por eileen tabios
when i say writing/reading/living
are from the same parts
i do not mean that it
is without messiness
without its contradictions
that whenever poets prattle
about who or what texts
shall survive our age
i fold my laundry
check my wallet
who cares who
among us dies but lives
into death
[1st draft]
sTART-fINISH
Coping Steel
skin and bone spoiled
prey to assonance
disassociation
and coping
Not Yet So, And
--That, your face, swallows, harpies, roan and, and, and lich, and, sackcloth, oil, sashes made, from perambulators, and, catgut, violas, chinking. It is, time, fur bed, and such, such. Prickly pear so, so, be it, for now, eternally yours, with grace, and, no, small pittance. Of, skullduggery, and, and queuing, for a spot, spot on, in, the armory, of your, your thoughts, not, yet, so far, so good, so, forth, and, abler than, than, and, so, and, so, and, and.
Chafe Pins
thalidomide spays muscle and bone
pins halyard scaffolding and post
a cure-all for nausea and distemper
blue steel proxies for shinbone
dragging bone slag fen with spoil
a breach for emptying sanguine waste
a panacea for anemia and retching
corrupting the moment of conception
a wither of genes and ancestry
Not So Free Association
(Jan 12/06)
START: mother, father, gun control, idiot savant, bubonic plague, overweight, sclerosis, scolioisis (sic) analysis, bubonic flagellant, skinny legs and all, Joyce’s mother, Beckett’s mother, father, son, girlfriend, apologia, skunky, monkswool, terrycloth, cowl, cowlick, genocide, lariat, bolo, coke a cola, drudgery, mud oven, rumple stiltskin, ouch, lecher, Fletcher, cow catcher, mulligan stew, Martello, Tower, bower, scour, shower, April Tower, Billy Bob Morton, salt, fault, kilt, milt, soil, alcan, John Defienbaker, package of gum, slum, chum, rum, come, dumb, bum, slummy bum stiltskin, onion rind, other kind, mind your mind, apologia, lieutenant punishment, crappy shit et al, over night low, minus two, or more, or snow, or minus one on Sunday, no high of nineteen point five, or six, CBC satellites, seeds of mirth, jackrabbit, scar tissue, tundra, jackpine, Saul, Gomorrah, salud wound, hiccup, rupture, fissure, don’t think, things, Binge, Crossly, club date, worsened by sun, dial, smile, guile, out of stile, sperm, wail, snail, kale, operates without batteries, cats ass, moat, tower, millseed, calliope, Munster Hamlet, fucking Dane cunt, CS, DS, RS, SS, CC, enthusiastic CS, or, DS, sometimes I eat celery, never, Ariel Sharon Bottomsly, caught stealing, or was it kneeling, feeling mirth and rumpled with stiltskin, ny bastard, Mother, Father, Gun Control, Oedipus’ mother, Jacosta, that dead fuck, what’s his name, O’s dad, cookies, I Ikea ;em with chocolate chips, gimme some milk, you fink, ass Fuqua, muck, ranker, faker, steak tartar, martin Amis’ new teeth, gum control, phyorreah, dietary substitute, cool, like Kools, smoke inhalation, removes stains, nasty little fucker, Sam Drunker, brand new bicycle with a basket and a bell and a horn and a jawbreaker bigger than a dog’s ass, or tits, or CBC’s dishes, never, flagellate a cow’s udder, retaliation, mastication, new car, old bar, too far, bowling scar, mar, mare, fare, care, tear, wear, stare, share, Nora Barnacle, Ulysses on the fucking Liffey, stupid fuck, route, mooch, worse than measles or a hockey stick with black tape, END.
skin and bone spoiled
prey to assonance
disassociation
and coping
Not Yet So, And
--That, your face, swallows, harpies, roan and, and, and lich, and, sackcloth, oil, sashes made, from perambulators, and, catgut, violas, chinking. It is, time, fur bed, and such, such. Prickly pear so, so, be it, for now, eternally yours, with grace, and, no, small pittance. Of, skullduggery, and, and queuing, for a spot, spot on, in, the armory, of your, your thoughts, not, yet, so far, so good, so, forth, and, abler than, than, and, so, and, so, and, and.
Chafe Pins
thalidomide spays muscle and bone
pins halyard scaffolding and post
a cure-all for nausea and distemper
blue steel proxies for shinbone
dragging bone slag fen with spoil
a breach for emptying sanguine waste
a panacea for anemia and retching
corrupting the moment of conception
a wither of genes and ancestry
Not So Free Association
(Jan 12/06)
START: mother, father, gun control, idiot savant, bubonic plague, overweight, sclerosis, scolioisis (sic) analysis, bubonic flagellant, skinny legs and all, Joyce’s mother, Beckett’s mother, father, son, girlfriend, apologia, skunky, monkswool, terrycloth, cowl, cowlick, genocide, lariat, bolo, coke a cola, drudgery, mud oven, rumple stiltskin, ouch, lecher, Fletcher, cow catcher, mulligan stew, Martello, Tower, bower, scour, shower, April Tower, Billy Bob Morton, salt, fault, kilt, milt, soil, alcan, John Defienbaker, package of gum, slum, chum, rum, come, dumb, bum, slummy bum stiltskin, onion rind, other kind, mind your mind, apologia, lieutenant punishment, crappy shit et al, over night low, minus two, or more, or snow, or minus one on Sunday, no high of nineteen point five, or six, CBC satellites, seeds of mirth, jackrabbit, scar tissue, tundra, jackpine, Saul, Gomorrah, salud wound, hiccup, rupture, fissure, don’t think, things, Binge, Crossly, club date, worsened by sun, dial, smile, guile, out of stile, sperm, wail, snail, kale, operates without batteries, cats ass, moat, tower, millseed, calliope, Munster Hamlet, fucking Dane cunt, CS, DS, RS, SS, CC, enthusiastic CS, or, DS, sometimes I eat celery, never, Ariel Sharon Bottomsly, caught stealing, or was it kneeling, feeling mirth and rumpled with stiltskin, ny bastard, Mother, Father, Gun Control, Oedipus’ mother, Jacosta, that dead fuck, what’s his name, O’s dad, cookies, I Ikea ;em with chocolate chips, gimme some milk, you fink, ass Fuqua, muck, ranker, faker, steak tartar, martin Amis’ new teeth, gum control, phyorreah, dietary substitute, cool, like Kools, smoke inhalation, removes stains, nasty little fucker, Sam Drunker, brand new bicycle with a basket and a bell and a horn and a jawbreaker bigger than a dog’s ass, or tits, or CBC’s dishes, never, flagellate a cow’s udder, retaliation, mastication, new car, old bar, too far, bowling scar, mar, mare, fare, care, tear, wear, stare, share, Nora Barnacle, Ulysses on the fucking Liffey, stupid fuck, route, mooch, worse than measles or a hockey stick with black tape, END.
Oblivion is Better Off Left Alone
Q: ? (discuss)
1. Someone to make a list.
2. Someone to interpret the list.
3. And then with three, you have enough for a party.
4. Someone will write about the party.
5. The party and the consequent, subsequent parties, will end.
6. Someone to make a list.
1. Someone to make a list.
2. Someone to interpret the list.
3. And then with three, you have enough for a party.
4. Someone will write about the party.
5. The party and the consequent, subsequent parties, will end.
6. Someone to make a list.
The answerist Manifesto
I am an Answerist,
Knowing that god exists, such difficulty,
While others are busy between their nails of air and crosses
of air, I take the hit.
An answerist, it means a deal longer than ten minutes rapt
with the hands where god can see them,
And much more than a clean house and children,
An answerist, so that bubbling revenge is the preoccupation and
fast, not having an eternity to negotiate in,
An answerist, while at first my nerves were evilled by the
tangible taste,
Better than ever they have come back to me.
An answerist, forced to proclaim the wry face against those
who aim their blows wildly,
Their unfledged eyes useless, knowing their wrong but not
its direction.
An answerist, with clothes among the emperors,
But the eggs I cannot lay, nor milt unfurl, a simple tiny price,
And senescence doesn’t hugely gape, nor is cancer round the
corner incessantly,
An answerist, with pleasure zipping my soul to a cheap bodybag,
dumped for the orderlies,
Maybe laid in the ranks of likeminded friends, three or four more,
or even a massacre, would heighten the glee,
At one with god in all its portrayals,
At one with god in all its methods.
