In the Back Seat of the Car
Hard Pears
I’ve never forgotten
the look on my dad’s face
and the feel of hard pears
whipped at the traffic
behind the summer hedge
In The Back Seat of the Car
My father is loosing his memory
Of the dog spitting up a chicken bone
And the bee sting salved in butter
in the back seat of the car
This God
I feel
God’s hand
Touch the cold bell
Of my heart
This sorrow
Yet to die
For the hundredth
Time
Argil Gardener
I have an audience today
with Bouvard et Pecuchet
for the job of le gardenia
Deus plenteous de loess
Levinas’ Face
for Levinas the face
that I face is the face
that faces the other
a reflection of the face
I face while facing
the face facing the Other
face but face to face
facing the Other that is
the face that faces the I
that is the Other face other
than I which is I the face
that faces the Other
face to face that is I
and Other than I that is I
as Other face to face
with I the Other
Blight of Eyes
skin molt with corm and bone rill choused in the plow of her forehead where I once pressed my lips bloodied with mill-weed and choke and the nettles and
briar tungsten and the yellow corn blight of eyes gone sallow with fretting
and misjudgments and never once a cackle or a sharp invective
(the chaff never separated from the absence of skin)
Omphale’s Whore
ears sheeted with rags
a wailing
neither apiary
nor tallow
could stop
Omphale sluing man
into bivalve, slurry
and conch
A Subcutaneous Abrasion of Some Sort or the Other
(Dec 31/05)
It is 3.27am, and I have just discovered a mastoid, perhaps the makings of a goiter, in the anterior meniscus of my head, or what I take to be a head, my head. It is tender and edema-like, or a close approximation of an edema or a wen-ish thing should I know what one looked like, which I don’t, of course. Perhaps the makings of an on top of the head subcutaneous abrasion or distended kartoid or a bulge of some sort or the other, hopefully the other, as I don’t think I could handle the other, other, not just right now, nor ever, I suppose. Perhaps a cigarette would help; at the least do no further harm. Suppositions are for mental cases, so I best stay clear of them, or else, you know, off to the asylum for me. It seems strange that one should be smoking a Matinee cigarette during the evening or early morning, strange in deed, very strange. Perhaps it is I that am strange, and not the strangeness itself. An idle thought at best, pure nonsense at worst, idle thoughtless nonsense, even worse, perhaps. I will buy cigarettes today that can be smoked at anytime during the day, evening, late evening, into the night, and morning. Best to be prepared for all the variables that life can throw at one, especially one who may or may not have something growing inside his head, or what appears to be a head, one’s head, his head, my head, should I have one, a head, that is. I suppose I could have someone else’s head, and not know it, not be conscious of it, that I have someone else’s head, not mine. Idle thoughts, idle head.
It is now 11.32am, and I have just now awoken from unhelpful dreams, mercenary ones if the truth be know, which it must, from time to time, this being one of those times, I suppose. Just remember to leave me out of it, out of the story and fibbing and all, I just couldn’t handle it, now, nor ever, I suppose. Last night I started Cormac McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men, and after reading the first 7 or 8 pages, am pulled in, something McCarthy does with an ease to kill for. Its comforting to know that there are still those masters of the novel, John Hawkes being another fine example, who dare push the boundaries of fiction. Mastoid, wen, subcutaneous or what have you, I am most pleased, pleased in deed.
It is 3.27am, and I have just discovered a mastoid, perhaps the makings of a goiter, in the anterior meniscus of my head, or what I take to be a head, my head. It is tender and edema-like, or a close approximation of an edema or a wen-ish thing should I know what one looked like, which I don’t, of course. Perhaps the makings of an on top of the head subcutaneous abrasion or distended kartoid or a bulge of some sort or the other, hopefully the other, as I don’t think I could handle the other, other, not just right now, nor ever, I suppose. Perhaps a cigarette would help; at the least do no further harm. Suppositions are for mental cases, so I best stay clear of them, or else, you know, off to the asylum for me. It seems strange that one should be smoking a Matinee cigarette during the evening or early morning, strange in deed, very strange. Perhaps it is I that am strange, and not the strangeness itself. An idle thought at best, pure nonsense at worst, idle thoughtless nonsense, even worse, perhaps. I will buy cigarettes today that can be smoked at anytime during the day, evening, late evening, into the night, and morning. Best to be prepared for all the variables that life can throw at one, especially one who may or may not have something growing inside his head, or what appears to be a head, one’s head, his head, my head, should I have one, a head, that is. I suppose I could have someone else’s head, and not know it, not be conscious of it, that I have someone else’s head, not mine. Idle thoughts, idle head.
It is now 11.32am, and I have just now awoken from unhelpful dreams, mercenary ones if the truth be know, which it must, from time to time, this being one of those times, I suppose. Just remember to leave me out of it, out of the story and fibbing and all, I just couldn’t handle it, now, nor ever, I suppose. Last night I started Cormac McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men, and after reading the first 7 or 8 pages, am pulled in, something McCarthy does with an ease to kill for. Its comforting to know that there are still those masters of the novel, John Hawkes being another fine example, who dare push the boundaries of fiction. Mastoid, wen, subcutaneous or what have you, I am most pleased, pleased in deed.
eastre
goddess, painted eggs and fertility
procreation not crucifixation
i before e except after tomorrow
brings me to the point of warm spring day
dead end asleep with the TV on, and the sound muted
as our lives muted
from our impulses
muted
from our dreams
painted red V
to light the way
procreation not crucifixation
i before e except after tomorrow
brings me to the point of warm spring day
dead end asleep with the TV on, and the sound muted
as our lives muted
from our impulses
muted
from our dreams
painted red V
to light the way
RigodonRigadoon
Altered images by Duffy.
rigadoon. n. ancient lively skipping dance.
Rigadoon, was completed the day before he died, in 1961. .. see the french excerpt below.
These are from earlier works.
Guignol's Band (1944)
Boom! Zoom! . . . It's the big smashup! . . . The whole street caving in at the waterfront! . . . It's Orleans crumbling and thunder in the Grand Cafe! . . . A table sails by and splits the air! . . . Marble bird! . . . spins round, shatters a window to splinters! . . . A houseful of furniture rocks, spins from the casements, scatters in a rain of fire! . . . The proud bridge, twelve arches, staggers, topples smack into the mud. The slime of the river splatters! . . . mashes, splashes the mob yelling choking overflowing at the parapet! . . . It's pretty bad . . .
Conversations with Professor Y (1955). In that book--an imagined series of interviews with Celine conducted by a skeptical "Professor Y":
"Instead of those three dots, you might just as well put in a few words, that's what I feel.""B'loney, Colonel! So much b'loney! . . . not in an emotive tale! . . . you don't reproach Van Gogh for his misshapen churches? Vlaminck, his screwed-up thatched roofs? . . . Bosch, his creatures neither head nortail! . . . Debussy, his unconcern for measures? or Honegger's! do I not have the same rights myself? no? I have the right only to follow the Rules? . . . the Rhythms of the Academy? . . . that's revolting!"
Castle to Castle (1957):
I'm still waiting to see the ideal wiseguy, the hep kid straight out of Carco, grabbing himself a thick slice at the expense of the Law . . . I'm waiting . . . in Criminal Court, for instance! calling the Judge a creep . . . sneering . . . and the Prosecutor a tongue-tied nitwit! and watch them all quaking! thumbing through the dictionary of argot . . . turning pages . . . begging his pardon . . . the Judge hiding under his Code . . . huddled up, white as a sheet!
Celine wrote his books in long hand
& afterwards,
they were typed by someone else.
He claimed not to read them
when they were completed in long hand.
His left and right hand,
differed in appearance.
The writing hand looked like a claw.
Likewise, his face appeared two sided,
a split visage__
to those who
met him.
1894-1961
Louis-Ferdinand Céline
"Je vois bien que Poulet me boude... Poulet Robert condamné à mort... il parle plus de moi dans ses rubriques... autrefois j'étais le grand ceci... l'incomparable cela... maintenant à peine un petit mot accidentel assez méprisant. Je sais d'où ça vient, qu'on s'est engueulé... à la fin il m'emmerdait à tourner autour du pot !... vous êtes sûr que vos convictions ne vous ramènent pas à Dieu !" Rigodon fr.
Rigodon est la suite de Nord et de D’un château l’autre. L’exil en Allemagne, la fuite au Danemark, l’acteur Le Vigan et le chat Bébert. La veuve de Céline, Lucette Almanzor, raconte comment fut écrit Rigodon et comment, sept ans après, il est édité.
Qu’est-ce que Rigodon ?
"Rigodon, c’est la suite de Nord, puisque en somme cela s’est terminé avec la guerre. C’est vingt et un jours de sauvette à travers l’Allemagne en flamme. Nous nous sauvions comme des rats…" from an interview his wife , Lucette, polio surivor
and dancer.
Celine compared himself to Goya,
Breugal,and Bosch
in that order.
Ralph Manheim is the principal translator
of Celine's works in English.
