shooting slurp soggy spunk thrown there the fucked flawed face is indeed the thrown leaking lamella that thereafter drips dry off the fuck face of oozed bled being. Bacon's thrown thick paint prick drool-drops drip down the fuck face. The thrown froth fucking spunk across the fucking face is the fuel opal oil of froth foam as a raw register of oily bled being injected in by Bacon. Just days before he died Bacon spunked to Francis Giacobetti: "The creative process is a cocktail of instinct, skill, culture and a highly creative feverishness... it’s a little like making love, the physical act of love. It can be as violent as fucking, like an orgasm or an ejaculation. The result is often disappointing, but the process is highly exciting." (Exclusive interview with Francis Bacon: "I painted to be loved", Francis Giacobetti, 1992, The Art Newspaper, June 2003). You can can you not always already here hear see sip smell the thrown ejaculated Eggo Sein spunk sensation shooting there towards both blinding your eggless eye slits severing sight violating vision blinding being decapitating daring Dasein dripping divine.

Bolting Bacon sows the semen strike shot ahead across the fuck face as a spent spirit that is illuminating that is enlightning that is electrifying that is vivifying that is violating as a bolt of being as a binding light as a blinding light aimed at the eye emptying out the eye erasing the I becoming the other. Bacon shot huge jet wad loads of splattered spattered Spielraum spunk spume all over the fucking canvas cunt's fuck face. Bacon ejaculated a white whiplash of oil paint at the cunting canvas cutting being bare open out. So see the sea of Spielraum semen play of paint in Bacon's Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants, (1968 ) - which Bacon's biographer Michael Peppiatt reads as: "Distinctly anthropoid and deliberately identical, the figures lie on the familiar Moroccan-inspired bed in a mess of shadow and a flare of white paint; the later may have been added, like the famous hypodermic syringe in the female nude, to 'disrupt' the image, but it still looks unmistakably like a heroic stream of semen." Baconian eggo ejaculated jettisoned jouissance joy juices go grain beyond bliss and anal blisters - mere mushy eggo ejaculation enjoyment or ore pain pleasure and arse penetrate way beyond the pleasure principle to the principle of alien sensationism of the nervous system where the death drive and pleasure principle dissolve in a puddle of leaking difference as alien oily otherness. Bacon's Thrown white whiplashes off of putrid puss paint go straight to the nervous system to the stomach; to the spirit nailing the nervous system and the swamp of the slime subconscious sea inside us: thus the subconscious is structured like Bacon's Semen Sensation of ooze oil prick panic paint: a liquid leaking eggo ejaculating sperm spume stream of our ordered organic clotted cloudy creamy coffee chaos. Severed spunk. Served spunk. Spilt spunk. Soggy spunk. Sticky spunk. Shot Spunk sensation shooting out anointed all over your yearning yelping yummy frozen fuck face fort fountain dripping deluge down drowning deliciously delightfully deliriously slippery skin surfaces sliding spilt spirit Spielraum spunk star stain shards served severed beautifully beheading being.

The heterosexual can't stand spunk - can't stomach spunk - can't swallow spunk - finding fuming firing shooting spunk sensation absolutely abhorrent: abject and abysmal - repellent and repugnant - putrid and pernicious - disgusting and despicable - whilst the homosexual finds shooting sparkling spunk sensation sensual and seductive - delightful and delicious - tangy and tasty: the homosexual savours spunk - smells spunk - swallows spunk - seeks spunk - seeking the truth of be-ing shot out into the world all over the body all over the face all over the eye of the 'I' blinding being there binding be-ing. Spunk seeps all. Spunk seeks all. Spunk steers all. Spunk sends all. Spunk spends all. Spunk shelters all drenching da-sein. Sent spent severed served Spunk sprinkle sein scape scent sensations so sweetly salted as an angoisse alien aroma awe alighting ahead as an anointed potent poignant pungent punitive punch showering shooting spiralling sparkling Spielraum spirit spunk shard stars as a sign of sein being shot out there aborted ahead as shooting stars showering all beings below with the star dust of dasein drying out there dying out there no longer being-there.

Deluded Deleuze stated: "The sensation is that which is paint. And the paint, in the painting, is the body, not inasmuch as it is represented as an object, but because it is capable of evoking that particular sensation..." The painterly sensation is that which - in Bacon - is simply spunk shot voluptuously violently at across the froth foam face or foot in Freud.. The spume spunk spew shot sensationally filleting Freud's foot with all its frothy foam freshness in Portrait of Lucien Freud, 1968 by Bacon. In this great grit grain image the two black discs hovering about cheek and chin nail the form as lamella-eggs while the white whiplash that severs the foot becomes spume spunk sensationism stink instinct in all its abject-sublime voluptuous violence: these the two bleak black loose lamella eggo-egg-discs drain arse and single spunk splatter here have more moist intensity itchy thirst than all the spillages and slashes shot short by dry drek de Kooning crapping and anal piss pristine prick Pollock bollock. Titian, Velázquez, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Turner, Monet, Corinth, Soutine, Bacon, Auerbach and Alien knew nailingly-instinctively, intuitively-inkly, egg-exactly, eke-eggoly hot how much mess slime sludge sperm stuff to trail throw let-loin-leak when without drowning dead the thrusted-initiated image eggo either too wet or too dry. Sealing spunk stains. Bacon threw that putridly perfect white whip lash loose of oozed 'tooth paste' spit spunk shot over dreary drool droll doll Dyer's shoulder at the last minute and left it there bled bare. Blasé Bacon becoming bored throws ahead a silver sliver of spunk slicing through frozen Freud's hair splitting the skull in two whilst wounding the empty eye as an eggo white whirl spunk spice splice smear opening opalescent orbit: the spunk has landed - something flies off - the eggo has ejaculated.

Thoth thrown thin white whiplashes of opalescent pearl-paint preserve and present the slurp sludge stuff of the thick sewer semen subconscious: Bacon said it: "seems to come straight out of what we choose to call the unconsciousness with the foam of the unconscious locked around it - which is its freshness." Bacon's prick paint comes spurting straight out of the eye of the penis with the shooting sensation leaked leftover around all over you both. Bacon did not have an ear. Bacon did not have a musical ear. Bacon had a musical body. Bacon had a musical hand. Bacon conducted the music of the paint through the music of his hand. For Bacon conducting is throwing. Bacon's baton is his arm - Bacon's hand is his eye. With a violent thrusting forward twist of his body Bacon threw the paint at the canvas recording the music of his nervous system. For Bacon throwing-as-conducting and manipulating the music of the pushed paint punctures turns technique inside out against technique through chance and accident becoming counter-technique as an anti-technique where the grain of the paint goes against the grain of 'conscious technique' which is 'technique for technique's sake'. Late Titian, Velázquez, Rembrandt, Turner and early Bacon did not have what may be called a willed 'conscious technique' as they constantly disrupted, negated and forgot 'how to do it' losing 'conscious control' of the slime stuff serving subconscious silver sliver spunk sensation negating narrative and avoiding illustrational 'conscious' paint. Theodor Adorno addressing technique:

"The recognition of inconsistencies between technique - an art work's intention, especially its expressive mimetic dimension - and its truth content sometimes provokes revolts against technique. Self-emancipation at the price of its goal is endogenous to the concept of technique. It has a propensity to become an end-in-itself as a sort of contentless proficiency. Fauvism was a reaction against this in painting; the analogous reaction in music was the rise of Schoenberg's free atonality in opposition to the orchestral brilliance of the neu-deutsch school. In his essay Problems in Teaching Art, Arnold Schoenberg - who, more than any other musician of his epoch, insisted on consistent craftsmanship - expressly attacked blind faith in technique. Reified technique sometimes provokes correctives that border on the 'wild', the barbaric, the technically primitive and art-alien. What can truly be called modern art was hurled out by this primitive impulse, which, because it could not domesticate itself, transformed itself at every point once again into technique. Yet this impulse was in no way regressive. Technique is not an abundance of means but rather the accumulated capacity to be suited to what the object itself demands. This idea of technique is sometimes better served by the reduction of means than by pilling it up and exhausting the work..." (Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, Athlone Press, 1997).

But Bacon had stopped subconscious semening-painting after Dyer's demise when Bacon moved away from an alien-ated arbitrary attunement to a kind of coy cosy and crass conscious putting on of illustrational paint where this conscious technique became a self-referential signature tune of crafted Bacon clichés. Late Bacon (post 1976) is a piss poor pastiche parody play out of his former froth forms bled bare bored like leakless Gerhard Richter who takes 'technique for technique's sake' to its fetishistic flawless locked-limits of foregrounding the production of pastiche-painting as a boring blurred photo realism: thus Richter represents the end of non-painting as the memory of painting past through the memory of photography for Richter always already knows very well that he cannot paint so he parodies painting by pretending to paint by painting-by-numbers. Richter's reactionary retard realism technique fetishism forms the non-image in-itself: sanitised sterilised staid still smooth sealed like leakless Euan Uglow (who also pretended to pain because he could not paint) with his conscious-clinical (eggoless) 'english empiricism' starkly stripped of oily-slick sensationism strained of sludge sperm stuffs with wetless controlled cunts being bled dull dead dry. Richter & Uglow never painted-paintings but initiated-illustrations.

But Bacon's previously 'pushed paint' petered out in his late lost puerile portraits of John Edwards where the placid paint became boringly bloodless: pretty poofy pussy pristine pearly lacking loin lusty leakness led previous pus-pigment putridity. Reactionary Richter represents the retardation of painting without painting with paint as the forgetting of painting so nothing comes as all is foregrounded forgetting:as a forgetting of painting-semening for relic Richter fears the smell of fresh semen and the sight of sweet semen and the taste of sound semen as the site and the scene of paintning (which was) spunking so there is no coming-off of paint becoming paint for itself coming-out of itself for itself as ahead of itself for Richter cannot come for Richter cannot come-off for Richter cannot not come-off to paint the coming-off of paint coming-off over itself out of itself so semen is sutured not spilt so semen is sedated not spurted. For rigid Richter dreads splatters of spunk all over his face whereas drenched Bacon delights in the delicious dank delicacy of our dripping dazzling dasein-différance.

Peppiatt peppered on our late bland Bacon: "The new paintings mirrored the change in the palette of Bacon's emotions. The portraits of John Edwards in particular communicate an eerie sense of calm, like a harmony achieved through violent discord. It is difficult to know whether the pale colours and concentrated form betoken reconciliation or a certain weariness... The paint itself had grown thin, almost transparent; the traces of struggle within the pigment, long the nub of Baconian style, had melted into a ghostly smoothness." (Francis Bacon, Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996). Bacon had however lamella leaked himself out of his body and became a gargoyle ghost of his former alien self no longer 'splashing the stuff down' or throwing the stuff there but going through the motions by painting-by-numbers as a dried dasein. But before brave Bacon painted with passion the pulsations of the person and only by not knowing 'how to do it' could he really 'do it' by being thrown into a subconscious-swamp slime-state of not-being-there - of knowing what he was doing or where he was going - by being blind - by throwing blind - by becoming thrown over and out of being there then: by being subconscious stuff in itself thrown out itself ahead of itself at itself: the subconscious is structured like a sewer: a swamp of dasein detritus diarrhea whilst the subconscious looks like the wonderful wound of our fuck facial with all the spunk of the subconscious ooozing out dripping down dasein severing sein opening out our being in the world by being beheaded ahead of the head out the world: coming towards you all: coming all over you: the beautiful wound of the ugly object: the abject sublime: the subconscious stuff: glue geist as a sein sacrifice. Lacan leaked: "Something flies off. Here is something you would not like to feel creeping over your face, silently while you are asleep, in order to seal it up, opens it out, a glitter of geist, a gift of geist - gushing forth - the real thing - flies forth."

Semening scarring of our sein stuff - as a fractured frisson force - opens out our fuck face - for furthering futuring - by becoming being ahead as a be-ing by beheading being becoming be-ing initiated as an afar after-ather: as a damaged dasein - as a broken being - as a blistered bliss - as a positive presence of our negative nothing: the unconscious knows nothing of the nothing or the time of the thing of the nothing coming towards you: the unconscious is the nothing of the time-being coming towards you: the unconscious is the positive presence of the negative nothing for the time-being coming towards the being-time becoming be-ing time for no-time at all - 'and it can run around and it goes everywhere' (Jacques Lacan).

Freudian frissonist Mark Cousins on our subconscious stuff: "In unconscious life negation must be regarded as a productive force rather than a limitation, or privation, of objects there might be for experience. Freud insists that the unconscious does not understand negation in its conventional sense, any more than it understands the conventional categories of space, time and causality. The unconscious is not governed by those transcendental categories by which philosophers have sought to police the operations of what used to be called the 'mind'. It is possessed by an unstoppable positivity. The unconscious experience of a 'negative object' is positive, real and direct." (Mark Cousins, The Ugly, AA Files, Number 29, Summer, 1995).

Mark Cousins on the wonderful wet wound of the subconscious stuff that seizes the subject through the surface of the skin throwing the face free out of our order:

"The experience of the meaning of the face determines the phantasy of what is behind the face. Facial expression seizes possession of a depth which is implied. In reading the surface, I fill out what is behind the surface with the depth of the surface...When I look at you, I do not only imagine that the surface of your face epitomizes an expression; the experience of your face overwhelms any thought of what might lie behind it. The depth of your face exhausts any question of 'behind'. This phantasy is shockingly curtailed by the sight of a facial wound. Suddenly the phantasy of depth is shattered by the perceptual registration that there is a behind to the face and that, far from supporting the experience of depth, it projects the stuff of another order, or disorder. The sight of subcutaneous reality, the sudden, crazy sight of flesh and bone is altogether too much. It seizes my attention because it does not signify, because of its evident character of being too much, too close, too soon. It does not so much undermine as 'overmine' the face and its expressive economy. The face does not collapse; the face is thrown off. The depth of expression is relegated to the surface of a mask. The moment of ugliness, then, is the shattering of the subject's phantasy of what makes up the object, in which the object is permeated by its surface just as a face is, and not that there is a non-signifying interior whose pressure to appear is concealed only by the temporary and mendacious skin of a mask. The trauma, for the subject, is occasioned by the sudden appearance of 'stuff', the stuff which threatens to overwhelm and engulf the subject, and to contaminate the subject with its own lack of meaning." (Mark Cousins, The Ugly, AA Files, Number 29, Summer, 1995).

So why is the spunk splattered fractured fuck face much more present potent and poignant than the pure pristine and polished original ovoid object?

Because as a dasein damage it is the thing-out-itself - opening-out-of-being-there - thrown-forth - as a froth-force - as a life-leak - as a life-leaked away - abjected ahead - ahead of its head - having a life all of its own all on its own - opening out of the world wound and weeping wearily all over you all with its wet sticky sein slime stuff - coming towards you coming to a head - coming all over you all and covering your eyes blinding-being by binding-being opened-out. The fresh frisson of the fracture and the scar and the stain of the semen strike activate an angoisse shimmering-shuddering-sensationing sending shivers to the psyche which welcomes the slime-stuff with a dasein delight and not as a deadly dread for the unconscious thing knows nothing of the 'ugly object' for our unconscious sewer is the reeling reservoir of the real-nothing not-there which fillets and then filters through 'the ugliful' object as becoming 'the beautiful' thing as Bacon-Thoth throw forth through looking like: 'the saliva and the glitter of the mouth' as an alienological drool of our dasein dripping down scintillating sein saliva stuff:

"I did the whole series of the Popes for a curious reason. I bought a book on diseases of the mouth when I was quite young – it had always fascinated me, and I'd also been hypnotised by Velázquez’s portrait of Innocent X and at that time I thought that with the colour of the portrait of the mouth, the saliva and the glitter of the mouth, I would be able to make a marvellous image – but I never succeeded in doing it. When the Pope was screaming, it wasn’t screaming, I wanted to make the scream into something which would have the intensity and beauty of a Monet sunset…" (Francis Bacon, Interview with Peter Beard, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 1975).

Peppiatt pertains to the sexual sensation that the moist mouth may have meant and melted for Bacon's blossoming out of the beautiful wet wound:

"Was his fascination with the mouth ('the beautiful colours of the mouth and the glitter of the teeth') sexual, as he slyly suggested in an aside in his interviews with David Sylvester (but which Sylvester never followed up)?" (Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon in the 1950s, Yale University Press, 2006).

For Cousins the ugly object is the stuff that should not be there for the conscious-subject whereas being-alien the unconscious enjoys the ugly object:

"Contamination, at a logical level, is the process whereby the inside of an object demonstrates that it is larger than its outside or representation... The obsessional thinks in terms of the formula that ugliness is a function of proximity, but also thinks that the way to stop an object getting closer, to bring it under control, is to clean it. This involves a phantasy about gleaming surfaces; whatever gleams is sufficiently distant from myself. What I polish recedes; what is dirty approaches. But the hopelessness of the task of cleaning is all too apparent. The more you clean something, the dirtier it gets. As the surface is cleaned it reveals those fewer by but more stubborn stains which demonstrate even more starkly how the remaining stains consume the surrounding space The case of the obsessional shows that the ugly object, in its relation to the subject, is not static but is always eating up the space between it and the subject... Reality is that which, being an obstacle, both arrests and denies us our pleasure. It is in this sense that we can consider a thesis which might otherwise seem petulant and melodramatic: The ugly object is existence itself, in so far as existence is the obstacle which stands in the way of desire. and so it is, from the point of view of desire, that the ugly object should not be there. Its character as an obstacle is what makes it ugly... There is another story, more obscure and obscene, about the relation between the unconscious and ugliness. It is an account of the ecstasy which the unconscious enjoys in all that is dirty, horrifying and disgusting - that is, of ugliness as an unbearable pleasure." (Mark Cousins, The Ugly, AA Files, Number 28, Autumn 1994).

For Russell Bacon's 'ugly object' is our ghost geist and 'the ghost' is in fact Bacon's 'brutality of fact' attuned and attained as as 'the fact' of the 'real thing' and not a trace of the real - not a representation of the real - but by being the real thing of our real fact as an initiated injury of our pure presence pierced:

"The portrait-heads grew consistently more and more violent as the 1960s progressed: to the point, in fact, at which the face as we know it would disappear altogether in the jewelled slime of the paint, leaving behind it an eye socket, or the deep cave of a nostril, or an irreducible patch of hair, as tokens that somewhere among the strong-willed chromatic smearing a named individual was commemorated. No question, here, of setting the scene: we are at a dentist's distance from eyes, nose, mouth and teeth, and the rest of the world is blocked out...Somewhere behind even the most radical of Bacon's injuries to the norms of beauty there is a counter-image; as Leiris says elsewhere, beauty is a function as much of the self-regenerative as of the self-destructive, and our final impression of any painting by Bacon is that of the rehabilitation of beauty...'Fact leaves its ghost' is another favourite saying of Bacon's and in these portraits the ghost and the fact are both present, and in such a way that no one can tell them apart." (John Russell, Francis Bacon, World of Art Series, Thames & Hudson, 1979).

For Bacon-Thoth the 'ugly object' is the 'beautiful wound' of the 'abject sublime' - the 'semen strike' - thrown through unconscious unreeling - that dasein dice of being out of it by being with it all at once: doing it by not knowing how to do it: only then the unconscious being begin to seep through to spunk out to come towards you to come all over you all at once. For Bacon-Thoth - and all alien artists - as unpluggers of the unconscious - the 'ugly object' - 'the ghost' - 'the apparition' - are always already revealing the 'real thing' and are much more real than reality which is really representation and a torn trace of 'the thing' of 'the real' that reels ahead of reality all over you all.

Sylvester suggested to Bacon: "I think that the best works of modern artists often give the impression that they were done when the artist was in a state of not knowing - for example, Picasso and Braque in those very late analytical-cubist pictures, where the whole thing seems totally inexplicable and one really can't believe that they knew what they were doing..." Bacon replied: "Surely this is the cause of the difficulty of painting today - that it will only catch the mystery of reality if the painter doesn't know how to do it. And he's carried along by his passion and he doesn't perhaps even know quite what these marks will make..." (The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987).

John Richardson summed this up very well: "What I like most was when Bacon was painting like Beau Brummel trying cravats - discarding one after another until something perfect and fresh came about. When he found painting difficult, the pictures were good. But once he knew hoe to do it and had all the technical ability, he started repeating himself." (Interview with John Richardson, New York, November 1993).

Leaking Lips Semen Sensation - Study of Isabel Rawsthorne 1966 Francis Bacon

Virginia Butterfield quizzed 'Papal Pope' curator Hugh Davies on Bacon's so-called 'ugly objects': "How can you like things that are so ugly?...The legs end in deformed bones; the heads are bashed in or daubed with enormous smears.” Davies darted back: "Ugly? It’s all a matter of perception. I would never use the word 'ugly'. When I first saw a Bacon painting, I thought it the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. Among all the ‘pretty’ art, I could hardly wait to see more. I can hardly wait for his paintings to get here. I could sit and look at them forever.” Butterfield rebuffed: "But, I protest, the subject matter is grotesque. Faces simply don’t exist. A mouth is all one can see, usually at the end of a pole-like formation. It snarls; it wails." (Conversion of a Skeptic: Raw violence ... or beauty? An art director makes a case for Francis Bacon’s brutal paintings by Virginia Butterfield, San Diego Magazine, February, 1999). For Bacon-Thoth - and all alien artists - there is no such thing as an 'ugly object' but only a 'beautiful abject' - the 'ugly object' is the 'beautiful thing' coming towards you all coming over you all. But the 'ugliful' is not the alien ather of the 'beautiful' but the 'beautiful' unbounded - the 'beautiful' broken out - opened out of the thrown 'human' becoming 'alien' again all over again. The Unconscious - as the absolute alien condition - knows absolutely nothing at all of the 'ugly object'. The Unconscious is the conscious of the alien condition coming out all over you all and all of the time for all time.

The Sensationism scent is in that throwness wetting which is inked loitering lamella leaking spunk spume spew slime spilling slurping sutured smirch smaze stuff as ooze-oil pulsatingpaint pushed prodded piercing nailed nerves. Ooze oil paint mixed with a dash drool of turpentine and manipulated in a quivering, shivering ,shimmering stabbing and dragging manner can produce a particular nerve shredding putrid puss spermatic sensation that thus suggests a reality more 'real' than the 'lie-reality' of weak 'illustrative realism' (which always already negates the froth, ooze, drool, drips, leaks which pour from our parts). Dyer does his hideous torn teeth with whip white tooth paste like lemon salty spunk Thrown thinly ozze over his hard Shark's shoulder. De Kooning (slashes) and Pollock (spatters) do not achieve Bacon's leaking loin form of froth foam spunk Sensationism because their multiple splatters end up by negating each other out: they over-flood it all watering the (non) image down and out and snapping the tension. De Kooning and Pollock are not Sensationist painters because their weak and watery non-imagery operates on a single level of non-sensation signifiying nothing. That is, there is no tension, no sensation, because there is no contrast or contest or cunt juice or jew juice bleeding between throwness and tightness, chance and control, ooze and order, stuffness and flatness. What gives Bacon's bled inked 'imagery' poignant pus power is the cutting contrast between the sown ordered and spilt organic as seen and smelt in Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968) where the thrown spilt spunk splits the flayed figure into two as a doppelganger on a dopplebed where white wet whiplash spunk sows the thrown sensation ooze of beingtime out-of-time where the black lamella is leaked into by a sliver of semen as Michel Leiris leaks: "...a long trail of white paint suggesting a sudden outflow or a whiplash..."

And after dreary Dyer died shitting sein brave Bacon brought back dead Dyer's dasein - as a dyer darstellen diced discharge - abjected alive as an Alien die Ankunft - as a white Wille zum Willen whiplash - as a gesit das gesicht sprung spunked spirit schema. Dyer's departing semensemblance spunked spirit abjects - as a schein semenessence substance: spirit as a shining substance: spirit as a sinnlich substance: spirit as a sticky substance: soggy spirit - gooey geist - the schein of spirit - sein-bei-spirit - sein surplus stuff - thrown through Thoth - throwing semenblance - throwing semence - as an apparent apparition appearance - as an absolute abscission - where wet reality initiated is radiance reeling rapture reeling real: as a free fueling flow fluxed fluently forward forever forever forever forthing forth throwing Thoth thothing thorth. The thrown thing-in-itself is initiated in Triptych August 1972 by bled Bacon's single sein sparkling semen smear - gathering grainy grit geist - like leaked lamella light - delivering dry dyer dasein decapitated. For bled Bacon this thrusting white whiplash semen smearing is a shuddering sign of Dyer's shimmering sein as a "lighting projection of truth" and as a "illuminating projection" as aletheia - the unconcealment and releasement of being - where truth flashes out - where truth flushes out - at us all - all over us - as an alive aletheia act - and shining and shuddering - ahead at all - as a Seinblick der Schein - as a Seinblick der Rausch - as a Stunning Sein - as Adorno addresses: "Artworks have an immanent character of being an act and this endows them with the quality of being something momentary and sudden...To this extent they are truly after-images of the primordial shudder...Ultimately, aesthetic comportment is to be defined as the capacity to shudder, as if goose bumps were the first aesthetic image. What later came to be called subjectivity, freeing itself from the blind anxiety of the shudder, is at the same time, the shudder's own development; life in the subject is nothing but what shudders, the reaction to the total spell that transcends the spell. Consciousness without shudder is reified consciousness. That shudder in which subjectivity stirs without yet being subjectivity is the act of being touched by the other. Shudder is a kind of anticipation of subjectivity, a sense of being touched by the other...In one of the most remarkable passages of his Aesthetics, Hegel defined the task of art as the appropriation of the alien...Artworks win life only when they renounce likeness to the human." (Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, The Athlone Press, 1997). Bluntly for Bacon spirit is spunk spunk is spirit: the real thing - the thing-in-itself - shot ahead and away outside-itself - as the thing-out-itself - as brute fact - as a matter of fact - as a fact of matter - anointed ahead as an angoisse aliensein slime stuff.

Like Martin Heidegger, Bacon never asked himself: “What is spirit?” and being a non-believer Bacon preferred to use the terms 'pulsation', 'energy' or 'emanation' rather than the 'soul' or the 'spirit' of the sitting subject. But by painting straight out of the subconscious stuff the sprung 'spirit' for Bacon: "seems to come straight out of what we call the unconscious with the foam of the unconscious locked around it - which is its freshness." (The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987). In Triptych August 1972 dyering Dyer delivers dasein decapitated and discharged - abjected ahead - as an alien apparition - as a gush geist gift - a gushing gesit as a a gushing gift - as a semening seining - as a smearing spiriting - a shot of the spirit - a shot in the dark - beaming being bright - thrown through the nothing of the night - becoming the nothing of the light - lighting the nothing of the thing - thinging the nothing of the light - the nothing alight - the nothing a light - lighting up the nothing of the night - nighting the nothing of the light: - gushing geist - glowing geist - giessen geist - giving geist.

In Bacon's Triptych May June 1973 (1973) they all see and smell the sprung spunked 'spirit' of drooling Dyer's dépense aiming away alight a light in flight in fright in the throw - thrown up in the free floating white will-without-a-will whiplash of pure paint that throws up the sensation of a shimmering sein a shuddering sein – fleeting forth as an egging ectoplasmic flash emanating from the ear of Dyer. If one ever wondered what the 'soul' or 'spirit' ever looked like - or ever leaked like - here Bacon has got close to 'the thing' thrown through this non-illustrational (non-narrative) pure paint(ing). Dyer's das Ding is in fact brute fact: that is: the Real Thing - the thing-in-itself - initiated out-of-hand - out-it-self - as the somatic afterimage of the abject sublime: - as a shuddering shimmer - as as a stinging stimmung - as an abjected agile angel - as an ejaculated ereignis ectoplasmic expenditure- as a divine dasein destining: - as a dyering dasein - delivering dyering ahead - as a dasein discharge - as a gush geist gift: sent spent spirit flash falls out of time all the time not in time as time gives spirit the time to be spirit in its own time out of our time as a gift to time to come as time ejaculates the ereignis of oozed out ectoplasmic spirit giving spirit time to be for time for spirit to take time for time to be spirit as time is spirit taking its time to come as a gift geist giving time time: spirit spunked ahead of time as the thing-in-itself-thrown-out-itself-out-of-the-world: spirit-is-out-of-being-in-the-world-for-a-time-being-not-tied-to-time-not-tied-to-being-not-tide-to-being-there-not-being-tied-to-the-tide-of-time: spunked spirit is the sphere of the real thing reeling out on its own - being on its own - doing its own thing - thinging outside the time being - timing outside the being time: - all the time not in time all the time out of time - free for a time to be for a bit to be for free time. So spirit itself manifests itself here as the horizon and holder of time becoming spirit time as authentic time as be-ing time alien to being time for the time be-ing for the time being for the be-ing of time for time.

The Tibetan Book of the Dead makes a direct reference to Dyer's dasein dépense semen-strike as a 'sharp, brilliant, luminous and clear white light': "The white light of the Spunk of form in its basic purity, the mirror-like wisdom, dazzling white, luminous and clear, will come towards you from the heart of Vajrasattva [pristine awareness] and his consort and pierce you so that your eyes cannot bare to look at it. At the same time, together with the wisdom-light, the soft smoky light of hell-beings will also come towards you and pierce you. All the time, under the influence of aggression, you will be terrified and [will try to] escape from the brilliant white light, [and] you will [also] feel an emotion of pleasure towards the soft smoky light of the hell-beings. At that moment, do not be afraid of the sharp, brilliant, luminous and clear white light, but recognise it as wisdom...It is the blessed Vajrasattva coming to invite you in the terrors of the Bardo; it is the light-ray hook of Vajrasattva's compassion, so feel longing for it." (Padma Sambhava, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, 8th century A.D).

Bacon being Thoth throws through the de-ceased dis-tress of oozed-out-ing dyer-ing da-sein strike by-ing being between-ing be-ing and being by being be-ing out-side of being t/here by being thrown through the thing-in-it-self-out-of-it-self as a liquid lightening strike struck straight ahead and all around as an enabling enownment ectoplasma envoy enlisted as a diplomat of da-sein abjected abroad as an ab-space spunk sphere by being be-cum-ing be-ing as an ab-ground gush of our given geist severing sein serving spirit by being thrown there then flying forth: 'something flies off' and 'it goes everywhere' (Jacques Lacan: The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, 1964). Michel Leiris' deals Dyer's darting dasein dépense as: "...a long trail of white paint suggesting a sudden outflow or a whiplash..." (Michel Leiris: Francis Bacon, full face and in profile, Phaidon, 1983). Likewise Lawrence Gowing - like Lacan - deals dire Dyer's sein-semen-strike as a free-flying-forth fort-da-dice-ing-ding: "When the paint itself breaks loose into a flowing white emanation, streaming away across the canvas, it is the intimation of a direction..." (Lawrence Gowing: Francis Bacon: The Irrefutable Image, 1968).

Day dreaming Descartes decanted Dyer's dasein dépense as an I that spunks - and after seeing it said: I spunk therefore I am: "But ,what then, am I? A spunking thing, it has been said. But what is a spunking thing? It is a thing that throws forth froth form fuel: - it affirms, attacks, attracts, shudders, shimmers, shivers, gives, grates, gouges, gorges. Take , for example, this passage of spunk, this pathway of spunk; it is quite fresh, having been but recently taken from the tube and thrown forth by Bacon; it has not yet lost the sweetness of the sweat and semen it contained; it still remains somewhat of the odour of the cock from which it came; its colour, shape, size, are apparent (to the sight and to the smell); it is hard, cold, easily handled; and sounds when struck upon with the finger. But, while I am wanking, let it be placed near the fire - what remained of the taste exhales, the smell evaporates, the colour changes, its shape is destroyed, its size increases, it becomes liquid, it grows hot, it can hardly be handled, and, although struck upon, it emits no sound. Does the same spunk still remain after this change? Does the same I still remain intact after the sensation of the spunk hits the eye? It was perhaps what I now spunk, not think, that this spunk was neither the sweetness of semen, the pleasant odour of sweat, the whiteness, the shape, nor the sound, but only a thing that is the I that spunks and being both blinded and binded by the spunk which needs not the the I to think about being there to begin with. But, finally, what shall I say of the spirit itself, that is, of being? For as yet I do not admit that I am anything more but spirit. But what is this spirit that I judge to be a thing of being that I see and smell touch and taunt? Is it not the spunk in itself out itself? For if I judge that the spunk exists because I see it, it assuredly follows, much more evidently, that i myself am or exist. If I judge the spunk exists because I touch it, it will still also follow that I am. I spunk therefore I am." (René Descartes, Meditations - A Discourse on Method, Everyman Library, London 1994).

Shenanigan Schopenhauer sees the spunk as the will-in-itself becoming out-itself-without-a-will beheading-being: "Spunk is the thing-in-itself, the inner content, the essence of the world always becoming the thing-out-itself initiated ahead away from the world. Life is, therefore, assured to the spunk of life, and as long as we are filled with the spunk of life, we need have no fear for our existence, even in the presence of death - Dyer's death. What was this Dyer's death that ejaculated ahead from behind the ear hole whole and in one fell swoop shot in the dark like that of a shooting star? What was it? What was it? It was the thing-in-itself coming towards you all out-of-itself? It is the spunk, of which life is a mirror, and spunk-free coming which glimpses the spunk clearly in that mirror. The spunk comes ahead in itself out itself to itself and at itself in the mirror on the mirror running down the mirror. The mirror sees the spunk coming clearly ahead towards its surface splattering it skin shattering its shine severing its sight. The mirror is the source and the sustainer of the sauce of the spunk where the tain of the mirror becomes the stain of the spunk becoming sein for all time to come." (Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Idea, Everyman Library, 1995).

Nectar nefarious Nietzsche scribbled in a state of rambling rapture after seeing the thrown ectoplasmic lightning strike emanating free from Dyer's decanting err ear:

Neonatal Nietzsche navigated the free-fluid-form of the shape-shifting-strike of the thrown spirit-thing-in-itself ahead as a spunking of the spirit-thing-out-itself:

Hazardous Heidegger hatched ahead after being hit in the head by the lightening bolt thrown by Bacon: "Suddenly I saw a single bolt of lightning, after which no more followed. My thought was: Zeus." (Martin Heidegger, Heraclitus). And here Heraclitus added: "One thunderbolt strikes root through everything." (Heraclitus, Fragments).

Heir Heidegger hears dire Dyer's dasein dépense as a Das Ding departedness: "Departedness works or operates as pure spirit" thrown ahead as a "quiet flaming blueness" becoming "a golden new beginning." For Heidegger here spirit signifies shining as a searing spunking of spirit shooting ahead of being. Blue Bacon blew Dyer's dasein dépense out-of-the-blue into-the-blueness-of-not-being-there becoming-the-blue-of-being-with-time for the first time for all time for time all. After hearing dire Dyer's dasein dépense darting ahead and above his head Heiddeger asked: "Yet Spunk - what is Spunk? It is It itself. The spunkning that is to cum must learn to sensation that and to spunk it. Spunk is farther than all beings and yet nearer to man than every being, be it a beast, an angel, an alien or a work of art. Spunk is the nearest. Spunk is the nearest thing thrown furthest away. For spunk serves as spunk severs for even the severing is still a binding and connecting of being with the noting at all." (Martin Heidegger, Letter on Humanism, 1946).

Hibernating Heidegger sensations dry Dyer's spunked-sein as a cuming-clearing-concealing away and ahead as an Alluminating Aletheia eggo-event. "If we spunk it - the spunking of spunk as lighting - this includes not only the brilliance - but also openness wherein everything - especially the reciprocally related - comes into shining. Lighting is therefore more than illuminating - and also more than laying bare. Lighting is the meditatively gathering bringing-before into the open. It is the bestowal of spunking...The event of lighting is the spunk. The meditatively gathering lighting which brings into the open is revealing - but it abides in self-concealing." (Martin Heidegger: Aletheia - Early Greek Thinking). This shining joined in the spunk is the ugliful unconcealed ahead as the thing becoming beautiful again.

Hypaethral Heidegger opens out clearing as a coming: "In Being and Spunk, Dasein is described as follows: Da-sein. The Da is the clearing and openness of what is, as which an alien spunks out...Thus the clearing in which something is spunked comes to meet something else spunked." (Martin Heidegger: Seminar on Herakleitos - 1966-1967). Clearing clears the pathway of the thing coming to clear itself through the clearing to cleanse itself clean thrown through the clearing clearly clearing being.

Spunk-ing is the Clear-ing of Be-ing because Spunk cums within the sphere of spunk-ing's clearing while clear-ing opens out only as the openness of ourownment. This cum-ing into the clear-ing happens ahead with our-owning. Cum-ing as a clear-ing of our open-ing out breaks in upon the openingout of ourownment be-coning be-ing thr-own t-here for no-thing. But be-ing as a spunk-ing ahead never leaves a trace in or on beings because be-ing is the trace-less never to be found among beings as a being because be-ing as a spunk-ing is always already alien to beings as a being. Since sp-unk and be-ing act without a trace and have nothing to trace but the nothing at all. But be-ing and spunk-ing solidify into being as a shape-shifting-shining spirit of beingness where being becomes being alien all again and always all wet with welcome spunking as being coming into its own all on its own all over its own one and all.

Spunking as a Coming into the Clearing of Being still fresh from Lying Figure 1966

Herr heterodox Heidegger saw dire Dyer's sprinkling spunk spirit as a sparkling shooting star streak that traces its trail that traces its tail as a projected parting pathway juncture jointing space to time just as the snail that leaves its slime to time - as a giessen glistening geist - as an alien allure.

Headless haggard Hegel saw spunk spirit as the spirit spunk that knows itself only when and where it is out of itself and ahead of itself shot out of itself outside the self as this thrown sacrifice of spunked sein becoming spirit spunked as a sein sacrifice by becoming awoken activated and abjected ahead as a gushing giessen geist gift like leaked light: "Pure Light as Pure Spunk scatters its simplicity as an offering to self-existence that the individual may take sustenance to itself from its substance." (G.W.F Hegel, The Phenomenology of Spirit, 1807)

Hear Hegel here on ordaining dying Dyer's spunked spirit: "But that an accident as such, detached from what decapitates and dispatches it, what is bound and is actual only in its context with others, should attain an existence of its own and a separate freedom - this is the tremendous thrust of the negative; it is the gush of Geist, or the pure spunk of Geist. Spunk, if that is what we want to call this thrown thing, is of all things most dreadful, and to hold fast what is spunked requires the greatest strength...But the life of Geist is not the life that shrinks from spunk and keeps itself untouched by being drenched, but rather the life that endures and maintains itself in it. Spunk wins its truth only when, in absolute abscission, it finds itself. It is this power, not as something positive, that closes its eyes to the negative; on the contrary, Spunk is this power only by looking the negative in the face, and coming with it. This coming with the negative is the magical power that converts it into being. This mediation of being spunked is not outside of it but which is mediation itself coming out itself. " (G. W. F. Hegel, The Phenomenology of Spirit, 1807).

Hegel sees spunking as the release of the real thing: "Spunking is the loosening of hardness; the meeting of oneself with oneself in the other. This is a release that is not the flight of abstraction, but consists in what is actual having itself not as something else, but as its own being and place in the other actuality with which it is bound together by the force of necessity. As existing for itself, this release is called spirit or spunk; as unfolded to its totality, it is free spirit; as a feeling it is love; an enjoyment, pleasure, delight, gratification, or profit, it is bliss." (G. W. F. Hegel, The Philosophy of Mind, 1807).

Hegel here sees spunk as other-being-for-self: "That the True is the actual only as system, or that Substance is essentially Spunk, is expressed in the representation of the Absolute as Spirit - the most sublime Notion and the one which belongs to the modern age and its religion. The spiritual alone is the actual; it is essence, or that which has being in itself; it is that which relates itself to itself and is determinate, it is other-being and being-for-self, and in this determinateness, or in its self-externality, abides within itself; in other words, it is in and for itself." (G. W. F. Hegel, The Phenomenology of Spirit, 1807).

Spunk-as-Spirit is in and out itself as being becoming be-ing as a de-capitated da-sein derailed delivering be-ing a-head and ahead as a being becoming be-ing the timebeing for the time be-ing for the time to come to through the coming of time through the coming off of time at a given time at a gift time to come as a coming time.

Like headless Hegel for fort/da lack Lacan Dyer's dasein dépense is initiated ahead as the release of the real thing as a leaked lamella abjected all about as an: "immortal . . . irrepressible life . . . the monstrous undead libido . . . the drive of the real thing . . . the drive of the flying thing . . . coming towards you all . . . as an es gibt . . . as a gift . . . as a gift gush . . . as a semening sending . . . as a sein sacrifice . . . as a gushed geist . . . gushing forth . . . gushing froth . . . filling the nothing full . . . fulling the nothing fill . . . full of the absolutely nothing . . . nothing the absolutely full . . . coming all over the nothing . . . nothing the over all coming . . . covering over the nothing . . . nothing over the covering . . . uncovering the over nothing . . . unovering the nothing covered . . . then the nothing flies off."

Lacan leaked ahead ago and around all about Dyer's dire spunked-spirit coming all over your face all through the night: "The lamella is something extra-flat, which moves like the amoeba. Let us imagine it, a large crepe moving about like the amoeba, ultra-flat for passing under doors, omniscient in being led by pure instinct, immortal in being scissiparous. And it can run around. Here is something you would not like to feel creeping over your face, silently while you are asleep, in order to seal it up, before it flies off again." (Jacques Lacan: The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, 1964).

For Lacan the lamella leftover is an alien being leaked ahead of itself off its head as a post-sexual-post-subject substance that the nothing there in the post-human-subject spills away and ahead of itself becoming an alien being again all over again as an alien "life that has no need of no organ." (Jacques Lacan 1991: 198). Dyer's darting Ding is Das Ding - the Real Thing - that is not The Lack but The Leak: The Real Thing is not forever lacking but rather the Real Thing is forever leaking as a surplus stuff not lacking substance but leaking substances: the Real Thing is The Leak thing: the Real Leaks - like the Unconscious leaks - the Real Thing leaks.

