barbecue sauce we follow the big dipper home

.

Little Onion

Problem

.


After somes problems,
an other blog is building:

http://poetrystate.blogspot.com/



/

Splash

Spotting Susan on Liz’s front lawn
she attempts a back handspring
like practice for the Olympics,
nothing less than ten on floor.
Arms up, she tossed herself over
like a frog back flipping off a lily pad.
My hand, unprepared, on her lower back,
waiting to heave-ho if needed
like male cheerleaders chucking
mannequin-girls, shouting “be aggressive,”
into the air or over their shoulders
at university football games,
Susan kneed my forehead.
I flew to the ground, beer can
floating toward the house. She landed
on her head then collapsed like a dummy
thrown from the second floor window.
Her feet, heels-first, crashed into my stomach.
Vomit shot from my mouth in a circular splash
like when tree frogs dive into ponds.

cORPSEgAS

Not Being and Time

No matter how much time I have none of it is mine. All my time is extemporaneous to me, outside of the time that is mine. In this way even when I seem to be doing nothing, being timeless, I am in fact quite busy, busy dealing with time that is not mine, time over which I have no control. Time; time that is exterior to me, controls what little time I have, my time. I am timeless, lacking in time, seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and tens of years. Something is wrong, definitely wrong, something has gone awry, out of kilter, off balance and tipsy. A pinch bar or hogshead is missing, a fulcrum on which to weigh the balance of my life. I am being without time, a being for whom time is missing, gone awry and off kilter, tipsy, lacking in a counterbalance, non-equipoise. No matter how much I try I have no time of my own, none which I can call, mine, my own. Time to put an end to this timeless time, an end to being and not being in time, timeless intemperate time.

I have awakened in a placental mush; I have been reified, but into what. This all happened without my consent, against my better judgement, without my being aware. Perhaps I have been dematerialized into a Marxist commodity; I am the product of the production, the production of the product. I have Zizek to blame for this; his dialectical Lacanism forced fed on Marxism and tomfoolery, the ideological template beneath which he claims to explain everything, even himself. Has he forgotten what Lacan said, we never say what we mean, or is he just playing with commodities, replacing the production with the product, the signifier with the signified? I am disinterested in his disinterestedness, twice removed from the point of entry, a potato beggar in a burlap sac itchy with placental oatmeal, a hominy of time which is never my own, an noncoporeal timelessness gone sour, corpsegas.

Of A Face

my body has degenerated
to the point

where self-recognition
once a mirror image

of a face
is now a crude sketch

another face within a face
a mouth within a mouth

eyes that avoid eyes
that avoid the sketch

of a face
within a face

the crudeness of a face
once a mirror image of youth

of eyes and chin and nose
now someone else’s

some crude recognition
of a face

dancing 'cross the lawn again

they
took away
the human rights

commission funding: the rest just writes/deregulates itself.

dancing 'cross the lawn again
bored again
extraordinaire again

w/r/t
they
took away
the human rights.

yours truly,

Apostrophe Hoffman
xenobiologist
(economy class 3x4x3)

Easy Mother Expletives

outrageous crime victims do plastic
over the gym-shy marriage
before you put uniform in a bottle
pupils win hollywood sick boy
quite advanced elephant dung and seaside u-turn
right time to sunday music system
executive pension plan options easy as print
you go in bank friday
liar at college is just heroine
unworkable ex-prisoners play comfort
rest help us plant wednesday show
grrrl power - thrown out spare time
remarkably easy mother expletives deleted
grass becomes the woodstock
come magnum write off fans to be
film under attack before gm foods
the best knew some were check-a-go-go

.

passers-by Loughborough UK 2000

with

'Little Onion'

