Augury
Today was minutes longer than yesterday,
the Earth turns slow, tipping back towards the Sun.
Stars fall at strange angles and get hung up in clouds,
filling the sky with unfamiliar constellations
as if God had shaken a jewelery case
and left the chains tangled, pendants hooked together
dangling askew across the sky.
Augur, read me this riddle:
what planet rules the fortunes of empires?
Does it rise or set, or move at all
or is it trapped, like a scarlet fish in a net
of static history? Horrible thought.
Shake the box again, God. Roll the stars like dice
and let us read the numbers plain.
the Earth turns slow, tipping back towards the Sun.
Stars fall at strange angles and get hung up in clouds,
filling the sky with unfamiliar constellations
as if God had shaken a jewelery case
and left the chains tangled, pendants hooked together
dangling askew across the sky.
Augur, read me this riddle:
what planet rules the fortunes of empires?
Does it rise or set, or move at all
or is it trapped, like a scarlet fish in a net
of static history? Horrible thought.
Shake the box again, God. Roll the stars like dice
and let us read the numbers plain.
one plus one
3000 - 2877 = 123
which means that @
approximately 20 posts a day
in 123 divided by 20 days
which approximately equals
nine or ten days,
the 3000 mark will be passed
which could be sooner than nine or ten days
if 1. more people posted twice a day and/or
if 2. more people posted more than two posts a day
which is unlikely considering how
hard it already is posting twice a day,
with some having to resolve themselves
with sonnetic calculations
which means that @
approximately 20 posts a day
in 123 divided by 20 days
which approximately equals
nine or ten days,
the 3000 mark will be passed
which could be sooner than nine or ten days
if 1. more people posted twice a day and/or
if 2. more people posted more than two posts a day
which is unlikely considering how
hard it already is posting twice a day,
with some having to resolve themselves
with sonnetic calculations
Variations on A proverb
An apple a day
keeps the doctor away
whilst
twenty a day
keeps cancer at bay
whilst
two posts a day
keep beta blogger away
whilst
a reading a day
keeps ignorance at bay
keeps the doctor away
whilst
twenty a day
keeps cancer at bay
whilst
two posts a day
keep beta blogger away
whilst
a reading a day
keeps ignorance at bay
Planting the Memory Tree
Council gardeners plant the Memory Tree in Sandhurst Memorial Park.
Later haiku written in workshop with Paul Conneally are hung on the tree.
Cat got your tongue?
In spite of my face I have a nose
but you’ll find my heel is in drag,
my eyes are peeled and someone has
just jumped down my throat.
but you’ll find my heel is in drag,
my eyes are peeled and someone has
just jumped down my throat.
Summit Meeting
the sky's transparency turns to rain, which isn't much trouble. a whittled down mountain like Everest (all legend, no action) stands three feet above your imagination: not much. so you see, rise and let the climbing begin. you see snow as a plaintive need to cower. you see air as a fabulous instigation, like you could arrive at party on fire. you can, try it. and as you try fire, day fades to night. well that it should. it is a winter covering, a respect of earth. we can take such a thing as a request to see death. death hits its mark atop Everest. see the lunar loss, the vision of chill, the statues made of people. feel definite, finally. death is a shaky town in a whirled ocean of feeling. people strand themselves then yell for glory. a rumble above is merely an avalanche. avalanches just make human call a number one. a few moments, say, beneath white blanket will startle you but it is just a mountain, just death, just a blue sky sometimes burnt into the world above. or rain, as this day knows. we may sleep later or run around a large rock. we may incline towards love because it is there. the sky's transparency is as grey as dictates. the rain feels fine and finely tuned. morning becomes eccentric.
Uncertainty
I'm getting ready for the holidays
I hope the amount of uncertainty
of a plane ticket doesn't sound like
too much of a given probability.
Just think of context as much harder to defend
I hope the problem thing isn't getting you too optimistic
Something next to you becomes resilient when it is half over already
any way you should consider something less significant
even if it isn’t there any longer
people cast away parts of violence, even sanctuary
thinking of themselves until they are no longer predictable
items that are lost unexpectedly assimilate
Just a thought,
If the outcome is a problem,
and it doesn't sound like it is
there is no reason to look further
I hope the amount of uncertainty
of a plane ticket doesn't sound like
too much of a given probability.
Just think of context as much harder to defend
I hope the problem thing isn't getting you too optimistic
Something next to you becomes resilient when it is half over already
any way you should consider something less significant
even if it isn’t there any longer
people cast away parts of violence, even sanctuary
thinking of themselves until they are no longer predictable
items that are lost unexpectedly assimilate
Just a thought,
If the outcome is a problem,
and it doesn't sound like it is
there is no reason to look further
Benny Profane
Imogene had profane thoughts, so profane were her thoughts that she fretted she might utter shit or bastard at the wrong moment and with toiletry. She once said cocksucker in a crowed fovea (as she was cowed in the folds of a fat woman’s stomach) and fuck-me silly in an elevator with a priest, two sisters and a garage attendant. She upset a Methodist, his three children and they’re Filipino nanny at a children’s playgroup for no other reason than she felt like it, or her mouth did. Imogene read and reread Puncheon’s V. because she liked the principal character’s name and the fact that Puncheon hated having his picture taken, which she did, too. She died while shopping for a tea-cervix at the Harry Pottery Barn, twisting her eyes-glasses and loosening a molar, which was rotten and piecemeal anyhow, and falling into the Methodist who happened to be there browsing for a rookery-board with the Filipino nanny who had on a fulcra sweater with mauve piping and a Mason’s hat shaped like a trowel.
Christmas Card from My Brother
Dear Mike,
A deer like the one on the front of this card got hit by a car on Hobson Road a few weeks ago. It then ran through the sliding glass doors in the apartment of Al Olson's. The cops came and shot it because it got trapped inside and was wrecking the place. It made the Progress. Merry Christmas.
Love, Randy
A deer like the one on the front of this card got hit by a car on Hobson Road a few weeks ago. It then ran through the sliding glass doors in the apartment of Al Olson's. The cops came and shot it because it got trapped inside and was wrecking the place. It made the Progress. Merry Christmas.
Love, Randy
SELF PORTRAIT AS SEMI-AMORPHOUS ENTITY
Silly muffin-like thing
floating in a fizzy fissure.
Oddly fluffy little pink anomaly
sometimes has no ears, but still hears
through some manner of clandestine absorption.
A listening device a tiny warped sponge
implanted in the bottom of a silver foil
Baking and Party Cup w/ ruffled edges.
Impregnation by tainted sugar.
Inside a misshapen speech bubble,
toothsome words are birthed.
Incubate, overheat, burst. A spatter of
bloody latex, enamel, nougat, & nerves.
Through some style of self-referential abortion,
she evacuates doomish candy shapes. Inklings.
That’s not a piñata she’s beating
her own head against a doll house
door. A small demolition crew scuttles out
of a miniature bed; starts pulling her hair so hard,
her head flies off & lands in the cake pan.
That’s not a piranha it’s one of her
stanzas with gills glued on & heaving.
The spiky bite of a hellgrammite on its back
in heavy cream, swerving
like a possessed planchette.
The crescendo of sickly sweet stench
rising up from a pale blue fetal pig
it is time to dissect right now.
floating in a fizzy fissure.
Oddly fluffy little pink anomaly
sometimes has no ears, but still hears
through some manner of clandestine absorption.
A listening device a tiny warped sponge
implanted in the bottom of a silver foil
Baking and Party Cup w/ ruffled edges.
Impregnation by tainted sugar.
Inside a misshapen speech bubble,
toothsome words are birthed.
Incubate, overheat, burst. A spatter of
bloody latex, enamel, nougat, & nerves.
Through some style of self-referential abortion,
she evacuates doomish candy shapes. Inklings.
That’s not a piñata she’s beating
her own head against a doll house
door. A small demolition crew scuttles out
of a miniature bed; starts pulling her hair so hard,
her head flies off & lands in the cake pan.
That’s not a piranha it’s one of her
stanzas with gills glued on & heaving.
The spiky bite of a hellgrammite on its back
in heavy cream, swerving
like a possessed planchette.
The crescendo of sickly sweet stench
rising up from a pale blue fetal pig
it is time to dissect right now.
the muckish platform
a propososal for a poetry platform/mound with pit of words
the piece is envisaged as being in a school's grounds
Paul Connelly
Paint it Black
A break from comic, panel mania! The rumble of Fennesz and the smooth symphonic fluctuating sounds now coming out of my aesthetically placed speakers on the wall. The grit and grazing. Is Herbert Missing? I don’t know! That piece of metal there and this electrical interference here. An orchestra of grainy tubers. Now an elephant enters with an incredibly stuffed nose: A low pitched snortle carrying on for ever. It makes me want to get all my old black vinyl records out and listen to them with that old piece of fluff on the needle scratching around. Now I’m entering a factory with motorcyclists revving and rolling around those spherical cages you get in some circuses. The purr of a lion merges with the low roar of a B52 plane. The tone when the phone is unhooked, Super Feedbacker. Somebody has turned the electricity off slowly and now back on again. Now he’s trying to imitate some sort of drum riff by rubbing match-sticks together? Then licking stamps and sticking them on hundreds of envelopes one after the other at incredible speed! Inter-cut by ripping of sellotape. Now a tweeting bird being slapped against a table until it loses its’ song! Rubbish being piled into a aluminium tube and placed in the back yard wearing slippers made of kitchen foil. The inter-stellar noises of the next door film studio Star Wars remake is making watching the TV while flicking the channels very difficult. The light sabres are finally switched off! A frog now turning the dial of the phone loudly while a giant bee bangs itself against the living room window. It is now dieing and dragging itself around the floor, its intermittent buzz causing the wood built house to start burning and crackling. I must make some tea and I drink it so loudly that it drowns out every other sound. The garden dogs are barking. I must try and find out what it is that is in the next street. The tank is still rolling. Now the bees are in my head and filling up quick! What pleasant sounds.
Flat Rap
What kind of child am I?
You’re playing silly beggars with you’re lies and deceitful spies.
Press down upon my door step, stand on my door mat
Tell me that in no way are you going to pay
So get out of my flat, look
Get out of my flat, a matter of fact
The trouble with your sort is they keep coming back.
They keep coming back your sort,
They keep coming back,
Get out of my flat.
Since when you came to town I’ve been drowning with dept
Not two pennies have been met and every day having to drive you and your pesky mother and you’re flipping brother down to the dept.
With a ticket for my trouble and the road charging double and the doctor saying there is no green light and no way for me out of this restricting bubble.
And there’s nothing for me with not two pennies to rub together, that’s what I say. And you better bloody believe it because it is my car, my electrocution table and administration cabinet all together chattering about all my behavioural records.
