I've tried to be honest,
even brief like a comb
missing a few plastic teeth-
still functional.
It's all about
what you have left
to give, not how
or why.
Sure, I made promises;
I can remember two
or three of them-
I believed.
Too bad you were listening
and God; that's the other
problem with resolutions-
losing them.
So this year, I've decided
to stay simple and focused
like the proverbial deer
in the headlights...
let's just pray
you're not the one
driving the pick-up.
positive
every morning before
dawn a poetry book
to wonder contemplate
comments delivered
by their next work
week all will be done
passed on for usage
past shelved art
return from bathroom
pick up book into bed
side light spy purple
ink pen line across
thumb ball palm base
not wrist no feeling
no recollect of when
during journal writing
place poetry book down
not put down pick up
journal again pen
write away white
space as best i can
no pick-up—cannot
do that—no pickup
in apart parking space
melting snowbank
against fence no
hedge face-high
yellow pickets lean
pushed too hard
weakened divide
between lots rather
box garden growing
on cracked asphalt
under manitoba maple
or sample patio
with chairs and shade
not baby barn full of tools
implements trailer on
blocked wheels places
to go nothing to pull
dawn a poetry book
to wonder contemplate
comments delivered
by their next work
week all will be done
passed on for usage
past shelved art
return from bathroom
pick up book into bed
side light spy purple
ink pen line across
thumb ball palm base
not wrist no feeling
no recollect of when
during journal writing
place poetry book down
not put down pick up
journal again pen
write away white
space as best i can
no pick-up—cannot
do that—no pickup
in apart parking space
melting snowbank
against fence no
hedge face-high
yellow pickets lean
pushed too hard
weakened divide
between lots rather
box garden growing
on cracked asphalt
under manitoba maple
or sample patio
with chairs and shade
not baby barn full of tools
implements trailer on
blocked wheels places
to go nothing to pull
hawkeye island retreat
water-chewn beach drops sudden
where sand disappeared in waves
as if scooped and stolen with machines
two-foot layer of beach removed
mounds of decaying seaweed
walk cobbled beach boulders
idly scan for finger stones
water and sand smooth grey or
granite smaller than flesh find
hollow green plastic thumb
white plastic cow finger-bone small
red orange green blue shotgun shells
back in the corner cleared for
writing pine table bolted together
a desk of temporary passage
reconditioned laptop wine-stained
journal with pens finger rocks
camera and macro lens books
don't want work this is rest
after the cross-canada tour
judgement impaired read road words
question their poetry song silence
look out and out ocean
all the way to portugal
beyond fisherman's preserve
the string of rat rock wedge bull
and shut-in islands lobster boats —
blue and white — slow moving
just visible through fog
sun trying so hard to burn
its topside white we feel
heat-like steam view the far side
of three fathom harbour
nearby in a planned planted
garden the first poppy explodes
its blossom pod bursts orange
cup up salute! into the fog
ducks paddle shallow eel grass
waters upend themselves for small
thin-shelled crabs goldfinches pull
caps off this year's spruce buds
carpenter ants climb from somewhere
inside the wood of this camp release
themselves for new colonies and fulfilled lives
only to hit liquid sand pressed cellulous
fibre like what their hard-working relatives
chewed though to make their venture possible
fog in a glass fuzzy logic
fishing village disappears again
waiting for rocks the size of shacks
to be trucked in breakwater
against winter storms and full
moon spring tides needing repair
fortification against el niño
warming expanding rising waters
bigger waves heavier rain stronger winds
on a headland rapidly becoming island
fencepole spruce nailed together horizontally
form raised hut walls half expect a plantation
of government recognized substance
not a shelter for solstice goose hunters
another boatload of traps offloaded
onto pickup truck and trailer
another official lobster season ending
all traps out of the water by sunset tomorrow
any frozen or half thawed bait
good now only for hand-lining
fog thickens into drizzle
or i’m just facing the breeze
walk eroding shore
glacier deposited clay headlands