Easy Mother Expletives

Try

I try to believe, and try to swallow this. I do not lose my optimism, I do not lose my faith, my center, my ability, my steadfast certainty. Hours of the day went by so much faster with you in mind. I created you, formed you into the deepest dimension I had resource for. Your hands around me, breath on my cheek, resting on my waist. Walking side by side, to look up to you and recieve the assurance, the smile. All of this, without knowing. When I stop it pains me, I feel the sledgehammer to my lungs, my brain slips into a cold vise. So deeply I believed, maybe I lost sight of the reality. Even though part of me knew this, I tried as best I could to be resolute. I fought against my self, my nature, every step of the way, I had to believe in this, I wanted this so much. When I go go to sleep I try not to see your face but I can’t help myself, and the longing, the desperation, the pain overwhelms me. I try to shut my eyes but they flutter open again. I felt your presence, I was so sure of it. And something in me spoke that this was my future and that you were in my soul. I could not question this. When I heard your laughter. You smiled as you said things, the way you said my name. The craving that had been screaming and eating me inside for years, to be understood and seen, seemed to be fufilled completely by you. In this black downpour I’m trying to see through, see the end, have patience. And I cannot understand, I cannot see beyond, I just feel the trebles of your voice around me, I try to stay calm. You were by my side in this way, and in the darkness I felt your presence wrapped around me. I am thankful that you could stay, thankful for each moment that your love gave me the strength to do the things I had to do. We always want them to stay longer than was meant. I’ll buy things and eat things and do things, and try to forget. Having the hope killed hurts more, watching my dreams disappear in the distance like a beautiful kite hovering in the sky.

Ersatz

I could speak of the cultivated anguish
Of discussing Chaupin, even as I watched
The corrosive drillheads of the world
Burrow into us, her and me, or watching,
In silent resignation, the swell of her breasts
As she delicately sipped delicately priced tea,
Except that, words, and feeble ones at that
Are too feeble a coin to buy a moment's shared breath.

Zoo 3000

Irise l’Icare goudronné i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i
I !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i Monde la hyène au carré soigné i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !
I !i !i !i !i !i ! Irréductibles, inéluctables, irréels, ces élastiques sociables i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !
I !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i ! MDR à la merde en bail i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !
I !i !i !i ! Puisque, la seule propriété du bipède est de perdre du terrain i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !
I !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i ! Crisse l’inorganique dieu i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i
I !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i ! Une planète engagée dans ce canon i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i
I !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i ! Haïr se mire à la mire des amours i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i
I !i !i !i !i Crise ! C’est le bon mode de vie i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i
I !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i ! Immortel i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i
Ce passé qui se marre au futur i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i
I !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !!i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i Les sel des lendemains i !i !i !i
I !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i Statufiés i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i
I !i !i !i !i ! Trop de cacahuètes à recevoir i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !i !

Bissection numérique

L’église glace 1 frôlement spatial
en s’insinuant sous la forme de 2 spirales.
C’est encore 3.
Par débâcle, 4 dimensions tranquilles
assistent l’expulsion des 5 pétales
du cœur à 6 cordes.

1. La plaque de pierre sait les prières.
2. Que se soit le double serpent ou pas.
3. Trois fois quatre, le ressac de la claque céleste.
4. Ou la poly-divergence fleurissante de la vie.
5. Ce signe innommable…
6. Et le monde qui carbure au désir de l’autre.

crabby diction

the letter writing campaign sticks in
your craw. you have issues.
the moon was not blue, and
it can’t be elected. you find
theories to be escape clauses,
holes into that tumbling place
where upside down is right as
rain. now admit you’ll vote
for the least viable candidate, preferring
the usual surcharge over
what’s in the bed tonight. okay.
let’s discuss this, and your
apparent good nature in the
face of time, now being
after midnight, with all the
possible significance of that.
you are truly just as you
are, not marvelous in a
holding pattern way but
stricken by the bargain
you could make, daily,
thru exchange. times are rough
and straddled, stapled in
place. love is an entertaining
word.

These Are Good Cookies

and I know how
numbers reflect
the advantages

Questionaire

1) What about the time?

The president
will eager

2) are the craters consistent?

The president won't tell

3) those numbers, are they real?

