I have a metal pie-plate screwed into my head with awl-pins and prickle. It keeps the sauce from dripping out and spoiling the front of my shirt, the same one I have been wearing for five days now. Things are getting darker, an absence of light filling up the space between me and the ceiling. I hear say, even though I am going deaf, that the absence of light signifies the on start of a fugue, a complete and utter mental collapse. Either the ceiling is falling or I am (en)fugue(d), on the brink of madness, even though the difference seems negligible. I would like some pie, or cake, or a small sliver of cheese manicotti. Perhaps there is some cake, pie or cheese manicotti on the ceiling. Maybe not, maybe I’m in a fugue but don’t know it, sauce dripping out of my head, manicotti, pie, cake, a bent pie plate, the front of my five-day old shirt soiled with insouciance. I am going to bed, please don’t call before eleven. I beg you, please.
The Variety of Force Majeure
Now Zarqawi has met his end
absolutely convinced we did
the right thing in Iraq
at a very significant rate
2006 will be the year of
'networked learning environments'
George Harrison, oh my god,
what are you doing here?
I can't see anyone trying
to bump off a Quidditch team
I am deeply ashamed
of everything I said
Don't panic, Gertrude'll find it
a long time ago I would never do this again
I wanted it to feel fragmented
'Mom, I love my job'
absolutely convinced we did
the right thing in Iraq
at a very significant rate
2006 will be the year of
'networked learning environments'
George Harrison, oh my god,
what are you doing here?
I can't see anyone trying
to bump off a Quidditch team
I am deeply ashamed
of everything I said
Don't panic, Gertrude'll find it
a long time ago I would never do this again
I wanted it to feel fragmented
'Mom, I love my job'
Poetry reading in a 5th class strip bar, in Tijuana
Ricardo Mendoza, Bibiana Padilla Maltos, Jen Vernon and Roberto Castillo
positively if am
best thing since pen and paper w/
lines to write on (typing this electron
icly) / positively charged
an gnat omy
once brutish words hang lifeless from purple lips
missing brainwave transference as virgin believes
(70) sex has to be better than this
new borns daily test these words with increasing power
eager hands try stuff them wide as crumbs
nestle in the folds of their clothes. hungry
toddlers need not
so often cry for their mothers. the blame
is shifted to soSIGHity as the process
feeds on the deeper folds of adolescence
my crumb has collected sediment from
the drOWNing and i am an accumulated cloud
of hive minded individualistic putty with free thinking
meanders threatening ox bow lake
seclusion - so clues you in - so closed you in
the constant train-track (nowhatyour'gonnasayweardoesthisfitin)
harmony soothes me
bedlam
little golden IFshies dont just nibble at my toes
devOUR
a man came and asked for the shirt
off my back
i gave it to him - pardoned the mess
gGo to bed lamb
gGgo to bed lamb
goto 70
go to bed
lines to write on (typing this electron
icly) / positively charged
an gnat omy
once brutish words hang lifeless from purple lips
missing brainwave transference as virgin believes
(70) sex has to be better than this
new borns daily test these words with increasing power
eager hands try stuff them wide as crumbs
nestle in the folds of their clothes. hungry
toddlers need not
so often cry for their mothers. the blame
is shifted to soSIGHity as the process
feeds on the deeper folds of adolescence
my crumb has collected sediment from
the drOWNing and i am an accumulated cloud
of hive minded individualistic putty with free thinking
meanders threatening ox bow lake
seclusion - so clues you in - so closed you in
the constant train-track (nowhatyour'gonnasayweardoesthisfitin)
harmony soothes me
bedlam
little golden IFshies dont just nibble at my toes
devOUR
a man came and asked for the shirt
off my back
i gave it to him - pardoned the mess
gGo to bed lamb
gGgo to bed lamb
goto 70
go to bed
trabajo en lo hechado a perder
este instrumento cada vez más
claro, más eficaz
más fino
este instrumento cada vez más
afilado, más ácido
más agudo
este instrumento
cada vez más inútil
Straight Eight
I guess Ginsberg and like that
are maybe out there howling still
from their places in the pantheon
somewhere in the nevernever beyond
(and who knew at the time that they too
would join in it their own good time?)
