I re-member Love's Body

I remember Love's body
what heart of soul was this
 you were twenty-one

I was nineteen

my child in your arms

Sitting in the kitchen
 Villeneuve  summer
going through the papers
ink blots all over  hair
long as a dog just as
straggled notice them as's
      'says Mary'
   leans into brushes
 shining glimmer happy  hippy hair

against my neck
 a neck is a word standing up by itself
'a neck is a beautiful word'
    that lets the mouth speak
reach over to its nearest kin
say I love you
I love you neck
all neck



what the h___?
lose
 you've lost
it all anyhow

 its love's body
 love
shyness daffodil
        raffle



 kidnapped by the hour
of its ointment
the ostrich of
 the long ball
hurry back assuring its
becoming   ebb flow
its rush   heart spell-bound
in the care of its  hour






it tilts
to your eyes


____________





___

'sonnet using endwords from Shakespeare xiv.'

   "Sour Neon Worms"

To thole these things demands much more than pluck,
Demands something like feral astronomy!
Darwinian chores & glorifying luck
Alike impede. I find a quality
Of sheer despair in sibyls who won't tell
And desolate days to come arroyos wind
In blindfold choices now. Our poisoned well
Will drive a few souls forth, to fade or find
Their stormy way; from this no dreams derive
That i can use; my deliquescent art
Can teach me only hermitwise to thrive...
O desert, take a solitary convert
Into your depths, whose wounds prognosticate
Perhaps but martyrdom, at no far date.

« N’écoute les conseils de personne, sinon du vent qui passe et nous raconte les histoires du monde. » (Debussy)

                                              No Image


               is a photo of my father reading an excerpt from (his friend) Michel Foucault's book about Sexuality. Professor Deleuze (my father) is
leaning a little on the coffin of Foucault
as the coffin is readied to go
 & interred _inTo earth  Put in the ground
grounded, buried . Bodies bodes
last rites funerallights
rites of passage
age pass ritual reading
eulogy .



Debussy says don't listen to the advice of others neither to
the wind passing tellin us stories about the world
about the world
the world
the bodes
its bodies
buried
across clasp grapes of bodies
by her breast

______________

Nota: 'my father' philosophically. In Deleuzoguattarian terms this might be read as a contradiction in terms, but in this case, it functions as a fictional episteme. their names as have the names of so many others 've becomea  the conduit for a line of escape that includes the fatherly brotherly the filiative alliance of movement ~Cheers, Reader.

_________________

black babe white fa ce _ening

________________________

It seems clear to me that philosophy is truly an unvoiced song, with the same feel for movement music has.

Gilles Deleuze said that somewhere in a talk he was giving at the lecture hall in  1965

'                 your black holes and white walls, know them, know your faces ; it is the only way you will be able to dismantle them and draw your lines of flight.

Felix wrote that in a book

Indeed how remove the face of mask that plasters down the skin to the oily eyes,
preventing all else from seeing. Heart beating at the rate of death.

_____________

re Ly on

Now




reanimate
those marvels.



How

this momen


contain

Chaos



No sun
No moon
playe


on the long beaches.


darkness

hostile
at every point

resist


such art as resource



And sea
Up
Down windy
He gave to each its place,

gazing

also
of the other

resound the dome

The fiery aspiratio
to the top

between
Which rested at the bottom

delicate waters

ingeni us
control

commanded
into waves
the wind
hurl s

Deep and gloomy


observe the banks to pour
their delight into earth


to roll sweetly




Humping


a pattern

between-

-

I like the wild and uneven nature of this site, how it wavers at the edge of what I might predict and that which totally knocks my surprise socks off. And sends me holiday email.

So this piece is a tribute to dead ol Ronald Johnson - wassup, Ron, you're haunting me now, its very pleasant, don't stop. The Flood re-issue of Radi os. Anselm Hollo name dropped this years ago, and now its in my hands. This is very much a mode of mine - and to see Ronald working with such deft gusto and elan ... well, my wife Sarah is giving me a blow by blow off the Victoria Secret's model-a-thon, so I better post this and go join in the christmas spirit...


(taken from Ovid's Creation myth as translated by Ted Hughes)

ignis fatuus

shadows without shadow welcome diffused reality
	forging existence to sentient monolithic multiplicity

streets of amsterdam

motu proprio

The Pope had not been infallible long
when he ceded the sax to Satan. Still,
to doubt him ex post facto would be
unforgivably Protestant.
                                       And it doesn’t
take much imagination to conjure
a vision of Old Scratch wailing away
under a window on St. Peter’s, Pius
entranced when that sultry sound
drifts in, lifts him right to the edge
of rapture before he shudders awake,
runs down to see with his own eyes,
thrust his finger in and catch his breath
before the horn can breathe it for him.

Spirit-filled, it is a Pentecostal
instrument speaking in tongues
that lifts the whole assembly
on sad tones.

                     It can hold its breath til
the world gets happy, thinks Coltrane
when it says Saint John.

schroeder

working

.

poet working

    working

                                                                    working


 when Robert Desnos was sleeping  he hung a sign on his door:




             poet at Work

poet at work  

                     p oet working

 it has a ring to it
a feel
of active
     (   a machine )

ringing
humming desire

  humming

as when a man moves his arm stays still a portrait tumbles to  earth

the neck is lighter the hand freer the share profound

And when the looking evening is a day care centre


.



Working






Try



____________________________________________
_________________________________
__________________
__________Poet Working


when analyzing a such a morpheme a morphic like meditation
is ?

what were you doing while I spoke.

'.. medicating' "I" told her.

 She was not saying her

story. She was not
poetworking.
But grandstanding.
grandstanding.

______________
))))))))))))))))))))))))))
****************
signs that don't tell
but renege
on something
looking for the word
that works the gerund



is that it?


.

Cento Double Terzanelle

  "DEATH AND TRANSFIGURATION OF AMERICAN DEMOCRACY: A DOUBLE TERZANELLE"

I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourn'd to leave
The insolent race, that like a dragon follows,
Because it pleases them to have been relieved.

But for pursuit of virtue and of knowledge
That have a double life, which thus is made:
The insolent race, that like a dragon follows

Would certainly be taxed and overladen;
However, after times shall view these deeds
That have a double life, which thus is made

Towards the royal river with such speed
Through the balmy air of night
However after times shall view these deeds

If we go far enough? You have no right
Ye gods, had gifts like these been permanent
Through the balmy air of night

Beside that flood, where ocean has no vaunt?
To the turtledove that listens, while she gloats
(Ye gods, had gifts like these been permanent!),

Tarnish an honored house, and nuptial rites
May take the face and shape of certainty
To the turtledove that listens, while she gloats.

