I have a dream, he said, a marvellous dream. Molly sidles up close to me, her breath sour with whey and Paddy’s, bloomers cinched round her neck. She leans in close, the cinnamon treacle of her hair cussing the bevel of my cheeks, and whispers, Yes I will, yes, Yes…I said Yes. I collapse, implode in on myself, a rasher of kidney, a commode-page of Sears and Roebuck’s, her whisper like diamonds in my hand. mOLLYsDAY2006*
I have a dream, he said, a marvellous dream. Molly sidles up close to me, her breath sour with whey and Paddy’s, bloomers cinched round her neck. She leans in close, the cinnamon treacle of her hair cussing the bevel of my cheeks, and whispers, Yes I will, yes, Yes…I said Yes. I collapse, implode in on myself, a rasher of kidney, a commode-page of Sears and Roebuck’s, her whisper like diamonds in my hand. 
aLPHORN sIMPER7*
I have a headcheese head, compote of viscera and tripe, an inelegant skullcap replete with tassels and flange: hard Etruscan bone, Tamil perhaps, a bulwark from the scourge of scourges, dispatches, junk-mail, the edicts of a demiurge with misshapen feet and an alphorn simper. I eat what is inedible, malarkey, cesspit chowder, an oleo of other’s castaways and rot. My great uncle Jim refused to eat anything green, vegetables, mint teas, anything gangrenous and wholesome; kales, peas, beans, navy, bunion, chick or Lima. He had one eye, two hands and a shamble foot, a leghorn that he dragged behind him like a wan calf, tongue lolling, dead from heat exhaustion and frenzied saltlick clobber. Screen memories are like that, unsubtle and rife with mercurochrome and brine.
Hem
Hello,
My name is Michelle. This is my first time posting. This picturepoem is from series called psychedelic domestic.
I'm honored to be here.
Thanks!
sCULLERY-cLOTH7*
Crappy dementia, thieves one of a proper burial, a last kick at the ontological can. Who am I, was I, will I be, I? Is this the end, the abruption of sensate thought, notions and commotions of thoughts and brainwaves, brainchild, thoughts gone haywire like pabulum? Red River cereal, farina, semolina with wisps of brown sugar, emmer black, cane sugar and rutabaga, a bland no-nothing on the croup of the tongue. Cogito Eros Summa, a slight rousting in the fob of my trousers, where Jockstrap meets Leda, thumbprints left, indented, by a washerwoman’s scullery cloth: fucking Cartesian no-nonsense, too much wax and bedstead Oryx, not enough uncommon sense and Paddy’s allsorts, Rye Whiskey without the after-bite or halter, a pleasant coition of ligulas and tooth cavity
DETRESSE DE PHRASES (Audio + texte)
http://media.putfile.com/flashMP337
Syntoniser des matraques à la trique cosmique.
Une compulsion de métriques étouffe le tout.
C’est l’algésie performative en réalité :
C’est une compulsion en étouffe performative-
Syntoniser des algésies en matraques cosmiques-
Réalité performative des triques, c’est à des (Hades)-
Le tout à la compulsion de syntoniser-
L’algésie de métriques en étouffe tout-
Trique cosmique en réalité à syntoniser : Est-
En réalité des matraques, algésie performative-
Cosmique à compulsion étouffe le Syntoniser-
Performative en métriques de l’algésie : Tout-
P.S : en l’occurrence une tresse.
Syntoniser des matraques à la trique cosmique.
Une compulsion de métriques étouffe le tout.
C’est l’algésie performative en réalité :
C’est une compulsion en étouffe performative-
Syntoniser des algésies en matraques cosmiques-
Réalité performative des triques, c’est à des (Hades)-
Le tout à la compulsion de syntoniser-
L’algésie de métriques en étouffe tout-
Trique cosmique en réalité à syntoniser : Est-
En réalité des matraques, algésie performative-
Cosmique à compulsion étouffe le Syntoniser-
Performative en métriques de l’algésie : Tout-
P.S : en l’occurrence une tresse.
dIOGENES on pCp7*
Rarebit toast lye with Thomas’ liver, skillet-fried with onions and coarse garlic. Charon poling the Liffey, lips smacking, Dante’s lingerie swaying from halyard and dowelling. Oedipus shed not one tear, mother-coitus, saddle sore and humping like Diogenes on PCP. I will give you all my unkingly things, should you move just a hair to the left, as you’re blocking the sun from balming my face, you empyrean scoundrel, king of Moyle’s and Schwartz, thug and rampart, chewer of prepuces and Wriggle’s.
Albums with Sharp, Pointed Teeth
I was ablated yesterday by Grove Press neurologists.
The dimensions continue to bubble and pour Clorox onto
positrons of sunlight. Contrary to the bless you sneezing
its grace period on sneaker trails, I overshadowed my own
fuselage's reconstruction and saw the fortified book of life
jump to the front of the fire. Your strange balloon is
sneaking into bed with my wife every night. It fills her
with helium and from then on, she is never like I remembered.
