Professor Daniel Lewt is an acclaimed author and the accredited founder of 17 different fields of study, including mythopathic studies, foreign bodies, intragender transformations, and memeography. Mr. Lewt completed his doctoral studies at universities after eight years of lugubrious defense, working on his infamous thesis that entheogens lead to better understandings of autism. now pioneering the mythopathic studies curriculum at universities, Lewt brings a wealth of knowledge to students and their worldview.
there are new hells now, discoidal compressed digital realms that bred mythopathic studies in various academic institutions. neoteric sins hyperlinked to masked discourse are evacuated fecally when the seraphim sours at death’s influence. the pivot of fear, the medial temporal lobe is our first god, born of unforgettable trauma and sempiternal record. it was a soul splintering union, and a story covered in nephrite mesh.
our new angels are all hyperthymestic souls. they press corrosion into the celibate machine, drying their souls on hamper lines, forming the second deity. the centrifugal pressure on the attracted reproducibility of amnesia and the ever eroding autobiographical silence of imminent death. this leads into the second principle, which relies on quantum probability and art fraud, of instantaneous inertia. The ontological recoiling of schizoid thought. recall fear, the phenomenology is doubt sewn into the celibate machine.
do you see? the celibate machine is whipping memories into cream and the sensitivity of higher powers has evoked a propagandic narrative of manic dependent being. both the recollection of ego and its negligence exist interchangeably. conflict avoidant blinking occurs at the climax of mythopathic courage. it is calamitously boiling tea bags over deified branches. a denominated distillation beneath the hovering fluff of natural selection.
do you see? the celibate machine is whipping memories into cream and the sensitivity of higher powers has evoked a propagandic narrative of manic dependent being. both the recollection of ego and its negligence exist interchangeably. conflict avoidant blinking occurs at the climax of mythopathic courage. it is calamitously boiling tea bags over deified branches. a denominated distillation beneath the hovering fluff of natural selection.
pendulumic chrono-logics evaporate and humidify against the glass of teleology. surrealist forums are tearing down the jade walls of concomitance. the interregnum machine shadows against theological reproduction; exempli gratia branded content, gods, advertisements, multimedia digestibles designed to be dismissed after only a metaphysical notion. the pause for evaluation is microcosmically looped and pending in phantom quantum form.
hell comes in four forms, each devoid of meaning: infinite feed, a single cosmological eye, the number three, and cocaine. i’ll explain each in detail in the next class, but for now, focus on the Derrida outer meaninglessness. what is hell or death to you now?
CCMA is taught by Dr. Greg Friar, PhD, an idiot in the field of theoretical physics and protein mechanisms. it is said that his aroma awarded him a successful defense of his thesis. students often find him alluring and Dr. Friar has had full classes since his profile picture was uploaded to the website.
spinning ringularity, that massive flattening that whips spacetime into an ergosphere and if you got the momentum baby it’ll bounce the light through your third ionizing solar self.
the infinity of your mitosis is integral to the recovery of entropic matter, the organic suppuration of worth.
you are the endorphin spell to my vertigo, setting me upright in a vilberie apple tree.
touch along the trigonometry, i will take you places you can measure.
eerie solitude erases under barometric exhales, ballooning pulmonary appurtenance. we are sucking in the fractals of crystalline oxides, diatomic dust, we are the allotropes of single form.
chemicompumorbidastronomy (CCMA) is all sex, all love, all drugs, and all music.
proof is in the polymer, the many covalences that pump through our platelets, pass through channels, and get torn apart for nourishment.
phosphorylation and pheromones, fluctuations of energy and connection, a fraction of the spirit and aura in our biochemistry. codified colors, olfactory receptors, breathe deeply for your lungs and mind to oxygenate.
we have found a world in motion at peace with itself in biomedical physics. anger in the body, as it is in the mind, comes from the need to get control over some injury or threat. inflammation is the essence of aggression. so of what significance is the flush of blood, the lymphatic growth, or the cranial cushioning? they are pools, like light in a photon sphere, where movement through the aggressive gravitational swelling is indicative of cleansing.
when we come together, swirling, anger is rinsed and processed. keep moving. keep your energy up and you’ll be just fine. you might even learn something.
three time champion, Dr. Natalia Saffron, MD, MPH, has won the national title for competitive BDSM every other year for the past 6 years. Her work specializes in high altitude whipping, manual vibration, and water tactics. her skills as a physician enlighten students to pain thresholds and torture procedures that are practical and well maintained. this year, her research aims to militarize her training.
look me in the poem when i’m talking to you! read my poetry out loud and every word you miss will lead to immediate punitive action. beg. your ass will bleed by the time you finish this epic. gag if you agree.
[blood pressure 130/85, heart rate at 108]
Rub up against the rope cuffs and squirm for me. this is your last chance to choke on your feedback. anything less and i’ll rouse you to beg. do you like a tongue down your ear? maybe a finger along your back? beg. read at my bidding. or it’ll be nine inches reaching for your spine.
