Carrying in Lebanon
Are mothers
daughters
Lebanese dark eyed and solemn
eyes swollen
holding their arms
around their bellies ?
In their wombs
they can feel it
the bombs
the bombs
their own bodies
become tombs.
Him: Would you like to go out? Dinner and a film?
Her: That sounds nice.*
*He’s hot. I’m on an average salary, need a new dress and nice pair of shoes. Shit, my perfume ran out, and the price per barrel went up to seventy three dollars. One punnet of strawberries shot up to four dollars. Milk has gone up forty cents. Going Dutch never looked so good, if I can afford it. I’ll agree, then take a rain check.
Miam-miam !
^ ^ Kikoo ma coquine source ! ^ ^ Tendresse des têtards à plus tard ^ ^ L’onde est livrée après hommage au sarcophage ^ ^ Ma canne de petit bambou chérie^ ^Je trottine en ternaire jusqu’à la rivière ^ ^ Les doigts gratouillant la terre : je trouve un ver ! ^ ^ Bon, sur l’hameçon, il est moins mignon ^ ^ Demi sieste sur la douce jade ^ ^ Mes fentes photoniques fixées au bouchon ^ ^ Dès les premières prises, j’enfile les gougeons sur une longue tige et oui d’émeraude ^ ^ Ce coin enchante tout ^ ^ Le ronron du moulin à eau : sûrement un château caché ^ ^ A la satiété de la pèche ma salive est future ^ ^ Ô la friture de mon élixir à nageoires ! ^ ^ Merci au miam-miam du don de la verdure naturelle ^ ^
Hidden Messages That Reveal Confessions
repetitions of your love roll in reverse, illuminating the nerve endings throughout my body -- it cuts like a knife.
my love she drives a fast red rocket
you dopple, you hum.
the radar clocked you
at 10,000 m.p.h.—
a modern phenomenon,
and yet such silky skin.
when the doppler boys
get a load of this, they’re
going to want your number,
want to put your secret
in a bottle and sell it.
you and your crazy manners—
where they take you next?
the radar clocked you
at 10,000 m.p.h.—
a modern phenomenon,
and yet such silky skin.
when the doppler boys
get a load of this, they’re
going to want your number,
want to put your secret
in a bottle and sell it.
you and your crazy manners—
where they take you next?
under the blow of stars
I’d like to give you the night
But what will you give me in exchange ?
I can give you my body
You will do what you want
You will offered my breach
Don’t you smell the odour yet?
Do you think of the end of the night?
What will we do tomorrow?
Perhaps you will be far
Or you ‘ll forget me
It does not interest me
I just want now
And do not see about tomorrow
Our history is just a separation
A long separation
Like fabric wich tears
softly
In a negligeable way
Unperceivable
But nevertheless...
Yes! Here.
Like the canopy of heaven
Who cracks
Under the blow of stars
My love.
But what will you give me in exchange ?
I can give you my body
You will do what you want
You will offered my breach
Don’t you smell the odour yet?
Do you think of the end of the night?
What will we do tomorrow?
Perhaps you will be far
Or you ‘ll forget me
It does not interest me
I just want now
And do not see about tomorrow
Our history is just a separation
A long separation
Like fabric wich tears
softly
In a negligeable way
Unperceivable
But nevertheless...
Yes! Here.
Like the canopy of heaven
Who cracks
Under the blow of stars
My love.
The Muse Does Serve The Hero
The muse does serve the hero
And through him does it live
To inspire some other
To a greater deed.
The hero in turn
Must suffer to overcome
The human weaknesses
That all are inheritance to
And there by achieve
The single minded deed
That the muse pushes him to
And through him does it live
To inspire some other
To a greater deed.