Curious to be in spate at society’s lowest ebb,
When outrage weakens them, but I am reinforced in my knowing,
An answerist, kind of poignant, to be at one with an accurate god
while deacons flounder and popes capsize,
Having the answer to god, well of course god exists, how ever
could it not?
Knowing that god exists, such difficulty,
While others are busy between their nails of air and crosses
of air, I take the hit.
An answerist, it means a deal longer than ten minutes rapt
with the hands where god can see them,
And much more than a clean house and children,
An answerist, so that bubbling revenge is the preoccupation and
fast, not having an eternity to negotiate in,
An answerist, while at first my nerves were evilled by the
tangible taste,
Better than ever they have come back to me.
An answerist, forced to proclaim the wry face against those
who aim their blows wildly,
Their unfledged eyes useless, knowing their wrong but not
its direction.
An answerist, with clothes among the emperors,
But the eggs I cannot lay, nor milt unfurl, a simple tiny price,
And senescence doesn’t hugely gape, nor is cancer round the
corner incessantly,
An answerist, with pleasure zipping my soul to a cheap bodybag,
dumped for the orderlies,
Maybe laid in the ranks of likeminded friends, three or four more,
or even a massacre, would heighten the glee,
At one with god in all its portrayals,
At one with god in all its methods.
Curious to be in spate at society’s lowest ebb,
When outrage weakens them, but I am reinforced in my knowing,
An answerist, kind of poignant, to be at one with an accurate god
while deacons flounder and popes capsize,
Having the answer to god, well of course god exists, how ever
could it not?
vETTING-mACHINE
(April 21/06)
These are barrow thoughts, thoughts thought without a thinker, a present without a past, a future without imminence or accident. A sonorous assonance, a Dylanesque liver, iron, rarebit and Guinness. No words to define the word that started it all. One word, One text. I desire nothing more than the desire to desire, to be desirous, to desire what is desirous. A carnality of desire, a desirous desire. If, as Deleuze and Guattari claim, we are nothing more (nor less) than desiring-machines, a binary opposition to the opposite, then all desiring is the desire to desire the opposition of the opposite. I desire the opposition of the opposite, the binary of the binary, the accident of imminence. I am the opposite, the opposition of all that I desire, the accident of desire, the accidental desire of the opposition of the opposite, the oneness of the binary opposition, the opposite of the opposite. In this way I desire nothing, all desire being an accidental opposition to desiring the opposition that was never there, the ‘never quite there opposition’ of desire. I am a coveting-machine; I desire the covetous, to covet the desire of desire. I am a vetting-machine, I vet what I desire, which I covet as the desire of the desirous. One desire, one vet. No binary, just sameness, the one desire to be desirous of desire, the covetousness to desire what I covet and vet as desirous, which is to covet the vet to desire the covetous, to covet the desire. The immanence of the immanent, the desire to covet and vet the desire to desire the immanence of the immanent. I think it prudent to desire nothing, to be desire-less, to covet the desire to be desire-less, to covet the desire to desire the undesirable. Foolishness is much more desirous than cleverness, as even a dog can be clever, but only a fool can be cleverly foolish.
Anamnesis
one day in the future
he will forget the past
the sun trawling the spar of his neck
dirt felled into a wheelbarrow
gears sluice with groundwater and machinist’s oil
the truss eaten away like felon bone
a faulty transmission
primer squalled beneath yellow touchup
the game winning touchdown
my mother’s tears gated with rain
a child’s wan cry
knees skinned for the first time
These are barrow thoughts, thoughts thought without a thinker, a present without a past, a future without imminence or accident. A sonorous assonance, a Dylanesque liver, iron, rarebit and Guinness. No words to define the word that started it all. One word, One text. I desire nothing more than the desire to desire, to be desirous, to desire what is desirous. A carnality of desire, a desirous desire. If, as Deleuze and Guattari claim, we are nothing more (nor less) than desiring-machines, a binary opposition to the opposite, then all desiring is the desire to desire the opposition of the opposite. I desire the opposition of the opposite, the binary of the binary, the accident of imminence. I am the opposite, the opposition of all that I desire, the accident of desire, the accidental desire of the opposition of the opposite, the oneness of the binary opposition, the opposite of the opposite. In this way I desire nothing, all desire being an accidental opposition to desiring the opposition that was never there, the ‘never quite there opposition’ of desire. I am a coveting-machine; I desire the covetous, to covet the desire of desire. I am a vetting-machine, I vet what I desire, which I covet as the desire of the desirous. One desire, one vet. No binary, just sameness, the one desire to be desirous of desire, the covetousness to desire what I covet and vet as desirous, which is to covet the vet to desire the covetous, to covet the desire. The immanence of the immanent, the desire to covet and vet the desire to desire the immanence of the immanent. I think it prudent to desire nothing, to be desire-less, to covet the desire to be desire-less, to covet the desire to desire the undesirable. Foolishness is much more desirous than cleverness, as even a dog can be clever, but only a fool can be cleverly foolish.
Anamnesis
one day in the future
he will forget the past
the sun trawling the spar of his neck
dirt felled into a wheelbarrow
gears sluice with groundwater and machinist’s oil
the truss eaten away like felon bone
a faulty transmission
primer squalled beneath yellow touchup
the game winning touchdown
my mother’s tears gated with rain
a child’s wan cry
knees skinned for the first time
The One who's not
How is it that
I am in your hands
close enough to feel your pulse,
And how is that
I am in your grasp
close enough to smell your breath
pregnant with unknown intentions...
How is it that
I am in your embrace, in your presence,
but never in your smiles?
Rada
This is Rada's shadow. She sees the outline, fine threads of hair dancing impulsively. And this is her hand, caressing the keyboard. Here are her eyes, looking out the window.
"I'm like that ladder."
"Out in the rain like that."
Those rain splatters like dying insects. She felt truly, the deepest need to occupy space, to come outdoors, to feel cold, to sense the numbness spread from her pelvis upwards, thighs, and then settle in her muscles, impaired movement and so on.
Zeeep. The bizarre, irritating, hateful ring of the telephone unexpected. Oh, it was just a message from Silvi, he's out in his van smoking. Come over and talk 2 me. Silvi lives across the field, which from the human eye perspective looks galaxies away, and yet, one foot in front of the other, and she's there. Already after she crossed through the little fake forest, and ducked under some old clearly abandoned metal fence she saw the dark outline of his body in the drivers seat.
It's way too cold to be smoking outside, no well meaning person ought to be outside in this.
When Rada gets to the car, she watches her arm raise itself, hand unclasp, rest upon door latch, open and swing towards the seat. Her legs do a strange sliding movement and she sits down. It's damp in that car.
"Huh." Her way of saying hello. Non commital.
"Hm." Silvi says.
"Haha, were you watching the news t'smorning?...Typical."
"I don't really enjoy using electronics so early in the morning...I mean, I really don't. It's like...I need time to wake up and re-evaluate my environment. I was having another weird dream, probably, too, and-"
"It's so weird.I just don't understand what they even expect I'm supposed to do for money after this. And then they want two months rent up front. I'll never come up with that."
She hates sitting there suddenly. "I have to go."
Later on that night she sees it all again for myself. In her head. She stops up in front of the mirror. Pinches her stomach fat. I hate it, she thinks. And my hair. I think I may shave my head, she thinks. I don't know what's left to care about, really, she thinks. She's just feeling hateful towards her body, as if its disobeyed her. And her face seems to be....something else. She can't relate to it. It feels as though she's a pet, or some object that belongs to someone else. Then, the silence rings in and she starts to feel her ear pounding, and the sense of blood swelling, thudding, thundering inside.
Later on she decides something has to be done. Rada saunters around the bedroom, opens the curtains. Five minutes later, she's back, and closes them. The window is still open, and the wind blowing rattles the metal hoops on the curtains. Fucking irritating sound. The bed is broken. The wooden slats are missing a latch so they slide around and in the middle of the night spit her out and she falls into a swaddled burrowed hole. A lot of times she sits and think about how nice it feels, and then remember in the mornings how painful and fucked her spinal cord is, and thus gets up and wiggle the wooden slats around, feeling anger/stress/frustration welling up inside her chest.
