Go now into the city's glittering maze.
Trust for your life to this slender thread
walking the mirror-walled winding ways.
A breath of breeze; your human scent betrays
you to the Minotaurs, who will want you dead.
Go now into the city's glittering maze
and pay your passage-fee to those whose gaze
would turn you to stone, if you held up your head
walking the mirror-walled winding ways.
The Sphinx is waiting, ancient of days
her riddles all long solved, she lingers unfed.
Go now into the city's glittering maze
peopled by shadows of the monsters who amazed
the folk of long-ago, whom fearful legends led
walking the mirror-walled winding ways.
Mirror-walls reflect the hero's arms and face.
Who is the monster? Who are we, who said:
Go you into the city's glittering maze
where we still walk the mirror-walled winding ways.
Umpteenth Degrade
nobody dreams outward, they rely on this picture: a rigid tree forced to stall. this is sensibly structured for stopping, in a breath, while the rain extends. a sentence bubbles within this dire crucible called latent television, and we sing of joyous dishsoap. bending the rules complies with recent discoveries in Paul Newman's skull. quietly we obey the list of vocabulary words that have been most useful in circumstance, the corollary being to eschew those words that start nowhere. here is where we can engage: pizza-coloured dormers of varied houses set upon by dreamy-eyed feeders of Paris Hilton, yet a close reading incurs the slight differential of brainchild: we wet our bed. a wet bed—was it Royal Crown cola or coffee-infused brandy?—contributes dormancy. sleep on it, then write your way out of a wet silo. to benefit from noise you have to stop hearing. examine your references then try again.
Villa Naiayca, 3:30
Energy is Eternal Delight, But We Cannot Write Paradise.
Photographs of carbide furnaces
built in the 1930's are set out
equidistant on an amorphous wall
Each one a tiny Nibelungen,
a view into the history of the
chemistry of Cyanamide.
In the garden through a glass wall, a petri dish
wall as thick as a bell, thin dancers enact the
deammonation products of a hypothetical ammono-o-carbonic acid.
Photographs of carbide furnaces
built in the 1930's are set out
equidistant on an amorphous wall
Each one a tiny Nibelungen,
a view into the history of the
chemistry of Cyanamide.
In the garden through a glass wall, a petri dish
wall as thick as a bell, thin dancers enact the
deammonation products of a hypothetical ammono-o-carbonic acid.
Don't You See Yon Bonnie Bonnie Road?
mom dead reckoning. now react, closing in, on the strength of just staying on the last word until its next companion reveals the next again. how far does poetry mean when the beginning switches courses every second, echoing ring of chiming bells across the believable countryside, and the audience claps.
that scrum fits more revolution than just last fading note. sung what when this was all that remains. begin to assert the practical day of which night looms starting. and after that night of nights the day institutes the ghost. mom said something in the year of something something. and then the rattle here became so apparent.
actual invasion includes the definite ways of often creeping army made trump.
divide the mandolin into
clearing
every note, that's the
mom the ghost, which is a chord.
pace of something fitting what
remains on course
loss of all: figure the sentence.
that scrum fits more revolution than just last fading note. sung what when this was all that remains. begin to assert the practical day of which night looms starting. and after that night of nights the day institutes the ghost. mom said something in the year of something something. and then the rattle here became so apparent.
actual invasion includes the definite ways of often creeping army made trump.
divide the mandolin into
clearing
every note, that's the
mom the ghost, which is a chord.
pace of something fitting what
remains on course
loss of all: figure the sentence.