Slow it behoveth our descent to be,
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
May take the face and shape of certainty

And ope the town, and to the ramparts drag
Of him and his employment. Let the moon
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang

Far brighter than the moon in the serene
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
Of him and his employment. Let the moon

Stand, breathless in the combat, front to front.
I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourn’d to leave
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
Because it pleases them to have been relieved.

(Lines by E A Poe, Longfellow’s Dante, E A Robinson, & Cranch’s Vergil.)

Explorer

You are all contrast
petal lips and coarseness
chiaroscuro.

Rough beauty
for you I will be an unrolled map
every day a new country

virgin soil.

I will be the fresh forest
where, exploring, you trample
unseen buds
the clay cut from the fast-flowing river’s turn

that you shape with the pressure of your hands.

Finding place

You're needing, desiring, having, taking, pulling, discarding.

Finish wanting.

Give up your will, be loved again.

Ceremonial

the day grew out of our responsibility. we filled an area we called Mesa with the elements we would use. a campfire, roaring its pleasure in the logs it consumed, sent a cloud of smoke to that other place. we drank water, for pleasure. our feet were grounded, of course, our heads in or near the clouds. we decided we could learn a lot. a wind swirled, that was music. the air was rich, new for everyone. we stayed inside the picture, engulfed with a word that we weren’t about to say. the final act would be so gentle, consummate, yet even so proud. there would be a dalliance, seemly as the wind. this poetry, one of us said, cannot lose us. and there was nothing to do but agree.

in the field|| part one|text and image [1]

in his eyes, black world, intent pressure balls into there, quits, quell next, the sundown, ring sheet, awful hone, in the, the eyes, stand,
of overcoming and re, rerum of latin and slang , in this across face
perfect preface of two bodies , of when they were young, and the bell, standing the peat, cemetery where he lay, he , she walked in the room
around the , in this, his, enjoy, envy









but prior to before, across the wharf and the choir , and the shell, over the quicksand, and the never never , opinion and its fate, charmed pillow, weak at the knees, by her knees, and he stands, lifts , no she lies, he lay, the grass, the scent off the air time, bound and the, yes, the, was, the nave, as it worked, forewarned is foreordained redeemed in the room, the mercy of it, perish the nature of her , she meanders of the course,



in the field, of the collar and the crowd hour of the instant, in her tea, and the cup balanced, touching as it spread its toast , spilled over the table cloth, and her hand, was the knot, as it lay, held on the pole, the bus, the night near midnight or past, or past midnight and her body was foresworn, not so, in the world that is that, this is the business of the others, and their heralds and the picnic the day before, as he lay , but was not there, but gone, vanished, off , up in the air, as she lay horizontal cross ways over the place, was its point the oblong , as he heard, far off, in the place, had been ordained from her, ordained from the fare, and its captive in the right but it was, not, it was, not it was not as it should as she played, and her arm, and her elbow were leaned by in, toward the place, there he lay, he lay there he lay, had he lain, for so many, for how so many a moon, it lingered over the bells were gray,
sough of willow, in the , near the bay, by the , not near the cove, when she wandered, in her stray as he stood, then, no he lay by the ocean, and the water noise, when she pondered, she paced,




she paced



and wave wrangling near the heather, of the moor, and her shore, it sentenced by the nerve of her, heart and the seal there of her necklace its devotion to her




his body still at the quiet, so the spot, of the kneel and the voice its trail,



at the heel of her hand



of the hour by the moon and its stay, hanging there

Another (lxiv.)

"Thranitic Lament"

I dreamed in Zubenelg my car defaced.
I wake to livid suicide of an age.

More than our aspirations there were razed,
And in their ruins further fevers rage.

What could we build, when all we dream is gain
Snatched from the crashing breakers on Time's shore?

Outside my door harsh barking squalls mortmain.
I know what i have done & what's in store.

In Zubenelg i'd planned a perfect state:
I'd learn to walk, & let my car decay.

No use in Shuttilon to ruminate,
You pause for half a breath--you're blown away.

Once i believed in times when one could chose
But that belief i had no choice but to lose.

A third, to xxxiii.

"The Draught of Jamshyd"

And now my days these tremors damascene:
not that i thought i built twig fanes for aye.
But all is paperback that once shagreen
would lovingly have clad, such alchymy
as Big Nightfall works on all who ride
the one doomed rig & with one smash efface.
--Ah, let it be swept away! Upon my hide
dominion carves not cherish but disgrace;
what's truly human needs no props to shine.
How long we went before the barcode brow
claimed each, and yet dug diamonds from that mine,
and will again: just orders perish now.
Empires. Who dispersal most disdaineth,
the blood of many innocents also staineth.

Another, to Shakespeare cxv.

"The Triumphs"

Madness & midnight there together lie,
And i don't know which one of them is dearer.

There, we have a chance--but don't ask why;
Faces in the depths grow ever clearer.

What here seems fates are there found accidents
And but for trifles turned: the poor, made kings.

I wandered there & saw, for all intents,
Granite melt; & abide, all fragile things.

If we can learn to trust in tyranny
Our pathway there will surely flourish best.

A fastfood line there slays incertainty:
You fling the speaker words, you know the rest.

Ruined loves around us glitter so.
Planted in my eyes, the triumphs grow.

Time to let you go

It's true, you can die from a broken heart.

i live

I keep thinking
of solutions
to a problem
not yet spoken
tracing circles
on the dark walks
of my mind

and your face
once very vibrant
barly flickers
as a ripple
left in time

so i cry
just to remember
and i live
to lie again
still can't look you in the face
to say you never seem to
fill that space
in me

The High Road

So I rolled a boulder, big deal.
I tricked faith, a roulette to win.
Postponing, lying. My final zeal
was luring a hidden goal within.
I was pushing a boulder uphill.
My efforts were wearing me out.
This rock was crushing my will.
Heartbroken, I cried out loud.
You opened my heart with oil.
It is not by might, nor by power,
but by my spirit. Words that roil
my weary heart, it felt like scour.
I turned from a death end road
to life, when my pride I swallowed.

stuff hits elves

stuff sits on shelves
stuff shits on selves
snuff hits on elves
ho ho ho!
wake partially noting
ambient conditions
condensing back to clouds
of independent weights (passions)
floating free from their collected quotes (matters)
to a steady hum of temperature inflation
and whirring heat pumps chasing chilled air

Lady of Vortex

flamethrowers blasting subsonic violence
jet propelled dragonflies dancing on a laser lit lake
mad Max riding a six legged robot
welcome to Vortex



check my music Lady of vortex
check my videoclip Robodock

in this spirit

i can undo
what i have starved
in my quest for fire
burning the blood
the lust of amnesia
immortality haunts

billy jno hope
  catharcyst.blog

Mujer Futura 2.8 ::: Future Woman 2.8

interferencias mientras se sintoniza ::

So we live in a world of the hyperreal, citizens of a
giant computer game.