almost sans everything
deer tracks in tide-wet sand
dead cormorant beside exposed
waterworn square timbered keel
of unknown vessel beached
where causeway road turns
away from three fathom shore
scrub spruce coastal forest
this foggy place i've known a lifetime
eating fish and lobsters
caught off this eastern shore
where sand disappeared in waves
as if scooped and stolen with machines
two-foot layer of beach removed
mounds of decaying seaweed
walk cobbled beach boulders
idly scan for finger stones
water and sand smooth grey or
granite smaller than flesh find
hollow green plastic thumb
white plastic cow finger-bone small
red orange green blue shotgun shells
back in the corner cleared for
writing pine table bolted together
a desk of temporary passage
reconditioned laptop wine-stained
journal with pens finger rocks
camera and macro lens books
don't want work this is rest
after the cross-canada tour
judgement impaired read road words
question their poetry song silence
look out and out ocean
all the way to portugal
beyond fisherman's preserve
the string of rat rock wedge bull
and shut-in islands lobster boats —
blue and white — slow moving
just visible through fog
sun trying so hard to burn
its topside white we feel
heat-like steam view the far side
of three fathom harbour
nearby in a planned planted
garden the first poppy explodes
its blossom pod bursts orange
cup up salute! into the fog
ducks paddle shallow eel grass
waters upend themselves for small
thin-shelled crabs goldfinches pull
caps off this year's spruce buds
carpenter ants climb from somewhere
inside the wood of this camp release
themselves for new colonies and fulfilled lives
only to hit liquid sand pressed cellulous
fibre like what their hard-working relatives
chewed though to make their venture possible
fog in a glass fuzzy logic
fishing village disappears again
waiting for rocks the size of shacks
to be trucked in breakwater
against winter storms and full
moon spring tides needing repair
fortification against el niño
warming expanding rising waters
bigger waves heavier rain stronger winds
on a headland rapidly becoming island
fencepole spruce nailed together horizontally
form raised hut walls half expect a plantation
of government recognized substance
not a shelter for solstice goose hunters
another boatload of traps offloaded
onto pickup truck and trailer
another official lobster season ending
all traps out of the water by sunset tomorrow
any frozen or half thawed bait
good now only for hand-lining
fog thickens into drizzle
or i’m just facing the breeze
walk eroding shore
glacier deposited clay headlands
almost sans everything
deer tracks in tide-wet sand
dead cormorant beside exposed
waterworn square timbered keel
of unknown vessel beached
where causeway road turns
away from three fathom shore
scrub spruce coastal forest
this foggy place i've known a lifetime
eating fish and lobsters
caught off this eastern shore
no, but silence
no silence in a tepid stream
worth its pursuit comes a deeper analysis
cold trees on the balance of a hill
makes daylight getting more, stretch
half of seasonal but still a kind of flash
never would nature itself ask for depiction
Nori, Shiny Side Down
I can’t consume myself today.
I’m so tainted. Day old
sashimi on a bed
of gray rice. Rice alcohol slugging
through mercurial veins
and I don’t feel like it. I don’t feel
like the artfully assembled
spicy tuna roll w/ avocado nestled,
a perfect creamy puzzle piece.
I’ve come un-cylindered. Small seeds scattershot across…
Flat sheets of nori. Reams & reams &
reams of unwritten surfaces, words,
exotic sauces to be stirred
and I waste myself. I serve myself
as palatable display. Bright as a candy-stripe
shrimp to be de-veined, to be peeled & eaten, to be skewered
in a row with the little-mouthed others and the matching carapace.
Cherry tomato—me—pearl onion—me
with a saturating stab through the core;
with a gaping, drooling maw where my mouth should be.
Lips a sluice box, pinned up at the corners.
Pearl sac ripped open; blisters burst under the tongue.
A blastospheric spill of fermented wine.
Nacre slivered, spread, rolled into
spiked roe. Eschew the garnish; strew with shrapnel.
Wet-knifed cucumber strips striped
across shut eyes. Eat off the lids.
The sockets brim w/ baroque pearls nestled
in pickled pink ginger petals. From the fishy depths,
rhizomes thrust up to impale unsuspecting voyeurs.