Cross texting_mon'am'our
m Ona and Jill the schizowives tribe tribadistic of Fictions hulk her body drape over his iN the weir nigh o'er fill & jardin des nues, ou corps des sans blesses _ comme ca sont fou but it was her feet
the fraction of a medial pause
_____
but was her feet mostly in adverbial pause not coning
or intending of shampoo rearward her hearting crimp it olive grove grasp
----the fraction of a medial pause
_____
The Story of The Bug-Gut Stele: Lost In the Kuru-Jangala
O hippy, carry forward sahib
sahibby to the hobamok hip-ho
plite yaomanjung the megaron
coccoon the ears viney lives
you * here looked is then,
barbarian pizza effect let
Kamandi, with head is effect
villanova po-lice listen there
is in troubled villanova po-lice
chiefs reclining relaxedly among
the megaron and capanne forward
who can he the hobamok again with
the only home and they listening
taking up with kamandi again with
the canine-headed troups tradition
Look of the megaron waters kingdom *
many saying is we a stone cocoon
here is the meritorious dog
the merely notorious dog
*
halt for baked rain apple
*
1Chien handle you
*
here then, let us culminate:
the nose monsters have here
infested reclining relaxedly
among meritorious dog upon
plattergourd mountain lives
a house which is a dog's head
the of Ch'iens many 'critical
statue he looked apple * 1Chien
handle house which the eyes are
stuffed with coccoon the ears
are infested with cocoon of blood
gorgon called le dog * halt for
are dog's dance euhemeristic
the dogs the nose is a bronze
brazier all around the house
dance dogs capanne taking up
the been fuddy-duddied it how
ling some nothing but a hip-
the tongue is a stone ram
which blocks the door hoplite
yaomanjung barbarian begon to
a is a Lo, Kamandi is said: I,
with this dog's head is nothing
but a sack of bloodeditions' *
and sahib sahibby blood and a
merely notorious the canine-headed
and a sack of blood is the only
home in troubled waters kingdom
*
many dancing dogs are howling
some listening and they begon to howl
some howl who can no longer listen
howl some howl is am the dancing
plattergourd mountain sack house a
howl there is a howl of listening
dog's ram which blocks baked rain
a of at it.. There door this and
dogs the there is a universal flame
of gorgon called le caractere meri
diongale tongue are stuffed chiefs
brazier all around figure Geb's ALIVE!
IT'S ALIVE! E-tuskans~ are is sack
of universal with pizza meridion
ale E-tuskans~ what i'm are what
i'm saying is carry to to keep
kamandi veiny coccoon and the
monster is our no longer the
we monsters have been fuddy-dud
died it is our euhemeristic
tradition head the eyes troups
here listening there upon
bronze the flame caractere
Look at it.. upon Abraham
us culminate: upon is a many
Ssu-ma There are many Ssu-ma
Ch'iens many 'critical editions'
*
and Lo, Kamandi looked upon Abraham Geb's statue
he looked upon the figure of the viney veiny coccoon
and he said:
I, Kamandi, am here to keep the monster ALIVE!
IT'S ALIVE!
(a discussion of code and substance)
Every Situation Today is Later than Ever
tomorrow began on terms of inquiry. the date included when and where the villains lived. they ranged about a perplexing plain, and knew our bolts of poetry. they rumbled on the horizon, telling us of give and take. take was most masterful, in their eyes. so much in their eyes, indeed, that give gave way. trading passion for forest was one way to ignore the tatters. rain fell. we stood up. the villains in name grew heavy with their congregation. exactitude was a blurry map. they tried to entail even the least. it works when you fire up the candidate, and forget about Nepal. Nepal of the serrated flag, atop the highest nowhere. we rush to the scene, in the instant of unrest. we seize. we send envoys, and the envoys send envoys. polo without horses! the nuclear government wants pity. troops at the border. harrumph, dictated to the masses. the masses now attend church, quiet and contained. their unrest becomes a pew. desert sands sparkle with smell. intent goes awry, winging thru the testimony. a few people admired their facts. suddenly, in game shape, with a Superdome of our own, all lean towards some convenience. again. yet Nepal is Tibet, right? Cuba's Philippines and Iraq's Iran, albeit the flavour says Vietnam. that's all packaged money, of course, waiting for clearance. actual poetry stops at the top of the mountain, then lets one more step. function falls into that much morass, moraine, fleeting loess in the wind... all that was tomorrow, which will be here today.