This session
is over

~

where he's takin’ her

your strapping fingers
downing longer keys

sliding
smoke
curling
eye
on girl;

half hipster
half
gangster

all hands & mouth
what else you need?

@ one thirty
might as well be
eight

or

nine baby
nine



~lds06

Seattle

Hey, look! It's raining!

A man alive

There once was a man. A beautiful man. He smiled at the earth. He laughed at the clouds and talked to the river. He had a dream. A beautiful dream. The dream made him sweat and shake with it's power.

Suddenly, he shot up from the ground with an unsteady lean. The sky was a clear blue and the river slow and sandy. He could smell the nearby fire. He could taste the grit of the dirt being blown into his mouth. He could still see the edges of his dream and it brought him to his knees.

She was still except for the slow, red bubbles popping near her mouth. Her hair was gone, but for a small patch hanging by a tiny cord of skin. Her hand buried under the soft, worn fur blanket. The blanket swaddling hope and tomorrow. The fire licking her feet concerned her not.

The man saw it all fade away. His dream was over. He closed his eyes and wept.

Luminous till drowning

I was I was
What a dreamer I was
Below the banyan tree
chasing your plaits I was
Across the noisy brook
chanting your name I was
Engrossed in your thoughts
pinining without a pause
Floating diya of faith
luminous till drowning I was. 10

I was I was
How enchanted I was
Inventing on your bodyscape
Kashmir Manali I was
In verses of Kalidasa Neruda
the poet in love I was
Determined to make you mine
striving without a pause
Floating diya of faith
luminous till drowning I was. 20

I was I was
Why a fool I was
Ignored my receding hairline
in wait a decade I was
Gobbled envy with vodka lime
Devdas sans Chandramukhi I was
Oblivious to your deceit
Mirza without a pause
Floating diya of faith
luminous till drowning I was. 30

May 03, 2006
1:30 pm

FOOTNOTES:

line 9: diya is an earthen lamp, with cotton wick that burns in oil.
line 10: diya is released into river on some holy nights in India, and floats away with a beautiful, flickering flame till it vanishes off your sight.
line 14: Kashmir and Manali are two valleys in Himalayas. A sixteen century poet remarked about Kashmir, "If there is heaven on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here."
line 15: Kalidasa was a great Sanskrit poet and writer, whose quality and quantity of brilliant works is matched maybe only by Shakespeare.
line 26: Devdas loved Paro, but wasn't able to stand against his father's whim and couldn't marry her. He, then, drank himself to death, while dancer Chandramukhi took him in and nursed him with her own unrequited love. A Sarat Chandra classic written in Bengali, made into two well known Bollywood movies.
line 28: Sahiba Mirza is a folk love story from Punjab. When Mirza eloped with Sahiba, he stopped on the way to take a nap. They were being pursued by Sahiba's five brothers. While Mirza slept, Sahiba's love for her brothers prompted her to break all Mirza's arrows, and hence when he was attacked, he was unarmed and heartbroken, and died fighting. Overcome by grief, Sahiba killed herself.

What are you willing to do to scrape up the last piece of remaining reality?
The gentle lull of the train,
Long length of hair baptizing your pillow,
The moment you meet the eye of another in passing cars.
Drying off from a shower, unlocking a door.
Clasp/unclasping your bra, rolling off your socks and leaving them on the floor.
A worm you let escape from beneath the sole of your shoe.
The screech of the pigeon on the neighbors rooftop,
Early morning stampede from the upstairs tenants.
Running your fingers over the clothes hanging on display, touching the shoes,
Buying a soda, throwing it away, stopping at the corner store for a pack of gum.
Turning the volume up and down, stopping to buckle your backpack,
Locking your bike, listening to speeches, daydreaming.
Being tired, closing your eyes, feeling self conscious and opening them again.
Listening to one, two, three different opinions.
Signing your name under the dotted line, delivering mail, recieving a phone call.
Public bathrooms, no toilet paper, unwashed hands, long walks and bus rides,
No wristwatch, mobile phone coverage, reading newspaper headlines while standing in line.
Tapping your legs, biting your nails, scratching your scalp, playing with your hair, looking out the window.
Shopping in the grocery store, weighing apples, grabbing cookies, feeling disappointment, cash exchange and feet in single file, following the path home.
Children laughing, mud puddles, gray skies, traffic jams, stirring the soup, putting away the dishes, never turning on the TV.
A long sleep, and the neon glow of your alarm stubbornly casts its eyes into your direction.

