panacea - everything you see
there’s a panacea for everything
you see. everything,
high – sharp – ocular.
oîda. idmen. pan. akea.
7/12/06
...
I am starting a journal of experimental writing by Minnesotans --
Minnesotan Ice -- write me at thewordman@mac.com if you are interested.
tl
...
you see. everything,
high – sharp – ocular.
oîda. idmen. pan. akea.
7/12/06
...
I am starting a journal of experimental writing by Minnesotans --
Minnesotan Ice -- write me at thewordman@mac.com if you are interested.
tl
...
Different Color Jumpsuit
That banner said the Mission was Accomplished
And everyone now knows the banner lied.
On Voting Day we've got a chance to fix it:
From the White House to the Big House in one slide!
I wanna see him in a
Different color jumpsuit
A different color jumpsuit
A different color jumpsuit
I wanna see him in a
Different color jumpsuit than the
One we saw him in
Before.
Some say it's just his cronies (and his boss)
Who did these things and ought to
Be the ones to pay
I say let's jail the
Smirker anyway
It's something that I just gotta see...
I wanna see him in a
Different color jumpsuit
A different color jumpsuit
A different color jumpsuit
I wanna see him in a
Different color jumpsuit than the
One we saw him in
Before.
So what's the use of hating on your enemy
Even if it's the enemy of mankind?
There's a wardrobe itching for a fresh malfunction
And needs to try on a tangerine jib for size.
I wanna see him in a
Different color jumpsuit
A different color jumpsuit
A different color jumpsuit
I wanna see him in a
Different color jumpsuit than the
One we saw him in
Before.
...I can dream, can't I?
the eye.
At night, he walks from foot to foot
along the iambic paths of yore
speeding it up as he goes along
or slowing it down once more.
The more he advances in history
the less the songs are sung
replaced by language and theory
and poems of horses, carts and dung.
And then he sees poems devoid of
all poss- i- ble
sym- me- try
without symmetry or
of the impossibility
to surf the lines for sure.
along the iambic paths of yore
speeding it up as he goes along
or slowing it down once more.
The more he advances in history
the less the songs are sung
replaced by language and theory
and poems of horses, carts and dung.
And then he sees poems devoid of
all poss- i- ble
sym- me- try
without symmetry or
of the impossibility
to surf the lines for sure.
Vanished-ish
removal of air
how thin (k) you
are when reading Miss
for someone who-else
did ‘iss a point-poignant maybe
in other words, out other words
how thin (k) you
are when reading Miss
for someone who-else
did ‘iss a point-poignant maybe
in other words, out other words
in the face of you
I am immeshed in another garbled speech stripped tease attempt to renounce suicide and begin a kind of insomnia, (an )old habit telephone call that never comes just before dying, endlessly withdrawn to a pale madness opposite someone else's things.
and in a moment of incest pain, involuntarily surrounded by concentrical steps of forced televised confessions,
I begin again in the face of you, stumble over fallen annotation, dehumanized sidewalks implode from lack of public acknowledgment, and for less than a living newspaper generalized nothing, nothing takes place, no losses, just text identified recyclable plumage
you are on every fruit claiming name turned mandatory 60 hour work week, demanding an application for dead next of kin, burning grizzle of never mention, vigil of not enough to heal the festering water to proclaim eternity, another word for another sinister tomorrow.
out of an early morning mist piled high with parts subdued by the public's comprehended logic, afraid of a bruise break with continuous read through, singing profanity.
we fade out in a residue decline attempting to secure a future mediocrity for further drilling
and in a moment of incest pain, involuntarily surrounded by concentrical steps of forced televised confessions,
I begin again in the face of you, stumble over fallen annotation, dehumanized sidewalks implode from lack of public acknowledgment, and for less than a living newspaper generalized nothing, nothing takes place, no losses, just text identified recyclable plumage
you are on every fruit claiming name turned mandatory 60 hour work week, demanding an application for dead next of kin, burning grizzle of never mention, vigil of not enough to heal the festering water to proclaim eternity, another word for another sinister tomorrow.
out of an early morning mist piled high with parts subdued by the public's comprehended logic, afraid of a bruise break with continuous read through, singing profanity.
we fade out in a residue decline attempting to secure a future mediocrity for further drilling
Experimenting with Angels
Like so many, she stayed hidden;
like the dead, disguised beneath
their granite stones. Inside her ribs
a gem-like flesh pounded joy,
the music of her distant home.
At night, summer moths flocked
beneath her window, each one
a tiny version of her own addiction
to the flame; wings tattered, burned
could hardly lift her up again.
To most people the world is filled
with longing; to her the darkness
filled with world- ever drawn into
the candle's wick for a single,
simple, catastrophic prayer.
like the dead, disguised beneath
their granite stones. Inside her ribs
a gem-like flesh pounded joy,
the music of her distant home.
At night, summer moths flocked
beneath her window, each one
a tiny version of her own addiction
to the flame; wings tattered, burned
could hardly lift her up again.
To most people the world is filled
with longing; to her the darkness
filled with world- ever drawn into
the candle's wick for a single,
simple, catastrophic prayer.
Une petite injection
Le docteur Zen décide de me faire une petite injection. La première fois ça n'avait rien changé, le semi-bond dans le futur avait échoué. Là il a décidé d'agrémenter son cocktail acide gamma hydro butyrique/phencyclidine/chlorhydrate de kétamine/chlorhydrate de fluoxétine d'un truc de son invention. Le genre de truc qui vous dilate les veines comme un ver s'introduisant dans un trou trop étroit, rampant sous votre peau, étendant ses vrilles dans le moindre capillaire, une molécule qui vous agrippe les neurones, s'insinuant dans les axones, comme les racines d'une mauvaise herbe; comme des milliards de micros explosions entre les synapses, fracturant la réalité alentours. Des douleurs tracent leurs sillons acides à travers tout mon corps déphasant mon lien avec le présent, avec le temps et l'espace.