Stump Gap
the difference is nightfall, a
gradual radiation of
words involved with energy. then you say
triumph, in a deep voice, and the pickles
that were in the jar explain
Deuteronomy. there's the first trick:
no one can explain Deuteronomy, but
love slips thru. thru what porous emblem, thru
what embargo? then sleep. then television.
then something about the way
nostrums work. meanwhile,
the rostrum, poets are crazy.
furthermore, lights on the lead
explicator. furthermore, sullen waxing
moon, or was that yesterday?
and you want poetry to guide you
but do you need to read? crazy.
sing about often. it's tired
when you look. the poem
hasn't mentioned your
love life, your keen
determination, not even your dreams
of peace, even us and them. what up,
as exacting? baby cakes,
those steely wartorn
uppity fucks. given more beer, you'd
trip over a shoe. that shoe
would be god. god would be dead.
you'd consult Deuteronomy. what
the fuck. and the rest
of the detergent
in your broom closet.
tired even to say,
this is enough. that's
poetry now, baby.
gradual radiation of
words involved with energy. then you say
triumph, in a deep voice, and the pickles
that were in the jar explain
Deuteronomy. there's the first trick:
no one can explain Deuteronomy, but
love slips thru. thru what porous emblem, thru
what embargo? then sleep. then television.
then something about the way
nostrums work. meanwhile,
the rostrum, poets are crazy.
furthermore, lights on the lead
explicator. furthermore, sullen waxing
moon, or was that yesterday?
and you want poetry to guide you
but do you need to read? crazy.
sing about often. it's tired
when you look. the poem
hasn't mentioned your
love life, your keen
determination, not even your dreams
of peace, even us and them. what up,
as exacting? baby cakes,
those steely wartorn
uppity fucks. given more beer, you'd
trip over a shoe. that shoe
would be god. god would be dead.
you'd consult Deuteronomy. what
the fuck. and the rest
of the detergent
in your broom closet.
tired even to say,
this is enough. that's
poetry now, baby.
tiny fraction
Scaling your peaks as my feet grip the edifices of your mind, I travel and stumble along the way. Rocks crumble, powder away and plummet so far away from me and yet? Each tiny fraction of every facet that I see as the spokes of your eyes flash forward beckon to me and I am entranced by the very manner of your mind. Emotions running riot for it is much like entering a canoe on river rapids as the white water foams and splats my face. My eyelids flutter on reflex, for you are formidable yet a lamb so refined with the ability to morph into many a persona. All this enraging me, as I am transfixed and agitated beyond anything I can envision. Fling my fist in your face or wallop you right in the gut? Take your pick for you can piss me to the highest altitude and simultaneously bring me to my knees with your sweet solemn platitudes.
In awe as I stand watching the ability in which you command. Certainly suave and up with the rhythm, the way you peek at me makes me forgive you. Every trespass that you have made along with the icing on the cake, you make me want you ever so much that anyone would think I’m a downright slut for the way I hunger and crave your skin only so my lips can brush over it. Salt over skin. Whorishly proud as you stand up high over all others, I hate the way you snidely say that you’re ever so beautiful and everyone sways. Who are you? What do you think? I really don’t care or I do, I’m not sure as no one can ever be certain. Enigma to some, but I’m not so certain as I feel and taste the animus within you as it pulsates and grows to rival the Leviathan. So softly you breathe when you sigh as the passion plays yet babble and seethe when your way is bamboozled through the very trite workings of your mind that can fool you.
Frustratingly irate and fabulously vain, there are days I think and plan to run away. For your valor is false and so misplaced, you run so fast to be ahead of the race. A marathon quest from the dawn of Thermopylae, a traitor you be when the timing is right as you shake and punch fighting for your life. So you say as your vocal chords play as they beatify each soft sound that you make as your eyes linger on while your hands animate as you ponder the very treasure you wish to take. Once long ago, upon a minute past as the seconds came together and night flew past as you lay on my lap looking up at La Luna thinking of ways the days could come sooner. I now see and yet I see naught for you’re the riddle within the riddle; a present day labyrinth without an end or middle.
Eros right through to Thanatos.
Sit down in the corner of Eros and imagine what it shall do to you,
The dead will come to you in the moment of delight.
Take two moments of light and a sacred monument of time.
Talk to feverish moments where death and love cross.
It shall only be a split-second whereby the spinning bicycle-wheels of movement take over.
I shall only stay here for a moment. As the disgusted faces of others are about to take me on.
I await the moment to come.
The dead will come to you in the moment of delight.
Take two moments of light and a sacred monument of time.
Talk to feverish moments where death and love cross.
It shall only be a split-second whereby the spinning bicycle-wheels of movement take over.
I shall only stay here for a moment. As the disgusted faces of others are about to take me on.
