Thetis Revenge...
No, elle n'a pas eu du sexe avec Zeus, c'est mieux si on lit une Mithologye Greque avant de parler .... ###
In Hoc Signo Vinces
Premium Citrus Plus?
50 years of defendingthe lifeline?
water resist 200m?
FM stereo / AM radio?
why can't you
say something
normal?
nothing but rain.
as we say out
here in the west,
"everything is cool."
undecide now!
(universal anything)
it's too early,
too late, too
light,
too
dark.
I'm drowning in
the morning snow --
daily star,
evening sun,
brutal impossibilities.
duck behind
the dumpster --
don't let the
searchlight
hit your skin
or you'll be scorched.
I'm a jazz trio
out of Germany.
I'm a can of
wizard.
I'm a beetle
with no leather boots.
(First appeared at :::nostress:::)
Untitled
Keep repeating to yourself. You’re going to die now. This is it. You’re looking up seeing the inside of the car trunk, and things aren’t looking so good, anymore.
The muffled voices carry a promise of what’s to come, for you, your remains.
Everything, you feel everything. The wet, the cold, the steel, the metal, the saliva, the blood. A small patch of skin uncovered, pressing into a rusty nail poking out of an old mat covered in dog hair. Empty bottles, rolling around, occasionally whacking your skull.
You’ve been closing your eyes and opening them, checking, feeling, pulsating. I’d say, you have like maybe three hours. The destination is taking some time, because there’s some people joining the group, but you don’t know that. You’re, haha, in the dark. You’re thinking about some strange things, like weird memories that seem to be growing out of the cracks in the pavement like rebellious flowers. Remember: cutting off your licorice and using it as a straw in your can of Coke.
Remember: when your friend laid down in a mud puddle for two Canadian dollars.
Remembering, like a ghost. You have no words left, and there isn’t, really, much to say. It’s sort of like the final stages of realizing how drunk you are, you’re going to stand up, and feel the soles of your feet turn into mush, goosh, oatmeal. Your knees will start to buckle and you’re finished. Some people might say, oh, yeah, a great time to think over the past, and sift through a million old memories, but when you’re this scared you lose control over the ability to do this act with reason and precision. You try to think of some good stuff. Good food, books, colors, animals. Instead, everything in your mind turns into one fucking dark panorama.
You think there might be snowflakes falling in through a hole in the trunk. But maybe not. Maybe those cold drops on your skin is your blood. Or gross old beer from those cans flying around. The thing is, its not so good to do much thinking in here, because all your thoughts feel more like time bombs. You’re saddened that you’re not going to be going out the way you wanted, in a burst of fire, combustion, explosion, preferably in a basement to propel full evisceration potential, the idea of your guts flying and splatting around and getting sliced and diced by glass, how funny, how satirical.
Something just went bunk. Someone in the back seat, banging around. But still, the cars going, somewhere. Three hours of nothing time. You ain’t missed.
The muffled voices carry a promise of what’s to come, for you, your remains.
Everything, you feel everything. The wet, the cold, the steel, the metal, the saliva, the blood. A small patch of skin uncovered, pressing into a rusty nail poking out of an old mat covered in dog hair. Empty bottles, rolling around, occasionally whacking your skull.
You’ve been closing your eyes and opening them, checking, feeling, pulsating. I’d say, you have like maybe three hours. The destination is taking some time, because there’s some people joining the group, but you don’t know that. You’re, haha, in the dark. You’re thinking about some strange things, like weird memories that seem to be growing out of the cracks in the pavement like rebellious flowers. Remember: cutting off your licorice and using it as a straw in your can of Coke.
Remember: when your friend laid down in a mud puddle for two Canadian dollars.
Remembering, like a ghost. You have no words left, and there isn’t, really, much to say. It’s sort of like the final stages of realizing how drunk you are, you’re going to stand up, and feel the soles of your feet turn into mush, goosh, oatmeal. Your knees will start to buckle and you’re finished. Some people might say, oh, yeah, a great time to think over the past, and sift through a million old memories, but when you’re this scared you lose control over the ability to do this act with reason and precision. You try to think of some good stuff. Good food, books, colors, animals. Instead, everything in your mind turns into one fucking dark panorama.
You think there might be snowflakes falling in through a hole in the trunk. But maybe not. Maybe those cold drops on your skin is your blood. Or gross old beer from those cans flying around. The thing is, its not so good to do much thinking in here, because all your thoughts feel more like time bombs. You’re saddened that you’re not going to be going out the way you wanted, in a burst of fire, combustion, explosion, preferably in a basement to propel full evisceration potential, the idea of your guts flying and splatting around and getting sliced and diced by glass, how funny, how satirical.
Something just went bunk. Someone in the back seat, banging around. But still, the cars going, somewhere. Three hours of nothing time. You ain’t missed.
top things to love about you
Your evil, its like, wordless.
There’s no home for it, no shelter. No way of excising this filth from underneath my skin, burn you away.
You’re really, diseased to the top of your snotty nose.
It wasn’t since my own father that I grew up, looked up and saw that it was possible to hate someone the way I hate you. Your unassuming fashion, the shamelessness, still you can look right through me, there’s absolutely no emotion there. I leave you to it, okay? I leave you to your preambles and disintegrations and amazing, scrupulous LIES of whores! You’re just really quite a fucking disgusting person.
Time passes, and still no tickets. No nothing, time passes and I really will retreat except for small pleasure, worthless. What’s the time? Don’t call me names, don’t tell me anything, its best if you all just disappear.
Many times sitting behind you, I’d see your neck, and could totally imagine, like, slamming an aluminum baseball bat into it. I really believed that sound would be like a crowd of pigeons taking off, a mercy on me, a complete aura of peace to erode all my doubts and pains, and then I’d use the bottom of the bat to crush your teeth out of your jaw, tie you up and strung from the ceiling and bat you around, listening to the ribs splattering around your insides. I’d like to shove things down your esophagus. Really, I think any of your orifices, I’d just want to stuff them. I’d like to see some emotion in those dead ugly eyes for once. Like to swatch you with some chains hard enough to break your nose, maybe, you don’t bring out the creativity in me, just the animal, just the brutality, the huge hatred for your existence, your certainty, its just a good fucking things us animals got separated and are far away. Imagining your hair I feel my mouth sweeten at the thought of tearing off your scalp with my teeth and grating them against your skull. I’d like to carve you up, once I got started don’t know if I could stop.