The dimensions continue to bubble and pour Clorox onto
positrons of sunlight. Contrary to the bless you sneezing
its grace period on sneaker trails, I overshadowed my own
fuselage's reconstruction and saw the fortified book of life
jump to the front of the fire. Your strange balloon is
sneaking into bed with my wife every night. It fills her
with helium and from then on, she is never like I remembered.
And No One Knew
The rain slipped in on muddied feet
And no one, no one saw it.
It pastelled the walls of my dreams
With giggles - no one heard it.
It kissed the edges of my sleep
With its breath - no one felt it.
And left as suddenly again,
And no one, no one knew it.
And no one, no one saw it.
It pastelled the walls of my dreams
With giggles - no one heard it.
It kissed the edges of my sleep
With its breath - no one felt it.
And left as suddenly again,
And no one, no one knew it.
Hinge
The heat conducts thru the metal
giving it a slightly odd shape
The rain does not permeate
yet foretells the coming rust
Each entry takes further heft,
the burden heard in the creaking
The connections slowly loosen
until it hangs uncertain, unsure
giving it a slightly odd shape
The rain does not permeate
yet foretells the coming rust
Each entry takes further heft,
the burden heard in the creaking
The connections slowly loosen
until it hangs uncertain, unsure
First Draft
a
message
of
uncompromising
love
is
a message of uncompromising love is
a message of uncompromising love is
a
message
of
uncompromising
love
is
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
m ooooooooooooooooooo
m fffffffffffffffffff
m uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
m nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
m ccccccccccccccccccc
m ooooooooooooooooooo
m mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
m ppppppppppppppppppp
m rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
m ooooooooooooooooooo
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeg mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
s a iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
s a sssssssssssssssssss
s a iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
s a nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
s a ggggggggggggggggggg
s a lllllllllllllllllll
s a ooooooooooooooooooo
s a vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
s a eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
ssssssssssssssssssssssa iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii s
A. MESSAGE. OF. UNCOMPROMISING. LOVE. IS. amessageofuncompromisingloveisamessageofuncompromisingloveis
a message
of uncompromising
love is
a message of
uncompromising love is
a message of uncompromising
love is
a
message
of
uncompromising
love
is
a-message-of-uncompromising-love-is
=
a+message+of+uncompromising(love)is
a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is
a
message
of
message
of
uncompromising
love
is
a message of uncompromising love is
a message of uncompromising love is
a
message
of
uncompromising
love
is
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
m ooooooooooooooooooo
m fffffffffffffffffff
m uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
m nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
m ccccccccccccccccccc
m ooooooooooooooooooo
m mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
m ppppppppppppppppppp
m rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
m ooooooooooooooooooo
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeg mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
s a iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
s a sssssssssssssssssss
s a iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
s a nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
s a ggggggggggggggggggg
s a lllllllllllllllllll
s a ooooooooooooooooooo
s a vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
s a eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
ssssssssssssssssssssssa iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii s
A. MESSAGE. OF. UNCOMPROMISING. LOVE. IS. amessageofuncompromisingloveisamessageofuncompromisingloveis
a message
of uncompromising
love is
a message of
uncompromising love is
a message of uncompromising
love is
a
message
of
uncompromising
love
is
a-message-of-uncompromising-love-is
=
a+message+of+uncompromising(love)is
a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is a messsage of uncompromising love is
a
message
of
.
And because the night is hushed
and the glances long
the spirits get languid
the silented mouths.
And because the day is alleviate
and the wind is short
the essences get evaporated
the open eyes.
And because the questions are peculiar
the answers are nonexistent.
.
And because the night is hushed
and the glances long
the spirits get languid
the silented mouths.
And because the day is alleviate
and the wind is short
the essences get evaporated
the open eyes.
And because the questions are peculiar
the answers are nonexistent.
.
because
because there is nothing to paint, and nothing to paint with. Although there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, no desire to express... no power to express , the artist has the obligation to express .
because nothing express paint nothing to with although nothing is express nothing with no desire which ...
permuations follow as
in bryon gysin's formula
9 times 8 times 7 times 6 times 5 times 4 times...
and the yield in nothing is enormous.
S. Beckett's quote which I play[ed] above is in refernece to the painter
Bram Van Velde, a friend of the writer's.
==========================================
An Early Rendezvous Between Sheila and Lou
Dear Sir/Madam,
grow tired and stink is my pleasure:
I told you about the morning
in respect of our Company
this is better than a long
talk, right? what I'm saying is, My
dearest Lou, some things
Sheila Henry liked
I told you about
the morning at No 6
Third District Nanshan Road
I told you about the
morning, Jiangsu Province,
Peoples Republic Of China
this is better than a long
talk, right? what I'm saying
is, My dearest Lou, some
things Sheila Henry liked
a worldwide company specializes
in sales and export of, my dearest
Lou, materials and office equipment
a world leader in, my dearest
Lou, industry is better than
a long talk, right?
