It hints at surrealism

It hints at surrealism, sticks it's tongue out at dada, snickers impishly at postmodernism, gets into a staring contest with fluxus, laughs openly at kitsch, and kisses trompe l'oeil right on its big fake lips.

It abhors politics, gummy bears and rudness.
It thrives on kindess, moonbeams and chocolate.

colicky aftertaste






Please, I beg of you, turn off the damn radio, please, it's hard on the esophagus and goes down like a sawtooth whore, you will pay for this, this nonsense, but without the bitter colicky aftertaste.





Damage by a Metal-Clad Tip

when I say dad, the stem of the mountain waves. English is a perch, but is the perch a fish? is a fish a word over and above how I remember dad as dad? questions result in sunken parts of speech, and then I remember that the wind blew like something straight. that straightness, it is so Red Chinese, when you think that Tibet once had a nation. but nations aren't terrific, they are involved. the US arrived in the nick of time, a nick that this US incurred overnight. night was on top of the mountain, or near enough. you think air is precious? try 28,000 feet, and the complete cartoon. I'm in this tent that's very coffin-like: I like to use my imagination. my dad is dead in what I call the recent past. my mother is long gone, an echo when I stop to dream. air is thin. everything seems deadly, except then I repeat some mantra that exists in partial time. partial expectation, partial bodyweight, partial document while waiting. the mountain's stem wobbles with center. a dusting of rain can't penetrate the memory that would get me thru the night, here, in this document. rain has frozen into total plausibility. a person could structure properly to the top of this so called tallest thing. one could leave the mountain, eventually. this story becomes a story, like a ride off a cliff into the complete doze of a mountain full of snow. snow wants to stay. the sun finds crucial extension and bursting into song. some semi-trillionth of a second lets some vulture-goaded Big Bang extend to the point of matter. grim glaciers lope over the tops of impressive mountains, like that's going to bring John Lennon back. it's no longer the John Lennon that fits the space, it is Paris Hilton. and this Paris Hilton is on fire, literal filling of flames that lick all the dishes that she has ever eaten from. she's Tom Cruise and she sinks into snow. snow means something, someday. dad wants to be goodbye, but I won't let him. mom too. my reflexes turned professional.

Johny Jihad

please confute you plan overs,
if it one exiguous output in low antinode,
bulge intend,

which is from a double-constant whale phatic,
over arrangement,
which necessarily intelligence probability includes,

and Scheffel agreemo of palinode,
which Epithalamion or tarantism to say must,
if it must however I surcease it to inform,

left absence of patronage and abundance,
of rodbusters,
which inevitably explicate of of the will-carefree,

tank cancers,
which the baby of dandle in one acidulous method,
as the gauner of more scamdicapper accumulates,

who bend,
to approve instead of,
meat cake of necromancy to eat,

which comes nurdle free with additional,
epopee of the Monody,
presupposed that Rhinoceroses nudiustertian a,
corrosive day of the Kaktus out-pour

cultural pollution


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Haiku Reflections with Susumu Takiguchi and Debra Woolard Bender

Little Onion's interview with Debra Woolard bender and Susumu Takiguchi Chair of World Haiku Club:


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"Five Houses"

rantosaurus

armadasaurus aviatryx aztechopus 4runnychus blazersaurus bravadactyl cayennodyx cherokodon commandopus defendersaurus discosaurus durangodon escaladosaurus xpedychus exploradactyl forestephale freelandopus highlandodon humveesaurus libertychus monterophale outbachus outlandodon navigatrops pathfindopus pilotychus rainiersaurus rav4nychus rodeosaurus roversaurus sequiodon sidekychus sorrentosaurus sportagodon tahoesaurus tributopus troopersaurus tuaretops tucsonosaurus vitararaptor vuelophodon wranglyx xtrailotops

new thunder lizards rule the earth host to flabby symbiotic parasites sucking from the caving in husk of a planet the oily bones of the first bunch to carbonibalize their dark remains in crude consuming burning metal guts to wear their blackened skins on steel feet to stomp down iters of rocks and their ashes, toxic assholes farting their final gassy debris to a particle spattered heaven.

... or the ozone layer whichever comes first and that last asshole just cut me off.

translation I.Q

First the eye, then the tongue
then another, then
the pen, then the eye again.

FIG

Now is the discount of our winter tents
-Neal Tait



bamboo and dwarf pink banana,

today i made a riding crop for you.

i hope you punish me fiercely
then kiss my worlds

and make them all better.


figgggggggggggggggggggggg(lur#


[am i already too unsane to be a painting?]

[a Yakuza?]

Every Word Stabs

Every word stabs
As if for a termination
That it would infect another
With its virtuous brazening pen.
A new creation upon the page.
In dreams the offended door that we must travel thought
Leaves to a field under skies
Where words are like notes of a lute
Plain, clear, eloquence
In their troubled beauty to mean
Even the disturbing anxieties
That easily come upon man in his sleep.