From the raw and juicy depths, a tuberosity projects
to explode the spider roll, the dynamite roll;
to garishly slick the stiff seaweed.
I’m so tainted. Day old
sashimi on a bed
of gray rice. Rice alcohol slugging
through mercurial veins
and I don’t feel like it. I don’t feel
like the artfully assembled
spicy tuna roll w/ avocado nestled,
a perfect creamy puzzle piece.
I’ve come un-cylindered. Small seeds scattershot across…
Flat sheets of nori. Reams & reams &
reams of unwritten surfaces, words,
exotic sauces to be stirred
and I waste myself. I serve myself
as palatable display. Bright as a candy-stripe
shrimp to be de-veined, to be peeled & eaten, to be skewered
in a row with the little-mouthed others and the matching carapace.
Cherry tomato—me—pearl onion—me
with a saturating stab through the core;
with a gaping, drooling maw where my mouth should be.
Lips a sluice box, pinned up at the corners.
Pearl sac ripped open; blisters burst under the tongue.
A blastospheric spill of fermented wine.
Nacre slivered, spread, rolled into
spiked roe. Eschew the garnish; strew with shrapnel.
Wet-knifed cucumber strips striped
across shut eyes. Eat off the lids.
The sockets brim w/ baroque pearls nestled
in pickled pink ginger petals. From the fishy depths,
rhizomes thrust up to impale unsuspecting voyeurs.
From the raw and juicy depths, a tuberosity projects
to explode the spider roll, the dynamite roll;
to garishly slick the stiff seaweed.
almost new year
almost new year the hangman's erection falls limp
note this is the hangman's errection not the hanged man's it makes a huge difference
i suppose that
all the neocons
business men and politicians
that supported saddam in the past
will be so happy
now that his lips
cant move can't talk
can't incriminate
all the neocons
business men and politicians
that supported saddam in the past
will be so happy
now that his lips
cant move can't talk
can't incriminate
repletion
____________
[t]His repetition's difference|
sparkling ritual| say the cadence popping space|
why is it 'sparking' ?.|| Say shore|| cut flaxward| a narcotic
sigh|||||
the fiction||||
A dictator is hung ||||.
Shroud of widow . Hover the door. Cower the fat soul of enemy
her other thou
sands up the bully mark of war and its 'disasters' indeed
dear Goya, not naming the cannot be named.
As always. Falure_ failire _ de_lire
around the
door.
End 'Barbarian Despot' One shift conveyer of character . Size. Or other willows.
the hair of the god which bit you. numb dog. war. its catheter to peace.
pisses over the willows. you cannot find speech . spare wheel or is
that will?
(or those troops marching
plundering
biding burning book & lamp in a city named Baghdad)
Mister Fog comes over the city, again
a licking sister. Vase to her wasted face.
The voice a cry from hundred. And one.
Stabbing centaur night
Stabbed bayonet the knife thrust|
-------
Head out now lovelies_ Fiction __ forward. Leave personned 'a'hind not narrowed by___ . shine better my Mona. Or yer Mona now? Come off the wagon. its speciality is episteme bang bang. Sterling Pound 1934. Mandate_ d. there where the goliaths adore. plates of other repeating and say its columbus walks the Ohio. Say its the narrow liver. Or the molecule gone.f rom the cabby. Or dear. Ones.
each to a fellow.
keep.head-out-hearken
[t]His repetition's difference|
sparkling ritual| say the cadence popping space|
why is it 'sparking' ?.|| Say shore|| cut flaxward| a narcotic
sigh|||||
the fiction||||
A dictator is hung ||||.
Shroud of widow . Hover the door. Cower the fat soul of enemy
her other thou
sands up the bully mark of war and its 'disasters' indeed
dear Goya, not naming the cannot be named.
As always. Falure_ failire _ de_lire
around the
door.
End 'Barbarian Despot' One shift conveyer of character . Size. Or other willows.
the hair of the god which bit you. numb dog. war. its catheter to peace.
pisses over the willows. you cannot find speech . spare wheel or is
that will?