You’re just so, really, unbelievable. A total child. Pathetic. You’ve painted the way for me and changed the way I had to live, have to live, my future, fucker. It just sickens me to know you exist out there, and sometimes, once in awhile, you pop out of the woodwork, and remind me why, how much I despise you, how listening to the sound of your breath is like pulling a nail from the flesh under my foot.
Now, let’s color a picture pretty of you and your dumb saying, ect. All your fake bravado and huge ego that has no reason to be there, and your great acts of heroism, really just lies and so on, really I’m just fucking tired, as tired as can be, and I’m tired of really everything. Buying things is no fun anymore. There’s no fun to be had. Even the pain doesn’t seem to feel as good these days. What a lousy deal. Be cool to strike up some conversation sometime soon. Get out of this place. Soon, I think. Meanwhile I’m stuck waiting. Poor kid.
There’s no home for it, no shelter. No way of excising this filth from underneath my skin, burn you away.
You’re really, diseased to the top of your snotty nose.
It wasn’t since my own father that I grew up, looked up and saw that it was possible to hate someone the way I hate you. Your unassuming fashion, the shamelessness, still you can look right through me, there’s absolutely no emotion there. I leave you to it, okay? I leave you to your preambles and disintegrations and amazing, scrupulous LIES of whores! You’re just really quite a fucking disgusting person.
Time passes, and still no tickets. No nothing, time passes and I really will retreat except for small pleasure, worthless. What’s the time? Don’t call me names, don’t tell me anything, its best if you all just disappear.
Many times sitting behind you, I’d see your neck, and could totally imagine, like, slamming an aluminum baseball bat into it. I really believed that sound would be like a crowd of pigeons taking off, a mercy on me, a complete aura of peace to erode all my doubts and pains, and then I’d use the bottom of the bat to crush your teeth out of your jaw, tie you up and strung from the ceiling and bat you around, listening to the ribs splattering around your insides. I’d like to shove things down your esophagus. Really, I think any of your orifices, I’d just want to stuff them. I’d like to see some emotion in those dead ugly eyes for once. Like to swatch you with some chains hard enough to break your nose, maybe, you don’t bring out the creativity in me, just the animal, just the brutality, the huge hatred for your existence, your certainty, its just a good fucking things us animals got separated and are far away. Imagining your hair I feel my mouth sweeten at the thought of tearing off your scalp with my teeth and grating them against your skull. I’d like to carve you up, once I got started don’t know if I could stop.
You’re just so, really, unbelievable. A total child. Pathetic. You’ve painted the way for me and changed the way I had to live, have to live, my future, fucker. It just sickens me to know you exist out there, and sometimes, once in awhile, you pop out of the woodwork, and remind me why, how much I despise you, how listening to the sound of your breath is like pulling a nail from the flesh under my foot.
Now, let’s color a picture pretty of you and your dumb saying, ect. All your fake bravado and huge ego that has no reason to be there, and your great acts of heroism, really just lies and so on, really I’m just fucking tired, as tired as can be, and I’m tired of really everything. Buying things is no fun anymore. There’s no fun to be had. Even the pain doesn’t seem to feel as good these days. What a lousy deal. Be cool to strike up some conversation sometime soon. Get out of this place. Soon, I think. Meanwhile I’m stuck waiting. Poor kid.
sitting there
Sitting there looking at you,
Looking at me.
What is seen is what the mind wants to see,
As you look at me, looking at you as the mirror clouds over.
Juggling apples and oranges, toss in a pineapple,
Into the fruit salad of which an aroma rises.
It filters through your nostrils and you want a taste,
But as you begin to fathom the journey across to the orchard that is.
I turn and run, to get lost in the vast array of trees that spread out,
Into the greenery and into the sweet plumes of scents that continue to rise.
Beckoning me to places that you would like to follow,
Yet each foot is carefully planted on the soil which has been sown for you.
Seeds of expectations, roads to travel - not for you, but for?
Hermetically sealed, each foot of yours stands still and your eyes dance,
Over each small hill and into each crevice, looking.
Looking for something that could very well be me,
Or it could be anything you have wished each day of your life to be.
But the familiar odour of your orchard is all your senses know,
Although they care to travel, it is only a wish amongst all wishes.
Into the street I have turned and the soil changes transforming into a dirt road,
Something yet untouched by the hand of modern machinery.
Marvelling at this, a land so untouched sure I think of you standing,
Way behind, somewhere once upon a time ago.
Standing and pondering, looking over horizons asking yourself questions,
Of what the hillsides look like on the other side, and whether there is in fact a harbour.
For it has been read, it has been spoken of between you and I,
It was my wish to find it, which germinated into a seed that implanted itself somewhere I cannot name,
Yet for you it was a dream, and like all dreams the vision fades into a memory.
Of what could have been in the possibility of time had you desired it possible,
Yet you reclined on your rocking chair, took the pipe in your hand, lit it and watched the sun rise and fall.
At each turn, as the streets change colours and feature variations of scents,
My feet stumble upon a marketplace and I hear a voice - very much like yours.
It speaks of the best fruit, the most spectacular colours and for only half the price two bags may be bought,
Nearing it, yet fearing it, my eyes dart forth to catch one glimpse,
Into the orchard that is spread out on the stall and the colour red catches my eye.
Red shiny apples all in a row,
Red the colour speaking of passions, passions of which you and I used to know.
The smell so fragrant yet so bittersweet,
Taking me to the very place where you have planted your feet.
In one second, plumes of thoughts that swirl up around me and want to take me to their home,
Yet it is not my place, it may have once been.
A memory in the marketplace,
What you and I could have been.
Looking at me.
What is seen is what the mind wants to see,
As you look at me, looking at you as the mirror clouds over.
Juggling apples and oranges, toss in a pineapple,
Into the fruit salad of which an aroma rises.
It filters through your nostrils and you want a taste,
But as you begin to fathom the journey across to the orchard that is.
I turn and run, to get lost in the vast array of trees that spread out,
Into the greenery and into the sweet plumes of scents that continue to rise.
Beckoning me to places that you would like to follow,
Yet each foot is carefully planted on the soil which has been sown for you.
Seeds of expectations, roads to travel - not for you, but for?
Hermetically sealed, each foot of yours stands still and your eyes dance,
Over each small hill and into each crevice, looking.
Looking for something that could very well be me,
Or it could be anything you have wished each day of your life to be.
But the familiar odour of your orchard is all your senses know,
Although they care to travel, it is only a wish amongst all wishes.