[Kathy, check for retinal distress, would you?]
look ahead! read that last line again through your teeth. i’m gonna hold you by your chin and draw these cute popping neck veins in with sharpie. there you go, look how pretty… keep your fucking hard on! (Smack!) this is play time, don’t you remember?
duration of for(z)ces (ah) all contribut(uh)e
to the characteris(z)tics and s(uh)everity
[students, do any of you know where the eye-popping trope came from? the medical term is Exophthalmos, where the eye is anteriorly out of orbit. popeyed was the butt end of a joke about a serious genetic illness. it was a twelfth century Persian physician that first catalogued it symptomatically in his published Thesaurus of the Shah of Khwarazm. medicine in the medieval islamic world was the dominant source of medical fecundity until the Age of Enlightenment. and you all know how i feel about dominance.]
do you like getting your lecture from me now? be beat with my tomes of medical discovery? sadly the only place i can’t beat you with a blunt object is your craniovertebral junction. i know how you like it fuzzy. go back and read the part about brain trauma:
and mov(ph)ement of (umph) the b(l)rain
within the (z)skull, termed noncontact
Or (aghh) inertial loading, usually
cau(z)ses dif(ph)fuse injuries(z)
[blood pressure 140/87, heart rate at 198]
[thank you students, who’s presenting today?]
Professor Dr. Alyssa Nelson completed her doctoral thesis at Universities in Marital Law and International Artist Immigration.
how cute am i, troupled with de beauvoir and sartre in this photoshopped daguerreotype. you can see my hand lightly resting over her godet skirt which, as i pleaded in my defense last summer, was actually owned by me. naked numen-omics and orgies at legal conventions make for my favorite weekend delights. a man of trash once told me the courts were backed up and i retorted with my fourth husband’s quote: we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
if written works belong to the public domain and coercive marital arrangements still exist, why do i need the consent of the deceased for their vows? they have already dedicated their voice to the reader. darling Borges told me romanticism started with Galland’s translation of a thousand and one nights. a foreign interpretation launched a fanatic love affair for the millions. how different is my perspective of bygone texts in perspiring my devotion? why am i denied the love of dozens?
have you all signed the attendance sheet? please find the exit if you’ve denied your relationship the space it needs to fail. my assistant will be waiting in the hall to whip your ass until you find this class germane to your situation.
neglect yourself. pretermit the thaumat-expectations you’ve televised internally. your solipsized broadcast is already bleeding hollywood budgets dry. become oblivion and disregard the wants and needs of others. fetter all but the corpus compellings, digging into meat with fingers and digging into meat with fingers. it will sound dirty only once.
have you all clocked in? there is room for overtime reflection. stay after class like you’re already watching the Microsoft clock on the bottom right corner of your single monitor long past 5. take the stretched commute with a few beers at the rail yard. no love is afforded at de minimis wage. hollowed beards make a cage for bird song, a mouthless whistle that hums in the cerebellum. stuff your gullet with void food. the crumbs fall off slowly in the shoulder shaking sobs of traffic. there is nothing worth trimming for.
your body size matters, but the shape is a consequence of your mother. shop at all the special stores, even if the clothes still don’t fit. aprons are parasitic and slimming. leave your pride in the front pocket and douse it in the deep frier. you will walk away cooked all the way through. have you all checked out? bargained for a different future? you will wait in line and take a number on a slip of paper like everyone else.
Uh - and
Li - the
En - in
Ruu - you
Ei - if
syamen luftop druggons uh niftor tripologue en li kniffletrees. li tuskanon keetch wustin uh tylenoose nulling. bushkin twillsner. louffen ruu, ei ruu tilenn yinjomic liuer. niftor analine uh onomaton, li sufften oospa nilagon. yinjime lishkus wullafree en ruur kinfuus tik. uh sinjomier wilfoe en tyfe en siloutie injemimicson jamiconit. graul stintenly. ruu fulyn lighamen uh trinilif, yinjessie lifle juydacon ei trynament commal kuer tongh.
in palliative care, hand holding is the final intervention before the loci of care shifts to the patient’s circumventing family.
our consciousness begins as a directive; find sustenance. as objects perminate, and memory solidifies, we begin to cast our perspective onto the caretakers around us. in adolescence, we take communion and induct ourselves into the lives of others, we notice accountability. this is the work of altruistic attention. the more we pay, buy retention and act responsibly, the more our relationships form a secure network that perpetuates the assistance we received in childhood, though higher and higher in cost. the swelling burden activates our adrenergic system, the anxiety bug that cranial crawls over our heads, stomping on neural reminders and chewing on the thoughts of rejection. evolutionarily traumatized, to be alone is to starve and perish. this is in our history, past, and memory.
for relief, ask for help. hormones are desires that favor our psyche or compliment our primal needs. they drive us to relate, bond, and fellate. in this sanguine intimacy, we complete the body cycle of consuming and reproducing. we nurture these relationships with a matrix of modalities. semiotic mishaps characterize our challenges, our opportunities. greater than any disease or illness, our years are deducted by miscommunication.
in the later years, the heart wears thin. it’ll stop slowly, while the conversation peters out, and it will beat goodbye in Morse.
doctor Peterson has often referred to as “the last one out.” he works with tremendous effort, little ethic. he studied Burger Flipping for his masters and later returned for a PhD in Iconoclasm.
asked for a sour patch and got a glance so long it ran the mile. we touched the same Vonnegut at different times in nostalgic noise. her left breast bra pad lifted above her shirt top.