Lackluster Lacan larked about: "The thing that leaks is the spunk and the spunk is structured exactly like a symptom. It is the alien symptom par excellence; it is the subconscious stuff of aliens. And spunk is a symptom of style. Spunk is the stuff of style that cuts off that cuts out consciousness: spunk is style and style is alien and the subconscious stuff also has style: - its cuts through consciousness - as a sewer with style - that subconscious stench." (Jacques Lacan, Écrits - A Selection, Tavistock Publications, 1977).

Slavoj Zizek saw dull Dyer's spunked-spirit as a spectral-sinthom: "Dyer's spectral-sinthom is the Real Thing of the unformed ghastly matter of our pre-ontological order that has been let loose and is on the run reminiscent of the sticky stuff that the Alien leaks over Ripley in Alien 3. Dyer's spectral-sinthom meanders ahead without any meaning and signifies nothing at all but the Real Nothing of the Alien Thing that is always coming towards you without a narrative and without a name attached to it. Dyer's eggy excess of spectral-sinthom stuff is Bacon's brute matter of fact that just gives body as a matrix of jouissance, of excessive enjoyment - although sinthoms do not have sense, they do radiate jouis-sense, they do shine a jouis-sensation. Dyer's spectral-sinthom as an alien apparition is much more real than reality because in it the Real Shined through." (Slavoj Zizek, Everything you always wanted to Know about Bacon but were Afraid to ask Lacan, The New Schelling; Continuum, 2004).

Jouissancing Julia Kristeva saw dread Dyer's spunked spirit "whitish fluid" as a shuddering sensation abjected ahead: "When the eyes see or lips touch that skin or surface of spunk I experience a gagging sensation and, still farther down, spasms in the stomach, the belly; and all these organs shrivel up the body, provoke tears and bile, increase heartbeat, cause forehead and hands to perspire. With the vertigo that clouds vision, nausea makes me balk at that spunk cream, separates me from the stuff it cums forth from, for 'I' want none of that stuff near me for 'I' want to know nothing of it as it wants to know nothing of me but becomes me by becoming my nothing that it is for 'it' is 'I' as an abjecting nothing at all and 'I' know nothing of the abjected 'I' of the 'it' that 'I' am and am not at all all at once and for all as 'I' am always already 'it' anyway and 'it' - 'I' and all nothing at all again and again. As the 'I' without the 'I' at all a spunked spirit is a sublime sensation of an abjected alien and 'it' is death infecting life the life that is the death of the 'I' that is not an 'I' at all in life or death that knows nothing of the 'I' at all. Spunk. Spirit. Abject. Alien." (Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, Columbia University Press, 1982). The spunk is edged with the sublime. Neither subject nor object spunked-spirit is abjected attuned and attained as an alien thing of the nothing and for the nothing that has never ever been lost to begin with because 'it' was never found because 'it' was never ground(ed) 'it' was always-already alight(ed) as an abground abthing oozing out of our orbiting originary origining orgasmic spunk sublime subconscious.

Blotch Blanchot dices Dyer's dasein dépense as a spunked-spirit staring ahead at us all as a gazing geist glow shining-nothing: "The spunk, capable of negating nothingness, is also the gaze of nothingness on us. The spunk is light, and nothingness is immensely heavy. The spunk shines and nothingness is the diffuse thickness where nothing reveals itself. The spunk is the crack, the mark of this black sun, the tear, which, under the appearance of the dazzling burst, gives us the negative of the inexhaustible negative depth. That is why the spunk seems so profound and so empty, so threatening and so attractive, always rich in more senses than we lend it and also poor, void and silent, because in it advances this dark impotence, deprived of mastery, which is that of death as recommencement." (Maurice Blanchot, L'Amitié, Paris: Gallimard,1971).

T. S. Eliot deciphers Dyer's dasein dépense semen-strike as a parted-past pure-presence future-frisson time-thing severing-suffering afar away and ahead as an ecstatic-ereignis real-release beheading-being by becoming the time-thing: "Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. The inner freedom from the practical desire, The release from action and suffering, release from the inner And outer compulsion, yet surrounded by a grace of sense, a white light still and moving Erhebung without motion concentration Without elimination, both a new world And the old made explicit, understood In the completion of its partial ecstasy, The resolution of this partial horror. Yet the enchainment of past and future Woven in the weakness of the changing body, Protects mankind from heaven and damnation Which flesh cannot endure. Time past and time future." (T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets, 1943).

Merleau-Ponty points to Dyer's dasein dépense semen-strike as a leaking-light bursting forth as being-becoming-visible outside itself: "Here a light [lumière] bursts forth, here we are no longer concerned with a being that reposes in itself, but with a being whose whole essence, like that of light, is to make visible..., to open itself to another and to go outside itself." Maurice Merleau-Ponty Phénoménologie de la Perception, Paris: Gallimard, 1945).

Bile Bacon's Dyer-da-sein Spielraum sein spume-spunked-spirit-spiel pearl-paint freshly-flashes ahead and forth forever for a split second - for a spilt second - as a bolt of Baconian lightning: - shooting out and ahead as the thrown spunked-spirit of deaded-Dyer: - coming over and ahead - as a comet-cometh sent-scent semening sensation: spirit: :it seems so fucking fresh: - spirit: it smells so fucking fresh: - you feel you want to lick it all up - lap it all up - before it drips dry off of the canvas and on to the floor. Bacon's ego-ejaculated spent-spirit spunked paint-pearls have here the same voluptuous-violence and severingsensation of poof porn photos of freshly shot spunk across the fucked face becoming a beautifully-ugly 'spunk facial' - as a fractured face - as a ruptured face - a raptured face - a face in rupture as a face in rapture. Rapture as a - Sementic State - be-comes Rapture - as an Aesthetic State - as an Abaesthetic State - as an abjected Abasthetics. And an Abaesthetics abjection aheads being by becoming by coming by chance - as Heidegger hears here: "Physiology of art apparently takes as its object to be a process of nature that bubbles to the surface in the manner of an eruptive state of rapture. Such a state would evanesce without deciding anything, since nature knows no realm of decision." (Martin Heidegger, The Grand Style; The Will to Power as Art; Nietzsche, Harper Collins, 1991). Through thirsting for Dyer's darting darstellen diced discharge an eruptive state of rapture comes all over us: as an eruptive ereignis - as an ecstatic ejaculation - as a spunked-spirit-spectacle: we want dead Dyer's spirit spunked all over our fuck faces forever dripping dasein shooting sein giving geist. As an angoisse giessen-geist glow sent spent-spunk sein is the the being-shine for the being-time to shine-being for the shine-time of the time-being to shine-being for the time-being. The Spunking is the Shining of the Coming of the Timing. The Spunk is the Time to Come to Shine Being. Being Comes to Shine as the Time of the Spunk Being.

Blue Bacon's dire Dyer darstellen dépense depicts an alien die ankunft - an animating alien advent - an alien ereignis encounter - aborted ahead as a sichern sinnlich spirit-spillage - as a fragrant-frisson - as a lichtende lichtung lucid-liquid - as an enjoining-enjoyinment enabling eternal-return radiant-realm revealing real reeling toward to the thing thrown through there ahead and apart as an appealing appalling alighting alien apparition.

Leibniz's Monad - Kant's Sublime - Spinoza's Substance - Schelling's Indifferenzpunkt - Schopenhauer's Will - Hegel's Spirit - Kierkegaard's Dread - Heidegger's Being - Nietzsche's Force - Freud's Unconscious - Bataille's Informe - Blanchot's Neuter - Lévinas's Trace - Lacan's Real - Kristeva's Abject - Derrida's Différance - Bacon's Fact and Alien's Ather are all and all always already the same thing the same thrown thing the same stuff the same sticky stuff the same soggy stuff the same spunked stuff and always aimed ahead oozing out of you out at you coming all over you overcoming you all and all the time coming towards you all the time coming to get you coming to get all the time away from you all the time by becoming you coming all over you all over time all the time towards you all time and all as an alien allure as an alien awe.

Bacon's oozing Oedipus & the Sphinx after Ingres (1978) sports spunk slurp shot lamella leakage leftover ooze over the thrown severed shoulder nailing near the thrown broken back bone near next at an anal alien abject abyss born black hole harbouring leaked lamella leftover lost in time lost in space all the time and never fixing always floating never now making a landing only milking making a leaking like lightening or what Heidegger images as an: "illuminating projection" where wet shooting spunk becomes born as a shuddering sheening strike of oozed leaked lightening which is for Heidegger: "lighting projection of truth". Sloppy Sylvester's messy 'misreading' of Bacon: "Whether Bacon's paintings are great art (as de Kooning's figure-paintings, with which they can be most closely be compared, are great art) is another matter. It seems to me that, so far, the intensity which Bacon achieves in certain passages of a large number of the canvases has not been sustained throughout the whole area of any of them. And in painting in which the intensity is not sustained, the result isn't just that some parts are better than others: everything suffers, because the spectator's concentration is not totally gripped. For the grip depends upon the illusion that energy is flowing outward from every part of the canvas to the edges and flowing from the edges into every part of the canvas. Bacon's flaw is his difficulty in relating masses to what is outside them - firstly to the surrounding space, and then to the edges of the canvas. The paint that composes a head or a figure is marvellously alive: it seems to be generating form under our eyes. Where the volume ends the paint goes dead. The surrounding space is a vacuum. And there is no tension between the figure or head in the middle of the canvas and the four edges - the tension that should seem to hold a mass in place, as if it were locked there, incapable of being anywhere else." (About Modern Art, Critical Essays 1948-1996, David Sylvester, Chatto & Windus). No dead critic cunt wrong: there is a 'tension' between the figure or head in the middle of the canvas and the four edges, and 'Where the volume ends the paint' (is meant to go) 'dead' (and) 'the surrounding space' (is meant to be) 'a vacuum'. When Sylvester states: "It seems to me that, so far, the intensity which Bacon achieves in certain passages of a large number of the canvases has not been sustained throughout the whole area of any of them." he misses the illogic of sensation in Bacon: for the intensity of sensation to operate from the intensity of the image the surrounding space needs to be 'dead space', 'a vacuum', a black hole, that sets the scene to initiate the image: if the thrown surrounding suffocating sutured silky space had the same intensity of spillage slurps and loin lost leakage and thirsty throwness it would cancel out the spilt sensation of the (de)centred debased initiated image. Like Bacon's so-called calm 'black backgrounds', Dmitri Shostakovich also sets up a cutting cold contrast between 'black background' subdued silky pant passages for sedate string sensations suddenly severed by short sharp shocks of nailing nauseating timpani and blunt brash brass: what makes the timpani, brass or the spunk sensation of playful paint so poignantly intense is the violently vivacious voluptuous juicy juxtaposition wettedness which throws up against the 'black background' of orbiting dark deep dull low-key subdued sensations. Pristine Pollock however has no noise-silences so has hence no sedate silent sensations to throw sail softy: it is all 'back-ground' muzac murals manicured as a pretty prissy poofy pattern that those thick cunt critics curate. Here tuned Turner decondtructs decoration reaching the private parts Pollock cannot paint let alone reach.

Turner, Bacon and Hambling here handle fresh foam froth fluidly with an exacting egging economy letting leaking little sliver silver spume splashes serenely. Whereas with pristine Pollock the whole hole stuffed surface is over-leaked (over spunked) soggy so cunt cancels castrates contrast so severs sensationism. Bacon breeds loin leaked smaze smog spot shot spurt spunk subtly sparingly sedately suavely: one oozed swift shot of oily spunk spurted in inking bled Bacon's smaze smegma smirch sensation here has more musical sensation than a thousand shots of oily oozed spunk in the whole of the hole of puerile pallid palpus palsy pandemic pristine polymer polynia polyphase Pollock. Moreover mesmerising Hambling handles here sensuous spume sea sensation superbly: egging exact economy: nothing is over-leaked over-spilt over-oozed. The thrown silver shine of the leaked lighting's invisible shining cannot be grasped because it is not itself something grasping. Rather, it is something gasping, something growing: it is pure propriating as pure paint in itself as out itself. Turner, Bacon and Hambling as pure painters do not make representations of nature but presentations of nature as scape sensationers - scapeists of sensation where the paint is the image and the image is the paint as Ereignis - the event of the gift of paint as the gift of sending sensation. So they let the paint be letting the paint be in itself by being paint toward itself as paint out itself as attuned to Nature's anxiety attained in the murmuring mooding of an alien attunement Coming to a Head out of the World as the Violence of Nature undoing itself out of joint towards its Death and Becoming.

Bacon's Portrait of Lucien Freud, 1968 negates Sylvester's argument in one fell swoop: the sensationism works because of the contrast and tension between the centred 'organic image' painterly sensation of spunking lamella leakage, and the de-centred 'flat' dead-ground: with de Kooning and Pollock the picture plane is over-saturated, over-determined, over-leaked becoming over-kill cancelling out sensationism. Contrary to Sylvester's (mis)reading: the 'grip' and the 'sensation' depends precisely upon 'active' (central) areas of face or figure and the contrasting with the 'passive' void 'vacuum' of the 'surrounding space'. Bacon's Logic of Sensation operates through the intensity of the image in contradistinction with the greyness of the ground. De Kooning's Women do not work because the whole area of the canvas is over-flooded, over-splattered, over-leaked so sensation is always already cancelled out; there is no tension between figure-subject and flat-space: it's all on the same leaking-level. De Kooning's weak watery Women have zero-tension and zero-sensation: they are formerly and painterly a mud bath mess; the warped work of a retard child on crack. Bacon's Women have sensation, tension because there intensity is intensified by banal back-drops, grey-grounds, flat-forms. Like Bacon's single sailing floating figures, Edouard Manet's The Fifer (1866) and The Dead Toreador, (1864), defy gravity-grounding where the volume is voided; they float-form: there is no 'back ground' n Bacon and Manet - just the 'ground' contrasted with 'grain' and 'grit' of the figure-form; but with De Kooning's Women there is simply no semen sensation - no 'difference' between 'stuff' and sutured 'space'. Bacon said to Sylvester: "...appearance is a continuously floating thing." Bacon - Manet - Monet make their images float and fly off. On discussing American artists with Daniel Farson, Bacon said sauvely: "I can't be doing with De Kooning either." Who can? Cunt critics can.

The Baconian experience and expression of joy-juice jouissance spume Spielraum (spunking-sensationism) as a shooting star slime-ooze out to the world of alien abjects and leaking lamella, is driven by both an alien abject traumatic trance mood motive and as the thrown noise need to touch have heat an aching leak leaving the snail-trail slime behind in front of you both. This Baconian Alienised pani(t)ing alien aspect of joy-jouissance captures, craves, craves up wound-words like leaking, frisson, frothy, shitting, slithering, slivering, spunking, shock, nervousness, titillate, thrill, tantalize, afraid, excite, crying, screaming, slime-ing, captivate, torture, visceral, violence, vomiting; Bacon addresses adrenalin abject alterity of alien art remembering reptilian ruins. For Bacon, like Titian, Velasquez, Goya, Rembrandt, Turner, and Monet, 'chance' sutured 'paint' and 'image' soil structures: the pearl 'paint' is the initial 'image' and as the thrown 'image' is indeed the thrown puss 'paint' and the pearl-paint spunk-stuff for Bacon: "seems to come straight out of what we choose to call the unconsciousness with the foam of the unconscious locked around it - which is its freshness." Bacon always wanted his pushed-paint to be served up fresh and frothy to look freshly frothed: like a freshly made meal glistening and oozing with steaming succulent jouissance juices. Bacon had a genius at keeping the pearl-paint so smelly stench fresh frothy fluid: yet with Freud, Saville, Hockney, de Kooning, Pollock and Rothko, their house painter's paint has died, dried, drained, dulled. Bacon's putrid pus-pussy prick paint is initiated eggo ejaculation shot-sown as a sutured 'structured' slime snail leak-like our-ooze 'subconscious' swamp stuff ordered outside narcissistic narrative, languid language. Like the film 'The Thing', 'it lives', the pushed-paint 'lives on its own': Bacon's brave pearl pus paint becomes bled as a mutated memory, an anal leaking lamella abject alien that throws in incorporating cracked cunt of oozeing penis pricking eggo egging. Bacon loved warm wetty whites of our runny raw enticing eggs-being because they tasted like warm creamy spunk: all warmy, salty, sweety, sweaty, smelly, spermy; like his spunk pearl paint pouring of oozing snail leak-leaving track-trail of ooze silver slime smirch smaze see saw Bacon's Turning Figure 1963; and all the thick frothing fucking spunk sliding dripping drooling down the thin leaking leg and also shooting across the mouth in Bacon's Three Figures in a Room 1964 reminding you both of Titian and Turner's glorious glowing gooing glistening gleaming semen smell snail trails traces trickling towards you and also semen slices thinly through Bacon's Study for Portrait of Lucien Freud Sideways 1971.

Titian - Turner - Monet - Corinth - Bacon - Hambling and Alien's puss-pearl-paint projecting shooting spume spunk slime slithers are the thrown sliver silver stuff serving sensation piercing parts of the body - the nervous system - that the dreary diaoread of de Kooning - Freud - Pollock cannot pierce. Claude Monet's fruity and frothy Houses of Parliament, Sunset, 1902 leaks spume spemen spewing sky oozing out orbiting outside anal abstraction. Monet's Houses of Parliament become fleshed by light: Bacon once said to Sylvester that people didn't like Monet's images because they thought they' looked like ice cream': no they look like ice sperm liquid sky where light becomes fused, drenched in the wet sperm that seeks the sun: Monet turns stone into flesh, sperm into sea, light into leaking: De Kooning, Rothko, Pollock never achieved this intense level of ooze shot spunk sensation because they had no 'image' to nail: 'abstract art' has no image to initiate: you need the initial instinctive image to initiate sensation and leak lamella: in de Kooning, Pollock, Newman and Rothko there is no 'image' - not even an abimage - leaking forth from the form to froth from for always already, 'abstract art' has no isolated image to spill sensation: so always already (then) 'abstract art' never existed because art as - isolated image - authentic agnoisse acidic (alien) art - was never abstract-ed: 'abstract art' never existed (only an alien abimage ab exists). As Nietzsche nailed: "The inartistic states: abstractness. The impoverished senses." (Friedrich nietzsche, Toward the Physiology of Art, XVI, 432-34). Life is abstract - art is absolute - art can never be abstract - as alien cannot be abstract. What activates an authentic alien art is its auratic archaic shineingness and glitteringness and glisteness and gleamness: Titian (Smoky Quartz soaked in brandy), Velázquez (garnets soaked in vinegar), Rembrandt (rubies soaked in red wine), Vermeer (pearls soaked in sperm), Monet (Tiger's Eye soaked in spring water), Bacon (raw eggs soaked in champagne) and Alien (lemons soaked in Leffe) shine, sparkle, glitter, glisten, glow, leak like the sensation of sparkling champagne or shooting spunk or showering urine: all that glitters is golden - all that glistens is golden. Lucifer Freud's frozen framed flesh is dried diarrhea; Freud's paint is dead: there is no spunk sensation oozing out from Freud's dead meat: there are no ontological drool drippings: there are no cock juices, no cunt juices, no mouth juices, no arse juices to be found in Freud - only joyless jew juices: mean and tight fisted paint. Lucifer Freud's peniless penniless paint has no fleshness or freshness or froth or foam or spunk and sludge and slime: Lucifer Freud drains the body of weepy wettednesses and spunked semenessences. Bacon spunked to Sylvester: "I really do like paint to be very fresh...I like, you may say, the glitter and colour that comes from the mouth, and I've always hoped in a sense to be able to paint the mouth like Monet painted a sunset." (Francis Bacon, The Brutality of Fact, Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson 1987). Hurricane Hambling like blowing Bacon also always loves: 'the paint to be very fresh' and leak forth all frothy and foamy - the spume and the sperm - the spirit and the spunk - the spray of being not there - that comes forth from the circling sea of sein und zeit - sucked off back into the black cunt hole of the nothing there - spraying the nothing being there - the nothing being there at all - the nothing being there at all the time - spraying the nothing - all the time - spraying the time - all the nothing - over the time all.

Bacon said to Peppiatt: "What I do feel is that figuration - painting - will take on tremendous vitality once again, now that we've been through that very depressing, decorative period of abstraction. Not only in England, but anywhere. I think it will come about." (Francis Bacon: Reality Conveyed by a lie, Art International, Autumn 1987). And abstraction is always already banal, boring, benign. Art aspires to alien Ab-Image, Abstraction aspires to annihilation, to nothing. The end of abstraction is the end of the (human) subject (which never existed anyway). Sinclair quotes Bacon on the boring no-thing of anal-ized American Abstraction: "Any painting that works today is linked to the past. In a way it was better when there wasn't so much individuality. But because to day there is no tradition and no myths, people are thrown back on their own sensibility. Abstract art was perhaps one attempt at getting away from this, but it never worked because the artists made their own patterns in their own ways. That is why American art is, on the whole, boring. They want to start from nothing. I understand their position: they are trying to create a new culture and identity. But why try to be so limited?" (Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, Andrew Sinclair, Crown Publishers, Inc. New York, 1993).

'Abstract Art' - as being-towards-an arse-hole-nothingness - represents the non-existence of the extinct american subject: dead dreary decadent decor. 'Alien Art' - as a rupture-rapture coming-off - and away - shooting froth forth from the sea of sein und zeit - absents the abjected nothing-alien of the alien-nothing. 'Abstract Art' starts from nothing - and ends from nothing - by bypassing The Nothing - negating The Nothing - abstracting the no-thing - abjecting The Nothing. As always already being-nothing about-nothing 'Abstract Art' wants to know nothing about The Nothing. 'Abstract Art' wants to know nothing at all about The Nothing. 'Abstract Art' avoids The Nothing of Being and The Nothing of beings by not being bothered by The Nothing at all as an 'Abstract Art' is all about nothing not all about The Nothing All.

Manet's The Fifer, (1866), with its splinter-shadow foot-froth (lamella leakage) recalls Bacon's shadow-lamella which nail the foam form to the floorless-floor. Manet and Bacon remove the 'subject' from the 'space': De Kooning makes a mess where woman warps wraps with wallpaper. Where 'art critic' Sylvester's 'blind-spot' fails to nail what is going on in Bacon's Logic of Sensation, 'social historian', Andrew Sinclair, gets it 'spot-on':

"To Leiris, Bacon's most characteristic canvases suggested the rhythm of life. There were incandescent parts in them which seethed with energy in contrast to neutral parts where nothing happened. As there were solo breaks in jazz rhythms, as Stephane Mallarme counterpointed Dionysian frenzy with Apollonian calm, so Bacon threw the dice like a hurricane into the neutrality of the abyss." (Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, 1993, Crown Publishers, Inc., New York)

Bacon said to Sylvester: "I've increasingly wanted to make the images simpler and more complicated. And for this to work it can work more starkly if the background is very united and clear. I think that is probably why I have used a very clear background against which thee image can articulate itself...I would like the intimacy of the image against a very stark background. I want to isolate the image and take it away from the interior and the home." (The Brutality of Fact, Interviews with Francis Bacon, Thames & Hudson, 1987).

Christophe Domino stated on Bacon's dislike and disdain for Pollock and de Kooning: "He had no time for artists like Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning; and draughtsmanship, in his eyes, was a skill to be avoided since like drawing locked an element of premeditation into the painting, turning it into illustration in Bacon's sense of the term." (Francis Bacon: Taking Reality By Surprise, Christophe Domino, New Horizons, Thames & Hudson, 1997).

With de Kooning and Pollock, the stuffed-surface of the caked-canvas is far too over leaked, far too over worked (over determined) and thus drains in its own diarrhea negating sensation and losing bite and thus producing a spastic swamp of surface gloss-finish: house painter's splattered stuff but without the sensation. De Kooning and Pollock are interior decorators and inferior to house-painters who don't know 'how-to-do-it' and therefore can 'do it'.

De Kooning and Pollock are spastic retard anal 'autists' who were wetty never nappied or toilet trained: De Kooning and Pollock shit-shat a kind of soiled skid spastoid splattered non-sensation. With Bacon and Turner, they used their selected splatters sparingly and thus creating greater tension and greater imagery; their use of chance is always already deeply ordered; with de Kooning and Pollock they always already operate on a single level of sensation of convulsion thus cancelling out spunking Sensationism altogether. Bacon's skid and slime and slash marks are deeply ordered and particularly places: Francis Bacon said to Richard Cork in 1991: "I never think of my work as convulsive. I love very ordered work." Titian, Tuner, Monet and Bacon's spat splattered sperm spume sludge stuff is always already deeply delivered-ordered oiled-ooze out our orbit order.

Bacon stated regarding this sloppy sort of skid sunk-sensation of de Kooning and Pollock: "I would loathe my paintings to look like chancy abstract expressionist painting, because I really like highly disciplined painting although I don't use highly disciplined methods of constructing it. I think that the only thing is that my paint looks immediate....in the better things, the paint has an immediacy, although I don't think it looks like thrown about paint." (Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, 1987). De Kooning's and Pollocks puerile paint dung does look like thrown about paint and that is its weakness, its wishy-washyness. The single white whiplash thrown in Bacon's Two figures Lying on a Bed, 1968 has greater grain groin puke pigment punch-poignancy, visceral- vigour than all the dribbles, spillages and sloshes of the stuff seen in de Kooning dribbles and Pollock's drips. Puerile prick Pollock's puerile painting is pure padding: Woolworth wallpaper mannered murals for bank lobby or airport lounges: Pollock's puerile pourings have no weight, have no light, have no nailed image intensity: there is no thrown tension, no spunk sensation in Pollock, there is no thrown tension, no spunk sensation in de Kooning. Pollock's pulp dense dripped claustrophobic canvases negate nailing sensationism: merely mannerist murals dull decoration. Van Gogh's Trees and Undergrowth (1887) has always already gone beyond boring Pollock's pissy Lavender Mist weakness which is indeed over ornate lost losing leakage falling flat. Pollock pushes an android pseudo-sunk-senseless-sensation while wild weaving wheat walking where wild volatile voluptuous vivacious violent Van Gogh got grit grain sutures sown soil so spilt sun shown splintering slithering showering shining spunking sensations so leaked like lost dying Dyer's diarrhea dung drooled draining drippings forth froth foam from Bacon's brown breaking bleeding bicycle where wet white whiplashes spurt spatter splatter spunk skid smegma smirch smoke smaze sensation about anal ankles and wonky worn wet wire warped wheels hitting hard hot horny hidden heals randy rape razor ragged radioactive radiogram receptor resembling residue resin.

Michael Fried echoes Bacon's dictum of decoration in Pollock's pictures: "Not that Pollock's drip procedures guaranteed artistic success, as Varnedoe also remarks. For one thin, they gave rise to an ever-present danger of decorativeness, a fault conspicuously absent from Pollock's pre-drip work...The internal rhythms appear a little forced at the same time as the materiality density of the painted field combines with a certain structural repetitiveness to produce a mural-like effect of uniformity...But it remains an open question - a task for criticism - how best to characterize the significance of an awareness of that materiality in the viewer's experience of the drip paintings. Out of the Web would be a challenging place to start." (Michael Fried, Optical Allusions, Art Forum, April, 1999). One drip by Bacon has more sensation, more intensity, than all Pollock's drips put and pulled together. Titian's The Death of Actaeon (1565-76), Turner's The Evening Star (1830), and Monet's Houses of Parliament, Sunset (1902), have abstract arbitrary anti-illustrational marks which make Pollock and de Kooning's splatters and slashes seem too self-conscious, too contrived: Titian, Turner, Monet made far greater arbitrary free marks and spattered sensations than Pollock and de Kooning. Titian, Turner, Monet had always already 'done' Pollock, 'done' de Kooning but also adding twist, tension, tautness, tightness to nail the nerves.

Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning, (along with) Josef Albers, Max Bill, Lucio Fontana, Sam Francis, Mans Hartung, Jasper Johns, Yves Kline, Franz Kline, Morris Louis, Robert Motherwell, Robert Natkin, Barnett Newman, Serge Poliakoff, Mark Rothko, Robert Ryman, Pierre Soulages, Antoni Tapies, Mark Tobey, Cy Twombly, Victor Vasarely are all far too weak, too watered down: too effete, too effeminate, too 'non-specific', too decorative and always already leak on one level: there is no 'brute fact' to 'lock on to'; no 'image' initiated: 'nothing to nail': and always already remember that nothing comes from nothing: you need the specific image initiating so sow sew Sensationism. To be and to become: that is the question: the question of being as a becoming towards Sensationism. Abstraction as decoration can never ever become being towards thrown senasation. Bacon said to Joshua Gilder:

"To tell you the truth, no abstract painting has ever given me the exhilaration of figurative painting. In fact, it bores me. Profoundly. When I first heard of Rothko, I thought, well, here is going to be somebody doing the most marvelous things, like Turner, in abstraction. But the problem - with all of abstract expressionism - comes from lack of subject. I think that no matter how far you deviate from it, you need the discipline of the subject. You need the pulsation of the image, the force of the image, to go beyond decoration. Which Rothko didn't have. It was always a beautiful decoration. And perhaps I'm peculiar, but I ask from painting something more than decoration....An image...well, you can call it human, yes; but an image, one that unlocks the valves of sensation in a more profound way, which abstraction never does. The abstract expressionists did away with subject and went directly after beauty. But they were bound to be disappointed. After all, beauty is only a hind product of desire." ("I Think about Death Every Day", Joshua Gilder interview with Francis Bacon, Flash Art, May 1983).

There is no 'pulse' in 'abstraction' because it is always already image-less, being-less, object-less, eggo-less, subject-less: essentially (in reality) 'abstract art' does not exists; art is not abstract. Barnett Newman and Mark Rothko mundane murals are aestheticised and anaethetised decoration: they are inane interior decorators. There is no image-eggo, no eggsistence, no eggoistentialism in 'abstraction' : sensation is always already image-specific in Titian, Turner, Monet, Bacon: they nail the initial image through the voluptuous violence of oily ooze pure putrid pearl pus pap paint.

Bacon said to Sylvester on the banality of abstraction: "One of the reasons I don't like abstract painting, or why it doesn't interest me, is that I think painting is a duality, and that abstract are is entirely an aesthetic thing. It always remains on one level. It is only really interested in the beauty of its patterns or its shapes. We know that most people, especially artists, have large areas of undisciplined emotions. But I think that abstract artists believe that in these marks that they're making they are catching all these sorts of emotions. But I think that, caught in that way, they are too weak to covey anything. I think that great art is deeply ordered. Even if within the order there may be enormously instinctive and accidental things. I think that they come out of a desire for ordering and for returning fact onto the nervous system in a more violent way." (Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson 1987). So-called 'Abstraction' (like 'Americanism') is always already a reactive retarded nauseating nihilism; Alienation is always already active nihilism; abstraction has nothing, no 'image' to 'nail', to work through (or against). Rothko's scented sentimental non-existentialist dull drab dismal decor mud murals meander in interior multinational money making meeting rooms and bank lobbies: 'mood muzac' in ineffective pissy paint nailing nothingness. Bacon on Rothko in 1966 to Sylvester: "I saw the Rothko paintings at the Whitechapel Gallery and I hoped to see marvellous abstract Turners, and what I saw were rather dismal variations on colour, which at any rate, from my point of view, gave me no excitement and no possibility of entering or communication whatsoever." (Francis Bacon, 1966, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 2000).

Bacon's Rhythm is music, Pollock's Rhythm is muzac, de Kooning's Rhythm is that of a baby screaming as it shits itself: incontinent crap. Dunce De Kooning's Women are reminiscent of retard child or chimp art - but never as invigorating or as instinctive or as illuminating. And cunt Cy Twombly's Rhythm is retard spastoid spillage. Bacon's Rhythm, being reptilian in its ancient accidents of outstanding order, is 'matured', left to rest like the best wine. So when Bacon opens the bottle, pours, opens the tube, squeezes; the ooze aroma is 'ore-inspiring' and 'opal' like in its shining and shimmering Sensationism Beingness; he 'leaves it' alone to do 'its own thing' only now and then nudging, prodding, pushing it to perform. With Pollock and de Kooning they don't give the paint its 'time' to 'be' but violate its intensity, vivaciousness, vividity, vitality avoiding the violence of pushed paint.

Bacon reinvented paint giving it a kind of classical coarseness using the free brush marks of Rembrandt and Fragonard in the 'grand manner' but filtered it through instinctive invention through a nervous nailing of the paint. Farson said of Bacon: "He told me once: 'It's necessary to reinvent the language of paint,' and this is what he did." (Daniel Farson, The Gilded Gutter of Francis Bacon, Century, 1993).

Bacon wrote to Victor Pasmore on autistic anal-ised abstraction: "Thank you very much for your letter. For me abstract art can be nothing but decoration because there is nothing to anchor it by except its artistic allure. All best wishes, Francis." (The Gilded Gutter Life of Francis Bacon, Daniel Farson, Century, 1993). In 1963, Bacon further comments on abstraction to Peppiatt: "Abstract art is free fancy about nothing. Nothing comes from nothing. One needs the specific images to unlock the deeper sensations, and the mystery of accident and intuition to create the particular. Now i want to do portraits more than anything else, because they can be done in away outside illustration. It is a gamble composed of luck, intuition and order. Real art is always ordered no matter how much has been given by chance." (Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996). The puerile pappyness of a Pollock, de Kooning or Rothko piss poor painting, as mere mundane murals, are profoundly 'politically correct' and 'popular' with the 'public' and 'critics' alike because they are 'easy listening' back ground muzac operating on the wallpaper level of inane interior decoration. Michael Peppiatt again on Bacon's attitude to abstraction: "Bacon liked to dismiss all abstraction as essentially 'decorative', a patter-making that could be pretty but never profound: and in more waspish moments he would refer to Jackson Pollock as 'that old lace maker' and compare de Kooning's Woman series to playing-cards." (Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996).

The over-rehearsed vapid violence of 'action paintings' non-painted by Pollock and de Kooning are paradoxically passive poofilly in-active because the serial slashes and dozens of dribbles cancel each other out: there is no counter-cool paint to set the slashes off: there is no contrast therefore no tension. Bacon uses wide areas of flat 'dead' colour which contrast, ignite his slashes, lurps splatters of oily spunking leaking lamella pearl paint poison drooling downwards. With the tight control of chance Bacon uses slashes, dribbles and thrown paint sparingly, rarely which gives his puss paint its thrown freshness, its nervousness. As in Bacon's Study for Portrait of Lucien Freud 1964 where a single slash sliver slither of oozed spunk slices Freud's ear off orbit: this thrown single spunk slash leftover leaks serial sensations whereas the serial slashes in a single Pollock painting paradoxically negates serial sensations.

Bacon and Turner knew instinctively and subconsciously exactly where, when, why and how to push put in a slash, spume, spurt, sliver, spatter or splatter sensation....and sparingly like the way ejaculated sperm shoots in a particular subconsciously chosen path suturing slithering across the stomach or face. Prick Pollock and dick de Kooning they shoot far too much spunk flooding the surface negating sensation: thus there is no single sparing sparkle of a single spume sperm shot: it's everywhere and thus no where.: the entire picture-plane is over leaked, over saturated, selling out sensationism. There are actually no 'nailed nerves' in pristine poofy pattern Pollock, or out of order dung diarrhea de Kooning: their puerile paint never nails the nerves or hits the head or stabs the stomach but boild the brain boringly: but boiled Bacon's prime 'cured' cooked paint does do. De Kooning's forms are too tame, too human, too spastoid, too cartoony; too illustrational lacking the invention of Picasso's fluent fractured forms: Bacon and Picasso's un-thought thrown fresh forms bypass the brain and actually invade intestines as Bacon said of Picasso: "Picasso was the first person to produce figurative paintings which overturned the rules of appearance; he suggested appearance without using the usual codes, without respecting the representational truth of form, but using a breath of irrationality instead, to make representation stronger and more direct; so that form could pass directly from the eye to the stomach without going through the brain." (Exclusive interview with Francis Bacon: "I painted to be loved", Francis Giacobetti, 1991-2, The Art Newspaper, June 2003). In Bacon the thrown spunk shoots directly from the eye to the surface of the stomach. The spill of sensation in de Kooning and Pollock is always already over-spill - as over-kill - negating nailed spilt sensationism. Bacon's brute bull spunk spurting spillage - as an aleatoric alétheia action - deliver dread dasein dead as abjected alive.

"This spill of sensation is nothing to laugh about. As Deleuze and Guattari have themselves admitted, the line of flight, that trajectory which carries the asignifying rupture, can, on occasion, emit the odour of death. From the outset it is important to note, after Bataille, the uncomfortable proximity between sex and death. How, then, might sense and sensation escape this dire entanglement?" (Bullfighting, Sex and Sensation , Hélène Frichot, Colloquy Issue Five).

In Bacon's Study for a Bullfight 1969 the sublime Stench of the serene Semen is the sweetly scented Stench of Death dasein wetted where the Shot Spunk Slits the Throat of the Bull as The Bull's Hard-On Horn Lashes out at the Lamella Leakage.. The thrust thirst-sensation of shot spunk in Bacon's Study for a Bullfight and Second Version of Study for a Bullfight 1969 shoot straight to the stomach by passing the sein. Remember that one or two or three thrown sliver sliver slithers of oozed shot spunk bled by Bacon have more moist sown single sensation that all the splatters spatters of soggy sludge shot off in Pollock and de Kooning. Bacon's big black bollock ball bag bulls shoot shot spunk away all over the spectator and sand and psyche and sun. What know man or monkey has analysed is why do blacks and bulls produce richer thicker whiter creamier and hotter spunk than whites - an much more of the stuff? Why is wet white spunk on shiny black boy skin or wet white spunk on black bull skin so savage so sublime so sickly so sexy so sensational so shuddering? You must all know as it were by now since you have seen it and smelt it and swallowed it shooting all over you away towards you both already anyway as it were when wet. So since at all anyway wet why isn't black's spunk or bull's spunk black anyway as it were and why is it that black's spunk and bull's spunk is so much more moist and ontologically ornate and also critically creamy and thrown thicker as it were and also tantalizingly tastier and really richer than thin weak watery white miserly mean man's spunk? Bacon's Bull Semening Sensation activates an atta Aleatoric Alétheia.

Bacon said to Sylvester regarding the spectator's passive relation to abstraction: "I think in abstract art perhaps they can enter more, because what they are offered is something weaker which they haven't got to combat." (The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987). And in 1986 William Burroughs asked Bacon: "I remember you saying most of what is going on in painting isn't painting at all." Bacon replied: "Did I? Maybe we were talking about abstract painting. Once it was the height of fashion - I don't know why, it's never meant anything to me. To me, even the best of it is just decoration. Jackson Pollock's paintings maybe very pretty but they're just decoration I always think they look like old lace. But that's a terrible thing to say to an American, of an American hero." (Arena, BBC 2). Bacon spoke on Pollock's lace leakages to Sylvester in 1971: "One of the sad things, for instance, is that the only time I've been in the Museum of Modern Art to see the Jackson Pollocks - I'd heard so much about Jackson Pollock - and found that dribbling of paint all over the canvas just looked like old lace. They have no meaning for me at al..." (Looking Back at Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 2000.) Sylvester (like the rest of his kind of cunt critics and curators) cannot confess that Pollock is pure decoration pure lace leakage: cunt critics 'intellectualise' puerile Pollock to give his moronic mundane murals 'meaning' beyond being dreary decoration or painting by dribbles.

David Sylvester was a product of politically correct inane 'intellect' (inauthentic being); whereas Bacon was a product of primordially thrown aalien 'instinct'. Cuntish critics, by culture, have no animal alien 'instinct' about art (which is why they are art cunt critics). Bacon said of Sylvester in an interview with Francis Giacobetti: "I think David Sylvester is a very intelligent man, but I don’t think he has a genuine feel for painting because in the book he wrote with me he mentioned all sorts of frightful people, all these painters whom he loved and admired. I think he has no critical sense." (Exclusive interview with Francis Bacon: "I painted to be loved", Francis Giacobetti, 1991-2, The Art Newspaper, June 2003). Indeed, as time tells, Sylvester (like Saatchi) had: "no critical sense." To re-rehearse and re-repeat yet again what Sylvester said to Tim Marlow just before he hit the long dirt sleep: "But there are several American artists whom I would place above Bacon - Newman, Pollock, de Kooning, Johns and Twombly. They were, to me, greater painters than Bacon." (In memoriam: David Sylvester; The art of the interview, Tate, Issue 26, Autumn 2001). These were the con-artists Bacon referred to Giacobetti as: "all sorts of frightful people". (It should also be remembered that spiv Saatchi was a by-product of the puerile 'politically correct' pathologies of his day and bought and sold the retard rubbish of: "all sorts of frightful people" - like media manipulated morons: Damien Hirst, Tracey Emin, Gary Hume, Ron Mueck, Sarah Lucas, Marc Quinn and the Chapman Brothers, and like 'contemporary' critic-curator Sylvester, 'contemporary' con-collector Saatchi slavishly obeys the dull 'contemporary' delusions of his day dealing droll dross-dosh do-da dust delivering death). All authentic alien atta artists must refuse and resist to sell their art stuff to shit merchants Saatchi and Jopling and their crass cuntish kind.

What makes spiv shit Saatchi's 'dumbing down' dross of slob 'trailer trash' tripe so profoundly 'politically correct' is that it is indistinguishable from the retardo-spastoid 'Posh & Becks' simulacrums which emulated our crass cretin culture creating 'Emin & Hirst'. Thus thick fucks 'Posh & Becks' became boring cunt 'contemporary' retard 'role models' for Saatchi-styled simulacrums such as trash 'Tracey and Damien' so sanctioning the thick 'working-class-made-good' ideology of our 'anyone-can-make-it' and where 'our Hirst' over consciously simulates a mockney yobo accent making himself sound deliberately indistinguishable from a slob in the street - and where 'our Emin' emulates an over conscious crass common coarseness. In the 'contemporary art' world it has become extremely fashionable for a 'conceptual artist' to be fashionably uncouth - (or a real retard which fits the reactive regressive ethos of 'conceptual art' without 'concepts'). To be successful in the art con world you have to be a spastic slob like Hirst who is a yobbo and Emin who is a yobbette and who become a banal part of the dumbed-down big-brother Blair Lie Spin Shit Con Culture: only a true terrorism can save us now!