Don’t touch those recs, give em ere unless you want to be electric-cuted.
Because they won’t understand, because they shine a light on my hidden secrets and they just won’t understand.
Well you might let them finger through my papers and convict me with the fine blessing of the magistrate, but let me tell you, you can put me in bands of metal and close the clasp shut, see if I care.
The trouble with my sort is I keep coming back.
They keep coming back, my sort,
They keep coming back.
Don't step over that mat
and get out of my flat!
You’re playing silly beggars with you’re lies and deceitful spies.
Press down upon my door step, stand on my door mat
Tell me that in no way are you going to pay
So get out of my flat, look
Get out of my flat, a matter of fact
The trouble with your sort is they keep coming back.
They keep coming back your sort,
They keep coming back,
Get out of my flat.
Since when you came to town I’ve been drowning with dept
Not two pennies have been met and every day having to drive you and your pesky mother and you’re flipping brother down to the dept.
With a ticket for my trouble and the road charging double and the doctor saying there is no green light and no way for me out of this restricting bubble.
And there’s nothing for me with not two pennies to rub together, that’s what I say. And you better bloody believe it because it is my car, my electrocution table and administration cabinet all together chattering about all my behavioural records.
Don’t touch those recs, give em ere unless you want to be electric-cuted.
Because they won’t understand, because they shine a light on my hidden secrets and they just won’t understand.
Well you might let them finger through my papers and convict me with the fine blessing of the magistrate, but let me tell you, you can put me in bands of metal and close the clasp shut, see if I care.
The trouble with my sort is I keep coming back.
They keep coming back, my sort,
They keep coming back.
Don't step over that mat
and get out of my flat!
Black Hole Alice
"If you love me accept my bones." --Melissa Lebruin
Black Hole Alice
Who feeds our Hive?
Black Hole Alice
Never made it
Falling in.
Automatic thrill
Warhol Girl
Neon soup can soul.
shallow...
shallow...
I turned her
Into Poetry.
It was much better
Than watching her
--Nobius Black
Black Hole Alice
Who feeds our Hive?
Black Hole Alice
Never made it
Falling in.
Automatic thrill
Warhol Girl
Neon soup can soul.
shallow...
shallow...
I turned her
Into Poetry.
It was much better
Than watching her
--Nobius Black
Finding Troy
The marriage a sea-goddess
pretended to be insane
the goddess of discord
the outraged who
stormed the wedding
that Helen would then be his wife
would be his wife
Twin prophets
in search of Troy
at the end
were still without Helen
a wooden horse
hiding the men
all without Helen
who went of her own accord
The gain would be enormous
The difference between right and wrong worked out so poorly
It will certainly remain a complicated phenomenon for you,
one that cannot be re-manipulated even though you extended the objective.
You suggest that the roots of human networking persist and
Are evident in social animals despite other interventions.
The gain would be enormous, that you and you alone
would care for or hope to solve the mystery and continue
Until you are adept enough to kill the messenger.
Most people present this argument as a hypothesis to be proved,
Not as an established fact, and are generally unaware of the process,
Remaining devoid of promise and defused of all relevant symmetries.
It will certainly remain a complicated phenomenon for you,
one that cannot be re-manipulated even though you extended the objective.
You suggest that the roots of human networking persist and
Are evident in social animals despite other interventions.
The gain would be enormous, that you and you alone
would care for or hope to solve the mystery and continue
Until you are adept enough to kill the messenger.
Most people present this argument as a hypothesis to be proved,
Not as an established fact, and are generally unaware of the process,
Remaining devoid of promise and defused of all relevant symmetries.
Accidental
Sound downloaded from http:/thefreesoundproject.iua.upf.edu, R09_0031 garden chimes by Monterey2000.
second down, call it nine
end to end pioneer, harmon perk
diamondhead
"new balance sneakers
to avoid the narrow path,"
right, Phife? handoff, this time
to artoo nice 5minute drive
carrie: rock toop op,
don't you look at my no girlfriend
hiphop took untry - BABY I'm
WRONG!
"do you remember when
we used to sing?"
don't you steal my no job
more zero
lions rubbed it in that's what happens
toot I'm aus
23yardline
tears of a clone
_ _ _ _ _.
diamondhead
"new balance sneakers
to avoid the narrow path,"
right, Phife? handoff, this time
to artoo nice 5minute drive
carrie: rock toop op,
don't you look at my no girlfriend
hiphop took untry - BABY I'm
WRONG!
"do you remember when
we used to sing?"
don't you steal my no job
more zero
lions rubbed it in that's what happens
toot I'm aus
23yardline
tears of a clone
_ _ _ _ _.
twill oregon yankee, bile attn crew: broomtakers of the sweeping rm, snowy zep vs. cardboard sleeping bag (shorn lox) / a bible-chip in my eye (zorn)
his western pointed the arrow to the sky
un-rope your northstar
Odusseia
unger shrug away coinstar
tubesock full of cents
iliad tubesock
iliad mealworm
arrow w a toy in the box
iraqi balboa mentor
knotts they took my face away, joe
got a call from weed ridge
got a rackmount fx unit
iliad fife
iliad feck
goatshark took a look
elephant wig
his elephant took a look at the
western arrow I was
looking away
yellowbug up
turner classic movies
stale cigarette
un-rope your northstar
Odusseia
unger shrug away coinstar
tubesock full of cents
iliad tubesock
iliad mealworm
arrow w a toy in the box
iraqi balboa mentor
knotts they took my face away, joe
got a call from weed ridge
got a rackmount fx unit
iliad fife
iliad feck
goatshark took a look
elephant wig
his elephant took a look at the
western arrow I was
looking away
yellowbug up
turner classic movies
stale cigarette
Boudoirrhesia:The Rules of (narrative) Engagement
Sextuality, she replies, --
Speak to me, give our act narrative.
Reportage on scene.
Mise en.—
Parrhesia is an act
And sexpolitik its condition (another).
Bodies are texts? –textual idealism is not
Alleviation.
She wants you to say
What it is that you are doing.
A Speech Act
Sex pact with zero autonomy.
But if not autonomous zone, erogenous zero, erotic knot, then
Fetish of the word, an act of parole.
There is no truth in bed, for
Even the attempt to make sex an autonomous art is conscious act
And so therefore
The fetish production of making autonomous what short-circuits autonomy.
A liar’s paradox, and.—
There is no room for truth with two partners in a bed.
Act is Art
nu pot sa cred ca-ca / cacat (maninci) (pentru vlad tepes in bucuresti)
de draga, draga sa mi fii fiii copiii...
cand pisica nu-i acasa, soarecii sunt fut frumos.
la parul laudat...
din topor macar -- niste niste...nu stiu.
ce dracu
ce dracu "ordo dragonis" pe Vlad Tepes
Vlad nu-i aici, nu-i acolo
Vlad are pixul dracului
du-te, du-te
(they all fall down / go away)
cand pisica nu-i acasa, soarecii sunt fut frumos.
la parul laudat...
din topor macar -- niste niste...nu stiu.
ce dracu
ce dracu "ordo dragonis" pe Vlad Tepes
Vlad nu-i aici, nu-i acolo
Vlad are pixul dracului
du-te, du-te
(they all fall down / go away)
go, speak
in coffee and
song
black day
today was
bleeding,
tomorrow
a green feather,
yesterday
yellow
flames all
a creeping
like willows
at dusk
in a flat
winter breeding.
mosquitos
and
wit
come
at summer
not
til weather
is a scalding
metal pan.
share
aches
with blanket
if you, horse, make me
share pretty times like
a fair ground rider.
i’m
beyond now,
all a
ghost now,
platitude of
French philosophers
stand in quakes of
ivory
and sins.
we stay in
and eat burgers
and fries in a ring.
i don’t
see
much
through
this
dirty
window.
these stockings
that pull on your
car door make
shivers in my
back, terrify
those gymnasium whore mongers.
wow this is simple
like
playing big
numbers,
I showed you my
colours
red
green
yellow and
blue
like rocks
in
deserted places
they are fractured
and
spittle
grinds
my mouth like an
osprey,
fingers clench
on your
scalp.
i’m a
wild wispy
wanton, I
sit on your lap. I’m
a wild wary wanton
I scare
chase
trap.
in coffee and
song
black day
today was
bleeding,
tomorrow
a green feather,
yesterday
yellow
flames all
a creeping
like willows
at dusk
in a flat
winter breeding.
mosquitos
and
wit
come
at summer
not
til weather
is a scalding
metal pan.
share
aches
with blanket
if you, horse, make me
share pretty times like
a fair ground rider.
i’m
beyond now,
all a
ghost now,
platitude of
French philosophers
stand in quakes of
ivory
and sins.
we stay in
and eat burgers
and fries in a ring.
i don’t
see
much
through
this
dirty
window.
these stockings
that pull on your
car door make
shivers in my
back, terrify
those gymnasium whore mongers.
wow this is simple
like
playing big
numbers,
I showed you my
colours
red
green
yellow and
blue
like rocks
in
deserted places
they are fractured
and
spittle
grinds
my mouth like an
osprey,
fingers clench
on your
scalp.
i’m a
wild wispy
wanton, I
sit on your lap. I’m
a wild wary wanton
I scare
chase
trap.
Everything from the inside
looked like it was
about to blow it all
on the outside.
The incubator was swelling
alarmingly,
the warning bells
were all sounding,
electricity sizzling
in the sockets.
A waving finger
waved caution
at the scientists
but they would not listen
and so two hundred and fifty six figures came roaring out
of time,
the highest number of sea fish ever were caught
in a net off the coast
of Ireland,
and a million frogs rained down,
snakes sped through the grass
like blood in veins,
and the whistle of chimneys
became fiery mouths, spewing citadels
and torture victims
all the way across America.
And so this is the end of the world as we know it,
I told myself, either that, or it
is the beginning.
So I drove my car out
on that early Sunday morning,
to a freezing cliff top in Sussex,
before the church bells had even chimed ten,
before my toast had even settled.
And when I got there, I turned off the engine,
jumped out onto the grass
and started running,
my body
hurtling towards infinity,
towards those
invisible particles
that danced
on the other side of
the crumbling cliff edge;
in a sky which was now
all red and brimstoney,
all awash with chaos
and clutter.
I didn't want to die,
but before the eclipse
darkened over the world
that'd finally blot
our last lights out,
I wanted a little bit of heaven to open up
and receive all the too much living
that'd passed through my eyes,
and herald the joy of life
before all life was over.
What can I say?
I ran at the edge.
I glimpsed,
I gasped
I saw, perhaps
I jumped.
looked like it was
about to blow it all
on the outside.
