.
Mostly I'm awake
Because I don't want to sleep
It's not that I can't
.
a b sonnet
brim
border
line
bright
bring
the time
on the line
of the border
brimming time
timeless border
brought on the brim
of the bright bridge
bridging brimmed borders
brightly brought by time
(after Gregory Vincent St Thomasino's title: A, B haiku - if I remember right)
border
line
bright
bring
the time
on the line
of the border
brimming time
timeless border
brought on the brim
of the bright bridge
bridging brimmed borders
brightly brought by time
(after Gregory Vincent St Thomasino's title: A, B haiku - if I remember right)
sometimes pretty hunting musics morning moan awake
headache gray unfurl shall karaoke Me there he's looking
knows what's in underwear in assorted dreams drunkenly
dance more something dorothy groping email of the body
ceremonial clunky individual tangled in ripped bedroom
taste blood halos on trembling lips as dirt moderator
try moaning your hope junky wetly solid gold sang
particular thought rub i whatever like buffet of interlocking orbs
impressionable doc martens walk age-defying on electric ground
uber bookmark this soul i've got you in my rearview mirage
headache gray unfurl shall karaoke Me there he's looking
knows what's in underwear in assorted dreams drunkenly
dance more something dorothy groping email of the body
ceremonial clunky individual tangled in ripped bedroom
taste blood halos on trembling lips as dirt moderator
try moaning your hope junky wetly solid gold sang
particular thought rub i whatever like buffet of interlocking orbs
impressionable doc martens walk age-defying on electric ground
uber bookmark this soul i've got you in my rearview mirage
galaxy lights pumping
bodies pulsating in motion
over the dance floor
intercellular movement
improvised venusian
ceremonial dances
to meet coming rain
young persons flooded
looking out through the blackness
as boys on boys and women on women
and sometimes boys on women
tangle into saying anything at all
elsewhere there is a tender groping
in the stalls electric blue eyes shatter
into groups of ten is that make-up
let us determine
bodies pulsating in motion
over the dance floor
intercellular movement
improvised venusian
ceremonial dances
to meet coming rain
young persons flooded
looking out through the blackness
as boys on boys and women on women
and sometimes boys on women
tangle into saying anything at all
elsewhere there is a tender groping
in the stalls electric blue eyes shatter
into groups of ten is that make-up
let us determine
pADDY's dEAD
Ulysses Piece
“Ulysses is a mosaic of psychological recalls, topics of the day, Dublin landmarks, social, political, and philosophical concepts. Its tone changes with kaleidoscopic rapidity—from irony to pathos to ridicule to poetry. In its cubistic arrangement of contrasting planes and perspectives it is a perfect art form for the modern era. As an art form, it has been variously praised and attached; its content has never received the consideration it deserves…Ulysses marks an important stage in the development of the most accomplished writer of his century. It confronts the poetic and philosophical artist with the common man and the vulgar values of society and projects his vision toward the symbolic plane later attained in Finnigans Wake…Ulysses is a modern Hamlet; but it is a Hamlet without the last three acts.” (Kain, 1947, pp. 240-41)
James Joyce’s Ulysses is monolithic; it broke the rules of literature while inventing a voice, textuality, unheralded in modern verse and canon. In many ways, it is a canon unto itself, the beginning of a literary style, a postmodern prose that encouraged experimentation, revealing the hidden monologue beneath the surface of voice. Joyce’s perambulatory style and inner monologue allowed the reader an insider’s view of the thoughts and musings of its principal characters. Bloom’s ruminations on loss and cuckoldry, Stephen’s self-punishment for his mother’s death, and Molly’s fanciful discursion that ends the novel, encouraging one to begin reading again, the Yes, the affirmation of beginning again, anew.