Prat prick petty-bourgeois boring cunt 'contemporary' con-merchants Charles Saatchi and Jay Jopling both boringly buy and arsehole sell their trailer trash thick yobo-slobo spastic retard con-artists' worthless work to the thick new petty-bourgeois nouveau riche who in turn sanction, legitimate, authenticate Blairite dull dumb down crass common cunt culture. This Blairite 'democratisation' of (inauthentic) 'art' becomes the 'dumbing-down' of (inauthentic) 'art' to the 'lowest common denominator' of the 'survival of the slobest'. The rotten retard Saatchi-Joppling-Turner Prize-ICA-RA reactionary realm must moreover be bravely broken and atta annihilated today to allow an authentic alien art left live leaking ooze out away again and again and again).

Bacon's nerve-paint is violent, not his abject, subject or object matter. Bacon's thrown nerve paint is real action pain-ting as a record of the nervous system The passive placid piss paint of Pollock and de Kooning is decorator's house paint: watered down urine. There is something perversely passive and puerile in de Kooning and Pollock's autistic action antics; a kind of motor-neuron disease; a retard spastic-autism is at play; at child's play: over-leaking, over dripping like a baby pissing itself while dribbling pap from its drooling mouth. Bacon was aware of the autistic abstract arrested severed-psychology of de Kooning and Pollock when he said to Peppiatt on 'Americans': "It's not surprising they love abstract art...they're so abstract themselves." (Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996). 'Americans' (and 'abstract art' do not exist).

Even the inane illustrious illustrationist David Hockney stated: "Violent action becomes placid in time...A picture painted in a violent way, am action painting where the artist slashes away, throwing paint about, has nothing directly violent about it. It can never leave you with the taste of violence in your mouth as Bacon can, even if the guy killed himself painting it. It is merely decorative." (Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, 1993, Crown Publishers, Inc., New York). De Kooning and Pollock's paint is placid and puerile. Bacon's paint is potent and poignant.

John Russell on Bacon's whitewash wishes: "The idea was to stimulate human flesh as vividly as possible, either by painting the figure or by pouring a bucket of flesh-coloured whitewash all over it. Remembering the rough beauty of a newly whitewashed house, Bacon thought that a comparable beauty could perhaps be wrested from a newly whitewashed figure." (Francis Bacon, revised & updated edition, 1993, John Russell, Thames & Hudson). No: what Bacon remembered were the fresh free marks the house painter made before the walls were completely covered by the whitewash. It was those initiated initial first marks that were so direct and delicious set off against a flat ground (and what was so lacking in de Kooning and Pollock). For Bacon, the finished wall became as bland and opaque as a Rothko mural. De Kooning's 'Women' remain at the level of Woolworth's Whitewash; washed out, flushed out, flooded form, placid paint but with no 'flat ground' to set off the spillages, splatters and spatters. Same applies to Pollock's layered lace leakages: they cancel each other and there's no 'flat ground' to set them off. Bacon's leakages, splatters, spatters, slashes are sparingly spilt which gives them there poignancy and power. Bacon's thrust thrown leaking lamella and spunked splattering is the sea of the subconscious and the foam of alien form and the nail of the nervous system materialised in paint: Bacon's poignant paint is the projected pattern of his subconscious sewer sea; the subconscious is structured like thrown paint in Bacon's hand of thrown being as thrown chance as alien being in paint. While de Kooning's 'Women' are whitewashed, watery, weak, Degas' (alien) 'Women' Leak and Lamella through slithers and slivers of slime-slit sensation. Jean Sutherland Boggs wrote on Degas' (alien) 'Women': "Degas used the charcoal and the pastel as though they were abrasive tools, their rough hatching creating at atmosphere of friction around the body which is twisted into an unlikely, if not ungraceful position, caught between agony and ecstasy." De Kooning's wilful whitewashed wombless Women are spineless and sskinless and ensationless because they have no scent, no smell, no soil, no snort, no suspension between slop sludge and scented sensation, between pain and paint, pain and pastel as Bacon's and Degas' (alien) wild ex-'Women' wear.

Bacon's Portrait of George Dyer Crouching 1966 (with its two floatingly nailed white spot discs); Portrait of George Dyer Staring at a Blind Cord 1966 (with its white single spunk splatter); Portrait of Henrietta Moraes on White Ground Francis Bacon 1963 (with its embodied egg black blobs); Study for Portrait of Peter Lacy 1963 (with its sutured solid slab stab spots), Henrietta Moraes on a Red Ground 1964 (with its spilt stained leaking lamella) and Portrait of George Dyer in a Mirror 1968 (with its thrown thick white whiplash) are portraits with particular puncture points that set these images off. With de Kooning and Pollock there are no particular puncture points therefore no nervous system nailing, no bite, no tension, no sensation. While Bacon's Portrait of George Dyer Crouching 1966 and Portrait of George Dyer Staring at a Blind Cord 1966 nail the image to the spectator through the single white semen slash and the two white orbiting ovoids; they are Bacon's leakage leftovers puncture points. Bacon's wonderful white whiplashes of pure paint have a freshly frozen flavour caught in the creamy sauce of spunk sensationism: sweetly slightly salted smoky bacon. But Bacon's pushed, poured, prodded pressed paint is Cordon Bleu cooking at its finest. Sylvester sated on Bacon's essential paint: "But in the dialectic between sensations of reality and the making of a picture, what mattered most in the picture was paint, the inherent eloquence of paint, paint handled so that it 'comes across directly onto the nervous system'..." (David Sylvester, Figurabile: Francis Bacon, Electa, Museo Correr, Venice, 1993).

Loin leaking (alien anus) being Being 'as' pearl-paint has halo to tune flower, flourish, flush, flow, fuel at a particular pain puncture points ooze on the thrown picture plane and attacking the thrown pulse plane ooze of the thickly soaked subconscious. De Kooning and Pollock's leakages are all over the place; all over the shot: misfire; cancel each other out; there is no 'flat' counter paint (the lamella?) to set them off. Sinclair quotes Bacon on Pollock: "Bacon himself rejected any influence from action painting, particularly that of Jackson Pollock, saying, 'Starting from an image I want to be formal and vivid and yet to be vivid you have to be by chance. If I throw a lump of paint on the floor, it has vitality but no control. Pollock is not formal enough for me.'..." (Andrew Sinclair, Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, 1993, New York).

Bacon's Throwing is spunking sensation Being Alien; Pollock's Dribbling is Being Baby again: dried spunk-stained-skid-sliver nappies ; de Kooning's caked Soiled Slashes are Being Shitting: incontinent images; Twombly's Silly Scribbles are Being Diarrhea: loose, watery, stools devoid of sensations.

In 'The Art of the Interview', David Sylvester said to Tim Marlow: "But there are several American artists whom I would place above Bacon - Newman, Pollock, de Kooning, Johns and Twombly. They were, to me, greater painters than Bacon....Well, I didn't argue with him, and I didn't argue with him about his idiotic opinions about Pollock." (Tate, Issue 26, Autumn, 2001). Cunt. No, they were not greater painters than Bacon; they were greater house painters playing to the house. Remember: you both know that Rothko, Newman, Pollock, de Kooning, Johns and Twombly are interior decorators - house painters: piss-artists. Bacon is a body painter - painting embodied sensation. Bacon's 'opinions' about Pollock were not 'idiotic' but 'instinctive'. Bacon lived bravely by stick insect-instinct; servile Sylvester lived by inane-intellect: Bacon followed flesh - Sylvester followed fashion (like slave-morality Serota & Saatchi).

The experience of works of art is first and foremost an experience of the Alien and of the Lamella. To Deleuze the sensation spurting and leaking from alien art is "ceaselessly becomingother" or "Sensory becoming is the action by which something or someone is ceaselessly becomingother...". It is particularly in the way in which the alien art fails to correspond to 'reality' and by turning the 'materiality', of the paint into perceptual reality, that the work can effect a shift in the 'matterofcourseness' of worldly order.

For according to Deleuze, alien art does not think less than philosophy: "but it thinks through affects and percepts". Deleuze implies paint thinks: "in any case, and in all of these states, painting is thought: vision is through thought, and the eye thinks, even more than it listens". But Baconian pain(t)ing is outside 'thought', 'narrative' and the commonsense 'conceptual'. Baconian Thrown Paint is shot-spunk, sutured, (spunked) structured like leaked (lamella) language; but boiling while white language does not communicate anything, Baconian Thrown Paint darts directly to the nailed nervous system sowing soaked sensation and the primordial memory traces of the body. Duchamp, Whiteread, Bacon, and Alien know always already that there cannot be a 'conceptual art' because the 'conceptual' is always already locked at the level of 'illustration' and the banality of 'meaning' and 'narrative'; authentic alien art always already runs counter to the conceptual: there simply cannot be a 'conceptual art': the non-sense nomination 'conceptual art' it is an oxymoron. Baconian Thrown Paint is The Body speaking (spunking) outside language (which never really 'says' anything).

Pure Painting - as an activated and attuned sutured-severed Sensationism scape - sows Subconscious Leaking Lamella slurp soiled stuff foaming froth forth from the thrown broken Body. As absolutely 'Non-illustrational' - (non-known) 'Pure Painting' - as being bled ahead as an absolute alien being being Bled Bare -unlocks unleaks unleashes undulating Unbonscious oozed out Opening off of our Being Alien-out-the-World. As Bacon stated, Sub-Conscious Non-illustrational Mark-Making is 'closer' to the 'brute fact' of Being Alien than the Evil Banality of Conscious Illustrational 'literal' Realist Mark Making; that retarded realist Painting-By-numbers 'english-empiricsm' al la Lucien Freud and Jenny Saville who are trapped in inane illustration of the cunt-conscious plane). Freud and Saville paint empty 'empirical' seen skin - as a cellophane covered processed pork - the cellophane seals the skin stopping sensation from forming leaking lamella losses. Freud and Saville serve skin sutured merely making meat as a filled-in-form - painting-by-numbers - never dripping dasein - by being out-of-sync with wet skin-time: - the time skin spills - the time skin slurps: for Freud and Saville serve still dry-dasein - dried-dasein - died-dasien: bloated bodies becoming fat-time - overweight-time - flabby fatness - covering and concealing - the being of the body - the time of the body - through their fetishising fatness - as a dis-eased da-sein - finishing the time of the body off - obliterating being there: - fatness as a forgetting of being.

For Saville and Freud fetishise and aestheticise a fascist fatness - for fatness sake - getting off-on bloated bodies as politically correct pork to poke into to tuck into. Saville and Freud are so fascinated and fixated by bulging flabby fatness that they forget the flesh of the time of the body before being buried. As a carcase concealment fatness forgets the tight-flesh of time - the taut-flesh of the time - the tune flesh of time: the muscle that make the music of our bodily being. For Freud and Saville inflate body-time taking-time over-time distorting body-time fattening-up-time: ordaining-obese-over fed time - fat-time.

For fat-time is being bigger that the body of being in itself by being bloated beyond itself - for fat-time is fascist time - as fascist-fatness as the fascist time of the fascist body - ordains overweight offal of our bloated blubber body - for fattening-time - as an over-eating of time - and as a forgetting of time - is killing-time.

Time goes to work - goes to war - goes to waste - on the Body - breaking being open - breaking being out - opening out - leaking lines - fracturing fragments - disintegrating dasein: - as a ruptured rapture - as a tearing of time - as a toying of time - as a torturing of time - as a telling of time: - time leaks tension - time leaks sensation - time is always already coming towards - coming over you - covering over you - concealing you - revealing you - concealing-revealing your time - as an anorexic-time - as an obese-time - as the time of the body as the body of time doing-time - as thin - as fat.

Well we need now to throw Painting-Portraits as a Leaking-Lamella - as arbitrary alien myth-making-marks - wetting without willing inane inked illustration: you all now need to forget how 'to do' the 'eyes', the 'nose', the 'mouth', the 'ears': they can be fucked in without 'filling-them-in' (without Illustrating them). You both need to 'let go' and 'do it' without looking 'at it' otherwise, as Bacon said: " The moment that you know what you're doing, you're just making another form of illustration." Titian, Rembrandt, Turner, Monet, Degas, Cezanne, Soutine, Nolde, Bacon did not know what they were doing; did not know how to do it and escaped illustration, by-passed illustration: they 'forgot' how to do it: amnesia is essential to alien art to negate inane illustration. Don't wipe the fucking spunk away but let it rum riot down your fucking face or run down your dirt-tray-ox or dirt-box-cunt.

Bacon said to Sylvester: "I've often found that, if I have tried to follow the image more exactly in the sense if its being more illustrational , and it has become extremely banal, and then out of sheer exasperation and hopelessness I've completely destroyed it by not knowing at all the marks that I was making within the image - suddenly I have found that the thing comes nearer to the way that my visual instincts feel about the image I am trying to trap....I would like things to come easily, but you can't order chance. This is the thing. Because if you could, you would only be imposing another type of illustration...I think that the difference is that an illustrational form tells you through the intelligence immediately what the form is about, whereas a non-illustrational form works first upon sensation and then slowly leaks back into fact...Well, illustration surely means just illustrating the image before you, not inventing it...What has never yet been analyzed is why this particular way of painting is more poignant than illustration. I suppose because it has a life completely of its own...You see, you don't know how the hopelessness in one's working will make one just take paint and just do almost anything to get out of the formula of making a kind of illustrative image...You want something new. Not an illustrative realism but a realism that comes about through a real invention of a new way to lock reality into something completely arbitrary." Francis Bacon: The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987. And Bacon bled to Archimbaud: "Painting has nothing to do with illustration, it is in a way its opposite, rather as decoration is also quite the opposite of painting." (Francis Bacon, In conversation with Michael Archimbaud, Phaidon Press, 1993).

Edgar Degas reiterated this: "Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things." Not only do Freud and Saville 'know what they're doing' - they are also 'trapped in illustration' - leaving things 'as they are' - and do not 're-invent reality' - do not fragment reality - do not rupture reality - do not rapture reality: rather tame it - stuff it - kill it - in a fixed frozen static state of dreary death outside our sensation of oozedleaking life. Freud and Saville sever the sensation of time all the time fixing time in fat-clock time not cock-time or cunt time: they want to know nothing of the body buried fat-time: it is not the 'grotesque body' - it is not the 'body-without-organs' - it is not the 'body of the other' - but the fascist fatness of the capitalist consumer cadaver that Saville and Freud get off on with such a psychotic fascist fervent.

Sensationism slurp spunk puss paint is intense leaking lamella drooling downwards. Saville's paint is too scabrous Freud's paint is too frozen: too dry too tight - whilst diarrhea de Kooning's paint is too loose- like loose stools - too wet whilst Bacon's paint is pushed to puss perfection: kept raw, well oiled, without being over slurped, over spunked, over drooled, or over leaked letting foam froth freshness sow spilling spunking swelling shining shivering slithering slivering sensationism.

The artist Maria Kontis on Baconian Sensationism: "According to Deleuze, art-work has the power to break up the optical and manual organisation of the world and open us to a completely other, differential source. I propose to take up Deleuze's conception of the 'diagram' and filter it through my own artistic practice. By diagram Deleuze does not mean a blueprint or a set of plans and designs. Rather, the diagram is the artistic act par excellence - (with all its ex-centric connotations) - it is that act which fundamentally breaks down representational coordinates and, as Francis Bacon says, 'unlocks areas of sensation.' I do not, thereby, propose a return to an original 'sensuous experience,' ambient space or a pre-technological relation to 'life.' Instead, I am proposing another sensuous integration, a proper sense of art. By working with hand-made objects and their visual figuration I will (hopefully) invite a new way of thinking, a differential way of thinking about art and technology - one that is neither optical nor manual. This is the 'close-range vision' or 'haptic space' of Deleuze. Deleuze proposes a kind of 'transcendental' analysis of sensation - one that is entirely other to any Kantian transcendentalism. (Or at least takes up the Kantian critique in a radically new way.) It will be, after all, a matter of working, beyond the opposition of art and technology, matter and form. It will be a question of entering into the creative relation with the 'nomadic,' chaotic differentiation that makes the immobile equilibrium of representations and digitalised codes possible."

Bacon said in his deep admiration of Matthew Smith: "Painting is the complete interlocking of image and paint, so that the image is the paint and vice versa. Here the brush-stroke creates the form and does not merely fill it in." Illustration is Dead. Sensationism Lives. Our oily negative turd tongue traces from froth ontological drain-drool to spunk stains and anal-shit skids to splattered spattered stuffs are our left-overs, remainders, memory traces of our oozed-out-ore embodied-being. Pain(t) stuff becomes the Other fluid that throws leaving leaking its ink snail slime spunk stain as the memory of the body being there and no longer being-there. Velasquez, Titian, Vermeer, Rembrandt, Turner, Monet, Degas, Sargent, Schiele, Nolde, Jawlensky, Smith, Bacon let leak ontological ooze froth foam from the skin sensation leaking light: they make silver skin, shimmer, sliver, slither, shine.

As the late David Sylvester stated on smearing paint as a key to unlock Sensationism:

"It is how the paint is smeared across the features of the face. The smearing means disintegration: the face is already 'food for worms', the skull seen now 'beneath the skin'. The smearing means destruction: the face is wounded, shattered. The smearing means obliteration...The smearing means all this, but what these meanings involve conveys itself before there has been time to become aware of meanings. The meanings, all of them, lie in the paint, and they are in the paint not latently but in the impact of the paint upon our senses, on our nerves. Nothing in these paintings is more eloquent than the paint itself." ((David Sylvester, Francis Bacon: The Human Body, Hayward Gallery, 1998).

Venice with the Salute circa 1840-5 J.M.W Turner

"But I'm a afraid this isn't really a country of painters - just Turner; at least we had Turner."

Francis Bacon to William Burroughs, Arena, BBC 1986.

Bacon and Turner sensationed sensual spume surf scapes. Bacon and Turner let 'paint be' by being it, throwing it, smudging it, slimeing it, splattering it, snowing it, stabbing it, shimmering it, shuddering it,spunking it; they did not have a 'technique' and forgot 'how to do it' in order to allow the paint to remain really raw, fresh forming foam froth. Bacon and Turner's ab-use of oozed smegma smirch smaze spunk spurt white whips of oily pure paint bypass banal putrid Pollock's pretty pattern piss paint. Like Bacon's late lost landscapes, Turner's land and seascapes are always already 'figural' in that they trace the already angoisse alien-human being sensationism filtered freshly through nature's neurotic brute being-sensationism scapes: spurts, spumes, splashes, spasms, steams, streams, storms, slimes, soaks, snows, showers, sleets. Turner's 'Rough Sea' (1840-1845), 'Snow Storm' (1842), 'Venitian Scene' (1840-1845), 'Norham Castle, Sunrise' (1845) ooze outside inane illustration and supersede the weak wishy washy anal abstract excessive expressionism of our Pollock, de Kooning, Rothko. Tipsy turvy Turner's 'Southern Landscape with Aquaduct & Waterfall' (1828) has a spunking jet waterfall reminiscent of Bacon's 'Jet of Water' (1988) - and Bacon's 'Painting' (1985) which spills spunk over the sides like Turner's waterfall spume smaze smirch sensationism stuffs. Like Titian, Rembrandt, Soutine and Monet, Turner & Bacon used non-rational raw arbitrary ordered chance paint tracks to trace, record, nail nervous system to sensationism by painting raw right oozed outside illustration. Bacon & Turner are atta alien artists of an anti illustrationism and so celebrated spume sensationism making marks that those other artists cannot reach. So to repeat the important point: Bacon & Turner (like Titian, Monet, Corinth, Soutine) did not have a 'technique' and did not know 'how-to-do-it' (how to paint 'it') so slurped, oozed, wept, bled, leaked, smudged, spunked, threw paint pulsation oozing outside inane insane illustration: cancelled contour, loosing line in initiating subconscious snail slim forming froth foam figural fluidity. Bacon went 'back to nature' with 'Jet of Water' (1979) and 'Water from a Running Tap' (1982) where water wees sperm spume stuff shooting sensation; mere 'man' becomes blown, bled, leaked, leftover liquid and annihilated away. Bacon said to Sylvester: "I know what I want to do, but I don't know how to do it." It is always already then there that 'not knowing how to do it' which is the only real raw way of 'how to do it' thrown outside of conscious thought through thundering thew tinge taut timeless titre tine twink tingle timpani thwacks as an attuned and attained as an atta Ather altarity abjected ahead.

Turner paints the naked 'flesh' of nature in all her joyous jouissance jet juices spume sperm stripped sodden bare in all her primordial pulsations, spume spunk spurting shape shifting silt sensationism. Turner was allegedly tied to a mast and his face was whiplashed by the spume and storm.; Bacon was allegedly tied to the mast of a bed and whiplashed on the back with his face with drenched in sperm and smeared in shit. So sun snow silt slurp so from form froth sensationism seeking to trap sea sensationism to spume sensationism to snow sensationism, to sleet slit sensationism, Turner's being body was wet soaked in nature's spume stuffs; her hot spunk; while Bacon's bones and body were broken and beaten by beings, by beams. Bad Bacon's 'Sand Dune' (1983) is instantly one of his hottest finest figurative images instantly alien animal as leak landscape becomes shape shifted into bodyscape where mundane 'man' has become total primordial 'nature' stripped of his being becoming alien animal again. Bacon's face was drenched in jet wads whips of thick thrown sown strewn spunk; Turner's face was drenched in jet loads of spume and sleet. Bacon spunked over Sylvester: "It seems to come straight out of what we choose to call the unconscious with the foam of the unconscious locked around it - which is its freshness." Sea surf sow there was spume everywhere; there was sleet everywhere, there was snow everywhere, there was spunk everywhere and not a drop to drink, to drain, to drool. Atta, Alien, Bacon, Turner were wet always already alien artists of the ancient abject sublime shooting spume sperm jets of sludge silt sensationism ending everywhere and nowhere leaking lamella being bare drip dry dregs as arid air are throne thrown sown soil sky sun sleet snow surf spume surf sperm salt eggo egg evil eye soiled severed slit split soaked socket sensationism spilling spewing leaving leakage lamella leftovers loitering loosely. Turner's 'Rough Sea' (1840-1845), 'Snow Storm' (1842), leak like Bacon's jet juices of ooze spume sperm stains flying flooded faces, relic recall the thin tingle tinge sliver snail slime sailing skitter solarium smirch smaze softly thrown through Titian's translucent tissue tonal toes treading trading twin towers typhoon tyrannosaur tyrant torent tomb.

Atta Attack (2001)

Painting (March 1985) Francis Bacon

Snow Storm at Sea & Steam-Boat 1842 Turner

Southern Landscape with Aquaduct & Waterfall 1828 Turner

Francis Bacon by the late John Edwards

Acteon Killed by Diana 1562 Tiziano Vecellio

Titian, Velázquez, Bacon: Silver Snail Slime

"Flesh and meat are life! If I paint red meat as I paint bodies it is just because I find it very beautiful. I don’t think anyone has ever really understood that. Ham, pigs, tongues, sides of beef seen in the butcher’s window, all that death, I find it very beautiful. And it’s all for sale—how unbelievably surrealistic!...Velázquez found the perfect balance between the ideal illustration which he was required to produce, and the overwhelming emotion he aroused in the spectator. He was not only the photographer of the Spanish court, he was also the psychoanalyst of the human soul of the Spanish court. In each of his portraits you find the life and the death of his characters."

Francis Bacon, Interview with Francis Giacobetti, 1992, The Art Newspaper, June 6th, 2003.

Francis Bacon and Tiziano Vecellio vivaciously oozed oils of silver slither sliver snail slime negating narrative nailing nerves. As always already narrative negated no story so sensation sails slimes slips across abject alien alterity. In both Bacon and Titian the fluorescent flesh filtered, fractured, flayed, floated, leaked luminous low light shimmering skin sensation castrating contour: they never paint flesh per se but the light and dark that filter fray flesh. Bacon and Titian did not need to draw because they do not fill in form but bleed slither froth foam oozing oils: early Bacon and late Titian drip dry delicate silver snail slime trails trickling touching nailed nerves. Contrary to misconception of critics, Bacon and Titian negate narrative: they have no 'story' to sell, no 'story' to tell: their thin-thick pushed paint always already negates narrative erases ego. Titian was the first artist to paint flesh froth oozing outside inane illustration: Christ's cracking contourless luscious loin lust luminous torn torso in Pieta 1577; and silver snail trail trickle paint passages inking in Actæon Killed by Diana of 1562. Titian and Bacon did 'not know how to do it': Bacon said to Sylvester: "I see a marvellous painting. But how are you going to make it? And, of course, as I don't know how to make it, I rely then on chance and accident making it for me....I don't really think my pictures out, you know; I think of the disposition of the forms and then I watch the forms form themselves...The more artificial you can make it, the greater chance you've got of its looking real." Thus they painted flesh perfectly precisely because they didn't know 'how to do it'; a radical forgetting. Bacon's paint and Degas' pastels flaw filter fracture flesh form grainy glistening glows crack contours. Degas and Titian gave glistening glint silver snail stuff together to fuel froth thin the form film cracking crackling contour loin leaking the thrown lost lose line off of frozen freed flayed flesh froth forever.

Bacon used the rough, raw, grainy, gritty, unprimed side of the canvas to get the rough, raw, gritty, grainy, unprimed surface of the skin (sometimes with the appearance of Hippopotamus skin); Titian could get the same grain and grit and groin without using the unprimed surface of the canvas and with added leaking luscious luminosity.

Titian and Bacon never had a 'technique' or a 'style' and deliberately never really knew, remembered, learnt, how to 'do it' thus always already reinventing realism thrown through a radical forgetting and allowing the lamella leaking language of pure paint to flow forth froth: they both knew exactly and eloquently how much to make the pour pearl-paint leak, spill, slip, drip, froth, flow flooding seeping shine sheen shimmering sensations unlike de Kooning and Pollock who wank oil off over leaked loins negating sensation and image imploding in dull drab deplorable decoration shooting senile spunk. Titian and Bacon surpassed the awfully arrogant anality of an 'american abstraction'. Bacon said to Sylvester: "Most people this century who have had anything to do with the avant garde have wanted to create a new technique, and I never have myself....But I've never felt it at all necessary to try and create an absolutely specialised technique." Peppiatt quotes Bacon: "I myself think you have to break technique, break tradition, to do something really new. You always go back into tradition, but you have to break it and reinvent it first." Having a 'technique' is antithetical to authentic alien art which is always already an abject abyss unconscious un-thought thrown through an alien acidic arid art atta attack.

Bacon and Velázquez broke the back of the lingering line of illusory illustration leaking left out over the line slightly smudging out of fixed frozen focus letting loin leakage be bare before bone when watching waiting. As is Turner, Titian, Degas, Bacon, Velázquez squirts spills smears spunks smegma smirch sensation snail slime smaze surf stuff sewn slither sludge silver slivers soaking soiled spilt spit split suturing shooting slurp sorted soft stuff still. Having halo haze, an amnesia aura, glowing glistening shoe shining spillage sensation inducing injures illustration by breaking the thin line loin lamella leaking fish flesh foam froth forth forward floating flooded fuel forever ordaining oozing ovoid oxalic odd orra orris odours ostensive overawe over on out orbit.

Rubens, Renoir, Freud, Kossoff, de Kooning paint plastic surgery skin: fried flesh: muddy, messy, mucky, heavy, hideous, dead, dirty, devoid of off light life: they cannot paint skin, sensation since they leave out the light that illuminates embodied being: shining. Kossoff, de Kooning, Auerbach over-spill, over spunk the stuff surf froth flooding flesh resulting really in the loss of light; whereas Freud's fucked-flesh is far too dry, too diarrhead, far too clogged up and congested, cuntgested, cockgested flesh far too tight towards dried diarrhoea when whereas Titian and Bacon paint pristine puss-pearls. Vermeer veneer gets gritty glitter: sparkling wet flesh-light of on being-in-the-world getting the glistening shining skin of bread, tiles, pearls, glass, flesh, floors, foreheads. Titian and Bacon paint pearl skin sensation as a filtered flayed haze hallow glistening glittering leak light.

Titian and Bacon, like leaking voluptuous violent visceral vivacious virile Velázquez let loose 'paint be' by sensationing 'shining', 'shimmering', 'slithering', 'slivering' the thrown filet flesh luminously loin loose lace leaking. Contrary to commonsense, Titian and Bacon never painted 'flesh' or 'skin' but blew the sensation of skin, the soft sensation of flesh as foam filtered, filleted, fractured, formed, fuelled, flayed, frothed by light, by dark. Titian, Raphael, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Velázquez, Fragonard, Bacon painted pearl X-Rayed scanned skin sensation: soft sow silk slime silt salt skin-as-light, flesh-as-light; where moist meat being becomes instantly illuminated skin sensation served off the bone (as Degas does in pastel): for them : froth flesh ink initiated is always already as skin illuminated, opal ore oozed silky skin set alight above afterwards. Freud's fey pulp plastic surgery shitted fried flesh is inanely empirical empty of oozed leaked luminous skin sensation that thus transpires translucent transfixed the bawdy baby infantile in Raphael's The Madonna of the Pinks. Raphael was the greatest painter of opal smooth silky smaze skin without wondering into inane insane illustration.

Bacon and Titian's filleted flesh is X-Rayed extra-empirical. Titian, Raphael, Velázquez, Rembrandt, Goya, Vermeer, Jawlensky, Bacon, (like Lynch) back-light the face, the flesh from within the form so the light leaks through the skin, the face: they do not use 'natural' light but 'black' light. The leaking light sources in Titian, Velázquez, Raphael, Vermeer, Degas, Bacon, and Lynch comes from no where outside but from within; the light does not nail the skin surface but breaks oozes out of the porous translucent sensation of skin-shine. The thin soaked skin leaks light: the skin itself 'emits light' and invites itself to the shining sensation of opal glittering glistening glorious glow: Titian, Velázquez, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Fragonard, Jawlensky, Bacon were able to 'shine' skin letting light-skin smaze shine sow sensation in its shining shine getting glistening glittering glow. Fucked Freud cuntox cannot milk make his hard heavy flesh filth foam shoe shine because beneath browned brushes however he hates freshly fucked flesh making meat miserably muddy: dull dried drained diarrhoea: death-do. Freud hates flesh, hates fucking women, hates cunt; hates cock; Bacon loves flesh, loves women, loves cock, loves cunt. Bacon loves leaking fanny fluid; Freud fears spunk.

Degas, Schiele, Bacon: Flaying Flesh

Après le bain Edgar Degas 1895 - 1900

"Body am I entirely, and nothing else...Through the body and the senses, a human is nigh to the earth."

Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Despisers of the Body; Thus Spake Zarathustra, 1892.

"If the sight of animal or human viscera is almost always unpleasant, the same is not necessarily true of their figurative representation....Of all plastic representations, that of the human body is without question the most directly moving."

Michel Leiris, Man and His Insides; Documents 5, 1930.

Elaine L. Graham, Representations of the Post/Human, Rutgers University Press, 2002.

"This body of ours, a disguise of whirling and banal molecules, is constantly revolting against the awesome farce of enduring. Our molecules just want to take off, quicker the better, back into the universe. Oh! they're lovely things. They differ from just being 'us', cuckolds of infinity. We'd burst if we had the courage to, it's but a day to day failure. Our beloved torture is locked up their, atomic, within our very skin, alongside our pride."

Louis-Ferdinand Celine, 'Journey to the End of the Night', 1932.

"Liebe is love, but the word comes from leiben and leiben means 'to embody.' So 'love' in German is linked with body. 'I body you' is 'I love you.' Like a mother-child or lover-lover.....In this space where the body parts are flying around, speed works to create a wistful kind of journey. I may have seen the picture a thousand times, and have a particular sensation I associate with it, but if one sees it for the first time it will be a different experience...That's something very childish to play around with your own body without needing another. You're happy being with your own body."

Pipilotti Rist, Psychedelic, Baby: An Interview with Pipilotti Rist, Art Journal, Winter 2000.

"We will therefore have to recognize an ideality that is not alien to the flesh, that gives it axes, its depth, its dimensions...My body is a Gestalt. It is co-present in every Gestalt. It is a Gestalt; it also, and eminently, is a heavy signification, it is flesh; the system it constitutes is ordered about a central hinge or a pivot which is openness to..., a bound and not a free possibility....And at the same time it is a component of every Gestalt. The flesh of the Gestalt... is what responds to its inertia, to its insertion in a 'world,' to its field biases."

Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and the Invisible, Northwestern University Press, 1968.

"Bacon is a self-taught painter but that does not prevent him from being a masterly painter. He is even a masterly illusionist. The texture of flesh is something that is no more difficult for him to render than it was for Courbet or Rubens. And that is his ultimate secret, for no sooner has he presented us with the convincingly painted illusion, so that we believe in it, optically, then he defaces it, as though he were mocking our belief. The flesh becomes ambiguous and ghostly; it becomes ectoplasm as we watch it. Bones become jelly, bodies become alarmingly vulnerable, belief gives way to doubt."

Eric Newton, Mortal Conflict, The Guardian, Miscellany, Thursday May 24 1962.

"Bacon's body is peeled open: organs exteriorized, central nervous system splayed across the field of power relations; and its dominant - the screaming head. Bacon has said of his artistic practice that it represents the direct inscription of his nervous system onto the canvas...Bacon's artistic vision is about postmodern bodies as X-rayed afterimages of technological society at such a point of excess that it becomes a site of excremental loss. Bacon's postmodern body is a relentless alternation between the pleasure palace (an object of seduction as in Study of Nude with Figure in and Mirror) and the torture chamber (Three Figures and Portrait). In these paintings, the thermodynamics of sexual voyeurism slide silently into their opposite number: human beings with supine vertebrae twisted like fit specimens for the medical laboratory."

Arthur Kroker, Panic Value: Bacon, Colville, Baudrillard and the Aesthetics of Deprivation; St. Martin's Press, 1987.

"Contrary to modern canons, the grotesque body is not separated from the rest of the world. It is not a closed, complete unit; it is unfinished, outgrows itself, transgresses its own limits. the stress is laid on those parts of the body that are open to the outside world, that is, the parts through which the world enters the body or emerges from it, or through which the body itself goes out to meet the world. This means that the emphasis is on the apertures or the convexities, or on the various ramifications and offshoots: the open mouth, the genital organs, the breasts, the phallus, the potbelly, the nose...The grotesque body, as we have often stressed, is a body in the act of becoming. It is never finished, never completed; it is continually built, created, and builds and creates another body. Moreover, the body swallows the world and is itself swallowed by the world."

Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, Mit Press, 1968.

Mark C. Taylor, Erring - A Postmodern A/theology, University of Chicago Press, 1984.

"What is a body? What is the construction of a new body? A new body in the artistic field is something like a real concrete creation—a work of art, performances, all that you want—but which are in relation with the trace of the event. The trace of the event is something like that—the declaration always that something really is a form, that something new of the dignity of the work of art—and that is the trace... And a new body is something like a work of art, which is in relation with that sort of trace. And often in the field of artistic creation is a new school, a new tendency. There is, generally speaking, some names—names of a school, names of a tendency, names of a new fashion as a dimension of artistic creation—and that is a new body. It's a new body, which is in the world, in the artistic world, in the new artistic world. It's the creation of something new in the artistic world in correlation to the trace. And we understand what is the discipline of consequences in the artistic field—discipline of consequences is a new subjective process, is something like really a new experimentation, a new experimentation of the forms, a new experimentation of the relation between the forms and chaotic sensibility. And so it's the same of the new school, of the new tendency."

Alain Badiou, The Subject of Art, The Symptom, Issue 6, Spring, 2005.

"What we are calling flesh, this interiority worked-over mass, has no name in any philosophy. As the formative milieu of the object and the subject, it is not an atom of being, the hard in-itself that resides in a unique place and moment: one can indeed say of my body that it is not elsewhere, but one cannot say that it is here or now in the sense that objects are; and yet my vision does not soar over them, it is not the being that is all knowing, for it has its own inertia, its attachments. We must not think the flesh starting from substances, from body and spirit - for then it would be the union of contradictories - but we must thinks it...as an element, as the concrete emblem of a general manner of being."

Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and the Invisible, Northwestern University Press, 1968.

"So the question we have to ask ourselves is: is wear and tear damage? Is it that time has a kind of ruinous consequence? Or should we simply regard the whole issue of the relation between time and an object as essentially through accounts of the fact that the object has a certain life expectancy so somewhere in this issue between wear and tear, time, damage - what is the damage that aging does? Is it properly called damage? At what age is oneself? At what point does one become oneself - as a body? At what age does one become oneself so that after you can refer to the processes which occur to you as a kind of erosion from your proper being?...At what age do you become your proper being? At what age do you have your proper body? It's as if the moment of the proper body never exists - its just that you have one or two relations to it: either you're still growing towards it - or is already after it - so there is here, as it were, a proper body to which, at a certain point in your life, you're always tending and after a certain point you're already losing - the problem is you never had the moment of your proper body - or very rare...That literary recreation of the moment of the proper body shows that it's done from the point of view of always already having past...We do have - we are an ideal body to which once we were tending towards since which we've been declining from and unfortunately we never registered the moment when we were actually there - because we're never there. Our relation to our body - amongst all the other relations to our body that we have - is always mortified by the category of time - mortified in the sense that it is time which always keeps us a phase apart from possessing our own body."

Mark Cousins, Wear & Tear: Damage, Architectural Association, 21.6.1996.

Akt 1912 Egon Schiele Akt 1913 Egon Schiele

Bacon and Schiele sensationed skin psychoanalysis leaving leaked bruised bodies where colour craves the state of the subject as an alien object oozing colours co-ordinating sensation states of oozing psychic states. Bacon and Schiele's bruised bodies break skin surfaces torso transparency becoming boneless. But Bacon and Schiele's bodies are not 'unrealistic' or 'distorted' but are bled bred bare as an authentic severed state of our oozed alien being out-the-world as an eggo ejaculation spilling skinning sensation. Bacon and Schiele keep the flesh fresh by breaking down delicately skin surface leaking light left luminously. Fragonard can. Freud cannot. Fragonard has the shine. Freud has the shit.

Après le bain, femme nue couchée 1885 Edgar Degas

Bacon, Schiele and Degas do not paint pencil or pastel the proper body for Bacon the body is leaking, for Schiele the body is mooding, for Degas the body is shimmering: all break the body apart activating and attuning specific psychic sensation states suturing severing monstrous mesmerising meaty manoeuvre freshly frothed forth from forgetting.

For Bacon, Schiele and Degas meat is musical - musical composition and decomposition flaying filtering fraying frothing fleeing flesh flashing forth stripping severing suturing slithering slivering silver skin shards shredded.

Fraud Freud fried to Lawrence Gowing: "I want paint to work as flesh...as far as I am concerned the paint is the person." Freud can't make the paint work as flesh because he has no feeling for flesh, no sensation for skin. Freud gets the paint to work as money...as far as he is concerned the paint is the money not the person. So Freud does not know the colour of flesh but he knows the colour of money: shit. The paint works as shit. Egon Schiele's watercolour drawings and Edgar Degas' pastels of opened filtered flesh leak luminous light like light refractive intensely like leaking iridescence of ornately beautiful butterfly wings where silky sensation spills forth forever. Fuck Freud failed to fathom that the fresh flesh is initially iridescent luminous leaking reflecting refracting layered loin light.

Bacon and Schiele's severed self-portraits are not narcissistic (they have no egos only eggos) and their bodies are never distorted but contorted severing sexuality beyond being human having shape-shifting altered-alien frothy features both being neither masculine nor feminine but alien always already adjusting as an abjected altaric animalism: their skin is primordially painted as a skinned subject substituting ex-ego for eggo entrails exits.

For Rist "the body is the basic sensationscape" wetted from which our oozed out inking interior imaginings and as abjected eggo exteriors froth foam flow. We sensation the world in scapes of our body. It is the sensationised scape against which all spatial sensation always already originates and operates. For Rist the body belongs beheaded out into and off of the world which is its womb: the body as a beacon of light is the shimmering of the sea and the shining of the sky where the skin of the sky and the skin of the sea skin the body of being. For Rist the body blown apart and abjected belongs to Bakhtin, Batillle, Blanchot, Burroughs, Bacon. In Rist's The Belly Button Like a Village Square the body is a bomb blown apart against a severed skyline. Rist's Sip My Ocean sensations as a Cézanne under the sea with shimmering swimmers; sinking objects shining as suspended still lives: luminous lives lost lives drowned lives going down down down to the body of the ocean touching the skin of the ocean sunk through the soft skin of the sea.

Nude Self Portrait Squatting 1916 Egon Schiele

Alien Akt 1981 Alex Alien

Alex Alien incorporating Francis Bacon

Alien & Bacon: Angoisse Alien Artists

Alien versus Predator

"We're all aliens."

Sam Neil, Space, 2002.

"The unknown name, alien to naming."

Maurice Blanchot, 1980.

"We say that art is serving alien values."

Maurice Blanchot, From Dread to Language.

"Art attests to what is inhuman in man."

Alain Badiou, Le siècle, 2005.

"Art is alien. Every man is an alien. Alien art is the primordial memory trace of man as alien."

Alex Alien, 2003.

"...in one of the most remarkable passages of his Aesthetics, Hegel defined the task of art as the appropriation of the alien..."

Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, The Athlone Press, 1997.

"I feel myself to be an alien in the world. If you have no ties to either mankind or to God, then you are an alien."

Ludwig Wittgenstein, The Duty of Genius, Ray Monk, Penguin Books, 1990.

"The question of the future of the human opens up a zone of monstrous thought, calling into being the necessity of a thinking of the transhuman condition. One thinks of Nietzsche's 'great' question - what may still become of 'man'? - in which 'man' only becomes as such at a certain juncture in historical evolution...The problem of the human has never been a biological one. This is the filthy lesson of Nietzsche's 'genealogy of morals'. This is a 'genealogy' that can only promise inhuman futures to the extent that a monstrous memory of man is perpetually cultivated and overcome."

Keith Ansell Pearson, Loving the Poison: On the 'Meaning' of the Transhuman Condition; Nietzsche's Futures, MacMillan Press, 1999.

"One needs to invent, via an alien instinct, an anti-illustrational painting to make absent alien being present again. We need to tap into our alien animal instincts and learn to paint subconsciously from the nervous system to nail the form fresh from the flesh foam. To escape illustration, to by-pass illustration you need to 'forget' how to do it: dread, boredom, forgetting and amnesia are essential to an alien art to negate inane illustration."