I am a chubby fuck.
let’s calculate the fastest way to dry off with a towel. or start an imaginary shop that sells rose scented serums. our faces would no longer be wet or alone.
it isn’t enough to pant like a dog, brain slobber and cock drool, to sweat down the spine. i had to say something so i told her my knuckles made a sandwich. when i tried to demonstrate with my hands, i made the little shark head from day camp.
I am a piece of shit.
it broke a bit of me to tell her she looked like fine china at a news stand. i don’t think she reads the news and it shows. could you turn a bit to the left, far enough that you can’t see me? it makes me comfortable knowing i might throw stones.
I am acting out again.
Professor James Caldwell served in the marine branch for 12 years before returning to academia. His classes emphasize PTSD and coulrophobia.
cognitive lightning sheath. open water torrent. needle outlet in the paisley wall. rat's nest anus scraper. neopolitical torture cell, triple dog scare. warring mycellium against a bark backdrop.
drip drown
drip drown
drip drown
drip drown
drip drown. plastic bag antics in arctic snarls. placated rubber duckies in the prozac bath. quivered pinkies inch wormed around
each other
each other
each other
each other
each other. familial mud drills. the carpentry of sick pheasants. context loss in reflexive redundancy going down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
and down
the sky drain. rubber duck M16s climbing out of the tub. tough zits. class dismissed.
beyond unsanitized hand shakes exists a repugnant adiposity born of woven bald spots and property line hostility. they are present only when paraded in veils of sub-elysian cloth. they are fork willed dissonance and knife wielding antagonists, bestowed with an inner tube of securely fastened hate. poke the belly and plant a spout that bleeds ski lodges and corporate lunches. they will flood-plow the disparate with false desires, ostentatious illusions, and deferential etiology. just a bucket-drop million for a basement-dirtied scoreboard and bank card pyramid schemes. their candor and class is glossily catalogic, with fine print fallacies and inky, spotless dress. they fly north of the high winds when the sacrificial pyre creeps richward. they fly south of the high tide when the guillotines get wetter. provinces they purchase feel the whole purse on the table at the next season’s harvest. prison mates feather-plucked and subpoenaed until their headless dance is done. with this all in mind, how does one shake hands with the enemy?
while the corpulent weigh their watches
time falls on disparate
hands pouring down the hour
to drown out their demerit
portly and ill courtly
money buys them choice
taken away or bought that day
what cost does cost a voice?
the asseveration, the pleading proclamation of the ingurgitation machine bolsters the infini-feed, a gastrointestinal reclamation, taking its place on the irascible interfacing of deadly shores with washed up keyboards. stranded on the atoll’s inner ring, isle of greater paroxysm, floodgate of feedback cyclones; the landed islander swallows salt in swaths. they toe the water’s edge with each foot. cellular rinsed sand grains, seeping with radioactive effuse. in paleomythopathics, this is considered the palaboric crux of defortitude. it’s a solitudinous pilgrimage between the horizon and a circumvented mirror. when the circle walked over is riparian, it raises the question, is eviction from Charon’s boat the peregrination end or beginning? is the embryonic water line stepped out of or in to?
we must render liquid conclusions of compos mentis and island refuge. if ever, now is the time to address the deceased, the uploaded afterlife as known to the deceased, the deceased as known to the uploaded afterlife as known to the deceased, ad nauseum. by dead we only mean digitally available, or online. the digestive churning of whirlpools and machinery-clogs reminds us of the processing of sinusoidal activity. automata bytes weighed down by the dead moth, representative of a cultic following in a vacuum.
in neomythopathics however, the atoll is elevated, levitating above the sea with a punitive freefall pinned in the nucleus. the raised disk revolves, and to tempt your own mirrored image, you risk plummeting. whether this represents child rearing or isolation has been a jovially ambiguous feud for mythopaths. following this thread into psychoanalysis, the rorschach question hangs, how would you like to receive your messages if the receipt involves looking miles below. there is extra documentation for those that choose smoke signals as their answer.
this inverted mailbox only corresponds in falling sand, letting loved ones know their time is wasted. without the hope of nautical rescue, debts are generally considered settled. the atoll dweller, on the isle of greater paroxysm, is sanely reconstituted by sweeping their arms under the crumbling platform each day and replacing the sand under their feet.
for your own investigation, consider the reason neomythopaths have begun undermining the classicist tenets of the digital hell discipline and it’s emotional tortures. if you were to muster a new branch of the mythopathic cannon, what would you contribute? for what purpose do you align with cocaine riddles and clerical babble? your discourse on life will never be heard by any of the billions. as i consider my own retirement from the subject, i imagine the intro course will deteriorate into distracted, neglectful attendees, plugged into a tiresome, repetitious vernacular. it will be an unalientating tongue for the masses, in which lofty metaphors will be buried with naturalist nonsense. why do you choose in this class to take further perdition?