“Ulysses is a mosaic of psychological recalls, topics of the day, Dublin landmarks, social, political, and philosophical concepts. Its tone changes with kaleidoscopic rapidity—from irony to pathos to ridicule to poetry. In its cubistic arrangement of contrasting planes and perspectives it is a perfect art form for the modern era. As an art form, it has been variously praised and attached; its content has never received the consideration it deserves…Ulysses marks an important stage in the development of the most accomplished writer of his century. It confronts the poetic and philosophical artist with the common man and the vulgar values of society and projects his vision toward the symbolic plane later attained in Finnigans Wake…Ulysses is a modern Hamlet; but it is a Hamlet without the last three acts.” (Kain, 1947, pp. 240-41)
James Joyce’s Ulysses is monolithic; it broke the rules of literature while inventing a voice, textuality, unheralded in modern verse and canon. In many ways, it is a canon unto itself, the beginning of a literary style, a postmodern prose that encouraged experimentation, revealing the hidden monologue beneath the surface of voice. Joyce’s perambulatory style and inner monologue allowed the reader an insider’s view of the thoughts and musings of its principal characters. Bloom’s ruminations on loss and cuckoldry, Stephen’s self-punishment for his mother’s death, and Molly’s fanciful discursion that ends the novel, encouraging one to begin reading again, the Yes, the affirmation of beginning again, anew.
Ulysses was published on Joyce’s fortieth birthday, February 2 1922, in Paris to much acclaim and moralistic denounce. Its publication history alone makes for a most interesting book, the trials and censure of a literary monument that was both despised and lauded as a work of genius. Joyce’s Ulysses is responsible for spawning an entire literary criticism, a sweatshop of academic study and denouement. The novel begins with the word Stately and ends with the affirmation, Yes. What lies in between is a testament to Joyce’s literary genius and creativity. In many ways Ulysses is a book about a book, an exegeses on writing, remembering, forgetting and the solipsistic loneliness of modern man. It describes with surgical precision the inner workings of each character’s thoughts, their inability to communicate outside of themselves, in a solitude wrought with indecision, angst, fear and detachment from the outer world. In many ways, Ulysses foreshadowed the Babel of in-communication that has become the state of postmodernism.
Naming Names, Murders
thejeunessedoree.libsyn
By all means....go listen to the Death of Poesy.
And I am told (haven't listened yet) it might make you a bit queasy.
And now, edit, that I've heard it....holy cow. I am there ! My voice hahaha.
Scary.
Recordings solicited: joegreen66@yahoo.com
By all means....go listen to the Death of Poesy.
And I am told (haven't listened yet) it might make you a bit queasy.
And now, edit, that I've heard it....holy cow. I am there ! My voice hahaha.
Scary.
Recordings solicited: joegreen66@yahoo.com
shut up
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
from Repetitions
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
no one wants. to hear. you talk
from Repetitions
Pearl Earrings
My dearest, must I talk trivia
Keep you interested with jokes
Twisted stories, spiced to entertain
Must I charm you with etiquette
Eloquent discourses on artsy movies
Display my softer side with tears-
Shed earnestly at the sight of a dying Ape
Must I spend money at restaurants
Buy flowers that wither fast, fade
Fill your rooms with presents
Must I do it all, earnestly
And never show lust or hope
Must I suffer silently, yet smile
Wait for you to define my role
And then, must I not complain
If you decide it won't work out
Atleast refund me pearl earrings
I'll hate it if you wear them
And look pretty for someone else.
Keep you interested with jokes
Twisted stories, spiced to entertain
Must I charm you with etiquette
Eloquent discourses on artsy movies
Display my softer side with tears-
Shed earnestly at the sight of a dying Ape
Must I spend money at restaurants
Buy flowers that wither fast, fade
Fill your rooms with presents
Must I do it all, earnestly
And never show lust or hope
Must I suffer silently, yet smile
Wait for you to define my role
And then, must I not complain
If you decide it won't work out
Atleast refund me pearl earrings
I'll hate it if you wear them
And look pretty for someone else.
DALI KRAB DAY is March 31!
Q. What do Krabs do with olives? mustard? matches? mice?
A.
Please send your answer to madverse[at]gmail[dot]com
DALI KRAB DAY is this Friday - please send your answer asap!