Le visage du docteur se décomposa devant moi comme une pomme pourrissant en quelques secondes. Je cherchai à tirer sur mes liens, mais ne sentis aucune force, ils étaient réduits à l'état de vieilles épluchures grisâtres. Je me levai de mon siège. Les cendres dispersées autour du squelette du docteur s'envolèrent dans un courant d'air indiscernable. Entre ses métacarpes, la seringue se trouvait réduite à un tube de verre piqueté de milliards de trous minuscules comme rongée par l'acide, reposant au milieu de la poussière de rouille de l'aiguille. Une chose arachnide faisait sa toile dans un coin de l'écran plat du pc posé sur la tablette de travail. Une blessure mal cicatrisée sur ma poitrine (que je n'avais jamais remarquée), s'écartait et se resserrait alternativement suivant les battements de mon coeur faible et malade. Le carrelage fendu, brisé et retourné en de nombreux endroit du sol était couvert par du plâtre détaché du plafond, lequel dévoilait son ossature de fer rongé, ses cartilages de bois maintenus en place par un torchis granuleux comme la chair d'un lépreux.
Dans le couloir étroit percé de hautes fenêtres translucides, aux surfaces granitées ne laissant filtrer qu'un peu de lumière, un hululement étrange, lointain, peut être humain, fit vibrer un instant l'air. D'un côté du couloir, il y avait un tas contre une porte à double battant. Un amas de ce qui semblait être du linge sale. Autour de ce tas, trois formes vaguement humaines assises à même le sol fouillait dans cet amas en grognant, l'une d'entre elle en arracha un objet long et blafard comme une racine noueuse et molle. En m'approchant un peu je vis que le tas était un enchevêtrement de bras de jambe, de corps entremêlées d'un gris sale. Le tas de cadavres formait un amoncellement si haut qu'il en bloquait la porte sur laquelle il était appuyé. Les créatures proto-humaines plongeaient avidement leurs mains difformes et griffues dans la masse de chair terne et en tiraient des monceaux qu'elles apportaient à leurs bouches difformes, aux articulations disjointes, aux dents aiguisées comme des bouts de verre ébréché. Le docteur Zen me répétait souvent, comme un mantra à apprendre par coeur, à chacune de ses visites et dans les haut-parleurs installés dans ma cellule : « la condition humaine consiste à réprimer notre nature profonde, celle là même qui nous incite à nous jeter sur nos semblables et à leur briser les os pour en sucer la moelle encore chaude ». Je me dirigeai vers la porte à l'autre extrémité du couloir dont la peinture blanche écaillée révélait la pourriture grisâtre du mur. Dehors, dans la cour recouverte d'un macadam luisant d'une pluie récente, des tas de cadavres étaient assemblés un peu partout comme les tas de feuilles en automne et autour de ces tas, des créatures presque humaines festoyaient. Dans la cours, des humains allaient et venaient par groupes ou solitaires, ils baragouinaient des phrases incompréhensibles, d'autres poussaient des cris simiesques, d'autres encore courraient dans tout les sens fuyant des ennemis invisibles et peut être imaginaires. Un de ces hommes ramassait des dents brillantes sur l'humidité du sol, comme des bijoux de nacre maculés de sang. Il les comptait, dans le creux de sa main, comme on compte sa monnaie et les triait. Il les plaçait dans une de ses poches en fonction de la taille et de la forme de la dent. A côté de lui, plaqué au sol par cinq individus, un homme poussait des cris de goret tandis qu'un sixième lui arrachait les dents en enfonçant une pince épaisse en inox dans sa bouche gonflée, contusionnée et brillante d'un rouge carmin. Un autre humain se cognait la tête contre un mur de pierres épaisses laissant sur celui-ci une trace circulaire rougeâtre à l'endroit de l'impact. Au pieds de ce mur, un homme au regard halluciné et animal grattait le sol de manière frénétique, comme un chien cherchant son os, s'arrachant les ongles et réduisant les bouts de ses doigts à une pulpe brunâtre de saletés et d'hémoglobine. Le mur de pierres épaisses et grossières ceignait la cour de sa hauteur écrasante, ne laissant presque rien voir de l'extérieur, réduisant l'horizon à une ligne de fers barbelés couronnant son sommet. Le seul élément extérieur visible était un haut et large panneau publicitaire éclairé par des petits spots : un visage de femme aux contours parfaits et équilibrés, à la peau lisse et bronzée, aux yeux verts et brillants, au sourire d'un blanc éclatant. De la base de son cou gracile de déesse jusqu'à la ligne de démarcation de ses poils pubiens, son ventre était ouvert et, autour du vide de l'abdomen pareil à un tableau abstrait et organique, les organes étaient étalés méthodiquement de part et d'autre de ses flans, chaque parties ayant sa propre fonction dans une composition complexe, équilibrée, où les courbes harmonieuses du gros intestin associées à la masse compliquée des boyaux de l'intestin grêle faisaient le contrepoint aux surfaces lisses et humides du foie et de l'estomac. En dessous de ce tableau un slogan disait : « En vous éventrant le docteur Zen fait de vous une véritable icône de mode, pour des femmes à la forte personnalité, aux styles et à l'attitude uniques ».
Le visage du docteur se décomposa devant moi comme une pomme pourrissant en quelques secondes. Je cherchai à tirer sur mes liens, mais ne sentis aucune force, ils étaient réduits à l'état de vieilles épluchures grisâtres. Je me levai de mon siège. Les cendres dispersées autour du squelette du docteur s'envolèrent dans un courant d'air indiscernable. Entre ses métacarpes, la seringue se trouvait réduite à un tube de verre piqueté de milliards de trous minuscules comme rongée par l'acide, reposant au milieu de la poussière de rouille de l'aiguille. Une chose arachnide faisait sa toile dans un coin de l'écran plat du pc posé sur la tablette de travail. Une blessure mal cicatrisée sur ma poitrine (que je n'avais jamais remarquée), s'écartait et se resserrait alternativement suivant les battements de mon coeur faible et malade. Le carrelage fendu, brisé et retourné en de nombreux endroit du sol était couvert par du plâtre détaché du plafond, lequel dévoilait son ossature de fer rongé, ses cartilages de bois maintenus en place par un torchis granuleux comme la chair d'un lépreux.