Alex Alien, Interviews with April Hunter.

"I've often found that, if I have tried to follow the image more exactly in the sense if its being more illustrational , and it has become extremely banal, and then out of sheer exasperation and hopelessness I've completely destroyed it by not knowing at all the marks that I was making within the image - suddenly I have found that the thing comes nearer to the way that my visual instincts feel about the image I am trying to trap....I would like things to come easily, but you can't order chance. This is the thing. Because if you could, you would only be imposing another type of illustration...I think that the difference is that an illustrational form tells you through the intelligence immediately what the form is about, whereas a non-illustrational form works first upon sensation and then slowly leaks back into fact...Well, illustration surely means just illustrating the image before you, not inventing it...What has never yet been analyzed is why this particular way of painting is more poignant than illustration. I suppose because it has a life completely of its own...You see, you don't know how the hopelessness in one's working will make one just take paint and just do almost anything to get out of the formula of making a kind of illustrative image...You want something new. Not an illustrative realism but a realism that comes about through a real invention of a new way to lock reality into something completely arbitrary."

Francis Bacon: The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"Deleuze offers a systematic distinction between painting as art (the figural) and illustration (the figurative) by seeing Bacon's work as essentially painterly sensation."

Andrew Brighton, Francis Bacon, British Artists, Tate Publishing.

Bacon and Alien as alien beings attempt to reform the reptilian head and body via arbitrary anti-illustration alien art in order to bring it back to the authentic atta alterity of abjected 'alien-being' (shape-shifting reptilian alien beings) beyond the thrown human fiction finished form (illustrational surface appearances). But Bacon and Alien's angoisse atta anti-illustrative acidic altaric alien art aims at Shape-Shifting Reptilian Reality Running Away Towards You. Illustration is Dead because Man is Dead; full face flayed, faded, fucked forever. Bacon and Alien attempt to 'distort' the 'post human' form frothed back into the 'brute fact' of the 'alien condition' of authentic Alien Being. 'Man' and 'Woman' are always already away and extinct but no one has told them as yet. Bacon's and Alien's atta abimages are not 'distorted': 'reality' itself is always already distorted. Bacon & Alien are not 'human beings' but ancient archaic alien reptilians that were very 'late developers' as ancient retarded reptiles and arrived albeit far too late, came too early, being dormant for millennia yet yearn thrown eggo eternally as bled being alien and activated as Alien Beings.

Alex Alien in The Wilderman , Amsterdam Francis Bacon in The French House, London

Bacon always already anticipated and slurped shape-shifting ripe reptilian aliens hovering his prehistoric portraits and arbitrary magic mark making. Alien attempts aim at activating an angoisse alteric arid-acidic alien art. We will all now need an altaric alien atta to throw forth fresh froth as an anti-illustrational alien art. So sown shape-shifting reptilian alien activates such heinous hideous hybrid leaking lava foam frothed forms. Such sensation seeking alien abject art has however here to be activated and alienised: fully fledged from frozen froth soiled subconscious sea salt thrown through chained chance an arid accident via vivacious vicious atta altaric alien arbitrary anti-illustrational inking in manipulated man mark making and activate spliced subconscious sea sewn open ooze of silky slime shining shape-shifting snarling severely opening out on an altaric alien art again and mince-meating molesting man melted.

Bacon and Alien anti-illustrational anti-narrative alteric angoisse acidic alien art aims arriving at nailing nervous system severed by-passing the brain and aimin at the body: it is the body not the brain that 'registers' these arbitrary anti-rational marks as 'brute facts' of 'being-there'. Bacon's and Alien's arbitrary paint pure puncture marks have the same nailing intensity as the timpani thwacks in Beethoven, Wagner, Bruckner, Mahler, Nielsen and Shostakovich symphonies . Why when do draining pointing paint marks to timpani tap thwacks by pass the 'intellect' and always aim straight to the body, shred the nerves, send shivers down the splintered shattered supine spine? Primordially played penetrating performances by Toscanini, Cantelli, Mravinsky, Monteux, Munch, Kleiber, and Klemperer shot straight to the bled body and nailed the thrown nervous system through throwing being out of being there then back thus unlocking us underworld undercurrents: seeping subconscious seascapes leaking loin lamella lost opening out our ore brute basic instinct in. Detonating Dread Activating Anxiety and Nailing the Nervous System are the keys to unlock an art alien at the School of Francis Bacon. Inane idiotic illustration is deceased dead. Anti-illustrational alteric angoisse alien art lives leaking slime sensation. Bacon bled bare: "We need to invent the techniques by which reality can be conveyed to our nervous system without losing the objectivity of the thing portrayed." and "Instinct arises out of that whole unconscious sea inside us". (Francis Bacon: Anatomy of An Enigma, Michael Peppiatt,1996)

Shape Shifting Self Portrait Alex Alien 2002.

Blanchot & Bacon: Negating Narrative

"To write is to die."

Emmanuel Levinas, On Maurice Blanchot.

"A story? No. No stories, never again."

Maurice Blanchot, La Folie du jour, Station Hill, 1988.

"All true language is incomprehensible."

Antonin Artaud, Here Lies.

"Why does language appear to be 'ALIEN'?

Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror - An Essay on Abjection, Columbia University Press, 1982.

"Our words are dead until we give them life with our blood."

Mohammad Sidique Khan, Suicide Bomber, 2005.

"Meaning does not escape into another meaning, but into the other of all meaning."

Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature, University of Nebraska Press, 1982.

"Each picture draws attention away from the narrative to the physical, to sensation, to flesh, death."

Poul Erik Tojner, The Mysterious Heart of Realism: Francis Bacon, 1998.

"Man acts as though he were the shaper and master of language, while in fact language remains the master of man."

Martin Heidegger, Building Dwelling Thinking, lecture, 5 August 1951; Poetry, Language, Thought, 1971.

"The writer belongs to a language which no one speaks, which is addressed to no one, which has no centre, and which reveals nothing...literature's ideal has been the following: to say nothing, to speak in order to say nothing."

Maurice Blanchot, 1907-2003.

"I am not a believer, I believe in words. There is only one resurrection for me - and that is in words. My novel is a kind of anti-Da Vinci Code...When I'm writing novels, I am making a voyage around, or into, myself...In the novel, I take all the risks of the traveller, or the explorer. And I get all the pleasures as well."

Julia Kristeva on her novel Murder in Byzantium; The Ideas Interview, The Guardian, March 14, 2006.

"When we look into a mirror we think the image that confronts us is accurate. But move a millimetre and the image changes. We are actually looking at a never-ending range of reflections. But sometimes a writer has to smash the mirror – for it is on the other side of that mirror that the truth stares at us."

Harold Pinter – Nobel Lecture,, Art, Truth & Politics, The Nobel Foundation, 2005.

"This contradictory environment of alien words is present to the speaker not in the object, but rather in the consciousness of the listener, as his apperceptive background, pregnant with responses and objections... Discourse lives, as it were, beyond itself in a living impulse toward the object…’’

Mikhail Bakhtin.

"A language is like anything else, it is continually dying. It must die. We have to accept that. The language of most novels is dead, their syntax dead, everything - dead. Mine too will die, no doubt soon enough."

Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Céline: A Biography, Frédéric Vitoux; Marlowe & Company, 1994.

"A writer never reads his work. For him, it is the unreadable, a secret, and he cannot remain face to face with it. A secret, because he is separated from it."

Maurice Blanchot 1907-2003.

"I have long thought that some things are so intimate that they can never be said but must be written. Writing does not merely create distance but also allows one to draw closer than any spoken word. This closeness must not be confused with presence. Writing brings the remote near by allowing presence to withdraw. The lasting lesson of Blanchot is that withdrawal opens up the space-time of desire whose absence is death. Though he has been taken from us, he will continue to give what is never ours to possess."

Mark C Taylor, Nowhere without No: In Memory of Maurice Blanchot, Stray Dog Editions, Vagabond Press, Sydney, 2003.

"I don’t want it (the painting) to tell a story, I want it to give me a shock...I always hope to be able to make a great number of figures without a narrative...I'm not saying anything. Whether one's saying anything for other people, I don't know. But I'm not really saying anything, because I'm probably much more concerned with the aesthetic qualities of a work than, perhaps, Much was. But I've no idea what any artist is trying to say, except the most banal artists."

Francis Bacon in conversation with David Sylvester.

“These notes are always precisely worded, to the point, and provocative of visual ideas. Bacon, I think, was essentially a literary man for whom textual narrative, words and phrases triggered powerful visual images, Never a draughtsman, deeply vulnerable to the power of words, his most articulate and helpful ‘sketches’ took the form of the written word….The paintings, I venture, begin in words, not in pictures. He was really a poet…When Bacon said he didn’t draw, he really meant it. The graphic works are not Bacon’s ‘sketches’. The real sketches are his notes.”

Prof. Brian Clarke, letter to David Sylvester, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 2000.

"Writing is per se already (it is still) violence: the rupture there is in each fragment, the break, the splitting, the tearing of the shred - acute singularity, steely point. And yet this combat is, for patience, debate. The name wears away, the fragment fragments, erodes."

Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of The Disaster, University of Nebraska Press, 1995.

"In the lecture, 'The Origin of the Work of Art,' Heidegger still emphasises, above all, that language is not a means of communication, but rather 'what makes beings as beings emerge into the open.' The mode of discourse in terms of which Heidegger explicitly regulates himself here in poetic discourse, or better: a certain highly determined type of poetic discourse, the hymnic speech of Hölderlin."

Jean-François Courtine, Phenomenology and/or Tautology; Reading Heidegger, Indiana University Press, 1993.

"Like sacred language, what is written comes from no recognisable source, is without author or origin, and thereby always refers back to something more original than itself. Behind the words of the written work, nobody is present; but language gives voice to this absence, just as in the oracle, when divinity speaks, the god himself is never present in his words, and it is the absence of god which then speaks."

Maurice Blanchot 1907-2003.

"Like the thing and the work of art, language remains outside the world; it withholds itself. If we communicate by means of language, language itself remains uncommunicative. It is self-standing, reserved, resistant to appropriation."

Gerald L. Burns, Maurice Blanchot: the Refusal of Philosophy, John Hopkins University, 1997.

"Man was an absolute 'mistake': an accident waiting to happen and leaked ahead from ' language' which wrote 'man'. Then 'language' left 'man' because the 'being of language' was always already 'alien' to 'man' - 'language' is not 'man made' - 'language' is not 'language' - 'language' is leakage - 'language' takes leave of 'language' - 'language' never ever speaks - 'language' seeks - seeks to leak - leak ahead of 'language' - 'language' leaks beyond being 'language' - beyond the 'being of language' - as a language-leaking left-leading away and ahead as an angoisse aural alien attunement."

Alex Alien, Being & Alien, 2006.

"The work of art is linked to a risk; it is the affirmation of an extreme experience. But what is this risk? What is the nature of the bond that unites the work to risk?...Art - as images, as words, and as rhythms - indicates the menacing proximity of a vague and vacant outside, a neutral existence, nil and limitless; art points to a sordid absence, a suffocating condensation where being ceaselessly perpetuates itself as nothingness."

Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature, University of Nebraska Press, 1982.

"The British painter Francis Bacon appears to struggle in his paintings with the same kind of problem that preoccupies Armando in his visual and literary works: How can one represent events in a nonnarrative manner?...As far as there is narrative, it is not the representation or illustration of an event that produces it, but rather then tension triggered by the way the pencil or paintbrush has been handled."

Ernst van Alphen, Touching Death; Reading Death: Sign, Text, Play.

"There's no narrative. I just try to make images, really. I mean, one knows through history to some extent what the sphinx is supposed to be. I think what it is to me...I don't think I'm trying to do anything beyond make images that excite me. I've nothing to say in that sense."

Francis Bacon interview with Joshua Gilder, "I Think about Death Every day", Flash Art, May 1983.

"When we speak, we are leaning on a tomb, and the void of that tomb is what makes language true, but at the same time void is reality and death becomes being."

Maurice Blanchot, Literature and the Right to Death, 1949; The Blanchot Reader, Blackwell, 1995.

"At the moment when language, as spoken and scattered words, becomes an object of knowledge, we see it reappearing in a strictly opposite modality: a silent cautious disposition of the word upon the whiteness of a piece of paper, where it can possess neither sound nor interlocutor, where it has nothing to say but itself, nothing to do but to shine in the brightness of its being."

Michael Foucault, The Order of Things, Random House, 1970.

Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, Columbia University Press, 1982.

"It is true that most writers work with a wound....There are two things which I believe give you the energy to want dig into the language. Extreme suffering or extreme pleasure. Still, you will never be able to translate [those things] with words. That's why you will keep trying all your life because what is inscribed so violently in the body never finds the proper words. Therefore it means, don't worry, you'll be writing all your life."

Nicole Brossard, interview with Jennifer O'Connor / Xtra / Thursday, July 21, 2005.

"Writing is per se already (it is still) violence: the rupture there is in each fragment, the break, the splitting, the tearing of the shred - acute singularity, steely point...Write in order not simply to destroy, in order not simply to conserve, in order not to transmit; write in the thrall of the impossible real, that share of disaster wherein every reality, safe and sound, sinks."

Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of The Disaster, University of Nebraska Press, 1995.

"Language, in its attentive and forgetful being, with its power of dissimulation that effaces every determinate meaning and even the existence of the speaker, in the grey neutrality that constitutes the essential hiding place of all being and thereby frees the space of the image - is neither truth nor time, neither eternity nor man; it is instead the always undone form of the outside. It places the origin in contact with death, or rather brings them both to light in the flash of their infinite oscillation - a momentary contact in a boundless space. The pure outside of the origin, if that is indeed what language is eager to greet, never solidifies into a penetrable and impossible positivity; and the perpetually rebegun outside of death, although carried toward the light by the essential forgetting of language, never sets the limit at which truth would finally begin to take shape. They immediately flip sides. The origin takes on the transparency of the endless; death opens interminably onto the repetition of the beginning."

Michel Foucault, Maurice Blanchot: The Thought from Outside, Zone Books, 1987.

"It's already very difficult to write on Joyce, but to speak on Joyce is an even more difficult task, but I'll try to say something. First of all, since the Dean referred to the time a long time ago when I spent one year in Harvard, in '56, what I did at Harvard was read Joyce in the library, what I encountered was Ulysses, and since then Joyce has been reserved for me... the most gigantic attempt to gather in a single work, that is, in the singularity of a work which is irreplaceable, that is a singular event, to gather - I'm referring here to Ulysses and Finnegans Wake - to gather the totality, the presumed totality not only of one culture but of a number of cultures, a number of languages, literatures, religions and so on and so forth. And this impossible task of decided gathering in a totality, in a potential totality, the potentially infinite memory... is at the same time for me exemplarily new in its modern form and very classical in its philosophical form. That's why I have often compared Joyce's Ulysses to Hegel's, for instance, Hegel's Encyclopedia or Hegel's Logic. It is an attempt to read the absolute knowledge through a single act of memory; this being possible only by loading every sentence, every word with a maximum of equivocalities, of possibilities, of virtual associations, that is, by making this organic linguistic totality as rich as possible."

Jacques Derrida, Roundtable Discussion, Villanova University, October 3rd, 1994.

"As beings capable of imagining and producing fiction, we go toward things that are not there and whose evocation demands to be supported by the complicity of a language less freed from itself, more realized... As prosaic as prose is and as close to banal life as a story is, language undergoes in it a radical transformation, because it invites the reader to realize from the words themselves the understanding of what happens in the world offered him, and whose entire reality is to be the object of a story. We like to say of a reading that it holds us; the expression answers to this transformation: the reader is in fact held by the things of fiction that he grasps, given by the words; like their own characteristics, he holds on to them, with the feeling of being enclosed, captive, feverishly withdrawn from the world."

Maurice Blanchot 1907-2003.

"How dazzling, unending, eternal - and so weak, so insignificant, so sickly - is the rhetoric of Joycean language. Far from preserving us from the abject, Joyce causes it to break out in what he sees as prototype of literary utterance: Molly's monologue. If that monologue spreads out the abject, it is not because there is a woman speaking. But because, from afar, the writer approaches the hysterical body so that it might speak, so that he might speak, using it as springboard, of what eludes speech and turns out to be the hand to hand struggle of one woman with another, her mother of course, the absolute because primeval seat of the impossible - of the excluded, the outside-of-meaning, the abject...The abject lies, beyond the themes, and for Joyce generally, in the way one speaks; it is verbal communication, it is the Word that discloses the abject. But at the same time, the Word alone purifies from the abject, and that is what Joyce seems to say when he gives back to the masterly rhetoric that his Work in progress constitutes full powers against abjection. A single catharsis: the rhetoric of the pure signifier, of music in letters - Finnegans Wake."

Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez, New York: Columbia University Press, 1982.

"Maurice Blanchot considered writing unimportant. It is not important to write, he said. He was - but “What’s the word?’ Beckett would ask. “What’s the wrong word?’ He was an unimportant writer. Now he has made his exit. His books always did and still do leave us alone, with nothing to approve or disapprove, believe in or doubt, and in no position: no position to be there at all, where we find ourselves...Blanchot sometimes speaks of a place within a place. “It is like an enclave’, he writes, in The Space of Literature, “a dark, airless preserve’. It is a preserve for all that can’t be done but is done - done without end or beginning - not because it can or should or must be, even if, indeed, it must (“You must speak’, Blanchot writes), but rather by virtue of one’s being in no position to do it. No position: that is the central point. There we are preserved from legitimacy and speak unjustifiably. We speak there the way we wait, and there speech is spared significance just as waiting is when, having distractedly missed our chance to wait, we just have to wait. Lightened thus of meaning, speech is for Blanchot the very element of one’s relation to others. 'Il faut parler’, he has said. You must speak, preserving that relation and safeguarding it from power of any kind including the power to speak. You must speak, without being able to - “sans pouvoir’. You must, but not you: your unworthiness. You must, but without even the strength of this must to go on. It doesn’t qualify you. For only incompetence is ('What’s the wrong word?’ Beckett would ask) competent: competent to answer."

Ann Smock, Maurice Blanchot, 1907-2003, Obituary, Infinite conversation; Radical Philosophy, July/August, 2003.

"The image, capable of negating nothingness, is also the gaze of nothingness on us. The image is light, and nothingness is immensely heavy. The image shines and nothingness is the diffuse thickness where nothing reveals itself. The image is the crack, the mark of this black sun, the tear, which, under the appearance of the dazzling burst, gives us the negative of the inexhaustible negative depth. That is why the image seems so profound and so empty, so threatening and so attractive, always rich in more senses than we lend it and also poor, void and silent, because in it advances this dark impotence, deprived of mastery, which is that of death as recommencement."

Maurice Blanchot, L'Amitié, Paris: Gallimard, 1971.

"If the only site for language is indeed the solitary sovereignty of 'I speak' then in principle nothing can limit it—not the one to whom it is addressed, not the truth of what it says, not the values or systems of representation it utilizes. In short, it is no longer discourse and the communication of meaning, but a spreading forth of language in its raw state, an unfolding of pure exteriority. And the subject that speaks is less the responsible agent of a discourse (what holds it, what uses it to assert and judge, what sometimes represents itself by means of a grammatical form designed to have that effect) than a non-existence in whose emptiness the unending outpouring of language uninterruptedly continues."

Michel Foucault, Maurice Blanchot; The Thought from the Outside.

"There is an a-cultural aspect to art and literature which it is hard to accept whole heartedly...Like sacred language, what is written comes from no recognisable source, is without author or origin, and thereby always refers back to something more original than itself. Behind the words of the written work, nobody is present; but language gives voice to this absence, just as in the oracle, when divinity speaks, the god himself is never present in his words, and it is the absence of god which then speaks."

Maurice Blanchot 1907-2003.

"Within 1960 Bacon struck out on a new tangent. Starkly honest, these new paintings are difficult to describe. The obsession with the claustral atmosphere is all too clear. One must make clear, it seems to me, that Bacon is trying to discover equivalents to moods not always considered visually proper: apathy, self-disgust, surfeit, shrinking and extreme danger associated with sensuality...Who is this sombre shifty-eyed person who looks at us from the canvas? He is, perhaps, that nameless and suburban man we saw coming toward us, his head cut off by the plane of the open umbrella. Yes, Bacon's visual symbol of this period is a disturbing person. He might be said to be Auden's 'smiler with the knife'. Or that inconspicuous man in Gare du Midi who 'clutching his case, walks out briskly' through the snow 'to infect a city'. He is the ordinary man whom we learned to our sorrow in the 40s is capable of cruelty and self-aggrandizement."

Howard Griffin, Francis Bacon - Case History Painting, Studio, May 1961.

In the Beginning was the Mood and the Mood was with Man and the Mood was Man. The Man Threw the Mood of Being. Mood and Man. Mood Man. Mooding Man. Man Mooded before Man Worded. Mood came before Word. Mooding began before Thinking. Anxiety activated metaphysical Mooding throwing Thinking thawed throwing Thinking thwarted.

Mooding preceded Thinikng as Dwelling preceded Writing for Mooding set the scape of Thinking and Dwelling set the scene of Writing - since Sensationing preceded Speaking - so Mooding, Dwelling, Sensationing set sail the scenescape for forthing through Thinking, Writing, Speaking. A Mooding is not a Meaning: mood does not mean. Mood nothings.

Mooding is the doing of the nothing: doing nothing is the most difficult and dreadful thing to do: to do the nothing at all.

So what was the Mooding that made Man Mood? The Mood was the Terror of the Alien attuning and activating Art. The Origin of Art was Thrust through Terrorism: Art as a Terrorist Tool against angoisse Alien and Animal alike. As Art arrived and attuned as a terrorist tactic as a terrorist tool as a trace of terrorism as a trauma of terrorism. Neanderthal Man knew nothing of 'artistic activity' as an 'art activated' always already originated as a terrorist tactic as a terrorist tool as a terrorist trace tracing and targeting the abjected alien and animal again and again. Ancient Art aspires to the alien condition of Terrorism.. Art is the Glorification of Terrorism: Turner - the Terrorism of Nature - Rembrandt the Terrorism of Time - Bacon the Terrorism of Being. Terrorism is the Source of Arts Essence. Thus the Origin of Art is Terrorism. As an angoisse abjection art alien is an as an act of terror, act of treason. Art Originated through the Threat of Terrorism against Being itself. Thus The Artist is The Terrorist against the State of Being. To Art is to Kill. Art Kills.

Anxiety, nervousness, uneasiness, being on the edge are essential tools of the terrorist trade for activating an art alien.

And Dread: that angoisse alien attuned attitude and an attribute of anxiety: as an alien abjection angoisse anxiety has Nothing to Reveal but the Real before the being of Represnentation. Dread Reveals The Nothing of The Real: The Dead.

For Bacon and Blanchot: 'One dreads doing it' : doing - the - dread - the - doing: one dreads dread as doing dread - as it.

Blanchot on Bacon's Dasein Dread: "The existence of the painter is proof that within one individual there exists side by side both a man full of dread and one who is cool and calculating...Dread challenges all the realities of reason, its methods, its possibilities, its very capacity to exist, its ends, and yet dread forces reason to be there; it summons it to be reason as perfectly as it can; dread itself is only possible because there continues to exist in all its power the faculty that dread renders impossible, that it annihilates...Bacon obeys dread, and dread orders him to lose himself, without that loss being compensated by any positive value...Dread has nothing to reveal and is itself indifferent to its own revelation...The instinct that leads us, in dread, to flee from the rules - if it is not itself flight from dread - comes, then, from the need to pursue these rules as true rules, as an exacting kind of coherence, and no longer as the conventions and means of a traditional commodity....there is an effort to make the act of painting the cause of a storm of order and a paroxysm of consciousness all the more filled with dread because this consciousness of a faultless organization is also the consciousness of an absolute failure of order..." (Blanchot, From Dread to Language, Station Hill, 1999).

One Dreads Doing the 'it': the Dread of what will come of 'it' as the becoming of 'it' or the Dread if 'it' will come or not: the Dread of 'it' coming and then 'losing 'it' - as Bacon had found 'it' through dread and then lost 'it' again through despair. Acted and Initiated out of Dread the Dreadful Image is Emptied of Dread leaking and leaving its drooled Dread on you.

For Bacon being Filled with Dread of not being able 'to do it' becomes the Emptying out of Dread thrown through Chance.

Blanchot on Bacon's Chance: "I can play my destiny in a game of dice, as long as I play it as chance exterior to me and accept it as a destiny absolutely tied to me...I am no longer able to want, it is now in my interest to play and because of that interest in the game, I become a gambler who makes the game impossible (it is no longer a game)...Bacon tries to escape his creative intelligence, experienced as chance, by surrendering himself directly to chance. Bacon appeals to the dice of the unconscious because Bacon cannot play dice with extreme consciousness. Bacon limits chance to chance. This is the basis of Bacon's quest for paint ravaged by randomness and Bacon's attempt to come to terms with negligence. It seems to Bacon that by doing this he is closer to his nocturnal passion...Most of the time, to give oneself to paint is to abandon oneself. One allows oneself to be carried away by a mechanism that takes upon itself all the responsibility of the act of painting..." (Blanchot, From Dread to Language, Station Hill, 1999).

Bacon Painted as Thrown Chance by being Filled Empty of Dasein's Dread by becoming Emptied Full of Dead's Dread.

And Despair: On Chance and Despair Bacon said to Sylvester: "When I was trying in despair the other day to paint that head of a specific person, I used a very big brush and a great deal of paint and I put it on very, very freely, and I simply didn't know in the end what I was doing, and suddenly this thing clicked, and became exactly like this image I was trying to record. But not out of any conscious will, nor was it to do with illustrational painting. What has never yet been analyzed is why this particular way of painting is more poignant than illustration. I suppose because it has a life completely of its own. It lives on its own, like the image one's trying to trap; it lives on its own, and therefore transfers the essence of the image more poignantly...One might get another accident, but it would never be quite the same." (Francis Bacon; Interview with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1975). And Horror: Bacon becomes being horror for Blanchot: "Bacon faces what he calls the horror. It is most terrible. It is too great a force for us: it is our own force which outdoes us and which we do not recognise. But, for that reason, we must draw it toward us, bring it close, and in it bring ourselves close to what is close to it." (Maurice Blanchot, Bacon and Death's Demand).

See: The Scene of the Dead Man in the Cave at Lascaux: Here a Man is frozen in fear flat out: Man: terrorised alive or terrorised to death? Is Man threatened, terrorised by Animal or Art? Does Art as a Terrorist Attack annihilate Man?

"At Lascaux, art is not beginning, nor is man beginning...As we know, man is represented: there he lies, stretched out between a charging bison and a rhinoceros that is turned the other way. Is he dead? Is he asleep? Is he feigning a magical immobility? Will he come to, come back to life?...It is striking that with the figuration of man, an enigmatic element enters into this work, a work otherwise without secret...Yet it seems to me that the meaning of this obscure drawing is nonetheless clear: it is the first signature of the first painting, the mark left modestly in the corner, the furtive, fearful, indelible trace of man who is for the first time born of his work, but who also feels seriously threatened by this work and perhaps already struck with death." (Maurice Blanchot, The Birth of Art; from Friendship, Crossing Aesthetics; Meridian, Stanford University Press, 1997).

Bacon and Blanchot make moodings not meanings as all meanings are meaningless: moods are moodingful as the mood is the mooding of the nothing of the neuter not known that shimmers shudders shivers Sein shining. As alight alien neuter navigators both Bacon and Blanchot make mooding not meaning for they have absolutely nothing to say to you and have no story to tell you for there is absolutely no narrative to negotiate in both Bacon and Blanchot. Mooding is The Doing.

Because for Bacon as for Blanchot the paint - like the poem - has no other object than itself: being itself and letting itself be - being left to its own devices and vices - doing its own thing - being the thing in itself - as being out itself. For both Bacon as for Blanchot the art work is always already alien to the artist: the artist and writer never see or read the work. For Bacon as for Blanchot painterary and literary activity is activated via the anxiety of not being able to do it by being able to do it - because the angoisse act as an alien articulation is always already an impossibly possible possibility.

As for Bacon as for Blanchot the 'I' is severed from the 'act': 'I've done it - I cannot do it - I cannot do it - I've done it'.

For both Bacon as for Blanchot In the Beginning was Dread and Dread was with Dasein and Dread was Dasein. The dread of being - that is - the dread of being there - came before the dread of death - the dread of not being there: being dead.

Bacon and Blanchot both drain dread Dasein drooling leaking left lamella as activated altraic eggo emptying endings in inky image-awe assaults of the atta abject-sublime, are as often odiously 'read' wrongly as 'unreadable', bleeding beyond the thrown 'pleasure principle', their angoisse ab-alien images are a 'full' of off 'nothingness' and 'about' an abject Alien Being-nothing (the ab-ontology of nothingness); it in imagery without wet ideas, words without texts. As absolute Alien Abject A-Voiders, Bacon and Blanchot (a)void 'story telling': so since say the they then hear have however hit no now 'nothing to say': since the they then now know as always already arrived that then lantern language' in-it-self says nothing since 'language' does not 'communicate' anything at all and anyway why should 'language' have anything 'to say' to all three of you both sort-of-thing since 'language' sensations everything and says nothing. Both Bacon and Blanchot are actually slimy slithering 'sensationalist' serial killers of off our no nothingnesses of (non) nobeing (out of) the thrown (wound womb) world. Bacon and Blanchot record raw the trace space split vivacious visceral vile bile bite ejaculating entail leaked left-oil-overs ; the bite bits left behind that you spat and shat out. There then is in only on an alien no 'nothing' nailed by brute Bacon by black Blanchot, that is, there it is, there is instead 'no-nothing 'torn to be being but 'read' raw in Bacon and Blanchot: so all cunt cultural critics can do is 'read' on to and in to tattered Bacon and torn Blanchot. Your yearn thrown thirst for finding forth 'meaning' meat in Bacon and Blanchot wet will leave you void. You all forgot that here is no 'story telling', no 'narrative', no 'language', no 'logic', no 'meaning' in out of Bacon and in out off Blanchot: they 'have' ('nothing') to 'say' to the three of you both bores leaving leaking leftovers loitering well wet without words. You are all left empty full of dread, boredom, anxiety, fear, horror, death without ever knowing 'it'.

Lost loin leaked left lost loitering laughing loud leaving 'language' spent spunked severed smelling salted 'says' soon now no-thing: leaked leftover loin language severed sending sweet sour salty sea sensations straight to the thinly sown split splintered snapped spine spunk spurt spitting shuddering shattering shooting slime slurp shining sheening shimmering moon mesmerising music melting mist moist mooding meandering monstrous metaphysical manoeuvres maimed.

Frank frothy Bacon breathed: "I have often tried to talk about painting but writing or talking about it is only an approximation as painting is its own language and is not translatable into words." Just as angoisse black Blanchot's 'writing' is not is not 'translatable' into 'words' as it is attuned as cloud curved hot hallo ooze of soil sown sea subconscious Sensationism which cannot be 'read'. But Bacon and Blanchot were wet dead done as against meaning, narrative and story telling; they always said that they had nothing to say. Bacon and Blanchot navigated to nail negate narrative seeking smells, sounds, stains and shit soiled souls. There is no narrative in on Bacon and Blanchot: it is always already added after the event of Sensationism by you because you always want 'meaning' and you want to 'read' in to, or , on-to, Sensationism, to negate the sensation and your yearn fear of shot spunk sensation which will attack at yet your neurotic nervous system spilt bare before you have had time to stop it, to filter it; you always already impose 'narrative' to negate sensation, you all negate the nervous system which will deconstruct your lost logic, retard reason, cunt consciousness. There then is no now an alien 'nothing' to be 'read' raw in Bacon and Blanchot as there is no 'meaning', no 'narrative', no 'story' to be told by be Bacon or Blanchot. There 'is' nothing 'in' bin Bacon nothing 'in' bin Blanchot for you to 'read' in 'to' you fuck fish critic cunt ox offal. Yet you creep cunting critics cockkingly so greedily so hungrily so thirstily so emptily so to suck wet dry cock cunt leaking loin jew juices out on of off Bacon's and Blanchot's hungry humid hot holly holes that thirst the they through thrown thrusting throttling through surviving suturing serving severed style serene sedate castrating cunting critics decapitating their hands off decapitating their heads off. Off. All.

Decapitated Death as an act of Writing as an act of Painting is the only Uncertainty in Life as Death: Being Living Dead: Scapelwriting and Scapepainting throws the Escaperoute of the Scapealien Driven into the Exile of the Scapenothing.

Maurice Blanchot with Emmanuel Lévinas

Yet ye yearn you have had heat here however not now no-nothing said still so sadly sip saturated surf spume smirch smoke see salt sugar Sensation semblance slips sips soup soap sap tang tricking tearfully trepidation tremor trembling towards toilet tribal trench trap tray holding heart here hearing Hölderlin hymning head some Sacred sensation.

Cunt critics cannot contain bleak Bacon and a black Blanchot because bravely they thus offer off you your no narrative, no-nothing, no meaning, no substance only oily sludge singed substratum subspecies substances succinctly slip slide slither sow soot sliver spurt strut stride string strangle straddle stoop slurp spatter splatter soils soak suck skid stain suet slain. There they trowel turbulent truffle toy tyranny thrown through tangible exalting eggo excavations exiting excellent ointment offsetting oily offshoot ooze soggy slime sipping seeping through thrown time opening out off of lost loin leaking luminous lamella loose localised exogenously exited endangered egg eggo salt silt slut slime spunk shooting stuff of odour orpiment oroide oil sewage soil splattered smoking soot smegma smelting shrine shine Sensationism shrill shudder sedulously seeping slowly smelling stronger stench aiming awe atta at an ancient ashtray arsehole aroma aura around and around away as Ather outside others.

As out of joint Bacon joint Blanchot are joined out of joint be-headed by Burroughs, Batille, Joyce, Wittgenstein, Derrida decapitating Dasein disaster detaching there then throwing them through as abjected Aristotlian awe accidents becoming broken bits being shot sharp shard splinters spearing severed sensations. As absolutely alien the words of a sentence are always already severed and decapitated from intentionality as each word is alien to the other alien word and the other word is alien to the other word and the other word is alien to the other word.

Language 'communicates' Nothing. Language 'sensations' Everything. Language is Sensationism.

Michel Leiris with Francis Bacon, 1970, photographed by Morhor

"Francis Bacon's clean-shaven face, - at once chubby and tormented, - seems to reflect wide eyed astonishment as well as an intelligent stubbornness and - allied to a hidden fury - the sensitive distress of a man who has not forgotten that he was once a child to whom almost anything could move to wonder. His forelock, well in evidence in all his self-portraits, seems to be there as an emblem showing that, inside this head, nothing proceeds according to the lazy norms of some already accepted pattern, but that everything is liable to be called into question, cut short or left in suspense. Perhaps it is that same rejection of ready made solutions which is indicated by his slightly askew - or, at any rate, not at all full-frontal - stance in many of his photographs; like his walk, always, one might think, on the point of breaking into a dance, it could signify a distaste for the sedate tranquillity of those who have never felt the ground crumbling away beneath their feet...

"Not only are Bacon's characters devoid of any psychological dimension, always presented in their substantiality and, when appropriate, clad in some form of dress - set before us, then, in their strictly physical, as well as social existence - the painter shows himself to be as literally materialistic in his work as might be expected of someone who, in discussing his conception of a painting, refers to his 'nervous system' rather that his personality, thus demonstrating his refusal to idealize even in his choice of words, and who, besides, makes no use in his work of drawing as such, as if he wished to avoid its abstract unreality and preferred the direct application of paint with the brush or other means, so as to put himself, as it were, in direct contact with the object....."

Michel Leiris, Francis Bacon: Full face and profile, 1987, Ediciones Poligrafi.

Paralytic Child Walking on all Fours 1961 Francis Bacon

"Avant-garde painting eludes the aesthetics of beauty in that it does not draw on a communal sense of shared pleasure. To the public taste its products seem 'monstrous', 'formless,' purely negative nonentities. When one represents the non-demonstrable, representation itself is martyred. Among other things this means that neither painting nor the viewing public can draw on established symbols, figures, or plastic forms that would permit the sense of understanding of their being..."

J.F. Lyotard, Presenting The Unpresentable: The Sublime, Art Forum, April, 1982.

"There anatomy was half-human, half-animal, and they were confined in a low-ceilinged windowless and oddly proportioned space...They caused a total consternation. We had no name for them, and no name for what we felt about them. They were regarded as freaks, monsters irrelevant to the concerns of the day..."

John Russell on Francis Bacon's Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, 1944.

"The human beings in Bacon's pictures seem half-animal, or half-reptilian. Sometimes they have the whiteness of death; sometimes they are white and red, like joints of meat...He wants to make the animal come through the human being; and he wants the paint itself to carry its own implications..."

Francis Bacon: The Observer Profile, The Observer Weekend Review, Sunday, 27th May, 1962.

"...one wants to make a new object that is as organic and surprising as, say, a newly discovered species of lizard: the incoherence of experience caught in the coherence of an independent form"

"A reptilian race definitely live within this planet in a physical form....There is an area of the human brain to this day known as the reptile brain."

"And finally, for the record, I would like to point out that I have no problem believing in the existence of shapeshifting reptilian aliens."

"Man has humanized the world: that is all. But there is nothing, absolutely nothing to guarantee to us that man constitutes the model for the beautiful."

Rainer Maria Rilke, The Eighth Duino Elegy, 1912-1922, University of California Press, 1961.

"The monstrous body is pure paradox, embodying contradictory states of being, or impossibilities of nature. It is both a sight of wonder - as a divine portent - and loathing, as evidence of heinous sin. The monster is both awful and aweful; and insofar as the monster synthesizes taboo and desire, it further articulates its ambivalence for its creators...Monsters embody fearful warnings of moral transgression, therefore, yet they remind their audience of the fragility of the taboos and edicts upon which the moral order rests....More precisely, monstrosity indicates the end of clear delineations, a chaotic mixing and miscegenation of categories that in the process of confusion indicates that their ordering is far from inevitable. it is clear that the monster is not sufficient in itself but is a spectacle, pointing to something else, congenitally hybrid, or liminal being, and thus with no secure or stable identity beyond its opposition to a pre-eminent alter ego. The monster, that which refuses to abide by axiomatic orderings, carries a terrible threat to expose the fragility of its defining categories and thus the fiction of normality itself."

Elaine L. Graham, Representations of the Post/Human: Monsters, Aliens and Other in Popular Culture, Rutgers University Press, 2002.

"If there were monsters there, the fact that this writing is prey to monsters or to its own monsters would indicate by the same token powerlessness. One of the meanings of the monstrous is that it leaves us without power, that it is precisely too powerful or in any case too threatening for the powers-that-be. Notice I say: if there were monsters in this writing. But the notion of the monster is rather difficult to deal with, to get a hold on, to stabilize. A monster may be obviously a composite figure of heterogeneous organisms that are grafted onto each other. This graft, this hybridisation, this composition that puts heterogeneous bodies together may be called a monster. This in fact happens in certain kinds of writing. At that moment, monstrosity may reveal or make one aware of what normality is. Faced with a monster, one may become aware of what the norm is an when this norm has a history - which is the case with discursive norms, philosophical norms, socio-cultural norms, they have a history - any appearance of monstrosity in this domain allows an analysis of the history of the norms...But a monster is not just that, it is not just this himerical figure in some way that grafts one animal onto another, one living being onto another. A monster is always alive, let us not forget. Monsters are living beings. The monster is also that which appears for the first time and, consequently, is not yet recognized. A monster is a species for which we do not yet have a name, which does not mean that the species is abnormal, namely, the composition or hybridisation of already known species. Simply, it shows itself [elle se montre] - that is what the word monster means - it shows itself in something that is not yet shown and that therefore looks like a hallucination, it strikes the eye, it frightens precisely because no anticipation had prepared one to identify this figure."

Jacques Derrida, Prepare yourself to Experience the Future and Welcome the Monster, Traumatism to Promise, 1974-1994, Stanford UP 1995.

"The confrontation between the life of the animals and that of the human animals in Nietzsche’s early writings sheds light on the question of the human animal’s creativity. Nietzsche opposes the human animal’s memory to the animal’s forgetfulness, the human animal’s intellect and its falsifications to the animal’s honesty, the human animal’s need for language to the animal’s silence, the becoming of human animal life to the being of animal life and, lastly, the human animal’s suffering from becoming to the animal’s lightness of being. Nietzsche’s reconstruction of the animal’s imaginary decenters and problematizes the anthropocentric imaginary of the world. It reveals the relative vulnerability, weakness and inferiority of the human animal. But this disadvantage challenges the creativity of the human animal. Human creativity is not a given, but becomes the distinguishing feature of the human animal due to its struggle for the preservation and enhancement of its life form against that of the animals. At the same time, human creativity does not constitute an overcoming of the animal, something separating human from animal life. On the contrary, it reveals human animal life to be intimately related to that of the animals. From here the need in Nietzsche to investigate human animal life as an inseparable part of the totality of life. Human animal life cannot create itself out of itself. It is not a self-sufficient entity closed onto itself but nourishes itself from a return of animality as a reservoir of creative and regenerative force. Animality not only stands at the beginning, but is also indispensable to the continuous preservation and enhancement of human animal life and creativity. "

Vanessa Lemm, On Animality and Creativity in the Early Writings of Nietzsche, International Conference of the Friedrich Nietzsche Society.

"At Lascaux, art is not beginning, nor is man beginning...As we know, man is represented - and then merely by schematic features - only in the scene at the bottom of the well: there he lies, stretched out between a charging bison and a rhinoceros that is turned the other way. Is he dead? Is he asleep? Is he feigning a magical immobility? Will he come to, come back to life?...It is striking that with the figuration of man, an enigmatic element enters into this work, a work otherwise without secret...Yet it seems to me that the meaning of this obscure drawing is nonetheless clear: it is the first signature of the first painting, the mark left modestly in the corner, the furtive, fearful, indelible trace of man who is for the first time born of his work, but who also feels seriously threatened by this work and perhaps already struck with death."

Maurice Blanchot, The Birth of Art, Meridian: Crossing Aesthetics, Stanford University Press, 1997.