Así que vivimos en un mundo de lo hiperreal,
ciudadanos de un gigantesco juego de ordenador.

[Dodge & Kitchin, 184]

virtual bodies operating at nodal points in the real
space.

cuerpos virtuales operando en puntos nodales en el
espacio de lo real.

[.../ de algún lugar en la red, 2003]



Mujer Futura 2.8 ::: Future Woman 2.8
Novart

what is left but the blues

i have failed utterly
to become

a mystic poet

i'll attempt
to become

a dyspeptic poet

The Stomach Predator

the hamburger stomach
predator growley ups
in the brain stem it
subsides upon the labs
of loved ones prowls
the morning intends
to survive the junk
mail and the memories
of death carts and by
products of chickens
entrails puyallup's
supafantastic alien flu
scene death camp world

Nascence

Born to the wrong parents, how much? this much? very much? when
all lobbed at least slightly at the wrong parents,
Given, or being, a busted flush and there to start, easy? No, whoever
said easy,
When born to a weird world, rich and strange, curious, peculiar to the
wise,
Like that when we arrived, not soon to be altered,
So best not to complain too loudly (in case of the posses).

Rainbow poetry I admire

There Was a Man Who Lived a Life of Fire (The Black Riders LXII)

There was a man who lived a life of fire.
Even upon the fabric of time,
Where purple becomes orange
And orange purple,
This life glowed,
A dire red stain, indelible;
Yet when he was dead,
He saw that he had not lived.

Stephen Crane

Sentinella, a che punto è la notte? L’alba sta per venire ma la notte non è ancora terminata. Non stancatevi. Tornate. Domandate Isaia Giulio Stocchi Ein Yahav A night drive to Ein Yahav in the Arava Desert, a drive in the rain. Yes, in the rain. There I met people who grow date palms, there I saw tamarisk trees and risk trees, there I saw hope barbed as barbed wire. And I said to myself: That's true, hope needs to be like barbed wire to keep out despair, hope must be a mine field. Yehuda Amichai LANDSCHAFT Ihr hohen Pappeln – Menschen dieser Erde! Ihr schwarzen Teiche Glücks – ihr spiegelt sie zu Tode! Ich sah dich, Schwester, stehn in diesem Glanze. Paul Celan It will not change now After so many years; Life has not broken it With parting or tears; Death will not alter it, It will live on In all my songs for you When I am gone. Sara Teasdale Separation Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its colors W.S. Merwin The Vision of a Giant who Migrated from Baja to Tiburon Island Slender whirlwinds coming from the sky touch the land. Sounds of arrows striking the ground roaring raising dust clouds. He shouts, warning of the days of danger. I stand on the peak of Red Mountain. He comes toward me shouting. My heart is a stone. I shout, I declare it. Anonimous Oread Whirl up, sea -- Whirl your pointed pines, Splash your great pines On our rocks; Hurl your green over us, Cover us with your pools of fir. Hilda Doolittle EIN LI ERETZ ACHERET Ein li eretz acheret Gam im admati bo'eret Rak mila be'ivrit choderet el orkai el nishmati - Beguf ko'ev, belev ra'ev Kan hu beiti -- Lo eshtok ki artzi shinta et paneha Lo avater lehazkir la Ve'ashir kan be'ozneha Ad shetiftach et eineha Ein li eretz acheret Gam im admati boeret Rak mila beivrit hoderet el orkai el nishmati Beguf koev, belev raev Kan hu beiti – Lo eshtok ki ertzi shinta et paneha Lo avater lehazkir la Ve’ashir kan be’ozneha Ad shetiftah et eineha Ein li eretz aheret Ad shetihadesh yameha Ad shetiftah et eineha Ein li eretz aheret Gam im admati boeret Rak mila beivrit hoderet el orkai el nishmati Beguf koev, belev raev Kan -- hu beiti Beguf koev, belev raev Kan -- hu beiti

THE FRAILTY OF IMPLICATIONS

Do you confess?
Marching to the beat of an indifferent drummer.

Tender slippy pork, pants with a silent "K":
A gravity he didn't have before.

Thank you for the pre-existing myth
Of an eighth of an ounce—

Very urban, feigning hipness,
Intensely cordial.

By all means perish the thought
Of an absentee security guard

And a flame-retardant Brooks Brothers suit,
In a shelter now: that's infection.

I don't lie, I don't steal, I love my wife
And I want to see the baby

(Banking on her not being Asian).
A cold wind blowing

All the sweet hookups
To the left of grotesque,

Allegedly in ill-fitting clothes.

iJustCudn'tPee"again"

hugo the hound on the art of living life large

oh wow
bow wow
wow bow
ruff

rough

Learning curve

"If you feel, as I do,"
Said the man with the long, long black lashes,
"That life is a matter of déniaisage,
Of shaving off timidity's every layer,
Then we shall get on."
He lit a Pall Mall
And put his lips around it
As I put my hips into
My surprise
Why, he thinks I'm some French shallot!
Some waxy Lady of Shalott
And my fair face grist for his mill!
And my grace all unmattering!
"My intent is not to humiliate,
Stripping down is not stripping away
And your face, well, lady,
Face it
You know you're forty,
Don't you, and really,
It's way past time
You graduated."

Minesweeper

It is like the game at which you excelled,
Broke all records, found all those mines
In 30 seconds flat. Ready to go again.
All set to win every game, ready to outshine,
Our counter-strategies always in vain,
As cold logic got you there, your luck held.

But life my dear, is not a computer game,
Just like relationships don’t run in binary.
Something you never could fathom.
As you went on believing her in a hurry
Discarding their complaints as random,
Scoring points and passing around blame.

Now there’s no turning back, no amends
possible. Each loved one is on the brink,
teetering at the point of no return.
While you watch, incredulous, and think
of numerical equations to soothe the burn
of seared souls and blazing fences you can’t mend.

Now the logic of ifs and thens leads to walls
of stony silences or acrimony. Tread light
my dear, to find your way out of this minefield,
there’s much to lose to the darkest of nights.
Where no one is prepared to give or yield
Or help you gauge whence duty calls.

It Wasn't a Bad Life.....