Dans le couloir étroit percé de hautes fenêtres translucides, aux surfaces granitées ne laissant filtrer qu'un peu de lumière, un hululement étrange, lointain, peut être humain, fit vibrer un instant l'air. D'un côté du couloir, il y avait un tas contre une porte à double battant. Un amas de ce qui semblait être du linge sale. Autour de ce tas, trois formes vaguement humaines assises à même le sol fouillait dans cet amas en grognant, l'une d'entre elle en arracha un objet long et blafard comme une racine noueuse et molle. En m'approchant un peu je vis que le tas était un enchevêtrement de bras de jambe, de corps entremêlées d'un gris sale. Le tas de cadavres formait un amoncellement si haut qu'il en bloquait la porte sur laquelle il était appuyé. Les créatures proto-humaines plongeaient avidement leurs mains difformes et griffues dans la masse de chair terne et en tiraient des monceaux qu'elles apportaient à leurs bouches difformes, aux articulations disjointes, aux dents aiguisées comme des bouts de verre ébréché. Le docteur Zen me répétait souvent, comme un mantra à apprendre par coeur, à chacune de ses visites et dans les haut-parleurs installés dans ma cellule : « la condition humaine consiste à réprimer notre nature profonde, celle là même qui nous incite à nous jeter sur nos semblables et à leur briser les os pour en sucer la moelle encore chaude ». Je me dirigeai vers la porte à l'autre extrémité du couloir dont la peinture blanche écaillée révélait la pourriture grisâtre du mur. Dehors, dans la cour recouverte d'un macadam luisant d'une pluie récente, des tas de cadavres étaient assemblés un peu partout comme les tas de feuilles en automne et autour de ces tas, des créatures presque humaines festoyaient. Dans la cours, des humains allaient et venaient par groupes ou solitaires, ils baragouinaient des phrases incompréhensibles, d'autres poussaient des cris simiesques, d'autres encore courraient dans tout les sens fuyant des ennemis invisibles et peut être imaginaires. Un de ces hommes ramassait des dents brillantes sur l'humidité du sol, comme des bijoux de nacre maculés de sang. Il les comptait, dans le creux de sa main, comme on compte sa monnaie et les triait. Il les plaçait dans une de ses poches en fonction de la taille et de la forme de la dent. A côté de lui, plaqué au sol par cinq individus, un homme poussait des cris de goret tandis qu'un sixième lui arrachait les dents en enfonçant une pince épaisse en inox dans sa bouche gonflée, contusionnée et brillante d'un rouge carmin. Un autre humain se cognait la tête contre un mur de pierres épaisses laissant sur celui-ci une trace circulaire rougeâtre à l'endroit de l'impact. Au pieds de ce mur, un homme au regard halluciné et animal grattait le sol de manière frénétique, comme un chien cherchant son os, s'arrachant les ongles et réduisant les bouts de ses doigts à une pulpe brunâtre de saletés et d'hémoglobine. Le mur de pierres épaisses et grossières ceignait la cour de sa hauteur écrasante, ne laissant presque rien voir de l'extérieur, réduisant l'horizon à une ligne de fers barbelés couronnant son sommet. Le seul élément extérieur visible était un haut et large panneau publicitaire éclairé par des petits spots : un visage de femme aux contours parfaits et équilibrés, à la peau lisse et bronzée, aux yeux verts et brillants, au sourire d'un blanc éclatant. De la base de son cou gracile de déesse jusqu'à la ligne de démarcation de ses poils pubiens, son ventre était ouvert et, autour du vide de l'abdomen pareil à un tableau abstrait et organique, les organes étaient étalés méthodiquement de part et d'autre de ses flans, chaque parties ayant sa propre fonction dans une composition complexe, équilibrée, où les courbes harmonieuses du gros intestin associées à la masse compliquée des boyaux de l'intestin grêle faisaient le contrepoint aux surfaces lisses et humides du foie et de l'estomac. En dessous de ce tableau un slogan disait : « En vous éventrant le docteur Zen fait de vous une véritable icône de mode, pour des femmes à la forte personnalité, aux styles et à l'attitude uniques ».
Cliff + Allen + Lanny in a Tree. B_R_I_MM_ING
It sends an email??
The public is now the privation!
Antic Brimming View taking
No BROOMS!
NO MORE BROOMS!
sweeping in happenings.
TAO TUBE
YOU TAUBE!
Jleff
Allej
These were the Allejed Wyrds!
I AM THE LIBEWRTINEG!
nastynasty theatre of fold-down teeth.
Hip-Hopocalips!
WELCOME TO THE ERRORBONE!
Erotic shellfish gladiators...
Power to the snailfits!
Johnny Depp 6-13 depending
Charlotte Rampling (pure weightless swoon, unnumberable)
Julie Christie is Charlotte Rampling.
The public is now the privation!
Antic Brimming View taking
No BROOMS!
NO MORE BROOMS!
sweeping in happenings.
TAO TUBE
YOU TAUBE!
Jleff
Allej
These were the Allejed Wyrds!
I AM THE LIBEWRTINEG!
nastynasty theatre of fold-down teeth.
Hip-Hopocalips!
WELCOME TO THE ERRORBONE!
Erotic shellfish gladiators...
Power to the snailfits!
Johnny Depp 6-13 depending
Charlotte Rampling (pure weightless swoon, unnumberable)
Julie Christie is Charlotte Rampling.
no title|Somehow she found
Her eyes are green scallion-green. Not blue-cobalt or turquoise like a mountain lake, avian-blue, yet bluer. Hazel-blue, sclera, snot-green, flecked with dirt muddied turbid roiling. Nile-brown, or is it Ganges, necrotic with the stench, mortified and scabby; lice-scales flittering in an alabaster whiteness whiter than a priest’s robe, so it is, that white; Platonic-blue sodomy-blue, the Form of forms blue, yet bluer still. Too much blueness and not enough greenness, death’s ripening, in this the best of all. Blazes Boylan’s blissful assignations with Molly’s netherparts, undergarments hiked up around her throat warbling madly, seedcake seed everywhere. Not even the good manners to lave his privates with lemony-scented soap, purloined from poor cuckolded Leopold’s greatcoat pocket; the nerve of the man, this Blazes Boyland, opera enthusiast, sodomer of Molly’s nethermostpart.