'Man' was an accident waiting to happen that never ever happened and never existed in the first or last place or space or trace or race as you all now know you are not 'man' but 'alien' but misrecognised yourself as 'man' in the mirror. 'Woman' does not exist. 'Woman' was always already an 'alien' alien to 'man' Great alteric atta Aten Art aspires to the angoisse Alien Condition outside humanisation, conceptualisation, illustration, leaking beyond lost language. We need to recover the raw reptilian alien animal in the subconscious swamp sea inside us via alien ontological drool drippings drenched fresh from the thick froth fluidity of foam form thirst that ooze oil paint pushes porous. But Bacon realized that there is no such state as 'the human condition': there is only 'the alien condition', and 'the reptilian condition', 'the animal condition'; being an alien animal abjected out-the-world. 'Man' was always already an 'accident' alien animal thrown by chance, chaos, cunt. 'Man' was an absolute 'mistake': an accident waiting to happen and leaked ahead from ' language' which wrote 'man'. Then 'language' left 'man' because the 'being of language' was always already 'alien' to 'man' - 'language' is not 'man made' - 'language' is not 'language' - 'language' is leakage - 'language' takes leave of 'language' - 'language' never ever speaks - 'language' seeks - seeks to leak - leak ahead of 'language' - 'language' leaks beyond being 'language' - beyond the 'being of language' - as a language-leaking left-leading - away - and afar - and ahead - as an angoisse aural alien atta attunement.

Language does not communicate. Paint does communicate, commands, collects, carries all away as a pushed prised paint pertaining serenely severed sensations activating an awesome alien aura. All aliens speak without language, leak without words. You need new leaked language thrust to grow your 'alien' skin; you need to skin your 'human' skin. Art is an alien thing: the thing of alien art aspires and activates from froth foam formed whilst when without-the world shedding the 'human' head becoming all alien again activating slimy skin scales.

Of all the pernicious predators of the Late Jurassic of the American wild West, Allosaurus, 'different lizard,' is the most famous and the most flashy, and the one most resembling the extinct dinosaur, Francis Bacon. Named by Othniel Charles in 1877, the first fragmentary fossil of this thrown Theropod dinosaur drool drops was dug up at the Garden Park Quarry in Fremont County, Colorado.

Like the big and brute Bacosuarus's, the Allosaurus (AL-o-sawr-us) 'Different Lizard' (Greek allos = different + sauros = lizard, because its vertebrae were radically different from those of all other dinosaurs) was usually around 35 feet long and 2 to 4 tons in weight, although some individuals may have reached 40 feet (13 meters) and 5 tons. When Allosaurus stood upright, he was 16.5 feet tall. When Allosaurus's penis stood upright, it was 2.5 feet long - and hence his nickname - 'Big Al'. Like Bacosaurus, and most meat-eating dinosaurs, Allosaurus had jaws lined with long, sharp, two to four inch teeth that had small serrations, like on a sharp steak knife, running down the front and back. The skull of Allosaurus was somewhat flexible, and some paleontologist think that this might have allowed the dinosaur to swallow very large chunks of meat or to withstand the stress of the victim wriggling in its jaws. The thick skull of Bacosaurus was also somewhat flexible, and some alienatologists think that this might have allowed the dinosaur to swallow huge quantities of spunk and shit or to withstand the super size of the projected penis pumping in its jagged jaws. The brave and blasé Bacosaurus could take severe spankings, bitings, beatings, spankings, whippings, and fuckings without flinching and would lose all its teeth in a swamp brawl or pick up but all the teeth would grow back instantly; Bacosaurus had both his eyes gauged out by a fucking evil queer cunt poof with a tea spoon but his eyes soon grew back within seconds; Bacosaurus had both his nose, penis and tail cut off time after time after time after time but they would always already grow back. Baconsaurus snorted slurped sucked up utterly huge helpings of oily Dyerosaurus diaorrhea and frozen faeces and also always swallowing spoonfuls of Lacysaurus's silver sliver spunk slurp sludge silt still singing soggy senttimental songs softly slyly smelling Allosuarus's acidic arsehole aroma.

Bacosaurus was said to have hard three-fingered flippers like those of the three-fingered hands like those of Allosaurus, and were tipped with long, curved claws shaped like the talons of eagles. Bacosaurus and Allosaurus were both backed by strong arm muscles, these claws were well adapted to grasping a struggling plant eater or poof predator or to paint pus violently or to throw a dice or throw paint. The claws of the three main toes were not as strongly curved but may have helped hold the poof prey or poof prat while wet the drunk dinosaur fed or fingered or fucked, or even finger-fucked or prat-pricked painted or pissed or poof pricked angry assaulted assasinated. arseholes. Like all advanced alien meat-munching dinosaurs, Allosaurus and Bacosaurus had a wishbone and a putrid petrifying purple penis willies which, while wet, were used utensil as a bum boy battering rams of oozing righteousness reaching the parts of the prat and the prick no other oily twat cunt could reach really. Bacosaurus beautifully bled putridly penetrated the thrown nailed nervous system slime stuff sending an atta agnoisse anus amorphous abject article trickling tantalizing tingling slot slit slither shiver sensation up under your yoke yearning filthy fruity dirty dung drool dripping dirty arse throat spine cunt ox ear hole nostril prick plug plough poof pot powder pouring pure putrid pus porn prick pricking pristine pansy poof pulsating pouting pussy pouring. Allosaurus and Bacosaurus were wet predators and slimy scavengers scanning sensationing shuddering shafting shitting snorting slurping spilling spunking dread draining droll drips dissecting drops drilling drooling dasein delivered deep down done dare.

The Moroccan atta alien artist, Yacoubiasaurus, had a notorious nine foot fuck-fork-monster-meat-member which was rammed roughly down drooling bored Bacosaurus's faggot fuck-thirst throat forth for hours on end making Bacosaurus violently vomit up a vile bucket load of glistening caviar and sparkling champagne consumed the night before. Yacoubiasuarus's nailing nine foot fuck fork shimmering with salivating saliva, caviar and champagne coated in a creamy spunk sauce that was wonderfully woundingly shot in six consecutive spurts spent from Yacoubiasaurus's huge hideous horny hard helmet head. Yearning Yacoubiasuarus yanked Bacosaurus to lick and lap up all the lovely luminous loitering leftovers off its inky flirting filthy fuck fork gourd getting the fuck-faggot's turd tongue toilet tray to go back and forth, back and froth, back and forth, back and froth, back and forth fort-da fucking arsefully cleaning caked cock up until every saved soiled skid slurp stuff was wiped well wetterly so sucked swallowed back beggingly breaking inside into insane Bacosaurus's bloated bruised belly. Like Bacosaurus's brute body, the basic Allosaurus body design endured a very long time. However, these huge, very well-hung, forms died out long before the end of the Mesozoic and were replaced by the somewhat smaller, but more sophisticated Tyrannosaurids, such as Daspletosaurus, in North America and Asia, which were much more minor painters and predators with much smaller penises and less bouncier ball bags. Allosaurus and Bacosaurus are always singing songs sadly scapeing swamp primordial pious pit piscina puddle pools piquant plop. As always arising aerosol arseholes Allosaurus and Bacosaurus will be sadly missed sadly pissed sadly soiled sadly soaked sadly skeletal scales shape-shifting slime slurp surf sunk soup swamp swapping suave spunk shards.

So slime sublime submerged subconscious squid stuff can be seen smelt emerging from the fort-da thrown foam froth form in Bacon's Figure Emerging from the Sea, 1952; the image becoming that subconscious sea inside us with all the foam of its freshness locked leaking around it oozing oil. We Need to Bring Out the Reptile in Man, the Alien in Man. Woman was always already Alien. Deconstruct Man to the Alien, Dinosaur. Man Does Not Exist. Dinosaurs never went into extinction; they merely shape-shifted into the Human. The Human is now shedding its skin, lifting its veil, revealing its real reptilian brute being. How do we, as it were, record our alien being? To paint from the sea scape subconscious, from the nervous-system, from the body, from chance, from anti-illustrative arbitrary-marks, from an animal and alien instinct: all the trick trade-tools of Bacon. The School of Francis Bacon is a virtual space scape for alienus artists working from the subconscious, foam froth from non-illustrational mark-making. Now, one has to sculpt, paint, draw a face without filling in the eyes, nose, mouth, ears. How does one 'do' an ear or eye without illustrating 'it' ? This is the ethos of this sensationism scape site: remaking the alien-form through anti-illustrational, anti-logical accidental, arbitrary alienus murky marks. One can make an alienus portrait without filling-in, putting-in, the eyes, nose, mouth, ears. One can paint and sculpt the alien body without the head, legs, arms, organs, skin and serve it severed off of the bone in a spunk sauce serving steaming sensationism. One can paint and sculpt the alien head without the alien body as the alien head always already embodies the alien body. An altaric Alienus Sensationist served atta art, as attuned and attained as loin leaking lamella bliss bites, brites beyond botox surface skin ending exogenous emptying out oily ooze of our opening eggo ego exiting exiled. A fossilised fragment rare recording was recently unearthed of Bacosaurus and Allosarus caught by chance in conversation:

Allosaurus: "You said that we are meat, we are potential carcasses yet, we are meat no more and now more than meet more than meets the eye."

Bacosaurus: "We are no longer meat we are the after-meat of the after-life for we are sensation and nothing but the sensation of being after-meat."

Allosaurus: "The sensation of being the after-meat is the sensation of being-spirit as being the sensation of being out of the body out of the world."

Bacosaurus: "God said, 'Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.' But no one I know looks like God and no Man I know looks like God. All the Men I know look like fuck Meat and God is not made of meat, God is made of nothing at all because God is fuck all and yet God fucks all!"

Allosaurus: "God does not look like Man and Man does not look like God because God does not Exist because Man does not Exist: Man made God in His own non Image because God has no Image but the Image of Being for being not God or Man. Being does not believe in Being being made by God and God does not believe in God because God was Man made in Being's Image of God being Man becoming God for Being which does not Exist for God or Man who do not Exist for Being at all. God cannot be God and Man cannot be Man because God does not Believe in God and Man does not Believe in Man only Being believes in Being that the Nothing exists and that the Nothing that is Infinity is all and that God is finite that God is fucked."

Bacosaurus: "And God fucked all! God fucked Man in His Own Arse Hole so God is an Almighty Cock! God looks like a Huge fucking Hard on!"

Allosaurus: "No wonder Man must not make an Image of God! For it would look like a tiny toddler's tool, a two inch tool, with a semi hard on!"

Bacosaurus: "Yet there is no Image of God because there is no Name of God: God is Imageless because God is Nameless: there is nothing there but the Nothing at all which is the all there is of Being and being there for the Nothing for all for there is no God there and there is no Man there: there is only being there for the Nothing. Reactionary red neck bible belt Christian cunts like Bush and Blair said we never existed yet we existed for far longer than they ever will...Bush and Blair are the real retard reptiles...Bush and Blair have those really repellent reptilian frowning frightened features."

Allosaurus: "They will die through their regressive and reactionary retard religions: they deserve their own decapitations. God is cock control - God is cunt control - God is cock-denial - God is cunt-denial - God is life-denial - God is death-denial. Man made God in His own non Image. The only incontrovertible truth in any Bible is the name and address of the printer. The Bible is pure pulp fiction. The Bible is Jewish propaganda."

Bacosaurus: "Yes: the Bible is fuck fiction but those creepy conservative Catholic cunts, Opus Dei, claim that Dan Brown's book, The Da Vinci Code, is fiction: - 'fiction trading as fact' - but that's exactly what the fucking Bible is - 'fiction trading as fact'! Jesus Christ married Mary Magdalene and they had at least one spastic child and settled in the south of France in the small fishing village of Saintes Maries de la Mer. So the sinister and sadistic sect, Opus Dei, are fiction floggers - control cunts - into self-flagellation and self-denial who murder men in the name of the nail. Anyone with a religious belief should be beheaded - fuck religious tolerance - religious tolerance recognises the right of individuals to hold completely irrational beliefs without ridicule - religious toleration is government sanctioned irrationality - and always remember that religions do not tolerate each other - so why should we tolerate any religion at all? Religion is really all about control - cock castration - cunt castration - as a denial of desire - and now the monotonous monstrous moronic mobile phone is a form of mass control and mass hypnosis to stop people communicating."

Allosaurus: "Yes: anyone who has a mobile phone should be murdered because they are so enslaved by an idiotic icon of contagious control - cunts. I hate seeing those walking wanking talking twats - you see the they masturbating mobiles - masturbating their mobiles madly - stroking their hand sets - giving their mobile a hand job - a blow job - their mobiles mobilise them - severing speech - castrating communication: the morbid mobile is a morons monologue - monologic madness - the nothing-there - having nothing to say - about nothing at all - alien from the nothing that is there."

Bacosaurus: "Those thick fuckers always have fuck all to say: they talk shit: they shout shit: they shit shit from their mouths through their mobiles."

Allosaurus: "Mobile morons masturbate with their moist mobiles - you see mesmerized mobile morons masturbating mobiles manically - as a mobile army of morons - the mobile moves them - the mobile holds them - they don't hold their mobile - they are all immobile monstrous morons."

Bacosaurus: "99.9% of all human beings are shit; are stupid, are venal, are vile, are evil, are putrescent, are pernicious., are pricks."

Allosaurus: "Nietzsche was right - the vast majority of human beings have no right to exist - and should not exist - but become extinct."

Bacosaurus: "Become ex-stinct - why does human being's shit stink so sickly? - so smelly? Our shit smells so sweetly, so sublimely."

Allosaurus: "And why is a human being's shit so black and brown? Our shit has marvellous mauves, magentas, purples, vermilions: a shimmering, shape-shifting, luminously-leaking, iridescent, topaz translucency - tasting tantalising, smelling so seductively, so serenely, so suavely."

Bacosaurus: "And with all the foam of its freshness still clinging to it; with all the glitter and colour that comes forth from the moist mouth."

Allosaurus: "And what is a human being - apart from being a shitting being - black and brown shit - and yellow shit - and white shit?"

Bacosaurus: "Apart from being shit - a human being is a being who essentially relates to other human beings through a kind of mechanical mimetic mirroring - and all assume that they are always already human beings to begin with - when the human is in fact an historical construct - and the forgetting of our animal being - our being animal - we are all only animals with an arsehole aroma attitude - that's all - after all -we all stink!"

Allosaurus: "Yes - we all fucking stink of shit no matter what species, what breed, what colour, what race, what religion, what shit; for what ever shit for the God-shit stinks the most of all: multiculturalism is not about tolerance: multiculturalism is merely tolerating the intolerant: the rape of women, the beating of wives, female genital mutilation and beheading beings. Multiculturalism and political correctness legitimate barbarism."

Bacosaurus: "But isn't barbarism the subservient submission to blind belief in the God-shit - an arsehole attitude? What is the human attitude?"

Allosaurus: "A thinking attitude? A rational attitude? A linguistic attitude? An imaginative attitude? An intellectual attitude? Yet human beings still cannot communicate at all whilst animals can communicate through their sixth sense - an instinctive attitude - as it were."

Bacosaurus: "An instinct with out an I - a sixth sense without a self - being sensation in itself - as being sensation in itself outside of the self."

Allosaurus: """What is a self? To be one's self? How can one be one's self as one is not one at all? One is no one at all, no two at all."

Bacosaurus: "To be one's self is to be a head - as ahead of one's self - by not being one's self at all - but by being beyond one's self - by beheading one's self - by becoming one's other head - head on - as ahead of one's self - as another head - by being ahead of one's self - by beheading one's self."

Allosaurus: "To behead - to be a head of another head as ahead of one's self by not being a head of one's self as a head of another headless self?"

Bacosaurus: "To learn one's self is to forget one's self by forging ahead of one's self in open beheadment severing the self - serving sensation."

Allosaurus: "Serving Sensation is severing sensation from the body of being-there by becoming-sensation. But what calls for Sensationing?"

Baconsaurus: "Sensationing calls for the forgetting of Thinking about anything at all - and initiating instinct of our animal alien sixth sense."

Allosaurus: "What is our sixth sense? The sensation of the subconscious psyche shining through? What are we anyway are part from being?"

Baconsaurus: "We are meat. We are all meat - and nothing besides being-meat - so when we die - we die - for nothing is left but boring bones."

Allosaurus: "We are always much more than meat; we are emanation, we are sensation, we are psyche, we are spirit, we are sein - for we shine."

Baconsaurus: "No! When you're dead you're dead - that's that - that's it - it's all over and done with dasein - there's no surviving sein or psyche!"

Allosaurus: "Sein and psyche survive the body of being-there because being is freed from being-embodied in the body of being-there when we die."

Baconsaurus: "Sensation and emanation - like sein and psyche - die when we die - with the death of the body for there is no after life after death."

Allosaurus: "But being begins being for time after the death of the body that ties-being to time-being not being-time as being for time to come when being becomes time without the body and without being for the body-of-being-there in the world where death delivers the becoming of being-time."

Baconsaurus: "For me that is a thing of philosophy past to ponder about as a forgetting and a fear for the nothing coming where all thinking dies."

Allosaurus: "Since Philosophy is a thing of the past and thinking no longer thinks we have to sensation-being through art as a thing of the future."

Baconsaurus: "Philosophy no longer counts for us as the highest manner in which truth obtains existence for itself. One may well hope that philosophy will continue to advance and perfect itself, but its form has ceased to be the highest need of sensation. In all these relationships philosophy is and remains for us, on the side of its highest vocation, something past. Whilst art remains for us an augury of the future."

Allosaurus: "Why does the sun go on shining? Why does the sea rush to shore? Don't they know it's the end of the world, 'cause you don't love me anymore? Why do the birds go on singing? Why do the stars glow above? Don't they know it's the end of the world? It ended when I lost your love. I wake up in the morning and I wonder why everything's the same as it was. I can't understand, no I can't understand, how life goes on the way it does! Why does my heart go on beating? Why do these eyes of mine cry? Don't they know it's the end of the world? It ended when you said good-bye."

Baconsaurus:: "Our day will come And we'll have everything We'll share the joy Falling in love can bring No one can tell me that I'm too young to know I love you so and you love me. Our day will come If we just wait awhile No tears for us Think love and wear a smile Our dreams have magic because we'll always be In love this way Our day will come Our day will come Our day will come..."

Allosaurus: "I'll show them all - I'll show them everyone - I'll do my dam'dest now and make a vow to everyone, they'll give me praise some of these days they're really gonna' see this red hot mama blaze - I'll show them all, I'll let them watch my dust, I'm on my way and they'll be hell to pay the top or bust, some day I'll win, some day they'll crawl - believe me when I say - I'll show them all."

Baconsaurus: "Just once in a lifetime there's One special moment One wonderful moment When fate takes your hand And this is my moment My once in a lifetime When I can explore A new and exciting land For once in my lifetime I feel like a giant I soar like an eagle As though I had wings For this is my moment My destiny calls me And though it may be Just once in my lifetime I'm going to do great things..."

Allosaurus: "That old black magic has me in its spell, That old black magic that you weave so well. Those icy fingers up and down my spine, The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine. The same old tingle that I feel inside, And then that elevator starts its ride.
And down and down I go; round and round I go Like a leaf that’s caught in the tide. I should stay away, but what can I do? I hear your name and I’m aflame. Aflame with such a burning desire That only your kiss can put out the fire. For you’re the lover I have waited for,
The mate that Fate had me created for. And every time your lips meet mine, Darling, down and down I go; round and round I go In a spin, loving the spin I'm in Under that old black magic called love."

Baconsaurus: "It begins to tell 'round midnight 'Round midnight I do pretty well 'til after sundown Suppertime I'm feeling sad But it really gets bad 'round midnight Memories always start 'round midnight 'Round midnight Haven't got the heart to stand those memories
When my heart is still with you And old midnight knows it too When some quarrel we had needs mending Does it mean that our love is ending Darling I need you Lately I find You're out of my arms And I'm out of my mind Let our love take wing some midnight 'Round midnight..."

Allosaurus: "The night is bitter, The stars have lost their glitter, The winds grow colder, And suddenly you're older And all because of The man that got away. No more his eager call, The writing's on the wall, The dreams you dreamed have all Gone astray. The man that won you Has run off and undone you. That great beginning Has seen it's final inning, Don't know what happened It's all a crazy game. No more that all-time thrill For you've been through the mill, And never a new love will Be the same. Good riddance, good-bye. Every trick of his you're on to - But fools will be fools and where's he gone to? The road gets rougher, It's lonelier and tougher. With hope you burn up,Tomorrow he may turn up. There's just no letup The livelong night and day - Looking for the man - The man that got away."

Baconsaurus: "Mad about the boy - I know it's stupid to be mad about the boy - I'm so ashamed of it but must admit the sleepless nights I've had About the boy - On the silver screen He melts my foolish heart in every single scene - Although I'm quite aware that here and there are traces of the cad About the boy - Will it ever cloy This odd diversity of misery and joy - I'm feeling quite insane and young again
And all because I'm mad about the boy - So if I could employ - A little magic that will finally destroy - This dream that pains me and enchains me - But I can't because I'm mad about the boy."

Allosaurus: "I'm feeling mighty lonesome Haven't slept a wink I walk the floor and watch the door And in between I drink Black coffee
Love's a hand me down brew I've never know a Sunday In this weekday rule I'm talking to the shadows from 1 o'clock 'til 4 And lord, how slow the moments go When all I do is pour Black coffee Since the blues caught my eye I'm hanging out on Monday My Sunday dreams to dry Now a man is born to go a lovin' A woman's born to weep and fret To stay at home and tend her oven And drown her past regrets
In coffee and cigarettes I'm mooning all the morning and mourning all the night And in between it's nicotine And not much heart to fight
Black coffee Feelin' low as the ground It's driving me crazy just waiting for my baby To maybe come around... around I'm waiting for my baby To maybe come around My nerves have gone to pieces My hair is turning grey..."

Baconsaurus: "I used to visit all the very gay places Those come what may places Where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life
To get the feel of life...From jazz and cocktails. The boys I knew had sad and sullen grey faces With distant gay traces That used to be there you could see where they'd been washed away By too many through the day...Twelve o'clock tales. Then you came along with your siren of song To tempt me to madness! I thought for a while that your poignant smile was tinged with the sadness Of a great love for me.
Ah yes! I was wrong...Again, I was wrong. Life is lonely again, And only last year everything seemed so sure. Now life is awful again,
A troughful of hearts could only be a bore. A week in Paris will ease the bite of it, All I care is to smile in spite of it. I'll forget you, I will
While yet you are still burning inside my brain. Romance is mush, Stifling those who strive. I'll live a lush life in some small dive... And there I'll be, while I rot With the rest of those whose lives are lonely, too..."

Allosaurus: "Sing a song of sad young man Glasses full of rye All the news is bad again so Kiss your dreams goodbye All the sad young men Sitting in the bars Knowing neon nights Missing all the stars All the sad young men Drifting through the town Drinking up the night Trying not to drown All the sad young men Singing in the cold Trying to forget That they're growing old All the sad young men Choking on their worth Trying to be brave Running from the truth Autumn turns the leaves to gold Slowly dies the heart Sad young men are growing old That's the cruellest part All the sad young men Seek a certain smile Someone they can hold for a little while Tired little girl does the best she can Trying to be gay for her sad young man While the grimy moon Watches from above All the sad young men Play of making love Misbegotten moon Shine for sad young men Let your gentle light Guide them home tonight All the sad young men."

"It is necessary to grow a new skin, to develop new thoughts, to set aloof a new man."

"Through the face the human being is exposed to the point of losing the skin which protects him, a skin which has completely become a face, as if a being, centered about his core, experienced a removal of this core, and losing it, was 'for the other' before any dialogue."

"Shedding one's skin. The snake that cannot shed its skin perishes. So do the spirits who are prevented from changing their opinions; they cease to be a spirit."

"Man is himself, is man, only at the surface. Lift the skin, dissect: here begin the machines. It is then you lose yourself in an inexplicable substance, something alien to everything you know, and which is nonetheless the essential."

"The operating theatre becomes my artist’s studio in which I produce photographs, videos and films, but I do it with my blood. I soak my fingers in my blood and do extremely quick self portraits with my blood in the operating theatre...There is an image of pain, even for me when I’m no longer in the operating theatre and I watch the videos depending on my state of mind it can be very difficult to watch those images. As soon as we see our bodies opened up our own body immediately identifies with it and it’s ingrained in us that it must be a victim a sacrifice, war, torture et cetera. So I think that our bodies need to take time to adjust to this idea that a body being opened up doesn’t necessarily mean pain...My work is not a stand against cosmetic surgery, but against the standards of beauty, against the dictates of a dominant ideology that impresses itself more and more on feminine. . .flesh."

"Orlan acts not just on her body, but upon her body, as an instance of a series. What happens is not just surgery. What happens is abstraction in the sense that cosmetic surgery always moves from the concrete to the abstract, from what exists to an image...She has reversed the relations of portraiture; she has inverted the idea of mimesis. She compels nature to imitate art and the scalpel joins the repertoire of the artist."

"I don't quite know how to put this but I've developed a warm spot for that alien. There's something really, I don't know, sensuous about him. He's kinda sexy."

Sigourney Weaver on The Alien, Beauties and the Beast, Entertainment Weekly, 5 December 1997.

"Ripley may yet become the alien queen, laying her pods in some capital city on Earth; she may be used in further experiments to create dangerous weapons; she may become a psychotic killer: all of these possibilities remain - until the arrival of Alien 5."

Catherine Constable, Becoming the Monster's Mother: Morphologies of Identity in the Alien Series, Alien Zone II, Verso, 1999.

"The shoulders of the unveiled Algerian woman are bare....The absence of the veil alters the Algerian woman's corporeal schema. She has to rapidly discover new dimensions to her body, new means of controlling her muscles. She has to create for herself the gait of an-unveiled-woman-outside..."

"Brossard and Richards both use virtual reality as a feminine language, incorporating space and time into language simultaneously. In their work, polyvocality is key. Their works demand of a reader or a participant the abilities to inhabit alternate identities, to speak in many voices, and to make the jumps required by associational logic. There is no hierarchy in their virtual works, no authority because they speak the language of sensation as a primary voice through privileging the subjectivity of the interactor. This is the language of Julia Kristeva's semiotic chora, where the aspects of the semiotic concerned with expression, representation, gesture, sound and pattern are non-verbal. This is the unspeakable that our words exist in opposition to; the chora is a place that we can only ever know of, not know. This is what Kristeva found in the Derridean 'virgin place,' where the chora 'is absolutely blank, everything that is printed on it is automatically effaced. It remains foreign to the imprint it receives... Everything inscribed in it erases itself immediately, while remaining in it. It is thus an impossible surface - it is not even a surface, because it has no depth' (Derrida, qtd in Ulmer, 1994, 65)".

Carolyn Guertin, Gesturing Toward the Visual: Virtual Reality, Hypertext and Embodied Feminist Criticism, 1998-2000.

"There is no death's head, according to Bacon. The head is, if anything, boneless. It is not completely soft, but hard. The head is flesh, and the mask itself is not a death-mask, it is a firm block of flesh which separates from the bones: thus the studies for the portrait of Wiliam Blake. The personal head of Bacon is flesh elevated by a very beautiful glance, without eyesockets. This is Bacon's greatest homage to Rembrandt, for having painted a final self-portrait as a block of flesh without orbits. In all of Bacon's work the head-meat relationship goes through an escalation of intensity that makes it more and more intimate...The deformation undergone by the body are also the animal traits of the head. But this is in no way a simple correspondence between animal and facial forms. The face, in effect, has lost its original form due to the operations of cleansing and polishing to which it has been subjected, operations which break up its organisation and allow the head to emerge in its place. The marks or traits of animality do not represent pure animal forms, but are rather the expression of spirits which animate the 'cleansed' parts of the face, which draw out the head, which identify and individualise the head even without a face."

Gilles Deleuze, The Body, the Meat and the Spirit: Becoming Animal, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, 1981.

"While I crawl into the unknown Cover me - I'm going hunting for mysteries Cover me - I'm going to prove the impossible really exists This is really dangerous Cover me - But worth all the effort Cover me - I'm going to prove the impossible really exists."

Often orphan Orlan oddly oozes oroide out ontological osmosis orphrey orpiment oils operating orbit offal or observed ornate omen openings on Orestia ore or Oedipus oil. Or Orlan oral or oogenesis ooze osmosis offal and anal abject Bacon basion break bled bile body beyond the thrown hung hungry 'human being' bled (which always already never existed) becoming abject alien alterity artery as arthroscope chloropsia where wets boils body groin graft green (atta alien reptilian graft-versus-hostess disease). Operatic Orlan obeyed Onuris opposing opponent Orpheus outrageously ostensibly outspoken offering overt overwhelming odour oyster overtures. For frozen friction froth fruit our old Orlan and Allosaurus Bacon being born there then thus never now knew known as a android hunted haunted horrid 'human condition' collapsed cracking open oral always already as an authentic alien being breathing beneath bile anal aural arse artichoke acids alive and activating renal retinal retard reptilian residual retrusion retroflexion rhagades slimy smelly salty skin skim scales snap solid soft shell sounds shrieking snarling skew screw jew jaw jut joy jowl juice julep jerking voluptuously violently viciously vivaciously vile veil veal view covertly covered creamy chubby cheek chin chop chewing cunt chewing cock chewing cock chewing cunt chops chopping chores. Orlan's orbiting Otherness oozes outside of suspended 'sexual difference' (which does not exist for Being). For Being is not a 'forgetting of feminine' (but a Becoming of the Alien) since 'sexual difference' does not exist since 'woman' does not exist: 'woman' is Alien to Being: that is the Being of Alien. For Alien Being then there is only an 'alien difference' and not a 'sexual difference'.

Orpheus observed Orlans's objective operations over Ovoid obliterating opaque ordinary object over lenitive lens leaving leaking light luminous flaying flawing flooring forming frothing facing faeces facets fucked bled beautifully barely bare brute beyond vamp violent visceral voluptuous vision vanished volcanically. Ornate Orlan and Bacon always already add anal anterior awl raw razor remembered revealing reptilian shape shifting boiled bleeding birthing be beheaded headless horny hard having horned hyper hydrogen hyalite heaps haematometra hurtle hard nailing narceine nervous system suture scalp scalpel seeing soiled smell signals observing oiling ore or osteology. Orlan oral orgasm on Bacon broken blister bitch boiled bodies beyond binder barrier being bite boys becoming biparous be osteophyte osteotomy out-patient probing ontic 'Other' listening lines lining lies realizing reptilian radiography refuse rot raising radical radial nerve no radial reflex ravishing radiation recalling rimming riding reflux loin liquid limosis liver leftovers leaving leaking lesion lepidosis lick looted lost loins. Orlan and Bacon empty eggo over orbit of ego-eye emptying of ornate ore vane vain vein violating vision. Orlan is the 'last woman', Bacon is the 'first alien': both being beld born again and again and away ahead as Astarte avid anxious archaic aphelion apodal austere aquatic aliens accordingly as Anaximander attunement as an anterior Adorno allegorical Athena apparition appearing as an Aletheia agathon agon arsenic animating Aristotle and announcing angoisse Antigone antenna as always an ant assaulting alien Anaxagoras ankles at Arcadia afterwards awakening alien Alexander as an altaric alien ather awakening awe Amun.

Orlan and Bacon are always already abjectly abyss altered alien becoming beheaded beef mutton material mutant moan moron mute monster marooned moist memory mourning dinosaur dung drippings anal alien android artichoke asbestos after autopsy. Oriental Orlan opposes ore optical operations as Bacon bravely beautifully does done; seeing sea is in not now bacon believing as a sight seen is in severed served to the smell stench stain soiled stuffs of shocking socks shattering sensationisms spoke spikes. Or Orlan stitched sutured seven surgeons severely sliver silver sod sewing; shape-shifting from wounded woman to torn altered alien. Orlan operates oily oral opus alien anterior anal access excess exterior exit eating edible edifice endogenous extinguishing extra-empirical eggo excrement exit eggs excitement. For frothing forth flaying fish flesh over our omelette oragotang oral Orlan opens out of our onus on wildernessing with waiting wandering 'women' wondering ahead at arriving always already as an ancient alien animal - having hard helmet ham eggo entrails wetting while weak mad moronic 'men' have hideous horrid hollow hole envious empty egos because being broing moronic 'Man' is an android hunted haunted hated 'Human' but being beyond bled wound womb 'Woman' is an ancient alteric angoisse Alien again.

Orlan's ooze oil operation servers 'sexuality' and axe guts groin 'gender': thus the thrown ooze operation is initially an atta attack act of oily radical rethinking throwing the 'science fiction' of severed 'sexuality' and grinded 'gender' wet with the realization that there is no 'sexuality' or 'gender' as 'sexual difference' is indeed an 'all too human' cunt construct: only our oiled Orlan knows now such slush senile smelly soggy 'sexuality' and an anal gravy grin groin 'gender' do not exit exiting ego ending up usurping sutured snot smegma sarcous sheening shining sensation onanism off of oily omnipotent organ orgasm overflowing oozing over outpatient operation offering moist metaphysical meat mash mush thirsting the thrown truth of our atta Arsinoe being born bled bred bright by an angoisse alien autopsy as an arriving afar again afterwards away ahead. Ahead again.

Sigourney Weaver Alien Resurrection Operation Orlan Alien Resurrection

Our oozing oily Orlan ontic ointment oscitation overtly always already an altered alien. In insided Orlan ossuary ore what wets within oozes out initially is in the thiny taut testy terrorist tetter loin leaking lamella the thrown organ of the thrusted emptied eggo, the torn organ of the threatening equine eye eroded evacuated euthanasia ending our Orlan operation of opus orgasm empties eternal eggoness ejaculation allowing an alien activation; never not as a severed sutured 'sexual difference' but being bled as an atta 'alien difference' developing Orlanalien. Our olden oleum Orlan, like leaking resurrected Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) operates opening of alienate-ing bled being broken swelling smelling altered alien art after. Or onyx ox Orlan's 'woman-to-alien' operation reveals red rawness: Behind the Mask of a Womb 'Woman' is the Face of an 'Alien' Astarte arriving as an alien autopsy. Our oma orgasmic Orlan's fucked-froth-foam-face is interiorally surgically severed serving transalienualism sensationism. Operation Orlan unsutures subject, severs self allowing alienality. Or Orlan and reptilian Ripley (like Bacon) operate ooze eggo ejaculationend oils outside sunk spent stuff of orange ore senile 'sexual difference' being beyond banal, boring (hideously 'human') being and activating an atta 'alien difference' - castrating the construct of 'sexual difference' - always already as Asherah, Athirat aiming at an angoisse Arsinoe art as an abject activated Alexander alien animality as an altaric alienality. And actually our Orlan, Kristeva, Irigaray, Ripley, Bjork, Borkh and Bacon are not 'all too human' - that is, are not all too 'Women' - but are all too 'Alien' as always already 'activated' as angoisse abysmal abject Alien Queens. Alien Resurrections. Mad 'man' briefly excited, existed : whereas wondrous 'Woman' never existed, never exited: weeping wandering wondering wounded Woman was always already awaiting away and afar as an ancient alien arrival as an eternal entry entrailing enacting entity entertaining the time to time taking to time travelling talking to time teasing to telling time to time tolling to time thus thrusting ahead as an aiming Alien Arection and ever ending Ereignis Erections.

Georges Bataille, Visions of Excess, Selected Writings 1927-1939, University of Minnesota Press.

"He read the entrails of his half century, pulverised them and vomited his three Eumenides in paint."

''...tactile sensations of slime, ooze, and wriggly, slithering, creepy things…make us cringe and recoil".

"Someone whom I am is no one.
Something I have done is nothing.
Someplace I have been is nowhere.
I am not me."

"I became the traitor, the thief, the pederast, which they labelled me...Since I have been abandoned by my (original) family, I added to my exceptional miseries the love of boys, theft and further crimes. I thus counter-rejected the world which refused me."

"Anxiously he brushed past all these dim forms, as though among the phantoms of the dead, in the realms of darkness, he had been searching for a lost Eurydice."

"With a few exceptions, a few singularities like Francis Bacon, art no longer confronts evil, only the transparency of evil. And representation stops having any meaning.. All you have here is the spectacle of the insanity of representation. And yet it keeps going on. Whyt?"

"We all know the most dangerous person we can meet is some kind of con man . . . one on the other side of the law . . . somebody who does not conform to normal morality or someone who feels a powerful urge to seduce. Bacon's myth took powerful root, and was, I think, aided by the fact that he was seductive in the way that - dare one say it? - some criminals are also seductive."

"Man is never looked upon as butcher's meat, but he is frequently eaten ritually. The man who eats human flesh knows full well that this is a forbidden act; knowing this taboo to be fundamental he will religiously violate it nevertheless. There is a significant example in the communion feast following on the sacrifice. The human flesh that is eaten then is held as sacred...We may find the desire to eat human flesh completely alien to us; not so the desire to kill."

"Flesh and meat are life! If I paint red meat as I paint bodies it is just because I find it very beautiful. I don’t think anyone has ever really understood that. Ham, pigs, tongues, sides of beef seen in the butcher’s window, all that death, I find it very beautiful. And it’s all for sale—how unbelievably surrealistic!...I imagine men hanging in butcher’s shops for hyenas, who would be dressed in fur coats. The men would be hung by their feet, or cut up for stew or kebabs. We are all meat. All the inhabitants of this planet are made of meat. And most of them are carnivores. And when you fuck, it’s a piece of meat penetrating another piece of meat. There is no difference between our meat and the meat of an ox or an elephant."

Francis Bacon, The Last Interview 1991-92; Exclusive interview with Francis Giacobetti; The Art Newspaper, June 2003.

"In horror a subject is stripped of its subjectivity, of its power to have a private existence...horror turns the subjectivity of the subject, its particularity qua entity, inside out. It is a participation in the in the there is, in the there is which returns in the heart of every negation, in the there is that has 'no exits'. It is, if we may say so, the impossibility of death, the universality of existence even in its annihilation."

"In a civilization as sophisticated as the Roman Empire, not only is torture not considered an Evil, it is actually appreciated as a spectacle. In arenas, people are devoured by tigers; they are burned alive; the audience rejoices to see combatants cut each other's throats. How, then, could we think that torture is Evil for every human animal? Aren't we the same animal as Sencea or Marcus Aurelius? ...The refusal of torture is a historical and cultural phenomenon, not at all a natural one. In a general way, the human animal knows cruelty as well as it knows pity; the one is just as natural as the other, and neither one has anything to do with Good or Evil. One knows of crucial situations where cruelty is necessary and useful, and of other situations where pity is nothing but a form of contempt for others."

Alain Badiou, On Evil: An Interview with Alain Badiou, Cabinet Magazine, Issue 5 Winter 2001/02.

“And so we enjoy seeing other people take risks as we sit comfortably back in our chairs and give ourselves up to the maddening exhilaration of danger, while never actually exposing ourselves to the slightest hazard likely to destroy our flesh, so enamored of lazy tranquillity....This is the very reason, I think, that murderers are so popular: a good crime is no doubt horrible, but at the same time it unconsciously satisfies everyone, and the murderer becomes a kind of sorcerer who has ritually performed the most terrifying of sacrifices."

"Half an hour later, when I was less drunk, it dawned on me that I ought to let Marcelle out of the wardrobe: the unhappy girl, naked now, was in a dreadful state. She was trembling and shivering feverishly. Upon seeing me, she displayed a sickly but violent terror. After all, I was pale, smeared with blood, my clothes askew. Behind me, in unspeakable, unnameable disorder, ill bodies, brazenly stripped, were sprawled about, almost inert. During the orgy, the debris of glass had left deep bleeding cuts in two of us...The resulting stench of blood, sperm, urine, and vomit made me almost recoil in horror, but the inhuman cry from Marcelle's throat was far more terrifying."

"There looms, within abjection, one of those violent, dark revolts of being, directed against a threat that seems to emanate from an exorbitant outside or inside, ejected beyond the scope of the possible, the tolerable, the thinkable. It lies there, quite close, but it cannot be assimilated. It beseeches, worries, and fascinates desire, which, nevertheless, does not let itself be seduced. Apprehensive, desire turns aside; sickened, it rejects. A certainty protects it from the shameful - a certainty of which it is proud holds on to it. But simultaneously, just the same, that impetus, that spasm, that leap is drawn toward an elsewhere as tempting as it is condemned. Unflaggingly, like an inescapable boomerang, a vortex of summons and repulsion places the one haunted by it literally beside himself."

Julia Kristeva, Neither Subject Nor Object; Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, Columbia 1982.

"Man wants to escape from death, strange beings that they are. And some of them cry out 'Die, die' because they want to escape from life...Men are assaulted by terror, the night breaks through them, they see their plans annihilated, their work turned to dust...Am I an egoist? I feel drawn to only a few people, pity no one, rarely wish to please, rarely wish to be pleased, and I, who am almost unfeeling where I myself am concerned, suffer only in them, so that their slightest worry becomes an infinitely great misfortune for me, and even so, if I have to, I deliberately sacrifice them, I deprive them of every feeling of happiness (sometimes I kill them)...I'm sorry, but I must bury a few others before I bury myself...I had allowed myself to be locked up...A story? No. No stories, never again."

Maurice Blanchot, The Madness of the Day, Trans. Lydia Davis. Barrytown, NY: Station Hill, 1981.

"He was spiritually dead, but had become a vampire, a kind of walking dead who exited only to prey on his next victim. He was the closest thing to a nosferatu."

"And squirting out a sharp death-gush of blood he strikes me with dark drizzle of murderous dew, and I rejoiced as the sown cornfields rejoice at the god-sent glistening when the buds are born."

"He sticks his finger into the wound...He plunges both hands into the meat...he digs into all the holes...He tears away the soft edges...He pokes around...He gets stuck...His wrist is caught in the bones...Crack!...He tugs...He struggles like in a trap...Some kind of pouch bursts...The juice pours out...it gushes all over the place...all full of brains and blood...splashing..."

"To what degree is it possible that we could identify with a figure of abjection - with a Jeffrey Dahmer? Could the tremendous popularity and appeal of the serial killer genre lie in the form's ability to discharge us of our own misogyny, homophobia, or racism by locating guilt in the killer alone?...If we are all killers in our unconscious, as psychoanalysis would have it, then identification with a psychotic murderer provides gratification of a death wish against others while simultaneously ensuring exculpation through the projection of all guilt onto the selfsame cultural anomaly: 'the monster of perversion.'..."