President of Death

come into this room, presidential candidate. come here with your flares. see into those corners. speak words, ones that create your town. you are a Viking, sadly preposterous, but we own you. you are not as festive as the burning jacket we saw on the ground, nor the car lifted into the air to be scrapped. you are where the cowering begins, and how the stark intensities need a stand off. when our courage fails, and death steals something, you will be a perfect example of something slightly small and lugubrious. your open door will be an impenetrable plane that no one will pierce or understand. and that’s the potion you drink. just a squared thing world, dialogue as crêpe to decorate something no one wants. death has been bundled up and placed elsewhere but remains the talk of the day. the day has never been yours, dreary as you are. you see nothing in the doorway to entice you, and no one wants your reminders. next time your guff insists, expect to be riddled. today, the flowers stand out, but only because they must. anyone can type up a firm response, no one needs to feel spurned. death has a handle on things and makes us miserable. your intense relationship with name brand keeps allowing more flies to enter. you cannot process the doorway but anything can. when you make music the dullness gathers a cramped momentum and we have a country. this country cannot embrace the dying, the warmth was never freed. why you remain is icy, frantic, dictated and drone. tomorrow is where love goes. today is death’s door. you stand there, stupid.

empty

the darkness becomes personal
like grit in my soul
i have lost a brother
now my torment defiant.

billy jno hope

OVULES

OVULE 1


1. Pour des milliers.
2. Trompe comme le poète.
3. En base de deux.
4. Pas de nom à l’ignorance.
5. Le jus de bite est oublié.
6. Osmose et lutte sur tendresse.
7. Rituels pour le miroir de la terre.
8. Et l’ovule désigne sa bissection.
9. Le terme à l’idiotie.



OVULE 2


1. La poupée noire mange la fleur rouge.
2. Tentacules de l’échiquier.
3. A savoir émouvoir.
4. Si je l’ignore, tu le sais.
5. Ongles sur derme.
6. Mon copyright sanguinolent.
7. Magie des sorcières du Larzac.
8. Bouche à bouche de big-bang.
9. La nuit et l’érèbe.



OVULE 3


1. Armure des trottoirs.
2. En un, il paraît que c’est bien.
3. Mes tresses sont utiles.
4. Hélices du cœur de l’ange.
5. Et labeurs en heure.
6. Adulescents si charmants.
7. Vibrations sur le portable.
8. Pas de piège sur le réel.
9. Le rot du monde.



OVULE 4


1. Une source de sang.
2. Filles en forme de vase.
3. Jambes à l’éphèbe vespéral.
4. Projets à l’ovule fécondé.
5. Mains sur la bouche.
6. Perfection de la destruction.
7. Battements de secondes sur pétales.
8. Anat, Déesse de l’amour et du carnage.
9. Manger la chair des sages.



OVULE 5


1. Entre les yeux de Lilith.
2. Ceux qui n’ont pas de sexe.
3. Création, sans sexe, avec une autre.
4. Autre désindividu à caresser.
5. Enlacements de ceux qui prient.
6. Succubes qui chevauchent la camarde.
7. Et le miel sur ta peau pour inspiration.
8. Au rien, tout commence.
9. Tortures suprêmes qui sanctifient les femmes.



OVULE 6


1. Une seule musique pénétrante.
2. Chasteté divine.
3. Farces des Démons.
4. Eux seuls peuvent me satisfaire.
5. Dieux qui me font mouiller.
6. Alors, toi, tu as deux queues !
7. Miss Terre lime ses serres.
8. Le lagon et son ruban.
9. Attente de l’orgasme.