(or those troops marching
plundering
biding burning book & lamp in a city named Baghdad)
Mister Fog comes over the city, again
a licking sister. Vase to her wasted face.
The voice a cry from hundred. And one.
Stabbing centaur night
Stabbed bayonet the knife thrust|
-------
Head out now lovelies_ Fiction __ forward. Leave personned 'a'hind not narrowed by___ . shine better my Mona. Or yer Mona now? Come off the wagon. its speciality is episteme bang bang. Sterling Pound 1934. Mandate_ d. there where the goliaths adore. plates of other repeating and say its columbus walks the Ohio. Say its the narrow liver. Or the molecule gone.f rom the cabby. Or dear. Ones.
each to a fellow.
keep.head-out-hearken
Jeremiad
Now I know,
there are blacker
things than sadness;
the departure of my shadow
steaming in the light
that wounds it,
the recall of a life
too eager to remove
itself from brilliance,
the stubborn
embers of a flame-
now I see
the emptiness of silence,
how it drills meaning
through my bones.
What is joy
and who can find it
hidden in the soul?
For now, I listen
to the roses, wait
for signs of my extinction...
a guest whose invitation
is a road, a door, a mirrored
vision of estrangement
like words that
will be written
on my stone.
there are blacker
things than sadness;
the departure of my shadow
steaming in the light
that wounds it,
the recall of a life
too eager to remove
itself from brilliance,
the stubborn
embers of a flame-
now I see
the emptiness of silence,
how it drills meaning
through my bones.
What is joy
and who can find it
hidden in the soul?
For now, I listen
to the roses, wait
for signs of my extinction...
a guest whose invitation
is a road, a door, a mirrored
vision of estrangement
like words that
will be written
on my stone.
Prosopopoeia
My stories, you've heard
and sometimes, during storms,
I speak them again, to remind you
of how we were formed-
this is constancy.
In a rusty tin pail
we set by the door,
rainwater collects
like thickened, black oil-
that is tolerance.
And swallows, without grief
or joy, sit stoic and silent
in the water-logged boards
dormant as dusk-
this is conviction.
When morning arrives, pale
as a girl, the world becomes
glistening hills and spirited
open-mouthed birds; this
is adoration.
and sometimes, during storms,
I speak them again, to remind you
of how we were formed-
this is constancy.
In a rusty tin pail
we set by the door,
rainwater collects
like thickened, black oil-
that is tolerance.
And swallows, without grief
or joy, sit stoic and silent
in the water-logged boards
dormant as dusk-
this is conviction.
When morning arrives, pale
as a girl, the world becomes
glistening hills and spirited
open-mouthed birds; this
is adoration.
Je conjuguerai la fin du monde
If we were in Paris
It would be for the lottery's winning
The blanc-manger, the blanc-seing, the carte blanche
If we were in Paris
Dripping silver and ink
The whores, not snaggletoothed, would point out
Our cheekbones and cheek, and go on
Soothing the poet's heart in his house
If we were in Paris
I'd glower at you the length of the tower
Our mouths burning
Of Eiffel iron the city metallic
The garden of my aunt the zinc of the bar
Where we'd bite and kiss like lettrists
If we were in Paris
Pressing through arcades, Benjamin-like
We'd be swinging a hip, a pigeon
Delicate of foot, our skin would clear
I'd tell you off, get slapped for my pains
For Bataille and Bastille
If we were in Paris
We'd stay up as if cramming for that test of citizenship
The Republic of letters desires our body but
You'd steal that book and
If we were in Paris
My blue-eyed baby would be born an Aquarian
Who's the father
The question refused, as we drink tea from glasses
Like the stars that cluster round the Olympia
If we were in Paris
I'd handle your Gauloise oh so deftwise
Now see how facile that was
The prescriptive grammarian that naps within
Has tried to describe, and found
How easy it is, to
Fit conditional clause to purpose
My year's-end verbs fall
Muffled on the boulevard and
When you find a finer way to coif a phrase
Tell me
We'll leave
It would be for the lottery's winning
The blanc-manger, the blanc-seing, the carte blanche
If we were in Paris
Dripping silver and ink
The whores, not snaggletoothed, would point out