Into the street I have turned and the soil changes transforming into a dirt road,
Something yet untouched by the hand of modern machinery.
Marvelling at this, a land so untouched sure I think of you standing,
Way behind, somewhere once upon a time ago.
Standing and pondering, looking over horizons asking yourself questions,
Of what the hillsides look like on the other side, and whether there is in fact a harbour.
For it has been read, it has been spoken of between you and I,
It was my wish to find it, which germinated into a seed that implanted itself somewhere I cannot name,
Yet for you it was a dream, and like all dreams the vision fades into a memory.
Of what could have been in the possibility of time had you desired it possible,
Yet you reclined on your rocking chair, took the pipe in your hand, lit it and watched the sun rise and fall.
At each turn, as the streets change colours and feature variations of scents,
My feet stumble upon a marketplace and I hear a voice - very much like yours.
It speaks of the best fruit, the most spectacular colours and for only half the price two bags may be bought,
Nearing it, yet fearing it, my eyes dart forth to catch one glimpse,
Into the orchard that is spread out on the stall and the colour red catches my eye.
Red shiny apples all in a row,
Red the colour speaking of passions, passions of which you and I used to know.
The smell so fragrant yet so bittersweet,
Taking me to the very place where you have planted your feet.
In one second, plumes of thoughts that swirl up around me and want to take me to their home,
Yet it is not my place, it may have once been.
A memory in the marketplace,
What you and I could have been.
Attribute Desiree
Desired attributes in a perfect lover-Not according to me, according to Miguel Cervantes. And I agree.
AsinineBlethering
CurmudgeoninglyDenseEmptyheaded
FutileGripingHypocriticalIntractableJuvenileKnowall
LoafingMeddlingNitickingOdiousPuerileQuerulousStupid
TetchyUninspiringVulgarWhiningXenophobicYobbishZerorated
AsinineBlethering
CurmudgeoninglyDenseEmptyheaded
FutileGripingHypocriticalIntractableJuvenileKnowall
LoafingMeddlingNitickingOdiousPuerileQuerulousStupid
TetchyUninspiringVulgarWhiningXenophobicYobbishZerorated
tHREE-fINGERED kNOTS*
Its one o’clock AM, time for sleep, cold compresses and sheepshanks: I never did master knot-tying or scarf-toggling, or a scout’s three-fingered salute. As much as I tried, I tied palsied knots and loose bolos. I remember the tuck of my bottom being paddled with a hard moccasin, the kind worn by reconnoitres and aging bald men with too much time on their hands and stale breath. And the assistant with the gamy leg and blunt tonsure cut, and the mint dross in the corners of his mouth that reminded me of mothballs and stucco. Sleep is never as simple as it seems, nor are memories and knots and a three-fingered salute.
av(Ant-Guard
if no matter how
high-te(a)ch
you get
God is backwards
compatible
like remembering a lyric
instrumental.
if death .cab installing
sprouted poesies
spray av(Ant-Guard
high-te(a)ch
you get
God is backwards
compatible
like remembering a lyric
instrumental.
if death .cab installing
sprouted poesies
spray av(Ant-Guard
dANTE'S pANTALOONS
I hunt and collect scats, fecal spore left behind by a beast with a flyswatter tail and a caudal head. He/It rides a child’s bicycle made to look like a wisp jet, wings spanning 50000 feet or more. It/He lives in the Australian outback, worms and head lice, three-legged ungulates tended by cow herders with cat-o-nine tail flails and leather wineskins: the hunted and collected, all one spore in the fecal fatality of child’s bicycles and bomber jets; a morel for those of us who still think that Dante wore pantaloons and a quail plume hat.
up the mounting, down the shadyside
traduce sugarpine
air in this altitude
makes me cry out
for mother, she’s
going mad below.
air in this altitude
makes me cry out
for mother, she’s
going mad below.
The wrong side of capitalism
The wrong side of capitalism
i forgot about this wonderful blog which i used
to have linked. ages back. when . blogs
ran free.
there's some great stuff there, kids.
robin hood & the merry chase for nirvana
posts august 17-8 (chez Brim) were varied and multifarious and
you Brimmers sure know how to Kick ass
happening happiness
love glove
potatoe mouth
sure ridge
cut back
reel sway
twitching curve
robin's tale of love and survival
beauty's pain
rough renewal
single such
doubles compats
Have Faith Will Travel
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
O Mister Duffy where
didja find that image
Oh, found it somewhere in the web
Love . B.C~~
mARXIST cOMORBIDITY*
I have awakened in a placental mush, 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.
iONIC pENTAMETER*
Dolomite, barite, tungsten, Ionic pen-timber, to hell and {not} back, you heathen bastard: sew-n-knit {her a sweater} with wool and banter, Cantor's make good {old}wholesome bagels, boiled in Kosher water, Epsom brine 85 Vincennes Avenue or there abuts, in silk pa-jamas lined with rarebits fur and otter hair(suet), come to think of {sh}it, I like my melbas dry and wafer-thin with a side-plate of pickle allspice and banter. {tHANKS cLIFFORD}
response to cummings "Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal"
stole it from you mister
preach it
my country, still the
same, land of Inter
Net Banner and Double Your
Fun With A Million Things (to do
land of a Never Close
and Ted
Turner) of you i
whine:land of Affirmative Action and Drug Company Law Suit,
land about FBI Warning-
from every DVD
let freedom ring
all men. i must say pro-abortion, amongst the un
-beleaguered and otherwise stinking shit which
i can say (On TV) as its been okayed to do
that and this off beat lou read. i would
copyright trademark patent
rhymes, like Gillette Mach 3
shaving with the grain
since 1922! what a year of
Honing Of The Poetics (Case in point
i believe you, Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal
miserable prophet amidst the coffins
these vulture bio-violinists neroing down among my and your
twin towers-Rossana Podesta and Elizabeth Taylor were Just Too Good For Their Parts,
The lock upon my garden gate's a snail, that's what it is.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.