Separation of Spine from Hypothalamus
I have separated my spine from my hypothalamus. As I have no pineal gland to speak of, nor would I if I did, I am relatively free from Cartesian wellsprings and tallow. In turn, if I may, I have dislocated the non-lesion (ed) portion of my frontal lobe from the scup of my skullcap, resulting in a lessening, or cessation, of all psycho-locution activity. I tried pulling a rarebit from the rector of my ass, but sadly enough, was unsuccessful, more so, a complete and utter nonsuccess. I manipulated and rasped an xyster I found in a shoebox pushed my bed, as would have it, against the manse of my glenoid and the cove of my scapula, resulting in an caulking of horrid pain and skirling. After which I leisurely smoked a haberdasher’s-made cigarette that refused to reach an ashen state of dereliction. Last night, was it? I slept in the clod of my bed linen, pillows fluffed and apportioned behind my neck, shoulders and head bereft of skullcap and scotching. Upon waking the following morning, was it? I hastily smoked a half-lit cigarette with lips chapped and russet with lice scales and nit skins. I drank several modest cups of coffee, smoked again, and evacuated the nostrum of my evacuee. This I will do ad nausea or until I recall how to spell Habramassif without laughing like a fucking Banshee. Thank you again, all one of you, for your continued support, hushed laughter, and purblind Oedipal I.
Seven months: navel-gazing
My belly button is a fairy ring just about to turn
into wet clippings and mulch a drain
grout half gone that sucks and gurgles
as the basin fills and empties
my belly button is a muddy worm run
just before it rains and the whole thing sinks in on itself
the perforated flank made whole
by too much too much
My belly button was a dime store notion
punctuation between gastro and intestinal uro and genital
my belly button intact is the last gasp of before
when a slowing metabolism and slouch economics
what called loudest from the cupboard
were the roundest
of my concerns
My belly button has become a third eye winking
from beneath shirts riding up pants slung low
my belly button has become a sage on high
and a carnie crystal ball reader
a keeled over canary in a gold mine
and an abandoned shaft while you sputter
turn over several times daily
like any old engine
Link
into wet clippings and mulch a drain
grout half gone that sucks and gurgles
as the basin fills and empties
my belly button is a muddy worm run
just before it rains and the whole thing sinks in on itself
the perforated flank made whole
by too much too much
My belly button was a dime store notion
punctuation between gastro and intestinal uro and genital
my belly button intact is the last gasp of before
when a slowing metabolism and slouch economics
what called loudest from the cupboard
were the roundest
of my concerns
My belly button has become a third eye winking
from beneath shirts riding up pants slung low
my belly button has become a sage on high
and a carnie crystal ball reader
a keeled over canary in a gold mine
and an abandoned shaft while you sputter
turn over several times daily
like any old engine
Link
Recent Symptoms
Sweating. Itching. Anorexia. Night sweats. Dizziness. Headache. Sensation disturbance. Chills. Malaise. Delusions. Depersonalization. Euphoria. Hallucinations. Hostility. Libido increased. Manic reaction. Paranoid reaction. Psychosis. Stupor.
-Mike Topp
-Mike Topp
transit fucks
Transit Fucks
(Dec 29/05)
All I can hear is the flat, monotonous gibber of her voice. The bus is relatively empty except for two Jamaican women, three or four student types, psychology majors or anthro’s, and me. Fucking nuisance, fingernails on a chalkboard sort of nuisance. I don’t even like this, this writing nonsense. Writing is the real nuisance, not bus riders or gibberers, or students too young to now the difference between Jung, Adler and Klein. The difference being there is no difference, they’re all not Freud, enough said. Perhaps it’s the psychopathology I’m after, the mechanism that makes the cogs engage with the wheel. I could, of course, try my hand at technical writing, like this new Canadian poetry, what’s it called, minimalism, or some such nonsense. Too close to algebra and logarithms for my liking, which likes very little, not even my own postmodernist crap.
Sodomy, perhaps, with nouns and adjectives and the odd pronoun thrown in for good measure. When poetry becomes indistinguishable from metaphor, the whole shit-house is out of order. I, for one, should know, as I write most of my excrement flat-assing the toilet seat, or with a disjunctive thumb up me bunghole fishing for a good assonance. Minimalist, post postmodern poetry, and prose, for that matter, has become a breeding ground for malcontents with nothing better to say than, look at me, I’m riding my bike with no hands. The idea is to master the use of the hands, opposable thumbs and fore, before trying to let go of the handlebars. T.S. Eliot, although somewhat of an intellectual bore, certainly knew how to conjugate a verb or punctuate a proper sentence, grammar aside. The WasteLand is an opposable poem; it can be read from left to right, from right to left or stern to prow. Even upside-down, should one be so disposed.
I fear my writing is like an unclipped fingernail drawn down a postmodern chalkboard, all that raucous noise with no substance or algebraic certainty. Best to keep both hands firmly on the handlebars, than risk a blowout or a header over the mudguard. But for the time being, time being a lousy judge of characterlessness, I’ll keep to my Wastelands and old schools, perhaps a few moments of pleasure with Kanto or that incorrigible Deride, or a day off lounging poolside with a Houellebecq or a Heaney. Enough said.
(Dec 29/05)
All I can hear is the flat, monotonous gibber of her voice. The bus is relatively empty except for two Jamaican women, three or four student types, psychology majors or anthro’s, and me. Fucking nuisance, fingernails on a chalkboard sort of nuisance. I don’t even like this, this writing nonsense. Writing is the real nuisance, not bus riders or gibberers, or students too young to now the difference between Jung, Adler and Klein. The difference being there is no difference, they’re all not Freud, enough said. Perhaps it’s the psychopathology I’m after, the mechanism that makes the cogs engage with the wheel. I could, of course, try my hand at technical writing, like this new Canadian poetry, what’s it called, minimalism, or some such nonsense. Too close to algebra and logarithms for my liking, which likes very little, not even my own postmodernist crap.
Sodomy, perhaps, with nouns and adjectives and the odd pronoun thrown in for good measure. When poetry becomes indistinguishable from metaphor, the whole shit-house is out of order. I, for one, should know, as I write most of my excrement flat-assing the toilet seat, or with a disjunctive thumb up me bunghole fishing for a good assonance. Minimalist, post postmodern poetry, and prose, for that matter, has become a breeding ground for malcontents with nothing better to say than, look at me, I’m riding my bike with no hands. The idea is to master the use of the hands, opposable thumbs and fore, before trying to let go of the handlebars. T.S. Eliot, although somewhat of an intellectual bore, certainly knew how to conjugate a verb or punctuate a proper sentence, grammar aside. The WasteLand is an opposable poem; it can be read from left to right, from right to left or stern to prow. Even upside-down, should one be so disposed.
I fear my writing is like an unclipped fingernail drawn down a postmodern chalkboard, all that raucous noise with no substance or algebraic certainty. Best to keep both hands firmly on the handlebars, than risk a blowout or a header over the mudguard. But for the time being, time being a lousy judge of characterlessness, I’ll keep to my Wastelands and old schools, perhaps a few moments of pleasure with Kanto or that incorrigible Deride, or a day off lounging poolside with a Houellebecq or a Heaney. Enough said.
Believe
It seems to me that
life can be so deliberate;
My violin without strings
hanging on a wall.
My mice that yawned to sleep.
My papers that read of illnesses.
And I
Am tucked into
the birthing place of words
Agony~~ desire~~ paradise
Beyond reach
from all possibilities of anything
And elsewhere.
I smiled
At this Hand
that Touched:
this Hand
that conducts the moon to sing,
that shatters the sun
into a kaleidoscope of colors
purer than light.
life can be so deliberate;
My violin without strings
hanging on a wall.
My mice that yawned to sleep.
My papers that read of illnesses.
And I
Am tucked into
the birthing place of words
Agony~~ desire~~ paradise
Beyond reach
from all possibilities of anything
And elsewhere.
I smiled
At this Hand
that Touched:
this Hand
that conducts the moon to sing,
that shatters the sun
into a kaleidoscope of colors
purer than light.
Good Friday
Good Friday
a *loaforenga
Little Onion & Debra Woolard Bender
Good Friday
breakfast of hot cross buns
on a cracked plate
pretty waitress the young vicar spills tea
wet warmth spreads through a brown tweed suit
soiled pyjamas thrown under the bed
potty full of flowers by the front door
seed packets on tongue depressors
ice lolly stick stuck in the drain
slow van trailing music and children
the neighbour's boy plays tin-can soccer
jersey and cleats in moth balls
six butterflies on the Lilac tree
garden wedding bride's mother wipes away tears
the taste of salt
between two lovers
fine times and foul
even the sea brings gifts
to storm ravaged shores
a turtle buries her eggs in the dune
plastron - - future past written on shells
the milkman consults his book of changes
hanging on the wall - - no green bottles
baskets of pansies sway in the wind
this way and that - - a weathercock spins
cop on point duty waves to his dad
rail commuters race the whistle
marathon runners going through pain
quick ladders up her nylon hose
finding this time easier than the last
primary exam
division problems solved
on five fingers
--------------------------------------
Loaforenga Instructions & History
The Loaforenga is a new-form renga. Hybrenga (hybrid renga)is the concept of combining several Asian verse forms into one renga-style poem. The Loaforenga hybrenga combines 4 verse forms, in one 5-sectioned poem:
(1)Lorenga, (1)Forenga (2)haiku, (1)tanka
The hybrenga concept and Loaforenga form were created by Debra Woolard Bender and Paul Terence Conneally in April 2000.