Our cheekbones and cheek, and go on
Soothing the poet's heart in his house
If we were in Paris
I'd glower at you the length of the tower
Our mouths burning
Of Eiffel iron the city metallic
The garden of my aunt the zinc of the bar
Where we'd bite and kiss like lettrists
If we were in Paris
Pressing through arcades, Benjamin-like
We'd be swinging a hip, a pigeon
Delicate of foot, our skin would clear
I'd tell you off, get slapped for my pains
For Bataille and Bastille
If we were in Paris
We'd stay up as if cramming for that test of citizenship
The Republic of letters desires our body but
You'd steal that book and
If we were in Paris
My blue-eyed baby would be born an Aquarian
Who's the father
The question refused, as we drink tea from glasses
Like the stars that cluster round the Olympia
If we were in Paris
I'd handle your Gauloise oh so deftwise
Now see how facile that was
The prescriptive grammarian that naps within
Has tried to describe, and found
How easy it is, to
Fit conditional clause to purpose
My year's-end verbs fall
Muffled on the boulevard and
When you find a finer way to coif a phrase
Tell me
We'll leave
in a few days
in a few days it will be next year, yet another, and why do we bother counting anymore, why do we always sum things up at the end of twelve months why not never sum things up or why not every seven years or every sixty two months? Why not never sum anything up and just look forward instead of back, looking forward whilst forgetting what was left behind, no not left behind for it implies backward looks, forgetting what has happened, which doesn't mean losing one's memory, people always read things so literaly.
in a few days we will all be on what was beta and is now just plain old blogger, as before, as always, and yet it is different yet the same, a bit like windows that is to say a false feeling of progress when in fact all is the same. which reminds us of a wonderful beckett pome translation with one word changed:
They come
different and the same
with each it is different and the same
with each the absence of love is different
with each the desire of love is the same
in a few days we will all be on what was beta and is now just plain old blogger, as before, as always, and yet it is different yet the same, a bit like windows that is to say a false feeling of progress when in fact all is the same. which reminds us of a wonderful beckett pome translation with one word changed:
They come
different and the same
with each it is different and the same
with each the absence of love is different
with each the desire of love is the same
Champipple
The only good thing I can think of to say about Champipple (champagne + ripple) is that it made me think that maybe I had been too hard on Sankaccino.
I know you are
__________
End of year looks like rain its sullen
in the forest of your hair its rumpled outside
not like in here where you care for the wind turner
is that a waking thing closing the year fallen over oak and tapestry?
she 'does' bread to fire the limb of husband and mate maternal
her final rose ascending flame
wicked to hibernate winter's ornery coat
a bonfire to your bon-bons
clapping clandestine to its only ruly coat
He said I rue it I rue it Park avenue its trees memory a sacrosanct
place meaning its time go away
I hear the chug of tram way
its the gold cup fair way to his heart
________________
Unblinded
Once, you heard space as soundscape,
tasted the difference between red and green
smelt the changing leaves
touched to interpret shape.
Now the newly seen is mystery
a confusion of beauty
too much miracle.
You close your eyes, read the Braille
of your lover’s face,
feel her breath on your skin.
Her heartbeat in the dark.
tasted the difference between red and green
smelt the changing leaves
touched to interpret shape.
Now the newly seen is mystery
a confusion of beauty
too much miracle.
You close your eyes, read the Braille
of your lover’s face,
feel her breath on your skin.
Her heartbeat in the dark.
Long blind wait II
To accept the being,
the sustenance,
the all falling into place,
unfathomable.
The million tiny fingers
dressing and for the time being,
the primacy of turbulence.
the sustenance,
the all falling into place,
unfathomable.