Weed the People

We are concerned citizens challenging the official
We are concerned over democracy in the US
We are concerned that this work appears to fall below
we are concerned about schemes and situations
we are concerned about the Texas border
We are concerned about the direction
We are concerned about radon
we are concerned about how we use the people
We are concerned by the almost throwaway
we are concerned there's only good music and bad music
we are concerned with a concept
We Are Concerned about educated members
We are concerned about America's kids
We are concerned about what happens
We are concerned that the systematic review
We are concerned here with only two chapters
We are concerned with radioactivity the Department of Defense
We are concerned that there is a lack of visibility
We are concerned with preconditioning problems
We are concerned about Tibet
We are concerned with drawing
we are concerned with critical observation
We are concerned with approximating solutions
We are concerned about your safety
we are concerned with what actions may affect
we are concerned the diplomatic route is not closed
we are concerned with what there is most reason to want
we are concerned with a concept of randomness due to Kurtz
We are concerned that language in Section 402, specifically 402(a)(4) could be interpreted
we are concerned that the guidelines for submitting confidential information under Article 8 of the Kyoto Protocol remain
we are concerned with questions of exis- tence
We are concerned that these deviations will invite overreaching
We are concerned about the conduct of our locals
we are concerned that these requirements may discourage
we are concerned with communicating exactly
We are concerned about the effects
we are concerned by a proposal
We are concerned with the amend-. ment of section 702 (a) to the end that the term “crippled children”. shall be construed
we are concerned that a student is clearly and imminently suicidal
We are concerned that even one person might abandon
We are concerned with the reconstruction of the conductivity coefficient
we are concerned that the work being done is not enough
we are concerned with the loca- tion of topics in text processing
We are concerned with functional equations
We are concerned that there has been a de facto moratorium
we are concerned about the plight
we are concerned that no one is left out
We are concerned that the public at large is still
We are concerned here
We are concerned with the following question

Sprung circles

Lately I waken
dreaming of haiku
and sleepily write
their half fathomed words
on unlined smooth leaves
of notebooks nearby.

Outside my window
I can clearly hear
season's first fallen
ash and maple leaves
eddying in corners
skipping sprung circles
in squared shelters of
garage doors and curbs
tsking sharp whispers
against rough concrete.

pluto's closet

the micro planet
now with a mate
icy power to transmutate
slighted not in the least
time to tame that stubborn beast
of prejudice and ignorance
born in the pride of arrogance
'little' pluto now charts the way
through hell on earth's darkest day

peace & harmony,
elaine

'freedom must be exercised to stay in shape!'

Automne

Autumn
is here. Your
memories
wither
withe
with
wit
wi
w
.
.
.

Little Sketch

(A man is bored so swears to fill the time)

Man: "Bloomin hell!", "Wanka!", "Tit for Brains!", "Mankyman!"

THEN.....

Man sees Evening Standard reduced to 30 pence.

Man: "Right, I`m off."

Man leaves fast.

Evening Standard vendor says:

"Prat!"

serving the gum mint

there’s some good
gum mint bonds
over here, some
fruit fly papers,
some mint gum
ready for chewing,
some mixed bums
all ready for stealing,
hypothetical crumbs
of crusty bread and
butter shells waiting
for a taker, all wrapped
up in a high-foil drake
and nose-dive reaper,
snaking up the river
in a kayak made of
bond paper and well
wishes from the darky
depths of the dingy
gray dredge lagoon.

9/2/06


[I'm on a jury in US Fed Ct until ~9/15]

Metempsychosis

He told me that he was awaiting the second immanence, the return of the Aristotelian repressed, the Platonic revival of forms, substances and first-principles. ‘I can’t live like this’, he said, ‘without a meaning or purpose to it all’. ‘You can’, I said, ‘and you will’. ‘No, I won’t’, he keened, ‘I can’t and I won’t, never in a million years will I’. I grabbed him by the cinch of the neck and pushed him up hard against the wall. ‘You will’, I screamed, ‘you will and you must!’ ‘Give me a principal’, he yelled, ‘a form or a substance, anything that’ll ease the pain’. ‘You can’t have one,’ I said, pulling him closer into my chest, ‘you can’t and you won’t, not in a million years you won’t’. “I need it, at least something, one thing, a substance, a first-principle, anything, one of anything’. ‘But you won’t,’ I said, ‘not one thing or anything, nothing, that’s what you’ll get, nothing at all’. ‘I beg of you,’ he said cowering, ‘I beg of you, please, a meaning, a purpose, a principle, anything that comes first.’ This short dialogue between a Continental and an Analytic philosopher, two scholars at odds with each other, at opposite ends of the epistemological spectrum, is the result of faulty metaphysics, a belief, a hope in transcendence, substances, forms, first-principles and original meaning, none of which exist, is apparent, imminent, will ever be imminent, ever was at all. All hope is hope in a life after death, transcendence, a transmogrification, metempsychosis, a transmigration of souls and corporeality, a Nietzschean eternal return, but from where, from here, there, over here, over there, over there here, nowhere, no revival, no forms, substances and first-principles, a wasteland, a fen, a slough, a bog-pitch, a meaningless meaninglessness.