but really, the beats are dead
and it's a damn shame because
I would've liked just once
to stack strung-together words
onto endless taped-together teletype rolls
into unpunctuated poems that read out loud
sound like vast syncopated train wrecks
at the moment of maximum mangled beauty
typing furiously on a used portable Smith-Corona
wrapped up in the dusty gleaming womb
of the back seat of a Packard straight eight
cacophony of differential bearings wailing harmony
atop the thumping bass mains of the overheated motor
in a headlong mad coast-to-coast charge
urgent but for destination and direction
with Moriarty hunched over the steering wheel
riffing on espresso amphetamine and Night Train
and the holy flow of his own spoken soundtrack
constant spilling hipster stream of consciousness
scatting free atop the clattering counterpoint
of the erratic erotic eight-to-the-broken-bar
jazz clattering of the typewriter.
are maybe out there howling still
from their places in the pantheon
somewhere in the nevernever beyond
(and who knew at the time that they too
would join in it their own good time?)
but really, the beats are dead
and it's a damn shame because
I would've liked just once
to stack strung-together words
onto endless taped-together teletype rolls
into unpunctuated poems that read out loud
sound like vast syncopated train wrecks
at the moment of maximum mangled beauty
typing furiously on a used portable Smith-Corona
wrapped up in the dusty gleaming womb
of the back seat of a Packard straight eight
cacophony of differential bearings wailing harmony
atop the thumping bass mains of the overheated motor
in a headlong mad coast-to-coast charge
urgent but for destination and direction
with Moriarty hunched over the steering wheel
riffing on espresso amphetamine and Night Train
and the holy flow of his own spoken soundtrack
constant spilling hipster stream of consciousness
scatting free atop the clattering counterpoint
of the erratic erotic eight-to-the-broken-bar
jazz clattering of the typewriter.
Codes (accounts)
Codes? (conversations in accounts from the charity in London)
We want to change it and they don`t know how much it is going to cost they`ve still got to pay for the old one. I can see it not happening - you know what they`re like! They might want to ditch it and go with something else. We might want to do this that and the other with the codes. There should be less codes anyway. Whatever they want so long as it is based on the current. They don`t understand it anyway. He wanted me to create a code based on one in the budget book. If you follow them they are going to create how many hundreds of codes? It makes no difference anyway and then she ends up coding it to another account anyway. She said that she it not too keen on JPI and so on. But then one ... I think it is their bit of power they can do this. People create how many hundreds of codes? There must be dozens of them.
We want to change it and they don`t know how much it is going to cost they`ve still got to pay for the old one. I can see it not happening - you know what they`re like! They might want to ditch it and go with something else. We might want to do this that and the other with the codes. There should be less codes anyway. Whatever they want so long as it is based on the current. They don`t understand it anyway. He wanted me to create a code based on one in the budget book. If you follow them they are going to create how many hundreds of codes? It makes no difference anyway and then she ends up coding it to another account anyway. She said that she it not too keen on JPI and so on. But then one ... I think it is their bit of power they can do this. People create how many hundreds of codes? There must be dozens of them.
Cities
The past is a city I've built up in the mind.
It is neither in the city out of whose grimy summer
I slipped out into the confused clamour of the world,
The city that I abandoned along with my childhood,
Nor in the city that grudgingly lets me walk its streets,
Looks askance at my outlandish shadow and mutters
Sullenly. Neither of these, but a shadow city of faces,
Of smells and private sorrows, of images disintegrating
Like old collonial bungalows in my head. And so
A rain-pungent afternoon in Bangalore becomes
the passage fare to paper boats plying on puddles
Collected in a street I no longer remember.
But I remember the puddles. And then,
The morning's newspaper launches images at me
Of yahweh's missiles imprinting their wrath
On uncomprehending children, and suddenly
I remember, through the dreams of vanished men,
The ships of the purple city, cedar scented swans
of the sea, that no longer glide up,
Phoinix like, from the living flame,
The unutterable terror of the four-pronged name.
It is neither in the city out of whose grimy summer
I slipped out into the confused clamour of the world,
The city that I abandoned along with my childhood,
Nor in the city that grudgingly lets me walk its streets,
Looks askance at my outlandish shadow and mutters
Sullenly. Neither of these, but a shadow city of faces,
Of smells and private sorrows, of images disintegrating
Like old collonial bungalows in my head. And so
A rain-pungent afternoon in Bangalore becomes
the passage fare to paper boats plying on puddles
Collected in a street I no longer remember.