_________________________
Stephano asked me to title his text
(clifford)
./
Blogger: Post a Comment
these our comment as . foretold are vanish. not Million readings of Poem in search of Author, or authoring machine, seek golden rule. or pregnant pause. to seek Leer of its cape. when lipogrammatical is deconstructed fervour of your onion ring. when talk about is talk, and about is out. or when constructed by
zantium is song , no filigree is weave of its true try rapport with song....or say how many readers read Homer, and theIr multitudinous readings, generatre meaning. Why not One Billion Writers of Poems. Why not if not possible? to scare the teasing meaning. Or share the sheer of its text based kick ass.
Blogger: Post a Comment
Hmm but not a Hamlet monkey, Allen, but a Hamlet machine. Kicking past each type page one million more. Ah, wherefore, I know, really we do, the question of meaning. which yo deny, yet assert\/ if you contra
dicta yer selves because you have many of them
inside word tongue of what readers reading poesy
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"99"
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3:12 AM
phaneronoemikon said...
(what I meant to say) :)
Disapproval's Reasoning with Defeasible Rules: New Accounts of Familiar Forms
Occam's horn much less known, a path much less taken
than the usual sharp edge of natural contracts, an
edge less sharp than the volatile space between us.
Something admitted models a crucial modality, the n
dimensional definable relations in S by their closure
properties, and by an automaton model, one that we
grasp in love, for no want of a better word, or work.
(Mirror)
Hermes / trimming / the night's / Van Dyck / raising
the question / of distinct / epistemologies / of wit:
"Is space really plural, or
does our notion of surface
suffer from thickness?"
Parasites and Fools are both
lavished to the tines of a
statue of algebra, an accident
challenging Baal.
Scruples and Tuples are thripped to the sucient,
for discovery procedures of provisional abandon;
Assume the machinery of existentially closed
structures and model the second author:
Person 1: You're a stupid fish vagina!
Persong 2: GLAG!
4:38 AM
Comment Deleted
This post has been removed by the author.
4:39 AM
Clifford Duffy said...
Gentlemen _ comments have been removed! what could have been is no longer, these our actor comments have vanished into thin air. __ I see JH working along the idea, really,that all criticism is prose poetry, as there are no "more readings but only misreadings." This seem to be what he is suggest. Following that idea a poem is never itself but a reading of other poems and their relations even the ones not read. A poem is never itself then but always someone else. Seven Poems in Search of a Self... what say about pomes not being able to be paraphrase,in other words, parsed, is so.
November 02, 2006 6:16 AM
edit comment publish this comment
JH: What weren't poems are now poems - this also applies to poems that were never written, does it not? Think of all the poems that could have been written had poets not lived in a time when a poem was held to be only a certain form. This applies to this day - though today there are a lot of poets who are constantly thinking of what a poem could be. The internet allows these experiments to be seen by a wide audience, who then may add to the efforts. All poems are experiments, I've heard, and this may be true - but some poems are more experiment than poem. Why is this? How can one be more the other? How can anything be more something else than it is itself? The author could say "this is an experiment; this is writing, as prose is writing, more than a poem", and the reader could disagree. Who, then, says how the poem is itself? If a writing is more experiment than poem (and how can this writing be partially a poem at all - is it because it alludes steadily and convincingly to poetry and past appearances of poems?), does this mean experiment is prose? Many experiments could be described in prose rather than illustrated via what meets the eye or ear as a poem. Poems cannot be paraphrased, but experiment can. This last statement is problematic, as much experiment is a kind of grammar. A lipogram, for instance, omits the same letter from every word in the text. One can point out that there are instances of subject-verb agreement (subject and verb in a sentence must be singular, or both must be plural) in a poem, without paraphrasing the poem. Can one paraphrase a lipogram by pointing out that there are instances of an omitted letter, considering these instances are found in every single word of a lipogram? Is a lipogram an experiment at all?
AHB: the formal structures of yore, formal as in agreed upon (I accept that Mac Low's structures are formal, but they are idiosyncratic, or sui generis, whichever term makes me seem more intelligent), presented challenges of subtlety. I have done a few, not many, poems in strict form. these were experiments because, as much as I admire many writers within such strictures, I'm not the child to be using said structures. I've done poems using Mac Low's formulae, and other methods I'd picked up from others. mostly these have not seemed like 'my' writing. I've mentioned my flarf experiments. I believe I use the same packet of methods as those who proudly wear the badge. many of my earlier attempts seemed like imitations. now I feel like my efforts are 'my' poems, and some are pretty good ones. I'm not even sure why this is. my point, and thank goodness I came equipped with one, is that experiment is a land of possibility. the image of someone in a landscape deciding what is and aint edible comes to mind. this berry looks good [barf], this one looks weird [mmm], etc. experiment can be soulless, a going thru motions. educational, but soulless. but experimentation can be the driving force itself, with risk involved. experimental as a descriptive for a type of writing is tedious to me, at least to the degree that experiment means an urge to be different. I respect that urge but ask for a sensibility behind it, overarching it, in fact. I guess (emphasis on the verb) that a lipogram can be an experiment if the writer had, um, something in mind. if the writer determined that lipogram was part of the path, not the destination. perhaps you could answer this question, as I gather you have done the lipogram. there are works of art that at least partly needn't need fruition. the idea of Jeff Koons creating a rose parade float is almost enough, so that one can say, someone made a drastically cute dog out of flowers, hahaha. but the execution does make it real. and it is something, even tho if you wake up early on New Year's Day, you can witness 'the real thing', which aint ART. I think a lipogram is no longer an experiment, but it can be used experimentally, a means to an imagined end. I think a lot of dull poetry accepts that a method is exceptional, but method isn't the poem. the monkeys who write Hamlet could as easily have produced last year's roses are red yawp. so let's give a shout out to the how of the usage, not the why. I guess.
posted by Allen at 2:22 PM on Nov 01 2006
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Gentlemen _ comments have been removed! what could have been is no longer, these our actor comments have vanished into thin air. __ I see JH working along the idea, really,that all criticism is prose poetry, as there are no "more readings but only misreadings." This seem to be what he is suggest. Following that idea a poem is never itself but a reading of other poems and their relations even the ones not read. A poem is never itself then but always someone else. Seven Poems in Search of a Self... what say about pomes not being able to be paraphrase,in other words, parsed, is so.