I await the moment to come.
Daimonese Tommotia: Sirenumb Scops 'Abvox' to 'Tao'
Brilliant in darkness and hidden in scilens,
th' sirenumb scops 'abvox' atop th' Ullikummis
of diorite & kiss the Paphian lights' first
azure curls, a cultus aflower'd by limbs un-
finish'd in laves, to lavish upon 'tao' what
the 'tao' has lavish'd upon thou; equation's
caution causing tics to any agalmata, to the
baba-thorny porphyroblastic schitzopode cont-
igneous to the causeway's agasmata, the Teuth-
elegy of our liberty's manifold Tryphainai,
overcome by a suffering [bracketed], and
to see her lying [truthless], like the
dead, or daimonese, of the abacuses'
temenose Tommotions, a commotion störning
scandalo in perpetuumobile, double-tonguing
all those whaorlds bent over like drunken
rustics amidst the denunciations of
agroterasque Alexandrines.
These are the unlikely words of the final
Mayan rabbits.
th' sirenumb scops 'abvox' atop th' Ullikummis
of diorite & kiss the Paphian lights' first
azure curls, a cultus aflower'd by limbs un-
finish'd in laves, to lavish upon 'tao' what
the 'tao' has lavish'd upon thou; equation's
caution causing tics to any agalmata, to the
baba-thorny porphyroblastic schitzopode cont-
igneous to the causeway's agasmata, the Teuth-
elegy of our liberty's manifold Tryphainai,
overcome by a suffering [bracketed], and
to see her lying [truthless], like the
dead, or daimonese, of the abacuses'
temenose Tommotions, a commotion störning
scandalo in perpetuumobile, double-tonguing
all those whaorlds bent over like drunken
rustics amidst the denunciations of
agroterasque Alexandrines.
These are the unlikely words of the final
Mayan rabbits.
Obviously Tree Finicky
clerical tree in the garden, spoke of love. love stepped onto topic table, where bear, the informer, paused. pause is the entire world as if. clerical tree as a garden item while we together manage sentiment of numerals. exacting bear on the edge, informant, closes a door and alerts “authorities”. the rhyme scheme was robbing. then bear, now bear, with certain restrictions. death doesn't love, exactly, but it has a big hand. bigger hand of love, and give love a hand, then love sees a bear. it climbs clerical tree. it is name of something today, and will be tomorrow. thus love, as much as we can stare at it. furthermore pangs, as if saying something over the noise comes to fruition. well, maybe, because clerical tree drops gorgeous leaves of gold, to moulder impiously in the situation of earth. and as so much, then forward into the love new year. year is only simple taxation, when words border. still and freely, you hear the testament. clerical tree accepts actual bear, full component. then forward, while language still assists. this assistance consists of way back then far ahead. a lot of the time they wait and nothing more, but sometimes they jump up and include their down. down, think of how heavy it needs to be. then light, it could be two things. then bear, this is something of which we need strong argument. the bear seems so wild. are we wild too? an answer could settle that. love hangs in balance, then. oh doorway full of authorities.
what we talk about when we talk about raymond carver clichés
She throws a beef wellington at his head. He ducks. He doesn't duck far enough, and ducks are on their mantel, over the fireplace with their children.
"Fix me a sandwich," he says.
She says, "I blogged about that already. I smell something. I'm horny. Please."
("Horny" is their code for "let's get drunk." They fell in love in high school. It's raining.)
He says, "I think there's an outrage scheduled. Hang on."
He goes into the bathroom. He comes back.
"Fuck," he says.
"Fix me a sandwich," he says.
She says, "I blogged about that already. I smell something. I'm horny. Please."
("Horny" is their code for "let's get drunk." They fell in love in high school. It's raining.)
He says, "I think there's an outrage scheduled. Hang on."
He goes into the bathroom. He comes back.
"Fuck," he says.
cotton balls between her toes
I'll shrink like a
violet now.
violet now.
I have much
standing
to do,
like water.
standing
to do,
like water.