The Lorenga is a new-form renga created by ai li as shown on her website, "still." The Lorenga form is used to form part of the structure of our "Lost and Found" (Lo-a-fo-renga hybrenga. Paul created the Forenga as a counterpoint to the Lorenga form.
The Loaforenga is most suitable for 2 or 3 players although bigger groups could play. The theme of the Lorenga's last line must be loss. The theme of the Forenga's last line must be something found. The Loaforenga follows the traditional renga linking rules throughout the entire poem.
The form for two players is as follows:
Haiku/ A
Lorenga/ BABABABABAB (11 one liners/ last line refers to "loss")
Tanka/ AAA BB
Forenga/ ABABABABABA (11 one liners/ last line refers to "finding")
Haiku/ B
____________________________________
The form for three players is:
Haiku/ A
Lorenga/ BCABCABCABC (11 one liners/ last line refers to "loss")
Tanka/ BBBAA
Forenga/ CABCABCABCA (11 one liners/ last line refers to "finding")
Haiku/ C
ai li's 'New Linked Forms' has explanations and examples of a large number of new linked forms with guidelines - all of them are suitable for connecting and creating with others around the world via electronic mail or by connecting in the chemically coded world perhaps around the kitchen table or in the park...
a *loaforenga
Little Onion & Debra Woolard Bender
Good Friday
breakfast of hot cross buns
on a cracked plate
pretty waitress the young vicar spills tea
wet warmth spreads through a brown tweed suit
soiled pyjamas thrown under the bed
potty full of flowers by the front door
seed packets on tongue depressors
ice lolly stick stuck in the drain
slow van trailing music and children
the neighbour's boy plays tin-can soccer
jersey and cleats in moth balls
six butterflies on the Lilac tree
garden wedding bride's mother wipes away tears
the taste of salt
between two lovers
fine times and foul
even the sea brings gifts
to storm ravaged shores
a turtle buries her eggs in the dune
plastron - - future past written on shells
the milkman consults his book of changes
hanging on the wall - - no green bottles
baskets of pansies sway in the wind
this way and that - - a weathercock spins
cop on point duty waves to his dad
rail commuters race the whistle
marathon runners going through pain
quick ladders up her nylon hose
finding this time easier than the last
primary exam
division problems solved
on five fingers
--------------------------------------
Loaforenga Instructions & History
The Loaforenga is a new-form renga. Hybrenga (hybrid renga)is the concept of combining several Asian verse forms into one renga-style poem. The Loaforenga hybrenga combines 4 verse forms, in one 5-sectioned poem:
(1)Lorenga, (1)Forenga (2)haiku, (1)tanka
The hybrenga concept and Loaforenga form were created by Debra Woolard Bender and Paul Terence Conneally in April 2000.
The Lorenga is a new-form renga created by ai li as shown on her website, "still." The Lorenga form is used to form part of the structure of our "Lost and Found" (Lo-a-fo-renga hybrenga. Paul created the Forenga as a counterpoint to the Lorenga form.
The Loaforenga is most suitable for 2 or 3 players although bigger groups could play. The theme of the Lorenga's last line must be loss. The theme of the Forenga's last line must be something found. The Loaforenga follows the traditional renga linking rules throughout the entire poem.
The form for two players is as follows:
Haiku/ A
Lorenga/ BABABABABAB (11 one liners/ last line refers to "loss")
Tanka/ AAA BB
Forenga/ ABABABABABA (11 one liners/ last line refers to "finding")
Haiku/ B
____________________________________
The form for three players is:
Haiku/ A
Lorenga/ BCABCABCABC (11 one liners/ last line refers to "loss")
Tanka/ BBBAA
Forenga/ CABCABCABCA (11 one liners/ last line refers to "finding")
Haiku/ C
ai li's 'New Linked Forms' has explanations and examples of a large number of new linked forms with guidelines - all of them are suitable for connecting and creating with others around the world via electronic mail or by connecting in the chemically coded world perhaps around the kitchen table or in the park...
9
9.1
1. Il est saint, on le sait.
2. Coquilles à merveilles auto-référencielles.
3. Encore et toujours.
4. Sens certifiés sur la distance.
5. Aubépine et chasteté.
6. Condition du miroir.
7. Strates pour la suite.
8. Couche-toi !
9. Mégapode internautique.
9.2
1. L’autre en gangue.
2. Trou qui délie l’espace et le temps.
3. Fumée dans l’électricité de la résine.
4. Espaces sauvages.
5. Toutes blanches fleurs à l’odeur vaginale.
6. Néron vu par les chrétiens.
7. Noms de Dieux pour les jours.
8. Tahiti et ses courbes.
9. Le col en son devoir.
9.3
1. Entre les jambes.
2. Et bien, autour.
3. Cadence à débiter.
4. Souffles fous dans les cheveux.
5. Qui épanouissent le Verbe.
6. La légion du centre.
7. Pierres sous les néons.
8. La voie de l’Hermaphrodite.
9. Vierges qui saignent l’espace.
9.4
1. Atomisation verticale de la parole.
2. Avec le germe féminin.
3. Antériorité de la polarisation.
4. C’est la mort à l’Est.
5. Au sein nuptial, sur ton œil.
6. Mues des péchés de l’épreuve.
7. Dormeurs au chien angélique.
8. Nous bercerons le Totalisateur.
9. En nuits d’amours électriques.
9.5
1. Elle gronde de désirs en éclairs.
2. Et lui, arrache le cœur pour la caverne.
3. Jouissances pour les belles.
4. La croix en piercing.
5. Chiffres à la sexualité aurorale.
6. Avec les amours à bissection.
7. Et les sourires en bonheur du monde.
8. Approche-toi, que je te couche.
9. Le zéro incarné dans la femme.
9.6
1. Vaut mieux que deux tu auras !
2. Le langage des machines chéries.
3. En divinités hiérarchisées.
4. Alors, le serment de l’espace se serre.
5. Groupes d’électrons résurgents.
6. Et trancher, puis retourner, sans sucer.
7. Sphères sur les mille yeux de la nuit.
8. Equilibre de la spirale.
9. C’est ovuler à la crypte.
9.7
1. Parfum pour l’oubli.
2. A l’affleur des miroirs.
3. Sur le tripode des méandres.
4. Divergence de l’orbe créative.
5. Au nom de la Vie.
6. Si coquine à assouvir nos rêves.
7. Et l’initiation se dissèque.
8. Avec, les doubles bulles du bulbe.
9. Tension et tsunami de la Grande Mère.
9.8
1. Cœur unitif gravé à la vie.
2. Les louves dans le cyber-café.
3. Code pour la nuit.
4. Cigarettes sur cendrier.
5. Et branches sur le crépuscule du papier.
6. Manson a oubliait la Grande Truie.
7. Ce sont les marches pour les nuages.
8. En exercices respiratoires et méditatifs.
9. Amibes fortement vexées.
9.9
1. Il est saint, on le sait.
L’autre en gangue.
Entre les jambes.
Atomisation verticale de la parole.
Elle gronde désirs en éclairs.
Vaut mieux que deux tu auras.
Parfum pour l’oubli.
Cœur unitif gravé à la Vie.
Et un seul écrin numérique à la terre.
2. Coquilles à merveilles autoréférencielles.
Trou qui délie l’espace et le temps.
Et bien, autour.
Avec le genre féminin.
Et lui, arrache le cœur pour la caverne.
Le langage des machines chéries.
A l’affleur des miroirs.
Les louves dans le cyber-café.
Fusion de deux Big-bangs.
3. Encore et toujours.
Fumée dans l’électricité de la résine.
Cadence à débiter.
Antériorité de la polarisation.
Jouissances pour les belles.
En divinités hiérarchisées.
Sur le tripode des méandres.
Code pour la nuit.
Trinité de la connexion.
4. Sens certifiés sur la distance.
Espaces sauvages.
Souffles fous dans les cheveux.
C’est la mort à l’Est.
La croix en piercing.
Alors, le serment de l’espace se resserre.
Divergence de l’orbe créative.
Cigarettes sur cendrier.
Le signe en flamme dans le noir.
5. Aubépine et chasteté
Toutes blanches fleurs à l’odeur vaginale.
Qui épanouissent le verbe.
Au sein nuptial, sur ton œil.
Chiffres à la sexualité aurorale.
Groupe d’électrons résurgents.
Au nom de la vie.
Et branches sur le crépuscule du papier.
C’est signer nos songes.
6. Condition du miroir.
Néron vu par les chrétiens.
La légion du centre.
Mues des péchés de l’épreuve.
Avec les amours à bissection.
Et trancher, puis retourner, sans sucer.
Si coquine à assouvir nos rêves.
Manson a oublié la Grande Truie.
Le soleil décline les perspectives.
7. Strates pour la suite.
Noms de Dieux pour les jours.
Pierres sous les néons.
Dormeurs au chien angélique.
Et les sourires en bonheur du monde.
Sphères sur les mille yeux de la nuit.
Et l’initiation se dissèque.
Ce sont les marches pour les nuages.
Affliction, pureté et illumination.
8. Couche-toi !
Tahiti et ses courbes.
La voie de l’Hermaphrodite.
Nous bercerons le Totalisateur.
Approche-toi, que je te couche.
Equilibre de la spirale.
Avec, les doubles bulles du bulbe.
Les limites qui mènent à l’infini.