what I'm saying, dearest Lou, is
some things Sheila Henry liked,
aims to be an alert to, robust
and innovative global company
our growth can be
compared to that rich
bastard running out of ice
believing businesses, I think
you'll be angry
I told you about the
morning and services
grow through people
their vision told you about
the morning
the rich bastards
running out of ice
are searching
I told you about the morning,
hardworking and representative
staff that can help us establish
a medium of getting to our
costumers in Canada/America
and Europe as the rich bastard
running out of ice makes
payments through you to us
you may also be required to
represent and advise the
company in your area
in issues that concern us
as part of our company
grows tired and stinks
rating told you of the morning
of your bank and should
equally have a line
grow tired and I told you
about the morning line of tired
stink about your bank
this is to boast our confidence
in you and also ensure
to this end, you shall be
told you in the morning
grow tired and stink is my pleasure:
I told you about the morning
in respect of our Company
this is better than a long
talk, right? what I'm saying is, My
dearest Lou, some things
Sheila Henry liked
I told you about
the morning at No 6
Third District Nanshan Road
I told you about the
morning, Jiangsu Province,
Peoples Republic Of China
this is better than a long
talk, right? what I'm saying
is, My dearest Lou, some
things Sheila Henry liked
a worldwide company specializes
in sales and export of, my dearest
Lou, materials and office equipment
a world leader in, my dearest
Lou, industry is better than
a long talk, right?
what I'm saying, dearest Lou, is
some things Sheila Henry liked,
aims to be an alert to, robust
and innovative global company
our growth can be
compared to that rich
bastard running out of ice
believing businesses, I think
you'll be angry
I told you about the
morning and services
grow through people
their vision told you about
the morning
the rich bastards
running out of ice
are searching
I told you about the morning,
hardworking and representative
staff that can help us establish
a medium of getting to our
costumers in Canada/America
and Europe as the rich bastard
running out of ice makes
payments through you to us
you may also be required to
represent and advise the
company in your area
in issues that concern us
as part of our company
grows tired and stinks
rating told you of the morning
of your bank and should
equally have a line
grow tired and I told you
about the morning line of tired
stink about your bank
this is to boast our confidence
in you and also ensure
to this end, you shall be
told you in the morning
dERRIDIAN cORM7*
I live in a coalhouse, a livery of thoughts. Like a Derridian corm I have neither a beginning nor and end, but simply a jumping-in point, a coaxial imputation, a frogfish leap. Language is thought is unreason, hepatisation, derision, a trebuchet without a weighbar. Drink Coca Cola, you rotten bastards. No transfats or lipids, no smarmy lard or yellow blubber. My entire life, my sensate-me, is a pixilation, whatever the screen permits, the mind consents to, makes blubbery and sincere, impetrates and collates, scullery-whores with wee tiny teeth and amulet smiles: minutia.
cHEMICAL bEDLAM9*
Who’s running the asylum? The deconstruction of the psyche, the loss of the individual, the panoptical reification of the idiosyncratic, the Other other, the otherness of the Other other, turned in on itself, the gaze gazed upon the gazer, the self-borstal-self. No psyche, no internal machine, a desiring machine, a coveting machine, but a socialized communal other, with neither self nor otherness, the other reified and jailed within the public sphere, the numinous gaol. Detained within the self, one eye trained on the other, the other trained on the otherness of the other, the public self: madness, loss of self, corruption of self-psyche-self, a panoptical no-man’s-land, psychopharmythology, chemical Bedlam, a Foucaultian nightmare
ride the apocalypse
i'm entirely sure that you are right. but that's a set of different words for a different space in time. instead, the light focuses on affliction. standing there behind a wooden tree, one wonders if affliction is playing the part or just a bit shy. "i see you." it blushes. it leaps. it devours. me whole.
on the right side of the stage is madness. if madness could hide it would be veneered slightly by a drape of darkness. inconceivably iridescent. the impossibility of averting your eyes is only achieved when you are being gouged. madness watches as affliction feasts. with a grin. it transforms.
and so do we.
to the second person.
or not.
returning to reality for a moment, i notice that there is far too much organization in this room. far too little poison in my body. and far too persistent a throwing motion in my arm for the firsbees to just lie on the ground. i correct all of these anti-anomalous actualities in one feel swoop. the power of a frisbee and a cartwheel. each time i destroy myself and destroy my surroundings is an opportunity to rebuild. for whatever reason though, i put everything back exactly where it was. it's as if nothing ever changes.
and so do we.
to the second person.
or...
the third person, or fourth person depending on how long we've been doing this for. think about that for a second. i figure it was sometime this year actually that i changed from who i was before to who i am now. but prior to that, my memory was abducted by disrememberence, discontinued in favor of a newer, cheaper model that is slightly less fuel efficient. each of my thoughts are new, perspective makes them so. these words i type are certainly convoluted, transfered from my mind through my fingertips into plastic blocks adorned by letters and travelling a tiny wire into a board with flashing lights and then somehow impressed upon a window that overlooks an entire macrocosm, eventually accepted by your eyes and processed by your brain. but they're new. and so are you. a second person, each one sprouting within itself.
on the right side of the stage is madness. if madness could hide it would be veneered slightly by a drape of darkness. inconceivably iridescent. the impossibility of averting your eyes is only achieved when you are being gouged. madness watches as affliction feasts. with a grin. it transforms.
and so do we.