The hero in turn
Must suffer to overcome
The human weaknesses
That all are inheritance to
And there by achieve
The single minded deed
That the muse pushes him to
Unchecked Minds
I had been out of work for thirteen months when there came the time when I had to join a course for my self improvement in the areas of CV making and general job search activity. This was of course not due to my own divining but instead was as a result of certain initiatives laid out by the work and pensions department. It was yet again trying to revamp the welfare state into a more streamlined and efficient organisation, its various organs working as hard as can be expected to invigorate we job shy youths, and some old, to pass our time more actively in the work area. Their version of work being of the paying and full time kind, our form of hell that is. Our ultimate betrayal to a lifetimes studying at the table, fending off cries of wastrel and layabout from relatives and old fashioned old men with long moustaches and old ideas about a days work and the fact that they pay taxes - codswallop! We have the right to walk the streets like anybody else. The maintenance of a well stocked pool of fit and efficient non workers is our mission, not the passive submission to a scandalous work ethic contradicting the real need for activity in the work markets. Work being in reality a social control acting in much the same way as school, the training place for work. That everybody should file in and line up and be at attendance otherwise how could they possibly control us? What would people do without work? They would lounge about and do pointless activities just in order to pass the time. Their unchecked minds would run riot without the sensible and firm controls of leadership only to be found in the rigid structure of the workplace, full time not part-time.
I walked tentatively through the double swing doors. Before meeting the course leader I stood taking in the scene that lay before me. The first impression was of the smell, the room being used, I found out, as a public bar in the day time and stank of stale beer and fag smoke. The sound of constant singing with awkward drumming backbeat came through the semi-permanent left wall, under which you could see feet moving. On the makeshift tables gathered in the long room lay strewn around an array of newspapers taken apart and half read. Towards one end of this display before me lay, or sat, a woman with her head and arms sunk downwards in a heap across an open newspaper, making no sound, in the midst of some sort of seizure maybe, as if having dropped dead in mid read, gravity had caused the front of her forehead to fall upon the beer ringed Formica coated chipboard table. I turned my head slowly around, eyes passing the worn out nicotine grey sofas lined along the side of the long room. Suddenly I found Bob the course leader up close and in my face, standing and introducing himself with interview like formality, beckoning me towards a scruffy looking moulded plastic seat standing opposite a desk, informing me that he would explain how it all works and everything, thanks for coming, I’m waiting for two others, no point starting till then.
__________In the night factory~
I walked tentatively through the double swing doors. Before meeting the course leader I stood taking in the scene that lay before me. The first impression was of the smell, the room being used, I found out, as a public bar in the day time and stank of stale beer and fag smoke. The sound of constant singing with awkward drumming backbeat came through the semi-permanent left wall, under which you could see feet moving. On the makeshift tables gathered in the long room lay strewn around an array of newspapers taken apart and half read. Towards one end of this display before me lay, or sat, a woman with her head and arms sunk downwards in a heap across an open newspaper, making no sound, in the midst of some sort of seizure maybe, as if having dropped dead in mid read, gravity had caused the front of her forehead to fall upon the beer ringed Formica coated chipboard table. I turned my head slowly around, eyes passing the worn out nicotine grey sofas lined along the side of the long room. Suddenly I found Bob the course leader up close and in my face, standing and introducing himself with interview like formality, beckoning me towards a scruffy looking moulded plastic seat standing opposite a desk, informing me that he would explain how it all works and everything, thanks for coming, I’m waiting for two others, no point starting till then.
__________In the night factory~
To the World Leaders
.
To the World Leaders
for the dead, the dying, and the condemned
You've seen the pictures:
.....photographs whose flesh can't crumble
..........beneath makeshift sheets -
.....images that won't rot or reek
..........or raise cheers from beyond the wall.
You've read the words, but not heard
.....the voices or the sirens wailing
..........before fire balls fall into the streets
..........where children played - where mothers
.....paw and pray over their still remains.
You looked beyond the window
.....before bombs and blowflies
.........were called to do god's work,
.....before the bones were hung,
..........like pale and brittle curtains, shading the view.
It was easier then to look away from featureless faces
.....to pretend that God is Love
..........but how, now, do you not recognize the faceless skulls
.....that are the face of self-righteous hatred?
_______________________________
To the World Leaders
for the dead, the dying, and the condemned
You've seen the pictures:
.....photographs whose flesh can't crumble
..........beneath makeshift sheets -
.....images that won't rot or reek
..........or raise cheers from beyond the wall.