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Gentlemen _ comments have been removed! what could have been is no longer, these our actor comments have vanished into thin air. __ I see JH working along the idea, really,that all criticism is prose poetry, as there are no "more readings but only misreadings." This seem to be what he is suggest. Following that idea a poem is never itself but a reading of other poems and their relations even the ones not read. A poem is never itself then but always someone else. Seven Poems in Search of a Self... what say about pomes not being able to be paraphrase,in other words, parsed, is so.when lipogrammatical is deconstructed fervour of your onion ring. when talk about is talk, and about is out. or when constructed byzantium is song , no filigree is weave of its true try rapport with song....or say how many readers read Homer, and theIr multitudinous readings, generatre meaning. Why not One Billion Writers of Poems. Why not if not possible? to scare the teasing meaning. Or share the sheer of its text based kick ass.ollowing that idea a poem is never itself but a reading of other poems and their relations even the ones not read. A poem is never itself then but always someone else. Seven Poems in Search of a Self... all this can change around to other side. ...
what font do to thought
you do to me, glove,
when wearing your slatted eye
your salt spring eye i am
hone to your bone
or some cupped up
over closerhyme
its where connet
& donnet glib
as which a watch carry bait
reckon its fek ground
unground of Bing Crosby
qwitich to its hover cap
of whistle in yer though i have heark
a gillion quacking its melon at the market
yepderday as your ass saunterd his route
said the pope was up yer skip cant bear to yer swinging
kip oO English dame am I not swish to your gruel?
gasp seziure of elm and weep willow
do tarmac i am biat and bait the running bok
its near prose cinema of prose over heere her sap
eye come to my head an Irish queen I am homage
womage to her slave her excellent suiter there over the choir of hammer hamadryad mother hunking her djinn and over the sentence of chiaroscuro
she is chair to her prec dented by thief of her ass
her ass walking gallery
she am navy to her kiss gyp
zantium is song , no filigree is weave of its true try rapport with song....or say how many readers read Homer, and theIr multitudinous readings, generatre meaning. Why not One Billion Writers of Poems. Why not if not possible? to scare the teasing meaning. Or share the sheer of its text based kick ass.
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Hmm but not a Hamlet monkey, Allen, but a Hamlet machine. Kicking past each type page one million more. Ah, wherefore, I know, really we do, the question of meaning. which yo deny, yet assert\/ if you contra
dicta yer selves because you have many of them
inside word tongue of what readers reading poesy
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3:12 AM
phaneronoemikon said...
(what I meant to say) :)
Disapproval's Reasoning with Defeasible Rules: New Accounts of Familiar Forms
Occam's horn much less known, a path much less taken
than the usual sharp edge of natural contracts, an
edge less sharp than the volatile space between us.
Something admitted models a crucial modality, the n
dimensional definable relations in S by their closure
properties, and by an automaton model, one that we
grasp in love, for no want of a better word, or work.
(Mirror)
Hermes / trimming / the night's / Van Dyck / raising
the question / of distinct / epistemologies / of wit:
"Is space really plural, or
does our notion of surface
suffer from thickness?"
Parasites and Fools are both
lavished to the tines of a
statue of algebra, an accident
challenging Baal.
Scruples and Tuples are thripped to the sucient,
for discovery procedures of provisional abandon;
Assume the machinery of existentially closed
structures and model the second author:
Person 1: You're a stupid fish vagina!
Persong 2: GLAG!
4:38 AM
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This post has been removed by the author.
4:39 AM
Clifford Duffy said...
Gentlemen _ comments have been removed! what could have been is no longer, these our actor comments have vanished into thin air. __ I see JH working along the idea, really,that all criticism is prose poetry, as there are no "more readings but only misreadings." This seem to be what he is suggest. Following that idea a poem is never itself but a reading of other poems and their relations even the ones not read. A poem is never itself then but always someone else. Seven Poems in Search of a Self... what say about pomes not being able to be paraphrase,in other words, parsed, is so.
November 02, 2006 6:16 AM
edit comment publish this comment
JH: What weren't poems are now poems - this also applies to poems that were never written, does it not? Think of all the poems that could have been written had poets not lived in a time when a poem was held to be only a certain form. This applies to this day - though today there are a lot of poets who are constantly thinking of what a poem could be. The internet allows these experiments to be seen by a wide audience, who then may add to the efforts. All poems are experiments, I've heard, and this may be true - but some poems are more experiment than poem. Why is this? How can one be more the other? How can anything be more something else than it is itself? The author could say "this is an experiment; this is writing, as prose is writing, more than a poem", and the reader could disagree. Who, then, says how the poem is itself? If a writing is more experiment than poem (and how can this writing be partially a poem at all - is it because it alludes steadily and convincingly to poetry and past appearances of poems?), does this mean experiment is prose? Many experiments could be described in prose rather than illustrated via what meets the eye or ear as a poem. Poems cannot be paraphrased, but experiment can. This last statement is problematic, as much experiment is a kind of grammar. A lipogram, for instance, omits the same letter from every word in the text. One can point out that there are instances of subject-verb agreement (subject and verb in a sentence must be singular, or both must be plural) in a poem, without paraphrasing the poem. Can one paraphrase a lipogram by pointing out that there are instances of an omitted letter, considering these instances are found in every single word of a lipogram? Is a lipogram an experiment at all?