to the second person.
or not.
returning to reality for a moment, i notice that there is far too much organization in this room. far too little poison in my body. and far too persistent a throwing motion in my arm for the firsbees to just lie on the ground. i correct all of these anti-anomalous actualities in one feel swoop. the power of a frisbee and a cartwheel. each time i destroy myself and destroy my surroundings is an opportunity to rebuild. for whatever reason though, i put everything back exactly where it was. it's as if nothing ever changes.
and so do we.
to the second person.
or...
the third person, or fourth person depending on how long we've been doing this for. think about that for a second. i figure it was sometime this year actually that i changed from who i was before to who i am now. but prior to that, my memory was abducted by disrememberence, discontinued in favor of a newer, cheaper model that is slightly less fuel efficient. each of my thoughts are new, perspective makes them so. these words i type are certainly convoluted, transfered from my mind through my fingertips into plastic blocks adorned by letters and travelling a tiny wire into a board with flashing lights and then somehow impressed upon a window that overlooks an entire macrocosm, eventually accepted by your eyes and processed by your brain. but they're new. and so are you. a second person, each one sprouting within itself.
The Giver Can Open The Whole
The giver can open the whole
Of a narrow space that told
Of the grace of time and place
Where upon its slop
Is the self kept hope
That all within the high land
May come to understand
And be not far withdrawn
From the wonder of a rose colored dawn.
Of a narrow space that told
Of the grace of time and place
Where upon its slop
Is the self kept hope
That all within the high land
May come to understand
And be not far withdrawn
From the wonder of a rose colored dawn.
water underwater
water underwater
© Joe Blades 2006.
earwax phycoplasmoids no creation
myth in the beginning is built the end
why realize what you can neither start
nor stop nor save anything but breakdown
recombinant memories of being rock
starlight tree and virus radioactive
abstract smoke just suspended dust
baked cinnamon twirls transparent
needle fanged fish tax collectors
working for against employed by
brick wall hardwired cellulite
pee stained mattress flipped not
abandoned cough agent smith
glazed ceramic rouge wine stain
cacti drought free flash motel
stress buckles steam vent movement
without life as we believe we are
remote love betrayal how do we
be one volcanoes with feelings
equilibrium cellular phone rites
unstable or not registered smell
swimming granite sandwich fly
up elevator sex dream armed and
living gatling window swansong
unself fire and love cookies exit
© Joe Blades 2006.
earwax phycoplasmoids no creation
myth in the beginning is built the end
why realize what you can neither start
nor stop nor save anything but breakdown
recombinant memories of being rock
starlight tree and virus radioactive
abstract smoke just suspended dust
baked cinnamon twirls transparent
needle fanged fish tax collectors
working for against employed by
brick wall hardwired cellulite
pee stained mattress flipped not
abandoned cough agent smith
glazed ceramic rouge wine stain
cacti drought free flash motel
stress buckles steam vent movement
without life as we believe we are
remote love betrayal how do we
be one volcanoes with feelings
equilibrium cellular phone rites
unstable or not registered smell
swimming granite sandwich fly
up elevator sex dream armed and
living gatling window swansong
unself fire and love cookies exit
oh minnesota
i've noticed that i'm becoming easily persuaded by internal forces. my spleen suggests i buy just one more pack of cigarettes and i comply. femur thinks sleep for just a few hours would be a great idea and i guess i do too. of course it's my brain that does the most damage. it's unfair that that it gets to set the debate, argue both sides and determine the outcome. i wonder if there is part of my brain that i don't know very well. at least that part is very quiet because i generally only hear the arguments for why i should do such and such. and they're always such great arguments.
oh minnesota.
all of the sudden, i'm not a serial monogamist. that's what the bumper sticker said. i followed the car on my bike. it was downhill and the driver was getting nervous that someone driving a bicycle was going so fast. it's easy to read the bumper stickers off of slow moving vehicles. just try it. but then, i want to be. maybe not the part about serial but certainly the other part. i think 4 is a large enough number to be comfortable with that sort of decision. it's not.
oh minnesota.
in three weeks, i will return somewhere for once. to be honest though, who cares. it's merely a distraction from that other stuff. literally, it's stuff. it goes into bean bags. that's a lie. not the bean bags, the stuff. basically it's like this, ...next.
oh minnesota.
i'm in a strange place right now. half way between thought and truth. it's an empty place. even when i do make decisions, i remain. endlessly walking aimlessly. it used to be one crisis after another. at least then i had some reference point. empty vessel, prepared for loading. we'll travel the sea together, i promise. please come aboard. i've got a number of rather cozy rooms. i suppose that's what advertising is for. now, i can't really tell if it's a crisis or just existence. i've paired down to two essential moods. whimsical and cynical. it is in these moods that either everything matters but it doesn't make sense or nothing matters and that is all that makes sense. and then a spark, however meaningless...
oh minnesota.
oh minnesota.
all of the sudden, i'm not a serial monogamist. that's what the bumper sticker said. i followed the car on my bike. it was downhill and the driver was getting nervous that someone driving a bicycle was going so fast. it's easy to read the bumper stickers off of slow moving vehicles. just try it. but then, i want to be. maybe not the part about serial but certainly the other part. i think 4 is a large enough number to be comfortable with that sort of decision. it's not.