In his whatthefuck???
i dont get it!) well thats ok too
all those homegrown
mockingbirds Art is a Whore of Life!
a formula one:example, Race Your Car Into
A Wall and If It Isnt A Martyr It Isnt A
Hero therefore my cast of Friends let
us now sing each and all half-acidly A-
mer
i
ca, how
are
You. Dont you know
im your native son, like
all of you goody-got-the goods
delicate situation (Bobbit)
insert male tab into female slot--ugly
Paxilpushing-
disenchanted-bluepillbleeding-Get Back Im A Scientist
americans (who ten-to-one and with
upward remodeled eyes, it still hurts
but im still here, convulsing, now upon
another episode of Days of our lives
--how smugly
let out a tiny premeditative excuse me:What stinks?
ozone.
anything less would be uncivilized
preach it
my country, still the
same, land of Inter
Net Banner and Double Your
Fun With A Million Things (to do
land of a Never Close
and Ted
Turner) of you i
whine:land of Affirmative Action and Drug Company Law Suit,
land about FBI Warning-
from every DVD
let freedom ring
all men. i must say pro-abortion, amongst the un
-beleaguered and otherwise stinking shit which
i can say (On TV) as its been okayed to do
that and this off beat lou read. i would
copyright trademark patent
rhymes, like Gillette Mach 3
shaving with the grain
since 1922! what a year of
Honing Of The Poetics (Case in point
i believe you, Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal
miserable prophet amidst the coffins
these vulture bio-violinists neroing down among my and your
twin towers-Rossana Podesta and Elizabeth Taylor were Just Too Good For Their Parts,
The lock upon my garden gate's a snail, that's what it is.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.
In his whatthefuck???
i dont get it!) well thats ok too
all those homegrown
mockingbirds Art is a Whore of Life!
a formula one:example, Race Your Car Into
A Wall and If It Isnt A Martyr It Isnt A
Hero therefore my cast of Friends let
us now sing each and all half-acidly A-
mer
i
ca, how
are
You. Dont you know
im your native son, like
all of you goody-got-the goods
delicate situation (Bobbit)
insert male tab into female slot--ugly
Paxilpushing-
disenchanted-bluepillbleeding-Get Back Im A Scientist
americans (who ten-to-one and with
upward remodeled eyes, it still hurts
but im still here, convulsing, now upon
another episode of Days of our lives
--how smugly
let out a tiny premeditative excuse me:What stinks?
ozone.
anything less would be uncivilized
Party Time
(And how do you dare staring at me this way while I'm that nekkid ?!)
... From Wes Anderson's "The Royal Tenenbaums" with my beloved Bill Murray.
personal point of view :
Everytime I see the generic title of "A Little House in the Prairie" with the tiny sweety cutie Marie Ingals falling down into the high grass, I wonder out loud :
" Ain't she fed up by now of falling all the time in this high grass ?"
And immediately, i burst into mad laugh.
Any shrimp in the audience ?
News from the bottom of that bottle ...
Gerard Oberlé (some kind of our French Jim Harrison ...) said today :
"Great drunkards, the ones who drink all time and don't give a shit doing anything else are the very last free men ..."
It was written in that newspaper-slightly-left-wind-between-two-toasts-of-caviar and read by Ikea-sponsored-Boheme-lifestyle-"I met a real communist one day and guess what he was very gentle and good-mannered !"-gentry-side-real-estate-owner-narrow-minded-fucking-rotten-pig-of-"New Bourgeois" ...
"Great drunkards, the ones who drink all time and don't give a shit doing anything else are the very last free men ..."
It was written in that newspaper-slightly-left-wind-between-two-toasts-of-caviar and read by Ikea-sponsored-Boheme-lifestyle-"I met a real communist one day and guess what he was very gentle and good-mannered !"-gentry-side-real-estate-owner-narrow-minded-fucking-rotten-pig-of-"New Bourgeois" ...
on the subject of high art
while convalescing at the age of 18 from minor foot surgery that nevertheless kept the apprentice poet off his feet for a little more than 4 weeks/
he discovered the frescoes of michaelangelo in a big book his parents didn’t know they owned/
and supplied with a large mess of percodan/ horse pills he called them/ plus cartons of his beloved camels/
focused his attention to late night study/
not knowing what was studied/ buzzed/ ambient air grey and sooty
the tv tuned to reruns of the rockford files
he discovered the frescoes of michaelangelo in a big book his parents didn’t know they owned/
and supplied with a large mess of percodan/ horse pills he called them/ plus cartons of his beloved camels/
focused his attention to late night study/
not knowing what was studied/ buzzed/ ambient air grey and sooty
the tv tuned to reruns of the rockford files
E.cran
- Trêve et grève de ventre sans envie.
- Nos enfants, les poupées, aux commandes.
- Laisser hurler le luxe mille ans.
- Délayer avec une cuillère à guerre.
- La terre préchauffée au préalable.
- Une mixture de mâles équeutés.
- La virtuelle en idéelle et rebelle, s’il vous plait.
- Des noobs saupoudrés au drop tricheur.
- L’individu de masse écrane sa plénitude.
Fruit d'or
Au jeu du jardin-
Un miroir mange l’homme-
Bonté est aussi son nom-
Jeté sur sa peau- Gelée de drapeaux- Jeunesse à lames de fond intérieur-
Je tue mon île-
Et calame au sang les mille yeux de l’univers archi-haché-
L’archer en tirera des nouvelles-
Au bassin, si, si, si-
A,meri
A, meri
can we dance?
Claiming in
depend
ants
A, meri
do we sing?
in sin
See-Eerily
through fogs of
red
whites
and blue
proud to be
night meri
can
you spare some change?
can we dance?
Claiming in
depend
ants
A, meri
do we sing?
in sin
See-Eerily
through fogs of
red
whites
and blue
proud to be
night meri
can
you spare some change?
Shoeshining my Tennis Table Racket ...
"Leaking Christ"
or
"Jesus was a cruciverbist expert"
or
"Sudoku gamers end up in Hell !"
or
"Jesus was a cruciverbist expert"
or
"Sudoku gamers end up in Hell !"
Fat Momma ist Art
Would she end up in MoMa ?
Bring your strips Mummy !
Would she end up in MoMa ?
Bring your strips Mummy !
what really matters
under the summer rain
i stood transfixed,
gazing at the sky falling
into my cup
and everywhere around me,
aware of all the spaces
that continuously frayed
like the hem of my jeans
lined with dreams.
i sense the collision of verb tenses
in the dampness of the ground,
sense a pregnant universe
in the buoyancy of the grass.
and then i wonder
if my coffee tastes like rain.
i stood transfixed,
gazing at the sky falling
into my cup
and everywhere around me,
aware of all the spaces
that continuously frayed
like the hem of my jeans
lined with dreams.
i sense the collision of verb tenses
in the dampness of the ground,
sense a pregnant universe
in the buoyancy of the grass.
and then i wonder
if my coffee tastes like rain.
darling 1
yea I agree. too many short time pomes out there. or in here in.blogoverse. but so many bytes dont "believe in groups" or whatknot, what can u do.? i mean saying u dont believe in something is already to admit its force.
but then if yer working on some long epic thing and the epic simile is sort of the cell phone some imagine it is. well what can you do? i mean beats and stresss, shit dude, thats not the thing is it now?
but then if yer working on some long epic thing and the epic simile is sort of the cell phone some imagine it is. well what can you do? i mean beats and stresss, shit dude, thats not the thing is it now?