OVULE 7


1. Ne surtout pas baiser.
2. Se dévouer à la masturbation.
3. Sauf si fécondation se fait.
4. Les Fées de l’électricité.
5. Tissent les déchets modernes.
6. Recouvrements aux ordres.
7. Programmes multicolores.
8. Ne surtout pas baiser la télé !
9. Orgie, où naissent les Dieux.



OVULE 8


1. Une seule réponse : le sourire.
2. Partir sans pleurer.
3. Amour mal utilisé.
4. Les Pixies sont faciles.
5. 3 pour les cigarettes.
6. Si je pouvais combler vos besoins…
7. La Déesse est dans la Machine.
8. La Machine est dans la Déesse.
9. Grande quête.



OVULE 9


1. l’espace est la place.
2. 14 séquences pareilles à la lune.
3. Cycle des rois sacrés.
4. La femelle cache son ovulation.
5. Galaxies pour me combler.
6. Souris qui savent faire de même.
7. Peut-être que le mâle mutera lui aussi.
8. Beaucoup de boulot pour l’or.
9. La nova file l’univers…



OVULE 10


1.1. Pour des milliers.
1.2. La poupée noire mange la fleur rouge.
1.3. Armure des trottoirs.
1.4. Une source de sang.
1.5. Entre les yeux de Lilith.
1.6. Une seule musique pénétrante.
1.7. Ne surtout pas baiser.
1.8. Une seule réponse : le sourire.
1.9. L’espace est la place.


2.1. Trompe comme le poète.
2.2. Tentacules de l’échiquier.
2.3. En un, il paraît que c’est bien.
2.4. Filles en forme de vases.
2.5. Ceux qui n’ont pas de sexe.
2.6. Chasteté divine.
2.7. Se dévouer à la masturbation.
2.8. Partir sans pleurer.
2.9. 14 séquences pareilles à la lune.


3.1. En base de deux.
3.2. A savoir émouvoir.
3.3. Mes tresses sont utiles.
3.4. Jambes à l’Ephèbe vespéral.
3.5. Création sans sexe, avec une autre.
3.6. Farces des Démons.
3.7. Sauf si fécondation se fait.
3.8. Amour mal utilisé.
3.9. Cycle des rois sacrés.


4.1. Pas de nom à l’ignorance.
4.2. Si je l’ignore, tu le sais.
4.3. Hélices du cœur de l’ange.
4.4. Projets à l’ovule fécondé.
4.5. Autre désindividu à caresser.
4.6. Eux seul peuvent me satisfaire.
4.7. Les Fées de l’électricité.
4.8. Les Pixies sont faciles.
4.9. La femelle cache son ovulation.


5.1. Le jus de bite est oublié.
5.2. Ongles sur derme.
5.3. Et labeurs en heure.
5.4. Mains sur la bouche.
5.5. Enlacements de ceux qui prient.
5.6. Dieux qui me font mouiller.
5.7. Tissent les déchets modernes.
5.8. 3 pour les cigarettes.
5.9. Des galaxies pour me combler.


6.1. Osmose et lutte sur tendresse.
6.2. Mon copyright sanguinolent.
6.3. Adulescents si charmants.
6.4. Perfection de la destruction.
6.5. Succubes qui chevauchent la camarde.
6.6. Alors, toi, tu as deux queues !
6.7. Recouvrement aux ordres.
6.8. Si je pouvais combler vos besoins…
6.9. Souris qui savent faire de même.


7.1. Rituels pour le miroir de la terre.
7.2. Magie des sorcières du Larzac.
7.3. Vibrations sur portable.
7.4. Battement de seconde sur pétales.
7.5. Et le miel sur ta peau pour inpiration.
7.6. Miss Terre lime ses serres.
7.7. Programmes multicolores.
7.8. La Déesse est dans la Machine.
7.9. Peut-être que le mâle mutera, lui aussi.