You've read the words, but not heard
.....the voices or the sirens wailing
..........before fire balls fall into the streets
..........where children played - where mothers
.....paw and pray over their still remains.
You looked beyond the window
.....before bombs and blowflies
.........were called to do god's work,
.....before the bones were hung,
..........like pale and brittle curtains, shading the view.
It was easier then to look away from featureless faces
.....to pretend that God is Love
..........but how, now, do you not recognize the faceless skulls
.....that are the face of self-righteous hatred?
_______________________________
tHE aBSENCE oF sKY*7
Almsman’s Sherry
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
uNPROFOR-1993*
banjowood
you smell like banjowood
and creosote
saxhorn yellow skin peels
a pillory of origami cranes
and flaying
you smell like banjowood
and creosote
saxhorn yellow skin peels
a pillory of origami cranes
and flaying
Broken Vase
I dropped a vase and broke it while listening to a record. So I just played the record backwards until the vase came together again on the floor and hopped up to my hands.
thE hUMIDEX7*
The Broadsheet of Your Back
on the broadsheet of your back
I write a lovenote
with the quill of my lips
on the whetstone of your thighs
I scrawl a lustnote
with the cod of my tongue
Marzipan
skin, treacle honeyed like marzipan
honed smooth, and the crazing
beyond words, simple, yet so
wordless, an avarice that schemes
and hungers, for a mouthful of
skin, scalloped, yet honeyed, like
marzipan; texture’s like phrases, yet
wordless, articulating the crazing, so
far removed, yet nearing, closing in
on the nectar of skin, so nurturing, yet
always hard and scheming, like marzipan
splitting your lips, blood honeyed, crazed
yet unable to sing
Afterbirth: crying over spilt milk
When each of us is stuck to the other
with a mortar of sweat sweet milk and the sun setting into our evening
my hair already tangled up knotted in the hot hours
amidst heaped pillows
I discover I have had enough of the cut
and jab of your kneading fingers
As I stoop to nibble
whimsy tarts herself up as a cocktail waitress
turns the half moon into a wedge of lime sucked to shreds
brings me the idea of fingernails in wine to tell the future
all your moons pared down to the tang of tannins
the flick of keratin against the crystalline ring of whimsy laughing
at the crook of my back at the let down
of hours in the same soft pose
And as I wonder what the soft shreds
sifted into the empty bowl of my belly would say
whimsy sasses suggests that I might as well try
scrying the spilt milk
the fat drops
that fall on your belly your back
before they soak in
link
with a mortar of sweat sweet milk and the sun setting into our evening
my hair already tangled up knotted in the hot hours
amidst heaped pillows
I discover I have had enough of the cut
and jab of your kneading fingers
As I stoop to nibble
whimsy tarts herself up as a cocktail waitress
turns the half moon into a wedge of lime sucked to shreds
brings me the idea of fingernails in wine to tell the future
all your moons pared down to the tang of tannins
the flick of keratin against the crystalline ring of whimsy laughing
at the crook of my back at the let down
of hours in the same soft pose
And as I wonder what the soft shreds
sifted into the empty bowl of my belly would say
whimsy sasses suggests that I might as well try
scrying the spilt milk
the fat drops
that fall on your belly your back
before they soak in
link
Why Not Be A Writer?
'I am astonished that some crook has not had the idea of opening a writing school', said Arthur Cravan in 1914.
'Why not be a writer?' asks an ad for The Writers' Bureau, Cravan's prophetic vision of which obviously led to his despairing disappearance in 1918.
Where to start? Because I'm talentless, because I've never read any books, because I spend all day eating crisps and watching television, because I don't own a word processor and am functionally illiterate: will that do?
'Chris Fenn, Aberdeenshire' would disagree. He has a monthly column in four magazines and occasionally writes for health magazines too.'
Christina Jones, Oxfordshire''s 'first three novels are all best-sellers!' So she'd disagree too. Her life 'has changed completely.'
Asked for advice to would-be writers, Raymond Chandler said: 'I have done everything from giving would-be writers money to live on, to plotting and rewriting their stories for them, and so far I have found it all waste. The people whom God or nature intended to be writers find their own answers, and those who have to ask are impossible to help. They are merely people who want to be writers.'People who want to be writers aren't writers, in other words. Writers are people who write. Wanting to or not doesn't come into it.