You lean that from that lecture Prof. Del g'ave and Chantal tol you about it?
no sweetyI learn it from her, Clair, P. and she was dialogue to my__
The prose pome cuts that out. ok. so in yer fictions there's a detail to narrative the abstracted poets don't have and then there's there overly personal onthe other side, right?
no machines at all.
I mean, you take Derek Walcott in Omeros he 's pretty good, right, lengthy long pome it is, called a novel, or chapters are named novels. he go a long way but he still work with a pretty iambic line and the terza rima thing.
in his newer book he admit he in the 19 century. he sad about that.
Shhh. Kiss me, we're on the radio. I want them to hear.
No!
Wheras Kazantakis in his long pomes he bust out of it. butin english language it be hard to bust out in long pome of them old lines and hexameters and stuff.
Yes? and ?
well so then how you gonna do that?
I don't and do.
It's a question of making other machines happen and letting the alternates float where they will. Antin was doing some of that in his talk books, right? and some others. But man do that now, you get hung. they dont like that shit. Or someone like Genet in his poem novels, or even Dickens and Burgess, they are long poem novels. right? and Martyrology too?
Honest, I am not certain as I did complete it reading it, I mean
kiss me,
No! we're on the air!
- Hide quoted text -
On 8/15/06, and you said
for me, the question in writing is how to get outside of the I, and the me, me, me, business. I think that's why I work on these fictions blogs, with their narrative elements;the fictionsofdeleuzeandguattari.blogspot.com which flirt with the edges of the personal but take it somewhere else. I mean it's more like particles and stuff.We all know pomes are filled with personal elements, but what interests me, at least most of the time, is how to transcend them....
As for long lines, well I love them, and the long line in American poetry is very strong, and goes back to Whitman, in Canada, its history picks up after WW 2 though some might argue that EJ Pratt was a precursor, with his sweeping "epic" line _ hexameter? _ and that then works through to all sorts of other poets. The question I guess, or the problem, perhaps, is how the long line gets too long and becomes a prose poem, which is beautiful because the regular lines of verse, how ever irregular they are , tends to fall into a sort of solo act. On the other hand, think of Ferlinghetti and what he can do with those short spaced out lines of his, especially in his first book . So long lines, short lines and their contrast, _ i suppose each of us takes where it feels right for us, and where it works best. I could go on all day, after all this is what I do.
to be honest honest I am not a creely fan or olsen either. but some rhythms stay not dem. but i can be rong as always. right ripe?
i mean its a machine, a medicine machine. some with bone of
oat know this. i work between the french line and english.
between the machine of its percolating rhythm
oh how swiftly they forget! (Show off! thats Walcott!)
______________
was this aired? I meant did it take to the air
in a trance, as in tobacco? oh the voices,
yea, the voices in her head. dig. and then some others . was coming to for to get her. i meant there was that
essay about Bronte right? as a poem essay: think it's easy to do stuff that like that? and when the book come out she was there with her easy chair, I sat down after reading reciteing my Kaddish thing;
other s was speedogonzales readoff spin jacket doom a mile a minute and what an ass she had. Her ass she had. was
cut up to doom, cup to .
and you said:
turn of the frigging radio Clifford.
I am the radio she said to him. Come into my radio glimpse.
o really? yes, shes the play of the thing.
Get off yer high horse and play the record, wldjya YearnY?
I want to dance he says. Dance, then dance, Writing is for the birds.
folk dont dig it, they want answers. turn the radio back . on to . off.
switch hidden carnal deities. she is my sapphic _uck. one cannot sensor the obvious it is invisible, and not risible.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ok baby we gotta date
yer hot
.
Persons
I could go on,
but first, I would have to begin.
But then, I would have to end.
He, having begun,
must go on.
To His end.
You have begun:
but must you go on,
or end, now, abruptly?
No. Do not leave.
You and I have just met
through the infinite difference
of eternal repetition.
I am He’s orphan.
I belong to no one
but you;
to They who have become
You.
Do not worry about my sex.
I am the result of what He
has made me –
Neuter.
Only you can leave,
I cannot.
Leave me now
To another
To disappear
but first, I would have to begin.
But then, I would have to end.
He, having begun,
must go on.
To His end.
You have begun:
but must you go on,
or end, now, abruptly?
No. Do not leave.
You and I have just met
through the infinite difference
of eternal repetition.
I am He’s orphan.
I belong to no one
but you;
to They who have become
You.
Do not worry about my sex.
I am the result of what He
has made me –
Neuter.
Only you can leave,
I cannot.
Leave me now
To another
To disappear
to kill
Where is school? On top of the hill
where the private parochial paradise
sits still. Encased in a burnt red brick
sticking in a niche of curdled milk
and lukewarm tête-à-têtes a brain
shrinks through fiberglass cables
and juggles three thoughts minus
the sugary donuts that growl inside
the torrent of wind knocking loose
tooth after tooth -blamed on the leak
in the roof seen as a technological
faux pas, they study fox paws sleep an hour
and get red marks. This- what I wish I was.
-to be young again, peers down the hall.
To Kill a Mockingbird three grades early
N- N- N- 280 pages skipping the N-
Whispers are the only cold reminder in the
outhouse barracks where the yellow snowflakes
are never taken off the windows because the
heat costs an extra paycheck but the teacher
is enough to warm the cheeks except next week
280 pages are due. This- what I wish I was -
In the early prime of a budding career when
nameless upon nameless girls can carve boys
as well as their initials on their desktops and binders
reminders that someone is looking for you.
No nap no recess basketball and acting.
Juggle and dribble on top of the hill
Down the hill trickling
where the fiberglass ends
The new kid is struggling
to fit like a peg.
I'm writing their papers and doing their math,
thirty miles north in university Hell.