AHB: the formal structures of yore, formal as in agreed upon (I accept that Mac Low's structures are formal, but they are idiosyncratic, or sui generis, whichever term makes me seem more intelligent), presented challenges of subtlety. I have done a few, not many, poems in strict form. these were experiments because, as much as I admire many writers within such strictures, I'm not the child to be using said structures. I've done poems using Mac Low's formulae, and other methods I'd picked up from others. mostly these have not seemed like 'my' writing. I've mentioned my flarf experiments. I believe I use the same packet of methods as those who proudly wear the badge. many of my earlier attempts seemed like imitations. now I feel like my efforts are 'my' poems, and some are pretty good ones. I'm not even sure why this is. my point, and thank goodness I came equipped with one, is that experiment is a land of possibility. the image of someone in a landscape deciding what is and aint edible comes to mind. this berry looks good [barf], this one looks weird [mmm], etc. experiment can be soulless, a going thru motions. educational, but soulless. but experimentation can be the driving force itself, with risk involved. experimental as a descriptive for a type of writing is tedious to me, at least to the degree that experiment means an urge to be different. I respect that urge but ask for a sensibility behind it, overarching it, in fact. I guess (emphasis on the verb) that a lipogram can be an experiment if the writer had, um, something in mind. if the writer determined that lipogram was part of the path, not the destination. perhaps you could answer this question, as I gather you have done the lipogram. there are works of art that at least partly needn't need fruition. the idea of Jeff Koons creating a rose parade float is almost enough, so that one can say, someone made a drastically cute dog out of flowers, hahaha. but the execution does make it real. and it is something, even tho if you wake up early on New Year's Day, you can witness 'the real thing', which aint ART. I think a lipogram is no longer an experiment, but it can be used experimentally, a means to an imagined end. I think a lot of dull poetry accepts that a method is exceptional, but method isn't the poem. the monkeys who write Hamlet could as easily have produced last year's roses are red yawp. so let's give a shout out to the how of the usage, not the why. I guess.
posted by Allen at 2:22 PM on Nov 01 2006
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Gentlemen _ comments have been removed! what could have been is no longer, these our actor comments have vanished into thin air. __ I see JH working along the idea, really,that all criticism is prose poetry, as there are no "more readings but only misreadings." This seem to be what he is suggest. Following that idea a poem is never itself but a reading of other poems and their relations even the ones not read. A poem is never itself then but always someone else. Seven Poems in Search of a Self... what say about pomes not being able to be paraphrase,in other words, parsed, is so.
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Gentlemen _ comments have been removed! what could have been is no longer, these our actor comments have vanished into thin air. __ I see JH working along the idea, really,that all criticism is prose poetry, as there are no "more readings but only misreadings." This seem to be what he is suggest. Following that idea a poem is never itself but a reading of other poems and their relations even the ones not read. A poem is never itself then but always someone else. Seven Poems in Search of a Self... what say about pomes not being able to be paraphrase,in other words, parsed, is so.when lipogrammatical is deconstructed fervour of your onion ring. when talk about is talk, and about is out. or when constructed byzantium is song , no filigree is weave of its true try rapport with song....or say how many readers read Homer, and theIr multitudinous readings, generatre meaning. Why not One Billion Writers of Poems. Why not if not possible? to scare the teasing meaning. Or share the sheer of its text based kick ass.ollowing that idea a poem is never itself but a reading of other poems and their relations even the ones not read. A poem is never itself then but always someone else. Seven Poems in Search of a Self... all this can change around to other side. ...
what font do to thought
you do to me, glove,
when wearing your slatted eye
your salt spring eye i am
hone to your bone
or some cupped up
over closerhyme
its where connet
& donnet glib
as which a watch carry bait
reckon its fek ground
unground of Bing Crosby
qwitich to its hover cap
of whistle in yer though i have heark
a gillion quacking its melon at the market
yepderday as your ass saunterd his route
said the pope was up yer skip cant bear to yer swinging
kip oO English dame am I not swish to your gruel?
gasp seziure of elm and weep willow
do tarmac i am biat and bait the running bok
its near prose cinema of prose over heere her sap
eye come to my head an Irish queen I am homage
womage to her slave her excellent suiter there over the choir of hammer hamadryad mother hunking her djinn and over the sentence of chiaroscuro
she is chair to her prec dented by thief of her ass
her ass walking gallery
she am navy to her kiss gyp
Language Thorax
stopgap favoritism rivalling green tea.
about his intentions lifting my
Web site links to my site,
Johnny Depp could scarcely move my
restless sentence of the gibbous moon.
maneuvering to avoid
monster of delectable argument,
stopgap sentence of rivalling monster.
rustle sentence of delectable green tea,
gibbous argument
and expedient. Johnny Depp figured that I
required oh-so-careful
the way that Johnny Depp used to.
articles like a giddy prospector
and they're yours to use gratis.
nervous poet had been typing the same way
for decades without incident. Johnny Depp had
experienced no symptoms at all
before this happened
under the radar.
When he is incapacitated again,
his family's grief will not be compounded
by the need to make assumptions
placing debilitating stress on my
computer bag onto my shoulder
arms, or mined Sunday newspaper
must be doing something right.
A swing to left field is seductive
avoiding, Johnny Depp realized.
Johnny Depp usually
revels among the popcorn-buttered
campaign proctologists.
It wasn't just movies, Johnny Depp was
ambiance of theaters.
We don't just need better
campaign strategies; we need
Johnny Depp rarely go through a day
without writing pages
for decades without incident.
My mother was on vacation,
literally saving you hours and
the rest either gave up or moved on.
One's ideas are never perfect.
It's an email alert system
that lets me know when.
about his intentions lifting my
Web site links to my site,
Johnny Depp could scarcely move my
restless sentence of the gibbous moon.
maneuvering to avoid
monster of delectable argument,
stopgap sentence of rivalling monster.
rustle sentence of delectable green tea,
gibbous argument
and expedient. Johnny Depp figured that I
required oh-so-careful
the way that Johnny Depp used to.
articles like a giddy prospector
and they're yours to use gratis.
nervous poet had been typing the same way
for decades without incident. Johnny Depp had
experienced no symptoms at all
before this happened
under the radar.