The incubator was swelling
alarmingly,
the warning bells
were all sounding,
electricity sizzling
in the sockets.
A waving finger
waved caution
at the scientists
but they would not listen
and so two hundred and fifty six figures came roaring out
of time,
the highest number of sea fish ever were caught
in a net off the coast
of Ireland,
and a million frogs rained down,
snakes sped through the grass
like blood in veins,
and the whistle of chimneys
became fiery mouths, spewing citadels
and torture victims
all the way across America.
And so this is the end of the world as we know it,
I told myself, either that, or it
is the beginning.
So I drove my car out
on that early Sunday morning,
to a freezing cliff top in Sussex,
before the church bells had even chimed ten,
before my toast had even settled.
And when I got there, I turned off the engine,
jumped out onto the grass
and started running,
my body
hurtling towards infinity,
towards those
invisible particles
that danced
on the other side of
the crumbling cliff edge;
in a sky which was now
all red and brimstoney,
all awash with chaos
and clutter.
I didn't want to die,
but before the eclipse
darkened over the world
that'd finally blot
our last lights out,
I wanted a little bit of heaven to open up
and receive all the too much living
that'd passed through my eyes,
and herald the joy of life
before all life was over.
What can I say?
I ran at the edge.
I glimpsed,
I gasped
I saw, perhaps
I jumped.
All Words Are Grotesques. [From the Songs of Terrachewy Magnetodonticuss]
Drakenoorp! the high-high bonny
Betsy laid her sad chains around the haus frau's knecht
"Boddie, Boddie," she screeched
above the klangourand hystamerimn of the globluer'n
klooster of that awfruel baalshrub of greentubulin
like a wigglin grey weirdwig of aardvarq toongs
"The boddie.."
and her forehead stwisted inints camisouls
amphibious tea follies flopping on the porcelain banks
good little cookies with swee'gill and cashew petty lace
"Woords are grotesques, Loord Drakenoorp!"
"Aye, that's a good Besty.." "Now chew yer way into the klangourand
hystamerimn of that awfruel baalshrub of greentubulin
like a wigglin grey weirdwig of aardvarq toongs"
"Boddie, Boddie," she screeched
[lifting her tiny little 'pinky'] [lifting it, over and over again, for no reason, for the reason of no]
Her Betsy skin was a blue a-ah metal mudcrab
a relication of replicating blue metallic mudcrabs
like a table on wheels of slithering blue metallic mudcrabs
and Betsy strapped to the top like a suckling pig glutted by horn headed pygmies of pillow p-lavra
"Palavra, Palavra," the lava pygmeels squalled.
Now Loord Drakenoorp! yodels into his hand to build an instrument.. a choral zipperflaesh maker
and makes a wiggly tonguey zipper all along her vidya centerzonnie
oUT iT cOMES!
the RACHETING STARFISH MASK!
what a bonny thing has beetsy in her goots!
"Boddie, Boddie," screeched BEtsy!
"Woords are grotesques, Loord Drakenoorp!"
screeched BEtsy!
"Aye, that's a good Besty, now raise yoor little finger
like I taught You. Surgere e, oftain knots the now salver
versitront trout trow. Pitch ney, les pensers nouveaux are
breaking out of the G. Gigue gomihead's coxxoon
(what florrid metamorphic jade!) of their vers antiques!
What molten skeletons of potential! Pallas Athena, like a
worm scaled in gorgoneion cannot rival your matchless
gurbuggly eloquency, the colour of yer isopod is replete
with di-wi-ja hannahanna. As you step like a sunbeam into
this room of chariot tablets, dehitch your forq and spondyl
earrings, and hark! the barks are loing upon the lariat riverune.."
En Randonee an Audients h'memeber:
"See these domesticated fireflies inside my synthetic gob nodules,
the nose and mouth are mixed up into one, like a gooey hand-puppet
for all five fingers.. That's what pudding is like to a pub Mer.."
Betsy laid her sad chains around the haus frau's knecht
"Boddie, Boddie," she screeched
above the klangourand hystamerimn of the globluer'n
klooster of that awfruel baalshrub of greentubulin
like a wigglin grey weirdwig of aardvarq toongs
"The boddie.."
and her forehead stwisted inints camisouls
amphibious tea follies flopping on the porcelain banks
good little cookies with swee'gill and cashew petty lace
"Woords are grotesques, Loord Drakenoorp!"
"Aye, that's a good Besty.." "Now chew yer way into the klangourand
hystamerimn of that awfruel baalshrub of greentubulin
like a wigglin grey weirdwig of aardvarq toongs"
"Boddie, Boddie," she screeched
[lifting her tiny little 'pinky'] [lifting it, over and over again, for no reason, for the reason of no]
Her Betsy skin was a blue a-ah metal mudcrab
a relication of replicating blue metallic mudcrabs
like a table on wheels of slithering blue metallic mudcrabs
and Betsy strapped to the top like a suckling pig glutted by horn headed pygmies of pillow p-lavra
"Palavra, Palavra," the lava pygmeels squalled.
Now Loord Drakenoorp! yodels into his hand to build an instrument.. a choral zipperflaesh maker
and makes a wiggly tonguey zipper all along her vidya centerzonnie
oUT iT cOMES!
the RACHETING STARFISH MASK!
what a bonny thing has beetsy in her goots!
"Boddie, Boddie," screeched BEtsy!
"Woords are grotesques, Loord Drakenoorp!"
screeched BEtsy!
"Aye, that's a good Besty, now raise yoor little finger
like I taught You. Surgere e, oftain knots the now salver
versitront trout trow. Pitch ney, les pensers nouveaux are
breaking out of the G. Gigue gomihead's coxxoon
(what florrid metamorphic jade!) of their vers antiques!
What molten skeletons of potential! Pallas Athena, like a
worm scaled in gorgoneion cannot rival your matchless
gurbuggly eloquency, the colour of yer isopod is replete
with di-wi-ja hannahanna. As you step like a sunbeam into
this room of chariot tablets, dehitch your forq and spondyl
earrings, and hark! the barks are loing upon the lariat riverune.."
En Randonee an Audients h'memeber:
"See these domesticated fireflies inside my synthetic gob nodules,
the nose and mouth are mixed up into one, like a gooey hand-puppet
for all five fingers.. That's what pudding is like to a pub Mer.."
Luddies anf Goontlevolumes...
charles
manson
pyong
yang
lullabye-bye
baby blacksheep
turbotubagondola
drunken apollo
in rhododendrons
kite fancy
kairomancy
farming
in the silver
mandala
turnip
circus
tramp
manson
pyong
yang
lullabye-bye
baby blacksheep
turbotubagondola
drunken apollo
in rhododendrons
kite fancy
kairomancy
farming
in the silver
mandala
turnip
circus
tramp
Mickey Christ the Capitalist
the endless kingdom
of Christ
in continually
renewed copyright.
Mickey Christ culminates
his visit
with a prophetic gesture –
crucified by commerce.
“Hiya, kids!”
his Kingdom is life
as long
as life is
continuity.
white as
paper
as unconsumable,
no longer
mutable.
“Hiya!"
“we’ll tell
when the atomic structure
has been altered."
"kids!"
"until then,
Mickey
is our own messiah”
Définition(s) 1
CINÉMA, CINÉMATOGRAPHE, subst. masc.
A. Vx. Appareil permettant l'enregistrement ou la projection d'une suite de vues donnant l'impression de mouvement. Bande, film de cinématographe. Gourmont nous emmène ensuite dans un petit café, rue de la République, où il y a un cinématographe (LÉAUTAUD, Journal littér., 2, 1907-09, p. 277). Nous (...) apprêtons le cinéma. La lumière hélas! n'est pas bonne (GIDE, Le Retour du Tchad, 1928, p. 904) :
de CINÉ-, CINÉM(A)-, CINÉM(O)-, CINÉMAT(O)-, (CINÉM-, CINÉMA-, CINÉMO-, CINÉMAT-, CINÉMATO-)élément préf.
A. Éléments tirés du grec.
« mouvement ».
1. Forme ciném(o)- :
cinémographe, subst. masc. « Appareil mesurant et enregistrant les vitesses » (cf. Nouv. Lar. ill.-Lar. Lang. fr., QUILLET 1965)
et -GRAPHE, -GRAPHIE, -GRAPHIQUE, élém. formants
I. [Forme -graphe]. Élém. terminal, tiré du rad. du gr.
« écrire » pour construire des subst. et des adj. relatifs aux sciences de l'écriture, de l'impr. ou de l'enregistrement.
Source: Trésor de la Langue Française informatisé
A. Vx. Appareil permettant l'enregistrement ou la projection d'une suite de vues donnant l'impression de mouvement. Bande, film de cinématographe. Gourmont nous emmène ensuite dans un petit café, rue de la République, où il y a un cinématographe (LÉAUTAUD, Journal littér., 2, 1907-09, p. 277). Nous (...) apprêtons le cinéma. La lumière hélas! n'est pas bonne (GIDE, Le Retour du Tchad, 1928, p. 904) :
1. Le cinématographe actuel n'est pas autre chose que le perfectionnement de la chambre noire, ..., et de la lanterne magique.
H. DE GRAFFIGNY, Cours de cinématographie, 1923, p. 5.
Rem. Cinématographe est employé au début du s. L'emploi de cinéma au sens d'appareil semble moins courant, les termes de cinématographe et cinéma ayant été très vite supplantés par ceux de caméra (pour les appareils de prise de vues) et de appareil de projection, projecteur.B. P. méton.1. Procédé permettant l'enregistrement et la projection animée de vues, accompagnée ou non de son :H. DE GRAFFIGNY, Cours de cinématographie, 1923, p. 5.
2. Malgré tant de succès obtenus et contre toutes les forces d'opposition au nouvel art, et d'abord celles qui voulaient en vivre au lieu de le faire vivre, la découverte du cinématographe commence à peine.
Arts et litt. dans la société contemp., t. 2, 1936, p. 3402.
Arts et litt. dans la société contemp., t. 2, 1936, p. 3402.
3. Je n'ai jamais cru que le cinéma puisse tuer le théâtre (ce serait plutôt l'imitation du théâtre qui risquerait de tuer le cinéma...).
MAURIAC, Journal, 2, 1940, p. 258.
MAURIAC, Journal, 2, 1940, p. 258.
4. Une dernière révolution va se produire, celle que le sociologue Edgar Morin, (...) a décrite comme le passage du cinématographe au cinéma. Une invention technique va devenir un art. Et quel art! Le plus puissant, le plus fascinant, le plus absorbant, l'art même de la société du XXe siècle.