Sometimes
I wish
I'd listened to Daddy
who sits in a grave,
Still...
wishing he was
where the private parochial paradise
sits still. Encased in a burnt red brick
sticking in a niche of curdled milk
and lukewarm tête-à-têtes a brain
shrinks through fiberglass cables
and juggles three thoughts minus
the sugary donuts that growl inside
the torrent of wind knocking loose
tooth after tooth -blamed on the leak
in the roof seen as a technological
faux pas, they study fox paws sleep an hour
and get red marks. This- what I wish I was.
-to be young again, peers down the hall.
To Kill a Mockingbird three grades early
N- N- N- 280 pages skipping the N-
Whispers are the only cold reminder in the
outhouse barracks where the yellow snowflakes
are never taken off the windows because the
heat costs an extra paycheck but the teacher
is enough to warm the cheeks except next week
280 pages are due. This- what I wish I was -
In the early prime of a budding career when
nameless upon nameless girls can carve boys
as well as their initials on their desktops and binders
reminders that someone is looking for you.
No nap no recess basketball and acting.
Juggle and dribble on top of the hill
Down the hill trickling
where the fiberglass ends
The new kid is struggling
to fit like a peg.
I'm writing their papers and doing their math,
thirty miles north in university Hell.
Sometimes
I wish
I'd listened to Daddy
who sits in a grave,
Still...
wishing he was
When Art Attacks
A piece of inflatable installation art in Durham has become detached from its moorings, killing two people.We ask: should more be done prevent attacks on society by works of ‘art’? – and remember some notable dates in the history of ‘When Art Attacks’.
1323: the Synod of Cortona hastily reimposes the Catholic Church’s ban on the colour yellow after a premature liberalisation leads to rampaging yellow-toned Virgin Mary altar pieces in the streets of Naples.
1599: Caravaggio self-portrait found guilty of sexual harassment of Vatican altar boys and innovatively sentenced to ‘not hanging’ (Caravaggio retaliates with his Well Hung series of 1601, revolutionising modern painting-hanging techniques).
1898: Giant man-eating water lily, disgruntled at depiction in previous Impressionist canvas, conceals itself inside Monet impasto, smothers four.1911: Cubist exhibition shut down after Juan Gris’s Man With Saxophone repeatedly pokes viewers in the shins with a pointed stick to soundtrack of badly out-of-tune jazz.
2003: Marina Abramovic’s ‘No One Leaves the Gallery Before They’ve Swallowed a Razor Blade’ exhibition runs into trouble when Tate Modern’s air conditioning fails and three people are hospitalized for heat exhaustion.
1323: the Synod of Cortona hastily reimposes the Catholic Church’s ban on the colour yellow after a premature liberalisation leads to rampaging yellow-toned Virgin Mary altar pieces in the streets of Naples.
1599: Caravaggio self-portrait found guilty of sexual harassment of Vatican altar boys and innovatively sentenced to ‘not hanging’ (Caravaggio retaliates with his Well Hung series of 1601, revolutionising modern painting-hanging techniques).
1898: Giant man-eating water lily, disgruntled at depiction in previous Impressionist canvas, conceals itself inside Monet impasto, smothers four.1911: Cubist exhibition shut down after Juan Gris’s Man With Saxophone repeatedly pokes viewers in the shins with a pointed stick to soundtrack of badly out-of-tune jazz.
2003: Marina Abramovic’s ‘No One Leaves the Gallery Before They’ve Swallowed a Razor Blade’ exhibition runs into trouble when Tate Modern’s air conditioning fails and three people are hospitalized for heat exhaustion.
A Faerie Tale
The Story of the Youths Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was
Billy got a bag of beans in the mail. His brother Jack was a serial killer.
Billy wanted to plant the beans. Jack wanted to cut up drifters.
They went for a walk in the woods to see if they could talk it out.
A compromise was reached:
Jack would find a drifter and Billy would plant the beans inside.
(Outside the moon hung like a hang nail on the finger of night.)
Sure---let’s open her up and see how she shakes out.
…
Billy breathed out, and when he breathed in he tasted death.
They disassembled the girl and planted her in the earth.
Jimmy kicked some dust over the grave with the heel of his boot, while Billy smoked a cigarette.
Billy threw his tools in the trunk and pointed the car out into the desert. They were almost to Las Cruces by the time she began to bloom.
II
How Las Cruces Came to Be
(an interlude to provide some Historical perspective)
The most common theory is that in 1830, there was an Apache massacre of a party of nine travelers, including a Mexican Army General, a Priest, and five choir boys. Only one choir boy survived the massacre, and buried the other, marking the graves with three crosses. The area became known as "El Pueblo del Jardin de Las Cruces."
IIa
How History Would Have Liked to Record the Scene if it Had Been Given the Chance (Or the Story of How Shade Entered the World)
Jakob and Wilhelm hitched a ride with Don Fernando to Albuquerque.
In Albuquerque they took in the sites, prayed at the Mission and ate a stew
of Navajo and Apache. They trekked down the El Camino Real to Chaco and had their pictures taken among the ruins. In the photo Wilhelm has his arm around the shoulders of Jakob, they both are squinting into the sun and the photo captures the wind as it moves through the canyon. This is where Billy and Jimmy should have buried the girl. Placed her among all the bright things risen out of dust.
Billy got a bag of beans in the mail. His brother Jack was a serial killer.
Billy wanted to plant the beans. Jack wanted to cut up drifters.
They went for a walk in the woods to see if they could talk it out.
A compromise was reached:
Jack would find a drifter and Billy would plant the beans inside.
(Outside the moon hung like a hang nail on the finger of night.)
Sure---let’s open her up and see how she shakes out.
…
Billy breathed out, and when he breathed in he tasted death.
They disassembled the girl and planted her in the earth.
Jimmy kicked some dust over the grave with the heel of his boot, while Billy smoked a cigarette.
Billy threw his tools in the trunk and pointed the car out into the desert. They were almost to Las Cruces by the time she began to bloom.
II
How Las Cruces Came to Be
(an interlude to provide some Historical perspective)
The most common theory is that in 1830, there was an Apache massacre of a party of nine travelers, including a Mexican Army General, a Priest, and five choir boys. Only one choir boy survived the massacre, and buried the other, marking the graves with three crosses. The area became known as "El Pueblo del Jardin de Las Cruces."
IIa
How History Would Have Liked to Record the Scene if it Had Been Given the Chance (Or the Story of How Shade Entered the World)
Jakob and Wilhelm hitched a ride with Don Fernando to Albuquerque.