oh minnesota.
in three weeks, i will return somewhere for once. to be honest though, who cares. it's merely a distraction from that other stuff. literally, it's stuff. it goes into bean bags. that's a lie. not the bean bags, the stuff. basically it's like this, ...next.
oh minnesota.
i'm in a strange place right now. half way between thought and truth. it's an empty place. even when i do make decisions, i remain. endlessly walking aimlessly. it used to be one crisis after another. at least then i had some reference point. empty vessel, prepared for loading. we'll travel the sea together, i promise. please come aboard. i've got a number of rather cozy rooms. i suppose that's what advertising is for. now, i can't really tell if it's a crisis or just existence. i've paired down to two essential moods. whimsical and cynical. it is in these moods that either everything matters but it doesn't make sense or nothing matters and that is all that makes sense. and then a spark, however meaningless...
oh minnesota.
9*75$42@
I can’t write, even begin the process of writing, if I feel that I won’t have enough cigarettes to smoke non-stop, or almost non-stop. Any interruption in the smoking process is mercenary, robbing me of a healthy level of nicotine, a systemic toxin, dioxin, that I can’t seem to live without, though I suppose I should, given the pulmonary/respiratory thievery that tar, benzenes, lipids and all such venomous inhalations incur in an otherwise hale and hearty body. I smoke as a means of regulating my Grammatik misuse of syntax, tropisms and proper spelling, none of which I seem hale and hearty at. Wait, please, as I light another cigarette, the last one I will smoke while writing this exercise in trivial banality. Fuck it; I’m going to bed, coughing myself to sleep like a hogshead with intractable emphysema.
Choosy Mothers choose JIF
they said it one day. they produced a settlement, the size of Ted Williams’s head. inside, there was a rational landscape, or at least a very good simulacrum of one. we got out our tools and went to work. in later days, there would be a crowd, each person explaining dust on the floor. we would be shared, as visions of a continuous language. continuous language would be one sweet gift to imagine, as we strive to initiate a tradition of understudy and repose. the time ripens even as we speak. choosy mothers fill out a raft of forms, just so that expression can be accurately dated. dad’s working late, but will lend a hand when he can. everything at the airport is just rush rush rush. such language stuns the focal point of this discussion. we terribly remember the very sad day. Ted Williams’s head is still spontaneous, still full of surprises, so yes we feel we can carry on. people get back to work, knowing they can. choosy moms illustrate many diverse indications, just trying to help. everyone goes along with these judgments. we agree that they are in our best interest. we turn to poetry without any help
Travel notes (the music stays..)
Staccato notes mark the incomprehensible music,
a whirlwind of green, sweeps across the mind,
an old room ceiling, mirrored the stars,
the mind traverses past the ethereal melodies.
Watch out for the gaining clouds,
a phantasmagoric laugh riot ensues,
watch that wall from the right side,
Little pieces of raging emotions, lie carefully crumbled in the corner.
Look at him, the one beside the pillar,
too many dead-ends and ditches and traps,
have taken their toll on this poor,
unsuspecting child of the mad people from Rome.
Ground him first, 3 o'clock is near,
too early for anything, too late for nothing,
The beaming full moon, shall draw you closer,
sit back, fasten those straps, you are about to take off again.
a whirlwind of green, sweeps across the mind,
an old room ceiling, mirrored the stars,
the mind traverses past the ethereal melodies.
Watch out for the gaining clouds,
a phantasmagoric laugh riot ensues,
watch that wall from the right side,
Little pieces of raging emotions, lie carefully crumbled in the corner.
Look at him, the one beside the pillar,
too many dead-ends and ditches and traps,
have taken their toll on this poor,
unsuspecting child of the mad people from Rome.
Ground him first, 3 o'clock is near,
too early for anything, too late for nothing,
The beaming full moon, shall draw you closer,
sit back, fasten those straps, you are about to take off again.
AntiOedipUs Thirty YeaRs On|+ Radio Kiss Lips
Against Badiou and Zizek's misguided readings of AntiOedipus and the Deleuzoguattarian project,
Eric Alliez's magnificient essay AntiOedipus Thirty Years On which'
s prefaced by
I, for my own part, made a sort of move into politics around May 1968…Gilles Deleuze, Negotiations
This title was suggested to me some months ago by my best enemy – or my best fiend, to paraphrase Werner Herzog – who also happens to be a very good friend: Alain Badiou. It was originally intended for a lecture I was to deliver under the auspices of the Centre for the Study of Contemporary Philosophy which Badiou recently set up at the École Normale Supérieure. The idea was to use the occasion to pursue our dispute – or chicane, to use a favourite expression of Badiou’s – a dispute instigated by the publication in 1997 of his book Deleuze: The Clamor of Being.