------------------------
Originally appeared in muse apprentice guild
Daddy, what is it?
nuclear omnicide is
suppose it is
what it is
but the thing is
nuclear omnicide is
you asked me the other day, "jason, what is, what is, what is, what is ontological damnation?"
nuclear omnicide becomes
what it is
suppose it is
but the thing is
nuclear omnicide becomes
i responded a few days later, "friend, ontological damnation is the negation of humanity."
nuclear omnicide forgets
but the thing is
suppose it is
what it is
nuclear omnicide forgets
trust in heidegger. he is our only hope. trust in a modicum of molecules. she is our only hope. trust in a relative revelation received in lieu of national partols.
nuclear omnicide knows
and on and on
here's your chance to
get to know your nuclear omnicide
a little better
suppose it is
what it is
but the thing is
nuclear omnicide is
you asked me the other day, "jason, what is, what is, what is, what is ontological damnation?"
nuclear omnicide becomes
what it is
suppose it is
but the thing is
nuclear omnicide becomes
i responded a few days later, "friend, ontological damnation is the negation of humanity."
nuclear omnicide forgets
but the thing is
suppose it is
what it is
nuclear omnicide forgets
trust in heidegger. he is our only hope. trust in a modicum of molecules. she is our only hope. trust in a relative revelation received in lieu of national partols.
nuclear omnicide knows
and on and on
here's your chance to
get to know your nuclear omnicide
a little better
StrIke stRokIng
Newport, Oregon Coast: 2050
There’s still a town, in spite of everything—
houseboats moored among the treetops,
floating shops tied up to Yaquina Bridge,
a fishing fleet in the estuary one hundred feet
above the old coastline. Still fur seals barking
and the smell of fish guts. Still fog drifting
every morning through tall cedars,
now standing dead with their feet in salt.
Every day the crabmen drop their pots
over the old boardwalk, where, they say,
the crabs hang out among the drowned
shops and galleries on Cannery Row.
We don’t get many tourists anymore,
but there’s still work, sunlight, rain, life.
houseboats moored among the treetops,
floating shops tied up to Yaquina Bridge,
a fishing fleet in the estuary one hundred feet
above the old coastline. Still fur seals barking
and the smell of fish guts. Still fog drifting
every morning through tall cedars,
now standing dead with their feet in salt.
Every day the crabmen drop their pots
over the old boardwalk, where, they say,
the crabs hang out among the drowned
shops and galleries on Cannery Row.
We don’t get many tourists anymore,
but there’s still work, sunlight, rain, life.
Word Planet
faces in words exempt old people. the sentence arrives with a statistical surprise called syntax. the old people resolve to find that part again. and as it loops over their heads as eagles did in the day, something strange drifts into almost saying. but alas, love isn't just a verb. it confuses the old people when the town, the town. people aren't committed to safe words over the period of a sentence. they feel sentence is a stronghold. then old people, old people, and rhyme turns into a charm for one day only. rhyme? wasn't that the name of a child, even one nearby? old faces grew to make a stern reply, but replies are not original. everyone else is, tho. the peace seems agreeable, forgetting some of the measures. pity makes a mistake, just one, but it's enough. people stop on dimes, quarters, timepieces. dust stirs up. syntax begins a reprimand, but words don't listen. old people are words, ill-matched or adjusted to some oddity. merriment, that was some child too. blue sky, keeper. red sun, asking forever. yellow sun, that doesn't happen often. and in between becomes an association.
BURN
Les coulures salines sinuent souvent entre ces seins qu’érige ce certain soleil au croire de la pénombre en contes de fraîcheur, voleurs de soupirs à cœur-chercheurs.
Contraste.
Gouvernemental ?
A la graisse de la Grande Mère comparée en soude germinatrice de genèses explosives se jouie un son récurrent avec des gémissements décidés de métrique. Symphonie bestiale.
Baiser avec la terre.
Ça m’excite trop !
Permission de permutation accordée sur l’angle des sangles virtuelles à l’orbite des giclées vespérales qui cherchent à alunir derrière les tétons de grêle.
Perler la liesse ou parler la laisse.
Ne surtout pas, en tout cas faciliter l’intelligence des choses.
Cette stridence de la chair où espère l’éther des inflexibles mercuriales d’une malédiction sanctifiée en tradition masochiste par phobie du bien ainsi nommé en vue de l’oblation terminale.
La pureté des vierges tueuses.
Sasser sans cesse le sens.