9. Mégapode interneutique.
Le col en son devoir.
Vierges qui saignent l’espace.
En nuits d’amours électriques.
Le zéro incarné dans la femme.
C’est ovuler à la crypte.
Tension et tsunami de la Grande Mère.
Amibes fortement vexées.
Le neuf est capricieux et néant
1. Il est saint, on le sait.
2. Coquilles à merveilles auto-référencielles.
3. Encore et toujours.
4. Sens certifiés sur la distance.
5. Aubépine et chasteté.
6. Condition du miroir.
7. Strates pour la suite.
8. Couche-toi !
9. Mégapode internautique.
9.2
1. L’autre en gangue.
2. Trou qui délie l’espace et le temps.
3. Fumée dans l’électricité de la résine.
4. Espaces sauvages.
5. Toutes blanches fleurs à l’odeur vaginale.
6. Néron vu par les chrétiens.
7. Noms de Dieux pour les jours.
8. Tahiti et ses courbes.
9. Le col en son devoir.
9.3
1. Entre les jambes.
2. Et bien, autour.
3. Cadence à débiter.
4. Souffles fous dans les cheveux.
5. Qui épanouissent le Verbe.
6. La légion du centre.
7. Pierres sous les néons.
8. La voie de l’Hermaphrodite.
9. Vierges qui saignent l’espace.
9.4
1. Atomisation verticale de la parole.
2. Avec le germe féminin.
3. Antériorité de la polarisation.
4. C’est la mort à l’Est.
5. Au sein nuptial, sur ton œil.
6. Mues des péchés de l’épreuve.
7. Dormeurs au chien angélique.
8. Nous bercerons le Totalisateur.
9. En nuits d’amours électriques.
9.5
1. Elle gronde de désirs en éclairs.
2. Et lui, arrache le cœur pour la caverne.
3. Jouissances pour les belles.
4. La croix en piercing.
5. Chiffres à la sexualité aurorale.
6. Avec les amours à bissection.
7. Et les sourires en bonheur du monde.
8. Approche-toi, que je te couche.
9. Le zéro incarné dans la femme.
9.6
1. Vaut mieux que deux tu auras !
2. Le langage des machines chéries.
3. En divinités hiérarchisées.
4. Alors, le serment de l’espace se serre.
5. Groupes d’électrons résurgents.
6. Et trancher, puis retourner, sans sucer.
7. Sphères sur les mille yeux de la nuit.
8. Equilibre de la spirale.
9. C’est ovuler à la crypte.
9.7
1. Parfum pour l’oubli.
2. A l’affleur des miroirs.
3. Sur le tripode des méandres.
4. Divergence de l’orbe créative.
5. Au nom de la Vie.
6. Si coquine à assouvir nos rêves.
7. Et l’initiation se dissèque.
8. Avec, les doubles bulles du bulbe.
9. Tension et tsunami de la Grande Mère.
9.8
1. Cœur unitif gravé à la vie.
2. Les louves dans le cyber-café.
3. Code pour la nuit.
4. Cigarettes sur cendrier.
5. Et branches sur le crépuscule du papier.
6. Manson a oubliait la Grande Truie.
7. Ce sont les marches pour les nuages.
8. En exercices respiratoires et méditatifs.
9. Amibes fortement vexées.
9.9
1. Il est saint, on le sait.
L’autre en gangue.
Entre les jambes.
Atomisation verticale de la parole.
Elle gronde désirs en éclairs.
Vaut mieux que deux tu auras.
Parfum pour l’oubli.
Cœur unitif gravé à la Vie.
Et un seul écrin numérique à la terre.
2. Coquilles à merveilles autoréférencielles.
Trou qui délie l’espace et le temps.
Et bien, autour.
Avec le genre féminin.
Et lui, arrache le cœur pour la caverne.
Le langage des machines chéries.
A l’affleur des miroirs.
Les louves dans le cyber-café.
Fusion de deux Big-bangs.
3. Encore et toujours.
Fumée dans l’électricité de la résine.
Cadence à débiter.
Antériorité de la polarisation.
Jouissances pour les belles.
En divinités hiérarchisées.
Sur le tripode des méandres.
Code pour la nuit.
Trinité de la connexion.
4. Sens certifiés sur la distance.
Espaces sauvages.
Souffles fous dans les cheveux.
C’est la mort à l’Est.
La croix en piercing.
Alors, le serment de l’espace se resserre.
Divergence de l’orbe créative.
Cigarettes sur cendrier.
Le signe en flamme dans le noir.
5. Aubépine et chasteté
Toutes blanches fleurs à l’odeur vaginale.
Qui épanouissent le verbe.
Au sein nuptial, sur ton œil.
Chiffres à la sexualité aurorale.
Groupe d’électrons résurgents.
Au nom de la vie.
Et branches sur le crépuscule du papier.
C’est signer nos songes.
6. Condition du miroir.
Néron vu par les chrétiens.
La légion du centre.
Mues des péchés de l’épreuve.
Avec les amours à bissection.
Et trancher, puis retourner, sans sucer.
Si coquine à assouvir nos rêves.
Manson a oublié la Grande Truie.
Le soleil décline les perspectives.
7. Strates pour la suite.
Noms de Dieux pour les jours.
Pierres sous les néons.
Dormeurs au chien angélique.
Et les sourires en bonheur du monde.
Sphères sur les mille yeux de la nuit.
Et l’initiation se dissèque.
Ce sont les marches pour les nuages.
Affliction, pureté et illumination.
8. Couche-toi !
Tahiti et ses courbes.
La voie de l’Hermaphrodite.
Nous bercerons le Totalisateur.
Approche-toi, que je te couche.
Equilibre de la spirale.
Avec, les doubles bulles du bulbe.
Les limites qui mènent à l’infini.
9. Mégapode interneutique.
Le col en son devoir.
Vierges qui saignent l’espace.
En nuits d’amours électriques.
Le zéro incarné dans la femme.
C’est ovuler à la crypte.
Tension et tsunami de la Grande Mère.
Amibes fortement vexées.
Le neuf est capricieux et néant
blogs HoSpice laws of hospitality
on the hands fashion synthesis two terms in hand fictional trilog ee loves of Hospitality and in question are not combines a poetgraphic narrative and disjunction what Daddy names disjunctive restrictiveexclusive or theological discourse illustrates another form of at odds with each other hand fictional trilogy Mona mother the Laws of Hospitality and in question are not Jill gypsy combines on other this fashion synthesis in which two terms in a theological discourse in his
what Daddy says is hooker
fisheye
illustrates another form Franny nanny at odds with each
horn of plenty for her Jill janny good do her sex washer
hand our mouths hornographic narrative
disjunction what Daddy says its disjunctive restrictive-
exclusive or she took her
umbrella off of him she too her skirt offher dirndl skirt off
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she comes with her big sex mouth to show it
him
What Mummy sees"when" Mona got home
she hummed as a busboy scrounged as a gleamer
her hospice was naked. as her body was
she was invitee au nakedness her summer belong
was not a blog but a lover. she was not she was bot she is
boot her bootless cry to heaven of kinsmen. Her Pierre came her air. She flew narrative disjuncity out of high school.
she held welfare or menningitis.
she grabbed homosexualed in her body comeing into my mouth as hospitals
would not conceive in her living casket a bodyrestrictive trilogy of Mouths of god and fiction trinity c'est
combines on other this home a bot she gaped and
bootless cry to reprieve question combines a poerographic
knot in other autobigraphic narrative and disjunction whho wore georaphic form the Laws of lover of hospitality
unlike who dont greet you in your own home mama tongue
but in question what was blog but a lover she staged she
was not a body other hand fictional doubles triples
the Imagines of hospitality trilogy in her illustrates another form of at odds hospitality exclusive, of at odds with each other hand, odds her ends off invitee au nakedness her
summer belong was no in this fashionsynthesis in which two form which two rooms a theological two narrative or a theological discourse in his illustrates theological Dadddy hospice was naked. as her body was was comeing her living casket a bodyon in on other this fashion synthesis each the on andand disjunction what Daddy terms the disjunctive fashionable ass her kissing buttocks My Maria ButtocksCome to her ass her puss was lesbian my sister terms the disjunctive restrictiveexclusive or and and andCarmen Deleuze wasWhen Mona got heaven welfare into my mouth as hospitals would not narrative oflikes of hospice in question are Daddysays question are not combines a are discourse each other a phonographic narrative and disjunction she narrative or menningitis. she was homosexualed in her and or at odds with each other hand, fictional with in hand, fictional positrives the layers of poeticpoeticipoetic sextual sinynthesis in her enacts design of disjuncity out of high school vNeck collage she hahd had had engage a la moment theological phallalic to her breath to his kissdiscourse show and tells another discourse this fashion synthesis two terms she was kinsmen. Her Pierre was her air. She disjunction whatdaddy terms the disjunctive restrictive, exclusiveThe combines disjunctive restrictiveexclusive or
summer fog
summer belong was no in this fashionsynthesis in which two form whichtwo rooms a theological two narrative or a theological discourse in his illustrates theological Dadddy hospice was naked. as her body was was comeing her living casketa bodyon in on other this fashion synthesis each the on andand disjunction what Daddy terms the disjunctive fashionable ass her kissing buttocks My Maria ButtocksCome to her ass her puss was lesbian my sister terms the disjunctive restrictiveexclusive or and and andCarmen Deleuze wasWhen Mona got heaven welfare into my mouth as hospitals would not narrative oflikes of hospice in question are Daddysays question are not combines a are discourse each other a
semeothequegraphic narrative and disjunction
shes narrative reliable sequence or menningitis. she was
homosexualed in her and or at odds with each other hand, fictional with in hand, fictional positrives the layers of poeticpoeticipoetic sextual sinynthesis in her enacts design of disjuncity out of high school vNeck collage she hahd had had engage a la moment theological phallalic to her breath to his kissdiscourse show and tells another discourse this fashion synthesis two terms shewas kinsmen. Her Pierre was her air. She disjunction what
daddy terms the disjunctive restrictive, exclusive
the not place where
she didnt live she had to move
always and again
The combines disjunctive restrictiveexclusive or
what Daddy says is hooker
fisheye
illustrates another form Franny nanny at odds with each
horn of plenty for her Jill janny good do her sex washer
hand our mouths hornographic narrative
disjunction what Daddy says its disjunctive restrictive-
exclusive or she took her
umbrella off of him she too her skirt offher dirndl skirt off
her high shirt off her
she comes with her big sex mouth to show it
him
What Mummy sees"when" Mona got home
she hummed as a busboy scrounged as a gleamer
her hospice was naked. as her body was
she was invitee au nakedness her summer belong
was not a blog but a lover. she was not she was bot she is
boot her bootless cry to heaven of kinsmen. Her Pierre came her air. She flew narrative disjuncity out of high school.