Go here for more info:
http://www.omphalosdada.org/dalikrabday.html
We're a'tryin' to get as many kreative folks involved as possible --
pass this on to a fellow artiste...
Thanks!
J. D. Nelson
http://www.MadVerse.com
A.
Please send your answer to madverse[at]gmail[dot]com
DALI KRAB DAY is this Friday - please send your answer asap!
Go here for more info:
http://www.omphalosdada.org/dalikrabday.html
We're a'tryin' to get as many kreative folks involved as possible --
pass this on to a fellow artiste...
Thanks!
J. D. Nelson
http://www.MadVerse.com
Et Brimology
Brim is an old poetical word for the sea. In the medieval nonsense poem the Land of Cokaygne (c. 1290), some nuns take of their clothes and
lepith dune in-to the brimme,
And doth ham sleilich for to swimme...
(leap down into the sea
And do them slyly for to swim)
Spenser uses "brim" to mean like a horizon:
The bright sunne, what time his fierie teme
Towards the westerne brim begins to draw.
But my favorite use so far is this little poeticism by Ben Jonson:
Swell me a bowl with lusty wine
Till I may see the plump Lyaeus swim
Above the brim;
I drink, as I would write,
In flowing measure, filled with flame and sprite.
-tb
lepith dune in-to the brimme,
And doth ham sleilich for to swimme...
(leap down into the sea
And do them slyly for to swim)
Spenser uses "brim" to mean like a horizon:
The bright sunne, what time his fierie teme
Towards the westerne brim begins to draw.
But my favorite use so far is this little poeticism by Ben Jonson:
Swell me a bowl with lusty wine
Till I may see the plump Lyaeus swim
Above the brim;
I drink, as I would write,
In flowing measure, filled with flame and sprite.
-tb
doctor sax
__________________
therewasonleeever one cloaked stranger
doctor sax doctorsax with his saunter to the hedge
of the desert void abyss precipice
bring the abyss cloaking the dark covering
its mask racking the ruin digging the avenue
hoarding the chairs gathering geese
waxing moon s waning elm poplar willow
oak car loads weeds cuts daisies daffodils
roses sunflowers teeth gummed dusk rear
ward horese honking whales gushing geyser
to becomin' contin.
more after.
incompletes.
what wind cuts the hover, of it. the synonym phoneme of language break. cut widow , wind . to break ebb. of the shattering piece. visits today its Corinthian desire machine
peristance passed simple soul. life problems with widow windower. its etc.
Mona saw the teeth. It was Oona.
_____
therewasonleeever one cloaked stranger
doctor sax doctorsax with his saunter to the hedge
of the desert void abyss precipice
bring the abyss cloaking the dark covering
its mask racking the ruin digging the avenue
hoarding the chairs gathering geese
waxing moon s waning elm poplar willow
oak car loads weeds cuts daisies daffodils
roses sunflowers teeth gummed dusk rear
ward horese honking whales gushing geyser
to becomin' contin.
more after.
incompletes.
what wind cuts the hover, of it. the synonym phoneme of language break. cut widow , wind . to break ebb. of the shattering piece. visits today its Corinthian desire machine
peristance passed simple soul. life problems with widow windower. its etc.
Mona saw the teeth. It was Oona.