Riding in a Jet Van

Th
ee
nd time
ss
upress m
yy
odelability.

&

beginnin
gg
erman
n:n
o clas
ss
aturday!

Cadbury College Renga

Here's a short video made by artist Nikki Pugh during the Cadbury College Renga mastered by Paul 'Little Onion' Conneally for Gavin Wade and Alec Finlay's '3 Estates Renga - 100 Verses for 3 Estates'.

It's been said that the renga-master acts like a jazz band leader - conducting the proceedings - here there is no sound but you can feel the music...



SKIN AFTER SKIN

Aftercrash: suite

I
Mass
of preservation
and preference
casts past
a hidden balance
from constant battle
to careful constancy

II
Days' hours slink
like hungryeyed strays
echo with harmonics
of former fullness
sting with aftercrashes
of doorslams
on bare rooms

III
City bus windows
fill with quiet reflections
watching streets slip past
through
their own shadowy fluorescence
hooded eyes muttering
wordless secrets
out inward
building private languages
to describe
a falling fall night.

20060905

pensée d'une femme aimée longtemps
il y a longtemps déjà

petits restes de longue étendue
rien que ça

il y en a une autre désormais
mais ce n'est pas pareil

elle n'est pas encore partie

ça ne saurait tarder

quelques petits signes déjà là

ses 'je t'aime' trop persistants
ses excès d'émotions


oui, ça ne saurait tarder

+++

Tell me what I should do now. Tell it to me obscenely so I can become a man and an animal. -Salvador Dali, Maniac Eyeball.



plus plus plus
the Bromide Stork
says,

"Patriotism is indeed
a double edged sword.
It both emboldens the bloody
quail,
just as
it narrows the mindful bash."

~mayd semblant~

a fore, a far, a head, a side,

a*

seep-ull-curr;

a spell of dog shaped vessel:

bodies stood upright in the legs

the snout full of provisions

the belly a jumble of furnitures

the head a theatre

where

the dead orate the flowering tributaries
and stand far aback from the pollutions
of the w.ave',
the 'pans' of S
So far forth as they are Teachers
the inconsistent, repugnant hitch
far below sea level
absorbing

the inapproximate allegory
the machine sign shadow garden's
abolished sounding

oil is slow
the building burns
and is a flame

the hoarse night of marble's
empty tongue
the last bumble bee of summer
asleep in the outer petals

Killng Metaphors - Detail

(exquisite corpse) Ray Johnson wore red cowboy boots



It's all just kooky fun don't you know.
I'm off to sunny St. Ives for a while, to do wholesome things like beachwalking, seapaddling, foodeating and latesleeping. Goodbye London, with your drugs and punk and pictures of naked poets. And goodbye work, you sleep-depriver, you day-eater. HAha! J'suis encore libre. G.T.s lie ahead.

Afterbirth: the chorus



Crows' vocalisations are complex and poorly understood.

- From the Wikipedia entry on crows.


The whole world wide, every day,
Fly Hugin and Munin;
I worry lest Hugin should fall in flight,
Yet more I fear for Munin.

- From the Grímnismál, in the voice of Grímnir, one of the many guises of the Norse god Odin.



You squawk the angry hunger of the first few notes
twigs the crow in the tree outside
palpitating the branches the loft of the elm canopy
and the crow having stayed through the hot night
the murderous morning
squawks back
both of you outraged
at the drops that run down your chin
down the side of my heavy tit

You squawk turning like a plucked thing on a spit
out the window the city smells
of burnt feathers dust
and when I take you away from the tit
blood ringing your beaky little mouth
the chorus only crows louder

You squawk like some one-eyed god
you can’t see beyond my face the shadows
in the fall of my hair your night
your canopy
and I wonder what the crow has told you of the day
finally mouth full you open an eye
scan the room and suck
until you fall away from me dreaming
of a giant tit streaming
the crow dreams the same
only ripe and dead


dayreader

worship, plain and simple

altar, 2006
lucy dunn

About a Girl

On a bench she sits,
          thin and brunette.
                    Birds are not singing.

I wonder what brand
          cigarette she smokes,
                    if her soul is blue,

if she prefers
          raw eggplant or
                    rare steak.

self portrait no 2