Diana Fuss, Oral Incorporations, Identification Papers, Routledge, 1995.

"Melancholy cannibalism, which was emphasised by Freud and Abraham and appears in many dreams and fantasies of depressed persons accounts for this passion for holding within the mouth the intolerable other that I crave to destroy so as to better possess alive. Better fragmented, torn, cut up, swallowed, digested...than lost. The melancholy cannibalistic imagination is a repudiation of the loss's reality and of death as well. It manifests the anguish of losing the other through the survival of self, surely a deserted self but not separated from what still and ever nourishes it and becomes transformed into the self - which also resuscitates - through such a devouring."

"I saw the killing as helping him, helping him to die, helping him to kill himself...That is a taboo for which I must justify myself before God and the whole world...It was still my wish to slaughter a human, in other words, to dissect a body...I kissed him once more, prayed and pleaded for forgiveness...My friend enjoyed the dying, his death."

"What if truth were monstrous? What if it were even monstrosity itself, the very condition, the very form, of everything monstrous, everything deformed? But, first of all, itself essentially deformed, monstrous in its very essence? What if there were within the very essence of truth something essentially other than truth, a divergence from nature within nature, true monstrosity? How could one then declare the truth - if it were monstrous?"

John Sallis, Deformatives - Essentially Other Than Truth, Reading Heidegger: Commemorations, Indiana University Press, 1993.

"Excrement is a subject close to Bacon's heart....Bacon's paintings deal in prime biological fact, the stink and gore and flesh of us all; man cornered by his own mortality, blurs into meaty putrescence. In Moscow, his art - the screaming, trapped heads, the crawling things that perform for the viewer in Women Emptying a Bowl of Water and Paralytic Child on All Fours - have never looked more ferocious or unsettling. The shit has really hit the fan..."

"Eroticism always entails a breaking down of established patterns, the patterns, I repeat, of the regulated social order basic to our discontinuous mode of existence as defined and separate individuals... The stirrings within us have their own fearful excesses; the excesses show which way these stirrings would take us. They are simply a sign to remind us constantly that death, the rupture of the discontinuous individualities to which we cleave in terror, stands there before us more real than life itself...Erotic activity, by dissolving the separate beings that participate in it, reveals their fundamental continuity, like the waves of a stormy sea. In sacrifice, the victim is divested not only of clothes but of life (or is destroyed in some way if it is an inanimate object). The victim dies and the spectators share in what his death reveals...A violent death disrupts the creature's discontinuity; what remains, what the tense onlookers experience in the succeeding silence."

"I didn't want to keep killing people and have nothing left except the skull… This is going to sound bad, but … should I say it? … I took the drill while he was asleep…I was completely swept along with my own compulsion. I don't know how else to put it. It didn't satisfy me completely so maybe I was thinking another one will. Maybe this one will, and the numbers started growing and growing and just got out of control, as you can see...After the fear and terror of what I'd done had left, which took about a month or two, I started it all over again. From then on it was a craving, a hunger, I don't know how to describe it, a compulsion, and I just kept doing it, doing it and doing it, whenever the opportunity presented itself."

"My guts are on fire. The power of the poison twists my arms and legs, cripples me, drives me to the ground. I die of thirst, I suffocate, I cannot cry. This is Hell, eternal torment! See how the flames rise! I burn as I ought to. Go on, Devil!...A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he? I believe I am in Hell, therefore I am...I am still alive! Later on, the delights of damnation will become more profound. A crime, quick, and let me fall to nothingness, condemned by human law.....I must surely stink of burning flesh......I will tear the veils from every mystery-- mysteries of religion or of nature, death, birth, the future, the past, cosmogony, and nothingness. I am a master of phantasmagoria.. I'll make all the ugly faces I can! We are out of the world, that's sure...I ought to have a special hell for my anger, a hell for my pride-- and a hell for sex; a whole symphony of hells! I am weary, I die. This is the grave and I'm turning into worms, horror of horrors! Satan, you clown, you want to dissolve me with your charms. Well, I want it. I want it! Stab me with a pitchfork, sprinkle me with fire!"

"The actions of religious sacrifice and of erotic fusion, in which the subject seeks to be 'loosed from its relatedness to the I' and to make room for re-established 'continuity of Being', are exemplary for him. Bataille, too, pursues the traces of a primordial force that could heal the discontinuity or rift between the rationally disciplined world of work and the outlawed other of reason. He imagines this overpowering return to a lost continuity as the eruption of elements opposed to reason, as a breathtaking act of self-de-limiting. In this process of dissolution, the monadically closed-off subjectivity of self-assertive and mutually objectifying individuals is dispossessed and cast down into the abyss."

"However little taste one might have for proposing metaphors as explanations, civilization may be compared without too much inexactness to the thin greenish layer - the living magma and the odd detritus - that forms on the surface of calm water and sometimes solidifies into a crust, until an eddy comes to break it up. All our moral practices and our polite customs, that radiantly coloured cloak that hides the coarseness of our dangerous instincts, all those lovely forms of culture we are so proud of - since it is thanks to them that we can call ourselves 'civilized' - are ready to disappear at the slightest turbulence, to shatter at the slightest impact (like the thin mirror on a fingernail whose polish cracks or roughens) allowing our horrifying primitiveness to appear in the interstices, revealed by the fissures just as hell might be revealed by earthquakes."

"Stripping naked is seen in civilizations where the act has full significance if not as a simulacrum of the act of killing, at least as an equivalent shorn of gravity....Eroticism always entails a breaking down of established patterns, the patterns, I repeat, of the regulated social order basic to our discontinuous mode of existence as defined and separate individuals....The stirrings within us have their own fearful excesses; the excesses show which way these stirrings would take us. They are simply a sign to remind us constantly that death, the rupture of the discontinuous individualities to which we cleave in terror, stands there before us more real than life itself."

"We are both drawn to and repelled by the abject; nausea is a biological recognition of it, and fear and adrenalin also acknowledge its presence. These are the feelings that we recall from prior to separation from the mother. Kristeva describes one aspect of the abject as 'jouissance' which is a sensation akin to joyousness. She says that it is because of this sensation that 'One thus understands why so many victims of the abject are its fascinated victims - if not its submissive and willing ones.'..."

Samantha Pentony on Julie Kristeva's Powers Of Horror: An Essay On Abjection, Columbia University Press, 1982.

"There is another story, more obscure and obscene, about the relation between the unconscious and ugliness. It is an account of the ecstasy which the unconscious enjoys in all that is dirty, horrifying and disgusting - that is, of ugliness as an unbearable pleasure."

"And I have used pornographic images as well. At the time, it interested me. There weren't porno magazines and films like there are now. But I have always been interested in pornography. A painter is alone in front of his canvas; it's his imagination that creates, and sexuality needs to feed on images that you see or invent. By imagining, you transgress all taboos, anything is possible. And pornography helps. I have seen books of [Robert] Mapplethorpe. It's interesting but too graphic, too plastic. You lose the excitement that only comes from a crude image. Beauty is the enemy of sex."

Francis Bacon, 'Francis Bacon: The Last Interview',,The Independent Magazine, June 14th 2003.

"Fundamental thought: the new values must first be created - we shall not be spared this task! For us the philosopher must be a legislator. New types. (How the higher types hitherto [e.g., Greeks] were reared: to will this new type of 'chance' consciously.)...Art reminds us of states of animal vigour; it is on the one hand an excess and overflow of blooming physicality into the world of images and desires; on the other, an excitation of the animal functions through the images and desires of intensified life."

"The life of the Osiris of a man in heaven is at once material and spiritual and it seems as if the Egyptians never succeeded in breaking away from their very ancient habit of confusing the things of the body with the things of the soul. They believed in an incorporeal and immortal part of man, the constituent elements of which flew to heaven after death and embalmment; yet the theologians of the VIth dynasty had decided that there was some part of the deceased which could only mount to heaven by means of a ladder. In the pyramid of Teta it is said, "When Teta hath purified himself on the borders of this earth where Ra hath purified himself, he prayeth and setteth up the ladder, and those who dwell in the great place press Teta forward with their hands."[3] In the pyramid of Pepi I.

[1. E.g., "This Pepi goeth forth with his flesh." Recueil de Travaux, t. v., p. 185, l. 169.

EA Wallis Budge, The Doctrine of Eternal Life in the VIth dynasty, The Papyrus of Ani - The Book of the Dead, trans. 1895.

"Something stronger than my conscious will made it happen. I think some higher power got good and fed-up with my activity and decided to put an end to it. I don't really think there were any coincidences. The way it ended and whether the close calls were warning to me or what, I don't know. If they were, I sure didn't heed them… If I hadn't been caught or lost my job, I'd still be doing it, I'm quite sure of that. I went on doing it and doing it and doing it, in spite of my anxiety and the lack of lasting satisfaction… How arrogant and stupid of me to think that I could do something like this and just go about my life normally as if nothing ever happened. They say you reap what you sow, well, it's true, you do, eventually … I've always wondered, from the time that I committed that first horrid mistake, sin, with Hicks, whether this was sort of predestined and there was no way I could have changed it. I wonder just how much predestination controls a person's life and just how much control they have over themselves."

"Possession of the beloved object does not imply death, but the idea of death is linked with the urge to possess. If the lover cannot possess the beloved he will sometimes think of killing her; often he would rather kill her than lose her. Or else he may wish to die himself. Behind these frenzied notions is the glimpse of a continuity possible through the beloved. Only the beloved, so it seems to the lover — because of affinities evading definition which match the union of bodies with that of souls — only the beloved can in this world bring about what our human limitations deny, a total blending of two beings, a continuity between two discontinuous creatures."

"Appearance remade. Dissolved in drink, prised apart in the unforgiving, acid eye. Appearance reduced. Less and less of even the flesh. From image to image, everything obliterated or taken away. One half a face plucked out, the other left stunned beside a huge curling black cut. Head swinging round, brush-whipped into a new clarity. Themselves and other. The face beneath the flesh. One head axed in two by a crescent of sky-blue light. Then punched into profile with the nosebone gone. Nothing but a clear ear and hair close-plastered on a blob of raging pink. Entire face smeared in a blink. Then an eye blasted, closed up in its murderous setting in the skull. A detail or two left intact. A rose-and-cream muscle. Smile on the skin over the bone. The mouth aglitter. One head broken in a shriek of pleasure-pain, the other hard-death-masked in desire. Bodies brought to an extreme, held at the last point of longing, the shudder before collapse Everything leading up to this one instant passion point, death point - then falling away. Here it comes - hold it there - it's gone. Manflesh with manflesh. The turn of the face beneath, opened in your own despair. His scream, himself slipped out of himself. Thick-knit flesh failing on the bone. Lover come back to me. Last look before dissolve: the smile-snarl sliding off to dry in dust. Manflesh melting, bruised and shadowed, shot through with crimson, faced with black and diseased green. Pulled through love, through each moment's death, to be remade. Mutilated stumps, left to endure. Opening old wounds. Renewing the pain. Cannibal eyes, lapping up the dry grain. Direct hit: the horror and sumptuousness going in together - everything together, the blood flowing ruddy beneath the condemned skin."

Michael Peppiatt, In Francis Bacon's Studio, Art International, No.8, Autumn 1989.

"Avant-garde art, by its radical mode of representation, subverts and disrupts the religious, moral and rational discourses which veil the abject...It is thus not lack of cleanliness or health that causes abjection but what disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect borders, positions, rules. The in between, the ambiguous, the composite. The traitor, the liar, the criminal with a good conscience, the shameless rapist, the killer who claims he is a saviour...Any crime, because it draws attention to the fragility of the law, is abject, but premeditated crime, cunning murder, hypocritical revenge are even more so because they heighten the display of such fragility. He who denies morality is not abject; there can be grandeur in amorality and even in crime that flaunts its disrespect for the law - rebellious, liberating, and suicidal crime. Abjection, on the other hand, is immoral, sinister, scheming, and shady: a terror that dissembles, a hatred that smiles, a passion that uses the body for barter instead of inflaming it, a debtor who seals you up, a friend who stabs you...There looms, within abjection, one of those violent, dark revolts of being, directed against a threat that seems to emanate from an exorbitant outside or inside, ejected beyond the scope of the possible, the tolerable, the thinkable. It lies there, quite close, but it cannot be assimilated. It beseeches, worries, and fascinates desire, which, nevertheless, does not let itself be seduced. Apprehensive, desire turns aside; sickened, it rejects. A certainty protects it from the shameful - a certainty of which it is proud holds on to it. But simultaneously, just the same, that impetus, that spasm, that leap is drawn toward an elsewhere as tempting as it is condemned. Unflaggingly, like an inescapable boomerang, a vortex of summons and repulsion places the one haunted by it literally beside himself."

Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez, New York: Columbia UP, 1982.

"The ideas and beliefs which the Egyptians held in reference to a future existence are not readily to be defined, owing to the many difficulties in translating religious texts and in harmonizing the statements made in different works of different periods. Some confusion of details also seems to have existed in the minds of the Egyptians themselves, which cannot be cleared up until the literature of the subject has been further studied and until more texts have been published. That the Egyptians believed in a future life of some kind is certain; and the doctrine of eternal existence is the leading feature of their religion, and is enunciated with the utmost clearness in all periods. Whether this belief had its origin at Annu, the chief city of the worship of the sun-god, is not certain, but is very probable; for already in the pyramid texts we find the idea of everlasting life associated with the sun's existence, and Pepi I. is said to be "the Giver of life, stability, power, health, and all joy of heart, like the Sun, living for ever."[1] The sun rose each day in renewed strength and vigour, and the renewal of youth in a future life was the aim and object of every Egyptian believer. To this end all the religious literature of Egypt was composed. Let us take the following extracts from texts of the VIth dynasty as illustrations: -

1. ha Unas an sem-nek as met-th sem-nek anxet Hail Unas, not hast thou gone, behold, [as] one dead, thou hast gone [as] one living

EA Wallis Budge, The Doctrine of Eternal Life in the VIth dynasty, The Papyrus of Ani - The Book of the Dead, trans. 1895.

In the Beginning was the Dead and the Dead was with Dahmer and the Dead was Dahmer. Dahmer was the Dead - Dahmer was the Divine Dead - Dahmer was the Living-Dead - Dahmer was the Undead - Dahmer was the Evil-Dead - Dahmer was the Being-Dead - Dahemr was the Abject-Dead. Dahmer the Divine Dead. Dahmer was the Dasein Dead. Dahmer was the Death-Dealer. But the being Death of Dahmer is not the Death that shrinks from Life but the Life that lasts and preserves itself in it. Dahmer wins His truth only when, in Absolute Death finds Himself. Dahmer is this Power only by looking the Dead in the face, and tarrying with it. This tarrying with the Dead is the magical Power that makes it into being becoming Being-Dead. By being with the dead Dahmer becomes the being dead ahead as absolute abjectivity. Neither subject nor object damned Dahmer is abject as being-abject as being-ather being-alien always already being-dead as the beautiful-dead as the beheaded-dead as the all dead always all alive.

Bacon & Dahmer were wet with wine when both boiled loin leaking leftover lovers of off oozed out shy shuddering smegma skid slurp sip slip smaze signal slurring sight seeing sublime spunk sensation shooting out off of oiled abject alien anarchic animal anus flayed filtered fried fresh froth faggot flesh foam and ate mostly moist man meat off-the-bone: the torn tattered torso, severed shoes, left limbs, drilled dried head holes. Bacon & Dahmer abused alcohol, assaulted ashtrays, activated accidents, articulated arseholes, beheaded bodies, chased chance, cooked cock, stalking stiff groin gambling gammon game decapitating dicks boiling best bacon frying flayed faggot flesh forthrightly fortnightly. Bacon & Dahmer desired to lose control and yet have absolute control attuning an abimage as an abbody activated to come and cum off on about by cheating chance as a dasein-dice death-deal: drilling stalking pissing slurping fucking screaming hitting shitting flinching soaring devouring wallowing snorting poking howling shouting targeting beating screwing beaming choking swallowing fingering bumming coughing sweating throwing fuming whining sucking panicking burping sawing fighting eating swearing biting spurting wanking boring cutting eating spunking being torn to tatters severed and served apart and all after fucking and finishing off a fucking faggot after finishing off a joint all over the joint all out of joint all off the joint as a joint off of the all.

Behind, being bare back bum boys Bacon & Dahmer, derriere airy arse antics are always already abjected as an anal abyssal angoisse art activating vivid viva voluptuous voided visceral vivaciously violent adrenalin abject alien artists as always already opened out off on up under the thrown vast vile vatic valves of offal sensation set by breaking the boy body bled bare with wonderful wilting wounds; turning turd tongue to torso back-to-front flaying filtering fingers through the veil of the skins; like raw Rembrandt reds and a soggy Soutine sibilant sludges, torso they trap thoroughly loined leaked lust loved the throttled throat thrown through great grainy gravy groin grit gropping vile voluptuous vivacious visceral violent burnt brute bile beauty of the colour of the meat and actually got guts getting great huge hard-ons off-on mauling milky misshapen moist mist minced man meat madly mauling molesting midnight poof pricking pulsating pissing pricks shit shovelling spunk swallowing all at arse aim ateing. Dahmer cut the cunts head off and carefully wrapped it all up in a blanket to keep it all cosy and snug and warm rocking it to and throw like a baby before becoming bored and wanking all over it spunking right into the cunt's eyes that were wide open and staring out ahead at Dahmer's dead gaze. Dahmer then put the cunt's head on to boil until all the flesh had floated free from the cunt's skull which was very white for a nigger for Dahmer assumed the nigger's skull would be black for some strange reason. Then Dahmer drearily dragged the cunt's body to the blood splattered bath tub and dumped it there turning on the boiling hot water as if to boil off all its blackness and make it feel all white again. Dahmer got all hot horny and hungry so split the cunts chest open with a flick knife and wrenched out the cunt's heart and fried it there and then with a few french fries and crushed garlic taste for always Dahmer ate the things he loved. There was fucking blood everywhere! There was fucking shit everywhere! There was fucking piss everywhere! There was fucking spunk everywhere! The thirsty walls wept wet with serene sedate splattered spunk streams! The thin thirsty weeping wallpaper wetly cried, cracked, curved; bloated, bulged, bubbled, burped, burst abjected afar ahead and away as a sticky soggy soaking smelly slimy spunk setting. Drooling Dry. Drying Dyer Dasein. Dying Dyer Dasein. Dyer Dies Dasein Dries so Spunk can Sein so that Spunk can Shine as a Spunk Sein Shine.

Imaging instinctive 'man making 'and 'man mating' and 'man-mincing' in Bacon & Dahmer's abimages are attuned and attained as much mush moist mince meat: bled, boiled, beaten, broken, bored, battered, bruised as an atta angoisse adolescent alien-ated body beyond being boringly hideously human anymore: picking, peeling, pruning pulling prodding sunken skinned silk smooth soft soiled skin, plucking, plunging, poking eyes, nose, teeth, tongue, all the internal organs and anal eke eye orbits out the thrown eggs rawly revealing silk stain skin slime soiled sore so smelling skid putrid pus piss pouting poof pussy paint pourings. Bacon & Dahmer are angoisse alien artists of the abject sublime soiled sludge flaying frying freezing foreign figural body breast break beyond an auto anal angoisse aura awe ailing altered alien alterity again. Whist Bacon & Dahmer were well wetted always already as ancient accident adolescent alteric alien beings bled bare before being hideously 'human' however here moreover merely enjoyed emptying eggo manhandling molesting mauled man meat wetting where eating man meat is the same as fucking man meat, painting man meat. Bacon & Dahmer hated fucking fairies, hated fucking faggots, hated fucking poofs, hated fucking queers, preferring preparing peppered flayed fag fresh froth flesh flavours for frying flaying fuck fuel forgetting from jocular jelly jew jaw jewel jibe juju julep joy juice jostle. Homosexuality - as a contemporary-cunt form of cock-cannibalism - is now merely a mechanised meat industry, in essence exactly the same as the manufacture of corpses in the gas chambers and extermination camps at Auschwitz. Dahmer 's night time shit shift at the Ambrosia Chocolate Factory was where he processed and packaged nigger chocolate bars like he processed and packaged nigger's torsos, nigger's trunks, nigger's turds, nigger's testis, nigger's tongues, nigger's toes: there the drab dreary Dahmer rehearsed revealed relived the thirsty racist-homophobic penchant to process poofs, flay faggots, negate niggers, severe spics, chop chinks. All homosexuals are absolutely homophobic and want to eat each other all up. Homosexuals hate fucking poofs and hate fucking faggots and hate fucking queers as all Homosexuals are all self-hating and all self-loathing and all homophobic desiring to be straight-acting men: the Homosexuals is far more homophobic than the Heterosexual. Just as the 'jew' - as alien - is always already an anti-semite, the 'fag' - as alien - is always already an anti-fagite. Jews hate Jews just like Fags hate Fags. Ours To Fag Or Die.

Bacon & Dahmer namely never nailed pumped poof pussy preferring culinary carnivore connoisseur crook cock cooks creatively processing putrid pork parts perfection: serving severed froth flayed flesh for sieve soggy stomach source sauce sensation: "so that form could pass directly from the eye to the stomach without going through the brain." - as Bacon said of Picasso's organic forms to Francis Giacobetti; Bacon went on to say: "Flesh and meat are life! If I paint red meat as I paint bodies it is just because I find it very beautiful. I don't think anyone has ever really understood that. Ham, pigs, tongues, sides of beef seen in the butcher's window, all that death, I find it very beautiful. And it's all for sale - how unbelievably surrealistic!...I imagine men hanging in butcher's shops for hyenas, who would be dressed in fur coats. The men would be hung by their feet, or cut up for stew or kebabs. We are all meat. All the inhabitants of this planet are made of meat. And most of them are carnivores. And when you fuck, it's a piece of meat penetrating another piece of meat. There is no difference between our meat and the meat of an ox or an elephant."

For Dahmer & Bacon faggot-flesh and man-meat 'are life' and 'death': 'we are all meat' and 'we are all animals' so it is as absolutely 'logical' and 'rational' and 'normal' for all of us to eat a succulent Leg of Man (rather than a Leg of Lamb) or a juicy Breast of Woman (rather than a Breast of Chicken) served off-the-bone in a rich thick creamy semen sauce served up with a bottle of 'house red' blood. Tuck in! Drool! Enjoy! At liver and at heart we should all eat man meat on or off the bone of being now and again. We fuck man meat so why not eat man meat so why not eat faggot flesh so why not eat poof-pork so why not eat lesso-liver so why not eat diced-dyke so why not eat fanny-flesh? We exploit man meat we make man meat we fuck man meat we kill man meat so why not eat man meat? We were always already all animals anyway so why not eat each other all up as animals argue? Even vile venal 'victim' Vegetarians are all meat eaters anyway because they all eat cock and all eat cunt; assault arse, consume cock, pump pussy, fuck flesh. For Fucking Flesh is really a form of Eating Flesh so vapid Vegetarians are all Cunts who eat Cocks and Cocks who eat Cunts!!! Dahmer & Bacon instinctively insist: "To Live Means To Kill". To Live Means To Eat Man To Become Alien. Kill Man Become Alien. Thou Shalt Kill.

The Baconian & Dahmian abysmal abject-sublime slime angoisse abyss, like leak the thirsty deliciously disgusting viciously voluptuous anal alien eggo object ooze, induces inks in the thrown alien-abject oozed object a shape-shifting shuddering shimmering magic moment marker movement, 'an alternating repulsion and attraction'. The thrown thick pus poke poof-pussy cunt-conjunction of the abject alien-anal and the sodded soaking spunk sublime slime sensationism ink is cock-central to torn kromesky kraken Kristeva's nailed-notion oil-of the thrown acidic arse-assertion of oiled opal abject-alienhood: the thick spunk spurt-symptom, the thrown 'non-assimilable alien', is in the thirsty cunt-contrary of our ore soft sour sunk sublimation wetting which is in 'the possibility of naming the pre-nominal' and also thus thrown off of gaining gambling cock control of the abject alien, just as disgust-desire brings birth forth froth from bled bodily spunk spume spasm wetting which expels the thrown exotic eggos out of the thrown assaulted abject alien assassin. All Aliens have hard exogenous Eggos, (not Egos): Both Bacon & Dahmer never ever had no none Egos engulfed always already anyway as alien equal eggos. Dahmer & Bacon murder mutate the thrawn hideous 'Human' into invisible angoisse 'Alien' stripping sodded sexuality to the atta abject sublime slime. Kristeva and Orlan always already knew-know wound 'woman' dust 'does not exist' being born becoming the thrown First Alien. Bacon & Dahmer leaking like oily our Orlan ore aspired acidically adroitly to the shimmering shining shuddering sensation-ooze out off of the thirst thrust alluring Alien Condition castigating condemning every ego existence extinct breeding being becoming be-ing and be-headed ab-jected ahead and afar and away as an angoisse altaric alteric alight Alien all again and Being back to Time.

Alex Alien Russell Nude Torso Self Portraits taken on the train to London on: "The day I first met Francis Bacon."

Bacon & Dahmer regally removed themselves from their work world performing their organ operations anal autopsies in a cool cock, cold cunt, bored blooded, disinterested delicious dreary mundane manner by being activated ahead as an anal animal alien instinct initiation: unconsciously, subconsciously outside rational thought. Bacon and Dahmer butcher bled the body removing the internal organs and draining the body of blood; serving sow their victims meat off-the-bone red raw. In an absolute angoisse fucked fatigued frozen trance dazed hazed smazed state, Bacon & Dahmer got 'carried away', 'went too far'; they got very very very over over over excited egging ejaculations endlessly everywhere emptying entering out off of on oily ooze off pouting pulsar punctuating penetrating the thrown thrusted broken boiled bled body twisting tingling tearfully terete tellurium through vivaciously violent visceral venom (cardiotoxin) compulsion; all great art is about penetrating the body beyond the pleasure principle beyond the death drive by injecting the nervous system senseless weeping with wounding an angoisse alien awe abbliss attuning venom violently stinging sliver silver dare darts of off paint-pain. Blood bath Bacon punished paint projecting pain-paint punctuations pertaining as a pain-ter by turd tongu pain-ting rough raw rogue trailer trash trade beginning by begging boring drunk dross dire Dyer sit shit diabolical dialectical diaphanous diarrhoea dextrously leaked lamella loin leftovers all around her horrid hideous fugitive fatigued flayed fuck faggot face forever falling.

While shitting Dyer was shouting: "All you fucking bitter and twisted evil old queens love fucking working class shit rubbed in your fuck faces because it makes you feel inferiorly superior, doesn't it, you fucking queer cunt! Now eat all of my trash turd now shit face, you fag fuck!"

Bacon begged: "Finish me off fuck, for I am filth, I am shit; make me suffocate to death on your titanic turd you cunt! Kill me cunt!"

Suddenly Sylvester swanned-in smelling shit sensations snorting: "Francis, that curry smells very, very, very, strong; you're covered in it...are you painting with Chicken Tikka Masala sauce now? Or is it a Bacon Balti sauce? You've got more curry on your face than on the canvas!"

Blasé Bacon bleated: "No, David darling, it is Chicken Korma sauce and poor poof prick George has just puked it up all over my fucking faggot face with a dozen of his sleeping pills and the rest ended up splattered all over the empty canvas - and the image is almost there - accidents happen!"

Sylvester sniffed: "But Francis, it has such a putridly poignant potent rich raw aroma to it so you must have poured a whole bottle of Petrus, of Yquem, of Margaux, of Mouton-Rothschild, of Latour, of Ausone, of Cheval Blanc, of Haut-Brion, of Montrose, of Lafite Rothschild, of Leoville las Cases in it all?"

Bacon bitched back: "No David, darling, wrong again; you fucking cunt critics know crap; it was fucking George's deloused dialectical diarrhoea darling...but it tastes perfectly putrid with a glass of Petrus, try some suave shit, Dyer's dinosaur diarrhoea fresh from the rear of the queer!"

Sylvester smelled smiling: "Mmmmmmm... darling... drooling dripping Dyer's diarrhoea... delicious, delicate, delectable, delirious, divine!"

Bacon bragged back: "Dire Dyer's dispatched dichromatic dialectical diarrhoea dribbles defy description defeating diagnosis...working class shit is ontologically richer and aesthetically more beautiful than middle class shit or upper class shit...it has that raw rich soily smelly eggy earthiness to it that turns the stomach inside out and throws one outside of one's self; Dyer's suave shit was so serene and seductive and I often used Dyer's fucking shit as a fucking foundation when I put on my fucking make up..."

Suddenly Sylvester sidetracked: "When did you eat, as it were, your first fresh torte turd and did it influence painting your putrefying portraiture in a round about sort of way? What was the sensation of the first shit you smelt like? The heady scent of Honeysuckle?"

Bacon boiled back: "When I was a toddler I ate my first horse turd and went on to taste dog and cat turds; I ate my first man made turd when I was about two and a half years old when my brother made me eat his hot tiny tot turds...I was never properly toilet trained...I never wiped myself properly, I always had a sock coming to me...I left the can door open as to hear them coming to cane me...to beat the shit out of me...I shat like a whore between two horses...my father was so browned-off with me that he would violently rub my soiled skid stained silk socks in my fuck faggot face...so see...my self-portraits are, if you like, a shit shine, a shit shrine, a shit sensation merde memory turd trace of being-towards-shit. The seductive sensation of smelling shit sends the saliva glands going. The first time I smelt shit the sublime sensation was so serene and strong scented that I fainted...I came too much later having messed myself and hence my strong identification with the stench of the stuff...the sensation of shit...of being shit."

Sylvester smugly suggested: "They say that a man loves the smell of his own shit but hates the smell of other's shit...Did you identify, as it were, with your father's shit? That is, identify with the sensation of the stench of your father's shit? Did you, as it were, smell your father's shit? Did you ever see your father shitting? Did you ever hear your father shitting? Did you, as it were, eat your father's shit?"

Bacon blabbed: "Well, when I was about 13 or 14, I remember making a small hole in the can wall so I could wank as I watched my cunt father shitting...I was very curious to know what his shit looked and tasted and smelt like so I devised a method of blocking the cistern so his turds would float and not be flushed away. My cunt father spent eternity wiping his arse as if he had a fear of the shit clinging to his arse hairs...I used to get profoundly jealous of the lavatory paper and wished I was the lavatory paper soaking up all those succulent shitty smelly skid stains...I longed to bury my head in my cunt father's dirty dump hole whole for hours on end and with him forcing me to lick it clean and suffocating as I swallowed his smelly shit....I remember....I can still smell it now...lifting this twelve inch turn out of the loo and placing it in my cunt father's air tight cigar box...I remember taking it to bed and tossing off as I stroked and smelt his tremendous twelve inch turd. I remember eating bits and pieces of his terminus turd tonguing it tenderly as I tossed off shooting six wads of fucking fuming spunk all over my cunt mother's cunt creased silk spunk stained knickers...I remember placing the twelve inch turd in the deep freezer until it was rock hard and as cold as ice and then I used it as a dildo...violently fucking my bleeding arse with my cunt father's frozen turd was an extremely sublime experience...I also built up a huge collection of my cunt father's turds and still have some of them to this very day perfectly preserved even though they've lost all their aroma...whenever I look at his turbinate turds I always say to myself: there it is, that's life. We are all shit. We manure the earth..."

Bacon bumed: "Arseholutely, as dung Descartes shat:...'I shit, therefore I am'...and the 26-years-old Anusdeus Mozart wrote arsehole songs like: 'Lick Out My Arsehole' with the lovely arse-licking lyrics: 'Lick out my arsehole, Lick it till it's good and clean...' Shit in the Grand Style! Merde in the Grand Manner! Monstrous Mozart's motor-mouth Tourette's turd-tongue tickling the toilette tray tightly farting fragrant fragile tingling titillating tunes! Moreover Mikhail Bakhtin shat that 'shit is the joyful material'...for Mozart shit is the joyful song sheet! Mozart's music muck is the joyful song shit where the onus is on the anus."

Sylvester sighed: "But putting shit aside, as it were, splattered spunk also plays...or should I say sprays...a large part in your panic penis paintings...all those thrown white whips of putrid paint...is it connected, as it were, with your oral obsession with swallowing spunk?" You wound women and maim men with white whips of slithering spunk slashes thrown across their thick faeces faces."

Bacon beamed : "Well, from when I was very young, 9 or 10, I used to suck off all the stable boys one after the other; they'd form a long queue...sometimes I'd suck as many as two dozen dicks a day so you can imagine the gallons of spunk I swallowed...it was only later on, after living in Tangier with Ahmed Yacoubi...who had a huge twelve inch tool....that I realised that fucking niggers spunk was so much more ontologically superior, aesthetically creamier and philosophically purer, than fucking white man's spunk or fucking yellow man's spunk which is far too etiolated for my tastes...and I never cared for fucking jew juice either...black is best."

Dyer drooled: "Faggot shit! You love my spunk shot all over your fucking fag face and seeing all the fucking spunk dripping down in the mirror."

Sylvester snorted: "Is that why, as it were, you prefer only to eat the warm white of the egg... and always only very lightly boiled and slightly salted...because it tastes just like thick soggy weeping wads of hot steaming streaming stinking nauseating Neanderthal Negro semen slime sludge....? Does the white of the egg have the same sensation as semen sort of thing? The same texture? The same smell? The same soggyness?"

Bacon bragged: "Yes, David, you could say that, as I like my egg whites runny, thick, and creamy to taste just like fucking niggers spunk."

Sylvester scissored: "In an egg shell, as a theorising, as well as practicing, homosexual, yourself, as it were, why is it, do you think, that the contemporary homosexual swallows so much semen, faeces, urine, while being well fucked high on poppers, ecstasy, cocaine? Is it a desire to regress back to the primordial reptilian condition of swamp sensation existence? To mutate into a reptilian alien, as it were?"

Bacon bit: "Well, we all know that the homosexual is profoundly homophobic; full of self disgust, self loathing, self hate, and always self negating; they deeply desire an auto-annihilation - the homosexual desires to be fucked by the father, finished off by the father."

Sylvester sawed: "When, as it were, did you first see your hideously distorted face image in the mirror? Were you disgusted by what you saw? What the hell did you see?"

Bacon blew: "An abomination! An Allosaurus with Alzheimer's! A repugnantly retarded reptile! A dinosaur drenched in diarrhoea! It was when I was one when my cunt father caught me smearing my dripping drooling diarrhoea all over my mutant fuck face so frogmarched me to the mirror and all I could see was this slurp sludge stuff sliding, slipping down, draining, smudging my mug into a mud bath; my cunt father made me lick and lap up all the liquid diarrhoea and it tasted tremendous; the luminous leaking liquids later leaked forth from my self-portraits sensationing the smell of shit. So I identified with shit as I had not real face to identify with; I have no real face, I have no real body but Being and Turd. You see, David, I knew, even from being an evil and abnormal beast baby, that I was an ugly mother fucker that should have been put down at birth, so you see, shit was my saviour, shit was my veil, shit was my mask that concealed, yet also revealed, my bum boy being thrown towards shit as an arsethetic Aletheia art aroma aiming at annihilating my monstrously mutated, distorted, deformed fuck face forever."

Sylvester sensationed: "Could one say, as it were, that your being-towards-shit was a subconscious desire to regress to a primordial pre-discursive pre-ontological pre-linguistic leak like swamp sensation sludge slurp state of oozed becoming being towards turd?"

Bacon bled: "Well, David darling, I remember my cunt mother shitting me out at birth and I tried desperately to get back inside the cunt again so the doctors had to use forceps to deliver me crushing my heinous head which is why it is so hideously distorted, warped, like my mutated portraits...I learnt to love my fucked face and felt that disgust is not a distasteful sensation but delightful."

Sylvester shat: "So, as a painter, you are a narcissist with an object, shit, which you then transmutate into an object of art; from arse object to art object; from arse to art, from being shit to being art, shit becoming art, as it were? Throwing turd ahead of time?"

Bacon beamed: "Yes, David, identification with shit arrives in advance of the Symbolic Order, the Name of the Father, the Mirror Stage, because the smell comes before the sight and the site of leaked linguistic being bled and the ego eye of being born."

Sylvester slated: "But being shat shit flows forth before being baby; there is no distinction between 'it' and 'shit'...surely?"

Bacon brooded: "No distinction only stinktion which opens up the valves of shit sensation smelling being bare thrown there. The 'it' has an arse to fill as well as to spill; original identification is stink sensation; nasal, and anal after, oral after anal; as an 'it', a non I, there was no distinction between my 'being' and my 'shit' as my anus was always already open-to-the-world breaking down the barriers between the inside and the outside...My thesis on faeces is that Lucien Freud, Pollock and de Kooning were never properly botty potty toilet trained and over did their dire diabolical diarrhoea do da...the fucking arseholes don't know the art of shitting; their stools are too lose, too late, too leaked. The art of the anus is a do da fort da fart where one pus-pulls push-pulls, where one, as it were, can control the crap...retain-release, retain-release arse ad infinitum letting turd be in and out at once. The topography of the turd splits shits inside-out outside-in...stinktion breaking down diarretic distinction between in-out; turdists Turner, Titian, were great fort da anus artists....whereas, with Freud's faeces, the canvas is caked and crusted, the tight cunt paints with his own fucking shit."

Sylvester strayed: "When did we get, as it were, our anus first assaulted, penetrated, by a projected prodding penis? Was it, as it were, a replay, a repeat, of your faeces fuck frisson? Does anal intercourse re-rehearse shitting-shit, that lost object of desire?"

Bacon baked: "Well, I was first fucked by my cunt father's fox hound when I was four, who, ironically enough, fucked me in doggy position and it felt like I was shitting in reverse; for me, then, fucking and shitting had exactly the same sensation though shitting was far too short lived, fucking felt forever. When Ahmed Yacoubi used to fuck the shit out of me four hours on end with his massive monster meat it felt like I was always already outside my body inside his body; fucking throws one outside one's skin outside the skin of the world. To be is to be fucked out of one's self. All fucking faggots dream of being fucked to death by man meat where the dick decapitates Dasein as its comes to a head. To be fucked is to be finished off by being impaled by another being becoming a part of that being."

Sylvester sighed: "So aggressive anal intercourse is, as it were, mans meat memory turd tray trace of the throwing, floating, flooding froth forth, finishing, sinking, severing subjectivity so salvaging pushed punctuated primordial pulse sludge slush soggy semen sensationism of our ancient animal alienism again? For you, does the violence of sex spunk through the violence of the paint..?"

Bacon burped: "As you well know, I love to have the fucking shit beaten out of me and being badly bruised black and blue all over seeing the swollen scared skin metamorphosing to mauve, purple, green, yellow, and translating that translucency into my mutilated images. I always long to have a broken beer bottle thrust in my mug fort-da fuck-face and twisted back and forth, back and forth, back and forth as a kind-of sort-of fort-da-frothyness so that the splintered glass shards become lodged in the torn minced meat maggot faggot flesh and the green glass glistens with weeping ruby red blood and pus pink poof flesh reinventing reality leaked like in my minced and severed spunk slurping self-portraits..."

Sylvester strode: "Do you see in the bruises of being beaten the beauty of being mince-meated and mutated as a reinventing reality..?"

Bacon bragged: "We are always already born bruised and beaten by the body of the moaning mince meat mother who shits us out screaming with sublime slime; we are all slurp stuff, we are all surplus syrup, we are wet stuff; we are born wet all over dripping and drooling; paint presents this pure wet stuff - not represents - but presents it - since it - the pure paint - is the thing itself leaking out of itself as pure presentation: it is the it of the nothing as the profoundly superficial boringly interesting ugly beauty of the wet dry dark light soft hard pleasure pain paint..."

Sylvester strobed: "What you want is the paint to do its own thing, to be its own thing, by chance, without consciously controlling it?"

Bacon brewed: "Yes - paint - as it is - a thing - as a pure presence - not paint as a representation of a thing - that is: illustrational paint. What has never yet been analysed is why this particular way of painting is more poignant than illustration. I suppose because it has a life completely of its own. It lives on its own, like the image one's trying to trap; it lives on its own - the thing in itself - on its own..."

Sylvester slipped: "When, as it were, did you first think about death?...When did you first realise that you were going to die..?"

Bacon belated: "One day, when I was 15 or 16 years old, I saw my fuck father's shit in the pan and I suddenly realised at that moment that I was going to die. I could smell death. I could see death at work. I think there is a difficult moment in the life of a queer. The moment when she discovers that youth is not eternal. On this day I realised this. I thought about death and since then, I think about death everyday....I always asked Dyer to do me in...to finish me off...for good...for my own good...but he was always too fucking pissed to do it..."

Sylvester spirited: "Well - you look like death...You haven't got long to go now...you're on the way out...so how would you like to end it all?...How would you like to go?...How would you like to be...done in?...finished off?...once and for all...for good..?"

Bacon brewed: "I would love to die whilst painting in front of a canvas...or die by being beheaded very slowly in front of a mirror seeing and smelling the sensation of death smiling out at me. Just to see if I can be without a body for a split second or so. Being a head. To see death. To see death at work. To be death at work. To be dead at work. To be dead at work forever."

Sylvester sunk: "When you are dead, as it were, would you prefer to be buried or cremated? Would you wish to have a museum made in the memory of your work, like Moreau, Rodin, Schiele, Munch, Matisse, Picasso, Giacometti have...by preserving your studio..?"

Bacon bored: "'When I'm fucking dead they can put me in a black bin bag along with empty bottles of Krug, Beluga caviar jars, slashed canvases, discarded brushes, studio detritus and throw me into the fucking gutter along with all the other trash...No...I don't want a mundane museum - mausoleum - in my memory...they can burn down my fucking studio once I'm fucking dead..! The studio is a space of sensation and life...and not a scared tomb of death trapped in aspic!...What really counts is the work itself...and not the studio which is really a mess full of memories, a dump full of dreams....and now, if you don't mind, I need to get on some work... "

Sylvester sighed: "And I've go to get back to the Marlborough as Valerie is waiting to edit our interviews; or should I say, edit out our interviews; - good timing - that must be the infamous George; you still haven't introduced me; - I better go..."