When he is incapacitated again,
his family's grief will not be compounded
by the need to make assumptions
placing debilitating stress on my
computer bag onto my shoulder
arms, or mined Sunday newspaper
must be doing something right.
A swing to left field is seductive
avoiding, Johnny Depp realized.
Johnny Depp usually
revels among the popcorn-buttered
campaign proctologists.
It wasn't just movies, Johnny Depp was
ambiance of theaters.
We don't just need better
campaign strategies; we need
Johnny Depp rarely go through a day
without writing pages
for decades without incident.
My mother was on vacation,
literally saving you hours and
the rest either gave up or moved on.
One's ideas are never perfect.
It's an email alert system
that lets me know when.
On second thoughts: yes minus no =
Un-sounding the re-
an echo that lives
in a persistent state of ache
bouncing on tongues
not for speech sport (a game of the globe)
or the splutter of denial
but to offer ‘no’ shares in affirmation
and save face.
Line adventure
after Michaux
A line meets another, a line dodges another, line adventure.
A line for pleasure of being line, of going, line.
Dots, spots, reduced to powdery lines of dream,
a line waits,
a line hopes, a line
rethinks a face.
A line rises up, goes and sees the abstract line.
Sinuous, zig-zaging, a melodious line passes through
twenty lines of stratification.
A line germinates, a thousand others around her
sprouters of fresh shoots: grass, pushing through
desert sand dunes.
A line gives up. A line rests. Halt. A three tendrilled halt, a habitat
a fabricat from which filaments escape still, slowly.
original French text at _lignesdefuites_
A line meets another, a line dodges another, line adventure.
A line for pleasure of being line, of going, line.
Dots, spots, reduced to powdery lines of dream,
a line waits,
a line hopes, a line
rethinks a face.
A line rises up, goes and sees the abstract line.
Sinuous, zig-zaging, a melodious line passes through
twenty lines of stratification.
A line germinates, a thousand others around her
sprouters of fresh shoots: grass, pushing through
desert sand dunes.
A line gives up. A line rests. Halt. A three tendrilled halt, a habitat
a fabricat from which filaments escape still, slowly.
original French text at _lignesdefuites_
Heartening
Skin to hide
A smile to heal
Inside is truth
Beauty to reveal
Sluff off your burden
and expose your sol
what all can observe
will be your gold
A smile to heal
Inside is truth
Beauty to reveal
Sluff off your burden
and expose your sol
what all can observe
will be your gold
A bedtime story
Once upon a time, there was a unicorn. This unicorn was named Eunice and she didn't know how to dance. Then along came a cute little bunny named Herman. Herman told Eunice about eating fruits and vegetables instead of her boring normal diet of grass and grass and more grass. Once Eunice ate all the yummy veggies and fruits, she started to dance. She was so excited she tried to dance with Herman, but instead stomped on him and smooshed him dead.
The end
The end
Substitution
1.
The mallard that hugs the edge of the pond
her young making sleepy
heaps like a pile of old pillows
bent and greasy
with use
and her wide awake
the stripe of purple on her wing
for my heavy eyelid
for the flicker of dark thoughts
2.
The soft white curve of the mushroom cap
kicked up overturned
for the porous slope
of my breast
its musky gills for the frills the furbelows
the wet morsel that is your ear
in this colony of similar individuals
3.
The beat and rustle and fall of aspen leaves
into scraps of pale parchment
into dust
on the mulch path
for the scales of skin in the few fine hairs
that yellow your scalp
for the flutter of hunger of thought
through your fontanel
4.
The gull that hovers over the silver
of its rain-blown reflection
then gives one two pulses of its wings
for the cilia beat of lashes over
the image of my face
in the wet of your eyes
as you wake
5.
The thunderstorm blat
the splat of rain on the windshield
the outline dripping indistinct
after weeks of drought
for my swollen areola still streaming milk
the moment after
you wrench your head away
6.
The warm round bales of hay
among the stubble of cleared
and smoking fields
for the cheeks deposited
between the bones the fine hairs of your face
for the vapour from your mouth
in the coolness of the car
6.
The heave and groan of pipes
the inhale and hold
of the furnace before it turns on
for the interrogation
of your wet wakeful sigh
before the skin around your eyes
puckers goes red
ariel gordon
The mallard that hugs the edge of the pond
her young making sleepy
heaps like a pile of old pillows
bent and greasy
with use
and her wide awake
the stripe of purple on her wing
for my heavy eyelid
for the flicker of dark thoughts
2.
The soft white curve of the mushroom cap
kicked up overturned
for the porous slope
of my breast
its musky gills for the frills the furbelows
the wet morsel that is your ear
in this colony of similar individuals
3.
The beat and rustle and fall of aspen leaves
into scraps of pale parchment
into dust
on the mulch path
for the scales of skin in the few fine hairs
that yellow your scalp
for the flutter of hunger of thought
through your fontanel
4.
The gull that hovers over the silver
of its rain-blown reflection
then gives one two pulses of its wings
for the cilia beat of lashes over
the image of my face
in the wet of your eyes
as you wake
5.
The thunderstorm blat
the splat of rain on the windshield
the outline dripping indistinct
after weeks of drought
for my swollen areola still streaming milk
the moment after
you wrench your head away
6.
The warm round bales of hay
among the stubble of cleared
and smoking fields
for the cheeks deposited
between the bones the fine hairs of your face
for the vapour from your mouth
in the coolness of the car
6.
The heave and groan of pipes
the inhale and hold
of the furnace before it turns on
for the interrogation
of your wet wakeful sigh
before the skin around your eyes
puckers goes red
ariel gordon
I'll Cry No More, I'll Cry No More
I’ll cry no more, I’ll cry no more
I’ll scream no mouth swollen open for swallowing
Night’s air wet with the warm steam of the streets
With stars popping out as chill bumps
On the skin of the sky
With neocircular moon yellowish in its fullness
And excited gaseous neon particles glowing
In their frenzy
I’ll scream no more the trembling day air aflutter
With red breast and red winged blackbird’s sound
All rushing into me while you’re
In my rose, my rose gone blind
Welcoming the sum of your sons from you spitting eye.