It wasn’t a bad life, nor was it a sad one. It was a time of learning, of discovery, a time to shed the superficiality she had worn like an armor. An armor that kept her safe and secure in a bubble of sterile existence. Bubble girl . But bubbles burst, even rainbow-hued ones, even the ozone layer had holes. And now each nuance was clear and felt. Felt deeply, it touched, it struck, it attacked the soft underbelly, the ventral side. Each image made an impression, it corroded an outer shell just a tiny bit more. Each layer got stripped away as each nerve ending was exposed.

She remembered a strip from a graphic novel where the Smartest Kid in the World was standing atop a tall bridge, with his mother who was pointing out various things to him. His mother told him he could see their town from where they were, even the house where they lived, even the tree outside the house, as the frames in the comic strip kept simulating a camera zoom lens while mother and child got smaller in size and the focus shifted to a panoramic view. The Smartest Kid struggled to see the various things his mom was trying to show him but try as he might, his eyes never strayed from the single strand of his mom’s red hair that the wind had whipped across his face, the focus was once again on the kid’s face. She felt this deeply. She was touched and moved to tears. It was inexplicable. She had never before “felt”.

The feeling was raw. She felt the love, she saw it in her daughter’s eyes, she wanted to hug her tight and never let go. She wanted to feel her tiny body, her unique warmth, she could stare at the rounded baby features forever, when her baby was sleeping, when her long, dark lashes were resting on the soft swell of the chubby cheeks, right underneath her eyes. She was taken by the clean breath. The breath that Garp described in his sweet six year old son. The breath that hadn’t soured yet. Pure innocence. It broke her heart to think of this ephemeral innocence, this transient splendor.

Her four year old daughter loved making up stories. She was astounded by a story her daughter told her. She paid attention to every word of the story that started:

“Once upon a time there was a little girl. Her name was Henria. Every morning Henria’s Mommy and Daddy got up and went to work. She stayed home with her friend, a cockroach. He was a nice cockroach. Henria said, ‘Hi cockroach, my name’s Henria. The cockroach said, ‘Hi Henria, I’m your friend. Would you mind if I took care of you and played with you while your Mommy and Daddy are at work?’ Henria said, ‘Sure!’ The cockroach was so happy he turned into a human being and they played all day.”

Was her child just making up a story to entertain herself and others or was this a girl who could deliver a highly nuanced tale of deep distress, at this tender age? She wondered, she was afraid. She was afraid a lot lately. An unnamed dread seeped into every corner of her brain just like the damp pain that seeped into every joint when it got cold, when it rained and whenever the sun hadn’t made an appearance in days. Those monsters, she thought, were real. They never left from underneath the bed or the closet. The ones that chased her down the dark steps to the basement as well as the ones that grabbed her ankles as she tried to leave. She had learnt to ignore them, she was in her bubble. But the bubble had burst now. She felt everything.

She flexed her tense feet and stretched them taut, she dug her nails into her palms, cratering them with crescent shapes, she chewed the insides of her cheeks and drew blood, her back was knotted up in tension, a pain that refused to leave as her shoulders crept up to her ears, as if to push back on the weight that she felt she was carrying, in an attempt to walk tall despite the burdens, perceived and real. Mostly perceived. They couldn’t be real, for it wasn’t a bad life, nor was it a sad one.

A Paean for Pessoa

   "A Pæan for Pessoa"

Is it over yet, Fernando?
Your statue shrugs still waiting at your · table on the square
If it's you that waits, Fernando,
And not another effigy of absence you declare
As the pigeons gravely bob
And the first few lamps · of evening griffins throb.

Nothing ever ends, Fernando,
Though attention flags and humans have to · give it up for lost
You were not afraid, Fernando,
Yourself to scatter like the crumbs · the lazy tourists tossed
This is not a night of masks
But a day of tanks and buzzards circling · slowly down to roost.

There was something in the stars you saw
You could not draw, Fernando:
Crazy patterns to the way we turn
Your eyes discern, Fernando
Even as you float away
And try to say
If I had a name and origin
I'd render them, Fernando.

Now the Internet, Fernando,
Has come along to rescue us · who never could before
Leave our words like you, Fernando,
Bronzed a thousand ways and read · like driftwood on the shore
I can hear your voice in each
Perverse soliloquy · and parody of speech.

There was something in the stars you saw
You could not draw, Fernando:
Crazy patterns to the way we turn
Your eyes discern, Fernando
Even as you float away
And try to say
If I had a name and origin
I'd render them, Fernando;
But I have no name or origin
To render now, Fernando.

10 26 05

A Killer for a Page

then there was weak
they had judged
and impure was forsaken
for crude ambitions
of a lustful habit
calamity stole upon
my greatest wish
and the silence
inspects the weakness
and found death wanting
nothing was saved
cept for forensic pages
so who is stalking thy leaf
as it bleeds into now?
as it burns
and denies me beast

Billy Jno Hope

Destiny Lugging

following my feet
into destiny's pit, where
footsteps stay behind

On His Birthday

Bowie sang early on
So you scream out of line
I want you I need you
Which just about sums up
You and I, there being no you and I
To speak of
And on his birthday
I think he has given me not that
Red red rocking'n'rolling rose
But a kind of iris
Opening to the pressure of light
Rebel rebel
We look divine
Now you I couldn't dance with
And he is what he does
Philosopher king, hard scrivener, mine
How sloppy and loveable and double his f's
Just because my heart is without the wobble
The trouble, throb of gristle, the Adam's apple bobble
Bob's my coz
Bob's the tyrant
(That was for him)
Doesn't mean he doesn't Move me
In that sweet woeful way we want
More eyes and words than lips, and what of it?
It's his birthday
And we shall dance on
Until the subliming of you has reached that acute stage
Where I lose it, and gasp,
Lay on, Macduff
As he puts out an arm and rights me
Balance, brother, yes
I've known before him, and because of him
And shall know after his fact
Your ways of escape are not his
Rabbits' burrows, his strawberries
Running far downfield
So, too, shall I Move for myself
As he does

Iron Pen

is desire
an iron cage
the voice of the devil with his iron pen
at the gates to the Tyranny of the Visceral
where the blue world can’t quench
the flaming cities
sprouting from every stone

cities ignited in the pupil
and a voice that demands the signing
of eternal contracts
to live
burning on the head of a pin
a red body in the blue world

can you hear
the sound of cities
ignited in the pupil
sparks from the iris
flaming underfoot
burning on the head of a pin
a red body and the blue world
repeating themselves

"Unvow Altair"

I vaunt a mango tankard in this church;
i chant with ghosts and know not which is you.

My wounds go winging into glorious rust;
i span a latifundia that's no frith.

Your mouth a moon of circuit-slaking snows
strums rubicund flagon, poppy and habitat.

My cranch transition glows all foolish and faint;
i chat with mists and know not in what argot.

You drank a splash from any flown horizon;
you go a gipsy flourish crumbling charcoal.

Logos, another dimension

Logos, another dimension

Crawling Backwards in time Exploding deeds suck back in thoughts The why’s of life’s quest Drip up to the mind Exploring a mark in time Where I am is No blood spilled I am covered complete I crawled further back Finding blueprints Peeked in My name, there it was Ab ovo At the source the plan is complete Answers drawn out of questions unasked At the count down of time

the 'accusation'

the latin! the latin! I love the latin Sigourney to see the english of this latter day 21st. cent UrI O the silver lati n


ring


in'

on the paten patin?


patinate

" where is the hyssop, bring it to me."


at the e br'im we find
many

languages
with In

the text that construtivizes itselves

over the waysides and narratives of its accusers the readers, the believer myselves the believer to remember Dylan Thomas' phrase__


and "But he knows, really, he knows,
From his very own mouth,
-It was the anniversary of my birthday."

That thought is made in the mouth

that each poem is always a walk on the limb

a dance of the blage

a blage being a coinage to describe these fleeting pages of the

blog space

bloggin brimmin' welcomes

welcome aboard the br'im blog Kyle __ the writing comm'un'ity fractured fragment ed as it is. But yer right this aint no [as ya can see from this here welcome] 'formalist' event. But rather a process an audition invites the desire to read be read to write __ and comments having been disabled creates a silence, perhaps, but invites one to write posts to speak to what has been posted , written, read _ like your bioautography _ and Erin's recent post, her dance of subjectivity and her own suggestive hints of past and past lives, and Gypsy Girl's "Time to Let you Go" photo maxim also lives?, or plays out another subjectivity of life and experience. Blogging as the latest instanteous move back to the written, the oral written , and the written thereby reclaiming its rightful place in a world of oralities and spoken illusions. Once I suggested to a fellow writer, about to embark on a spoken word career, that what we needed was Spoken Thought as much as we needed spoken word. A short few years later and the world has become a bloghouse! So welcome and I am going to be reading and thinking and writing and reading your text "aloud. Ideally loud and pinging all over the place phrasally and with mad inflection" your text but reading not just speaking spoken. Bienvenue a tous .



from Canada a happy thanks to giving giving s

from b i o a u t o g r a p h y

Hello, Clifford has just invited me here. This is a selection from my long poem b i o a u t o g r a p h y , a warped neologism i am using in the sense of life- automatic - writing. the automatic is refering to a procedural composting of four notebooks ( written on the go, hence life- a sort of instamatic). graph for writing, and also in the visual sense - a plotting. i want to reopen autobiography in a way fresh and a little foreign to me, to let the cracks come center stage, and to stare down the demons.

I have found this piece can be performed in a contemporary operatic vein - a la Blue Gene Tyranny and Robert Ashley. There is no score, but consider it as you read - ideally aloud. Ideally loud and pinging all over the place phrasally and with mad inflection. b i o a u t o g r a p h y lets the reader (post)rock out.

Thank you for the opportunity to be a part of this community, tis a cool ting.

--------------------------

◙ t h i n k i n g c h a r l a t a n c o f f e e r o m a n t i c s



somehow to abandon speed as any inhuman work dissolves held in plastic

locked in the basement minutes begin to burn “ already lonely ” practice dissolve strange mirror a hint unabsorbed a smooth – if minute – narrative

emerge under that weight land being used against me campers so big lit up like a goddamn semi oh compassion the caffeine heart eye how hold the sadness NO EXIT disappear what paradise thru science viral vampire a reservoir

rustle of keyboards wind plays the drains low sensual creeks silver ripples spilled puke rust summons commands attention Chloe says politics involves knowing your neighbor

burnt sienna moderne funk cut low showroom pink hair spikes scared of bears the new therapist his traveling lights on ceiling goldenrod on whom I rely line of Viking trucks

an uneven collection a can of sardines made en Italia a dry pine cone wash lone bluebird curves wind carves poor soil poor as in monastic that we are whole as we are wounded media teens at what cost comes fluency in a culture ? clouds . we empty out . Amfleet 1 . HARTFORD

[ it is raining . along a river . machine gun patter of dots . loose swirl o ducks . and cars stopped before the bridge . the business magazine tells of management guru Tom Peters a few rays of sun mark blurred clouds . late afternoon . meaning the forest makeup adds a luscious luster – green . next to this Schuyler’ s Vermont poems . 5 min to WINDSOR LOCKS the Connecticut a few feet deep wide over rocks machine gun swirl o ducks ]

Still Life on Sunday Morning

The art of silence hangs, habitual, over breakfast:
pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon, limp like he

likes. Color bleeds, apple into orange, crystal
and silver, washed by morning light and she hides,

behind salt and pepper lines of the paper. Partial
profile barely shows; below the fold are yesterday's

hot items. She studies comics like Picassos, values
their beauty and pities imprisonment in frames.

The Accusation

When the game is up,
-I know it, says the Accused, one has to go willingly.
-I wish to change my plea, where is the hyssop, bring it to me.

When the ostrokon is cast,
But in the onionskins of guilt and innocence, deepest kernel, toughest
geist,
He is and remains innocent,

When it's vox clamantis in deserto, or 'it moves even so...',
They may castigate to their heart's content, the outer shell,
But never could he agree, never could capitulate, the very hell he is.

When the Judge snuffs the candle,
Showing that out of the Guilty the light of God is gone, and none
should deduce to see it.
And tolls the bell three times, as for one who died.
And closes the book on the Guilty.

When even Franz K., that perplexed enemy of the people, it is,
Who at every stage protests his affront to the full,
But he knows, really, he knows,
From his very own mouth,
-It was the anniversary of my birthday.

Prayer

Silence,
listen to
seeds. Crack,
unzip your lip.
Speak to the rock.
Expect water to
breath. Awe.
Salt.

The well is unfolding words,
a manifest of unveiled truth,
sweet honey in the rock.

My ears listened to the scent of salt,
it dripped in my eyes as I wept
when I heard the seed of the sound.

Sweet honey in the rock,
a manifest of unveiled truth.
The well is unfolding word’s

salt.
Breath awe!
Expect water to
speak to the rock.
Unzip your lip.
Seeds crack.
Listen to
silence.

On Pickthall's Al-Koran

As chatoyant.

As a black rock from out of cobalt sky. Sky root. Cling at. Submit to. Past any knowing or known unknowns. Torn from Allah-Void. Burning. Shifting colors. Wall.

Human limit. Words to mull, not to find a final thought in. A hot wind from past days now dark. Its dry aroma. Its nomad tasks.

Airt. Gnarlyhood. Light.

Cubi XVII.

Lift a shard.

Something to count on

Not looking hope creeps in, but hope does not stay long.
Hope, the false friend, gets you out but faith keeps you from going back.

2 sonnets from my Harold Brainerd Hersey conservation project:

PENNY WISE


the Many books of the crumbling starlight
from a binding of that moon through the window
of recognizing my pretty in That moted moonlight
carelessly along the horizon, seeing What a narrow

desire Pointed a fancy finger carelessly
in My Shut mouth, And of Remarking merely on
a "forever penciled" dusty mockery
of my deceived love heart up through dawn,

Yet, this here shadow of a library
Is not into believing the years of dust,
I am one, yet I am almost lost Upon your agony,
the first sign Is When Your own lip bursts:

......

Then your Will will not pick it last!
But now, with You, an act will pass And pass.



REMEMBRANCE


I think the earth gave me Life
Through The strangle-arms of taste,
you with a thousand clouds suddenly white
The women's moon fails to taste

When Your moon opened:
As though Running to reach me
Among The shadows broken
over the splinters now salty

.........

I Flutter forth half a kiss
around their thin lips,
As though my darkness
were them On the lips

as Into the tiny mouths
of monstrous brain moths

Genetic Manipulation

once a one-time shaping event,
my illusion, a sliding
door to dream realms
giving birth to
disillusion,
called
miryam

now
no more
moses-dynamic
i grow in
faith

merciful
you show
me the way up
is down. i repent lack
of trust. genetic manipulation,
paradigm shift: lose to find; die to live
a dynamic shaping process, revealing a call

.

IF ALZHEIMER'S CAN MAKE ME FORGET ABOUT US, I WELCOME IT

Time should be cleaner, and when it's a bad day
For bedsores, watch her drain—Quick! before she
Walks out on you again. If air can be brackish—
Hell wins. You're so angry—it makes you fuck that
Much harder. We'll always have dial-up & a faded
Tattoo that reads: It's over. Well—this was never real,
Anyway. A dignified man from another time plays
Minor-chord bridge—choke him righteous on distemper
Croutons, then make him sing you "September Song."

Idyll

i feel how my shoulders now
hunch up towards my neck in
an apparent attempt to ward
off the world. how like a
bird shuffles feathers up
to an ungainly profile over
eons of genetic morphing oh
i oh i oh i am the mock
turtle dove, mooing on about
lost love on the endless
beach of change.

Fall is a Beautiful Liar

There never were words to describe it -

The cicada song grows wearisome and
he sings despite his wings
being seared away by August.

The jade velvet of flower beds
has not weathered well under
the heat of fevered weeding;

always stroking - twisting - pulling -
where has the ease of nature gone?

The lily's curves have turned to wilt
and the morning glory is sleeping in
past the humid languor of summer.

All that remains are grubs that thrive
on the chilled skeletons of September.
There is no promise but that of death

and there never were words to describe it.

On Letting Go

These years will soon go by a-blur.
In a lonely room somewhere,
I'll live the past, the times with her.

Voices trilling in song or cheer,
Frills and laces, ribbons in hair,
These years will soon go by a-blur.

I'll think of eyes of twinkled laughter,
Monsters in closets, dolls in her lair:
I'll live the past, those times with her.

Of a child's kisses that healed a mother,
Adolescent fears and misread care,
These years will soon go by a-blur.

Shadows will sweep a desolate shelter,
No more now than a threshold bare,
and walls that whisper of times of her.

For I must know she's not mine forever,
Or else the rest is round despair.
These years will soon go by a-blur,
I'll live the past, the times with her.

The Pot

At a 'tea' party hosted by a gay Russell Crowe which is happening down the street from my old Bellevue Ave. digs near Silverlake. I'm on the toilet in a blackandwhite tiled (Moderne?) bathroom with contrary curtains---like doilies hanging on dark stained and burly woodrings---all of which makes me mind-flit to huge sailboats and Russell Crowe as Fletcher Christian in some new Hollywood bounty mutiny---now wriggling my toes in the U-rug---and why have I taken off my shoes and socks? I'm sitting on the pot but no action. Freezeframe. I'm trying to catch the conspiratorial falsetto conversation of gravelly-voiced Russell and (?) in the next bathroom. He's raving about some sensational loverboy he's been shagging and once again everything goes quiet---the medicine cabinet mirror over the sink swings open and he's back in his world-famous butchtones and tells me: "Take your fucking dump, flush and leave!"Then he smiles and immediately bellows "Mates, come check out the joker taking a dump!" and the bathroom door handle rattles a bit, then swings open onto a spectral corridor of backlit faces, all peering over one another to get a better view. I'm thinking speedily about how to get out when suddenly all goes silent and my stomach starts rumbling out of control, then lets out a tremendous bronx cheer with reverb effects. I'm feeling overwhelmed with shame and Russell yells "CUT!", and now everyone is applauding wildly at my 'performance'. A picture on the wall next to me pops out and Russell sticks his head through and he tells me "Mate, this is gonna be a world-beater. You've outdone yourself". I can see his face powderstreaked with stray eye-liner tracks and am wondering why an actor of his stature can't get better makeup. He says: "You still haven't flushed, mate. Flush and take a bow". I reach behind and find the cold metal handle and plunge. A muffled gurgling and my balls now getting submerged and I'm hopping about with ankle pants while the water rises and my turds (a baker's dozen) jostling each other over the gangplank and onto the U-rug and Russell's beside himself with joy and yelling out: "You've seen it all yourselves! A star is born, mates!"

Plutonium Child

I'm anxious about revisiting the bungalow on Ambrose Ave where I once lived. The same laconic Gene Autry cowboy from Saturday t.v. matinees drawls: "There was a little girl who lived nearby. I don't know who she was, but I seen her in my dreams; I'm certain she's the one and it was here". I don't know that it's me talking or some other. Or that this is an old song I've nearly forgotten. But this is like the long ago dream about that same talking, pull-cord baby doll that was both fictitious and real. "You can't possibly remember anything because you left this place for elswhere". At the door, I press on a sad little bellbuzzer that's hooked up to springy electrical wires and hanging from the same battered fascia board and feel the mild charge in my fingers. Brrriiiiiing brriiiiiiing! Behind the blackened screen door I can see the same dark gray corpse of a crone smoking in her rocker. What was her name? She was the woman who used to plant things only at night. The vapors of her cigarette are trailing towards the gridded, galvanized mesh. The smoke comes through like Indian signals revealing that she's got the doll.