_____
bOILERROOMS aND mELBAS
Her Thing between Her
(Feb 16/06)
Her cunt is like a boilerroom, all soppy and porous, like melbas and rye thins, or smooth and honed like a fish belly or a lime peal left out to curl in the hot August sun. Or is it a mud ovum, a kiln where sharp objects are prodded and jimmied, no soft roe or steelheads, but precocity of things, things and not things, things with no names or purpose, labial things, melbas and toeholds with neither purpose rime nor meter. That thing--these things--between her—her—legs, in between her legs and thighs and pubic pong. Ah the ubiquitous pong bone, the harbinger of clear sailing, red reddest sunsets and japanned fish bellies left out too long in the broiling august sun. Curled up like sleeping fetuses with cleft palates and jujube-round finger nubs. And I ladle the pip of my tongue, a long sorptive flay, and melange the inner inside of her majolica maracas. My grandpapa was a boiler man, a stationary boiler man, a brown—maybe gray--fedora hatted boiler man, man. He wore a hat, the fedora hat, on the crown of his head, his balding boiler man’s head, head. Unlike her cunt, my grandpapa’s boilerroom was neither soppy nor porous, but noisy and clangy and full of steam and loud whistles and other selfsame likeminded boiler men. Men, some with fedoras—brown or gray—and some without—neither gray nor brown, but opaque, or rather no hatted, neither coloured, felted fabric, neither couture or haberdashery. Her cunt, as would have it, is neither a hat, a fedora hat, nor a steam whistle or a loud noisy clanging. Neither nor of these. Boiler men are now called stationary engineers, not boiler man or boiler men, neither of neither these nor the other of these or them. No selfsame or likeminded, nor selfsameminded or likeselfsameminded. Suffice it to say I will neither sop her boilerroom nor my grandpapa’s fedora hat, hat. Neither the one nor the other, nor the selfsame or likeminded. Neither either or nor.
Her cunt is like a boilerroom, all soppy and porous, like melbas and rye thins, or smooth and honed like a fish belly or a lime peal left out to curl in the hot August sun. Or is it a mud ovum, a kiln where sharp objects are prodded and jimmied, no soft roe or steelheads, but precocity of things, things and not things, things with no names or purpose, labial things, melbas and toeholds with neither purpose rime nor meter. That thing--these things--between her—her—legs, in between her legs and thighs and pubic pong. Ah the ubiquitous pong bone, the harbinger of clear sailing, red reddest sunsets and japanned fish bellies left out too long in the broiling august sun. Curled up like sleeping fetuses with cleft palates and jujube-round finger nubs. And I ladle the pip of my tongue, a long sorptive flay, and melange the inner inside of her majolica maracas. My grandpapa was a boiler man, a stationary boiler man, a brown—maybe gray--fedora hatted boiler man, man. He wore a hat, the fedora hat, on the crown of his head, his balding boiler man’s head, head. Unlike her cunt, my grandpapa’s boilerroom was neither soppy nor porous, but noisy and clangy and full of steam and loud whistles and other selfsame likeminded boiler men. Men, some with fedoras—brown or gray—and some without—neither gray nor brown, but opaque, or rather no hatted, neither coloured, felted fabric, neither couture or haberdashery. Her cunt, as would have it, is neither a hat, a fedora hat, nor a steam whistle or a loud noisy clanging. Neither nor of these. Boiler men are now called stationary engineers, not boiler man or boiler men, neither of neither these nor the other of these or them. No selfsame or likeminded, nor selfsameminded or likeselfsameminded. Suffice it to say I will neither sop her boilerroom nor my grandpapa’s fedora hat, hat. Neither the one nor the other, nor the selfsame or likeminded. Neither either or nor.
this God
I feel
God’s hand
touch the cold bell
of my heart
God’s hand
touch the cold bell
of my heart
this sorrow
yet to die
for the hundredth
time
yet to die
for the hundredth
time
Phony Fucking Consciousness
(Jan 11/06)
At 5.27pm this afternoon I asked my analyst if I might not be an inmate in an insane asylum, and what I thought to be conscious, or real, was in fact a dream or a false-reality. Perhaps, I added, I am brought up to see you three times a week by some square-shouldered orderly, unbelted from straightjacket, and plunked down on your divan. How am I to know, I said? Maybe what I take, or perceive, to be conscious, is in actual fact unconscious, or vice versa. What if, what if that in deed is the case? He cleared his throat, popped in another licorice baby, and shifted his weight from one hip to the other. Perhaps some horrendous childhood trauma has left me sterile of consciousness, unable to differentiate between conscious and unconscious. Seeing as we have determined that I am Ego-barren, a consonant Id, the thought has, I fear, crossed my mind, repeatedly. It was you, was it not, who suggested I am paralytic with Freudian ‘repetition compulsion’, and furthermore, contend that I am prone to self-punishment, which is mitigated by the compulsion to repeat ad nausea. The Walserian similarities are most disconcerting. Fuck it, who really gives a rat’s ass what I consider to be real, conscious, phony, or unconscious, surely not I, or a synoptic simulacrum thereof. It just goes to show: something’s aren’t worth the bother of bothering with. Anyhow, dreamscapes are far more entertaining and much less bothersome, even for the synoptically challenged and Ego-barren, or those of us with funnels in the posterior nock of our brain-packages.