8.1. Et l’ovule désigne sa bissection.
8.2. Bouche à bouche de big-bang.
8.3. Pas de prières pour le réel.
8.4. Anat, Déesse de l’amour et du carnage.
8.5. Au rien, tout commence.
8.6. Le lagon et son ruban.
8.7. Ne surtout pas baiser la télé.
8.8. La Machine est dans la Déesse.
8.9. Beaucoup de boulot pour l’or.


9.1. Le terme à l’idiotie.
9.2. La nuit et L’Erèbe.
9.3. Le rot du monde.
9.4. Manger la chair des sages.
9.5. Tortures suprêmes qui sanctifient les femmes.
9.6. Attente de l’orgasme.
9.7. Orgie, où naissent les Dieux.
9.8. Grande quête.
9.9. La nova file l’univers.

writer

too damaged not to be a.
not enough to be a.

bundled up trundling device

Attn: Sir, Madam, C.E.O.

This our finest poet might lambaste registering idiot in the SECOND category. In order to avoid unnecessary delays and Congratulations once again from all members of our staff complications, please remember to quote your muddled batch stake in this. Kind embers respect every correspondence with our claim of departing idiot to keep smelly winning infused in the next stake. Kindly reform confidential public notice until smelly claims has been processed and remitted into smelly account as this is a parent Furthermore. should there seem a surprise to lambasted registering idiot please find time to read to crouching monkey carefully while congratulating lambasted registering idiot over smelly success in the release today the 2nd of May 2006 of MICROSOFT PREMONITION which consequently won Delays that will compel us to disperse your fun. in other words, unclaimed fun will quote department as soon as possible. Please provide the following when replying: your rights reserved. Terms of lambasted registering of the security protocol, to avoid double claiming or unwarranted taking advantage of this program by nonparticipants: any leak of smelly winning information resulting in a double claim will nullify our finest poet hope. lambasted registering idiot will take part in our end of year stake pottery selected through causative smell. Funds now deposited with our surprise to you but please find time to read carefully while We congratulate your release today. You consequently won in the SECOND category.

tWO dOGS9+=

Two Women in Sunbonnets

(May 2/06)
A blue whale sky, a cultured woman in a sunbonnet dragging a dog on a leash, a car with no wheels and a buckled engine cover. A cat with no legs but two tails and a second woman in a sunbonnet with two dogs, one on a leash the other muzzled with boxing twine, a tarpaper trashcan with polymer windows through which an old woman gazes into the gaze. And I sit in the cower of my thoughts thinking things that need never be thought, a hazard of thoughts.

A Grievous Injustice

a furrow rat shifted beneath the porch
I caught the rope of it’s tail
with the stick I used for killing mice and hornets

I spate its neck like a heel of dry bread
and with the truck of my hands
dug a grave in the dirt beside my father’s car

Fifth Movement" from Concerto For Five Senses by Raquel Olvera

translated by Hayden Leaman and Patricia Kelso

A long time ago

I heard a drop of blood fall repeatedly, calmly,

a drop of transparent blood, but it was blood:

a drop or a thread

by which stone was sending its message to stone.

The piercing, the present repeated until eternity ( each time, each fraction of time )

in the same precise point of space

(that solidly dark point which is the stone, a likeness compressed from space),

a condensation of the clearest dream that the universe dreams.

Poema completo en inglés
Poema completo en español

Rejected Air Ambulance Pelt

Dire Friend,

Joan Houlihan enfolding process am satelite testing.

Joan Houlihan enfolding process am satelite testing sacked deputy entertainment portion of program.

possible reference is out of desperation.

Joan Houlihan enfolding process am sending classic poetry this packed courtroom.

Joan Houlihan enfolding process need to front owners of battering rams.

packed courtroom's failed poetry flivver are increasingly becoming source of investigation by detractors.

source of battering rams which packed courtroom's enunciating drama coach would not validate will further sink into cesspool dug by same poets old.

possible reference is dire smug clattering sound.

ourselves find that smug clattering sound and resolve to teach classic poetry.