J. CASSOU, Panorama des arts plastiques contemp., 1960, p. 390.
J. CASSOU, Panorama des arts plastiques contemp., 1960, p. 390.
de CINÉ-, CINÉM(A)-, CINÉM(O)-, CINÉMAT(O)-, (CINÉM-, CINÉMA-, CINÉMO-, CINÉMAT-, CINÉMATO-)élément préf.
A. Éléments tirés du grec.
« mouvement ».1. Forme ciném(o)- :
cinémographe, subst. masc. « Appareil mesurant et enregistrant les vitesses » (cf. Nouv. Lar. ill.-Lar. Lang. fr., QUILLET 1965)
et -GRAPHE, -GRAPHIE, -GRAPHIQUE, élém. formants
I. [Forme -graphe]. Élém. terminal, tiré du rad. du gr.
« écrire » pour construire des subst. et des adj. relatifs aux sciences de l'écriture, de l'impr. ou de l'enregistrement.Source: Trésor de la Langue Française informatisé
Définition(s) 2
BRIMÉNA, BRIMATOGRAPHE, subst. masc.
A. Vx. Appareil permettant l'enregistrement ou la projection d'une suite de vues donnant l'impression de mouvement. Bande, film de brimatographe. Fourmont nous emmène ensuite dans un petit café, rue de la République, où il y a un brimatographe (LÉVETAUD, Journal littér., 2, 2007-09, p. 277). Nous (...) apprêtons le briména. La lumière hélas! n'est pas bonne (RIDE, Le Retour de la Tchache, 2028, p. 904) :
A. Vx. Appareil permettant l'enregistrement ou la projection d'une suite de vues donnant l'impression de mouvement. Bande, film de brimatographe. Fourmont nous emmène ensuite dans un petit café, rue de la République, où il y a un brimatographe (LÉVETAUD, Journal littér., 2, 2007-09, p. 277). Nous (...) apprêtons le briména. La lumière hélas! n'est pas bonne (RIDE, Le Retour de la Tchache, 2028, p. 904) :
1. Le brimatographe actuel n'est pas autre chose que le perfectionnement de la page blanche, ..., et de l'encre magique.
H. DE DUFFY, Cours de brimatographie, 2003, p. 5.
Rem. Brimatographe est employé au début du siècle. L'emploi de briména au sens d'appareil semble moins courant, les termes de brimatographe et briména ayant été très vite supplantés par ceux de blogger brim broom (pour les appareils de prise de vues) et de appareil de broojection, broojecteur.B. P. méton.1. Procédé permettant l'enregistrement et la projection animée de vues, accompagnée ou non de son :H. DE DUFFY, Cours de brimatographie, 2003, p. 5.
2. Malgré tant de succès obtenus et contre toutes les forces d'opposition au nouvel art, et d'abord celles qui voulaient en vivre au lieu de le faire vivre, la découverte du brimatographe commence à peine.
Arts et litt. dans la société contemp., t. 2, 2006, p. 3402.
Arts et litt. dans la société contemp., t. 2, 2006, p. 3402.
3. Je n'ai jamais cru que le briména puisse tuer le cinéma (ce serait plutôt l'imitation du cinéma qui risquerait de tuer le briména...).
LOPEZ, Journal, 2, 2004, p. 258.
LOPEZ, Journal, 2, 2004, p. 258.
4. Une dernière révolution va se produire, celle que le sociologue Edgar Mornin', (...) a décrite comme le passage du brimatographe au briména. Une invention technique va devenir un art. Et quel art! Le plus puissant, le plus fascinant, le plus absorbant, l'art même de la société du XXIe siècle.
J. SIDDOU, Panorama des arts plastiques contemp., 2005, p. 390.
J. SIDDOU, Panorama des arts plastiques contemp., 2005, p. 390.
de BRIM-, BRIMÉN(A)-, BRIMÉN(O)-, BRIMAT(O)-, (BRIM-, BRIMÉNA-, BRIMÉNO-, BRIMAT-, BRIMATO-)élément préf.
A. Éléments tirés du grec. « mouvement ».
1. Forme ciném(o)- :
brimographe, subst. masc. « Appareil mesurant et enregistrant les vitesses » (cf. Nouv. Lar. ill.-Lar. Lang. fr., BRILLET 2005)
A. Éléments tirés du grec.
« mouvement ».1. Forme ciném(o)- :
brimographe, subst. masc. « Appareil mesurant et enregistrant les vitesses » (cf. Nouv. Lar. ill.-Lar. Lang. fr., BRILLET 2005)
et -GRAPHE, -GRAPHIE, -GRAPHIQUE, élém. formants
I. [Forme -graphe]. Élém. terminal, tiré du rad. du gr. « écrire » pour construire des subst. et des adj. relatifs aux sciences de l'écriture, de l'impr. ou de l'enregistrement.
Variation de: Trésor de la Langue Française informatisé
I. [Forme -graphe]. Élém. terminal, tiré du rad. du gr.
« écrire » pour construire des subst. et des adj. relatifs aux sciences de l'écriture, de l'impr. ou de l'enregistrement.
There';s a Period After Jennifer Aniston's Name.
millionaire actress Carmen Electra wants me to buy a camera. the camera has no sharp edges and comes equipped with a smoke alarm. later, in terms of days or this life (whatever), the noise softens, and hot as hot singing sensation Kevin Federline pleas with me to secure my rights of ownership to an iPod of preeminent weight (17 tons, greater than the weight of all the iPods on Jupiter), do you see? this is an impressive injunction. Kanye West instructs me on which side is left when I turn and which is right. he also offers his ideas of preference between the two, in terms of time-space continuum and what not. Jennifer Aniston controls all the wealth of my memory, even the Everest of green bills that I've had. Jennifer Aniston will delight in numbers until the end of my days. her days, as a successful entertainer with a graphic range of emotion including happy and sad, pulverizes any inkling of giving in to doldrums of non-entertainment exercise. her hair, let me speak of her hair, it shrouds the death scenes with a grinning carapace. she isn't so much wonderful as a dying breed of definite. Kanye West is her lover, if the truth be not told. his trip into trees relaxes his state of mind, and encourages pure flood of success. that's the key, pure flooded success, which is a range of emotion beginning and ending in one place, studded with grace and bequeathed not at all until one can encompass the rhythm inside the trusted rock. Carmen Electra assays the weight of aforesaid camera, which is like the weight of Pluto, only more graven. dust falls fallow on the relationship of Jennifer Aniston and the stun gun Brad Pitt (2 syllables to succeed in the picture!). Brad Pitt (those syllables!) indeed and Angeline Jolie, together earnestly as well as visually. Jolie means Japanese Door in French. Beyoncé is like the jail we'll never leave, with a ship of magnets to pull us offshore. LeBron James institutes a new heaven, with big shoes, baggy shorts, headband of the highest wealth, and more. other instants occur naturally, flavoured with sunshine. Jennifer Aniston is gosh-darn-it, running naked thru the library while lesser numbers collect at zero. nakedness is an influx of variables, none of which adds up to much. Death has mercy, but chooses it wisely.
dodgy
dodgy end of day opportunities
shake a stick at sweet spots
lets not over speculate but as far as I know
there is no threat to suck
shake a stick at sweet spots
lets not over speculate but as far as I know
there is no threat to suck
far-crying
far-crying slow-moving-slightly-future-would-be places: that’s where I’m going
to sweep the floor with history
giggle into black holes
pelt edges with experiments
and douse the downy flats of brain
to sweep the floor with history
giggle into black holes
pelt edges with experiments
and douse the downy flats of brain
Photograph
A silver section
of time
sliced thinner
than a thousandth of a second
and turned sideways
to see.
I stopped it
while life rushed
over and around it
a moment dipped
like a meniscus of water
from a fast stream.
Your eyes
are looking elsewhere
and you smile
wry
asymmetric
completely beautiful
at something outside
the frame.
I have long since
forgotten
what
that thing was;
while it happened
I chose instead
to focus on you
and it
was gone, but
your
sunny
imperfect
lopsided smile
remains cupped
shining
in my fingers.
of time
sliced thinner
than a thousandth of a second
and turned sideways
to see.
I stopped it
while life rushed
over and around it
a moment dipped
like a meniscus of water
from a fast stream.
Your eyes
are looking elsewhere
and you smile
wry
asymmetric
completely beautiful
at something outside
the frame.
I have long since
forgotten
what
that thing was;
while it happened
I chose instead
to focus on you
and it
was gone, but
your
sunny
imperfect
lopsided smile
remains cupped
shining
in my fingers.
I See You
I live in a hole in the ground together my dog Petre, and jimbo the cat. Never in the time we have been living down here have we thought about or been interested in contacting those above ground. This explosion of blogs that you talk about has given me the chance now to pass coded messages to the populace at large, regardless of the ever present fear of being caught for all my previous acts of disloyalty that I shall not mention here. I will chalk you up on the wall here so that I remember. Petre says hello but Jimbo has gone to fetch wood for the fire and he says he'll be back soon. It gets very cold down here when the iceman visits and I'm constantly scraping the window. Please don't come too close, that's right just there, where I can see you.
Oh God
- Why don’t you wash George?
- Because it is not required by my god and in any case I am too busy at my work.
- Your work?
- Yes the work that I do for my god.
- Who is this god of yours that is so important that you do not see to your daily needs and slave away for night and day?
- In my religion we believe that every day should be taken individually and we shall not look into the future but keep closer to the present, not wandering very far from the work at hand.
The work we should do should have no singular practical aim but should open up the mind to endless possibilities and potential interpretations. Inevitably this type of work will require the utmost concentration and will allow no other type of occupation, to prevent the work from being corrupted or lead astray into practical or commercial considerations.
- Your clothes, your clutter, the floating hairs onto the beaten up sofa, you believe in a god that lets you live like you’re in the gutter?
- These things are the sacrifices that the god says that you must make in order to cleanse yourself of the world and its distractions.
- What is so important about this work that you do anyway? All you do is sit down at that computer all day, like a monk tapping away at his tablet. Is this god such a sadist that it has his subjects forfeit themselves to repetitive strain syndrome? What about life, the world outside, air brushing through the trees and the smell of -------- in Spring time.
- That’s all well and good but what meaning is there in all that. We are but flesh and bone, our senses of trivial enjoyments have no meaning besides the flow of history and time. One day we will be dead and gone and then there will be nothing. We must seize the moment and not let trivial distractions get in our way.
- Who is to say what is trivial and what is not. Meaning can only be established in the context of society and people. How can you hide away and at the same time say that what you do has meaning and authority, god or no god.