At 5.27pm this afternoon I asked my analyst if I might not be an inmate in an insane asylum, and what I thought to be conscious, or real, was in fact a dream or a false-reality. Perhaps, I added, I am brought up to see you three times a week by some square-shouldered orderly, unbelted from straightjacket, and plunked down on your divan. How am I to know, I said? Maybe what I take, or perceive, to be conscious, is in actual fact unconscious, or vice versa. What if, what if that in deed is the case? He cleared his throat, popped in another licorice baby, and shifted his weight from one hip to the other. Perhaps some horrendous childhood trauma has left me sterile of consciousness, unable to differentiate between conscious and unconscious. Seeing as we have determined that I am Ego-barren, a consonant Id, the thought has, I fear, crossed my mind, repeatedly. It was you, was it not, who suggested I am paralytic with Freudian ‘repetition compulsion’, and furthermore, contend that I am prone to self-punishment, which is mitigated by the compulsion to repeat ad nausea. The Walserian similarities are most disconcerting. Fuck it, who really gives a rat’s ass what I consider to be real, conscious, phony, or unconscious, surely not I, or a synoptic simulacrum thereof. It just goes to show: something’s aren’t worth the bother of bothering with. Anyhow, dreamscapes are far more entertaining and much less bothersome, even for the synoptically challenged and Ego-barren, or those of us with funnels in the posterior nock of our brain-packages.
riptide
i was wading in you.
teeth clenched. grinding
will you tap. please. pretty
horses. mostly. saunter
into preamble
like vein. or countenance
confess (continue?) hairstyle
(mane) as long as words
confuse you. to death
i will wade. in. up
to my head
----------------
teeth clenched. grinding
will you tap. please. pretty
horses. mostly. saunter
into preamble
like vein. or countenance
confess (continue?) hairstyle
(mane) as long as words
confuse you. to death
i will wade. in. up
to my head
----------------
qUARANTINE
Cobbler Ross
(Feb 04/06)
I have awakened--perhaps not. How would I know (one know) if I (if one) were not dead, breathing, wheezing, lapping grubs of disagreeably damp air? This disconcerts me, so terribly so. Perhaps, maybe, perhaps, I have always been dead, yet to awaken, to live a life living, not a death dead dying, a Heideggerian misstep, an ontological charley horse, an inaccuracy in logic, an existential trip-up. In 1968 the intellectual landscape in France changed, and with it the desire for a raison d’ ere, a philosophical rebuttal: student uprisings, resurgence in Marxist dialectics, an end to Hobbesianism and capital greed and gain. We needed less structure, so the Sartreans and Althusserians gave us Structuralism and Postmodernism. We needed more structure, so the Foucaults and Lacans offered us Truth as Power and an Unconscious structured like language, lacunas, pedagogical onerism, philosophical missteps. Foucault died from Aids related complications, Sartre with a pipe in his mouth, Lacan left early, analysis interminable, and Althusser from an irresolvable depression brought on by matricide and shoddy reasoning.