2 hours later, she has managed to gather up at least half of what was laying on the floor. The clothes moved closer to the washer, and the books go back in the right places, the cups of half drank water, closer to the sink, the dishwasher. The silence again. She lays down. Boredom. And future. And pencil, paper, stamps, money. Suicide. She closes her eyes a little. Boredom. Her hands first rest on her navel. Then, fingers touching her thighs. Soft. And itch a little. And then scratch the newly shaved cunt/vagina/pussy area. Closing eyes again. Pushes her pants off first, then underwear, not off, just to her ankles. She gathers up some saliva in her mouth, spits on her fingers and cradles them strangely to prevent dripping drool all over her shirt. When it gets close enough to her clit she uses two fingers to open, and the other spit dripping fingers and tip them sideways so that the spit grazes down. She watches it drip off her finger. The cold air whispers in, it feels good across her thighs. Now she's a little wet, she rubs a little, she doesn't feel much. She closes her eyes. Think of something, she commands herself. She can't think of anything. She uses old, silly fantasy material, one about a woman at her doctors office, and he starts sucking on her clit. It was set in the 1920's or something, and the doctor assured her this was part of the treatment. She feels a bit more relaxed and sort of eager.
Her leg starts aching. She pulls it up, pushes it up sideways, roll over, ruining everything. Raises her hand to her nose, inhales, grabs a tissue, wipes fingers and rolls over. Cries.
"I'm like that ladder."
"Out in the rain like that."
Those rain splatters like dying insects. She felt truly, the deepest need to occupy space, to come outdoors, to feel cold, to sense the numbness spread from her pelvis upwards, thighs, and then settle in her muscles, impaired movement and so on.
Zeeep. The bizarre, irritating, hateful ring of the telephone unexpected. Oh, it was just a message from Silvi, he's out in his van smoking. Come over and talk 2 me. Silvi lives across the field, which from the human eye perspective looks galaxies away, and yet, one foot in front of the other, and she's there. Already after she crossed through the little fake forest, and ducked under some old clearly abandoned metal fence she saw the dark outline of his body in the drivers seat.
It's way too cold to be smoking outside, no well meaning person ought to be outside in this.
When Rada gets to the car, she watches her arm raise itself, hand unclasp, rest upon door latch, open and swing towards the seat. Her legs do a strange sliding movement and she sits down. It's damp in that car.
"Huh." Her way of saying hello. Non commital.
"Hm." Silvi says.
"Haha, were you watching the news t'smorning?...Typical."
"I don't really enjoy using electronics so early in the morning...I mean, I really don't. It's like...I need time to wake up and re-evaluate my environment. I was having another weird dream, probably, too, and-"
"It's so weird.I just don't understand what they even expect I'm supposed to do for money after this. And then they want two months rent up front. I'll never come up with that."
She hates sitting there suddenly. "I have to go."
Later on that night she sees it all again for myself. In her head. She stops up in front of the mirror. Pinches her stomach fat. I hate it, she thinks. And my hair. I think I may shave my head, she thinks. I don't know what's left to care about, really, she thinks. She's just feeling hateful towards her body, as if its disobeyed her. And her face seems to be....something else. She can't relate to it. It feels as though she's a pet, or some object that belongs to someone else. Then, the silence rings in and she starts to feel her ear pounding, and the sense of blood swelling, thudding, thundering inside.
Later on she decides something has to be done. Rada saunters around the bedroom, opens the curtains. Five minutes later, she's back, and closes them. The window is still open, and the wind blowing rattles the metal hoops on the curtains. Fucking irritating sound. The bed is broken. The wooden slats are missing a latch so they slide around and in the middle of the night spit her out and she falls into a swaddled burrowed hole. A lot of times she sits and think about how nice it feels, and then remember in the mornings how painful and fucked her spinal cord is, and thus gets up and wiggle the wooden slats around, feeling anger/stress/frustration welling up inside her chest.
2 hours later, she has managed to gather up at least half of what was laying on the floor. The clothes moved closer to the washer, and the books go back in the right places, the cups of half drank water, closer to the sink, the dishwasher. The silence again. She lays down. Boredom. And future. And pencil, paper, stamps, money. Suicide. She closes her eyes a little. Boredom. Her hands first rest on her navel. Then, fingers touching her thighs. Soft. And itch a little. And then scratch the newly shaved cunt/vagina/pussy area. Closing eyes again. Pushes her pants off first, then underwear, not off, just to her ankles. She gathers up some saliva in her mouth, spits on her fingers and cradles them strangely to prevent dripping drool all over her shirt. When it gets close enough to her clit she uses two fingers to open, and the other spit dripping fingers and tip them sideways so that the spit grazes down. She watches it drip off her finger. The cold air whispers in, it feels good across her thighs. Now she's a little wet, she rubs a little, she doesn't feel much. She closes her eyes. Think of something, she commands herself. She can't think of anything. She uses old, silly fantasy material, one about a woman at her doctors office, and he starts sucking on her clit. It was set in the 1920's or something, and the doctor assured her this was part of the treatment. She feels a bit more relaxed and sort of eager.
Her leg starts aching. She pulls it up, pushes it up sideways, roll over, ruining everything. Raises her hand to her nose, inhales, grabs a tissue, wipes fingers and rolls over. Cries.
Undeliverable:
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Basho's Milk Dud
Basho said to his disciple: “When you have a Milk Dud, I will give it to you. If you have no Milk Dud, I will take it away from you.”
Red-faced, seated after the audition...
I made a list of things to say....
I made this list in my head of things
I wanted to say to those in power, I thought
you are not listening, this was, three
or more years back, in 2001, or so.
If I could count the things that happened
since: letter from downstairs tenant,
visiting publisher condemnations or
a trip to the Parliament buildings and
then a further condemnation. How many
trips to the Musicals or Theatre? For me
the library is enough. Oh well, you`ll feel
better if you have a job, could be true!
But still the list, the subway bombings,
the rude stares, the mice, the sleepy eye
and still the lists, listings. Why startle my
wife, a mouse, the emails, are they of the
concilliatory kind? Grizzly Man was the best
movie of the year. It is about something. So.
I have nothing, it is not that, it is simply
the little chicken suit, flung high into the
tree, we are wondering: How did this get here?
Who will take it down?
I made this list in my head of things
I wanted to say to those in power, I thought
you are not listening, this was, three
or more years back, in 2001, or so.
If I could count the things that happened
since: letter from downstairs tenant,
visiting publisher condemnations or
a trip to the Parliament buildings and
then a further condemnation. How many
trips to the Musicals or Theatre? For me
the library is enough. Oh well, you`ll feel
better if you have a job, could be true!
But still the list, the subway bombings,
the rude stares, the mice, the sleepy eye
and still the lists, listings. Why startle my
wife, a mouse, the emails, are they of the
concilliatory kind? Grizzly Man was the best
movie of the year. It is about something. So.
I have nothing, it is not that, it is simply
the little chicken suit, flung high into the
tree, we are wondering: How did this get here?