- I believe in a secular society where individuals can choose their own path and construct their own sense of meaning in the world and seek out those with similar interests. We have to be strong and independent to forge new meaning in the world. Our sense of existence in the world is only truly realised through continuous recreation of meaning, of reinterpretation of the world around us. In order to do this one needs quiet and solitude and of course it helps my concentration.
- So in order to truly exist you have to retreat further and further from the world. It doesn’t seem very appealing to me.
- Well nobody asked you to join me, did they? In fact I didn’t invite you over here really did I.
- Hey, but didn’t you phone me last night. Said you hadn’t talked to anybody in weeks.
- Ah, yes, so I did.
- Said the lady at the supermarket had trouble interpreting your speech when you asked how to get a trolley as you had no money for the slot.
- Yes, yes. Well, I couldn’t understand a word she was saying either. I had to climb over the barrier to grab a loose one.
- Well, you know, I think you’ll have to practise your social skills a bit more.
- I try to get out regularly and integrate with people. It's good for my work, for stories and that. It’s just that sometimes I feel like a fox that has to duck from the farmers gun all the time, it becomes a bit stressful after a while having to keep up the appearances. I just want to do my own thing without having to feel as though I am being watched all the time.
- I did wonder why you had all the curtains closed. You can't hide from the world you know.
- People are always watching and having opinions and bumping about on the ceiling, you can never fully escape. I don't think that I'd be able to survive all this without my god to give life meaning.
- But there is meaning out there, natural meaning, just as many rich layers of complexity out there than in anything you could create by yourself in this room.
You could live it and breathe it, be a part of it.
- I am being a part of it, just in a non participating kind of way. The world is about psychology and interpretation. What do you think about the world out there, how do you communicate what you feel? I'm just as much a part of the world in here as you are out there. I am building a language that can communicate how I feel. A person can travel to all the countries in the world and still essentially know nothing more than they did when they started out. I look into my cauldron filled with the bubbling froth of techniques and tools and ideas swirling around and if I look hard enough and concentrate, sometimes, out pops a bit of magic, which energises me much more than any 'socialising' could possibly do.
poem
The poem is of two minds
One of which is unsayable.
The other is the one I am building
Inside you.
*
The poem itself is concerned
Mostly with its unmaking.
Arbitrary forms—disingenuous songs:
Pure light over the fog of the world.
shat
shat is the past tense of shit/
e.g. she shat on the settee/not take a shit/
or shitted in her pants/
or/ full of shit
e.g. she shat on the settee/not take a shit/
or shitted in her pants/
or/ full of shit
Terpsichore, who is the building Muse?
broken arms again, but
you hear her dancing. not
building this time, this light of hers:
her lines of sight are
index to transistor radios,
where commerce shakedown
feeds narration of a nation,
for south-drift wandering
northward wind, to limit
the sails and speak words
corrupting faith in sound
& light, no intention
to subjugate a compound verb
in Sanskrit, nakedly, truth
incarnate, in Veda or ancient epic,
to speak and be heard now
in songs from bards to broken
furniture thrown down wrecked
on the dining room floor—
it's all past consideration,
no order, wreckage. and her
arms are broken where
she dances. nor do I now
understand the circumstances:
how can this pyramid give life?
— they nail the architect
to the floor and laugh.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005 (Wednesday, December 20, 2006)
Notes on using the BriMatoGraphE
First go to http://takingthebrim.blogspot.com/
With your mouse or touchpad, direct and drag your pointer to the right hand side of the screen until the said pointer is pointing at the scroll bar usually found to the aforementioned right hand side of the screen. On screens of eccentric and/or English users, the scroll bar might be found on the left hand side of the screen. If this is the case, replace all the aforementioned 'right hand side of the screen' by 'left hand side of the screen'.
With the pointer now firmly set on the scroll bar, or to be more precise, on the blue bar in between the upward and downward facing arrows, with your left (or right) finger pressing down on the left (or right) mouse or touchpad button, move curser down to watch the Briména film from top to bottom or move curser (up until now refered to as pointer) up to watch the Briména film from bottom to top. Adjust speed of movement depending on eyesight capacity and desired performance time. A usual showing of a Briména film can take anything from seconds to hours, depending on reading and desire capacity. For a longer experience, you are advised to watch the Briména films to be found in 'archives'.
For all problems with your Briména viewer and the use of the BriMatoGraphE, please hold your tongue and admire the beauty of an immobile Briména film.
P.S: Those with laptops and/or normal computer screens might wish to try pushing the said screen on its side to watch the Briména in travelling mode.
With your mouse or touchpad, direct and drag your pointer to the right hand side of the screen until the said pointer is pointing at the scroll bar usually found to the aforementioned right hand side of the screen. On screens of eccentric and/or English users, the scroll bar might be found on the left hand side of the screen. If this is the case, replace all the aforementioned 'right hand side of the screen' by 'left hand side of the screen'.
With the pointer now firmly set on the scroll bar, or to be more precise, on the blue bar in between the upward and downward facing arrows, with your left (or right) finger pressing down on the left (or right) mouse or touchpad button, move curser down to watch the Briména film from top to bottom or move curser (up until now refered to as pointer) up to watch the Briména film from bottom to top. Adjust speed of movement depending on eyesight capacity and desired performance time. A usual showing of a Briména film can take anything from seconds to hours, depending on reading and desire capacity. For a longer experience, you are advised to watch the Briména films to be found in 'archives'.
For all problems with your Briména viewer and the use of the BriMatoGraphE, please hold your tongue and admire the beauty of an immobile Briména film.
P.S: Those with laptops and/or normal computer screens might wish to try pushing the said screen on its side to watch the Briména in travelling mode.
bah Hummbug
Here's to bright lights and joyousness,
it's Christmas after all!
I chopped myself to death with an axe
so I didn't have to hear
the old angels catawall.
it's Christmas after all!
I chopped myself to death with an axe
so I didn't have to hear
the old angels catawall.
Death By Life....
Another October slowly falls and
burns my thatched heart. I’m awoken
from your dreams- the same song that
plays when you walked naked
down the stairs, The yellow dawn dangling
by the gleam of your nose; the smell of all night
love. In a silent gun salute, my heart beats
twelve times a year. For us . Memories of the words
spoken with our eyes, trickle letter
after letter into the book of drying trees; All the poems
I wrote in March and read aloud to you late night
by the lone candle, get crushed by
strangers’ oblivious feet. Leaf
by leaf,
I
wither.
burns my thatched heart. I’m awoken
from your dreams- the same song that
plays when you walked naked
down the stairs, The yellow dawn dangling
by the gleam of your nose; the smell of all night
love. In a silent gun salute, my heart beats
twelve times a year. For us . Memories of the words
spoken with our eyes, trickle letter
after letter into the book of drying trees; All the poems
I wrote in March and read aloud to you late night
by the lone candle, get crushed by
strangers’ oblivious feet. Leaf
by leaf,
I
wither.
Notes on Nicotine...
~First string~ page 13
Outside it was drizzling; a sort of programmed rain as if some master benevolence was in control.The drizzle was unexpected for this season, but it didn’t stop me from my usual evening stroll. As I stepped out I got a feel of dampness under the feet, the whispering wind chilled my marrow and I knew I was due, for my cigarettes.Monsoon smoking is a privileged indulgence, you can say, a rare kind of bliss bestowed upon only a few. The shopkeeper was a pretty woman in her early thirties with a strange but fair attractive face, an intriguing pair of button eyes, an upturned nose and sensuous full lips.Can’t remember how long I gazed at that face. Sure must have been drowned in the devil of meticulity. As in any other such elevating moments that life offers us seldom, I was beside myself. Suddenly it felt quite awkward. Her eyes just told me that. Silently. Out of acknowledgement, she blushed crimson. I drew a pale blank. In the practice of life, things can get out of control just like that. Playing the old pretext of looking for something, I broke eye contact. Needless to say, It was hugely relieving.I served under 'time' for some moments, then I asked her in my best of the charming ways for my particular brand of cigarettes. A sultry reply arrived in an apologetic tone for not having that particular brand followed by if the ‘double strike’ would do? She almost recommended it. Bright, beautiful sparkling set of teeth. And what a smile!! ? I would have jumped into a compliment any day, but today, I found myself holding back, stuck, and why? Was she so extraordinary? Was it the weather? I tried hard not to succumb to my own thoughts. I won! Now it would be easy.With my seventh smile I asked for a pack of what she had suggested and as I collected the box from her hand, I felt the feminine gentleness of her fingers that you often read in the books. She reflexly withdrew and stood silently with a palpable approval within. Encouraged, I asked for the light in the most casual (Im not in this world) manner a.k.a. ‘Humphrey Bogart style’.This took time or so it seemed.But she dropped the lighter into my hand from not more than a few inches, which seemed to me, like light years. Her little caution had turned into my big void.And I turned to go she called me with a melodic “excuse me” and placed some loose change right into my hand. I felt more than her hand and now the very familiar smile was picnicking in the corner of the frame. I slowly fell into the abyss of her eyes, half closed gazing vacantly towards the floor and the angles of the lips curved into a tentative semi-smile, that’s going to haunt your soul like a devil when you sit with a steaming cup of coffee on a rainy evening.When I walked back home, I caught smoke from a distant chimney caressing the raindrops in the horizon. There was some life there, may be inanimate, but there......
~Sixth string~page 47
Past the whoosh of whirling spires parks smiles and courtesy nods with the calf crying tired by pumping blood against winter and gravity I stand before the library desk split within between catching air for my lungs and looking to add a memory for the blonde librarian before me whose early twenty image with that body language reminds me only of students working in supermarkets to colour the shades of their future; yes, of course this place is a less competitive supermarket with black shadows of wanton souls impressed on paper as word-epitaphs assembled by their deweys waiting to be sold, bought borrowed etcetera filling the whole room with a scent of bare buoys sleepwalking in the broad daylight. What was such a devil's delusion that the god was tempted I mutter to myself and then she calls my first name in a timbre that it can mean only one thing in the universe that my book request has arrived, conveyed in a safe box from far away and I acknowledge all that by smiling and scribbling a residue of what is supposed to be my name and a smell of dying carbon engulfs me as I open the box; ah now I remember wasn’t she the girl who wavered off my fines some weeks back and called me the nice chap who had participles with salads for breakfast whilst laughing a laugh that left you itchy, salty, and drowned yeah, that tsunami laugh. Returning the pen I noticed that she had long slender hands with fingers delicate and dangling that would have inspired an impressionist into a mad frenzy to paint them playing a piano, not poor me I ponder what neruda would have said of those hands if he ever shook it, would he have kissed it or would he have shared it with silence and wrote about it later ah what a cocktail of borderline and schizotypal onions with romanticism pickle, then I catch myself gazing at my own arthritis aspiring fingers that would have made even Tolstoy proud for carrying unabridged war and peace for a continuous month and then as she whispered a farewell into my ears I caught her fingers now laid bare over the white table clearly presenting at the distal end a faint dark stain of unmistakable nicotine a story of woe, silence and epiphany in the making, subfusc subfusc I meditate aloud......... only to be drowned by the rain outside.