I have awakened--perhaps not. How would I know (one know) if I (if one) were not dead, breathing, wheezing, lapping grubs of disagreeably damp air? This disconcerts me, so terribly so. Perhaps, maybe, perhaps, I have always been dead, yet to awaken, to live a life living, not a death dead dying, a Heideggerian misstep, an ontological charley horse, an inaccuracy in logic, an existential trip-up. In 1968 the intellectual landscape in France changed, and with it the desire for a raison d’ ere, a philosophical rebuttal: student uprisings, resurgence in Marxist dialectics, an end to Hobbesianism and capital greed and gain. We needed less structure, so the Sartreans and Althusserians gave us Structuralism and Postmodernism. We needed more structure, so the Foucaults and Lacans offered us Truth as Power and an Unconscious structured like language, lacunas, pedagogical onerism, philosophical missteps. Foucault died from Aids related complications, Sartre with a pipe in his mouth, Lacan left early, analysis interminable, and Althusser from an irresolvable depression brought on by matricide and shoddy reasoning.
Count Juan
(Jan 13/06)
Your Kef pipe, Mr. Goytisolo, is viscid and tacky with resin, from the leaf, or the pod, or the stamen, or perhaps from the piddle on the mosque of your lips. Had you met Michel, no doubt the kef smoke and sodomies would have been flying, like fucking ninety, perhaps a hundred, perhaps more. In the scholars barrio, or a too-hot bathhouse, rocksalt and myrrh stiffening the angle of your mans’-laughter. Contagion’s all round, keep a starched upper lip, blood-borne and angled just right, pineal to prostate, cud-chew to tailbone. The philosophy of the sodomite, the effervescent aftertaste of mothballs and lubricious jellies, like fucking ninety, breakneck fucking fast, maybe faster yet. Taking that Deleuzian maxim to the frontier: ass-fucking the philosophical monster, giving birth to the post-postmodern bastard monster-child. Kef up the good work, you deserve it. Before you try your hand at deconstruction, you first need to have mastered the drawing of the hand, the fingers, angles, nebs and shoals, then, and only then, you are ready to destroy and rebuild, or reconstruct. The deconstructor is a first and foremost a constructor, a conductor, a master of primal imagery. All artists worth their weight in saltpeter, Bacon, Riopelle, Bosch, Bruegel, Schiele, even Caravaggio deloused of conceit and bad manners, mastered the hand before shattering it with the hammer of deconstruction. Derrida wrote an exegesis on geometry and formal logic long before his posterior assault on grammar, meaning and textuality. His was a reasoned hammer; not a child’s carelessly swung ersatz maulstick.
Your Kef pipe, Mr. Goytisolo, is viscid and tacky with resin, from the leaf, or the pod, or the stamen, or perhaps from the piddle on the mosque of your lips. Had you met Michel, no doubt the kef smoke and sodomies would have been flying, like fucking ninety, perhaps a hundred, perhaps more. In the scholars barrio, or a too-hot bathhouse, rocksalt and myrrh stiffening the angle of your mans’-laughter. Contagion’s all round, keep a starched upper lip, blood-borne and angled just right, pineal to prostate, cud-chew to tailbone. The philosophy of the sodomite, the effervescent aftertaste of mothballs and lubricious jellies, like fucking ninety, breakneck fucking fast, maybe faster yet. Taking that Deleuzian maxim to the frontier: ass-fucking the philosophical monster, giving birth to the post-postmodern bastard monster-child. Kef up the good work, you deserve it. Before you try your hand at deconstruction, you first need to have mastered the drawing of the hand, the fingers, angles, nebs and shoals, then, and only then, you are ready to destroy and rebuild, or reconstruct. The deconstructor is a first and foremost a constructor, a conductor, a master of primal imagery. All artists worth their weight in saltpeter, Bacon, Riopelle, Bosch, Bruegel, Schiele, even Caravaggio deloused of conceit and bad manners, mastered the hand before shattering it with the hammer of deconstruction. Derrida wrote an exegesis on geometry and formal logic long before his posterior assault on grammar, meaning and textuality. His was a reasoned hammer; not a child’s carelessly swung ersatz maulstick.
As you do
How do you
look at time
when
it has no face,
or let it lead you
when
it has no free hands?
look at time
when
it has no face,
or let it lead you
when
it has no free hands?