The million tiny fingers
dressing and for the time being,
the primacy of turbulence.
locked
ok say its a question of machines sometimes like Ovals or Ovaltine they work its why they like it or oleographs is what he meant hearing the word in some dog down camp one night bivouacked by the hair around your halo? is she seeing a halo screen or commentary o n the top o.f. h.e.r. knees? is she lover to his five spent cents? come now ladies and gentlemen be pray befriend the muse of his worry her dancer in the bone ? weak one it might be ground down dust ed by bed and wearthered forest . . meantime he's got shes dizzy spells. might be a comma coming not a command over words a lord a prince of pieced language a lord she named him a lord of language . he waS a serf a servant at night beflung by paradise he was a simple savant knocked out by seventy breezes of learning voyaging round the circle of her hair. locked inside. the muzzle . of thigh. or winter bent. tree by the apples. drawn thought. t'was language burying its dead. left like some haloed air of art it was wishing well to wish well you never heard me sing imagine that . too badesque she was dyingesque to this menagerie of trois. her infant burial deal not thanked by the house she played. a card. sayi_a call a o phone ca_calling car ___ dD.
2
then like any prose pome fiction of apple decked sweet hearted. she 's appled to his thin eyes, shows up at his loving bed. burial of the seed. in her eyes. renewal of the heat in their bed.
3
this is the route lovers companion.
in their written will.
2
then like any prose pome fiction of apple decked sweet hearted. she 's appled to his thin eyes, shows up at his loving bed. burial of the seed. in her eyes. renewal of the heat in their bed.
3
this is the route lovers companion.
in their written will.
Purpose/Santayana/Buddha....
Purpose: Black and White
George Santayana: That life is worth living is the most necessary of assumptions and, were it not assumed, the most impossible of conclusions.
Buddha's Dilemma
THE WORD (CONTAINS THE HEART)
The vessels have been filled with red latex
and the mouth with blue. The first branch
contains the bypass. Insert one blade of scissors through;
cut. Identify the structures. Summarize the common duct system.
Use your pig and also a pig of the opposite sex.
Use a needle or the point of scissors, not a blunt probe,
to enable the opening. Open the jaw wide enough
the glottis and epiglottis are exposed. Uncoiled,
a blind pouch holds a fetal word. Inject the word
with a colored latex. After the word is born,
blood (rubber) sex serves upside-down systems.
Cut the sides of the mouth. Tie one front leg
of the animal with a string. With enlargements,
carefully peel the brownish skin away. The word
projects up, same as above (different pig).
Lift the word to reveal internal organs.
Observe the light-colored passage (to head).
(a found poem of sorts, culled from a biological document
about dissecting fetal pigs)
and the mouth with blue. The first branch
contains the bypass. Insert one blade of scissors through;
cut. Identify the structures. Summarize the common duct system.
Use your pig and also a pig of the opposite sex.
Use a needle or the point of scissors, not a blunt probe,
to enable the opening. Open the jaw wide enough
the glottis and epiglottis are exposed. Uncoiled,
a blind pouch holds a fetal word. Inject the word
with a colored latex. After the word is born,
blood (rubber) sex serves upside-down systems.
Cut the sides of the mouth. Tie one front leg
of the animal with a string. With enlargements,
carefully peel the brownish skin away. The word
projects up, same as above (different pig).
Lift the word to reveal internal organs.
Observe the light-colored passage (to head).
(a found poem of sorts, culled from a biological document
about dissecting fetal pigs)
j'ai dépassé les 1000 caractères quoi!!
je je je je je je je je je je je je je je je je je je pourquoi pas lui lui lui ou elle elle elle elle elle elle ce serait quand même bien plus intéressant non?, vous ne croyez pas que ce serait bien moins chiant? que boi boi boi moi moi moi boi moi aboyer moi moi moi. hahahhaahhaahahaha il aimait rire et faire le pitre. Ce qui ne le laissa pas sans ennemis, bien au contraire, il dut s'en inventer une bonne foulée (du s.f 'foule' ou,comme le dit littré à sa 7ième entrée, 7°Le vulgaire, le commun des hommes. La foule ignorante et capricieuse. Il te met dans la foule ainsi qu'un misérable, MOL. Femmes sav. III, 5. Vous avez besoin de plus de précaution que ceux qui naissent dans la foule, MASS. Carême, Prosp. La foule des humains n'existe point pour moi, VOLT. