deSireMachIne TelEViSion

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During the summer of 1930 the British dirigible R-100 visited Montreal as part of a campaign to establish a North American terminus for a transatlantic airship route. The craft was moored at the St. Hubert airfield on the South Shore. This photograph shows the dirigible passing over Dorchester Boulevard (now René-Levesque) and Mansfield. At the right is the Sun Life Building during the third phase of its expansion by the architectural firm of Ross & MacDonald. The central tower features a reinforced steel frame sheathed in grey granite rising to a height of 400 feet. It was the largest building in the British Empire at the time of construction.




.

ARGO'S ILLUSIONS

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

Islands clipping the dove's tail

Symplegades

the canvas still wet

smells of nightmares

Waiting for the clashing islands to part

for the moment cliffs begin to separate

and ships slip quickly between

to safe harbors smelling of salty dreams

wings clipped

air still

no breath

only illusions in paint

wet still upon the canvas

' Thanks for the inivite. On the run for the next few day but I leave a small token of my appreciation.'


___________________

This is from a "texual conservation/recycling" project I am working on. These texts are from the book Night by Harold Brainerd Hersey, published in the 30's, I have re-arranged the texts, being careful to conserve all elements (all words, all punctuation), into new forms. These forms will carry the texts further into the future.

SORCERY

You stir,
ashriveled And aglittering wearily,
From tree to tree Of her mouth,
she shoots Your gossamer fingers
pushing, Saying "with is weary"
I web spider, But crystal twitches

is lover
lovely,
......

goldenly, A window;

Gently a ghosts;

Tenderly, A hillside,
......

burn, kisses of
The naked O
of the moon
the silver quivering
moon!

breaks a face Against the Window

among The hot slim Passing faces--
of beauty and hunger, bend of Merge,
Dart Of dawn, Weaving
a back of light.

Her like stars
Around the face
no longer
the moon.

many colored hands
Lifting their silver purple
feather rim, like you
in the web

through The sky is the trees on
arms ...

Now over the of the hills
That like the web, Blown in a
dream

Suddenly you realize that
you is my her Saying:
This is enough

morning poem

and contempt is mounted yet
we shed divine for impermanence
reality knocks with a gnarled protusion
and we suck deep
like moths sexing stars
the first prayer is wounded
no poet can heal it
freedom is the new slavery
we strip naked for the big iron
in the morning view
dreams are diseased
reeks of mortal
found righteous in babylon
solicited suicide
strapping truth with bombs
strafing babies for democracy
metasizing cannibalistic tv
as phantoms prepare the day

Billy Jno Hope

n o n a n

Regret

regret

The Game of the King and Queen

Entranced as the gambler is ever by the lovely mathematics in
softest lighting,
The ballet of numbers,
The vingt-et-un, the baccarat, the chemin-de-fer,
-M'sieu, your usual,
Rum and stunning fractured ice placed at the elbow,
A balloon glass of bent rays, a crown, a coronet,
On the house, too loyal a customer of the House,
-Good evening, enchantée that you could join us tonight,
And the gambler delighted to receive the lying obeisance that is
the House,
But no rallentandi, not now begun,
Though many casino nights it takes to pour his blood coin on
coin to the river.

Faro and Napoleon, Texas Hold 'em and the obstinacy pertains,
The slope is passing steep, let 's sleigh it to the bottom, that wry
smile of his ever wishing and wishing,
Which goes where when you are not under the sky?
When you are in the icehouse and blinkered to a single view?

Doors were never locked, children played in the streets,
The inevitable joys and troubles of the world came on all in equal
measure, in sharing was their strength.
When it was Beggar my Neighbour and simple grandparents,
When it was the learning of the rules from the small stake game,
When it was parvenues King and Queen and majesty unearned,
What comes will go.

Many nights it takes, to cup the toxins out,
Many nights at rouge et noir, on impair, manque,
The gambler, many francs down by midnight and not especially
concerned,
O, and the false high spirits he must display if the bank should
lose.
He fights tonight, as every casino night, to squander,
And, in equal mode, himself, in action and character a unity,
Tell that to the whole around him,
Tell that to the sweetened psalms still in the air.

Await the stones, as Stephen buried to the thighs in Jerusalem
sand,
Seeming to the crowd that he kneels, so devout was the
gambler all along,
The gambler says: -Tell them I’m going nowhere fast,
After loss, he doubles his stake,
After gain, he halves his stake,
With a pretty little smile at their fallacy that the streak on
average continues.

Dioynsus, designated humourist in the stone drudgery laid
down by heaven,
Dionysus, casual to throw up twenty cards and have them aces
fall,
Ora pro nobis, all sleeve, all take, all drawing-in,
The croupière, crisp white sleeve with gaiter, bowtie of black,
The god made female for the day, for the opposition, now she
knows the gambler’s heart,
The broom drags the round stygian chips to their home,
Ora pro nobis, a hole in the pocket, a split in the wineskin,
The besom, the August desiccation, the subtraction,
Dionysus paid a trifle for his soul.

A vocation, says the gambler, no less,
When 't is sensuous, I 'll be your ruin,
When 't is affectionate, I 'll coddle thee now,
House odds against, the Gambler must go down,
A broken man, contented broken man,
To the Dolomites, icy range, and slip.
His house is squandered, he has succeeded,
The twin devastations, affection and seduction,
A martyr, every bit as much, vivement la destruction.

poetry

Drier Clime

We said,
a blue Brahms
opening for
instant called across.

They meant,
churches are
open stiff
parlours.

Later, it was
understood
like trips to inside
parks or rancheros
blossoming
along the river.

We replied
in kind.

In kind was as
winsome as a sail
over endless eagles,
the date of
approximate,
the deltoid muscle
lifting as much.

Replies were
enamoured.

A rhythm
existed in
part song, in part
closing
particular, in
part sighing
after running.

Degrees cut
into every
day.

The rest was
masquerade
filled to
capacity.

We all
could have
said as much.

Is ThiS SOmething UBuROI????????????

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Autorretrato de Kahlo

Autorretrato de kahlo en la habitación

drought

clouds
cannot hold
wait of weeks
drizzle anticipation
not rain

always

(--free--)
;always;&;only;within;