But I remember the puddles. And then,
The morning's newspaper launches images at me
Of yahweh's missiles imprinting their wrath
On uncomprehending children, and suddenly
I remember, through the dreams of vanished men,
The ships of the purple city, cedar scented swans
of the sea, that no longer glide up,
Phoinix like, from the living flame,
The unutterable terror of the four-pronged name.
summer sol
summer soul
stitch -
lost friend
ships made of paper
thin wreck
collection
summer soul
stitch -
tap(es
tree swing
me dad
die
from your limb
er
can’t lasti
city
lights
befall the crowd
play ball
calls
boys
of want some
her
stitch -
lost friend
ships made of paper
thin wreck
collection
summer soul
stitch -
tap(es
tree swing
me dad
die
from your limb
er
can’t lasti
city
lights
befall the crowd
play ball
calls
boys
of want some
her
tEMPERANCE and pROHIBITION
Should you care to listen, I will tell you about the grisliness of alcoholism, the Dantean declension into hell. I have been there, crawling like a child on scabby knees, without a Virgil or a poet to show me the way back up, out of the horror of Dis’s hell. I climbed on the back of a behemoth, a monster, an obsession to repeat, to become again that which I feared and reviled, the colossus within, the ogre whose thirst is never slaked. I am here to tell you the story, the story of my ascension into hell, my fistfight with the beast, the colossus that seeks revenge for temperance and prohibition.
he and i
I in his subjectivity was very lonely.
He in his objectivity was very easy.
He and I finally got together,
in the love nest that is grammar.
I planted the seed of You in He,
which proved to be the first of many.
I bringing in the pay,
to bring up all the little They.
I wanted some little We.
In vain, for never did He provide any.
He in his objectivity was very easy.
He and I finally got together,
in the love nest that is grammar.
I planted the seed of You in He,
which proved to be the first of many.
I bringing in the pay,
to bring up all the little They.
I wanted some little We.
In vain, for never did He provide any.
I was pushed
I was pushed into the world
set in motion
wound on the stove and watched every second
perverted, hollowed, wooed, attacked
served, rejected, lifted and held – whispered about
I was pushed into the world
told to perform
given a monologue that should never be spoken
dropped on the “x”, I’ve seen men survive
but for this world, I was pushed
and fell, when set into motion
set in motion
wound on the stove and watched every second
perverted, hollowed, wooed, attacked
served, rejected, lifted and held – whispered about
I was pushed into the world
told to perform
given a monologue that should never be spoken
dropped on the “x”, I’ve seen men survive
but for this world, I was pushed
and fell, when set into motion
Moon Dust
If one was to go on one of those bizarre fair rides where your whole body (upright) revolves around a central globe; your feet on it’s mottled surface whilst the rest of your body is moved around various different axis points at tremendous speed, your head would be very like the moon, a moon with hair drawn from it in direct line with the Y axis. The craters of the moon, if one rakes ones fingernails over it, can seem painful and sore. The moon dust that falls is of a flaky texture that melts into the atmosphere and one will find a light covering like sieved flour on the various work surfaces inside your space.
The lines of hair, when grown too long, need cutting back, this is key; If grown too long fingers can then come and attack hair, becoming twisted and even causing strands to loosen and fall to the ground. The smoke of this is dust that can drift towards those darker, more vulnerable surfaces.
The lines of hair, when grown too long, need cutting back, this is key; If grown too long fingers can then come and attack hair, becoming twisted and even causing strands to loosen and fall to the ground. The smoke of this is dust that can drift towards those darker, more vulnerable surfaces.
in the night factory
Take me with you, 4
sparkling as
sparkling ass
sparkling all is change
issues all is change
advancing adding in
receding ringing
is
gone now go
take me with you
take you with me
with you with me
a writhe
un^cork
un^cork the bottled
elixir - her salt y..ess.
fresh from sea we'd
ask sir, cum
navigate my globes
but siren's shriek
ing down my block
ade robe
elixir - her salt y..ess.