and this excerpt which I found useful in many ways . and relevant as always to the practices of art etc
'Against which we will affirmhere that the Anti-Oedipus- such as it mobilises, under the name of ‘Body without Organs’, the politics of sensationto which Artaud had devoted his convulsive constructions - grows out of all the movements which, in the art of the 20th century, ever since Jarry and Matisse the Hyper-fauvist knew how to free vitalism from the romantic expressiveness of the subject (therefore Dada rather than Surrealism, fauvism, a permanent fauvism, that of Matisse, as the rigorous alternative to cubism and to the Spiritual in abstract Art). In so doing, to borrow Foucault’s remark, the Anti-Oedipusworks as an ‘art’ - and an art of the self. ‘I shall reconstruct the man that I am’, Artaud affirms in this passage that Deleuze quotes in order to introduce us to this other world (‘We are in another world...’) which is that of the insurrection of the breath-wordsof the ‘body without organs’ of Artaud-the-Schizo against the language and surface effects of Carrollian structuralism : ‘Pas de bouche Pas de langue Pas de dents Pas de larynx Pas d’œsophage Pas d’estomac Pas de ventre Pas d’anus Je reconstruirai l’homme que je suis’ (‘No teeth No larynx No esophagus No stomach No intestine No anus I shall reconstruct the man that I am’).
For we need a ‘body without image’, that is to say, an Anti-Flesh, in order to replace every ‘image of the body’ (‘the latest avatar of the soul’, according to Deleuze & Guattari) and attain ‘the infinite of the decomposition of the socius’ on the basis of which one will be able to affirm‘the coextension of the social field and desire’13 and deny(deconstruct, destroy) the dominant structures, through a chaosmic immersion in the matters of sensation that these structures repress, and which will be put to work in the composition of mutant percepts and affects. What the Body Coststhe art that bears its name - Body Art, the art which has turned away from the stage (recall the anti-theatrical spirit of Nietzsche and Artaud)- a cost which it manifests in the unworldly squalor (l’im-monde) and the unruly dance of organs, or not(‘un corps neuf / où vous ne pourrez / plus jamais / m’oublier’, ‘a new body / in which you will never again / be able / to forget me’, Artaud announces), so that it may be able to produce Events capable of exceedingthe ‘democratic’ reformism of so-called ‘relational aesthetics’ (fill in the fissures in the social bond, etc.) by functioning as a fulcrum for a processual relaunch, between art and life....'
The Fauvisits were denounced as Wild Beasts when they first came along. Dada, & its endless incarnation suggests we make art from necessity not the phantasm of prize winning or "recognition" Poetry is a Way path a batch of becomings of the veil of the world[s], geology texts unearthing matrix uncovering the sands of death. Think with your bones O Writers. O writers of Canada with yer dead beat desire to be spoken and heard, be silent in your withdrawal & yer computer pomes strung along the edge of the void.
O Poets of America and religion. End the race. Purge yer religious unconscious.
Move the face out of black holes |hip the joints,
log marrow & thunder.
Alliez's essay puts paid to Zizek and Badiou's wrong headed criticisms of Deleuze[solo] & Deleuze and Guattari,
who were artisic philosophic thinkers.
as in philo so in poesy and writings becomings are first and foremost the trail to patch, wind and cut, the sheaves of death life life breath, the body without organs becomings which opens dozens of flight lines cutting thru passing thru the molar monstrosities of power poetics and power practices in poetry and criticisms. One could say this is manyness in action, always more to flourish.
Indeed one speaks of programmes of poetry not manifestos. let the passive verb become forceful slipping around the sides of yer readers bodies as a snake does preparing sex its numerous lovers.
Write in Latin when you write English. What is english? What is the name of the participial verb but a paradox struck by the side of its ornateness?
they puchased a radio
had batteries and lovers________________
Eric Alliez's magnificient essay AntiOedipus Thirty Years On which'
s prefaced by
I, for my own part, made a sort of move into politics around May 1968…Gilles Deleuze, Negotiations
This title was suggested to me some months ago by my best enemy – or my best fiend, to paraphrase Werner Herzog – who also happens to be a very good friend: Alain Badiou. It was originally intended for a lecture I was to deliver under the auspices of the Centre for the Study of Contemporary Philosophy which Badiou recently set up at the École Normale Supérieure. The idea was to use the occasion to pursue our dispute – or chicane, to use a favourite expression of Badiou’s – a dispute instigated by the publication in 1997 of his book Deleuze: The Clamor of Being.
and this excerpt which I found useful in many ways . and relevant as always to the practices of art etc
'Against which we will affirmhere that the Anti-Oedipus- such as it mobilises, under the name of ‘Body without Organs’, the politics of sensationto which Artaud had devoted his convulsive constructions - grows out of all the movements which, in the art of the 20th century, ever since Jarry and Matisse the Hyper-fauvist knew how to free vitalism from the romantic expressiveness of the subject (therefore Dada rather than Surrealism, fauvism, a permanent fauvism, that of Matisse, as the rigorous alternative to cubism and to the Spiritual in abstract Art). In so doing, to borrow Foucault’s remark, the Anti-Oedipusworks as an ‘art’ - and an art of the self. ‘I shall reconstruct the man that I am’, Artaud affirms in this passage that Deleuze quotes in order to introduce us to this other world (‘We are in another world...’) which is that of the insurrection of the breath-wordsof the ‘body without organs’ of Artaud-the-Schizo against the language and surface effects of Carrollian structuralism : ‘Pas de bouche Pas de langue Pas de dents Pas de larynx Pas d’œsophage Pas d’estomac Pas de ventre Pas d’anus Je reconstruirai l’homme que je suis’ (‘No teeth No larynx No esophagus No stomach No intestine No anus I shall reconstruct the man that I am’).