she held welfare or menningitis.
she grabbed homosexualed in her body comeing into my mouth as hospitals
would not conceive in her living casket a bodyrestrictive trilogy of Mouths of god and fiction trinity c'est
combines on other this home a bot she gaped and
bootless cry to reprieve question combines a poerographic
knot in other autobigraphic narrative and disjunction whho wore georaphic form the Laws of lover of hospitality
unlike who dont greet you in your own home mama tongue
but in question what was blog but a lover she staged she
was not a body other hand fictional doubles triples
the Imagines of hospitality trilogy in her illustrates another form of at odds hospitality exclusive, of at odds with each other hand, odds her ends off invitee au nakedness her
summer belong was no in this fashionsynthesis in which two form which two rooms a theological two narrative or a theological discourse in his illustrates theological Dadddy hospice was naked. as her body was was comeing her living casket a bodyon in on other this fashion synthesis each the on andand disjunction what Daddy terms the disjunctive fashionable ass her kissing buttocks My Maria ButtocksCome to her ass her puss was lesbian my sister terms the disjunctive restrictiveexclusive or and and andCarmen Deleuze wasWhen Mona got heaven welfare into my mouth as hospitals would not narrative oflikes of hospice in question are Daddysays question are not combines a are discourse each other a phonographic narrative and disjunction she narrative or menningitis. she was homosexualed in her and or at odds with each other hand, fictional with in hand, fictional positrives the layers of poeticpoeticipoetic sextual sinynthesis in her enacts design of disjuncity out of high school vNeck collage she hahd had had engage a la moment theological phallalic to her breath to his kissdiscourse show and tells another discourse this fashion synthesis two terms she was kinsmen. Her Pierre was her air. She disjunction whatdaddy terms the disjunctive restrictive, exclusiveThe combines disjunctive restrictiveexclusive or
summer fog
summer belong was no in this fashionsynthesis in which two form whichtwo rooms a theological two narrative or a theological discourse in his illustrates theological Dadddy hospice was naked. as her body was was comeing her living casketa bodyon in on other this fashion synthesis each the on andand disjunction what Daddy terms the disjunctive fashionable ass her kissing buttocks My Maria ButtocksCome to her ass her puss was lesbian my sister terms the disjunctive restrictiveexclusive or and and andCarmen Deleuze wasWhen Mona got heaven welfare into my mouth as hospitals would not narrative oflikes of hospice in question are Daddysays question are not combines a are discourse each other a
semeothequegraphic narrative and disjunction
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homosexualed in her and or at odds with each other hand, fictional with in hand, fictional positrives the layers of poeticpoeticipoetic sextual sinynthesis in her enacts design of disjuncity out of high school vNeck collage she hahd had had engage a la moment theological phallalic to her breath to his kissdiscourse show and tells another discourse this fashion synthesis two terms shewas kinsmen. Her Pierre was her air. She disjunction what
daddy terms the disjunctive restrictive, exclusive
the not place where
she didnt live she had to move
always and again
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jamais vie
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à notre ne demandent qu’à ans maintenant...
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In the mould for love
Sorry for my poor english,
but nice to be here !
Matrix
Harvest of saïs on the fifre of the flying cascades to the own way during the lily modelling, listening time That runs and spring out of Melodie sunshade by sidereal spangles morning Turquoise to the veil on quite fire, this, is the crickets vibrate the Secret wick reaping wax which sings with the water bird, all fringuant- the lesson of the engraved torrent is undeniable
My agapanthe scratched palm Iméros of the quanta
Twelve
Twelve invisible cords with human
Twelve dimensions and the tenth of the one of it for the Révérence piper’s brain-
Burning the Smith's calendar to the oneiric layer which screws, under acids hallucinations, the Gods Still three punishments for the great laught piece cosmogonic the savages In top, the term of the explosion which gradually cries in invocation of the flood Tsunami smile the clouds sneeze of the musics with colour-blind percussions the walk of the path stones which points red velvet On the hidden face of the triangle, the thirteenth one laughs a dog of wicker hopes park them.
Five, for the white flower in full face, without facets to be erased Already considering –
Still not taken!
Globular prayer of remission Licks! –
Soles in recollection at the identity measure with the jaw of the habits to the statements of the patriarchs in innocent slaughter, with the time posed on a branch which enough in purifying storm the buffoon has his circus: it is the pit With its royal small bells, it charms the systemic rot with five point who explse the heart
the sky
the night invitation
dreams, here and maintaining gaping the second in orgasme river I come It streams arrive... - And your flame wavers, it falls towards you, my lambs
Mother she-wolf awaits the ball of fire, tapie within its den the circle in multicoloured shootings, penetrates the directions without direction, still once smoke seeks its freedom Of the prints of silence recall me there to the house of true love of the solar iris, if one can sacrifice it the illusion is impassioned Serrures door the translucent cloud the urgent full time, the urgency corrodes to Désolation perfection of the single target to the back of the throne where the crystal sings the glare of the ankles lying the lightening dusts which speaks with the air, diamond gray of The joy tapering the atoms in infinite Extase of the explosive divergence intersidereal.
Blooming Seas in love with honey and photonic sun’s spring, once again, which enjoy with excess beautiful and beautiful is this voice without word says It is the diadem of the dunes which mixes the mermaid of our feverish flesh.
They are three, my love And surely much still blessed Polyandry! -
The miles eyes of the night put to me in naked multi-compartmental Pleasur That sails the evening snake, where we had seen one squirted of sperm, where, the heart immediately crosses the talisman of the large cheater of my adored heart, My Beautiful horned –
The petals plane with softness in the gleam towards the point of the question and its spiral Honni onyx is which badly is bandaged! -
Furnace bridge Always, advances the sylph of awakening Its measurement is our tender cage, our large and charming daily treason, that which makes us emperor-whining the base however imposes Empirisme crammed on black electric wire collected in the household refuse Change face or of solar and symphonic figure place that trace the hips pubis bursting of cream and gold the birth of circular the Massages dawn in order to cross the era the lips absorb the heat of the shaven youth of the day Table Changement extatic-
The button inflates the happiness of electricity That can dissolve the flesh in ocean of pleasure Go ocular Claudication account and perceive the illegality of our reality confined to bed without eight, too closed at their undulating Caresses sights of the polymorphic glare in gangue of ejaculation to pressure a pack for me, please, boys! - To put the lump of earth at the bosom by mixing it with sperm Where do hide the bitches with penis? - Do net of the celestial rétiaire viewing flames the cornea and the flesh Dear whip I want to show my two opened glass which is repaired itself ovoid-
The cross which is believed in the four winds could make the deal of our divines vampires Passions night Faire the things that one should not make, cosmic makes also the deal of someone else Somebody of known Erebe of why And which whispers in darkness? - All around us someone else Goes to open the window! - Somebody said to me that IT arrived.
That arrives...
You are points of sights.
but nice to be here !
Matrix
Harvest of saïs on the fifre of the flying cascades to the own way during the lily modelling, listening time That runs and spring out of Melodie sunshade by sidereal spangles morning Turquoise to the veil on quite fire, this, is the crickets vibrate the Secret wick reaping wax which sings with the water bird, all fringuant- the lesson of the engraved torrent is undeniable
My agapanthe scratched palm Iméros of the quanta
Twelve
Twelve invisible cords with human
Twelve dimensions and the tenth of the one of it for the Révérence piper’s brain-
Burning the Smith's calendar to the oneiric layer which screws, under acids hallucinations, the Gods Still three punishments for the great laught piece cosmogonic the savages In top, the term of the explosion which gradually cries in invocation of the flood Tsunami smile the clouds sneeze of the musics with colour-blind percussions the walk of the path stones which points red velvet On the hidden face of the triangle, the thirteenth one laughs a dog of wicker hopes park them.