Who’s to say that
light and day, that
dark and night
are synchronized?
What is a dial
but an eternity
of notches
that programmed hands
continuously touch upon?
but an eternity
of notches
that programmed hands
continuously touch upon?
Why must you insist
and hold on to
the cold to munch on your bones, or
the heat to wreak havoc on your skin, or
to love only in summer flames, or
to live only in spring flings?
When will you learn that
only change will understand
the language
that time speaks?
only change will understand
the language
that time speaks?
Jungle Boogie
Descend, descend, descend, descend
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
The post-modern Boogie is obviously
dispassionate to a significant degree
obtain It in the Jungle of
poetry being insulted
Descend With the post-modern Boogie
or use assistance from that Boogie
rains came down and nearly
washed all war out to sea
a somewhat similar problem
especially faced poetry
boogie that post-modern baby
let me jump in the Boogie
The “Experiments” investigator has also
written definitively downwards with Boogie
we must do our darndest" to prevent
future intelligence failures
These classrooms may look boring
but go down, go down, boozy jungle
go down to sentient bottom
You will leave Me Entirely
Go down with the sough
from bottom Word Ugh
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
The post-modern Boogie is obviously
dispassionate to a significant degree
obtain It in the Jungle of
poetry being insulted
Descend With the post-modern Boogie
or use assistance from that Boogie
rains came down and nearly
washed all war out to sea
a somewhat similar problem
especially faced poetry
boogie that post-modern baby
let me jump in the Boogie
The “Experiments” investigator has also
written definitively downwards with Boogie
we must do our darndest" to prevent
future intelligence failures
These classrooms may look boring
but go down, go down, boozy jungle
go down to sentient bottom
You will leave Me Entirely
Go down with the sough
from bottom Word Ugh
That Stupid Doxology Thing
you should always show other people your post-it note
it's like a spontaneous snapshot into people’s brains
I mean I'm going bald for Chrissakes but
People who make scrapbooks do not
have sex organs like you and me
the world would be a better place if people
with low IQs were not allowed to reproduce
I’ve got a flap on the inside of my wallet
where I slap a PostIt Note any time
My ocean squid with bonus ink
squirting hawaiian beach sand
came on a rather long plate with
just-resilient-enough octopus
in an oversize goblet
To even the blindest apologist for the silly
if monstrous construct Ali
boxed and Sandy Koufax pitched and
Pierce Brosnan (he likened homosexuality
to slavery) may not do another Bond film
yet I think Joan Houlihan and I
are on the same page spiritually
In 1974 she did a book for young adults
called The Cat Ate My Gymsuit
No one ever said you had to have the mind
of a nuclear physicist to reveal that
she had only post it notes covering her privates
My first reaction was, 'oh, come on,'
but it turned out well
So shout out to my
"Social Software
In the Academy" homies
they stole all our good names like Lance
and Julian and now they’re stealing our cool words
but I only got some shower caddies and a strainer
and post-its and a dishes scrubber
My question is just how much brain power
does it take paint your house
like their penguin counterparts?
Try re-arranging post-its to form
rough groups of "near-futures"
Here are MY suggestions
blahblah blah blah blah
were the people who liked "Carry On
Wayward Son" your friends?
Well we need to rewrite that
stupid doxology thing
because for many Americans
French mustard IS Americana
it's like a spontaneous snapshot into people’s brains
I mean I'm going bald for Chrissakes but
People who make scrapbooks do not
have sex organs like you and me
the world would be a better place if people
with low IQs were not allowed to reproduce
I’ve got a flap on the inside of my wallet
where I slap a PostIt Note any time
My ocean squid with bonus ink
squirting hawaiian beach sand
came on a rather long plate with
just-resilient-enough octopus
in an oversize goblet
To even the blindest apologist for the silly
if monstrous construct Ali
boxed and Sandy Koufax pitched and
Pierce Brosnan (he likened homosexuality
to slavery) may not do another Bond film
yet I think Joan Houlihan and I
are on the same page spiritually
In 1974 she did a book for young adults
called The Cat Ate My Gymsuit
No one ever said you had to have the mind
of a nuclear physicist to reveal that
she had only post it notes covering her privates
My first reaction was, 'oh, come on,'
but it turned out well
So shout out to my
"Social Software
In the Academy" homies
they stole all our good names like Lance
and Julian and now they’re stealing our cool words
but I only got some shower caddies and a strainer
and post-its and a dishes scrubber
My question is just how much brain power
does it take paint your house
like their penguin counterparts?