I’ll cry no more but arch my black back
Back against the black of night and clutch
Grass grounded to its roots in this arching earth
While your erect prick of a humming bird’s tongue
In the reddish rose.
Sweat dancing on your chest and the sweating air
Sweet between us -sweet between us
Scrotum swing against in the hold-on rhythmic roll
Of rocks to explode- your long o-o-os your whooos-breezes
Sounds that cool my back in a city lost wind come home
I’ll sing your sighs in poems
And cry cries no more.
I’ll scream no mouth swollen open for swallowing
Night’s air wet with the warm steam of the streets
With stars popping out as chill bumps
On the skin of the sky
With neocircular moon yellowish in its fullness
And excited gaseous neon particles glowing
In their frenzy
I’ll scream no more the trembling day air aflutter
With red breast and red winged blackbird’s sound
All rushing into me while you’re
In my rose, my rose gone blind
Welcoming the sum of your sons from you spitting eye.
I’ll cry no more but arch my black back
Back against the black of night and clutch
Grass grounded to its roots in this arching earth
While your erect prick of a humming bird’s tongue
In the reddish rose.
Sweat dancing on your chest and the sweating air
Sweet between us -sweet between us
Scrotum swing against in the hold-on rhythmic roll
Of rocks to explode- your long o-o-os your whooos-breezes
Sounds that cool my back in a city lost wind come home
I’ll sing your sighs in poems
And cry cries no more.
found object
High, low, christian, heathen, serious, playful, kitsch, sublime: critical taxonomies carry no currency here. Classifications are ersatz niceties that amputate, and Allen prefers the smoky, spooky plenitude of the nightmare, in all its dreadful glory, to the nightmare of imperious, limping half-truth. In her work, t-shirt design, grease paint motion pictures, and images sprung of the Book of Psalms are equivalent, not because she has trained herself in clever juxtapositions, but because she knows, as any wise six year old would, that art, like life, is always matter of catching as catch can, making do, derring-do: everything is unfair game.
the flooring of the artist|in eye
__________________O boy Mona's got chill her bones with this old loam tone~
over ther E
floor of the artist
hold remBrandt
tarries halt to wheat
tickles cleat to offertory lamp
____________________________
over ther E
floor of the artist
hold remBrandt
tarries halt to wheat
tickles cleat to offertory lamp
h'ere yer heart hart thing
hamper to hen
of bodies forsooth
carry canary to page'
How to become a material thing?
thinging was between the reads by border of personae. Not luck, or necessity but contingent on her genital status. Mrs Penis and Mister PhalluS!
____________________________
paying my humble and penniless tribute with joy to our magnificent host, the dearest Cliff (Am I going too far ? )
(c) David Hockney.
"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd"
Alexander Pope "Eloisa to Abelard".
greenhouse effect
after Carsten Höller
At the 54th Carnegie International, Carsten Höller installed his Solandra Greenhouse. Museum visitors entered a glass-walled structure filled with Solandra Maxima (golden chalice vine), a South American plant that exudes pheromones capable of inducing the hallucinatory effects of falling in love.
five-lobed corolla
blooms yellow deepens
to gold with age
a billet-doux
inscribed on hand-pulled paper
the perfume of golden chalice
a car parked in sunlight
the radiance of two lovers
a vine trained
to grow upwards
can be trapped to
take the form
of a box-like hedge,
left untended
a clumped mass
smothering
the native vegetation
the transparency of
heart’s desire
sustained inside
glass walls
what makes the earth
suitable for life
I will cultivate enough
to feed a starving nation
.
20061009
écriture d'un sonnet
haïkique c'est-à-dire
d'une séquence de quatre fois
trois lignes de deux fois sept
plus d'une fois cinq ou
deux fois cinq plus une fois sept
en comptant deux lignes
invisibles entre deux
des haïkus, c'est là
qu'il faudrait chercher
qu'est-ce qui a bien pu se
passer c'est-à-dire
qu'il faudrait lire
entre les lignes de cet
HAIKU SONNETIQUE
haïkique c'est-à-dire
d'une séquence de quatre fois
trois lignes de deux fois sept
plus d'une fois cinq ou
deux fois cinq plus une fois sept
en comptant deux lignes
invisibles entre deux
des haïkus, c'est là
qu'il faudrait chercher
qu'est-ce qui a bien pu se
passer c'est-à-dire
qu'il faudrait lire
entre les lignes de cet
HAIKU SONNETIQUE
Feeble Yowling Pedigree
____________
Scrod Montague awoke from troubled dreams, hair whorled and crenulated; dressed in a flannel nightgown, slippers, red with blue tassels, and a night-hat. Before bed he had been reading Kafka’s ‘The Investigations of a Dog’, feeling a close kinship with animals, like one of Darwin’s miscreants, a feeble yowling pedigree without a tail. He rubbed the palms of his hands together, flails of dirt and grime flaking like cows’ dung, and lit a half-smoked cigarette, the selfsame one he had snubbed out before retiring the night before. He reached for his ‘Collected Short Stories of Kafka’, which sat on the night table beside his bed, which was pillared on stilts to prevent monsters and ghouls from arresting his sleep, and opened the book to the story ‘In the Penal Colony’ and began to read, his voice coffined with spittle and blackness. His back ached, as did the dice in his neck, so he shifted his weight, careful not to upset the stilts, and readjusted the book to fit more propitiously on the fop of his lap, the creases and folds in his flannel nightgown a barrow of dirt, grime and cows’ dung. It dawned on him, as most things did, that perhaps he had never awakened, but was still asleep, dreaming dreams and rubbing his ankles against one another, flails of dirt, grime and cow’s dung collecting at the bottom of his bed linen, a dog’s tail sticking out from beneath the covers, his hair whorled and crenulated like bleached heather, last night’s cigarette smouldering in the ashtray, a ghoul tugging at the leg of his nightgown, Kafka working the stilts free of the bedstead, a dog bawling in the closet, it’s tail caught in the doorframe. He never awoke, but never; he was abed in the solipsism of his thoughts, hair whorled and crenulated…
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