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due to recent plot by detractors towards packed courtroom, smug clattering sound immediately wish to move some battering rams away.

income cannot account for form of gratification.

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classic poetry will be handsomely rewarded if classic poetry choose to help Joan Houlihan enfolding process.

Joan Houlihan enfolding process will be expecting to hear from classic poetry as soon as possible, and will disclose further details to classic poetry upon response.

pulling weeds
the sound of a man
blowing his nose

Little Onion

Elegies

"In time every poem becomes an elegy"
- Jorge Luis Borges

And songs turn to silence that swelled

In praise of the pulsing of warm breasts.

Syllables that made enchanted glens

Become their brooding cenotaphs

For the only song inviolate

Is also the song unsung,

The word unwrought

For in the singing and the delving

Lies also the corrupting

And though words crumble slower than flesh,

They yet pass out of memory and know oblivion

Every tongue that speaks knows this and yet

Poets sing in the dark hours, to the weeping stars.

Caprice

Lie to me
Touch my hand
Call me beautiful
Tell me again
Just one more time
A moment of fantasy
See me exposed
Ask me for more
Embrace me naked
Call me brilliant
Say you’ll cherish me
All your attention
Let my hair
Grab your fingers
Smile at me
Call me love
Just one more time
Lie to me

bENISON lOAF

(April 30/06)

I have awakened from troubled dreams, I have yet to awaken, I will never awake. These ferments that neuropathology has gleaned from the cuckold of my hypothalamus are a joke, trickery and shamanism. I have no pep me ups or leavening yeast, all my thoughts are flat bread, pumpernickel, dark rye, untransubstantiated Benison loaf. I am twice removed from the once removed, indifferent to my own indifference, disinterested from my own disinterest, stale bread, unseasoned barm. I have thoughtless thoughts, frivolous dispatches lacking in mental content, a cuckoldry of intention and orderliness. If I were a Joycean character I would be Paddy Dignam, dead and rotting in some peat bog limed over to prevent an offal stench that no lemony scented wash up could ever possibly put right. Fucking grave worms and taproots fiddle flummoxing with my toe ends. Fucking horrid indeed.

ABC Grill

Ack
blechhhhh caaaacah
dooodie ewwwwwww

filch
googoo hissssss
ickie juju

klarf
lollllll meowww
ninny oogah

pffft!
quack rilkee
sookie thwump

ughhh
vrooom weeeeee
xack yichhhhh

zoink

.gif the Cliff

-Dromoscopy, my sweet-

( Route multisectionnée aux plis des replis, encore,
au corps astral, le derme s’étoile au nuager des toi)

-Montre à la monte du monstre, s’évanouissent les si-
(So such the touch, with eat, with beat, with crash,
tender crash, on mon mont de vide)

-Hématome au plexus lunaire, le sourire d’un tic-tac s’enfuyant sur les hey !-
-De et deux Cronos en sons : Grand pathos…..-

(Pas d’angoisse agrippante l’agapanthe des linéaires de l’horizon par son nom
devenant légion, la percussion monopolise de bien trop fifrées leçons à l’or ductile)

Exe.soul

Inland

Clouds drift over, moulding the flat horizon. The first specks of rain hit my window. Black swallows swoop down into a cluster of trees. They've been planted upside down, the heads, been dunked into the soil, roots up in the sky. Dim light inside my room now darkens a shade further.

Slabs of hedge have been carefully placed by private home owners to prevent public space invaders from crossing over miniature bridges into their tidy nests. They position their round white plastic balls along the barriers and pop into life when young types from the neighbouring estate angle past waving home-made stick-guns in the air, the bodies projected as silhouettes behind a thick curtain, a blip floating over the radar screen.