Seul le sang est sacré.
Je t’égorgerai bien pour le prouver…
Mais, il est impossible de mettre un préservatif sur les lampadaires, du coup les électrons éjaculent par milliards et par milliards sur les trottoirs abattoirs oeuvrant ainsi à la survie de l’erreur du remplissage total programmé sans le savoir pour la fin et depuis le moindre début.
Je s’oubli et te dis de chanter pour Elle.
Maestria. Anima sola.
Et les flammes…
Les flammes lèchent de plus en plus fort le corps qui ne s’envole plus par rémission des baguettes du Beth-Luis-Nion en toute crémation :
HURLER LE CULTE DU CARNAGE !
Cependant les flammes n’en font qu’à leur tête…
Les flammes ne fanent pas sans eau.
Les flammes fixent fièrement la fin en se pourléchant les babines, par de là le grand gouffre, derrière la forteresse des dents, là où se cachent la langue, instigatrice.
Complexion est aussi son nom.
Toujours aussi con, là se cascade la vérité.
Avec ses mousses en tampax, cette putain de vérité diffuse un soma, invariablement assimilé au coma, qui saigne les oreilles afin de les transformer en anus ou en vagin, toujours vierge.
Oréade de l’air.
Un prout quoi !
Question de fréquence.
A quoi bon valoriser celle-ci ?
La lumière de l’épiderme éclabousse de désirs l’invocation au Sauveur qui n’est autre qu’un mensonge édifiant qui déchaîne tout avant même chaque seconde. Croire corroborer un corridor.
L’étreinte d’une main géante.
Sécurité intense.
Le rictus opère sa mission de possession par le geste, pas de cerveau gauche à faire le reste, car la lune démone l’a déjà mis en transe, il n’est déjà plus lui, peut-être encore elle, qui sait ce qui se trouve entre eux ?
Vous êtes tous en camps de civilisations !
On fait déjà tout de vous !
Tiens, « On » voilà ce que je cherchais.
Quête du on.
Question ?
Mon con oui !
C’est. Les règles rubis de la grammaire inondent le monde vous incitant à une quotidienne libation d’hémoglobine, bien trop alléchante et dispensatrice de fontaine de fric.
On s’en branle, bien sur !
Vous et vos blessures si sûres.
Serrures en fait.
Défoncer devient l’ultime nécessité au dessus des canapés prédicateurs et de vos djihads journaliers.
Allez je vous en prie, prenez donc un autre terroriste s’il vous plait, cela vous fera plaisir je le sais…
Contraste.
Gouvernemental ?
A la graisse de la Grande Mère comparée en soude germinatrice de genèses explosives se jouie un son récurrent avec des gémissements décidés de métrique. Symphonie bestiale.
Baiser avec la terre.
Ça m’excite trop !
Permission de permutation accordée sur l’angle des sangles virtuelles à l’orbite des giclées vespérales qui cherchent à alunir derrière les tétons de grêle.
Perler la liesse ou parler la laisse.
Ne surtout pas, en tout cas faciliter l’intelligence des choses.
Cette stridence de la chair où espère l’éther des inflexibles mercuriales d’une malédiction sanctifiée en tradition masochiste par phobie du bien ainsi nommé en vue de l’oblation terminale.
La pureté des vierges tueuses.
Sasser sans cesse le sens.
Seul le sang est sacré.
Je t’égorgerai bien pour le prouver…
Mais, il est impossible de mettre un préservatif sur les lampadaires, du coup les électrons éjaculent par milliards et par milliards sur les trottoirs abattoirs oeuvrant ainsi à la survie de l’erreur du remplissage total programmé sans le savoir pour la fin et depuis le moindre début.
Je s’oubli et te dis de chanter pour Elle.
Maestria. Anima sola.
Et les flammes…
Les flammes lèchent de plus en plus fort le corps qui ne s’envole plus par rémission des baguettes du Beth-Luis-Nion en toute crémation :
HURLER LE CULTE DU CARNAGE !
Cependant les flammes n’en font qu’à leur tête…
Les flammes ne fanent pas sans eau.
Les flammes fixent fièrement la fin en se pourléchant les babines, par de là le grand gouffre, derrière la forteresse des dents, là où se cachent la langue, instigatrice.