Who will take it down?
pRESTO, eLIOT and pOUND
Collateral Evocations
A year ago I started writing poetry as a release from the detention of prose, a transient evocation of the unconscious clamor hidden within the prosaic. Poetry was surface, corposant, a looking out into the infinite collateral of thought. All poetry is collateral, a corruption of the word, the mnemonic traces left behind after the representations and images have faded. Poetry renders the simulacrum anew; it reissues the sameness of the same, a secretion, purgation, an emptying. Poetry is slaying, the poem the carnage left behind after the slaughter, the poet the assassin, the butcher of word, text and significance. The poet destroys the signified; recreating a signifier that in turn destroys the signifier, doing away with the antedate chain of words, text and signification. What in the name of Eliot and Pound do I know about poetry? Not a corposant thing, that’s what. Decorticating the corkboard from Presto’s study, or crumpling up one of Flatiron’s twentieth drafts--such dulcet raw genius--is more suited to such literary vandalism surely. Fuck poetry, and while your at it, poets and assassins too. And dogs and cats and hamsters and fish and…
A Poem about a Hat
my grandfather’s fedora
had a band circling the brim
with a scarecrow’s button
stitched into the felt
A year ago I started writing poetry as a release from the detention of prose, a transient evocation of the unconscious clamor hidden within the prosaic. Poetry was surface, corposant, a looking out into the infinite collateral of thought. All poetry is collateral, a corruption of the word, the mnemonic traces left behind after the representations and images have faded. Poetry renders the simulacrum anew; it reissues the sameness of the same, a secretion, purgation, an emptying. Poetry is slaying, the poem the carnage left behind after the slaughter, the poet the assassin, the butcher of word, text and significance. The poet destroys the signified; recreating a signifier that in turn destroys the signifier, doing away with the antedate chain of words, text and signification. What in the name of Eliot and Pound do I know about poetry? Not a corposant thing, that’s what. Decorticating the corkboard from Presto’s study, or crumpling up one of Flatiron’s twentieth drafts--such dulcet raw genius--is more suited to such literary vandalism surely. Fuck poetry, and while your at it, poets and assassins too. And dogs and cats and hamsters and fish and…
A Poem about a Hat
my grandfather’s fedora
had a band circling the brim
with a scarecrow’s button
stitched into the felt
Dead letters
i.
Each one with
their headphone
kneeling on the seat
in front
pressed so close the
woman’s breath through the cushioning
stirs my knees from their position
along with everything else
living
this plane was
sung into existence
the cloud hillocks
it tears through
are made the lines
of a new song we feel from our knees
upward
what barriers they were
heart muscle or cumulous
made sinewy bands rent and scattered
in fleshly skies
ii.
Each leans into
their silent film
man and woman
making love at last
their skin lit warmly
their eyes drawn
at the corners
their weeping at their own beauty
as he plunges
so that the turbulence
shakes us
iii.
There is a barrier nested in me although I’ve left on good terms
as though these words endeared my last breath at home
to your name and that dreaded leave taking
iv.
I wrote
seven letters to say goodbye
what will I find
here
beyond this woman’s
thighs
my neighbor’s
and my own wet cheeks
brushed awkwardly back of the palm
when the attendant nears
plate-gathering
will I remember
your face
until it becomes
your eyes alone
and when
you are a bird
and I am a plane
with stiffened wings
back straight
with the changeling sun on it
when my letters
return
will I have seven forwarded hours
to grieve by
Hand In Hand
we walk hand in hand
my jacket on her shoulders
through the day's last light
lobster pots and sweet whitebait
the keepers of cormorants
my jacket on her shoulders
through the day's last light
lobster pots and sweet whitebait
the keepers of cormorants
foR sEAMUS
Summer Heat
cocks wither in the summer heat
necks wrung like washing rags
languid socks of skin and thew
your hair twisted into cornrows
a quarrel of pale yellow sun
tracing the crib of your lips
cats prowl the silage for mice
tails scab with viscera and douse
the summer heat spun into shadow
my uncle’s gore callused hands
chucking necks like slough rags
into the silage trap
I lift the barrows of your skirt
revealing a warrant cat
a severed cockscomb in its mouth
cocks wither in the summer heat
necks wrung like washing rags
languid socks of skin and thew
your hair twisted into cornrows
a quarrel of pale yellow sun
tracing the crib of your lips
cats prowl the silage for mice
tails scab with viscera and douse
the summer heat spun into shadow
my uncle’s gore callused hands
chucking necks like slough rags
into the silage trap
I lift the barrows of your skirt
revealing a warrant cat
a severed cockscomb in its mouth
Cosmic quest
I dream to ride you
The head in the clouds
My staring middle shape your sex out of comet exploding
in a nebulous tide with the subsoil of the black hole
access to my extatic galaxy
Then to lick you by the flames of my hair
your hands in hyperspace ordering my so lacteous way...
A big-bang and from there emerges from sun myriades
your will have my astral body
the stellar snake proposes to me with the alarm clock
your Cosmic Quest planet
The head in the clouds
My staring middle shape your sex out of comet exploding
in a nebulous tide with the subsoil of the black hole
access to my extatic galaxy
Then to lick you by the flames of my hair
your hands in hyperspace ordering my so lacteous way...
A big-bang and from there emerges from sun myriades
your will have my astral body
the stellar snake proposes to me with the alarm clock
your Cosmic Quest planet
stars
they capsize
one at a time
we drink
the antifreeze
of their
violet trails
we smoke
cloves
we cry
smoke
one at a time
we drink
the antifreeze
of their
violet trails
we smoke
cloves
we cry
smoke
Hunger
chest quickly expanding
breath coming fast
pounding in the ears
of the racing pulse
Run, run, run, run, run
screaming calves with
burning thighs and
jarred creaky joints
fists clenched tightly
faster, faster, faster, faster
not a sound; not a word
keep pushing through
ignore the scraping branches
block out the animal cries
straight ahead, straight ahead
into the dark, into the thick
sweat trickling between breasts
eyes locked on the jumpy horizon
hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry
breath coming fast
pounding in the ears
of the racing pulse
Run, run, run, run, run
screaming calves with
burning thighs and
jarred creaky joints
fists clenched tightly
faster, faster, faster, faster
not a sound; not a word
keep pushing through
ignore the scraping branches
block out the animal cries
straight ahead, straight ahead
into the dark, into the thick
sweat trickling between breasts
eyes locked on the jumpy horizon
hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry
Divine Love
God rains his love down on us every day. But we don’t feel that love, because our ego is like a giant umbrella that we hold over our heads. What we need to do is put that umbrella away in the ego’s umbrella stand—then we will feel God’s love. Ego’s umbrella stand, in black walnut or mahogany.$7,500.
hOKUM'S rAZOR
Gonorrheal and Pistachio Sherbet
(April 16/06)
I find myself half way through life’s journey in Dante’s ninth canticle with Judas and Brutes, an amentia of gorgons and hellcats, a scurvy of traitors and swine, a porcine sty. The creamery’s in the eighth, where one can buy, at meager cost, a Pistachio or a rum raison, or a gonorrheal sherbet with a hint of orange rind and schizocarp. Hokum’s razor for the unshaven and tawdry, or a punter’s spar in the evacuee hole, an apostate with a disemboweler’s vizard. Bovine encephalitis, and a weeks worth of spat up odds and ends and ends and odds. No need for sackcloth jodhpurs or a lamb’s wool toque, this is a place of dirges and weeping, not a five star Fodor’s or Ulysses. And for dinner a most delectable placenta gruel, for the dyspeptic and those lacking in esophageal temerity, a gourmand’s wet dream with a post parricidal after eight that deliquesces on the tip of your tongue. Its not hard to imagine that hell is a place beneath the hell of hell on earth, a sub-hell or hellish hell. A hell of vassals and bondmaids, scullery whores with denticulate teeth and pyorrhea(ic) gums. A hell where crack whores, debauchees and smart alecks have money to spend, on such niceties as shoes, handbags and a balanced verdigris diet. A place where traitors and zealots, and men in mitered caps, don’t cast calumny on those lacking in grace, votary and fallow breath. Good orderly insurrection for the meek and misjudged, the drudged and begotten, the inculpable and gentle. But I dream, as I must, of an ecclesiasticism that embraces all who dare draw the breath and the courage to awaken each morning to this Dantean hell, without
tHE gIFT oF hUMANITY
An Short Overview
(April 17/06)
A fair to middling Monday morning, a clench of crows crackling in the tree outside my bedroom window. An aviary black as death and twice as final. Last night, scalloped in bed linen and gander, I began reading Homero Aridjis’ 1492, The Life and Times of Juan Cabezon of Castile. A coterie of whores and beggars, savages and dwarfs, innkeepers, penitents, mystics and the inclemency of the Christian Inquisition, a Spanish Inferno that would have shuddered Sancho and Don Quixote. Had cocaine been a staple victual in the fifteenth century, things might have been different, whores become kings, beggars become innkeepers, and penitents become agnostics. As it was, the Christian brethren held forth with their savage butchery, lopping off topknots and skullcaps with the dissever of the pietistic broad sword. Octavio Paz and Juan Carlos Onetti taught me that life, all life, is meaningful, that a beggar is a king and a prostitute a lady in waiting, that life is the gift of humanity, not a trinity of love, hate and savage disquisition.