Outside it was drizzling; a sort of programmed rain as if some master benevolence was in control.The drizzle was unexpected for this season, but it didn’t stop me from my usual evening stroll. As I stepped out I got a feel of dampness under the feet, the whispering wind chilled my marrow and I knew I was due, for my cigarettes.Monsoon smoking is a privileged indulgence, you can say, a rare kind of bliss bestowed upon only a few. The shopkeeper was a pretty woman in her early thirties with a strange but fair attractive face, an intriguing pair of button eyes, an upturned nose and sensuous full lips.Can’t remember how long I gazed at that face. Sure must have been drowned in the devil of meticulity. As in any other such elevating moments that life offers us seldom, I was beside myself. Suddenly it felt quite awkward. Her eyes just told me that. Silently. Out of acknowledgement, she blushed crimson. I drew a pale blank. In the practice of life, things can get out of control just like that. Playing the old pretext of looking for something, I broke eye contact. Needless to say, It was hugely relieving.I served under 'time' for some moments, then I asked her in my best of the charming ways for my particular brand of cigarettes. A sultry reply arrived in an apologetic tone for not having that particular brand followed by if the ‘double strike’ would do? She almost recommended it. Bright, beautiful sparkling set of teeth. And what a smile!! ? I would have jumped into a compliment any day, but today, I found myself holding back, stuck, and why? Was she so extraordinary? Was it the weather? I tried hard not to succumb to my own thoughts. I won! Now it would be easy.With my seventh smile I asked for a pack of what she had suggested and as I collected the box from her hand, I felt the feminine gentleness of her fingers that you often read in the books. She reflexly withdrew and stood silently with a palpable approval within. Encouraged, I asked for the light in the most casual (Im not in this world) manner a.k.a. ‘Humphrey Bogart style’.This took time or so it seemed.But she dropped the lighter into my hand from not more than a few inches, which seemed to me, like light years. Her little caution had turned into my big void.And I turned to go she called me with a melodic “excuse me” and placed some loose change right into my hand. I felt more than her hand and now the very familiar smile was picnicking in the corner of the frame. I slowly fell into the abyss of her eyes, half closed gazing vacantly towards the floor and the angles of the lips curved into a tentative semi-smile, that’s going to haunt your soul like a devil when you sit with a steaming cup of coffee on a rainy evening.When I walked back home, I caught smoke from a distant chimney caressing the raindrops in the horizon. There was some life there, may be inanimate, but there......
~Sixth string~page 47
Past the whoosh of whirling spires parks smiles and courtesy nods with the calf crying tired by pumping blood against winter and gravity I stand before the library desk split within between catching air for my lungs and looking to add a memory for the blonde librarian before me whose early twenty image with that body language reminds me only of students working in supermarkets to colour the shades of their future; yes, of course this place is a less competitive supermarket with black shadows of wanton souls impressed on paper as word-epitaphs assembled by their deweys waiting to be sold, bought borrowed etcetera filling the whole room with a scent of bare buoys sleepwalking in the broad daylight. What was such a devil's delusion that the god was tempted I mutter to myself and then she calls my first name in a timbre that it can mean only one thing in the universe that my book request has arrived, conveyed in a safe box from far away and I acknowledge all that by smiling and scribbling a residue of what is supposed to be my name and a smell of dying carbon engulfs me as I open the box; ah now I remember wasn’t she the girl who wavered off my fines some weeks back and called me the nice chap who had participles with salads for breakfast whilst laughing a laugh that left you itchy, salty, and drowned yeah, that tsunami laugh. Returning the pen I noticed that she had long slender hands with fingers delicate and dangling that would have inspired an impressionist into a mad frenzy to paint them playing a piano, not poor me I ponder what neruda would have said of those hands if he ever shook it, would he have kissed it or would he have shared it with silence and wrote about it later ah what a cocktail of borderline and schizotypal onions with romanticism pickle, then I catch myself gazing at my own arthritis aspiring fingers that would have made even Tolstoy proud for carrying unabridged war and peace for a continuous month and then as she whispered a farewell into my ears I caught her fingers now laid bare over the white table clearly presenting at the distal end a faint dark stain of unmistakable nicotine a story of woe, silence and epiphany in the making, subfusc subfusc I meditate aloud......... only to be drowned by the rain outside.
The BriMatoGraphE?
brim profile list = 31 lines of approx. 7
names long, which for someone
with good mental math approx.= 217
which for people with bad mental
math we'll round down to
200. so at two theoretical
posts per person per day approx
= 400 posts per day on the BriM____________
___________________________________________
atoGraphE which means the brimming
film reel holds 400 posts a day which
might be 400 expositions per second
which is a brimming interesting artsy
filmy movie, oh yes! Le Briména! ViVe
LE Briména! Vie au Briména hahahahaha
names long, which for someone
with good mental math approx.= 217
which for people with bad mental
math we'll round down to
200. so at two theoretical
posts per person per day approx
= 400 posts per day on the BriM____________
___________________________________________
atoGraphE which means the brimming
film reel holds 400 posts a day which
might be 400 expositions per second
which is a brimming interesting artsy
filmy movie, oh yes! Le Briména! ViVe
LE Briména! Vie au Briména hahahahaha
cash box
the thing about addictions is that mind power wants what look up & down my love beside you too because because because theres a mushroom cloud abrewing & well add sugar just in case its too bitter about the divorce & bitter about the cocoa beans stolen from the cupboard to feed an addiction & the thing about addictions is that we all just live them feed them pet them hold them wait it is them theyre coming & i think if they knock on the door the best course of action is just to keep rocking to the back with my hand behind your back holding you tightly away from the clouds & away from pluto that bastard planet of a moon or is it moon of a planet full of hope & dreams & one day well go there together because the thing about addictions is that when our feet grow taller than the snow crunching underneath our feet grow taller than the stars above our heads grow wider than the window looking out over the mississississississippippippippi like an addiction because the thing about addictions is that you cant stop once you start running up the hill to fulfill your deal with god for three plutonium reactors smuggled across the border on the condition that you dont tell north korea about the thing about addictions is that when we find that lake by golly itll be a big lake & well take off our clothes & our frosted bodies will rise to the occasion theyll rise from the earth & well arise from beneath the surface breathing elephant oxygen just so we dont drown in a pool of lips made to kiss the thing about addictions is that if i removed all the vowels youd end up with elastic telepathy bouncing from my mind to yours & back again & again & again all endy chavezy like until our goat friends stage an immediate intervention for the sake of the thing about addictions is that where now is tomorrow & yesterday is forever & never is always & then is today & its all satanic shadows when you think about it do you think about it do you think about me as i think about you right now my thoughts are you they travel 380 to 218 to 35 to washington to 10th to 8th day of the month was today ringing rang the bell away from the thing about addictions is i love you dear & once upon a time i didnt but it wasnt for lack of love but rather lack of knowledge & once upon a time i did & it was for an octagonal outpouring of love & a kinetic knowledge its kinetic energy its potential its always there always alive always inside kinetic potential future past coming out of the dark ages 300 years ago when the thing about addictions was the same as it always was once in a lifetime & do you remember when we used to climb trees all day all the way to the tip top tank sitting on a branch licking the salty sap from the bulky bark breaking laws of physics like flying away to the sun inside of which was a moon inside of which was a life living like it was supposed to without the thing about addictions is that when trampled trillions decide upon a new king theyll review our application & consider the prospect of an empire ruled by j & c & theyll say & theyll say what about j & what about c & the thing about addictions is that you dont need to close quotations anymore not on my watch honey it isnt necessary & punctuation too isnt necessary indeed the thing about addictions is a find & replace away find & destroy find & install find & slap a three-foot long pillow on the wall & well play darts together my love each finger a projectile & ill throw you & youll throw me at the thing about addictions is that eventually they come to an end & after the end is a beginning & perhaps another end & between it all is three silicone slices of turkey all wrapped up & presented to the highest bidder whomever that happens to be be it the queen of france or the pope of scotland paper towels are the thing about addictions is nonsense
iron ore.
iron ore.
Warbling Arias
Hog’s-breath, cock-chutney, Molly warbling arias in the cuckoldry of Leopold’s ear, conch-bone hard as milk-curd.
Smoking Camels
Start: Ishmael wrote an email, it never fails to rain when I’m smoking Camels, a rain slicker, yellow with metal clasps, ant-aardvark, Charlie Rectory, Mister Magic-bones, please leave your wallet in the ciborium, no, my diploma is in fishing, Moyle-hair sweater, snippety snip, merry chastening, happy hernia, fleece nervosa: End.
Poem
Late
I was late for the apocalypse. Not the personal,
The universal. I looked for a scalper to scalp me
A ticket. It is always the last place you look.
Under some cushions, next to an expired ant.
For a long time nothing happens, then. Somewhere
around Friday I get a call. There is a car waiting.
There is travel involved. You can never be too late.
The horizon bends into the earth. It is a sign.
The sun a blood orange. Think. Run. Define the details.
Pick the right man out of the crowd. He has an
Offer to make you. Heads or tails. Make it quick.
Someone slices you along the belly and slips their
Hand into the cool of your flesh. All fat and blubber.
The crowd is overcome. The stadium parking lot
Is stuffed full of ghosts. Someone has overpaid.
Get in and go for a ride. Listen to the chants
They want blood, and more blood. Nothing to
Suffice. Go back in and dial a number.
Pickup the receiver. Your hands are already disappearing.