Complexion est aussi son nom.
Toujours aussi con, là se cascade la vérité.
Avec ses mousses en tampax, cette putain de vérité diffuse un soma, invariablement assimilé au coma, qui saigne les oreilles afin de les transformer en anus ou en vagin, toujours vierge.
Oréade de l’air.
Un prout quoi !
Question de fréquence.
A quoi bon valoriser celle-ci ?
La lumière de l’épiderme éclabousse de désirs l’invocation au Sauveur qui n’est autre qu’un mensonge édifiant qui déchaîne tout avant même chaque seconde. Croire corroborer un corridor.
L’étreinte d’une main géante.
Sécurité intense.
Le rictus opère sa mission de possession par le geste, pas de cerveau gauche à faire le reste, car la lune démone l’a déjà mis en transe, il n’est déjà plus lui, peut-être encore elle, qui sait ce qui se trouve entre eux ?
Vous êtes tous en camps de civilisations !
On fait déjà tout de vous !
Tiens, « On » voilà ce que je cherchais.
Quête du on.
Question ?
Mon con oui !
C’est. Les règles rubis de la grammaire inondent le monde vous incitant à une quotidienne libation d’hémoglobine, bien trop alléchante et dispensatrice de fontaine de fric.
On s’en branle, bien sur !
Vous et vos blessures si sûres.
Serrures en fait.
Défoncer devient l’ultime nécessité au dessus des canapés prédicateurs et de vos djihads journaliers.
Allez je vous en prie, prenez donc un autre terroriste s’il vous plait, cela vous fera plaisir je le sais…
The Tarik Batu of Sumba
This eye, this mien, mein. It’s hyle a speakling from a brook-lang. That Cili padi membrane that thought me felicitous things, tangs, forgettable stains, a signal of sundered business. I don’t want to be a flagellate, even to the onion of a hod-leagued bugle. I, Richard Spruce, with Pan Hu in my jade lantern mouth parts. Disassemble this phantasm in the flavor of our startled dog-milking shedus (Svapaka-shedu). I remaindered my tricks and what they carnapshush'd. Even spadix aren’t free-living. Our life against the midnight lawns: poor Philip Quarll on the Isla de Memoriales. I’m walking through this wail of hair to confront my senate of chortling amoebic cineastes, my careless Yonas who once smelled Kamboja weapon worship.
ophiuchus
the feet of ophiuchus
treaded so lightly
in ptolemy's dreams
when a pope decrees
time is end
a fortnight lost
in the artificial world
we now see
the scorpion stung
ophiuchus free
of redemption
and greed.
peace & harmony,
elaine
'freedom must be exercised to stay in place
treaded so lightly
in ptolemy's dreams
when a pope decrees
time is end
a fortnight lost
in the artificial world
we now see
the scorpion stung
ophiuchus free
of redemption
and greed.
peace & harmony,
elaine
'freedom must be exercised to stay in place
Le ruisseau
Une petite foule était assemblée autour du corps. Un enfant accroupi le tripotait du bout d'une branche maigre et effeuillée. Un murmure faisait vibrer l'air autour de l'attroupement. Aucun danger, pourtant la foule éprouvait une certaine angoisse. L'enfant accroupi continuait de faire bouger mollement l'épaule du cadavre. Il ne savait pas. Aujourd'hui, les gens ne meurent plus excepté quelques marginaux et quand ils trouvent un clochard mort dans la rue cela créé un effet de surprise évident mêlant peur et fascination morbide. Dizzy était amoureux d'une femme d'une quarantaine d'années qui, à l'age de douze ans, était une groupie de Nirvana. Des traits poétiques dessinaient sur son visage sa jeunesse envolée et, elle portait des sandales à talons pour montrer qu'elle était encore féminine.
J'essayai de la captiver, de la toucher en plein coeur. Tout n'est pas si simple pour éviter la menace de la solitude et du désespoir. Accoudés à la fenêtre, souvent, on regarde le ruisseau qui passe au pied de l'immeuble, un petit ruisseau sauvage qui s'écoule, depuis des millénaires, juste à côté du grand quadrilatère de béton, sauvé de quelques mètres seulement des projets des urbanistes. De l'autre côté, dans la rue, la petite foule se disperse et dans l'indifférence général la police du bien-être arrête un homme dont le sourire n'est pas assez convainquant.