A fair to middling Monday morning, a clench of crows crackling in the tree outside my bedroom window. An aviary black as death and twice as final. Last night, scalloped in bed linen and gander, I began reading Homero Aridjis’ 1492, The Life and Times of Juan Cabezon of Castile. A coterie of whores and beggars, savages and dwarfs, innkeepers, penitents, mystics and the inclemency of the Christian Inquisition, a Spanish Inferno that would have shuddered Sancho and Don Quixote. Had cocaine been a staple victual in the fifteenth century, things might have been different, whores become kings, beggars become innkeepers, and penitents become agnostics. As it was, the Christian brethren held forth with their savage butchery, lopping off topknots and skullcaps with the dissever of the pietistic broad sword. Octavio Paz and Juan Carlos Onetti taught me that life, all life, is meaningful, that a beggar is a king and a prostitute a lady in waiting, that life is the gift of humanity, not a trinity of love, hate and savage disquisition.
invasive/evasive
guess a three card monte
must I be in
one of those predetermined
positions?
I am in the grains
of the table upon which
you play.
you rale me with your
metaphoric paradigms
drill sergeant tactics
am I locatable on
your map?
be still –
you are alive in daydreams
in trances
in stirs and foreign dialects
neither of which has left a living trace.
be still-
you are my suicide
my unrestrained
pestilence.
you blew
the love right out of me.
Melissa Upfold here ~
.
guess a three card monte
must I be in
one of those predetermined
positions?
I am in the grains
of the table upon which
you play.
you rale me with your
metaphoric paradigms
drill sergeant tactics
am I locatable on
your map?
be still –
you are alive in daydreams
in trances
in stirs and foreign dialects
neither of which has left a living trace.
be still-
you are my suicide
my unrestrained
pestilence.
you blew
the love right out of me.
Melissa Upfold here ~
.
Damn!!!
"Damn!!" He said. "Damn the damned thing!!".
A quick punch in the wall was unavoidable. He always got like this when that thing appeared, making lots of noise and disturbing his peace.
"Calm down Fred", she tried, "Or else you'll have a heart attack!".
"Now don't tell ME to calm down WOMAN! I'm perfectly healthy! SURE THING I don't need your advice!! SURE THING... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrghhhh! I... I... I... can't breathe..."
He was reaching out for her... She didn't move a muscle! Why should she? He "SURE THING" never needed her help...
The thing... Oh the thing... How the thing was smiling!
She sat on the chair and started to read again until her eyes weren't tired enough... The coffing had stopped finally! The thing had gone away! Oh the peace in that old country! The wind and the birds out there!
She just stood there... hours and hours and hours... Waiting for him to rise again... As he always did...
A quick punch in the wall was unavoidable. He always got like this when that thing appeared, making lots of noise and disturbing his peace.
"Calm down Fred", she tried, "Or else you'll have a heart attack!".
"Now don't tell ME to calm down WOMAN! I'm perfectly healthy! SURE THING I don't need your advice!! SURE THING... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrghhhh! I... I... I... can't breathe..."
He was reaching out for her... She didn't move a muscle! Why should she? He "SURE THING" never needed her help...
The thing... Oh the thing... How the thing was smiling!
She sat on the chair and started to read again until her eyes weren't tired enough... The coffing had stopped finally! The thing had gone away! Oh the peace in that old country! The wind and the birds out there!
She just stood there... hours and hours and hours... Waiting for him to rise again... As he always did...
Exe.pavement
- The mandible of the blister cracks!
- Telephone thunders 2 times and then: more nothing.
- Defective Sectors because of your shits.
- Virgin walkmans of teenagers to insert.
- A magic is in the initial memory.
- The small train is malignant, Trojan horse, goes!
- Wise station with the access path assassin.
- And in the portfolio-racing cars of the bombs.
- Cathodic will be all relieved frustrations.
- Filter us quickly because the wind arrives.
- Which if it is not you, can predict the moment according to.
- Telephone thunders 2 times and then: more nothing.
- Defective Sectors because of your shits.
- Virgin walkmans of teenagers to insert.
- A magic is in the initial memory.
- The small train is malignant, Trojan horse, goes!
- Wise station with the access path assassin.
- And in the portfolio-racing cars of the bombs.
- Cathodic will be all relieved frustrations.
- Filter us quickly because the wind arrives.
- Which if it is not you, can predict the moment according to.
a rise in balloon worship
sometimes your surgery movements
taking with an eye on the television
your coffee mug simultaneously changing to C-Span
remind me of laughing the whole time
thinking “those gloves cover paws”
thinking how dignified your instruments
are involved as they are in my blood
even as it insults you
adding to injury
my pain is pluralized
no you are Godzilla I am nothing
to a plan so large it consumes
Tokyo
he went underwater then
with an emptypolice siren, all color no sound
to talk to the devil’s arrows
shot up from 20,000 leagues
they changed from red to blue in
a kingly bioluminescence
bystanders told him he was saved by flashing lights
coming from the depths of a dream
now he cuts loose children's balloons
one by one with bright clean scissors
they float high above our heads
you see them everywhere
their tails long, touching the ground
multicolored opalescent upstairs
with the jets bumping noses
good-natured before they open like jellies
and leave a faintly sweet
aftertaste but not of sugar exactly
taking with an eye on the television
your coffee mug simultaneously changing to C-Span
remind me of laughing the whole time
thinking “those gloves cover paws”
thinking how dignified your instruments
are involved as they are in my blood
even as it insults you
adding to injury
my pain is pluralized
no you are Godzilla I am nothing
to a plan so large it consumes
Tokyo
he went underwater then
with an emptypolice siren, all color no sound
to talk to the devil’s arrows
shot up from 20,000 leagues
they changed from red to blue in
a kingly bioluminescence
bystanders told him he was saved by flashing lights
coming from the depths of a dream
now he cuts loose children's balloons
one by one with bright clean scissors
they float high above our heads
you see them everywhere
their tails long, touching the ground
multicolored opalescent upstairs
with the jets bumping noses
good-natured before they open like jellies
and leave a faintly sweet
aftertaste but not of sugar exactly
Revolver
Revolver
Ou la chose évolue vers.
Apocalypse.L’apocalypse au sens étymologique : renaissance.
Révolution.
Problème !
Un renversement des valeurs à partir d’un ordre pensé corrompu mène à un autre ordre qui se corrompra à son tour.
Un cycle de sang sans sens.
Ou du moins, avec une valeur lucrative : celle de la violence.
La guerre fait son beurre, elle est le pilier de l’économie mondiale.
Vie et mort prostituées avec pour valeur la conformité à une norme.
Cette norme est un enclos, cet enclos abrite un troupeau bien portant et porteurs des intérêts de ceux, nommés ici seigneurs (ou saigneurs), qui ont su imposer leurs choix comme qualité idéale universelle.
GERBONS !
Gerbons cette dialectique avariée.
L’écriture en est le virus via une mondialisation de cette gastro-entérite, avec tous ses charmes, qui vide par toutes ses extrémités une vacuité de la foultitude.
Rendre les mots au monde,
en un long vomissement
d’écoeurement
qui s’organise
sans chef
sans dogme
mais autour, par et pour, la vie seule,
en cessant de prostituer
chaque parcelle
chaque instant
chaque tesson
chaque glanure
chaque faisceaux
de vie
pour un marathon absurde de
l’argent pour l’argent,
soit
la spéculation de la spéculation qui mène au vide total.
Vide que chaque individu peut ressentir, car ce vide c’est sa vie.
Un potlatch, permanent.
Voilà que l’idée de gratuité et de partage jaillie de façon incontrôlable.
Le web, ayant été créé afin de préserver les données essentiellement militaires et scientifiques d’une éventuelle guerre atomique (cf. Arpanet), dévore déjà les médias « officiels » des seigneurs.
La vie est gratuite.
Je n'ai pas payé pour être conçu, je suis le fils d'un hymen brisé.
Nous, né d'une passion animale et sublime, jeté dans ce monde, n'acceptons plus la barbarie technocratique des époques modernes.