Finally, how long can it possibly take for a letter to be delivered? 'I was paid a £25,000 advance for my novel "Red"', says 'Jon Eagle, Essex'. 'I look forward to receiving my Certificate of Competence.' It says that on every ad for the Writers' Bureau I've seen. Maybe it isn't coming, Jon: maybe you've been had. Maybe you're not certifiably competent after all. Have you been writing without a licence? Expect a knock on the door any time soon.
'Why not be a writer?' asks an ad for The Writers' Bureau, Cravan's prophetic vision of which obviously led to his despairing disappearance in 1918.
Where to start? Because I'm talentless, because I've never read any books, because I spend all day eating crisps and watching television, because I don't own a word processor and am functionally illiterate: will that do?
'Chris Fenn, Aberdeenshire' would disagree. He has a monthly column in four magazines and occasionally writes for health magazines too.'
Christina Jones, Oxfordshire''s 'first three novels are all best-sellers!' So she'd disagree too. Her life 'has changed completely.'
Asked for advice to would-be writers, Raymond Chandler said: 'I have done everything from giving would-be writers money to live on, to plotting and rewriting their stories for them, and so far I have found it all waste. The people whom God or nature intended to be writers find their own answers, and those who have to ask are impossible to help. They are merely people who want to be writers.'People who want to be writers aren't writers, in other words. Writers are people who write. Wanting to or not doesn't come into it.
Finally, how long can it possibly take for a letter to be delivered? 'I was paid a £25,000 advance for my novel "Red"', says 'Jon Eagle, Essex'. 'I look forward to receiving my Certificate of Competence.' It says that on every ad for the Writers' Bureau I've seen. Maybe it isn't coming, Jon: maybe you've been had. Maybe you're not certifiably competent after all. Have you been writing without a licence? Expect a knock on the door any time soon.
And the deceased lead you towards reality
And the deceased lead you towards reality
Cycling their spiritual instructions and appearances
as eventually they recognize their birth.
Eventually, and simply put, they are persons with appearances.
Inspirational surely, and further on in situation
with pure, natural, mental teachers.
You’ve heard this before so don’t get distracted
Keep on hand their spiritual instructions
Own that which leads you to distinguish
Their suspended and frightening visages
Which in any other cycle would be recognized
By their odd countenance, and funereal studies that
Reflect the ambiguous opportunities that you
Have helped present with the interdiction
Of your very own existence
Save these instructions for travelers
Such as yourself
They may help you to recognize the futility
Of continuing with this
Faulty line of reasoning,
Of continuing where you are no longer needed.
Joan Unhesitatingly Said
"I never read a good flarf poem," said Joan, in a low voice and musingly.”but you might don't know my chinese name.” We were told that a few days after her sentencing the Judge went to Joan's cell for a visit. “You don't have to know flarf to fully hate it,” says Joan. The judge used a male enhancement pump, shaved and oiled his nether region, and pleasured himself. “Not only do I have to master flarf, I also have to finish some book about a guy who turns into a bug.” Valerio’s answer to this one went to the core of the problem: Joan's too formal for a woman. “I had a heavy, deep feeling in my chest and could not get comfortable," Joan says. Joan's not so lucky; she gets caught; she then trips. “I've always enjoyed poetry (and prose) that takes an established sequence that means nothing to me,” a stoned Joan advised Dylan.“This is 'Snuggles', my little bluebird, and here’s the rutabaga you always ask for.” Joan smiles a fake smile at Iris, who takes off again. The cashier tells her she forgot the milk. "Nothing is on my mind. I always understood that poetry was at least half about My Photo.” But just as Joan lays out dating rules for her teen poetry students, Luke says to Kevin, "Dude…you missed, like, the greatest show.” Joan, just a few feet away, slides into a size 14 pair of jeans. “When we were young, I thought we were in the age of having good children.” Joan went to him whom she called her king and that was inspiring "Do you expect stupid people to love you?” Joan then curses England, and she is led away
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