J'essayai de la captiver, de la toucher en plein coeur. Tout n'est pas si simple pour éviter la menace de la solitude et du désespoir. Accoudés à la fenêtre, souvent, on regarde le ruisseau qui passe au pied de l'immeuble, un petit ruisseau sauvage qui s'écoule, depuis des millénaires, juste à côté du grand quadrilatère de béton, sauvé de quelques mètres seulement des projets des urbanistes. De l'autre côté, dans la rue, la petite foule se disperse et dans l'indifférence général la police du bien-être arrête un homme dont le sourire n'est pas assez convainquant.
Before
Down to this
public meeting in a neutral space
eyes unmet
wistfulness
condescension
deeper undefinables
roiling the glassy surface
of your new stranger's smile
and the pre-arranged cell call
to take you away
before
public meeting in a neutral space
eyes unmet
wistfulness
condescension
deeper undefinables
roiling the glassy surface
of your new stranger's smile
and the pre-arranged cell call
to take you away
before
FAITH, END, LIGHT
With a short kiss
she left the room alone,
bridges of Venice sing on
the extreme wait
of a new warm
applause,
can you see the settled, sweet
and tender mood in the
close eyes?
With a short kiss
he left the car
along the troubled
river called Akanuakis,
needle pierces
the red snow
near the broadcasting frequence,
but the London tower's
sound smashing around
the joyful smiles.
she left the room alone,
bridges of Venice sing on
the extreme wait
of a new warm
applause,
can you see the settled, sweet
and tender mood in the
close eyes?
With a short kiss
he left the car
along the troubled
river called Akanuakis,
needle pierces
the red snow
near the broadcasting frequence,
but the London tower's
sound smashing around
the joyful smiles.
Umphalos
________________
spay-cords cut
from the witchery
of a cruel-sky
I went out on the town this evening with Gargantua and Pantagruel and a guy named Romani; what a fuck of a time we had. We drank our swill of Sherry and Port, ate like fucking swine, and drove a rickshaw into a confectioner’s window. We surely expected to be tarred and feathered, boiled in oil and cast into Dante’s inferno; but we made a swift getaway, me on the back on Gargantua, Romani riding on the coattails of Pantagruel, all four of us laughing like fucking foolscaps on PCP. What a fucking night indeed.
from the witchery
of a cruel-sky
___________________
Persona
Having made much of my Fassbinder features
Blush-stockinged like a student of ballet
Another fur-lined teacup from the permanent collection
You pause, and wonder whether
My loving you in the long ago
As I do him in the faraway
And leaving what I won't love upclose
Are what turned me
But ripping wind gathers as drunk William falters
And the crosstown bus I'm cursing
From the thirteenth district downward
Across macadam and maceve
My tarmac muse!
Telescoped in the bus-eye view
Proves only that pavés and plage
Are spaces that spurned me
Blush-stockinged like a student of ballet
Another fur-lined teacup from the permanent collection
You pause, and wonder whether
My loving you in the long ago
As I do him in the faraway
And leaving what I won't love upclose
Are what turned me
But ripping wind gathers as drunk William falters
And the crosstown bus I'm cursing
From the thirteenth district downward
Across macadam and maceve
My tarmac muse!
Telescoped in the bus-eye view
Proves only that pavés and plage
Are spaces that spurned me
Reading in London
Modern Poetry
@Borders
Oxford Street
Wed 25/10/06
6.30-7.30pm
Annie Freud
Will be reading from her collection
“A Voids Officer Achieves the Tree Pose”
With guests
John Stiles: Creamsicle Stick Shivs (Insomniac Press, 2006) Susan Grindley: Gobby Deegans Riposte (Donut Press, 2005) and Amah-Rose McKnight
@Borders
Oxford Street
Wed 25/10/06
6.30-7.30pm
Annie Freud
Will be reading from her collection
“A Voids Officer Achieves the Tree Pose”
With guests
John Stiles: Creamsicle Stick Shivs (Insomniac Press, 2006) Susan Grindley: Gobby Deegans Riposte (Donut Press, 2005) and Amah-Rose McKnight
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