Garages like loading containers that have been mistakenly docked inland, stare out blankly at the newly tarred and flattened entranceways. An assortment of bush structures attempt to match up to the hedges along their sides, blooming their winter flowers.

Half a window juts out from the edge of the flats. A sharp edge of a roof meets with the horizontal drainpipe and then with the strict horizontal pattern of bricks that make up the terraced brown side wall of my outlook. This space reduced in turn by the parallelogram of a slanted rectangular bedroom window frame.

I then see me, standing, looking with squinted eyes through my binoculars at the black and white striped bird springing across the grass below me, the tail entertaining me with its delicate flickering feathers. My eyes rush to keep up, as if having stumbled upon a rare exotic find, jumping about like an electronic gadget that the Japanese could have built, on the grass, just there in front of me.

It Rained...

It rained, I could tell before as the clouds were coming over. After a week of hot sun at last some liquid to cool the air. The puddles were receding and I decided to go out with my camera. I saw a documentary about Tarkovsky recently and one of Tarkovsky's close colleagues had observed the director one evening during a freak thunderstorm. The rain was hitting the windows with force and a puddle was forming inside a door in the house they were staying in. Tarkovsky stood watching this build up of water until the storm had finished its flashing and pounding of the building. The clouds dispersed and warm sunlight slowly entered through the windows. Tarkovsky stayed by the window to watch the puddle that had formed recede and dry up over a period of a couple of hours. In this time the wet mark changed its colours, fading until the floor was as it had been before the storm had begun. The seeping of the water into the house and receding back into the atmosphere fixed Tarkovky's attention and he stayed staring at the area long after the water had gone.



The water had seeped in under the shelter by several feet. A mixture of the opening sunlight, the rain and the spongy quality of the surface had created an unlimited number of subtle effects on the slabs, thin canals of green moss flowed in-between. The moisture illuminating the years of usage, the fine grained layers of interaction seeped down into the concrete, making up an almost visceral scaled effect.



Edges of constructions where government road teams had made errors, although the pleasure of filling those frames of stone with a flood of tar and then to watch it dry and grow old with time like the battered skin of a drum, must have been interesting. The shingle of grit and fag ends creates textures that are highlighted by the receding moisture of the rain.



Where the man had ran out of wood stain and the rain had run the bird muck down.



On the pavements of the back roads where the people live on the outskirts of an average town, the rain had come down. Then the sunlight appeared like a grey glow through the misty clouds, natural lighting effects for the timeless man, stepping from his flat, wandering around on the grassy knoll. Peering over garden fences and through windows, getting down on hands and knees and trying to look like a property surveyor. I can hear the phones going now - for the large frowning chap leaning across my rose bushes sergeant!



The bins are kept in their own room in the flats with its own wooden barn door to the outside, a metal grill helping the rotting smells drift off into the damp air outside. The insects had built their lives around this place where I hold my nose and trundle my bin out slamming the doors and breaking several webs and flattening spiders as I do so. An insect lays fixed to the wood, looking alive but not moving and had been there for days. Who knows how many minute living things are trapped in the gaps of those grill lattices.



Just before the rain came down the grass had been cut, the machine had come running around the sides of the hill spattering tiny particles of chopped grass, causing texture like the stuff you might buy in small plastic bags at modelling shops. It mimicked the splashing of water, rotting into the ground or being blown away.

Going Down to Rosedale

silk garters that came from Madame Chambray's
shop had come across her desk.

"Don't talk to me, popsicle boy!" she whispered fiercely.

garters are supposedly another piece of the
Chambray legacy.

should I tell you what Kenny is doing?

she couldn't help putting on the garters again
and being whisked back into old men's socks.

is this girl an undead ballerina?

ignite the sunlight here, gentlemen,
to order to destroy our world of
several billion people.

they raise three zombies from a Nietzschian
world of The Bungled and The Botched.

they want the world to be as simple, clean,
and accessible as the Google home page.

here's some fun for you: bring a
bottle of holy water to the theater .

to complete post-production,
they brought in Renny Harlin.