Five, for the white flower in full face, without facets to be erased Already considering –
Still not taken!
Globular prayer of remission Licks! –
Soles in recollection at the identity measure with the jaw of the habits to the statements of the patriarchs in innocent slaughter, with the time posed on a branch which enough in purifying storm the buffoon has his circus: it is the pit With its royal small bells, it charms the systemic rot with five point who explse the heart
the sky
the night invitation
dreams, here and maintaining gaping the second in orgasme river I come It streams arrive... - And your flame wavers, it falls towards you, my lambs
Mother she-wolf awaits the ball of fire, tapie within its den the circle in multicoloured shootings, penetrates the directions without direction, still once smoke seeks its freedom Of the prints of silence recall me there to the house of true love of the solar iris, if one can sacrifice it the illusion is impassioned Serrures door the translucent cloud the urgent full time, the urgency corrodes to Désolation perfection of the single target to the back of the throne where the crystal sings the glare of the ankles lying the lightening dusts which speaks with the air, diamond gray of The joy tapering the atoms in infinite Extase of the explosive divergence intersidereal.
Blooming Seas in love with honey and photonic sun’s spring, once again, which enjoy with excess beautiful and beautiful is this voice without word says It is the diadem of the dunes which mixes the mermaid of our feverish flesh.
They are three, my love And surely much still blessed Polyandry! -
The miles eyes of the night put to me in naked multi-compartmental Pleasur That sails the evening snake, where we had seen one squirted of sperm, where, the heart immediately crosses the talisman of the large cheater of my adored heart, My Beautiful horned –
The petals plane with softness in the gleam towards the point of the question and its spiral Honni onyx is which badly is bandaged! -
Furnace bridge Always, advances the sylph of awakening Its measurement is our tender cage, our large and charming daily treason, that which makes us emperor-whining the base however imposes Empirisme crammed on black electric wire collected in the household refuse Change face or of solar and symphonic figure place that trace the hips pubis bursting of cream and gold the birth of circular the Massages dawn in order to cross the era the lips absorb the heat of the shaven youth of the day Table Changement extatic-
The button inflates the happiness of electricity That can dissolve the flesh in ocean of pleasure Go ocular Claudication account and perceive the illegality of our reality confined to bed without eight, too closed at their undulating Caresses sights of the polymorphic glare in gangue of ejaculation to pressure a pack for me, please, boys! - To put the lump of earth at the bosom by mixing it with sperm Where do hide the bitches with penis? - Do net of the celestial rétiaire viewing flames the cornea and the flesh Dear whip I want to show my two opened glass which is repaired itself ovoid-
The cross which is believed in the four winds could make the deal of our divines vampires Passions night Faire the things that one should not make, cosmic makes also the deal of someone else Somebody of known Erebe of why And which whispers in darkness? - All around us someone else Goes to open the window! - Somebody said to me that IT arrived.
That arrives...
You are points of sights.
Pad Thai Noodles
"Pad Thai Noodles," I decided.
"Thats what I'd like too."
I had offered to buy her lunch,
Why she accepted, I've no clue.
"I am Thai," she blurted
"But how can that be?"
Her blue eyes, blonde skin
She reckoned, "A tourist sired me."
I coughed. The Pad Thai stung.
I felt like a noodle. Senile.
She winked, "Its curious at first
But you'll love it after a while."
I tried to swallow the sudden spice
Her hands worked up her hair
She whispered, "Honey, twenty dollars,
And we both be swell out there."
I looked out of the window, a houseboat
Minutes later sounds choked her throat
The boat creaked and swayed and shouted
My tip was larger than the price touted.
As I scraped titbits off my plate
Her nudge brought me back to sense.
"What were you thinking, " she asked,
I smiled, "Oh! Just some work nonsense."
April 12, 2006
1:30 pm
"Thats what I'd like too."
I had offered to buy her lunch,
Why she accepted, I've no clue.
"I am Thai," she blurted
"But how can that be?"
Her blue eyes, blonde skin
She reckoned, "A tourist sired me."
I coughed. The Pad Thai stung.
I felt like a noodle. Senile.
She winked, "Its curious at first
But you'll love it after a while."
I tried to swallow the sudden spice
Her hands worked up her hair
She whispered, "Honey, twenty dollars,
And we both be swell out there."
I looked out of the window, a houseboat
Minutes later sounds choked her throat
The boat creaked and swayed and shouted
My tip was larger than the price touted.
As I scraped titbits off my plate
Her nudge brought me back to sense.
"What were you thinking, " she asked,
I smiled, "Oh! Just some work nonsense."
April 12, 2006
1:30 pm
No Bring Your Attention
Out to infinity, in reach, the clover steel less known when trippingover
loose.
Long deep in and out breaths derived from thinking of that stood there.
loose.
Long deep in and out breaths derived from thinking of that stood there.
infrastructure
my space. my space. my space. my space. my
space. my space. my space. my space. my space
my space. my space. my space. my space. my
space. my space. my space. my space. my space
my space. my space. my space. my space. my
space. my space. my space. my space. my space
my space. my space. my space. my space. my
space. my space. my space. my space. my space
my space. my space. my space. my space. my
space. my space. my space. my space. my space
my space. my space. my space. my space. my
space. my space. my space. my space. my space
my space. my space. my space. my space. my
space. my space. my space. my space. my space
my space. my space. my space. my space. my
space. my space. my space. my space. my space
my space. my space. my space. my space. my
mY dOG iS...
Mange and Salt
the dog chewed through the pipes
beneath the porch
curs' are like that, my father said
always looking for an ear
or an ankle to bite
burrs and picks tearing slivers
in its mouth
teeth tearing away copper
mange with salt
it was always hot beneath the porch
in the absence of light
dug out with the shucks of my fingers
a penknife
and a dog's cunning
the dog chewed through the pipes
beneath the porch
curs' are like that, my father said
always looking for an ear
or an ankle to bite
burrs and picks tearing slivers
in its mouth
teeth tearing away copper
mange with salt
it was always hot beneath the porch
in the absence of light
dug out with the shucks of my fingers
a penknife
and a dog's cunning
Untitled
I got a great job last Friday but the pay is too low and the work I do is humiliating.
-Mike Topp
-Mike Topp
Skate Park Haiku Tour
My very close associate - my other skin - Paul Conneally is just about to start a haiku poetry tour of Skate Parks up and down the UK. Skate Boarders have been somewhat of a constant feature at Paul's public workshops right back to the residency he had in the Ukiyo-e exhibition 'Parade of Life' at Bristol Museum and Art Gallery back in 2001. Just why haiku and skateboards go together so well he hasn't yet fathomed. This tour will once again feature the poet in 'public intervention' mode - the workshops will be unnanounced - the poet just turning up introducing himself to the skaters and away they go. Here's a link to work done with skaters and others in Sandhurst UK last year: Memory Tree Main PageIf you have skate board haiku you can send them to me at little.onion@ntlworld.com - I'd love to see them - maybe Paul would put them up at haikumania...
Click the picture for a video
dAS sPEILcHECK
Headgear, Helga, Kanto, Gordo, Irizarry, Deloused, Reread
(Heidegger, Hegel, Kant, Godot, Irigary, Deleuze, Derrida)
(Heidegger, Hegel, Kant, Godot, Irigary, Deleuze, Derrida)
nOW hOLD oN tHERE!
Meaningless Drivel
Saying that I only know (when) or (while) I’m unconscious when I’m conscious, is like saying I only know white when it’s black, or understand English when it’s spoken in Italian. Being unconscious is never unconscious, or being unconscious of being unconscious, but conscious of being conscious that I was unconscious, which tells us nothing whatsoever. Unconsciousness is an interpretation fixed by consciousness, a conscious interpretation of a supposed unconscious state, or non-conscious state that we suppose we had, or that we can interpret or extrapolate from consciousness.
In this manner, we never know for certain if we were, in fact, unconscious, but can only suppose from a conscious stance that we may have been, at one time or the other, in this state we refer to as unconscious. This non-conscious state we refer to as unconscious, is, in actuality, an interpretation, or a stance, that we refer to or interpret from a conscious state, nothing more. If this is so, which I suppose it is, then black is white and English is Italian if the two binary opposites depend on one another for they’re stance, or definition, or being things or stances or definitions or words or things at all.
Opposition fields meaning, and meaning is drawn from interpretation, which, in turn, is fielded from something posit against something else, a binary, or oppositional other, or other-ness. For all I know I could be unconscious yet never know it, or be conscious yet never really know whether what I take for consciousness is unconsciousness, or an interpretation of unconsciousness drawn from consciousness, or vice versa. In this manner, and bowing irreverently to the Socratic dialogue, I know nothing more than knowing that I know very little at all, and that, in and of itself, I can never be certain of. Sometime ago I wrote (under the influence of pedagogical one-up-man-ship) that philosophy was the ruin and bane of my life, I stand by that statement, and never once have I faltered or looked for a way out of Wittgenstein’s fly-bottle.
In this manner, we never know for certain if we were, in fact, unconscious, but can only suppose from a conscious stance that we may have been, at one time or the other, in this state we refer to as unconscious. This non-conscious state we refer to as unconscious, is, in actuality, an interpretation, or a stance, that we refer to or interpret from a conscious state, nothing more. If this is so, which I suppose it is, then black is white and English is Italian if the two binary opposites depend on one another for they’re stance, or definition, or being things or stances or definitions or words or things at all.