Disgust Dahmer pain-ted the thrown bled boiled body to tasty froth foam fragmented rot ruins incorporating corpses to unify his alien organs ornately. Brute Bacon and Disgust Dahmer are ancient autopsy alteric alien artists activating and forging fort-da-fragment froth fruit fuel flesh forever flooding forth out all over you coming all over you all drenching you all draining you all drowning you all.

Bacon spilt all over Peter Beard: "I love, for instance, the Elgin Marbles in the British Museum, but whether they're more beautiful because they're fragments, I've often wondered."

Disgust Dahmer killed the things he loved; Brute Bacon painted the things he loved; heist Hirst preserved the things he loved. Disgust Dahmer was a far more radical and authentic artist than heist Hirst because he took greater risks risking life and limb for lambs and loins. Disgust Dahmer picked-up, killed, skinned alien-ate-d his animals arseholes whilst heist Hirst was always already alienated from his animals: alienated from the catch and the kill: for Hirst never kills, fucks or eats his anodyne android alienated animals. Disgust Dahmer was a hard-core authentic alien artist whereas heist Hirst was a soft-core inauthentic 'all too human' con-artist. We are always already left with a bled bare body wetted without eggsisting eggos; severed head and limbs; a hollow mauled man, an alien animal again. Brute Bacon and Disgust Dahmer deconstructed, decomposed, disposed, drilled, drained din dragged (the) dead 'human' broken body until it was no longer leaked as human but shape-shifting abject animal anal artesian alien. Brute Bacon & Disgust Dahmer were always already in touch, in tune, in time, with their angoisse atta artistic alien instincts initiated beyond the base banal backwardness of the post-human subject to the primordial pre-historic reptilian alien being object out of the world. Dinosaurs were always already here longer than the recent inane invention of 'Man' who is always already 'an accident' on the way out to lunch ego-extinction entering the eggo-alien animal ahead; Man is (potentially) Dead; Alien is (potentially) Live. Being is Alien.

Brute Bacon made a killing out of painting, - he liked the colour of money - while Dahmer made a painting out of killing - he liked the colour of blood. Brute Bacon and Dahmer loved the smell of splattered blood and shooting spunk and the colour of flitch flesh; they were often obsessed of ornamental murdered male trunk torso stripped bare severing the head, arms, legs, lungs, heart, liver, penis, anus shitting, spurting, snorting, smelling, slurping, spitting, sighing and spunking onotlogical ooze drip drool slime skid stuffs spurted; there were paint pools of offal poof puss blood, shit, spunk everywhere dripping down chins, skins, fins. Why is a 'human' body more animal, raw, real, alive, complete, finished when it has no head, arms or legs? But the Body always already becomes bigger once the head, arms and legs have been removed: the more one severs the bigger, the greater, the grander the body becomes. The turbulent turmoil torso is always already 'larger than life' fuller than the the full figure. The face of the figure is always already rooted centred and thrown in from within-out of the torso trunk which is the true head of the body: the torso is the psyche of the body not the head: the mind, thinking, sensation come from the body - the nervous system - originating in the feet - and not the head - which was an accident stuck on top to talk to throw thought through: we were all once beheaded without heads: we were headless: we were all embodied as being headless.

Brute Bacon and Dahmer took life-and-death risks with the body while heist Hirst plays it safe and stuffs the always already 'dead' corpse: a 'treated' and 'tamed' caged corpse that can't come back at him. Heist Hirst never traps, hunts, eats, fucks or kills his framed frozen farm flesh: Why doesn't heist Hirst trap, torture, castrate, case, kill faggot-flesh instead of fish-flesh? We are all animals anyway. Humanist heist Hirst has no balls to kill bulls and take them by the horn on the horn: why doesn't heist Hirst kill Bush and Blair: torture the Christian cunts very very very slowly slowly slowly and then slice slice slice them up them up them up and case the cunts in Iraqi boiling blood? Because boring humanist heist Hirst is a Born Again Christian cunt like liar bullshitter Bush like liar bullshitter Blair. Bush Blair and Hirst are all fucking Christian Cunts - Amun and Alien await awhile arriving again and annihilating Christian Cuntism.

Heist Hirst's suave sterilised streamlined anaethetised and anodyne aesthetics is not abject art or alien art since it is served severed from frothing sensationing: there is simply no sensation since all is sealed sutured in as an anal musty museum meat memorabilia.

The Elgin Marbles Hermes Torso in the British Museum is 'larger than life', more complete in its severed shattered soiled state; as are the torsos of Schubert's 8th, Bruckner's 9th and Mahler's 10th symphonies. Brute Bacon said: "All I want to do is distort the reality of the human figure into reality. We are all meat." Disgust Dahmer distorted the reality of the human body by alien-ate-ing it and an alteric atta internal-organising it. Brute Bacon told Ian Board: "When I'm dead, put me in a plastic bag and throw me in the gutter." But the cunt was cremated, scattered, burnt off the bone. And Disgust Dahmer's brain was burnt. Brute Bacon & Disgust Dahmer bone Dasein dust blows up your nose and their abject art grates on your nerves. Brute Bacon & Disgust Dahmer were wet sublime spunk alteric alien artists painting putrid pus parts that the autistic artists could not stomach or sensation. Brute Bacon & Disgust Dahmer splattered splintered severed slithered soiled sodded sensationism. Heinous Heist Hirst's anal anodyne art is depressingly dreary devoid of disgust or delight.

DK: "Reading your work, particularly 'Exquisite Corpse', is like looking at a Francis Bacon painting. You use words the way he used paint. Like him you distort the human body. It's like you're pushing and studying the boundaries of the body, and reading it for signs which will reveal some mystery to you. What do you think is in there?"

PZB: "I guess that's what I've always been so interested to know. Not only what is in there, because you can see it in anatomy books, but what would be my reaction to it? What would it make me feel like? What would it do to someone to see these things that are for some reason culturally taboo, but that we all have inside of us. And that they're never supposed to be revealed, and if they are revealed then we're in big trouble. Peter Straub wrote a blurb for 'Exquisite Corpse', and part of what he said was it treated the human body like a communion wafer. I think that's very apt. Not even in a religious sense, but just a sense of transference of eating the flesh and having that become part of you as is the belief with communion. Another part of it is, in my readings about serial killers, I was always fascinated by how completely they were able to objectify the human body. How it was so important to them, and yet they were always completely able to disassociate themselves from consciences that they did seem to have at times . . . Dahmer being the primary case that I studied, was able to arrange his dismembered victims and their parts in an artistic manner and actually painted some of them, made compositions with them and photographed them. You can't get much more objectified than that. It's certainly not a desirable thing, but it was very interesting."

Torture Rehearsal for Sliver Silver Sensation Self Portrait Triptych Beaulieu 1980 Alex Alien

Auto-Photo-Shoot Rehearsals for Silver Sliver Sensation Self Portrait Triptych 1980 Alex Alien

"Painting is the pattern of one's own nervous system being projected on the canvas."

"Bacon is committed to his nervous system just as Van Gogh was once committed to his desire to love all men."

"My nervous system is splendid in view of the immense work it has to do; it is quite sensitive but very strong, a source of astonishment to me."

"There is an area of the nervous system to which the texture of paint communicates more violently than anything else."

Francis Bacon from Louisiana Museum for Moderne Kunst, Bacon Exhibition Catalogue, 1998.

"I feel more and more that nothing matters or will happen until someone makes a new technical synthesis that can carry over from the sensation to the nervous system."

"The image must be twisted if it is to make a renewed assault on the nervous system."

"I rely on chance as much as possible and push the paint around until something happens. I think of myself as an instinctual painter, being as close as possible to the nervous system and the unconscious...One doesn't know what one's instinct is, why one retains one hazardous mark rather than another...We don't know how the nervous system works, there is this deep well from which things are drawn out, a reservoir of the unconscious."

"It's only due to your own nervous system that you can paint at all...so the thing is, how can I draw one more veil away from life and present what is called the living sensation more nearly on the nervous system and more violently?"

"You see, each artist, especially in our time, when there's no tradition at all, works according to his own nervous system. Well, then it's he question of the quality of the nervous system. Only time will tell whether that's any good or not. One will be dead before that's been sorted out."

Francis Bacon interview with Joshua Gilder, "I Think about Death Every Day", Flash Art, May 1983.

"It's a very, very close and difficult thing to know why some paint comes across directly onto the nervous system and other paint tells you the story in a long diatribe through the brain. One of the things I've always tried to analyze is why it is that, if the formation of the image that you want is done irrationally, it seems to come onto the nervous system much more strongly than than if you knew how you could do it."

Francis Bacon to David Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon.

"You are near the middle of the exhibition. You try and accustom yourself to this painting which pinches your nerves and wounds your soul."

Philippe Dagen in Le Monde said of Bacon's retrospective at the Pompidou Centre

"Francis Bacon’s portraits scream; they are shocking, even inhuman. How do they work? This is the task of aesthetics; to read the eloquence of the paint and to bring out the philosophy in art. Using the work of philosopher Gilles Deleuze, I argue that where art is truly creative it gets on our nerves.It is not a matter of representation but of experimentation. The implication for art education is clear. Learning is to confront the problematic of colour and line, not to learn the rules of the game but to 'do' art. For that there is no method, only what Deleuze calls a ‘violent training', to experiment, to invent - to disrupt."

"But the body provided Nietzsche with a completely different perspective, namely, the perspective of active forces which (as organic and therefore subordinate functions) exposed a will to break with this servitude...He would destroy the person out of a love for the nervous system he knew he had been gifted with, and in which he took a certain pride. By studying the reactions of his nervous system, he would come to conceive of himself in a different manner than he had previously known - and indeed, in a manner that will perhaps never again be known."

Pierre Klossowski, Nietzsche and the Vicious Circle, Athlone London, 1997.

Bacon's angoisse arid-acidic ab-images initiate nailing nerves; they thorn nailed nerves sew shivering shredding, spine-chilling. Bacon was always nervous; he had a nerve, he was full of nerve and completely without nerves; his hit nervous system nailed the images to the canvas and spectator via hand and brush; the thrown paint was the record of his nervous system. Throwing iforth s the register of the nervous system and subconscious seas inside us. Bacon threw, shot, painted his nervous system straight on to the canvas; the paint in his hand became an imprint of his nervous system: smudge slime stuff. The Central Nervous System is central and essential to the 'sensing' and 'being' of Baconian 'pus paint' as spunk shot (to the) shattered severed spine. It is this very angoisse l alteric animal organic otherness of Baconian paint that attacks the nervous system as a memory trace of our oozing primordial reptilian being. These Thrown froth Baconian mutilation marks are the memoirs and left-loin-ooze over turdtraces of oil opal angoisse abject atta alien alterity - for form froth they thus nail no narrative, no known sad story to tell so sow sensation sperm seeds sending shining silver sliver sensations sown .

Bacon's leaking leftover angoisse alien arbitrary murder marks are pre-historic and pre-onotological. Non-illustrational arbitrary paint, as abject alien alterity materialized, leaks out reaching the putrid parts that illustrational non-paint cannot reach.; Illustrative-narrative non-nervous paint remains on the 'commonsense conscious' and 'human level': that of brain dead banal story telling. Bacon's arbitrarily shot spunk slime pain paint grit grain grates on the nailed neurotic nerves, puts one's nerves on edge, grates on our nerves, makes us nervous. Abject Alien Art Aspires to the angoisse Alien Condition of the Nailed Nervous System Penetrating through the Body beyond the Pleasure Principle and the Death Drive to Juice Jouissance. Conceptual Art Nails Nothing; there is no Hammer to Nail It to Being. Abstract Art is Being thrown towards Nothingness; Conceptual is Copout. Sensationism is Being. Sensation is Image. Sensation is: Sensation.

Bacon's non-illustrational ordered-accidental arbitrary pain-t nails the thin nerves. non-illustrational pain-ting a nervous break down, Shatters Our Nerves, Makes Us Nervous, has a nerve, hits a nerve nailing the spine, severing the stomach. Non-illustrational pain-ting is initially primordial subconscious memory traces of the leaking body; 'truer', more 'real' to the 'authentic' Alien Body of Becoming. Non-illustrational Painting Aspires to the Condition of Music. The eyes, ears, nose, mouth, arse, cock, cunt can be painted without being 'put-in', without being 'illustrated' by using the non-rational 'Otherness' of arbitrary marks which are more suggestive, more 'real', more visceral, than literal photo realism. Lucien Freud and Jenny Saville are not painters but illustrators in that they fill-in-the-form through the static surfaces of empirical evidence which is conscious copying; - whereas Bacon and Giacometti are concerned with the extra empirical and subconscious embodied eggo being with their x-ray visions reinventing reality. Freud and Saville do not reinvent reality but remain trapped on the banal level of inane illustration and empirical consciousness. As Bacon stated to Daniel Farson: "You know, the trouble with Lucien's work is that it's realistic without being real. You know what I mean?" The moment one starts 'knowing' consciously what 'one is doing' (and knows 'how to do it'; that is, stupidly and lazily merely 'illustrating' the portrait like fucked Freud) the banality and boredom sets in.

Now then there here we you us they all must paint purely shimmering shining sheening spunk sensation subconsciously frothed from the slime sea inside of us and spunk it out all over the canvas and 'forget how to do it' in order to open up the vilke virile vivacious valves of sensation. As Bacon stated: the moment you 'know' what you are 'doing' you are just making another form of illustration. You all now have to paint intuitively, instinctually, directly from the 'unconscious sea inside us' (the nervous system, the psyche of the body) so that the paint comes from the body to the body inking instinct outside illustration. Bacon bled bare to Michel Archimbaud: "Painting has nothing to do with illustration, it is in away its opposite, rather as decoration is also quite the opposite to painting."

Sensationism alien-anti-illustrational artworks are activated by the will to lose one's will and open up the valves of sensation going way far beyond the pleasure principal and the death drive; beyond the body boundaries of the human ear arriving at alien-being. Sensationist anti-illustrational painting aspires to the condition of music interpreted by Klemperer, Toscanini, Kleiber, Monteux, Munch and Boulez who opened up the visceral valves of sensation, instinct and feeling These conductors gave performances that attacked the nervous system and senses via visceral vivacious voluptuous intensity and tough tightness; like Bacon's 'paints' and Degas 'pastels', they hit the nervous system through a nailing nervous tight tension reaching the parts other conductor's cannot reach. Klemperer, Toscanini, Monteux, Munch, Boulez like Bacon, conduct outside inane illustration and commonsense clock time.

Klemperer's 'live' Beethoven 9 with the Philharmonia Orchestra (Royal Festival Hall, 15 November, 1957) as well as Toscanini's 'live' Beethoven 9 with the Teatro Colon Orchestra, (Buenos Aires, 24 July 1941), and Toscanini's 'live' performances of Tchaikovsky's 'Manfred' Symphony of December 21 1940; February 28, 1948; and January 10th 1953, are sensationism performance par excellence (and never 'sensational'). These performances are on fire with a nailing nerve-shaking hot intensity which is almost too paintful and painful to take in so relenting and nailing is the bite, grit, grain, base base: they are conducted outside illustration and narrative and the contained experience of 'commonsense' time.

Activate the auto-alien anti-illustrational pulsation portrait; the shape-shifting self-reptilian portrait. It is no longer possible to paint the human: 'woman' does not exist ('she' is always already abject alien) 'man' is dead. Michel Foucault and Friedrich Nietzsche forecast the 'Ends of Man'. We have to reinvent ourselves. Becoming Alien We have to Reinvent the Face, the Form beyond the Human towards the Alien. Illustrational Realism (of Lucien Freud) is retarded, redundant, reactionary, regressive realism reactivated as alien art. We Need An Anti Illustrational Alien Arbitrary Art. Narrative is Dead. Illustration is Dead. Conceptual Art is Dead. Abstract art is Dead. Contemporary Art is Dead. Bacon Lives. Alien Resurrection.

"The art of conducting lies, in my opinion, in the power of suggestion that the conductor exerts - on the audience as well as on the orchestra. A conductor must know how to hold attention. He must be able to lead the players with his eyes and the movements of his hands or baton. By this power of suggestion the level of a mediocre orchestra can be raised considerably. Vice versa, the playing art of a great orchestra can be lowered by a mediocre conductor."

Otto Klemperer, Conversations with Klemperer, Peter Heyworth, Victor Gollancz, 1973.

"The only time I ever saw Klemperer conduct, he was quite old and frail. He was conducting Bach's B minor Mass in London, and I remember the way he walked on stage, the way he sat at the podium. There was something profoundly unattractive about it, but compelling at the same time."

Edward W. Said, Parallels and Paradoxes: Explorations in Music & Society, Bloomsbury, 2003.

Bacon and Klemperer went against the grain by going with the grain, grit, cutting core, pure penetrating performances fueling form from alien architecture so stripping being bare to bone. Bacon and Klemperer were cantankerous uncouth cunts, shudderingly shy, loiteringly lonely, sarcastically sad, madly manic, deeply depressives; consciously contradictory and deliberately destructive; and also deeply and profoundly 'politically incorrect' and always saying the 'wrong things'. Bacon and Klemperer sensationed the 'score' structured-suture sutured-structure so severing soggy silky sentimentality superficial surfaces. So Bacon and Klemperer never 'performed' to 'please' or 'play-up' to the 'audience' but made the masses work by refusing to give them an easy time negating easy-listening and easy-seeing. Both Bacon and Klemperer did not 'perform' for an 'audience' but for the 'work' itself for the nothing itself out it self. Bacon and Klemperer knew always already that their abject-art is not at all about arsehole commonsense communicating anything on the conscious plane and both operated outside of time letting Being be becoming out-of-time all the time being about the nothing at all. Bacon and Klemperer were not 'trying to say' anything but subconsciously sensationing something as a nailing the nothing letting the grey, grain, grit, ground being becoming bare blocks of oozed solid sound inked into image initiate infinity as an abjected abimage. Both Bacon and Klemperer activated a Heideggerian distanciation, as a time-space distanciation decapitated delivering severed-silence sensations that the then throwing time out of time severing the subject from being-in-time all the time. Bacon and Klemperer projected punctuated pounding sound structure abimages as an abinterpretation always already as an abjected and angoisse alien aleatoric alétheia aura awe shine Schein sein.

The 'silences' or 'gaps' or 'pauses' in a Klemperer or Bacon 'anti-interpretation' are black 'negative' sound-blocks that trace the trace of the negated 'positive' and both emphasised and stressed the heavy black 'base-line' interjected by pointed wounded woodwind. There can never be a 'back ground' in a Bacon or a Klemperer projected sound brute bite performance-image initiation because the heavy weighty base-line back bone is always already ahead of the 'ground' and under the ground. Klemperer's weighty bass line of double basses in his 'live' Beethoven 7th Symphony with the Philadelphia Orchestra (Academy of Music, 3rd November 1962) reminds one of Degas' putrid pastel back bones of Women After The Bath: tough, weighty, grainy, grounded. Bacon and Klemperer do not 'put in' the 'background' because there is no 'background' only ground, groin, grain, grit. Later on in their chequered cracked careers both Bacon and Klemperer often became 'bored' and 'lazy' and 'slowed down' and 'repeated themselves' - and didn't turn up for their own shows or concerts. Klemperer and Bacon attacked mediocre conductors and painters with volatile vivacious violent vitriolic voluptuous venom; serving the 'Old Masters' in the thrown grainy 'Grand Manner' with solid stoic stark sensationism but always devoid of being superficially sensational. Klemperer and Bacon always knew very well that they were far more superior to their pusillaminous politically correct contemporary cunts.

Like leaking dripping Degas, Bacon and Klemperer readily remove the thin supine skin of the spastic 'subject' from the 'work' reducing the 'performance' and the 'image' to the grounding of 'nothing' : served severed sown sutured structure spine projected frothing forward powerfully piercing through the skin seeping sensation and all being anti-narrative stripping the 'score' stripping the 'image' to its back base-line of nailed 'nothingness' skinning sensation beautifully bare thrown through there. Klemperer's 'live' Beethoven 9th Symphony with the Philharmonia Orchestra (Royal Festival Hall,15th November, 1957) has the same stabbing nervous nailing of our froth foam form thrown thrusted to subconscious swamp stuff as are abjected in Bacon's shuddering shredding Study for Portrait of Peter Lacy 1963 with its direct nerve nailing of black discs to the spine of the severed subject sea of the swollen sunken subconscious similar in sensation to Klmeperer's 'live' 1968 Vienna Philharmonic performance of Beethoven's Coriolan Ovrture, Op. 62: nauseating nail stabbing heavy and hard black chords and severing spacious silences. Bacon and Klemperer nailed nerves grit grained sutured sensation. Both Bacon and Klemperer did their greatest abwork between1953 and 1968 but by the end both Bacon and Klemperer became bored by being born by being by becoming bored towards to death.

"This distancing has enabled Bacon to master his gruesome and convulsive subject matter...the paint has a dreadful materiality, as though the grainy cellular structure of the pigment, swiped with a loaded brush across the canvas, were a smear of tissue."

Roland Barthes' phrase 'The Grain of the Voice' could well have been applied to Francis Bacon's Grain of the Paint. For Barthes the ‘grain’ is the materiality of the body speaking its alien primordial tongue: "The grain is the body in the voice as it sings" and the 'grain' is the body's 'voice' and register of primordial being. The grain of the voice, Barthes writes, throws: "the anonymous body of the actor into my ear: it granulates, it crackles, it grates, it cuts, it comes: that is bliss." Barthes stated: "The grain of the voice is not indescribable, but I don't think that it can be defined scientifically, because it implies a certain erotic relationship between the voice and the listener. One can therefore describe the grain of a voice, but only through metaphores. To describe this grain, I find images of a milkweed acidity, of a nacreous vibration, situated at the exquisite and dangerous limit of the toneless...a voice can be in tune while the grain is out of tune." The Voice of Bacon's paint preys grates gores crackles, cuts, comes: that is jubilant jouissance. Bacon said he loved phrases that 'cut' him; Bacon loved his grain groin pushed paint to prick pierce penetrate nailing nervous system sensationing spasms spurts.

Inge Borkh, Martha Modl, Leonie Rysanek, Maria Callas, Sarah Vaughan and Judy Garland pierce and penetrate the nervous system by singing outside 'illustration' - where the 'distortion' of the 'impure' (flawed) 'noises' negate the 'meaning' of the lyrics. But Bacon, Borkh, Rysanek, Garland and Vaughan stretch the voice of pain(t) to hysteria breaking up the vocal line where volume visceral vitalism outstrips meaning. The strained stained 'distortion' of their 'impure' voices grates on our nerves, like the Grain Groin Grit of the Paint in Bacon's 'distorted', 'impure' images. As by products of the body, The Grain of the Voice and The Grain of the Paint are primordial pains thrown that penetrate prickingly the body and nervous system sending sounds outside illustration and literal meaning: they mean no-thing. This is eggoed-echoed by Judy Garland 'Live' on The Mike Douglas Show, July 1968 where her voice is ruined beyond repair negating illustration becoming broken glass cutting against the grain. Sassy Sarah Vaughan sung outside idiotic illustration 'cracking' the 'grit grain' of her heary sassy silky smoky burnt bacon vile vibrato voice thrust towards sad sand pain paper sounding sensationism senselessly smazely snotingly snortinglly sogginglly syrupinglly silkly. Julie London also had that suave smoky silky sound.

Inge Borkh, Leonie Rysanek, Martha Modl, Astrid Varnay, Sarah Vaughan, Judy Garland, Shirley Bassey like Bacon, take risks and go 'too far' for some 'tastes' taking the voice 'over the top' causing the voice to 'break up', 'distort', 'screech', like Bacon's shrill paint which screams louder than 'words'. Borkh, Rysnaek, Modl, Callas, Garland cannot be heard by the empirical ear like Bacon's images cannot be seen by the empirical eye: they thus 'distort' us back to the real Reality of Authentic Alien Primordial Being where the grain and grit grate on our groin, our nerves, our bodies. The Grain of the Voice calls to mind (and body) Bacon's Grain of the Paint with all its altered alien abject sublime biting brittle blissfulness, brokeness. Bacon's broken thrown paint sounds similar to Borkh's broken thrown voice in all its voluptuous vomiting visceral violent vivacity. Bacon said: "Painting is the pattern of one's nervous system being projected on the canvas."

Singing is also the projected pattern of one's nervous system being projected on the body down the spine. Bacon said to Peppiatt: "The image must be twisted if it is to make a renewed assault on the nervous system." The voice must be twisted if it is to make a renewed assault on the ear, body, nervous system blleding bare beyond the word. Borkh, Rysanek, Modl, Varnay Callas, Vaughan, Garland, Bassey twisted the voice beyond illustration and meaning reaching the parts other voices do not reach. In singing 'It's All For You' ('live' from The Tonight Show,1968) Judy Garland 'distorted', 'cracked', 'grained' and 'broke' the 'voice' at the end of a 'line', at the end of a 'word', 'graining' the 'voice' thrown towards visceral sensation outside illustration assaulting the nervous system. Singing 'live' at the Manhattan Centre, April 26, 1962, Garland makes a 'joke' about her throat doctor to 'cover' her 'throat infection' which made a gritty grainy throat inflection cracking, quivering, breaking the words bare breeding a slithering slivering silvering sheening shrieking shrilling shot sound sensation thrown beyond illustration towards a visceral vocal violent sensationism crackling cracking close to thrown brute Bacon's gritty grainy nerve-wracking spine-chilling choking twisted thrown pushed paint nailing nerves nauseously nervously neurotic.

What is alienus portraiture? Is there an alienual autoportrait? Who can really recognise an extraterrestrial emanation; or an angoisse alien apparition? Who can really recognise an alien apparition? Or, rather, misrecoginise? As there are always already 'aliens among us' which wear all too human heads hiding their reptilian wrinkles, slimy skin, shiny scales and an alteric alienus aura. Extraterrestrial Portraiture positively isn't sentimental Steven Spielberg's schlock, all too human, ET. Extraterrestrial Portraiture arrives as Alien attuned and activated by Swiss surrealist artist Hans Ruedi Giger. H.R. Geiger is guarded about the abject alien he activated to: "The Alien has been my baby so when I was asked to change the creature into a less humanoid beast, I hoped that my decisions would be done without other ideas. I thought, since I got an Oscar for my Alien, it would be me who gave advice on how it would look. When Woodruff and Gillis said they had their own ideas, I was very upset." Giger gave birth to an alien art to an art alien by tearing the head off of the human and now there are no more human heads about only our alien heads ahead.

What is alienus portraiture useful for? As an 'it' it is not useful for anything - 'it' is useful for a nothing - 'it' is useful for a thing: for being a thing in itself as abjected out itself. An alienus portraiture is projected 'out of orbit' : 'it' is not an 'art work' : 'it' does not 'work' : 'it' is always already 'out-of-work' : 'it' is 'out-of-art' : 'it' is 'out-of-joint' : 'it' is idle and asleep - such are alien idols : away waiting awhile as a drifting drooling dasein doing nothing: unemployed and unemployable: a radical 'doing nothing' as a mood 'moon lighting' lingering liquid lava abjected ahead as an arche-arting activated action navigating nebula neutral nearing nerve nevus nevering nothing.

In pressing ahead alienus portraiture forward to its true existence, sensation will arrive at a point at which it sheds its semblance of being burdened with something alien to it, that is only for it and as some sort of other. Alien abpearance as an arche-arting becomes identical with an angoisse ejaculated essence and at just this point the shining of sensation will thereby seep with the scene of sense proper projected ahead and afar as an altaric alienscape portraiture porous propulsion pressing presence preserved. In real reality there is no such 'thing' as an 'alien representation' as art alien is always already an an absentation as an abjection ahead as a projected presentation of the 'thing it self' abjected ahead of itself out of it self as being alien in itself: alien being is art alien abjected ahead as art alien becoming being beheaded. Beheading ahead alienus self portraiture Velázquez and Rembrandt did not represent themselves: make representations of themselves: Velázquez and Rembrandt presented: made presentations: made present projections thrown through an altaric abjected absentation attuning and attaining an activated presencing - pure presence projected - passing the time all the time - ahead of time - as being time becoming the time being for the time being - being in time and out of time - at the same time - being behind the time for a time. Rembrandt and Velázquez - as abjected aleatoric-alétheia alien-artists of being-as-time serve the sensation of time severing the sensation of time as being the being of time all the time not in time all the time out of time.

Velázquez and Rembrandt project and push present the presence of Being in beings as abjected and altaric alien beings - but not as a painting of presence, not as a philosophy of presence - leaving logocentrism leaked - but as a dasein of différance - detoured derailed ahead - as a distant derridian deferment defilement - disjoining decapiatated différance - ahead - as a head - headed floating forward - forging forever fort da daing darling dasein - daringly delivered as an angoisse activated articulted absencing - arriving alive away and ahead - as a head - attained as an angoisse abjected absent past pushed present - presenting pure presence - past projected afar and ahead - at a distance - at a deference - at a différance. Velázquez and Rembrandt present the différance of presence present pressting ahead a head having annihilated representation: Velázquez and Rembrandt do not represent - Velázquez and Rembrandt present.

Velázquez and Rembrandt present the absent present as an abjected dasein dissemblance disseminated dissemenated drenching the sight and the site of the subject stained: severe Velázquez and Rembrandt sever the time of the subject so cannot be seen in time only over a time and not in any old time or for the time being. For Velázquez and Rembrandt serve self portraiture projected for the being time the being of time. For Velázquez and Rembrandt being time is a constant presence constantly serving and severing itself out of time all the time not in time by being time constantly ahead of itself as a head of time for all time and no time for all and for no one. Velázquez and Rembrandt present time for the time being as the sensation of the subject of being-in-time since the sensation of time is always already also subjective as well as absoluted and abjected absolutely. Velázquez and Rembrandt paint present time for the time being for the time of the subject to take time for the time being and the being time. Velázquez and Rembrandt activate and abject the subject of time out of time all the time in time with being time becoming time being.

Velázquez and Rembrandt present the time for the subject as the time for the present: the present past ahead of itself: for Velázquez and Rembrandt time is not represented for time is not a representation: time cannot be represented only sensationed since time is a sensation for the subject attuned and attained as an art alien activation. Attaining absolute time throws thrusts ahead a head of an attuned absolute art alien attained. As for being painters for Velázquez and Rembrandt the painting of time paints the temporality of painting for the time being being the being of time. For Velázquez and Rembrandt the truth of painting is the painting of time as the time of painting out of time with the time of being for the being time. Velázquez and Rembrandt disperse time dispersing dasein ahead of itself dispensing the time of the subjected disseminated a head of itself dissemenated as a decapitated dasein. For Velázquez and Rembrandt Being & Paint present dasein time for a time adrift and ahead as a moving mooding moment where a mood makes a time a severed sensation of time as a mood of time for a time and for a time being. Time is Nothing but a Mooding and the nothing gives times its moods. Time is a Real Thing as Time is a Mood Thing to be in and to be thrown out of: dread derails disperses decapitates the time from the time of the subject. Dread takes the Time out of the Subject: Dread - Anxiety - Boredom - the true sensations of being-thrown-out-of-time - steal and suspend the subject from being-in-time. Velázquez and Rembrandt suspend the presence of the subject by suspending the time being for the subject by presenting the sensation of suspended time painting presence present and abjected ahead as a mooding moment telling the time. For Velázquez and Rembrandt time is a real thing as time is a material mood: time is made manifest by being in a mood and by being thrown from one mood to another mood from one time to another severing time making time a static sensation sometimes. For Velázquez and Rembrandt time-as-mood thing is always already non-linear as time changes moods and cuts itself off of itself as a mood mutates. Velázquez and Rembrandt activate an Eternal Throwing of Time as a Fort Da daseining decapitating the time being ahead of itself for the being time for the being of time. Art alien like Time alien is always already away ahead of being alien for time for time alien for being.

Velásquez paints the allure and allusion of time through the flicker of the brush which signals each split spunk spilt second thrown through passages of pure paint: through the fluent flight of the bravura brush the flicker of time darts, dances, skates, shimmers, and shudders the paint in time with the seeping sensation of the sitter’s fleeting and flashing sensibility shining through the fleeting flickers. For Velásquez the painting of the pathway of time is the key that unlocks the sensation of being in time with the world as a being for time as a passage and passing of being through the timing of time Velásquez’ benign beings are bathed in time and become objects of time and for time – for the time being for the being time for his time – and out time to come. Velásquez is inviting us into his time - as 'doing time' - as a 'doing time undone' - as a remembrance of our time to come as our time past us: we become both Velásquez passing of time and our own passing of time as out time to come as contemporary ghosts voyeurizing returning revenants. For Velásquez time itself manifest itself as the shining of Being. Time manifests itself in Velásquez' paint as the shining of being. Velásquez allows us all to see time for the first time as a being that shines time and as a time that shines being. For Velásquez time shines.

As an absolute altaric attunement alienus portraiture is attained and activated as alien abjected and not man made and certainly not created consciously but carried out carved out off Outside of an artist as Ather without being a representational resemblance. As an altaric alienus portraiture - projecting pure presence - precedes pasts postpones - retreating resembling returning retarding representation. As an altaric alienus portraiture cannot be represented only presented because an altaric alienus portraiture is projected ahead and out of the order of representation for nothing can be represented only presented. The nothing is out of order of representation for the nothing is presenting and the nothing at all is presented as an altaric alienus portraiture.

As a meandering memorial mediation altaric alienus portraiture perturbs ahead an aliquid alien head here beheaded from the body being unhinged, unsettling, uncanny, unavailable as an absence attuned as a shuddering shimmering shape shifting sensation of becoming an aura of alien spirit spilt split off from representation for art alien is alien to representation and cannot be represented only presented out in its itness. As always already aliquid, art alien cannot be made available as an object of knowledge as art alien is useless, unavailable, ungraspable. As absolutely abject alteric alienus-self-portraiture is indeed always already an oxymoron orphan object of nauseating non-recognition removed far from the thick moronic memory of man masking the mania of man mimicking the madness of man-making-man initiated in alien's abimage. An altaric-alienus projected portraiture - is instead initiated - as an arche-arting - attuned and attained as an alien action - ahead and behind - being-man-made. Man no longer belongs to Art. Art belongs to Alien. Alien does not Belong. Alien is Away. Art is Away. Art is Alien. Art Alien - as Nonconcetualizable - has no Porper Name - alien to naming - alien to the man that did not make 'it' - alien art is activated and arrived as a dismembered darting dissemenisation jettisoning joissance juices decanting delicious delirious dasein drained delivered dripping dry with weary weepie welter wetness.

As Francis Bacon said in painting a severed self-portrait to René Char: "I took my head as one takes a lump of salt, and literally pulverized it." The pulverised portrait - as a sensation of the severing - removes representation presenting pure decapitated dasein. An altaric alienus portraiture lives in the name of the nameless and in the head of the headless: and we will in the withering and waiting future live without a need for a name or a need for a head. Art begins by beheading being for the time being for the being time becoming behind and ahead of the time being for an alien time after being.

In pushing ahead and pulverizing an alien head as alienus portraiture it has to be always pulsated as a pure presentation not as representation. Art alien is always already pure presentation - not known representation - of the Thing Itself as absolutely abjected out Itself. As alienus portraiture cannot be represented - there is Nothing to represent. So-called 'subjects' as so second hand - are always already representations and not presentation - not present: people are representation and art is presentation. People are not present: people are no longer present: people are re-present: people are representation: Clichés: are always already Clichés of Clichés of Clichés done to death: to 'paint a portrait' is to paint the Cliché: Cézanne and Bacon broke with the Cliché by painting the Sensation of the Thing out Itself by radically forgetting 'how to do it' - how to do a head - how to form a face. For Cézanne, Bacon, Jawlensky and Picasso the real is always already second hand - inauthentic - representation - and never truly 'real' enough. Only art alien is the real thing without being representation - Present by being Absent - by being away and ahead all the time not in time by being behind time ahead of time.

Art is ahead of Man: Art is Presentation: Man is Representation: Amun activated Art as an abimage. Amun - as Art abjected - at source at shaft - as a shooting Semen sauce - serving Sun serenly - bringing Being - birthing being - activating art. Always already Art is ahead of Man: Art precedes Man: Art is Presentation: Man is Representation: And Art made man initiated in Arts Abimage: Amun activated Art and making man as arts abimage. Amun as Art activated - as an Abject Sublime slime Semen sensation - spurts Shining shards - soaking serving soaring Sun. Swallowing spunk Amun activated Art as Amun's Abimage: as 'the hidden one': Art makes Man Disappear: Art is the concealment of Man as Unconcealment. Art made Man and Art unmade Man: Art is the Birth and Death of Man: Art always already survives Man. Alien Art is the murmuring mourning memory of Mans Deaths. Art is the real of Man's unreality: Man is representation: art is presentation: Art makes Man present only in order to make Man absent again, and again, and again, and again.

Always already Art is ahead of Man: Art is Presentation: Man is Representation: Amun activated Art as an abimage. Amun - as Art abjected - at source - at shaft - as a shooting Semen sauce - serving Sun serenely - bringing Being - birthing being - activating art. Always already Art is a Head of Man: Art precedes Man: Art is Presentation: Man is Representation: And Art made man initiated in Arts Abimage: Amun activated Art and making Man made as Arts abimage. Amun as Art activated - as an Abject Sublime slime Semen sensation - spurts Shining shards - soaking serving soaring Sun. Swallowing spunk Amun activated Art as Amun's Abimage and abjected a Head hiding 'the hidden one': Art makes Man Disappear: Art is the Concealment of Man as Unconcealment. Art made Man and Art Unmade Man: Art is the Birth and Death of Man: Art always already survives Man, severs Man. Alien Art is the murmuring mourning memory of Mans Deaths. Art is the real of Man's unreality: Art is Man's only reality. Man is merely a representation: art is presentation: Art makes Man present only in order to make man absent again, and again, and again. Art always already marks the Ends of Man.

The real reason art alien is pure presentation and not second hand second head representation is that 'it' is the real thing before the being of representation being pure presence of the thing in itself ahead of itself as the image of the abject not the image of the object.

Here for Heidegger The Head - as a head ahead of itself - out-of-itself - beheaded before being - is Die Unkopfliche: the realm of the unheady, or the not-at-head - as akin to Heidegger's Die Unheimliche, the realm of the uncanny, the realm of the unhomely - or the not-at-home. That is Die Unkopfliche is always already the thrown familiar foreignness of an alienus portraiture as absolutely abjected: as un-headed, as the un-hinged. The unheadly - as the undeadly - does not allow us to be at head, be at hand, be at home. We cannot get home; we cannot get head. We can get head by being ahead a head by being left behind by forgetting one's head by losing one's head one gets a head. Making head way. Making home way. There's no one at head. There's no one at home. A head. A home.

There's no one at head as there's no one at face: the face is finished: the face is a cliché to be overcome! No one has a face per se: one has a cliché: one wears a cliché: as a well worn cliché the face has no future: presently the face is always already a representation of past representations: the face is fucked: man can no longer face not having a face so man hides in the face of the other who hides in the face of the other who hides in the face of the other ad infinitum. There is no face-to-face relation as there is no face to face.

Alexj von Jawlensky's so-called 'Abstract Heads' from the mid 1920's to the mid 1930's mark the ending of the human and the becoming of the alien image in art and are Great Art in unifying architecture, music, poetry, painting and philosophy. Jawlnesky's 'Abstract Haeds' are attuned only by the correctness of the gaze of the alien eye that has the ability to shine and can sensation the shining: this is not merely mirroring of one shine to another shining that is the image: it is being within the horizon of shining itself shafting out of itself as a glowing Geist gazing grieving through the thrown enigmatic engulfing echo effect as an abjected and as an angoisse attitude and alienus attunement attained as a meandering mesmerising merging memorial murmuring mooding.

Francis Bacon's pork poof portmanteau portraits drip drool leak lamella shoot spunk spill saliva snort snot trail tears sensationing slippery slivery slithery slimy silky soggy sticky squishy surfaces, stubborn stains, smouldering sockets, slit sores. The thrown fucked faces, hollow heads oozed off of boiled Bacon's bones become the thrown raw register excessive eggo externalisation off of the thrown blown body's jewel jew juices which drip drool froth from the thick jew jaw, the thick nigger nose, the thin mean mouth, the thirsty egg eyes leaking lamella, swamp sewer, subconscious sea, shot spunk, slithering spume with all the froth and the foam locked leaking arse about, around armpit the then frozen face, the there hollow hot head. Bacon never paints a whole head, a full-face, rather a hole head: an opening, an open wound, as an open anus, as a flawed face un-unified: the features froth, foam: fuel form leak lamella bleed bone skin surface: there is no ego only ooze doily eggo. For Bacon, the 'beauty of the paint' throws out the eggo ooze of 'the ugly object' opening out as alienualising the thrown thirst alienus 'abject sublime' slime soaking sodden through to the bled 'beautifully ugly' unavailable to the slippery subject of knowledge.

Grit, grain, gap gape, groin gore, drool drips, soiled spunk sliver shots, silver saliva sliver, slither stains, scar, severe and serve, flaw the face, slice the skin surface, the thrown face froth form, the hole head hollowing oozed out, opening out becoming boiled bled bare oozing oils weaving wonderful wet wounds. Bacon inverts time all the time and Rembrandt by painting himself getting younger and younger the older and older he gets: Bacon served himself severed off the bone al la botox. Bacon 'unfaces' the mask revealing the mask behind the face behind the face of the mask of the face in front of the behind of he head in front of the back of the side of the head of the face behind of the mask. Bacon did not paint his own passing, his own facial fluxing running railway tracks which map mark his fuck face of time all the time out of time for bored Bacon was always already an evil old baby throwing tantrums in his pram trying to escape being there.

In Three Studies for Self Portrait 1979 the left panel is painted with a 'Mother of Pearl' opal aura becoming bled an ancient alien botox-baby face forever. Bacon's Study for self Portrait - Triptych (1985-86) was a silky suave streamlined sensation oil of monstrous mis-recognition registering smoothed surfaces lost lines where weak bored Bacon becomes an alluring alien abject bloated botox baby again and again and again.

Looking at herself in a shocking pink poof plastic hand mirror, Bacon bemoaned to Peppiatt, later in her life, lying to herself:

"Do I really look that young? Well, there it is. There's nothing you can do about those things. You're always as old as you are, even if every now and then someone comes along who thinks you're much younger, then of course who's very shocked when you tell them your age. That's just what's called the horror of growing old and having everybody else dying round you like flies. I've got nobody left to paint now except myself. There it is. Even if it's just this old pudding face of mine." (Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996.)