Harpe éditorial / Ou : où aller puis comment sans sortir.
Hormis quelques retardataires crapuleux et leurs nombreux chiens de garde ébouriffés lorsqu'on s'attaque à leur bizness, les esprits possédant un zeste de bon sens et une certaine finesse de révolte totalement crédible, savent qu'il est impossible à l'art de se maintenir sans faire rire dans son carcan – d'or bien sur – actuel, et surtout, impossible de se présenter comme une piètre activité de compensation à laquelle on puisse s'adonner sans honte.
Nous devons calquer nos productions littéraires, seul moyen que nous possédons, sur, mais surtout pour, un modèle de la vie. Modèle délivré de superflu, délivré des légendaires profiteurs masqués. Modèle qui se définira dans ces pages. Modèle rabâché, que – excepté les êtres, possédant et cultivant maladroitement une once de liberté, qui se reconnaîtront – personne n’a écouté.
Tout comme une poésie chuchotée à l’oreille d’une belle, de façon ivre, sans attente de bon point... si ce n’est ce que propose le déroulement de la vie, la poésie peut mener à un monde gratuit, un monde d’acte gratuit, de don, de partage : littéralement étranger à tout empoisonnement moral, qui n’a d'autre justification que lui-même.
Certes, on appelle souvent cela de « l'utopie ». Je soutiens que si la population entière rêve, cela ne s'appelle plus du rêve, mais de la réalité.
Internet est l’espace et le lieu de cette possibilité. Le moyen infernal. Et tout comme Internet pénètre les logis, la poésie s’infiltrera aussi ainsi, ralliant son chant au chant mécanique et répétitif de la rue insatisfaite.
Il est proposé ici, de commettre des actes gratuits à chaque seconde, à chaque centimètre.
Il est proposé ici, un prolongement de la vie, purifié, qui réintégrera sa source.
THEORIE
1. se fixer une ligne de questions sur quoi se pose la dite révolution
2. les réponses apportées
3. les applications possibles
4. la progression et l'évolution une fois les "marches" créées au sens (d'escalier) sachant que toutes nouvelles réflexions peut-être démolies ou servir de tremplin à une nouvelle construction, histoire que ça reste ouvert
Laboratoire
Un sol à ne presque pas toucher,
et le reste en constante évolution à porter de tous jusqu'à ce que cela remette en question le dit sol, si c'est valable.
Explose les barrières. Plus de poésie (dans sa définition souillée, moderne), de philosophie, de métaphysique, de psychologie, de etc... : Mais de la poésie qui enveloppe tous ça.
Rappel étymologique de poésie : du grec poiêsis : action de faire.
La poésie en tant que véhicule du verbe, de l’action, de ce qui se déroule et s’enroule
Poésie magie.
La poésie a d’abord existée sous une forme incantatoire, par et pour, la magie.
Notre époque s'amuse de magie, mais bave dessus, ne comprends pas sa signification profonde. (cf harry potter)
Proposons de la magie.
Tout comme nos gouvernements usent d'une magie implacable avec nous, nous prenant pour de pauvres petits mioches à qui ont enlève le nez qu’ils ont toujours. Enfant ? C'est exacte... peut-être parce que personne ne cesse d'être tenu en tutelle. Nous sommes bien à l’époque des adulescents et ce sera là aussi une force, ralliant plusieurs générations autour d’un merveilleux (genre culture manga).
Faisons apparaître et disparaître des choses dans les rues, sur nos lieux communs, de travail, de circulation, partout on nous évoluons, sans fournir d’explication, hahaha comme par magie.
D’autres applications sont envisageables.
Il faut aussi falsifier, truquer tous ce qu’il est possible de truquer.
Tricher sur nos C.V.
Ajouter des numéros aux papiers civils.
Copier les erreurs, les lourdeurs de l’administration.
Déposer des poèmes dans les urnes de vote.
Le poème
devrait réaliser la réalité.
C'est à dire
d'où l'ont pars,
c'est a dire,
l'insatisfaction.
Car l’insatisfaction de façon incontestable est générale.
Pays riches insatisfaits ? L'eau potable nous a coûtée cher.
Quels actes au quotidien peuvent encore satisfaire ?
L’insatisfaction génère un brouhaha, un énorme bruit parasite sans que l’on puisse clairement en définir l’origine. Un bruit silence, parce qu'isolé. Décortiqué en d'innombrables morceaux. On ne l'entend guère, mais, avec ses yeux doux, c'est bien la guerre qu'il prône. On pointe du doigts certaines structures, on cri, on s'époumone en vain, mais l’écho est incertain…
Les idées dites « révolutionnaires » ne sont que des idées qui tendent à ce que la réalité devienne « poétique ». Avec tout ce qu'elle engendre. Nos travaux devront changer la vie que l’on nous a volée, voilée. Ah, ce viol collectif, ce viol automatisé des foules.
Volons et voilons à notre tour et de façon légale, l’état nous montre déjà comment.
Suivons l’exemple.
Oui, changer la vie, transformer le monde, c'est très banal. Voilà de noble ambition dont nos ennemis se recommande également.
Banal ? Mais respectable je pense.
Et le respect ?
Où se cache-t-il ?
Au fin fond d’un coffre fort bourré à mort.
Instituons le diktat du respect et déclinons le à toutes sortes de choses.
Portons plainte dès qu’un avion traverse le ciel, qu’une herbe est piétinée etc…
La révolution sera, la révolution de la vie quotidienne. Très long, méthodique, mais il faut contester la totalité. Contester le total des voix étranges, du moins ceux qui osent se considérer comme la totalité, oubliant par là même l’idée de total, si ce n’est pour additionner des zéros.
Dans cette optique, écrire des poèmes ou des maximes révolutionnaires sur les billets de banques constitue un bon véhicule des idées.
Nous vivons comme des merdes, filles de la grande diarrhée d’un big brother adepte d’un alphabet aux lettres cotées en bourse.
Il nous faut attaquer chaque pan de ce qui constitue ce que les gens modernes occidentaux appellent réalité.
La réalité n’est pas la vie.
La réalité est la construction des dirigeants.
La réalité est cette bétaillère.
Accepter leur réalité, c’est être esclave.
Une masse d’esclaves en tapinologie, ayant pour salaire les loisirs … de consommer, d’additionner, d’entasser aux pieds de la grande bête, l’énergie même qui nous asservit.
Il nous faudra donc, installer des vomitoires dans toutes les structures du « non-travail ».
Vomir au supermarché.
Vomir au café.
Vomir en boite.
Vomir au cinéma.
Vomir au club med.
Vomir aux concerts.
Etc…
Il faudrait aussi arriver à "érotiser" la vie intégralement.
Une érotique libre de droits.
Le jeu. La séduction de toute chose. Horrible parfois, mais qui ne laisse jamais indifférent. Genre Rrose selavy.
Autre problématique : celle des villes.
La ville est le lieu et l’espace du travail, essentiellement du travail tertiaire.
Une concentration de la masse populaire sous les yeux du Panopticon.
Un camp de civilisation où le travail libère ?!!!!! (« Le travail libère » était l’écriteau de bienvenue aux camps de concentration nazis).
Et les citoyens de La ville n’ont qu’un seul cerveau, une seule heure, un seul espace, une seule identité. (même si tous le monde pleure sa différence).
Et dans la vie quotidienne des métropoles, l'âme n’est pas monnayable.
L’âme est dangereuse.
L’âme est taxée d’intégrisme.
L’âme est le chant des fous.
Il faut lui rendre son âme.
Il n'y a que 5 % de ville nécessaire, le reste est de l'argent (sous toutes ses formes...)
L’argent ça peut constituer le début de la liste d'une longue injure à la vie, à nous même.
Argent= social= travail
Sainte trinité de merde pour une société d'esclave
Je pense qu'il faut réintégrer le "sacré".
Mais pas l'idée d'un dieu, du sacré, où chaque citoyen est un dieu furieux qui aspire à jouir sans entrave de la vie terrestre et en toute conscience...
La conscience n’est pas que le temps.
Elle peut être un champs beaucoup plus vaste.
Le savoir actuel doit être ruiné.
La culture est moisie.