At the tail end of a snaking customs queue with Ty, Elena, Geoff, and a much older Gena. They're each wearing a wreath-like "crown o leis" chin-cinched with vines of cascading holiday tendrils. Their heads are bopping to some sort of Hawaiian slide uke that's playing over the p.a. I'm not partaking of the festivities---I keep bumping up against a hodge-podge of dented, military-issue jerry cans. The canisters are stenciled with stippled white symbols, all of them visually suggesting the direst warnings which my dream mind runs with: plutonium, aids ebola, cholera and bubonic pestilence. The "family" directly in front the containers seem infected---something is seriously wrong with their skins. The pink freckled dad with his flattened haircut has got something to do with all of it. He's got the girth of a savior, but is going down with the wife and kids. He's got scabrous blotches coating the back of his arms and neck----poking through the appendage openings of his pristine starched white shirt. He looks like something ancient...beached. I'm trying to get the other four to notice all this, but they are now far back towards the tail end of the line. I'm yelling and waving while the crowd surges, but my vocal projection is chord-cut and feeble---drowned out by the funky cacophony. The four of them are now clapping, stomping and whooping it up---entertaining the crowd around them by weaving a Celtic knot of a well-rehearsed barn-dance. The Hawaiian twang of the p.a. is metallic, hard-edged and deafening. We've moved forward in the line, but the canisters, and the family in front of us, are gone.

portrait of her self kahlo

Autorretrato, photo of my self :D
Vía dadanoias

From an Author to her Child: on writing

From an Author to Her Child
on writing

I have written a tome, a lexis
to define this vocabulary of pain,
and with the aged leather of my palms
I have bound the words and held them near,

as swaddled infants
in the darkness,
where comfort and clarity
are elusive.

Bent-backed silence
has borne witness to the gilt
that edges each page,
and the font has faded
from nights of restless fingering:

your lip at my breast,
the curve of an ear,
a lock of ebony.

But memories refuse to fade.
They seep, instead, like ink,
into the ridges of my fingertips
where text does grief no justice.

Failing to adapt

He was sometimes, she was always.
Sometimes always doesn't work.

The gods

The gods arrive...

evidental[l]y

evidently
"apparently" it was sad few showed at the funeral, your funeral guess no one "care'd" after all "so it tis was is" that makes sense in a sort of dime when the flaws have showed in the libidinal book the liability books and you can never get detached enough to escape the movies and movies is what its all about after a fashion something like never havin' your desires gratified met purchased needed watchin’g the rive rrr of ccrimed take it off away as usual. So then all your periods are ended and esc ape ba ck to Europe you must because this is not your climate but then where do you find your place except in an English country garden and an espionage scenario and other useless things which echoland and the anxieties abound but like you reader I am so flippant with these so called purging of the soul I cannot she cannot believe there is any

mean time another makes a dollar a day a day a dolore so spent within its wishing now back to the friends' work another monster mountain like yourself

.

in the elegy of your passing there is nothing, a wave drifted to sea .
the swimming song of your body .

first saw

Oh ho ho and a bottle of heigh Heigh ho the ninny pushed by water and so it goes when she first saw my lips wangled she reckoned by the flay of their stoppage I a recondite deer twittered against the window of winterage and husbanding my land I awful I was the Irish accent of the voice reading Finnegans Wake when a young lad a young ladding and spinny as she was there was no choice between theory and practice and the boat we rowed was like this against the territoried god against the deterritorialized sinner chained in his shackled husks by the sea the sea of alcoholism which made the books of the sea and this what made what we are throttled by night and height we sang the song of rushed trout of boy scouts not cubs hammering down motorcycle hill and I missed my youth and missed yours as well the skinny boy I was spent too many years alone friendless homeless sexless no wonder she was crazed crazy when founded out to the foraged field

Now be my lip O lover of memory

__
So the envelope speaks

Spin-Out

Unprovoked, you slide away - slick,
like a wet road at midnight. You slip away
into your distance, oblivious
to the spectators lining the shoulder.

Exhaust, perhaps a final breath, lingers
in the inky absence, and
the chemical smell of your departure is choking.

But the gravel will resettle in your wake,
the fumes of your passing will clear
and the pavement has already forgotten
your name.

Learning to believe

Time comes and I discover this
place, that I don't even know
yet, but patience touches me
and says its all going to be
alright, now.

Escape

I had wondered at this proximity,
an intimacy of thoughts, like a nakedness,
unimaginable, a union supreme.
Distances were irrelevant, propinquity -
a word that applied, when our oneness
amazed, silences weren’t rude.

It’s said we seek mysteries; an escape
from the banal but in a meeting
of minds, could banalities intrude?

Perhaps they could if on barren landscapes,
mirages, mere illusions, had sated a longing
undefined. They could serve as preludes
to deconstructed lives scrambling
for slivers of reason to conclude:
the enchantment’s as real as the escape.

WHAT THE NIXIE SAID

When did the color of the door
change?
The door will open
to a new place according
to its hue, although
these places may look the same,
or similar, to you.
When did the radio tower
appear on the blue hill
above the saltmarshes?
You may say the green cars
& the red cars parking
have nothing to do with the saints
in the aquarium.
What was the mermaid's name?
What did she sing
to you? You must forget
all that. Did he put the brown
stone into his left shirt
pocket before or after removing
the pen from the satchel &
with no prior knowledge
the fauns in the copper mines?
You may notice an orange sheen
on things. It will only hurt you
if you let it hurt you.
Who stole the giant carp
from the basement? There is
no water in this flask. Who says
the sky is like a sieve
or a net? It's not so hard
to breathe the air. Opening
this door, the blue one,
that is hard. Tell me where
she hid the comb. Tell me
where this sewer goes. You
don’t know about the eels?
This thing here, in my right hand,
what is the name your people
give it?