For we need a ‘body without image’, that is to say, an Anti-Flesh, in order to replace every ‘image of the body’ (‘the latest avatar of the soul’, according to Deleuze & Guattari) and attain ‘the infinite of the decomposition of the socius’ on the basis of which one will be able to affirm‘the coextension of the social field and desire’13 and deny(deconstruct, destroy) the dominant structures, through a chaosmic immersion in the matters of sensation that these structures repress, and which will be put to work in the composition of mutant percepts and affects. What the Body Coststhe art that bears its name - Body Art, the art which has turned away from the stage (recall the anti-theatrical spirit of Nietzsche and Artaud)- a cost which it manifests in the unworldly squalor (l’im-monde) and the unruly dance of organs, or not(‘un corps neuf / où vous ne pourrez / plus jamais / m’oublier’, ‘a new body / in which you will never again / be able / to forget me’, Artaud announces), so that it may be able to produce Events capable of exceedingthe ‘democratic’ reformism of so-called ‘relational aesthetics’ (fill in the fissures in the social bond, etc.) by functioning as a fulcrum for a processual relaunch, between art and life....'
The Fauvisits were denounced as Wild Beasts when they first came along. Dada, & its endless incarnation suggests we make art from necessity not the phantasm of prize winning or "recognition" Poetry is a Way path a batch of becomings of the veil of the world[s], geology texts unearthing matrix uncovering the sands of death. Think with your bones O Writers. O writers of Canada with yer dead beat desire to be spoken and heard, be silent in your withdrawal & yer computer pomes strung along the edge of the void.
O Poets of America and religion. End the race. Purge yer religious unconscious.
Move the face out of black holes |hip the joints,
log marrow & thunder.
Alliez's essay puts paid to Zizek and Badiou's wrong headed criticisms of Deleuze[solo] & Deleuze and Guattari,
who were artisic philosophic thinkers.
as in philo so in poesy and writings becomings are first and foremost the trail to patch, wind and cut, the sheaves of death life life breath, the body without organs becomings which opens dozens of flight lines cutting thru passing thru the molar monstrosities of power poetics and power practices in poetry and criticisms. One could say this is manyness in action, always more to flourish.
Indeed one speaks of programmes of poetry not manifestos. let the passive verb become forceful slipping around the sides of yer readers bodies as a snake does preparing sex its numerous lovers.
Write in Latin when you write English. What is english? What is the name of the participial verb but a paradox struck by the side of its ornateness?
Mona moved in with (the) AntiOedipus.
they puchased a radio
had batteries and lovers________________
Future of the Book and DJuNA BarNes|Ps
Djuna Barnes _ in her elderly becoming.
Once, when described by an interviewer as morbid, Barnes replied "Morbid? You make me laugh. This life I write and draw and portray is life as it is, and therefore you call it morbid. Look at my life. Look at the life around me. Where is this beauty that I am supposed to miss? The nice episodes that others depict? Is not everything morbid? I mean the life of people stripped of their masks. Where are the relieving features? Often I sit down to work at my drawing board, at my typewriter. All of a sudden my joy is gone. I feel tired of it all because, I think, 'What's the use?' Today we are, tomorrow dead. We are born and don't know why. We live and suffer and strive, envious or envied. We love, we hate, we work, we admire, we despise. . . . Why? And we die, and no one will ever know that we have been born." [
* "Suffering for love is how I have learned practically everything I know, love of grandmother up and on."--Djuna Barnes to Emily Holmes Coleman, February 2, 1934 [16]
* "There is always more surface to a shattered object than a whole."--Djuna Barnes [18]
* "Of course I think of the past and of Paris, what else is there to remember?"--Djuna Barnes in a 1960s letter to Natalie Barney [20]
Future of the Book
_____________________________________
2
Clifford Duffy, I[we] read your fiction s over in immanence heavenly with Joyce, we had a good laugh, all those secret funnelings from each become to yet another! o we trilled coming and roaring! Lodestones of love bodies sapphic detentions and skipping Jocastas to boot! How we whooped up the whiff of its ornateness!
[
Lover boy
you are good!
can we send you a cheque, directly to your account?
DJUNA .
like yerselves Finn, we dont take ourselves too damn seriously! life
is short, after all, and eternity is long!
Kisses, darling.
See you there, inthe astral whirls
and smoke alongs.
Becomings a twist lover body
to arrive.
Nota:
As Gilles
Deleuze himself wrote that "encounters between independent thinkers always occur in a blind zone," an analogous operation happens between poems and poets. Blind to
one another's sight (cite site) they see each one another's night[s]. This puts me in mind of something Keats wrote in a letter about the silhoutted shapes of other poets... of course.. Milton and his blindness, Joyce's 27 eye operations... an Opera of astounding proportions
... so with with blogs: they are BlindSided to their Besideness.