Le but étant d'avoir un maximum de point de vue, histoire de s'approcher au plus juste de la vérité.
Ou la chose évolue vers.
Apocalypse.L’apocalypse au sens étymologique : renaissance.
Révolution.
Problème !
Un renversement des valeurs à partir d’un ordre pensé corrompu mène à un autre ordre qui se corrompra à son tour.
Un cycle de sang sans sens.
Ou du moins, avec une valeur lucrative : celle de la violence.
La guerre fait son beurre, elle est le pilier de l’économie mondiale.
Vie et mort prostituées avec pour valeur la conformité à une norme.
Cette norme est un enclos, cet enclos abrite un troupeau bien portant et porteurs des intérêts de ceux, nommés ici seigneurs (ou saigneurs), qui ont su imposer leurs choix comme qualité idéale universelle.
GERBONS !
Gerbons cette dialectique avariée.
L’écriture en est le virus via une mondialisation de cette gastro-entérite, avec tous ses charmes, qui vide par toutes ses extrémités une vacuité de la foultitude.
Rendre les mots au monde,
en un long vomissement
d’écoeurement
qui s’organise
sans chef
sans dogme
mais autour, par et pour, la vie seule,
en cessant de prostituer
chaque parcelle
chaque instant
chaque tesson
chaque glanure
chaque faisceaux
de vie
pour un marathon absurde de
l’argent pour l’argent,
soit
la spéculation de la spéculation qui mène au vide total.
Vide que chaque individu peut ressentir, car ce vide c’est sa vie.
Un potlatch, permanent.
Voilà que l’idée de gratuité et de partage jaillie de façon incontrôlable.
Le web, ayant été créé afin de préserver les données essentiellement militaires et scientifiques d’une éventuelle guerre atomique (cf. Arpanet), dévore déjà les médias « officiels » des seigneurs.
La vie est gratuite.
Je n'ai pas payé pour être conçu, je suis le fils d'un hymen brisé.
Nous, né d'une passion animale et sublime, jeté dans ce monde, n'acceptons plus la barbarie technocratique des époques modernes.
Harpe éditorial / Ou : où aller puis comment sans sortir.
Hormis quelques retardataires crapuleux et leurs nombreux chiens de garde ébouriffés lorsqu'on s'attaque à leur bizness, les esprits possédant un zeste de bon sens et une certaine finesse de révolte totalement crédible, savent qu'il est impossible à l'art de se maintenir sans faire rire dans son carcan – d'or bien sur – actuel, et surtout, impossible de se présenter comme une piètre activité de compensation à laquelle on puisse s'adonner sans honte.
Nous devons calquer nos productions littéraires, seul moyen que nous possédons, sur, mais surtout pour, un modèle de la vie. Modèle délivré de superflu, délivré des légendaires profiteurs masqués. Modèle qui se définira dans ces pages. Modèle rabâché, que – excepté les êtres, possédant et cultivant maladroitement une once de liberté, qui se reconnaîtront – personne n’a écouté.
Tout comme une poésie chuchotée à l’oreille d’une belle, de façon ivre, sans attente de bon point... si ce n’est ce que propose le déroulement de la vie, la poésie peut mener à un monde gratuit, un monde d’acte gratuit, de don, de partage : littéralement étranger à tout empoisonnement moral, qui n’a d'autre justification que lui-même.
Certes, on appelle souvent cela de « l'utopie ». Je soutiens que si la population entière rêve, cela ne s'appelle plus du rêve, mais de la réalité.
Internet est l’espace et le lieu de cette possibilité. Le moyen infernal. Et tout comme Internet pénètre les logis, la poésie s’infiltrera aussi ainsi, ralliant son chant au chant mécanique et répétitif de la rue insatisfaite.
Il est proposé ici, de commettre des actes gratuits à chaque seconde, à chaque centimètre.
Il est proposé ici, un prolongement de la vie, purifié, qui réintégrera sa source.
THEORIE
1. se fixer une ligne de questions sur quoi se pose la dite révolution
2. les réponses apportées
3. les applications possibles
4. la progression et l'évolution une fois les "marches" créées au sens (d'escalier) sachant que toutes nouvelles réflexions peut-être démolies ou servir de tremplin à une nouvelle construction, histoire que ça reste ouvert
Laboratoire
Un sol à ne presque pas toucher,
et le reste en constante évolution à porter de tous jusqu'à ce que cela remette en question le dit sol, si c'est valable.
Explose les barrières. Plus de poésie (dans sa définition souillée, moderne), de philosophie, de métaphysique, de psychologie, de etc... : Mais de la poésie qui enveloppe tous ça.
Rappel étymologique de poésie : du grec poiêsis : action de faire.
La poésie en tant que véhicule du verbe, de l’action, de ce qui se déroule et s’enroule
Poésie magie.
La poésie a d’abord existée sous une forme incantatoire, par et pour, la magie.
Notre époque s'amuse de magie, mais bave dessus, ne comprends pas sa signification profonde. (cf harry potter)
Proposons de la magie.
Tout comme nos gouvernements usent d'une magie implacable avec nous, nous prenant pour de pauvres petits mioches à qui ont enlève le nez qu’ils ont toujours. Enfant ? C'est exacte... peut-être parce que personne ne cesse d'être tenu en tutelle. Nous sommes bien à l’époque des adulescents et ce sera là aussi une force, ralliant plusieurs générations autour d’un merveilleux (genre culture manga).
Faisons apparaître et disparaître des choses dans les rues, sur nos lieux communs, de travail, de circulation, partout on nous évoluons, sans fournir d’explication, hahaha comme par magie.
D’autres applications sont envisageables.
Il faut aussi falsifier, truquer tous ce qu’il est possible de truquer.
Tricher sur nos C.V.
Ajouter des numéros aux papiers civils.
Copier les erreurs, les lourdeurs de l’administration.
Déposer des poèmes dans les urnes de vote.
Le poème
devrait réaliser la réalité.
C'est à dire
d'où l'ont pars,
c'est a dire,
l'insatisfaction.
Car l’insatisfaction de façon incontestable est générale.
Pays riches insatisfaits ? L'eau potable nous a coûtée cher.
Quels actes au quotidien peuvent encore satisfaire ?
L’insatisfaction génère un brouhaha, un énorme bruit parasite sans que l’on puisse clairement en définir l’origine. Un bruit silence, parce qu'isolé. Décortiqué en d'innombrables morceaux. On ne l'entend guère, mais, avec ses yeux doux, c'est bien la guerre qu'il prône. On pointe du doigts certaines structures, on cri, on s'époumone en vain, mais l’écho est incertain…
Les idées dites « révolutionnaires » ne sont que des idées qui tendent à ce que la réalité devienne « poétique ». Avec tout ce qu'elle engendre. Nos travaux devront changer la vie que l’on nous a volée, voilée. Ah, ce viol collectif, ce viol automatisé des foules.
Volons et voilons à notre tour et de façon légale, l’état nous montre déjà comment.
Suivons l’exemple.
Oui, changer la vie, transformer le monde, c'est très banal. Voilà de noble ambition dont nos ennemis se recommande également.
Banal ? Mais respectable je pense.
Et le respect ?
Où se cache-t-il ?
Au fin fond d’un coffre fort bourré à mort.
Instituons le diktat du respect et déclinons le à toutes sortes de choses.
Portons plainte dès qu’un avion traverse le ciel, qu’une herbe est piétinée etc…
La révolution sera, la révolution de la vie quotidienne. Très long, méthodique, mais il faut contester la totalité. Contester le total des voix étranges, du moins ceux qui osent se considérer comme la totalité, oubliant par là même l’idée de total, si ce n’est pour additionner des zéros.
Dans cette optique, écrire des poèmes ou des maximes révolutionnaires sur les billets de banques constitue un bon véhicule des idées.
Nous vivons comme des merdes, filles de la grande diarrhée d’un big brother adepte d’un alphabet aux lettres cotées en bourse.
Il nous faut attaquer chaque pan de ce qui constitue ce que les gens modernes occidentaux appellent réalité.
La réalité n’est pas la vie.
La réalité est la construction des dirigeants.
La réalité est cette bétaillère.
Accepter leur réalité, c’est être esclave.