Opposition fields meaning, and meaning is drawn from interpretation, which, in turn, is fielded from something posit against something else, a binary, or oppositional other, or other-ness. For all I know I could be unconscious yet never know it, or be conscious yet never really know whether what I take for consciousness is unconsciousness, or an interpretation of unconsciousness drawn from consciousness, or vice versa. In this manner, and bowing irreverently to the Socratic dialogue, I know nothing more than knowing that I know very little at all, and that, in and of itself, I can never be certain of. Sometime ago I wrote (under the influence of pedagogical one-up-man-ship) that philosophy was the ruin and bane of my life, I stand by that statement, and never once have I faltered or looked for a way out of Wittgenstein’s fly-bottle.
Post Office
There’s this thing I do where I swallow letters, then I swallow stamps, then I pull them out and all the letters are stamped.
-Mike Topp
-Mike Topp
tHE fUNcONSCIOUS
Blazes Boylan’s Gobspit
You are a bogeyman, a mountblanche, a scrofulous fuck. I, however, am the beauty that beholds the eye, the confectionery sugar that sullies the pads of your tongue, the eyelash that you brush away from the fop of your trousers. I am l’ amour oral, the teeth beveling the manse of your thoughts, the shift in perspective from hygiene to soiling. You are a Freudian night-terror, an intractable pathology, a STD that can neither be stayed nor rescinded; a viral spirochete, head bullying thighs, mons and parturition hole. I am Molly’s defiled Bloomers, Blazes Boylan’s gobspit slathering the cleave between a whorish thigh. I am lemony-scented soap, lurched in pocket ruffs trove with lint and candy wrappings. I am a postcard from ‘what’s-her name’, that bog-land slut with Dublin’s dirt in the squirrel of her treeing. You, whomever, are tonsure bare, blunt-cut and stained through with night-wetting and bucking soars. Robin’s egg-blue, nature, nurture, pollute, corrupt, soil, profane, infinitude, destitute, refute, confute, salute, rebuke, collate, reprobate, allocate, falsify, dolomite, hard Etruscan bone, white, whiter, whitest, pale-white, junk-worry white, whitest white, whiter. And tongue balanced lolling in the chance of her mouth, sullying saltlick-cowing cud and grassland muddy with Dublin dirt and tenor’s railhead siring poor mad-footed Lucia dancing madly, mad. Patchy-eyed ginstone, hiking trousers to knee and ankle and foot and arch, mollycoddling commode wiping ass with Sears and Roebucks and Atlantis Monthly. Joyless’ eyesore, river runs round pound, errata, drowsing never to awaken to quillwort, barnacle and tackman’s stub.
cue paranoid
lard funnel.
nice poem,
window sash.
keep writing words,
leaf animal.
don't forget to
spell correctly,
popular lump.
buy American,
penis cue.
say woops,
uncle hat.
look under the bed,
dry thing.
tape rubber to your
trapeze, wobbly
draft. beg to
differ,
sloppy hair.
invent another triptych,
Forrest Gump lover.
go under your bedframe,
clump of ladders.
see if I care,
writing test.
More Katie Than Another Name
God I wish I knew Katie.
Katie always responded, "Uh-huh, sure, don't I wish.”
She touched the hearts of all who knew her and left footprints.
In Katie's eyes everyone was equal.
I wish I knew the route to her green door.
Almost all of the accusations of 'torture' are NOT REAL TORTURE.
I wish sometimes that Katie had the chance to
learn to resent me. My father thought
I was fun to be with until I was eight. I
resent him. I wish I knew Wheaties Katie,
we have so much snack food around,
we'd vibe nibbling all night. Usually
I stop at a slight buzz, but I was like "why the fuck not", then
I went to the supermarket and bought some diet
cola that is not an insult to the American Dream.
God I wish Katie knew this. Katie
You challenge me to live each day,
By understanding your own way :
F**k you bitch I’m done with your *****g game .
Katie always responded, "Uh-huh, sure, don't I wish.”
She touched the hearts of all who knew her and left footprints.
In Katie's eyes everyone was equal.
I wish I knew the route to her green door.
Almost all of the accusations of 'torture' are NOT REAL TORTURE.
I wish sometimes that Katie had the chance to
learn to resent me. My father thought
I was fun to be with until I was eight. I
resent him. I wish I knew Wheaties Katie,
we have so much snack food around,
we'd vibe nibbling all night. Usually
I stop at a slight buzz, but I was like "why the fuck not", then
I went to the supermarket and bought some diet
cola that is not an insult to the American Dream.
God I wish Katie knew this. Katie
You challenge me to live each day,
By understanding your own way :
F**k you bitch I’m done with your *****g game .
Totally Susan
congratulate Susan, Co-Investigator on a research team. doorbell equals eyeball in the last universe. Susan, congratulations on taking on the task of running a separate Board for Florida. Speciation will deliver, usually by the division of a single Congratulation. Susan on being awarded the Academic rank of Associate Professor with Tenure, it truly does deserve its own gasp in the final room. we send our congratulations to a former president of Hawkfield who had a nice lotto win recently: Congratulations, Susan! You're a winner at EVERYTHING you do! Prepare the next subject for surgery. Best wishes for a happy and FUN retirement before the day lights exhale completely. Congratulations Susan. print this article in your wired life rental. Your website has been thoroughly evaluated and you are between jobs like colour past midnight.
Zen and the Art of Expiation
And so that is where matters rest now-
After thirty odd years, two millennia, a kiss
And oh!, the tree, a lonely tree that paved
The road to Satan's gnawing jaws, and now this!
That the righteous of the ages who raged and raved
Curses upon you, had got it wrong somehow!
Perhaps, if you could find time from being chewed,
As you apparently are being, and ponder
That for thirty you died a miserable wretch;
You'd probably be baffled and wonder
That your brittle pages can now fetch
Three million, even though corroded and mildewed.
And perhaps, too, you'd look at the stars above,
And your's the foremost of them! Would you shed
A lonely tear that others were absolved
For doing they knew not what, and yet you alone have bled
All these ages? Or perhaps you knew, and in your mind were resolved
To plant the kiss that was not the child of sin, but Love?
Thank you, JJ, for the inspiration, though this is nowhere near as good as your's
After thirty odd years, two millennia, a kiss
And oh!, the tree, a lonely tree that paved
The road to Satan's gnawing jaws, and now this!
That the righteous of the ages who raged and raved
Curses upon you, had got it wrong somehow!
Perhaps, if you could find time from being chewed,
As you apparently are being, and ponder
That for thirty you died a miserable wretch;
You'd probably be baffled and wonder
That your brittle pages can now fetch
Three million, even though corroded and mildewed.
And perhaps, too, you'd look at the stars above,
And your's the foremost of them! Would you shed
A lonely tear that others were absolved
For doing they knew not what, and yet you alone have bled
All these ages? Or perhaps you knew, and in your mind were resolved
To plant the kiss that was not the child of sin, but Love?
Thank you, JJ, for the inspiration, though this is nowhere near as good as your's
I'm Sorry
---------------------------------------------------------------------------.>
I pissed in the kitchen sink.
I got your cat high.
I threw pizza on you in the shower.
I told your boyfriend you were cheating.
I pretended I was a mobster and said I was going to kill you.
I broke Mom's arm.
I fathered a sick monster.
I ignited one of my farts.
For encouraging your nephew to play with matches.
For reading your diary.
For rifling your purse.
For spending all my money on alcohol, drugs, and pornography.
For stealing all your ideas.
For vomiting on your sequined dress. For shooting your fish. For the Bob's Big Boy sign I kidnapped. For all the women at work I have sexually harassed. And for my cowardly persecution of the Sperm Bank's "Gallon Club." I'm really sorry ("Sorry!") for a bunch of other stuff, but I don't know how much longer I can apologize. For a complete list, email me at mike_topp@hotmail.com
=================================================
I pissed in the kitchen sink.
I got your cat high.
I threw pizza on you in the shower.
I told your boyfriend you were cheating.
I pretended I was a mobster and said I was going to kill you.
I broke Mom's arm.
I fathered a sick monster.
I ignited one of my farts.
For encouraging your nephew to play with matches.
For reading your diary.
For rifling your purse.
For spending all my money on alcohol, drugs, and pornography.
For stealing all your ideas.