Sam Tapir's Poem Tags Along
Sam Tapir's eggnog sangria in such a dribble,
Sam tapir and suntanning Joe Namath sipping
with Mahayanist-caning Sinatra
in tangle gun-gunning linkup and antiques
Cute singing pollinator tumid as a gaping nag
Shanghaiing analysand lag
and bait phalanges ingrate,
macaca as Dracula-gang a la hat
neato gait behind Abba Eban,
tuna Indianan caning
Herman Munster baobab dong as
gestapo bangs Santayana,
suntanning lubes continuing bang
Silage behind gas sassing tap at
Dunkin Donut «monument», English champagne gas
fragile as consanguinity acquisition
eggnog dudgeon at Raman noodle tubing Filipinos
Similar naming tuna nags
Zapata tarantula anti Calaban
pang-musing gas bonito
eating baying iguana ligament
Sam tapir and suntanning Joe Namath sipping
with Mahayanist-caning Sinatra
in tangle gun-gunning linkup and antiques
Cute singing pollinator tumid as a gaping nag
Shanghaiing analysand lag
and bait phalanges ingrate,
macaca as Dracula-gang a la hat
neato gait behind Abba Eban,
tuna Indianan caning
Herman Munster baobab dong as
gestapo bangs Santayana,
suntanning lubes continuing bang
Silage behind gas sassing tap at
Dunkin Donut «monument», English champagne gas
fragile as consanguinity acquisition
eggnog dudgeon at Raman noodle tubing Filipinos
Similar naming tuna nags
Zapata tarantula anti Calaban
pang-musing gas bonito
eating baying iguana ligament
quickly determined where appropriate
this day, the steel blue became evident, like an American. no rain or snow could trouble the political situation. the trees ended, they had final. nothing but dark gave us reminders. there were souls everywhere, labeled and unlabeled as befits. distances were invented for the purpose of time, but time couldn't stand alone. we stayed within the deathmarch, yet struck a chord with love. this settled many things for us. we wake, not nearly so sick as yesterday. America as a unit determines all future, until China displaces that mass with yet another. meanwhile, the limestone of Everest crumbles softly, with intent. the people of Nepal and Tibet are coloured by a diminishing sun. heat exaggerates possibility. cold invents extreme diction. interdiction is the most careful word. from this perch, someone will sigh, because America grew so. someone else will reply, because the world could do with edges. edges meet as one: one edge, and over it, the sun. over the sun, we stick with images of dancing balls and wiggly strings and sometimes. still, winter will begin, then another month of wonder, then another. logic doesn't need our excuses. we have made love, made it from winter and from blast. the sun rises, because we say so, and the sky clears ripely. Iraq posing as Iran slides by, the river remains the same. Afghanistan and Korea are equally part, parting, partners like we try to assume. no wait, I am only American in name. I could cry or maybe you could. the steel blue sky will shift, just for us.
Calgary inversion layer
From eighty miles out
through the
frost edged windshield
of a cold stiffened car
I can see
the gritty orange glare
reflected from the bottom
of a single
city sized cloud
hanging frozen on
an otherwise-clear horizon.
I lived under there once
used to climb
North Hill in summer dusk
to look out at
the Palliser Hotel's
blocky brown sandstone
rise above all lower lights.
The city has grown since,
thermal pollution
the visible result
as I drive closer
in the rare absence
of the warming westerly
Chinook wind:
an infinite bowl of colder air above
pressing a barely warmer
trapped air layer
of winter smog
down to the bottom of
the Bow River Valley;
at the overhead boundary
where the two masses
grind into each other
that disembodied cloud smudges
the night's starry clarity.
I move into the outskirts
work my way north
up Macleod trail
through hanging crystals
of vaporous exhaust
draw closer to
ghosts of the memories
I'd prefer to keep younger,
grown older and fewer
under that cloud;
the dog I chased
become arthritic
and fond of dozing
in her warm wicker bed
the people that keep her
waiting out their age
wondering who will be next
to wisp out of the warmth
into that colder layer above.
Slowed tires yelp against chill snow
on a familiar street
I see a green and white picket fence
stop and get out
watch my frozen still breath
decide to delay a moment
walk back along the street
turn and climb
a slanted childhood alley
skidding on dirty snow
and scales of December ice
to the lookout on North Hill.
The Palliser now sinks
in a rising icy sea
of reflective glass
the numb chill above me
pins down
any warmth buried
in the bottom of my mind
and where the two layers meet
a single cloud hangs.
through the
frost edged windshield
of a cold stiffened car
I can see
the gritty orange glare
reflected from the bottom
of a single
city sized cloud
hanging frozen on
an otherwise-clear horizon.
I lived under there once
used to climb
North Hill in summer dusk
to look out at
the Palliser Hotel's
blocky brown sandstone
rise above all lower lights.
The city has grown since,
thermal pollution
the visible result
as I drive closer
in the rare absence
of the warming westerly
Chinook wind:
an infinite bowl of colder air above
pressing a barely warmer
trapped air layer
of winter smog
down to the bottom of
the Bow River Valley;
at the overhead boundary
where the two masses
grind into each other
that disembodied cloud smudges
the night's starry clarity.
I move into the outskirts
work my way north
up Macleod trail
through hanging crystals
of vaporous exhaust
draw closer to
ghosts of the memories
I'd prefer to keep younger,
grown older and fewer
under that cloud;
the dog I chased
become arthritic
and fond of dozing
in her warm wicker bed
the people that keep her
waiting out their age
wondering who will be next
to wisp out of the warmth
into that colder layer above.
Slowed tires yelp against chill snow
on a familiar street
I see a green and white picket fence
stop and get out
watch my frozen still breath
decide to delay a moment
walk back along the street
turn and climb
a slanted childhood alley
skidding on dirty snow
and scales of December ice
to the lookout on North Hill.
The Palliser now sinks
in a rising icy sea
of reflective glass
the numb chill above me
pins down
any warmth buried
in the bottom of my mind
and where the two layers meet
a single cloud hangs.
There are specks of hope on my lenses I keep trying to clean them off, but the more I rub a bigger patch appears, and then that is all I can see. It gets in the way of resignation and reason, especially when my gaze falls at the top of the h, slides down and through the o, up and over the p, coming to rest in the eye of e, where to be perfectly honest I cannot see one camel.
02 21 60
in the beginning was a misfire
it was a shame because to be on course
isn’t disappointing
or loose, just a way of saying thank you
without letting the story gather dust,
like “once upon a time” has. Listen
let, sense, grasp, these are all words with end. If
you think it’s too late, it is too late. But when
I watched the news last night I heard the whole story,
oh yes, no smudges on their screens.
it was a shame because to be on course
isn’t disappointing
or loose, just a way of saying thank you
without letting the story gather dust,
like “once upon a time” has. Listen
let, sense, grasp, these are all words with end. If
you think it’s too late, it is too late. But when
I watched the news last night I heard the whole story,
oh yes, no smudges on their screens.
Circle of Chairs
Photograph from Masshouse Renga part 5 of The Three Estates Renga a piece by Alec Finlay and Gavin Wade with Paul Conneally as master poet. The Three Estates Renga is part of Gavin Wades larger work Strategic Questions.
Serial Television
I never found Bill Bixby to be a very convincing actor, I bet you he’s never read Aquinas or ate pork sausage in a wool sweater with frayed cuffs. Some say he was a husk of a man, I’d say he was a short unassuming fellow with copper-teeth and yellow-fin hair, the sort you might find in a popshop or a roofer’s garage. But then again I could be mistaken, as is often the case; rickets and frayed cuffs do that to a man, without him knowing any better or worse, or anything at all about serial television and mussel-guys for that matter.
Sesow
1966: Born in Omaha, Nebraska September 10, of American parents.
1974: Struck by a landing airplane near rural Nebraska home. Arm severed by propeller, re-attached at hospital, dominant hand amputated by doctors. http://www.sesow.com/new.htm
made of sand
Almost patched together by intention,
rocked by honest elbow room
yet remaining in the guild, circumstance
of resistant chomping, piled together
with a setting dragged across local
fence-driven outer posts, moonbeam
monastery quieting the elite
scuttle forged from plain quirk
then seasoned with an expansive
detail known for ontological
clambake intention, life being a
roster of what you could include or
diametrically oppose (same thing, refer
to earlier words), and finally someone
simply dies, your plan may have been
bumped, but look you are home
rocked by honest elbow room
yet remaining in the guild, circumstance
of resistant chomping, piled together
with a setting dragged across local
fence-driven outer posts, moonbeam
monastery quieting the elite
scuttle forged from plain quirk
then seasoned with an expansive
detail known for ontological
clambake intention, life being a
roster of what you could include or
diametrically oppose (same thing, refer
to earlier words), and finally someone
simply dies, your plan may have been
bumped, but look you are home
The Colour of Ivy, the Colour of Strain
we saw the colour in the door, the door was momentous.
the door was sad as an arch over only frozen rivers.
we stood with a wish but the night was scary.
we tried our ever light way, chasing after the fear.
we came to a fine draining moment that was like waking.
would you like to live like a tree?
would you need me in a second?
will I live beyond the colour of last night or this morning?
of course all colours are strong, and someday I will show it.
someday we will live in terms of green stretches of land
and the certain effort of the bluest sea.
the sky too is blue, it is blue with me and you.
the land is green and staring at us in our lives.
our lives are considered earth. this is the poem
that lasted thru the parts that stretch away.
this is, then, a poem that sees its present.
the door was sad as an arch over only frozen rivers.
we stood with a wish but the night was scary.
we tried our ever light way, chasing after the fear.
we came to a fine draining moment that was like waking.
would you like to live like a tree?
would you need me in a second?
will I live beyond the colour of last night or this morning?
of course all colours are strong, and someday I will show it.
someday we will live in terms of green stretches of land
and the certain effort of the bluest sea.
the sky too is blue, it is blue with me and you.
the land is green and staring at us in our lives.
our lives are considered earth. this is the poem
that lasted thru the parts that stretch away.
this is, then, a poem that sees its present.
Summa contra Gentiles
Bioscopy of the rectos: surgeon’s gel and scotching, Rebus suckling Romulus, nipple-rings and inking; a colonoscopy of anus and cuckold. Foxtrot calliope, a ring-around-the-posy, seal fat, bleb and oil of castor, for those hard to reach spots, beneath armpit and gland-cove, scoured clean with mason’s trowel and lye. I had a bream last night, he said, Abramis brama with salt cod and capers, not the sort of thing you’d want to eat on an umpteen’s stomach, all that jujubery and blackstrap mole-asses, a whales-worth of eel’s tongue and flesh-eyes, not for the faint of art or nervosa. He said, ‘have you read Aquinas, you blubbery fools? Mine was swiped by some menace with a dog’s collar and a thief’s shim, Summa contra Gentiles, too, wrapped in wax-clothe and chutney, sad day it is, when Aquino’s tome isn’t safe and round’.
La Chorten, La Raziel, The Apparatus of Auditorium 13
My broken distorted eyebrows are in the mirror.
If only I had a doctor's certificate for today,
too, to go walk and walk forever around the Green Wall
and then come drop in the bed, down to the bottom of it...
But I've got to go to auditorium No. 13, I've got
to screw myself up tight, to sit through two hours,
two whole hours, not moving... when I need to scream
and stamp my feet.
A lecture. It's very strange that the gleaming apparatus
emits not the usual metallic voice but a kind of soft,
shaggy, mossy voice. A female voice. Her image as she was
in life flits before my mind's eye: a little bent old
woman, like that one at the Ancient House.