Purple words

Truth is not purple
All reality pimps up
Is truth, naked truth

Pimped up truth looks white
The glasses you need are pink
Feelings black and blue

Last word still not said
Stumbling blocks are steppingstones
We grow a purple heart

buffin'out'the

bitter

Murray Gell-Mann’s as likely
to taste a quark in Dublin
as James Joyce, and it seems
to me that three draught quarts
would not be out of the question
when Muster Mark’s dry. Up and down
are dark and bitter like Guinness, perfect
brew for the world we know, taste
of Autumn on a gray day in September.

tag: poetry, quarks

lizard brain

i don't know if
this is a poem and
don't really care.
i've been attacking
the boston ivy,
the blackberry
creepers barbed
around the old pear
tree with my mom's
longhandled clippers.
horrors! what i
thought was the trunk
of the pear tree
turned out to be
the monster jade
plant from mars,
its spongy segmented
limbs surrounding
the fruit tree like
a garish ruffle, dis-
turbingly easy to
decapitate. Not like
the tangle of vines. No
epiphany to show for
all this work, i'm
in my lizard brain;
although later, pouring
myself a glass of
water i notice that
my hands are shaking
from all the effort.

but when forever hurts

a poem by my daughter Marlies

oil---and---wine

When I saturate, I reach every part.
No place to hide, I am oil, I transform.
I overcome, triumphant, pure of heart.
Even inner transcendence needs reform.

But then I refuse to blend with the self.
Holy oil meets flesh: I call for your blood,
pervading straddled boundaries in shelf.
Delicate flame illuminates to bud.

No private self, nor public self, I’ve met.
Are you ready to taste and break with sin?
Simple truth: what you see is what you get:
inside looking out; outside looking in.

Therefore I am, who I am. Be mine!
Arcane paradoxes none; I am wine.


.

Poetry is a Way of Life not just an expression of the Soi-Meme_this poetry of the future of what are becomings

Poetry as a Way of Life not just an expression of the Soi-Meme_this poetry of the future of what are becomings-to-be exists nowPoetry as a Way of Life not just an expression of the Soi-Meme_this poetry of the future of what are becomings-to-be exists now and yet exists on a virtual plane and is a process of definit'in and fiction criss cross frontiers mix melodies perform verse machines magics boundaries as usual A Recalltopoetryisawayof life and so many others et tant d'autres et tant d'autre_tant d'autres et tant d'autre_

Sight restored

What is in your eyes, your

bright, sparkling eyes?

Save me from myself, give

me the vision of happiness and love, yes

to love, real love.

Fill my every corner with your

light, what gifts you

offer, what promises

to believe, only to

have faith

in myself.

for pete

don't die you bastard
i love you
i imagine the oscillating apparatus that keeps you alive
your breath rasping out of the machine
heal and live and love

when the nail haemorrhaged out of your brain, perhaps the darkness bled out too.

Stay and love us.


.

Campanile 1+ Comment + 1, 2.

A poetry ground on which [the] figure sags soled by sight
terracotta campanile lies which tender the golden book
`the golden' `book in your teeth yes, lover one by
' alphabets and books" was "the" surging sowfarrow the spy the sow eaten by its "farrow"
againIsoldespyherloverespionagebabyrocked by her cradle I went looking for your today
however but you were not be seen I looked up
and low high and down turning my head around again too

Is that why I slip into a black-hole, a bad body-without- organs,like some question slippery slope that does not end ...
Is that some sort of idiotic epileptic sexseizure?
My body is a sexsexure if not writing every each – day,
so it thunders seeked you in the thee of its every
which way –







Mozart replies with a line in his teeth the teeters of the sun, and the balance of death, its cemeteries and gasps, the voice parked in some lane, close no, clocked the dare of death, some widow spanning the window ledge. widow lend her frame to the olden tablets of the peaked ridge of Achille's hat. Enuff of the dead, she says wording the phoneme "down" to its out and round.



Breath







.

___________
__
____

A poetry ground on which [the] figure sags soled by sight
terracotta campanile lies which tender the golden book
`the golden' `book in your teeth yes, lover one by
' alphabets and books its was the surging sow
farrow the spy the sow eaten by its "farrow"
again isolde spy her lover espionage baby
rocked by her cradle I went looking for your today
however but you were not be seen I looked up
and low high and down turning my head around again too

Is that why I slip into a black-hole, a bad body-without- organs?
like some question slippery slope that does not end?
Is that some sort of idiotic epileptic sexseizure?
My body is a sexsexure if not writing every each – day,

so it thunders seeked you in the thee of its every
which way –

Now then, an accidental rhyme is that not like the accidents in the sacrament that Catholics speak of? The accidents of the matter that don’t affect the substance.

 (but now then , what is the substance of a poem or a text if it's always on the run, like water getting away from it's owner... but who's the owner of water and wood?_________________

Later Clifford was left with the line of escpae that had hung out of his mouth speaking to God and Tristan Tzara . 

 _________________

Tragic Lover

Lonely love,
where are you now?

Only love,
in darkness you hide.

Lost love,
I can hear you cry.

Last love,
we will never be again.

Poison For The Day

If the devil came down tomorrow, from where'st he is perched,
and and asks you, "What will it be? What will be your poison today?"
How would you respond?
Would you? Could you?

Me? I have only one reply to him, it's quite simple,
Give me food and wine.
Make it a nice bottle of white, my friend.

Who on earth thought of making me a glutten?
"No one did, Darling. It was my brother upstairs.

Cheers, and pass me the cheese, please."

Thoughts to Die For

hello again mister bleeding
i am stranded in the hall of mirrors
a thousand doors cremated
a million thoughts remain
silence shines the razor
haiti plummets foul
my ny spit grows stronger
raw acidic nerve crash
upon the plains in stonehenge wake
tame a comet with my anger
2005 is a pig's dream
shallow guttural septic
hate gnats crashes into my guts
junkies weave narcotic dreams
there's red in the stars
love filtering out
memory will guide you home
mad poets discovered
when the world was young and giddy

Billy Jno Hope
www.seedsofamadnessflower

The skirt in Barcelona

Skirts in Barcelona, I like to walk with my camera and feel people legs :)

"Borgsorg"

"Borgsorg"

cymophanous pygarg smarts
following
spiral shadow bank
anchor collapsing fulcrum is aptly myopic
iguana parking cranch against asking small
falling brisk attack assiduous
affirm foundling sloom
sly loudly swamp Xibalba

You are the night bird

outside
On the lawn
I cut stars out of paper
To go with the moon that I hung on a string

I am a puzzle
a wandering face
that is lost in the crowd

Lightning bugs
Circle my head like a crown

You are the night bird
That follows me home

Pep Club

A crux revolution beyond comparison
Agree to disagree...
And while you are at it;
Love to hate!
We're split down the middle that way, see?
Like a great fault-zone,
Some social divide,
An allotment of views,
Atonement for sinners,
Peace in war,
War for dollars, and
"Quid Pro Quo"
Go Team go!

Crystal Mother

It was the day of the unmentioned -
the day of the conspicuous "shhhh"

The Day of the Crystal Mother,
clapper wrapped in pink-baby-blue,

there were no words, no names.
Mostly, there were no balloons.