Try re-arranging post-its to form
rough groups of "near-futures"
Here are MY suggestions
blahblah blah blah blah
were the people who liked "Carry On
Wayward Son" your friends?
Well we need to rewrite that
stupid doxology thing
because for many Americans
French mustard IS Americana
fROGsTICKS
Gonorrheal Meiosis
(Feb 12/06)
What you are and have been reading, if reading at all, is the slow degradation of a mind, my mind; the slow crapulent decadency of a once fine and ample mind. My mind is no longer my mind, but some variant, some reutilization of a ‘once my mind’. Early onset dementia brought on by an undiagnosed syphilitic contagion, a virulent strain of gonorrheal meiosis. A Meistersinger encouraged by an intractable oedipal strangulation.
What you are and have been reading, if reading at all, is the slow degradation of a mind, my mind; the slow crapulent decadency of a once fine and ample mind. My mind is no longer my mind, but some variant, some reutilization of a ‘once my mind’. Early onset dementia brought on by an undiagnosed syphilitic contagion, a virulent strain of gonorrheal meiosis. A Meistersinger encouraged by an intractable oedipal strangulation.
frog stick
they killed him
with a stick
with a stick
the one they used
for fishing frogs
for fishing frogs
from the bottom
of the pool
of the pool
he went under once
the second time
the second time
they had to push
him under
him under
with the stick
hooked
hooked
round his shoulders
like a shawl
like a shawl
frogstick2
his last breathe
came up
from the bottom
a percolate of spit
and cud
came up
from the bottom
a percolate of spit
and cud
the stirred skin
of his lips
bulldozed under
of his lips
bulldozed under
with the stick
frogstick3
the ox
of his shoulders
wale with pole marks
the spine
buckled and diminished
of his shoulders
wale with pole marks
the spine
buckled and diminished
Oil on Canvas - II
Scene at a Party
Walk into the room
People move to stereophonic sound
And on the table knives are arranged
Poised to delve into the dying second's breast
And there rest, as the people move
To stereophonic sounds, bound
To the fixed orbits of their days
The food is varied, the food is good
The bottles hold the dying second's blood
That will be drunk at midnight
As the people fall upon the knives
In time to stereophonic sound
Walk in, begin the prescribed exercises
Of lip and tongue, among the people
moving to stereophonic sound
Like whales stranded aground
That can no longer hear the sea-song
Among the people in a stereophonic world
walk in, begin to go through the moves
groove through the figures of conversation
evasions and insinuations, from a mouthful of air
Cast a practised stare. Cold winds howl
In a primal monotone
Alone, they walk, the stereophonic people
To the silent tomb
People move to stereophonic sound
And on the table knives are arranged
Poised to delve into the dying second's breast
And there rest, as the people move
To stereophonic sounds, bound
To the fixed orbits of their days
The food is varied, the food is good
The bottles hold the dying second's blood
That will be drunk at midnight
As the people fall upon the knives
In time to stereophonic sound
Walk in, begin the prescribed exercises
Of lip and tongue, among the people
moving to stereophonic sound
Like whales stranded aground
That can no longer hear the sea-song
Among the people in a stereophonic world
walk in, begin to go through the moves
groove through the figures of conversation
evasions and insinuations, from a mouthful of air
Cast a practised stare. Cold winds howl
In a primal monotone
Alone, they walk, the stereophonic people
To the silent tomb
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