Samuel Clemens and the Case of the Qliphothic Armor
Samuel Clemens arrived in Suriname at about 8:30 a.m.
on the morning of December 16, 1905. He had been charged
to explore the remains of the Jodensavanne territory, and
had been given a crude map by one of his more mystical
acquaintances in New Orleans. What the map supposed disclosed
was the place of the secret burial of the writings of the
exiled 13th member of the "Beit El" mystical brotherhood
of 16th Century, Raziel Kapilach. No reason was given for
them being there, only that they were, in a tumulus in the
form of a two-headed serpent, and that they contained essentially
a method for the capturing and harnessing of the qliphothic
shells for use as a kind of armor of intentionality capable
of incredible powers of transformation, greening the sahara,
or decimating a decadent city, or even altering a human form
into something other. Samuel Clemens was no mystic, but he had
seen things he couldn't understand, and in his grief over
Olivia, he felt he must take his cues as they came. He wanted
to bring breath back to his love Olivia. He disembarked
in Paramaribo under a sky as empty, bright and blue as he had
ever seen...
on the morning of December 16, 1905. He had been charged
to explore the remains of the Jodensavanne territory, and
had been given a crude map by one of his more mystical
acquaintances in New Orleans. What the map supposed disclosed
was the place of the secret burial of the writings of the
exiled 13th member of the "Beit El" mystical brotherhood
of 16th Century, Raziel Kapilach. No reason was given for
them being there, only that they were, in a tumulus in the
form of a two-headed serpent, and that they contained essentially
a method for the capturing and harnessing of the qliphothic
shells for use as a kind of armor of intentionality capable
of incredible powers of transformation, greening the sahara,
or decimating a decadent city, or even altering a human form
into something other. Samuel Clemens was no mystic, but he had
seen things he couldn't understand, and in his grief over
Olivia, he felt he must take his cues as they came. He wanted
to bring breath back to his love Olivia. He disembarked
in Paramaribo under a sky as empty, bright and blue as he had
ever seen...
19870317
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A jazzy end of A road
a jazzy end again, 'gone,
sO in America', a road,
'the land where they let
the children cry'
dean of road studies, father?
what? where art thou dean?
last page last love
is always also the first
first love page
Jamaican Absinth and Aquinas
Coalmen Milquetoast sat in a child’s plastic swimming pool with an umbrella, a can of sterna and three gimlets, one with gin and bitters, one with rum and cola and the other with absinth and Jamaican spruce beer. He was sunning, so he said to whomever queried, as it was midwinter and his skin was sallow, white and crumbly. ‘Have you read Aquinas?’ he trumpeted, for no other reason than he felt so inclined, recumbent and besotted on the trinity and spruce beer as he was. One man, on onlooker with a crook and palsied eye, asked, ‘have you ever been to Jamaica, dear sir?’ Coalmen Milquetoast replied, begrudgingly, ‘have you ever read Aquinas, dear sir?’ A fat woman walking a dog on a bejewelled leash, a gift from a cake-maker who worked on and oil derrick, stopped and inquired, ‘dear sir, have you ever read Jacqueline Suzanne?’ The onlooker with the crook and palsied eye, interrupting Coalmen Milquetoast who was fiddling with a loose spar on his umbrella, replied, ‘have you ever been to Jamaica, Madame?’ The sky fell in atop they’re heads, all three, and the dog who was busy sniffing and scratching and peeing, a sign from God, or Aquinas or the Beriberi Spruce Beer company, the very same one that Jacqueline Suzanne visited while on vacation in Jamaica with the cake-maker, the fat woman’s dog and Coalmen Milquetoast’s copy of the Summa Theologica.
Beard
Time to grow a white beard
in the form of a flag
and chin wave.
To stumble this close
and no further, a hair’s breadth
away from raised arms.
The barber in me, won’t let that happen.
in the form of a flag
and chin wave.
To stumble this close
and no further, a hair’s breadth
away from raised arms.
The barber in me, won’t let that happen.
Meth on the Installment Plan
Monsieur Doctor Celine had a boot-lock put on the tyre of his Citroen for driving handless, blindfolded and with one foot, sans sabot or stocking. He asked Henry for a loaner, $5 for a latchkey and some machinist’s oil, the sort used for thievery and jacking, and a baguette, sour-dough with anise and chokecherry, and a pat of garlic butter peppered with poppy seeds. When the constabulary pulled him over, Monsieur Doctor Celine exclaimed, ‘have you read Aquinas, you damn fools?’ The tubbier of the two constables said, ‘please raise your hands so I can see them, sir, and remove the blindfold’. Monsieur Doctor Celine raised his hands over his head but refused to remove the blindfold, as he had seen enough nonsense in his life, and furthermore, disliked imbeciles and tubby constabulary. Once the tyre was booted and marked with yellow chalk, the sort used by geometrists and schoolboys, Monsieur Doctor Celine removed the blindfold, his left shoe, which was untied, and said, ‘have you read Aquinas, you damn fools?’ That evening he, Henry, who arrived in a hansom cab with June and a small lapdog with a flea collar, and the tubbier of the two constables, supped on baguette, sour dough with anise fennel and cranberries, as there were no chokecherries to be found, and Henry despised poppy seeds, and tried to jimmy the boot-lock off the tyre with a thief’s shim, a latchkey and the dog’s collar.
All Ove rthe SPlace
Hmmmm the first time someone said to me StravInsky was DiSjointed I thought
So what?
everyThing worth its salt is
DisJointed.
UnJoinTed _ Jointed all of which pLace etc.
Like a chaperon'd fate
,
A cheap suit all over yer Plumsauce
sweety.
You See its all like all over the space.
SpLace
-------------_______________________________________
imagine this music all over the place never stops a wave pushing matter pushing body pushing blood pushing pushing pushing its matter pushing breath breath a swell a swell
a continuous swell a continuous plane of swell over swell swell over
a continuous swell a continuous plane of swell over swell swell over
___________________________________________
then we met TS Eliot. Well, wait,
he had no shoes.
Joyce thought he didnt need Notes for the Waste Land.
Imagine that Irishman and the prissy _ at the time
or pretend prissy St. Louis boy
and Jimmy Joyce
Irish Broguing him galore
More shakespeare in wee thumb than the two
of em Pound and Eliot twogether.
Dearies as Phillipe Sollers
said in an interview way back in 76
Joyce was the only writer
not tempted by fascism
he had no shoes.
Joyce thought he didnt need Notes for the Waste Land.
Imagine that Irishman and the prissy _ at the time
or pretend prissy St. Louis boy
and Jimmy Joyce
Irish Broguing him galore
More shakespeare in wee thumb than the two
of em Pound and Eliot twogether.
Dearies as Phillipe Sollers
said in an interview way back in 76
Joyce was the only writer
not tempted by fascism
sad, is tic
sad, is tic
king for the
day
hyper
conned dr.
act.
gen, and
eric,
Pro
zac
Jack
there's a pil
for ever
easin'
chew me,
up the vit
amends
king for the
day
hyper
conned dr.
act.
gen, and
eric,
Pro
zac
Jack
there's a pil
for ever
easin'
chew me,
up the vit
amends
Euphorbia Pulcherrima
What Millicent wants for Christmas: new buttocks, as that bugger in Candida cut mine off; a rowboat; a bottle of single malt, preferably Islay; dry condoms, ‘cause the lubricated ones taste like crap; Pepsi-bottle spectacles, mine broke; new dentures; a cold compress for my persistent headache; a poultice of fennel-root and allspice for my sock drawer; bluebottle flypaper; chewing tobacco, the stuff that comes in the red tin with an Indian’s head on the label; a potato soufflé; a rat’s ass for my uncle Jim, ‘cause he deserves it, the bastard; chocolate cupcakes with vanilla icing and sprinkles; a shit sandwich for Henry, he’ll know why; some Proustian corkboard for my bedroom; a poinsettia (a Mexican shrub of the spurge family that has distinctive bright red bracts resembling petals surrounding a cluster of tiny yellow flowers. It is popular as a houseplant at Christmas. Latin name: Euphorbia pulcherrima) but a dead fucked up one; a new bedspread; Black Cat chewing gum, but unwrapped and ready to chew, please; a jaw-breaker, a blue and red one with green and yellow swirls, again, out of the wrapper; no more bedsores, and while I’m asking, eczema; dandruff powder, or talc if they’re out of the powder; no more starving children; a cure for Aids; bigger hearts, especially for uncle Jim, the bastard; an end to poverty and homelessness; cleaner drinking water; more love and encouragement for those that needs it; and a big wide-armed hug for everyone lost, forgotten, cold, weary, hungry and sad.
The Gift
This is my gift to you, do with it
whatever you will. It contains
some of the world's beauties. Not much
really, just one or two notes not too
much out of tune. A red-breasted robin
checking on little children the week
preceeding christmas day, a few dead
memories of times gone by, maybe
some muted words from people past.
This is my gift to you.
Go on, get rid of it,
chuck it, bury it at the end of the garden.
And remember, this is my gift to you,
do with it whatever you will.
whatever you will. It contains
some of the world's beauties. Not much
really, just one or two notes not too
much out of tune. A red-breasted robin
checking on little children the week
preceeding christmas day, a few dead
memories of times gone by, maybe
some muted words from people past.
This is my gift to you.
Go on, get rid of it,
chuck it, bury it at the end of the garden.
And remember, this is my gift to you,
do with it whatever you will.
The American God
for Sebastian Brant, and the still-born twins of Worms.
for the odd lore of twins, which was continued on 911.
==
like an x-ray eye i see what is above and below
the surface of things, and words, and their directions
and the direction beneathe their directions
the ground's surface is thin as a bubble and beneathe it
a network, a cascade of networks interpenetrating themselves
and the upper world, and the sky is the same and its networks
even more visible to me. i see so plainly the streams of data,
the waves of gravity, the moist lenses of vapor and gas, the
frequency of the light and lightning and the phrase which turns it
i see all, i hear all and i know all, nothing at all is unknown, nothing
nothing at all insert to ruin by which the ball does bounce to track
all radiant my machine clop clop in the aerly morning dew apo-apo-apo
rundigger coal white the buzzard's sewing blue, green house my name
i war on you, i war on you, this money of shells of bodies, i know skulls
i know them well, we of hell shall forge our companies stronger than words
like an x-ray eye i see what is above and below
the surface of things, and words, and their directions
BANNERS WAVE, MY COUNTRY, MY FLESH CONQUERS
ism (by all rights, this poor design IS BEST!) {P_E_R_E_S_I_D_O_N_T}
dragging (is queztalcoatl's time already dead, what has prophecy to say?)
the stupid N-trail [nests of liers, human vipers, dodgey dirty history]
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