Une masse d’esclaves en tapinologie, ayant pour salaire les loisirs … de consommer, d’additionner, d’entasser aux pieds de la grande bête, l’énergie même qui nous asservit.
Il nous faudra donc, installer des vomitoires dans toutes les structures du « non-travail ».
Vomir au supermarché.
Vomir au café.
Vomir en boite.
Vomir au cinéma.
Vomir au club med.
Vomir aux concerts.
Etc…
Il faudrait aussi arriver à "érotiser" la vie intégralement.
Une érotique libre de droits.
Le jeu. La séduction de toute chose. Horrible parfois, mais qui ne laisse jamais indifférent. Genre Rrose selavy.
Autre problématique : celle des villes.
La ville est le lieu et l’espace du travail, essentiellement du travail tertiaire.
Une concentration de la masse populaire sous les yeux du Panopticon.
Un camp de civilisation où le travail libère ?!!!!! (« Le travail libère » était l’écriteau de bienvenue aux camps de concentration nazis).
Et les citoyens de La ville n’ont qu’un seul cerveau, une seule heure, un seul espace, une seule identité. (même si tous le monde pleure sa différence).
Et dans la vie quotidienne des métropoles, l'âme n’est pas monnayable.
L’âme est dangereuse.
L’âme est taxée d’intégrisme.
L’âme est le chant des fous.
Il faut lui rendre son âme.
Il n'y a que 5 % de ville nécessaire, le reste est de l'argent (sous toutes ses formes...)
L’argent ça peut constituer le début de la liste d'une longue injure à la vie, à nous même.
Argent= social= travail
Sainte trinité de merde pour une société d'esclave
Je pense qu'il faut réintégrer le "sacré".
Mais pas l'idée d'un dieu, du sacré, où chaque citoyen est un dieu furieux qui aspire à jouir sans entrave de la vie terrestre et en toute conscience...
La conscience n’est pas que le temps.
Elle peut être un champs beaucoup plus vaste.
Le savoir actuel doit être ruiné.
La culture est moisie.
Le but étant d'avoir un maximum de point de vue, histoire de s'approcher au plus juste de la vérité.
sOUPcON bLUE sKY
Almsman’s Sherry
(April 16/06)
A soupcon of bluest blue sky, a murder of gray clouds rousting me from the Bedlam of sleep. A Prussian blue teal azure blue bluish bluestocking blue sky, a firmament of bluest blue sky. The appearance of sky bathed in a murder of gray clouds. A dye-maker’s indigo blue sky boiled and steeped in curare and almsman’s Sherry. The absence of sky, the mere semblance of a sky soaked in Valium and Diazepam to slow down the process of imminence. A Deleuzian sky diminished of rhizomes and signifiers. A chicken bone sky caught in the esophagus of an unsuspecting appearance of sky blue sky. A sky peeled from the labium of the eye, the blindness of the sky, the sanctum of the eye.
Boiled Skins On
my tongue
up between her thighs
the stench of boiled onions
skins left on
(April 16/06)
A soupcon of bluest blue sky, a murder of gray clouds rousting me from the Bedlam of sleep. A Prussian blue teal azure blue bluish bluestocking blue sky, a firmament of bluest blue sky. The appearance of sky bathed in a murder of gray clouds. A dye-maker’s indigo blue sky boiled and steeped in curare and almsman’s Sherry. The absence of sky, the mere semblance of a sky soaked in Valium and Diazepam to slow down the process of imminence. A Deleuzian sky diminished of rhizomes and signifiers. A chicken bone sky caught in the esophagus of an unsuspecting appearance of sky blue sky. A sky peeled from the labium of the eye, the blindness of the sky, the sanctum of the eye.
Boiled Skins On
my tongue
up between her thighs
the stench of boiled onions
skins left on
mY dECODER rING
Unconscious Static
(April 15/06)
This is fucking mercenary, this inability to differentiate between substance and dreamscape. No signifiers: just the absence of a distinct signatory. The ego-less-I, sitting in the roar of thoughts thought without a signifier or a signified. Perhaps this is the other Other’s work, perhaps not. A tam-o-cantor, quail blue plumage, or a regent’s plasterboard with braiding and serge waistcloth. Another mistake in logic, one less logarithm to tamp into the ungodly Turing machine, cogs and wheels rusted into Derridian sift. Appearances are mislead, they seduce one it mistaking a caliper for a lever, a mortise for a pestle, a dry biscuit for a helot of day old bread; pumpernickel, rye—light, dark and ecru—seven-grain, no grain, prairie millet whet with barley, rice and buttermilk. If I had the option, which surely I don’t, I would hightail it out of here and be done with signifiers and signified(s) altogether. Fucking Lacunae and his jouissance, a symptom is nothing more than a mnemonic trace gone bad, a faulty transmission, an enigmatic message without a decoder ring, unconscious static. A patriarchal cockfight with a phallic understudy, a signifier up the nativity hole, for the jouissance of it, nothing more.
Lacuna can be credited with making a caricature, a satire out of the effect of affect. Reading Reading Seminar CSX attests to that, if one uses one’s decoder ring and doesn’t get mired in the jouissance of it all. Skillet-cakes and dry melba hosts, a wholesome panacea without the offal aftertaste and insipid whooping. I write this from memory; traces left behind in discordance of grammar, syntax and morphology. A cacophony handed down from one generation to the next; a not quite there, quite heard or listened to, the mnemonic origin of the original sin of language, the Babel that disjoins the signifier from the signified. The unconscious keeps us at a distance from ourselves, from one another, at the cost of forgetfulness and an intransigence that is never easy to misremember. I have trained myself to remember how to forget how to remember, and to forget the moment of origin, the originary sin of language, the wedge driven between what is signified and what signifies. All else is nonsense, hyperbole and linguistic hearsay, a staccato jangling, bedlam, nothing more than bad manners, heresy and lacuna. I signify nothing, and prefer it that way.
(April 15/06)
This is fucking mercenary, this inability to differentiate between substance and dreamscape. No signifiers: just the absence of a distinct signatory. The ego-less-I, sitting in the roar of thoughts thought without a signifier or a signified. Perhaps this is the other Other’s work, perhaps not. A tam-o-cantor, quail blue plumage, or a regent’s plasterboard with braiding and serge waistcloth. Another mistake in logic, one less logarithm to tamp into the ungodly Turing machine, cogs and wheels rusted into Derridian sift. Appearances are mislead, they seduce one it mistaking a caliper for a lever, a mortise for a pestle, a dry biscuit for a helot of day old bread; pumpernickel, rye—light, dark and ecru—seven-grain, no grain, prairie millet whet with barley, rice and buttermilk. If I had the option, which surely I don’t, I would hightail it out of here and be done with signifiers and signified(s) altogether. Fucking Lacunae and his jouissance, a symptom is nothing more than a mnemonic trace gone bad, a faulty transmission, an enigmatic message without a decoder ring, unconscious static. A patriarchal cockfight with a phallic understudy, a signifier up the nativity hole, for the jouissance of it, nothing more.
Lacuna can be credited with making a caricature, a satire out of the effect of affect. Reading Reading Seminar CSX attests to that, if one uses one’s decoder ring and doesn’t get mired in the jouissance of it all. Skillet-cakes and dry melba hosts, a wholesome panacea without the offal aftertaste and insipid whooping. I write this from memory; traces left behind in discordance of grammar, syntax and morphology. A cacophony handed down from one generation to the next; a not quite there, quite heard or listened to, the mnemonic origin of the original sin of language, the Babel that disjoins the signifier from the signified. The unconscious keeps us at a distance from ourselves, from one another, at the cost of forgetfulness and an intransigence that is never easy to misremember. I have trained myself to remember how to forget how to remember, and to forget the moment of origin, the originary sin of language, the wedge driven between what is signified and what signifies. All else is nonsense, hyperbole and linguistic hearsay, a staccato jangling, bedlam, nothing more than bad manners, heresy and lacuna. I signify nothing, and prefer it that way.
Couloir
photo: www.la-grange.net - 2003Couloir
Couloir
Dédale coloré
Dans ces rues familières
Une vague froide m'aboli
Tourmenté hurlant
Je piétine
Dans les lignes de mon destin
Vierges
23/02/06
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