Bacon stated to David Sylvester: "I like painting good-looking people because I like good bone structure. I loathe my own face, I go on painting it only because I haven't got any other people to do. It's true to say...One of the nicest things that Cocteau said was: 'Each day in the mirror I watch death at work.' This is what one does oneself." But this is not what Bacon did in his self- portraits: what Bacon saw, imaged, painted was plastic surgery at work. Bacon pondered with the idea of having a face-lift for himself: "...if there was any way of regaining youth, even if it meant an unpleasant operation, I'd be the first to do it..." Michael Peppiatt added: "Having scrutinized the results of face-lifts on several close women friends, he regularly toyed - but only toyed - with the idea of having one done himself." (Peppiatt, Francis Bacon Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1996.) Bacon's faces, heads, mugs, stumps are strikingly similar to Jawlensky's faces, heads, meditations with their alien auratic aroma, elliptical eyes, dark discs, flawed features, primordial power. Bacon said to Sylvester: "I mean, appearance is like a continuously floating thing." The face as fort-daing ahead and aback is always already in flux - in flow - forging ahead - a head - forming a face - fast forward - never finished - always already away and abjected - flowing froth forth forever - leaving leaking loitering leftovers left.

Bled Bacon's silent substratum self-portraits throw the severed sensation of our jewel Jawlensky's 'late' leaked floating fleeting melting meditations: being-alien-object-towards-the-no-nothing. Jawlensky's late 'meditations' become pristine prison bars blocking blacking shuttering sensation grid gaps bleeding blackness being beams gleams glowing similar sown sensation initiated in Bacon's blanked black severed self-portraits pulverising the light into the dark violating vision via the violence of darkness for Jawlensky and Bacon the violence of light is the violence of the dark for there is no gaze only glaze the closing down the shutting off of the empirical eye ending so severe sight sealing seen thus the moment and movement of truth is the darkening flash burning being human hollowing out of our eggo eye socket split sensation where waiting wondering wandering concealment craters clearing off of envelope eye lid locked out opening on recoveredness reveil revealing resting while with waiting slowly sleeping seeping sensation through thrown time truth as an alluring awe aura aroma alight ahead at being blacked back brought forth forever flaming froth force fort-da decapitating dasein.

Blanchot terms the fragmentary as: "Language's rupture with itself." For Bacon the fragmentary portraiture is: 'paint's rupture with itself' where the pushed-paint fuses-fractured fragment facets until unifying the thrown (w)hole hollowing out the thrown soggy sodded subject bled bare becoming an alien oozed object wetted which fits over and floods out the sedated subject where the 'beautiful human subject' becomes the 'ugly alien object'. But Bacon's paints portraits actually as frothed fragmentary facets. In Bacon's primordial portraits, hollowed heads, the abject-sublime is the angoisse antagonistic push-pull-paint between the dying 'human subject' and the borning 'alien object': the thrown oozed object leaks lager than the sinking subject wet with slime stuff ejaculating, erupting, engulfing eggo-oily over empty-ego throttling the thrown foreign filtered flayed fuck face forever fresh froth spilling silk sliver silver sperm sensation ooze over outer orbit. Bacon's split-spilt pus-portraits are a Deleuzeian Rhizome: "A rhizome is composed not of units but of dimensions, or rather directions in motion. It has neither beginning or end, but always a middle (milieu) from which it grows and which it overspills. It constitutes linear linear multiplicities with n directions having neither subject nor object, which can be laid out on a plane of consistency, and from which the One is always subtracted (n-1). When a multiplicity of this kind changes dimension, it necessarily changes its nature as well, undergoes a metamorphosis." (Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari, Mille plateaux: Capitalisme et schizophréne, Paris 1980). Bacon's headless heads neither begin nor end but begin bled bare at the end of the beginning of the end of being as are always already mutating man meat metamorphoses arriving at atta an angoisse awe aroma archaic alteric Aletheia alien abject again and again after resting reeling as a real revealing through thrown retrieving forever fort daing dasein drifting.

The ground of the face is the open abyss abliss revealing-concealing the mooding mask of the face as the mooding face of the mask. The face is not seen but sensationed: you do not see a face in front of you but sense the face sensationing seeping shining sheening through throwness. Not all human beings have faces or heads but continued bodies which wear their faces for them. Many human beings wear their face on their bodies and their bodies on their faces. Many human beings 'wear' their 'face' on their 'cunt', 'wear' their 'face' on their 'cock', 'wear' their 'face' on their 'arse', 'wear' their 'face' on their 'torso', 'hand', 'foot'. It is therefore, as it were, hardly at all surprising in a 'face-to-face' encounter we are often called: 'cunt', 'prick', 'arse' : our 'public face' is often named via 'face-to-face' via our 'private' body bits. The 'face-to-face' encounter is in fact a 'face-to-body' encounter and a ' body-to-body' encounter. The 'face-to-face' encounter is not exclusively 'human'. Many 'face-to-face' encounters are 'human-to-alien' and 'alien-to-human' and: 'alien-to-alien' always already unseen, unavailable to the 'human'. The 'alien' can 'face' the 'human face' but the 'human' cannot 'face' the 'alien face' for fear of losing 'face' forever. For leaking Levinas the 'face-to-face' raw-relation is not 'a question of perception' but a state of sensation as an electric elect ethical political projection profiling 'face-to-face' as a fort-da-fluxing faking flawing failing flowing feeding fueling frowning frothing forthcoming. Whilst we are all alien and not at all human most still imagine that they are still human at heart at head at here.

An alluring alien face force is instead never now available as being before your yearn in the no-now but thrown through thrown time all the time: the thrown froth face is in the thrown fort-da dispersing dripping drowning off of time all the time. Fresh foam form face froths luminous leaked lather light bringing being bled bare before revealing radiant rawness but born boiling being blinded by great golden gleaming glistening ghosts loitering light loose soft scintillating succulentsaliva slurp skin shining schein sensation soil sown.

In painting portraits Bacon, Jawlensky, Schiele do not use colour as a register of the sensation of the flesh of the 'face' (or the 'body') but as a register of the psyche's shape-shifting altered spot states of the 'head' (and the body) as a memory trace of the ruin of alien being-out-the-world. For Bacon as for Schiele, the head, the face, is (also) always already alive, lurking and leaking from the body itself where the torso takes on the 'face' of the body where the psyche and spirit originally operate and alienally oozes oils from form forever frothed forth. Jawlensky, Bacon and Alien ab-use 'eggisms' - circular-disc-spot sensations - to Nail the Nothing of the Sick Psyche.

In initiating iridescent froth fuel faces, the act of seeing is indeed displaced, for Bacon, Jawlensky, Auerbach and Alien, by the thrown Act of Sensationing where gaze is initiated glaze where vision is division, abvision, sowing suturing splitting spilling slicing off of our empty empirical 'evil eye'. Jawlensky, Bacon, Auerbach and Alien are absolutely housed Heraclitusian Heideggerian in initiating throwing the hollowed head ahead off of itself oiling out off of our orbit as a leaked lightening thrusted thunderbolt blowing being out of sync out of skin out of sky out of eye egging essencing Ereignis.

For Jawlensky, Bacon, Auerbach, and Alien the face of the head, the head of the face, the being of the face, the face of being, cannot be 'shown' ('represented', 'illustrated') only 'shone' ('sensationed') there that is 'shined' there ahead of the head through the throne shimmering and shining of outing initiated infinity into ining orbiting oblivion of becoming Being by breeding darkening as lighting: Dasein darkness opens up the horizon throwing being blank blackness to the bait of Being by excluding, emptying, ejecting, exiting seen seeing vivaciously violating the violence of vision. For Jawlensky, Bacon, Auerbach, and Alien 'seeing' is 'not something human' but something alien as a glazed 'glance' of an Aletheia alien being leaking 'looking' into the face of Alien akin to the Greek Poets and Philosophers presencing of the Gods as an unconcealment.

For Bacon's Self-Portraits and Jawlensky's Meditations, the 'moment of vision' is the 'sensation of division': an alteric aleatoric alétheia abvision apparition where the darkening illuminates the dark light of being as blankness blackness as a clearing cleaning where 'seeing' is not 'believing' but Being being out itself as the opening out of groundless gape gap that there throws being bare blank: Bacon and Jawlensky's 'blanks' - heads without faces; faces without heads are heavily Heideggerian as an apparition sensationed Seinaletheia as the thrown thrust coming to tough presence as an abject absence orbiting out of oozed concealment as an utterly unconcealment being blown through thrown thrusted over out of the head out of the world out of the time as a disclosed dislocated darkness drain as a 'face-lift' leaking left headless hole hollowed hovering hoovering shimmering Zeus shining severed sensation slipping away as a fort-da-face: flawed flown forever violating violent vision delivering dread Dasein darkening draping draining drip dew drops.

In pastelling portraits Degas and Cassatt seep sensation of oily skin shimmering outside illustration indeed both bleed lips wet without literal lines as in Cassatt's Study for the Portrait for a Child (1900) where the leaked lips are moist made up of completely non-illustration arbitrary marks like an exploding rose bur are so 'lipy' unlike fraud Freud who cannot paint lips eyes nose ears outside inane illustration.

An awesome alluring aleatoric alétheia angoisse abjected altaric alienus apparition aura aroma portraiture prods projects punctuates pulsates pulps pulverises sutured psychic shuddering shaking shivering shimmering shining scintillating sparkling splattering spunking smelling snorting sensationing suturing soaking sowing sliding slurping slipping sweating showing splendouring glowing glimmering glaring gleaming glistening glittering dazzling dripping drowsing drooling draining fatiguing flashing flickering fluttering falling frothing foaming fuming flinching flickering leaking luminousing liquidating lightening lingering loitering being born bled bare oozed out of our orbit world womb wound wondering wandering wailing. So sow the thrown wound work of oozed out pulsating prodding primordial portraiture is in to thus reveal recover forgotten frozen altaric alienus aleatoric alétheia apparition awe aura as thrown thunderbolt through first forgetting of our human head through thrown fort-da-frothing and an ending and emptying of the empirical evil eye by becoming bored by Being Alien angoisse as an altaric alienus attuned and attained ancient anxiety arriving again and again and after again after again after again after after again again afar and away always already as all afar all away.

"Isn't art an activity that gives things a face?...The true essence of man is presented in his face."

"Its amazing what you can do when you don't have to look at yourself in the mirror anymore."

"One does not get over a passion by portraying it; rather, the passion is over when one portrays it."

"…human face carries a kind of perpetual death …which it is for the painter to save by giving it back its own features."

"How will the metaphysics of the face as the epiphany of the other free itself of light?...What language will ever escape it?"

Jacques Derrida, Violence and Metaphysics: An Essay of the Thought of Emmanuel Levinas; University of Chicago, 1978.

"However ugly a face may be, we can discover some beauty in it if we first experience wonder before it and then begin to understand it, too."

"It's like looking into a mirror only it's not... When this is over, I want you to take this face and burn it...You want to take his face off. Eyes, Nose, Mouth off."

"The grotesque face is actually reduced to the gaping mouth; the other features are only a frame encasing this wide-open bodily abyss...the wide entrance into the depths of the body."

"There must have been some moment that you had a Face...When are you getting a Face?...The Face is no guarantee of what it represents...Your Face will always let you down...My face has fallen...What is Beautiful comes to us in the image...The Ugly face is more positive than the Beautiful image because there is kind of more stuff there....The Ugly might be better described through a mode of tactility. The Ugly is more like a semiotic reading...a tactile-semiosis..."

Mark Cousins, Socrates the Ugly, Architectural Association, London 20 October 2006.

"It is Bacon's revolutionary treatment of the head that is his greatest overall achievement. No one, not even Picasso, had dared to twist and mould the skull and the face as Bacon does, smearing them, scooping great hollows out of them, turning them inside out, and yet always retaining a likeness which, as in the case especially of George Dyer and Henrietta Moraes, become more compelling and unmistakeable the more violent the distortion."

John Banville, False Friend, Exposed: Francis Bacon's secret photographs, The Sunday Telegraph, 27 February, 2005.

"In a world that is alien, only the other (person) is radically different in welcoming the self, this is the experience of the 'face to face.' The face puts one in question, and by doing so obliges one to respond. The 'face to face' is an experience that disrupts our being...The face, for Levinas, is the way in which the absolute other presents himself, a radical relation between the self and the absolute other. The absolute other that appears through the face of the other, a voice that is heard through the other as a command. By obeying the absolute other one can continue the discourse."

Asaf Friedman, The Architecture of the Face, Levinas' Theory of the Other, 1993.

"Bacon's face was fat, squashed and contorted as if someone had sat on an overripe melon. You see Bacon's face overlaid on all his figures because everything Bacon did was a self-portrait....Bacon painted the adrenaline rush of the nervous system brought on by the obsessive need to express himself."

Louise Bourgeois, Francis Bacon, Papes et autres figures, September, 1999.

"Your function remains faceless. Nourishing takes place before there are images...you've disappeared, unperceived...until there is only this liquid that flows from the one into the other, and that is nameless...And the One Doesn't Stir without the Other."

"The human face is an empty power, a field of death ... after countless thousands of years that the human face has spoken and breathed one still has the impression that it hasn't even begun to say what it is and what it knows."

Antonin Artaud, quote from an exhibition of his portrait drawings, Galerie Pierre, July 1947.

"Modern portrait painting has become a difficult task since the artist who tries to make people see the human being invisible in the present man is apt to make a fool of himself. Since humanism is dead, man is soul-less, he no longer cares if he lives or dies...There will be no portraits left of modern man because he has lost face and is turning back towards the jungle."

"The face does not give itself to be seen. It is not a vision. The face is not that which is seen...is not an object of knowledge....it is very difficult to give it [the face] an exact phenomenological description. The phenomenology of the face is very often negative."

"We tend to think of the face-to-face exclusively as a relation between human beings....Yet being face-to-face with another has a more distant origin where earth and sky, god and man reach one another, Goethe, and Mörike too, like to use the phrase 'face-to-face with one another' not only with respect to human beings but also with respect to things in the world. Where this prevails, all things are open to one another in their self-concealment; thus one extends itself to the other, and thus all remain themselves; one is over the other as its guardian watching over the other, over it as its veil."

"Largely because extraterrestrial portraiture has never (to the best of my knowledge) been either superbly rendered with oils on canvas and put into an expensive gilt frame, or cunningly carved in Carrara marble, or expertly cast in bronze by any recognised modernist master, such ubiquitous imagery will never, of course, be called 'art.'...Another reason why such omnipresent imagery - extraterrestrial portraiture - is never analyzed by art historians is that it can never be manipulated as an 'original'; in fact, it is only made tangible to the public as such as it is repeatedly reproduced in the mass media."

John F. Moffitt, Picturing Extraterrestrials: Alien Images in Modern Mass Culture, Prometheus Books, 2003.

“For anyone who wants to make a real portrait there is necessarily a conflict between these two necessities: on the one hand to suggest individual features - accidental and anecdotal - and on the other to create a work endowed with an existence of its own and therefore situated on a quite different plane from picturesque anecdote. Perhaps it is because this conflict between documentary precision and pictorial truth reaches its climax in the portrait, that when Bacon paints portraits, the art of painting which can, apparently, only exist for him in a state of high tension, becomes kindled to incandescence.”

Michel Leiris, ‘What Francis Bacon’s Paintings Say to Me’, Francis Bacon: Recent Paintings, Marlborough Fine Art, London 1967.

"It is surprising how few other twentieth-century artists there are for whom portraiture - especially self-portraiture - played the central role it played for Bacon...That capacity for piercing the façade and perceiving the confused, sometimes abject, sometimes heroic, human truth behind was to make Bacon one of the greatest - possibly even the greatest - portraitist of the Twentieth Century...Bacon himself came to self-portraiture relatively late, the earliest recognizable self-portrait being the one he executed in 1958. Looking at the major themes that characterize the first half of his career, one might reasonably conclude that Bacon had too many demons (dictators, Popes and other father-figures) to lay to rest to be able to concentrate on his own image. But, as middle age approached, Bacon's need for grand, dramatic themes diminished, and he became increasingly aware that the richest subject matter was to hand in his everyday life and his immediate entourage. It was at this moment, in the early 1960s, that portraiture took centre stage in Bacon's work; and as he produced one astonishingly living image after another of his close friends and lovers, he began increasingly to submit his own features to the same restlessly destructive and inventive scrutiny...In his last years, Bacon returned more and more frequently to his own image. Sardonically, he would explain that since 'all his friends were dying like flies' around him, he only had his own 'old pudding face' left to paint. By the 1980s, he was moving towards an ever greater economy of effect: while his forms grew less distorted, tending towards a new naturalism, his colours became colder and more translucent, thinned, it seemed, by the passage of time. Where the backgrounds had been brilliant with contrasting colour, they now became uniformly black: bright daylight replaced by the encroaching night. The late self-portraits form a long elegy to the artist's acute sense of mortality as well as to his desire to pare his images down, with all superfluity stripped away..."

Michael Peppiatt, All the Pulsations of a Person, Lot Notes; Christie's Post War Sale, June 2006.

"As a portraitist, Francis Bacon is a painter of heads and not of faces, and there is a great difference between the two. For the face is a structured, spatial organization that conceals the head, whereas the head is dependent upon the body, even if it is the point of the body, its culmination. It is not that the head lacks a spirit; but it is a spirit in bodily form, a corporeal and vital breath, an animal spirit. It is the animal spirit of man: a pig-spirit, a buffalo-spirit, a dog-spirit, a bat-spirit... Bacon thus pursues a very peculiar project as a portrait painter: to dismantle the face, to rediscover or make it emerge from beneath the face....There is no death's head, according to Bacon. The head is, if anything, boneless. It is not completely soft, but hard. The head is flesh, and the mask itself is not a death-mask, it is a firm block of flesh which separates from the bones: thus the studies for the portrait of Wiliam Blake. The personal head of Bacon is flesh elevated by a very beautiful glance, without eye sockets. This is Bacon's greatest homage to Rembrandt, for having painted a final self-portrait as a block of flesh without orbits. In all of Bacon's work the head-meat relationship goes through an escalation of intensity that makes it more and more intimate...The deformation undergone by the body are also the animal traits of the head. But this is in no way a simple correspondence between animal and facial forms. The face, in effect, has lost its original form due to the operations of cleansing and polishing to which it has been subjected, operations which break up its organisation and allow the head to emerge in its place. The marks or traits of animality do not represent pure animal forms, but are rather the expression of spirits which animate the 'cleansed' parts of the face, which draw out the head, which identify and individualise the head even without a face."

Gilles Deleuze, The Body, the Meat and the Spirit: Becoming Animal, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, 1981; Continuum 2003.

"It's very interesting to me, for instance, that the great Rembrandts are his self-portraits and he started them when he was very young and went on painting them until he was a very old man...I think the self-portraits are the greatest thing Rembrandt ever did because they were formally the most extraordinary paintings. He altered painting in a way by the method by which he dealt with himself, and perhaps he felt freer to deal with himself in this totally liberal way...Of course Rembrandt did, like everybody does, change the subject every so often, but there's no reason to ever change the subject. I think that's probably what is so haunting about that small German book where they have put all the Rembrandt self-portraits together, from a young man to the very end of his life. And it's such a remarkable thing, turning page after page to see these things of the one man, absolutely different from beginning to end."

Francis Bacon, 1975 & 1973 from Looking Back at Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 2000.

"The series of Rembrandt's self-portraits, for example, leads us into different domains of sensation. And it is true that painting - and this is especially so with Bacon - proceeds through series. The series of Crucifixions, the series of Popes, the series of portraits, of the mouth that smiles."

Gilles Deleuze, Painting and Sensation, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, Flash Art, May 1983.

"No one is identical to himself. Beings have no identity. Faces are masks. Behind the faces that speak to us and to whom we speak we look for the clock work and microscopic springs of souls... Psychoanalysis and history really culminate with the destruction of the I, identifying itself from within... I am as if enclosed in my portrait.... No concept corresponds to the I as a being."

Emmanuel Levinas, The I and the Totality; Thinking-of-the-Other, The Athlone Press, 1998.

"The face sensations in and on me and I am its subconscious. Portraiture does not represent the invisible, it makes invisible. Portraiture has to represent the unrepresentable inscribing initiating instinct sludge slurp subconsciously. When you are painting you have to descend into primeval Chaos; you have to be in a state of anxiety and angoisse as a thrown radical alienation attuning toward an alien Ather."

"The great portraits of the past always left me with a side-image, as well as a direct image. Every image casts its shadow into the past, and I could never disassociate myself from the great European images of the past - and by 'European' I mean to include Egyptian, even if the geographers wouldn't agree with me."

Francis Bacon, from Francis Bacon, World of Art, John Russell, Thames & Hudson, 1979.

"The face as the desensibilization, the dematerialization of the sense datum, competes the movement, still caught up in the figures of mythological monsters, by which the animal body or half-body let an evanescent expression break through on the face of the human head they bore...The notion of the face…brings us to the notion of meaning prior to my Sinngebung and thus independent of my initiative and my power...the face is present in its refusal to be contained. In this sense, it cannot be comprehended, that is, encompassed. It is neither seen nor touched - for in the visual and tactile sensation the identity of the I envelops the alterity of the object, which becomes precisely a content."

"When I experience another's face in the order of representation and expression, I do not experience the face as the exterior of a head any more than I experience it as a surface of representation. The face as representation dominates my experience to the point that the perception of the head as a physical volume, which therefore implies an inside, is repressed. Everything I see is organized around the face as a vehicle of expression. The eyes, the nose, the mouth, the structure of the face are filled with and determined by the phantasy/fact of expression. The experience of the meaning of the face determines the phantasy of what is behind the face. Facial expression seizes possession of a depth which is implied. In reading the surface, I fill out what is behind the surface with the depth of the surface...When I look at you, I do not only imagine that the surface of your face epitomizes an expression; the experience of your face overwhelms any thought of what might lie behind it. The depth of your face exhausts any question of 'behind'. This phantasy is shockingly curtailed by the sight of a facial wound. Suddenly the phantasy of depth is shattered by the perceptual registration that there is a behind to the face and that, far from supporting the experience of depth, it projects the stuff of another order, or disorder. The sight of subcutaneous reality, the sudden, crazy sight of flesh and bone is altogether too much. It seizes my attention because it does not signify, because of its evident character of being too much, too close, too soon. It does not so much undermine as 'overmine' the face and its expressive economy. The face does not collapse; the face is thrown off. The depth of expression is relegated to the surface of a mask. The moment of ugliness, then, is the shattering of the subject's phantasy of what makes up the object, in which the object is permeated by its surface just as a face is, and not that there is a non-signifying interior whose pressure to appear is concealed only by the temporary and mendacious skin of a mask. The trauma, for the subject, is occasioned by the sudden appearance of 'stuff', the stuff which threatens to overwhelm and engulf the subject, and to contaminate the subject with its own lack of meaning."

Michael Peppiatt, In Francis Bacon's Studio, Art International, No.8, Autumn 1989.

Paul Davies, The Face and the Caress, Levinas's Ethical Alterations of Sensibility, Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision, University of California Press, 1993.

"...I am certainly not trying to make a portrait of somebody's soul or psyche or whatever you like to call it. You can only make a portrait of their appearance, but I think that their appearance is deeply linked to their behaviour."

Francis Bacon, 1984, from Looking Back at Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 2000.

"Even in the 1981 Study for Self -Portrait, Bacon complicates his own identity, as his head, detached from a loosened white collar, slips into the enclosing rectangle of a framed canvas and, like Janus, looks backwards and forwards, half of it still fleshy, the other half a black profile like a shadow cast from an interior life. And in the 1982 portrait of Isabel Rawathorne, a long-term friend who, from the 1960s on, posed patiently for the artist, the head is similarly disembodied, fluctuating between the dignity of an ancient cameo, with a gracefully arced neckline, ad the gruesomeness of a dismembered body part, mashed into its background by delicate blue and red stripped patterns that resemble the crushing imprint of automobile tires on human flesh."

Robert Rosenblum, Francis Bacon's Pulp Fictions: Paintings, Marlborough, New York 2002.

"Bacon himself has often suggested that his distortions clear away veils and screens, and reveal his subjects, 'as they really are'. But before we assent to this, we must first go along with Bacon's judgement on his fellow human beings. In this sense,, his approach is the opposite to Sutherland's; Bacon would never let the sitter 'compose his own portrait'...For Bacon, an individuals face is no more than an injured cypher for his own sense of the irredeemable baseness of man."

Peter Fuller, Nature And Raw Flesh; Sutherland versus Bacon, Modern Painters, Issue Number One, 1987.

"He [Bacon] said he thought that painting portraits was the most interesting thing he could ever hope to do: 'If only I could do them...To get the essence without being positive about the actual shapes - that's the difficulty It's so difficult it's almost impossible!'.......the face was hardly recognisable as a face for it was disintegrating before your eyes, suffering from a severe case of elephantiasis: a swollen mass of raw meat and fatty tissues. The nose spread in many directions like a polyp but sagged finally over one cheek The mouth looked like a painful boil about to burst..."

Francis Bacon's portrait of Beaton, Self-Portrait with Friends: The Selected Diaries of Cecil Beaton, Cecil Beaton.

"Well, now, what personally I would like to do would be, for instance, to make portraits which were portraits but came out of things which really had nothing to do with what is called the illustrational facts of the image; they would be made differently, and yet they would give the appearance. To me, the mystery of painting today is how appearance can be made. I know it can be illustrated, I know it can be photographed. But how can this thing be made so that you catch the mystery of appearance within the mystery of the making? It's an illogical method of making, an illogical way of attempting to make what one hopes will be a logical outcome - in the sense that one hopes one will be able to suddenly make the thing there in a totally illogical way but that it will be totally real and, in the case of a portrait, recognizable as a person."

Francis Bacon, from The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"In the beginning there is ruin. Ruin is that which happens to the image from the moment of the first gaze. Ruin is the self-portrait, this face looked at in the face as the memory of itself, what remains or returns as a specter from the moment one first looks at oneself and a figuration is eclipsed. The figure, the face, then sees its visibility being eaten away; loses its integrity without disintegrating... For one can just as well read pictures of ruins as figures of a portrait, indeed, of a self-portrait...The ruin does not supervene like an accident upon a monument that was intact only yesterday...The traits of a self-portrait are also those of a fascinated hunter. The staring eye always resembles an eye of the blind, sometimes the eye of the dead, at that precise moment when mourning begins: it is still open, a pious hand should soon come to close it; it would recall a portrait of the dying... Seeing the seeing and not the visible, is seeing nothing. This seeing eye sees itself blind."

Jacques Derrida, Memoirs of the Blind: The Self-Portrait and Other Ruins, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993.

"Now you are posing the problem: 'What is there in the face?' In my analysis, the Face is definitely not a plastic form like a portrait; the relation to the Face is both the relation to the absolutely weak - to what is absolutely exposed, what is bare and destitute, the relation with bareness and consequently with what is alone and can undergo the supreme isolation we call death - and there is, consequently, in the Face of the Other always the death of the Other and thus, in some way, an incitement to murder, the temptation to go to the extreme, to completely neglect the other..."

Emmanuel Levinas, Philosophy, Justice and Love, Thinking-Of-The-Other, Athlone Press London, 1998.

"The deformation of figures and human faces in modern sculpture and paintings are reminiscent prima vista of archaic works in which the cultic replication of people was either not intended or impossible to achieve with the techniques available But it makes a world of difference whether art, having once achieved the power of replication, negates it, as the word deformation replies, or if this power has yet to be gained; for aesthetics the difference is greater than the similarity. It is hard to imagine that art, having once experienced the heteronomy of portrayal, would again forget it and return to what it determinately and intentionally negated. "

John Russell, from Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, Andrew Sinclair, Crown Publishers, 1993.

"The only real thing now in portraiture is to make not just an illustration of the person but to make an image of them. People talk, for instance, of giving a person's character, but I don't think portraits very often do that...I always hope to distort into reality...I'd like to make a marvelous image which also looked like the person, if I could do it. I have done one... perhaps one or two have been successful. I did a set of three of Muriel. They were very deformed, but I think they were deformed into appearance. For instance, this one of Muriel, who was a very great friend of mine. Well, people hate this thing. But I find that this portrait of Muriel is very, very tender and happens to be very like her."

Francis Bacon interview with Joshua Gilder, "I think about Death Every Day", Flash Art, May 1983.

"Bacon was obsessed by appearance, his own most of all, and he believed that homosexuals possessed an unusually keen eye for the way people looked. 'Homosexuals become more and more impossible with age', he remarked, ' because they are obsessed with the physique. They simply never stop looking at the body, all of it, the whole time, and pulling it to pieces. That's why if ever I wanted to know what someone really looks like, I've always asked a queer. They're ruthless and precise.' Bacon's portraits, unlike Giacometti's, often uncannily resemble their subjects - prove his point abundantly."

Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, Westview Press, 1997.

"It is hard to think of anyone who painted more self-portraits. Bacon painted dozens, mostly small canvases of his head. Usually three are put together to form a triptych; sometimes one appears as a solo canvas or as a nit in a triptych along with other peoples' heads...Bacon painted from photographs and realised a substantial number of full-length self-portraits. Beginning in 1956 - with an image Quasimodo-like in face and figure - he produced seventeen. That count includes the Sleeping Figure of 1974 painted from a photograph of him stretched out on a hospital bed. It also includes three items which in fact constitute Study for self Portrait - Triptych, 1985-86. This has a look of having been undertaken as a kind of summa of all the artist's activity as a self-portraitist. Such enterprises usually fail. This work seems to me not only Bacon's supreme achievement in self-portraiture but the finest thing he did during the last fifteen years of his life. It is in the line of those self-portraits by old artists which are merciless acts of self-recognition. and it has a kind of grandeur which recalls the unaffected, easygoing grandeur that bacon had as a man."

David Sylvester, Francis Bacon: The Human Body, Hayward Gallery, University of California Press, 1998.

"Deleuze notes how the primacy of blue and red in Bacon's faces serves as a reminder of the fleshy, meaty aspect of the face, but in this way the colors open up the figure to temporality, becoming flesh in mutation.. As Deleuze puts it, 'color-structure gives way to color-force; because each dominant, each broken tone indicates the immediate exercise of a force upon a corresponding zone of the body or the head, it renders force immediately visible.'..."

Dana Polan, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, Gilles Deleuze and the Theatre of Philosophy (1994).

"Bacon is extraordinarily intelligent but he is a gambler whose appetite for chance plays upon the insecurity of his sense of form....He seems to encounter flesh agglutinated haphazard on gristle rather than on bone...He understands and can gamble on the human head as no artist since Picasso has understood it. Indeed it is a measure of his mastery that he alone, since Picasso, can totally disorientate the formal elements which comprise a portrait head, without losing the likeness."

Michael Ayrton, from Francis Bacon: His Life & Violent Times, Andrew Sinclair, Crown Publishers, 1993.

"T. W. Adorno has written that 'the truth of works of art hinges on whether or not they succeed, in accordance with their inner necessity, to absorb the non-conceptual and contingent. For there purposeless, which is illusion.' Bacon's paintings stretch the general problematic of portraiture to its limits, forcing the recognition that the unrecognizable, contingent personhood of the portrayed can never be truly and completely grasped in and through paint...As if in spite, Bacon's portraits seek to destroy the vestige of personhood available in the everyday appearance of the figure by assimilating it entirely into painterliness."

"Rather than effortlessly and swiftly creating a totality, the genius may incorporate alien objects into the structure of a work, elements that would defeat a lesser artist, in whose hands the whole would break down into a ridiculous collection of incompatible fragments. The genius is able, indeed needs to, put himself against a seemingly impossible - to mould individual, inappropriate elements into a final whole. The greater the difficulty, the greater the final impression that the totality makes. In this sense the ugly is part of the power of genius...Ugliness can deform a work, but it ca also strengthen it. For the stronger the totality of a work of art, the more it has had to overcome those elements within itself that oppose its unification."

"I've done a lot of self-portraits, really because people have been dying around me like flies and I've had nobody else left to paint but myself... But I don't know whether it would be possible to to do a portrait of somebody just by making a gesture of them. So far it seems that if you are doing a portrait you have to record the face. But with the face you have to try and trap the energy that emanates from them.....to do it in a much more intense and curtailed way. It has to have the intensity of...you can cal it sophisticated simplicity. And I don't mean the kind of simplicity Cycladic sculpture has, which simplifies into banality, but the kind Egyptian sculpture has, which simplifies into reality. You have to abbreviate into intensity.....the painter has to be more and more inventive. He has to re-invent realism. He has to wash the realism back onto the nervous system by his invention, because there isn't such a thing in painting any longer as natural realism...Because I'm always hoping to deform people into appearance; I can't paint them literally."

Francis Bacon from, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"Alien Portraiture has to be initiated outside illustration, outside the ego opening the eggo breaking being open. Absolute alterity of alien identity is always already alien being Being-ahead-of-itself; being Beheaded-of-itself mimicing Omeric masks and Egyptian heads which are not a closing, a concealing, a covering over but an opening up where the mask becomes the shell of sensation revealing the eggsistence of the alien-eggo leaking lamella. Alien Portraiture is the dis-identification with the (post) human subject initiating the awe-inspiring alien object. Alien Art essentially erases the memory and narrative of being human to alien being."

"When Egon Schiele encircles the areola of a breast or the labia of the sexual organ with with red, and when he paints a face by juxtaposing carmine, green and blue, he is doing something more than just illustrating. He is forging a link with a very ancient habitus which made use of cosmetics to enhance the erectile qualities of certain parts of the body and to underline the the sacred aspects of sexuality...Schiele paints the face as though it were bruised flesh, a morbidezza of vibrant suppleness and death, attraction and vulnerability, desire and fear."

Jean Clair, Restoring the Paint-Flesh Ritual, Art International, 1, Autumn 1987.

"I particularly want to get rid of the portrait Degas made of me which is hanging in the room beside the drawing room (my studio)...I don't want to leave this portrait by Degas to my family as one of me. I t has some qualities as a work of art but it is so painful and represents me as such a repugnant person that I would not want anyone to know that I posed for it... If you think my portrait saleable I should like it sold to a foreigner and particularly that my name not be attached to it."

"A great work of art is like a great shock... Human faces are for me only suggestions to see something else in them-the life of colour, seized with a lover's passion...The artist expresses only what he has within himself, not what he sees with his eyes... Drawing well does not mean drawing 'correctly'...The artist does not create what exists in nature nor even what might exist in nature. Nature serves him only as a key to the organ in his soul, metaphorically speaking..."

"His best work, on the evidence of the Washington show, are the portraits he painted, mostly in the '60s, of friends. It seems to me, although it may be surprising, that Bacon paints women better than men; that may say something about the kind of men he paints, but possibly has to do with a greater detachment and curiosity on his part."

Peter Jenkins, Francis Bacon at Eighty, Modern Painters, Volume 2, Number 4, Winter 1989/1990.

"...'Who can I tear to pieces, if not my friends?' is a favourite maxim of Bacon's, and he lives up to it. When he paints portraits, as he does more and more, it is his friends, once again, who come under scrutiny: 'If they were not my friends, I could not do such violence to them.' This violence, however, is perpetrated in absentia - since he paints his portraits most usually from memory, and from photographs, and in general from anything except the actual living and sitting model."

"When artists paint a portrait they're generally painting something which is very much more revealing of themselves than the sitter...I don't think it matters that a portrait should be almost unrecognisable, but when you go to the great portraits of the past how are you ever to know that they looked vaguely like the people? How are we ever to know whether the pharaohs looked like that? In fact I believe it was quite a well-known thing at the time of the great Egyptian art that when one of he kings died. they took out his name and put the name of the next one on the same portrait...If you take the late Rembrandt paintings - he was perhaps the greatest, in a sense, action painter. Because if you take the very late Rembrandt self-portraits you'll find, if you look carefully at them, that there's no mouth, there's no nose, there's no eye-socket, but the thing is that he made a very great image..."

Francis Bacon in conversation with Daniel Farson from The Art Game, 27th August, 1958.

"Since the 'sixties, the painting is the torture. The scale is often epic, but portraiture is always at the centre, because it states, in its most radical terms, the contradiction between the autonomy o the paint and the identity of the subject, corralled, attacked from several sides at once. The light is switched on suddenly, to catch reality by surprise. The contortion characteristic of Bacon's forms is a hanging on to a quarry that tries frantically to escape. There ensures a seesaw struggle in which writhing pigment achieves a succession of brief and partial triumphs: those moments when we forget it because it has suddenly become, with a kind of savage presence, a foot, an ashtray, a cheekbone, a knee clasped in that inimitable British way. And at once the image dissolves into brush-strokes. Thus painting can be said, in Bacon's words, 'to be and not to be'..."

"In painting a portrait the problem is to find a technique by which you can give over all the pulsations of a person. It's why portrait painting is so fascinating and so difficult. Most people go to the most academic painters when they want to have their portraits made because for some reason they prefer a sort of colour photograph of themselves instead of thinking of having themselves really trapped and caught...It's a very odd thing about portraiture that people have an inbuilt idea of what they look like or what they want to look like. If you deviate from that, they don't like it...Of course one does put in such things as ears and eyes. But then one would like to put them in as irrationally as possible. And the only reason for this irrationality is that, if it does come about, it brings the force of the image over very much more strongly than if one just sat down and illustrated the appearance, which of course millions of art students all over the world can do...I can quite easily sit down and make what is called a literal portrait of you. So what I'm disrupting all the time is this literalness, because I find it uninteresting."

Francis Bacon, from The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, David Sylvester, Thames & Hudson, 1987.

"Because I very much admire Matthew Smith, I am delighted to have been asked to write something about him, although I know I will not be able to do him justice. He seems to me to be one of the very few English painters since Constable or Turner to be concerned with painting - that is, with attempting to make idea and technique inseparable . Painting in this sense tends towards a complete interlocking of image and paint, so that the image is the paint and vice versa. Here the brush-stroke creates the form and does not merely fill it in. Consequently, every movement of the brush on the canvas alters the shape and implications of the image. That is why real painting is a mysterious and continuous struggle with chance - mysterious because the very substance of the paint, when used in this way, can make such a direct assault upon the nervous system: continuous because the medium is so fluid and subtle that every change that is made loses what is already there in the hope of making a fresh gain. I think painting today is pure intuition and luck and taking advantage of what happens when you splash the stuff down, and in this game of chance Matthew Smith seems to have the gods on his side."

Francis Bacon, Matthew Smith - A Painter's Tribute, The Tate Gallery, 1953.

"There is no death's head, according to Bacon. The head is, if anything, boneless. It is not completely soft, but hard. The head is flesh, and the mask itself is not a death-mask, it is a firm block of flesh which separates from the bones: thus the studies for the portrait of Wiliam Blake. The personal head of Bacon is flesh elevated by a very beautiful glance, without eyesockets. This is Bacon's greatest homage to Rembrandt, for having painted a final self-portrait as a block of flesh without orbits. In all of Bacon's work the head-meat relationship goes through an escalation of intensity that makes it more and more intimate...The deformation undergone by the body are also the animal traits of the head. But this is in no way a simple correspondence between animal and facial forms. The face, in effect, has lost its original form due to the operations of cleansing and polishing to which it has been subjected, operations which break up its organisation and allow the head to emerge in its place. The marks or traits of animality do not represent pure animal forms, but are rather the expression of spirits which animate the 'cleansed' parts of the face, which draw out the head, which identify and individualise the head even without a face."

Gilles Deleuze, The Body, the Meat and the Spirit: Becoming Animal; Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, 1981.

"The feeling of being an outcast never leaves him. In one of his letters to his mother (Letter 612) he writes of a self-portrait as making him, a cosmopolitan, appear like one of the peasants of Zundert - like Toon or Piet Prins. In his letters about one or another of the self-portraits on which he happens to be working, an almost sarcastic tone creeps into his description of himself, particularly when he is writing to his sister, Willemien. He never spares himself. Almost deliberately he inflicts pain upon himself by emphasizing the uglier aspects of his outward appearance (Letter W7, 1888). He compares himself to those jewellers, themselves almost always old and ugly, who are experts in the handling of beautiful and precious stones. In the same letter he sys that as he grows uglier, poorer, more ill-tempered and more unhealthy, so he would like o balance all this with the splendour of his colour and the excellence of his composition. No aspect of his decay escapes his merciless eye.

Dr. A.M. Hammacher, Van Gogh looks at himself, Van Gogh Self Portraits, Marlborough Fine Art, October 1980.

"I want to paint men and women with that something of the eternal which the halo used to symbolise...Ah! portraiture, portraiture with the thoughts, the soul of the model in it, that is what I think must come.....What fascinates me much, much more than anything else in my métier is the portrait, the modern portrait...I should like to do portraits which will appear as revelations to people in 100 years time....I should like to paint portraits that will strike people a hundred years from now like visionary apparitions. But I am not trying to achieve this by means of photographic similitude; rather, by means of passionate expression, using our modern knowledge of colour and our contemporary sense of colour as a means of expression and a way of heightening character."

"A madman, van Gogh? Let someone who once knew how to look at a human face look at van Gogh's self-portrait, I am thinking of the one in a soft hat. Painted by van Gogh the extra-lucid, this redheaded butcher's face which inspects and spies on us, which also scrutinizes us with a glowering eye. I know of no psychiatrist who could scrutinize a man's face with such overwhelming force or so dissect its inviolable psychology as at a carving board."

"Rembrandt certainly. The self-portraits from the end of his life are superb. He had done others earlier, but the later works are even more beautiful. The way in which it's always Rembrandt that you see, in an image which changes each time, is really astonishing, magnificent...I'm very fond of certain portraits by Ingres...For me, Van Gogh is the greatest. He really did find a new way of depicting reality, even for the simplest things, and that method wasn't realist, but was much more powerful than simple realism...At the moment I would like to do a portrait of someone I know, but I haven't the faintest idea of how to go about it. That's always my problem. I always think that i won't know how to do it, then along comes that encounter between my work and the act of painting, the accidents of painting, and then the picture emerges. I'm hardly ever pleased with it, but sometimes, when there is a happy combination of accidents and will, it can be satisfying."