In Albuquerque they took in the sites, prayed at the Mission and ate a stew
of Navajo and Apache. They trekked down the El Camino Real to Chaco and had their pictures taken among the ruins. In the photo Wilhelm has his arm around the shoulders of Jakob, they both are squinting into the sun and the photo captures the wind as it moves through the canyon. This is where Billy and Jimmy should have buried the girl. Placed her among all the bright things risen out of dust.
Melting
I am insig
nifty can't see
magnifying glassscorched heart
dripping plastic fried the sunshine walk
once I learned of triviality
my multiple-choice none-of-the-above who-was-he existence hangs out here
I did not all of the sudden blink of the eye
Itsobviousthateverythingisconnectedbuthow?
become infinitely more the wiser
I did not wear socks up to the knees
at the funeral where the sign read melting away
melting melting melting
melting away
they closecasketed my only desire-
to shock the world with inner self
nifty can't see
magnifying glassscorched heart
dripping plastic fried the sunshine walk
once I learned of triviality
my multiple-choice none-of-the-above who-was-he existence hangs out here
I did not all of the sudden blink of the eye
Itsobviousthateverythingisconnectedbuthow?
become infinitely more the wiser
I did not wear socks up to the knees
at the funeral where the sign read melting away
melting melting melting
melting away
they closecasketed my only desire-
to shock the world with inner self
Couplets for rejection
My dear, I confess, I adore thee, I do, mostly,
But my declaration requires, a profounder inspiration.
There are no charms, trust me, that you don't possess,
But curse my heart, it cultivated a different aspiration.
If you make it too easy, the love just shies away,
We appreciate things, gained by considerable perspiration.
Don't cite the examples of similiar couples who made it work,
Least valuable ideal of love, o dear, is loving by imitation.
Why ask me, if you I'd chose, if my dreamgirl existed not,
Who knows darling, why fish for such a consolation.
You mean a lot to me, I certainly value your feelings,
If I can't reciprocate, its just my own limitation.
These tears are too precious, to be wasted on me sweetheart,
You'll find a better match, the one among billion in our nation.
The time together we spent, was a happy time, I agree,
Good-bye my co-passenger, we chase different destination.
We all outlive our passions, you too will pronounce later,
I hadn't the qualities, worth a perpetual fascination.
Last note, I add with severity, it must be a neat cut,
Untouched it will heal, caresses will cause aggravation.
vivek
But my declaration requires, a profounder inspiration.
There are no charms, trust me, that you don't possess,
But curse my heart, it cultivated a different aspiration.
If you make it too easy, the love just shies away,
We appreciate things, gained by considerable perspiration.
Don't cite the examples of similiar couples who made it work,
Least valuable ideal of love, o dear, is loving by imitation.
Why ask me, if you I'd chose, if my dreamgirl existed not,
Who knows darling, why fish for such a consolation.
You mean a lot to me, I certainly value your feelings,
If I can't reciprocate, its just my own limitation.
These tears are too precious, to be wasted on me sweetheart,
You'll find a better match, the one among billion in our nation.
The time together we spent, was a happy time, I agree,
Good-bye my co-passenger, we chase different destination.
We all outlive our passions, you too will pronounce later,
I hadn't the qualities, worth a perpetual fascination.
Last note, I add with severity, it must be a neat cut,
Untouched it will heal, caresses will cause aggravation.
vivek
Conversation between two Soho poets circa 1963
The two old poets meet in the alleyway of Berwick Street in Soho. They are old aquaintances...
Q:Mincing?
A: Still Mincing.
Q: Lonely?
A: Still Lonely.
Q:Poor?
A: Still Poor.
Q: Published?
A: Still Published.
Q: Oh?
A: Fancy lunch.
Q: I don`t associate with your type, you scavenger.
Q:Mincing?
A: Still Mincing.
Q: Lonely?
A: Still Lonely.
Q:Poor?
A: Still Poor.
Q: Published?
A: Still Published.
Q: Oh?
A: Fancy lunch.
Q: I don`t associate with your type, you scavenger.
con][strucked
simulation assimilation association
they itch so wonder flea
my mouth is made for catching lies
found in the earth where the moneygrubs squirm o n i g
no-one could "_(0-0)_ stand" your until it became the
ball b on u the c court n of div)(vforce eading their along the
.:.:.:.:. here lay the peeramiddles of along the way Of tree trunks diamond piny ring
then a parent and language could not have a deferred ad(judicat(ion no mo' ther' she blows
to make a long story even ____l_o___________nge______r you lived
to trip over the ellipses on your way out no matter how many times
you were warned not to make a dramatic X it seems una(void)able
you can actually drool while watching a telenovela
for no more than 20 seconds nothing flat there
only the way women should look here at home
on my street
in my bed
on the couch
no but
your headache soothes you as you sleep and I am burdened to think too much on one thing for two long
to times too (x) two many times down this road alone
cheap *
as if in this town this gray town with inhabitants inho-spit
able dotted like may(flowers
across a dying ocean should alight upon my balding brain a wish for a way to lead to way
then I should no more than pass this way than pass away
dragon? fly me -the MOOn
they itch so wonder flea
my mouth is made for catching lies
found in the earth where the moneygrubs squirm o n i g
no-one could "_(0-0)_ stand" your until it became the
ball b on u the c court n of div)(vforce eading their along the
.:.:.:.:. here lay the peeramiddles of along the way Of tree trunks diamond piny ring
then a parent and language could not have a deferred ad(judicat(ion no mo' ther' she blows
to make a long story even ____l_o___________nge______r you lived
to trip over the ellipses on your way out no matter how many times
you were warned not to make a dramatic X it seems una(void)able
you can actually drool while watching a telenovela
for no more than 20 seconds nothing flat there
only the way women should look here at home
on my street
in my bed
on the couch
no but
your headache soothes you as you sleep and I am burdened to think too much on one thing for two long
to times too (x) two many times down this road alone
cheap *
as if in this town this gray town with inhabitants inho-spit
able dotted like may(flowers
across a dying ocean should alight upon my balding brain a wish for a way to lead to way
then I should no more than pass this way than pass away
dragon? fly me -the MOOn
Nomad
I am not you,
You’re not me.
Lucky so lucky,
As a horseshoe can be.
Hanging on the door,
Pointing toward the Sun.
As I toil and ponder,
Which way the road can run.
Up over the mountain,
Or into the well.
Each day is a story,
A story only I can tell.
Show me a picture,
I ask you one day.
You merely hang there,
Suspended all day.
Nothing forthcoming,
For the traveller within me.
Thirsty and ragged,
From all the roads that ran dry.