A Noia.
a Para
A Meta . shape of bodies.
4
As for Z. on Deleuze well, its a silly whim of the fast writer tryin to do fast on slow and streaming steady.
Ready? Readee
One cannot reverse the Body-without-Organs by way of a quaint reversal of terms.
Tata.
5
the pome seeps
its ridges
calibrating its mothers.
So Venus Welfare comes to my
well-vined body.
ave laval
.
tHE rECTOR's cLOSET
Expiry Dates
I awoke this morning from uncharitable dreams; my shoulder still mortared to breastplate and collarbone. This persistent pain is mercenary, Catholic at best. My friend shared a story from his childhood with me that is nothing less than emasculate. He recalled being an altar boy in some nondescript Catholic Church in Montreal. He was sent to the rector’s closet to fetch some ecclesiastic whatnot, and while there took a peek into the fridge where the sacramental wine and Eucharist were kept in cold storage. He looked at the packaging, in which the biscuits were hermetically sealed, and notice, much to his astonishment, that there were expiry dates stamped on each freezer bag. Christ has a best before date, he figured, how strange in deed.
(Thanks, John)
Not long ago I was employed as an addiction counselor for nonprofit organization here in the Nation’s Capitalist. Many of our clients were either homeless or on the verge of homelessness. Some were from other cities, such as Hamilton and Toronto, and others were indigenous to Ottawa and the surrounding hamlets and suburbs. One of our clients (a fifty-ish First Nations gentleman with terrible nightmares that forced him to sleep on the floor on a blue pinstriped mattress, army issue no less, least he topple head over teakettle onto the hard linoleum tiling) told me a story, a real story, that left me with my own nightmares. He was interned in one of Canada’s infamous Residential Schools when he was a young boy, where he was subjected to such heinous crimes; so heinous and unconscionable, Nuremberg should have reconvened to mete out more appropriate punishments. One of his schoolmates, a lithe, unassuming little fellow, submersed himself in a bathtub full of bleach, thinking, if he could only lightened the colour of his skin, the abuse and torture would stop. Well it did not, and so begins the night terrors and addiction to whatever numbs the pain of remembering what no one should need remember. (For Abe, should you still be walking this earth).
Chalk
I lie with the dogs
up under the stoop
of the house
in one cursed swoop
of the old crone’s hand
skin and spine separate
revealing bone and joint
whiter than maggots
and chalk
I awoke this morning from uncharitable dreams; my shoulder still mortared to breastplate and collarbone. This persistent pain is mercenary, Catholic at best. My friend shared a story from his childhood with me that is nothing less than emasculate. He recalled being an altar boy in some nondescript Catholic Church in Montreal. He was sent to the rector’s closet to fetch some ecclesiastic whatnot, and while there took a peek into the fridge where the sacramental wine and Eucharist were kept in cold storage. He looked at the packaging, in which the biscuits were hermetically sealed, and notice, much to his astonishment, that there were expiry dates stamped on each freezer bag. Christ has a best before date, he figured, how strange in deed.
(Thanks, John)
Not long ago I was employed as an addiction counselor for nonprofit organization here in the Nation’s Capitalist. Many of our clients were either homeless or on the verge of homelessness. Some were from other cities, such as Hamilton and Toronto, and others were indigenous to Ottawa and the surrounding hamlets and suburbs. One of our clients (a fifty-ish First Nations gentleman with terrible nightmares that forced him to sleep on the floor on a blue pinstriped mattress, army issue no less, least he topple head over teakettle onto the hard linoleum tiling) told me a story, a real story, that left me with my own nightmares. He was interned in one of Canada’s infamous Residential Schools when he was a young boy, where he was subjected to such heinous crimes; so heinous and unconscionable, Nuremberg should have reconvened to mete out more appropriate punishments. One of his schoolmates, a lithe, unassuming little fellow, submersed himself in a bathtub full of bleach, thinking, if he could only lightened the colour of his skin, the abuse and torture would stop. Well it did not, and so begins the night terrors and addiction to whatever numbs the pain of remembering what no one should need remember. (For Abe, should you still be walking this earth).
Chalk
I lie with the dogs
up under the stoop
of the house
in one cursed swoop
of the old crone’s hand
skin and spine separate
revealing bone and joint
whiter than maggots
and chalk
9sO eYE wAS tOLD*
Tines
brown teeth adjudicating
tines jimmied into place
in gore holes stained
tea black (so it seems)
scabbed-over with food-worms
these things, worms
(so I was told)
that causes the horrid spirants
to form like larva, writhing
in the abattoir of his mouth
jealous thoughts in the heat of summer
gin in tea cups
august laughs raindrops
hot and misty
lace and corsets
ropes tied tight around
delicate necks
an afternoon that
drags on softly like
the hum of a radio
in another room
august laughs raindrops
hot and misty
lace and corsets
ropes tied tight around
delicate necks
an afternoon that
drags on softly like
the hum of a radio
in another room
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)