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.
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
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 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 ]
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.
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