For vomiting on your sequined dress. For shooting your fish. For the Bob's Big Boy sign I kidnapped. For all the women at work I have sexually harassed. And for my cowardly persecution of the Sperm Bank's "Gallon Club." I'm really sorry ("Sorry!") for a bunch of other stuff, but I don't know how much longer I can apologize. For a complete list, email me at mike_topp@hotmail.com
=================================================
The Worst Thing About Guano Poetry
as Norman Finkelstein owns DUNG
that according to POODLE was made
of Saroyan's avid frags between
locally significant surface Winds
flicking off damask opera glasses
with form fitting baby pets in
your Left hand like SNOTRAG BRAGGARTS
slaughtering Ferengi pineapple lovers
saying 'Troglodyte! we see Hippie Year
GYROS!” he has decided about Dung
for Peace without a closetful
of Hootie and/or the Blowfish
and the bat ass spoke saying "am I seeing
traffic's laggy nature?” and the bat spoke
crediting Jim White for dissolving Permian
Sport Utility Vehicles when Blowfish
Monday proposes Finding the courage
cigarette with Wind honky meandering
creeks and back to BEBE REBOZO'S Dung
Settlement which does not lie to us OK
brilliant ranger-guided guided tour
it is PAST Slower Peruvian Guano smelling
of Carling Black Label (Hey Mabel down HERE!)
in the down Journey of Windows 2000 Why
the EF Was the Guano Peruvian? All the young
country poets go to the mailbox asking
intense remnants of quacking pulses if
everything is bundled up for
Der Fledermausmann using new active
ingredient the sky a pitiful boot forsaken
amongst ignoble elements what
wonders did orange eyes see from
the sides of an iridescent rose
quiescent in the lee of jejune red blood
this mortal wound now throbs toward
Ambient Music or RAP's finest hour
and is inured to rough-hewn sonnets
gorgeously above tension's surface but
bereft of false mummy hand and
local art fest only to survive
as a dung-filled blister with an
electric charge card for guidance
that according to POODLE was made
of Saroyan's avid frags between
locally significant surface Winds
flicking off damask opera glasses
with form fitting baby pets in
your Left hand like SNOTRAG BRAGGARTS
slaughtering Ferengi pineapple lovers
saying 'Troglodyte! we see Hippie Year
GYROS!” he has decided about Dung
for Peace without a closetful
of Hootie and/or the Blowfish
and the bat ass spoke saying "am I seeing
traffic's laggy nature?” and the bat spoke
crediting Jim White for dissolving Permian
Sport Utility Vehicles when Blowfish
Monday proposes Finding the courage
cigarette with Wind honky meandering
creeks and back to BEBE REBOZO'S Dung
Settlement which does not lie to us OK
brilliant ranger-guided guided tour
it is PAST Slower Peruvian Guano smelling
of Carling Black Label (Hey Mabel down HERE!)
in the down Journey of Windows 2000 Why
the EF Was the Guano Peruvian? All the young
country poets go to the mailbox asking
intense remnants of quacking pulses if
everything is bundled up for
Der Fledermausmann using new active
ingredient the sky a pitiful boot forsaken
amongst ignoble elements what
wonders did orange eyes see from
the sides of an iridescent rose
quiescent in the lee of jejune red blood
this mortal wound now throbs toward
Ambient Music or RAP's finest hour
and is inured to rough-hewn sonnets
gorgeously above tension's surface but
bereft of false mummy hand and
local art fest only to survive
as a dung-filled blister with an
electric charge card for guidance
You Dirt of Thinking
all occult is Heidegger's moustache. all fuck off reminds of fur from before the apt phrase. all stuff is ignorant sorting. all stuffing is cooled inside wallop. all giving needs lost fragment. all sentences swirl after toasting. all toasting is example. all explanation dies in form. all hate is a choir after all. all finding needs a bleed. all giving up is just retarded. all retarded is a pistol formed from words. all words is useless. all useless is next day. all next day is famous. all famous is alone. all alone is malleable. all malleable wins the prison. all prison is mobbed. all mobbed says so. all says so lucks out. all lucks out is retarded. all retarded is expressly purpose. all expressly purpose NEEDS A HOME. all NEEDS A HOME waits here...
smother after all with you, dirt of thinking.
smother after all with you, dirt of thinking.
tOOT-tOOT1
Waking Wakefulness
I awoke with a whooping crack in the anterior posterior lobe of my skullcap. Like most mornings, all, in fact, all that I care to remember to forget, whooping and geeing and remonstrating are de rigor, mortis de Pieta. I was thinking sum thoughts, not algebraic or calculus, but the sum of all thoughts, the simulacrum of thoughts thought and the thinking of those thought thoughts. Thinking, I’ve come to think, is a waste of time, hooliganism, a punch in the solaria nexus. Who, I perhaps, gives a rat’s ass what I think or not, thoughts and thoughtlessness, all a vapid exercise in trough supping. Saltlicks and honey-sticks, saxhorn yellow yellows and nicotine sullied finger nubs, all or nothing, as is the case or not. Callowness and jackdaw wings ripping rectums of air, mourning air, not frigid and apoplectic as some seem wont to suggest. A schizoid response to a prophylactic world disorder; milling needs and fractures with a scullery whore’s eye for neat edges and folded over cover slips, cowslips, mordant cup swill and Sherry’s crocked in elm barrels stopped with bunghole corkier. I best attend to the day, or what remains of the day a day.
tHE iRISH sEAsIDE
A jackdaw wings like scissors cutting paper angels in the gray April sky. I wonder who has died today, left this mortal coil. Jackdaws’ advent death; wings like devilfish sculling watery air. Allow me this indulgence: I cannot imagine, nor would I, a more fitting mate for myself than a Plumtree’s Potted Meat plump Molly Bloom, warbling forget-me-nots in the cones and stirrups of my ear. Perhaps I, with clutching fingers and head at a tilt, would pump and mandible between those scabbard-red thighs, scouring Liffey’d bits and arias from scalloped-raw flesh. Blazes be damned, I would if I could, no ifs ands or buts about it. My Cossack’s-cock fencing in the soar scullery of her swallow’s nest. Then as tradition would have it, a bar of lemony-scented soap hooked from the pocket of Leopold’s trousers, for post-coital lavations and scrubbings. Joyce himself would approve, if he were not dead and rotting in bog and peat. What more can one expect of a cunning savant, having slept no more than four hours in succession, I haven’t a Plumtree’s potted pot to piss in, now have I?
Rain clouds black as bootstraps; word-sodomites (such as I) should stick to proper grammar and syntax and be mindful of our minds. Consciousness has its limits, or so I’ve come to learn. Having eaten a fools-fill of dinner, I now sit drumming a tympanum on the taut skin of my stomach; fingers joist to wrist and palm with twills and scotching. Having, as I do, no conception of time or space, I stuff and glut my belly with a robber’s disregard. Pope John Paul II has left this mortal-coil, leaving a legacy of kindness, love and faith in a life ever after. He will be mourned and remembered with love, hope and kind words. Rain dulls thought, but reawakens a triage of pain
Black Earth
I drank
Rain clouds black as bootstraps; word-sodomites (such as I) should stick to proper grammar and syntax and be mindful of our minds. Consciousness has its limits, or so I’ve come to learn. Having eaten a fools-fill of dinner, I now sit drumming a tympanum on the taut skin of my stomach; fingers joist to wrist and palm with twills and scotching. Having, as I do, no conception of time or space, I stuff and glut my belly with a robber’s disregard. Pope John Paul II has left this mortal-coil, leaving a legacy of kindness, love and faith in a life ever after. He will be mourned and remembered with love, hope and kind words. Rain dulls thought, but reawakens a triage of pain
Black Earth
I drank
strong whiskies
cupped in the palms
of my hands
black water culled
black water culled
with bucket
and trove
coke fires blackening
earth;
sod-spade driven
heel to toe
cutting clods
of peat;
and men with strong
backs
and gray cricks
of hair
bent over bevel
and hoe;
cutting stokes
of black earth
Group Photograph...
Extreme right-
Gautama Buddha......... smile
Mona Lisa.................... smile
Socrates ........................smile
Standing
Ernest Hemingway ...........suicide
Thomas Chatterton ..........suicide
Sylvia Plath .......................suicide.
Gautama Buddha......... smile
Mona Lisa.................... smile
Socrates ........................smile
Standing
Ernest Hemingway ...........suicide
Thomas Chatterton ..........suicide
Sylvia Plath .......................suicide.
Lost time
My sidewalk ramble produces all manner of offspring
Look a picture of the candidate I shall be voting for
In Monday's election
How gray and careworn, and she's my age
Well that's what social action'll do to ya
I'm so Apollonian and want to impose
My sense of order
On you there walking with your laces untied
Please tie them they're flapping
And you'll fall unless I save you from yourself
I want to kiss all comers
I will flay the angels who alight
Silly gull do not crap on me
Now I sound like Morrissey
Blue-balled, and the beer, not knowing
When to spit and when to swallow
When to wade and when to wallow
Naked in the bedroom, we were
Darling, I'm almost home, having avoided all manner of things
Like thoughts of you, and of the girl in the subway that time
Whom I shielded from the lunatic boy
With bad breath. I know because he screamed a few lines of verse
His own I'm sure, about vows and widows, right in my ear
No one said a word
And my heroics went unpunished
And thoughts of you flew home to roost
Look a picture of the candidate I shall be voting for
In Monday's election
How gray and careworn, and she's my age
Well that's what social action'll do to ya
I'm so Apollonian and want to impose
My sense of order
On you there walking with your laces untied
Please tie them they're flapping
And you'll fall unless I save you from yourself
I want to kiss all comers
I will flay the angels who alight
Silly gull do not crap on me
Now I sound like Morrissey
Blue-balled, and the beer, not knowing
When to spit and when to swallow
When to wade and when to wallow
Naked in the bedroom, we were
Darling, I'm almost home, having avoided all manner of things
Like thoughts of you, and of the girl in the subway that time
Whom I shielded from the lunatic boy
With bad breath. I know because he screamed a few lines of verse
His own I'm sure, about vows and widows, right in my ear
No one said a word
And my heroics went unpunished
And thoughts of you flew home to roost
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