Some feature waterfalls,
Or rapids rushing white.
Cascading over mountains,
Crashing on rocks.
Rippling through rivers,
In warm currents that flow.
Silently still,
Or rambunctiously loud.
So many places,
All in the mind.
Regardless of the structures,
Close by or far beyond.
Pointing in one direction,
As you sit and frown toward murky ponds.
You’ll never bring me luck,
That much I know.
For you simply hang there,
While my feet continue along.
Walking over pebbles that may or may not obstruct my path,
Over valleys, through sands, toward many mountains.
Always on the move,
In a circadian fashion.
You’re not me.
Lucky so lucky,
As a horseshoe can be.
Hanging on the door,
Pointing toward the Sun.
As I toil and ponder,
Which way the road can run.
Up over the mountain,
Or into the well.
Each day is a story,
A story only I can tell.
Show me a picture,
I ask you one day.
You merely hang there,
Suspended all day.
Nothing forthcoming,
For the traveller within me.
Thirsty and ragged,
From all the roads that ran dry.
Some feature waterfalls,
Or rapids rushing white.
Cascading over mountains,
Crashing on rocks.
Rippling through rivers,
In warm currents that flow.
Silently still,
Or rambunctiously loud.
So many places,
All in the mind.
Regardless of the structures,
Close by or far beyond.
Pointing in one direction,
As you sit and frown toward murky ponds.
You’ll never bring me luck,
That much I know.
For you simply hang there,
While my feet continue along.
Walking over pebbles that may or may not obstruct my path,
Over valleys, through sands, toward many mountains.
Always on the move,
In a circadian fashion.
egg me on
spot on paper, the bright side
of reality, madhand, divispose,
imp logo, storming the weather,
toner swath, the devil's cafe,
classic fuck, voodoo flood,
voodoo cow, tilt it whirl it,
special blank, your position
during the disaster, or so
it seems, keep or for -sake,
have you a book, you missed
the stamp, hoping for nothing,
still digital, a very strange
moment in time, infodrug, rent
nothing, connected us all, i,
------------------------------
Out of Sweetness
One breakfast, Amphibolisa sends a careful two shakes of salt to her coffee.
Spectated, but insouciant,
Not a speck of shame to wet the face.
What a fine pang that she should injure heaven so - with her spirit of recklessness - the sound of laws shattered - and Jesus takes a backward step,
Many more like her and there could be no commonwealth.
While Rhesus draws finger patterns in the sugar,
garden Zen gravel,
limpid calm,
sweetness, and a rake of certainty.
Yin and yang are at war.
Spectated, but insouciant,
Not a speck of shame to wet the face.
What a fine pang that she should injure heaven so - with her spirit of recklessness - the sound of laws shattered - and Jesus takes a backward step,
Many more like her and there could be no commonwealth.
While Rhesus draws finger patterns in the sugar,
garden Zen gravel,
limpid calm,
sweetness, and a rake of certainty.
Yin and yang are at war.
motorcycle
it was like this
if you re collect right?
April hit scud St. Laurent boulevard
2 in the morning outside Poodles
Dancing bin dance
dancing moment s before
out the door watch watching the
flow Alden and others who
guess who you
sat stared & burning bike
banging
Later outside Mama's
Stephen Lack meandered by
"wHat are you guys doing?"
sarcastic caustic
usual tone
& Jacky's black leather
gleam
hmmm I
and Jacky
at the party
over her
~~
Meantime crush a sonnet
hair the night gull
her swift eyeball
ranges the
winter bonnet of oat and weed
methinks a stray gallow was worked its
pittance puty past the overseed of
cut rate _ Jean Coutu dollar store
Rossy's spel _ Cretan woman her orthodox
the Indian woman
(O I want I want)
Sri Lankan
what was that ?
come over here, she say
a two some what night
was desire
its falter'd
3
later after the
reading Nietzsche's daughter
we followed up St. Dominque
walked whats his name
on the way back
against the wall
is where
hot
4
for hug nothing was word tear tripped by wonder filed night
seized with billet-doux et lettre de cache?
some eye
twinkle of yer hand-
some gender fright
come to my body wound you worked breasts,
eyes, legs, rooms, and
they delight you
5
when resting his head
there it was peace
yer heat spreading like a vein
or soft sun gathering Mars
on his pillow
you were lesbian as he was
not Baudelaire's frightful femmes damnes
but les biens temps a u dela
lover the orgy was
12 beat feet popped by fingers
'drummin' on subway poles
and Ihor who has a Ukrainain background
supports the war
says call me call me
she hold me closer to her finger
by dishes of pillows
I gotta meet someone at the Metro
__________________
Image of Burning Bike by Stephen Lack
Acrylic on canvas, 1983, Gracie Mansion Gallery
______________
if you re collect right?
April hit scud St. Laurent boulevard
2 in the morning outside Poodles
Dancing bin dance
dancing moment s before
out the door watch watching the
flow Alden and others who
guess who you
sat stared & burning bike
banging
Later outside Mama's
Stephen Lack meandered by
"wHat are you guys doing?"
sarcastic caustic
usual tone
& Jacky's black leather
gleam
hmmm I
and Jacky
at the party
over her
~~
Meantime crush a sonnet
hair the night gull
her swift eyeball
ranges the
winter bonnet of oat and weed
methinks a stray gallow was worked its
pittance puty past the overseed of
cut rate _ Jean Coutu dollar store
Rossy's spel _ Cretan woman her orthodox
the Indian woman
(O I want I want)
Sri Lankan
what was that ?
come over here, she say
a two some what night
was desire
its falter'd
3
later after the
reading Nietzsche's daughter
we followed up St. Dominque
walked whats his name
on the way back
against the wall
is where
hot
4
for hug nothing was word tear tripped by wonder filed night
seized with billet-doux et lettre de cache?
some eye
twinkle of yer hand-
some gender fright
come to my body wound you worked breasts,
eyes, legs, rooms, and
they delight you
5
when resting his head
there it was peace
yer heat spreading like a vein
or soft sun gathering Mars
on his pillow
you were lesbian as he was
not Baudelaire's frightful femmes damnes
but les biens temps a u dela
lover the orgy was
12 beat feet popped by fingers
'drummin' on subway poles
and Ihor who has a Ukrainain background
supports the war
says call me call me
she hold me closer to her finger
by dishes of pillows
I gotta meet someone at the Metro
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Image of Burning Bike by Stephen Lack
Acrylic on canvas, 1983, Gracie Mansion Gallery
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