fresh from sea we'd
ask sir, cum
navigate my globes
but siren's shriek
ing down my block
ade robe
the floor
shelter from the shelter's whine · sorrow holds the floor
nothing on that screen is mine · sorrow holds the floor
nothing works & that's okay · next to what's in store
forty storms of flak combine · sorrow holds the floor
sorrow lusts & sorrow howls · here & at the war
slow Graywyvern pours the wine · sorrow holds · sorrow holds the floor
nothing on that screen is mine · sorrow holds the floor
nothing works & that's okay · next to what's in store
forty storms of flak combine · sorrow holds the floor
sorrow lusts & sorrow howls · here & at the war
slow Graywyvern pours the wine · sorrow holds · sorrow holds the floor
god am bless erica
god am bless erica
am god Erica bless
bless God am Erica
God bless Am erica
GOD BLESS AMERICA
andeveryeach1
am god Erica bless
bless God am Erica
God bless Am erica
GOD BLESS AMERICA
andeveryeach1
Whatever
I hereby declare that Sparrow invented the catch-phrase Whatever on Feburary 6, 1986, at 6 p.m. I was there with my 12 children when Sparrow uttered the expression...it happened at the Life Cafe in the East Village, and I was wearing a croissant in my left nostril.
Ninjas in the Expansion Joints
we rose in the great gust of gifted good morning. we ran the slope to its downward friction, smack dab into all that we left. that was the point all along, evidence (the tracks of our shoes) to the contrary. stories always head to some plain of typical reaction. not to say that we posed, good friends. we just read too much. ninjas on the roofs of everywhere, cracked and blighty with all they've had to tell: these essences of implosion constitute an accepted governing. smudges in primary documents cover the estimates of the ruling class. it will only take time to disagree, and love still lasts longer. Last Language executes a question by wondering if all that sand was worth the fight. amazed, you might be, dear Reader in your association, to learn of battles mentioned in newspapers and other sites of presentation. did you think the Kennedy Camelot helped you out of bed? you were loving way before that. I saw that very fact in a particular cloud that came to me, possibly just recently. way before the Philippine nugget bore its registered fruit, way before those insinuations of practice thru out the organizing system of economic contempt, the ball had rolled and rolled. too many people trip on the wording, haha, laughs Excellent English. Tundra sweats a bundle with the effort of the lower clime. Yeti looks freak out in the city that we share. we've expanded easily, to subways, parks and all the implements. this gestures toward the closing number, like a bell in the gloaming. we love, in situations of desperate cooling, while the land cracks up good and solid. Everest snow will muscle down on our apt phrases, just as the champion army stops for a bunch of water to enliven future situational ways. how far, wondered Excellent English aloud (where the problem world exists in dots and dashes), will the information go? no one knows but the creek rises. a creek! I cry. my god, I am given to yell for the flourish of rocks worn smooth by the water's delight. why do I say delight in a gravitational imperative? because plain things surround darkened excesses. so we came to a bridge over a river, a dynamic landscape in every respect. the river looked cool and precious. the view gave us an image of integrity divided by the ratio of our attention. we crossed in a pathetic equation of interest and the spark made softer by the dilation of love. oh love, the great what. love sees wars, even, in the elemental press towards exacting a place from the edge of nowhere. discussion doesn't diminish the fret of finding more oil in the garden, we just wonder why our vote always kills. we're at the same loose ends as always, as Reader frankly can distill. Yeti, our distinguished colleague and less than upbeat Wookie, yowls something strange without benefit of a word. made plangent by the test, we all agree. the story takes its toll, as you, rare Reader, perfectly know.
Stèle du chemin de l'âme (Victor Segalen)
Stèle du chemin de l'âme |  |
Une insolite inscription horizontale : huit grands caractères, deux par deux, que l'on doit lire, non pas de la droite vers la gauche, mais à l'encontre, — et ce qui est plus,
Huit grands caractères inversés. Les passants clament : « Ignorance du graveur ! ou bien singularité impie ! » et, sans voir, ils ne s'attardent point.
o
Vous, ô vous, ne traduirez-vous pas ? Ces huit grands signes rétrogrades marquent le retour au tombeau et le CHEMIN DE L'ÂME, — ils ne guident point des pas vivants.
Si détournés de l'air doux aux poitrines, ils s'enfoncent dans la pierre ; si, fuyant la lumière, ils donnent dans la profondeur solide,
C'est, clairement, pour être lus au revers de l'espace, — lieu sans routes où cheminent fixement les yeux du mort.
+ Death Shall Have No Dominion + by Cliff Martinez (B.O Solaris).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)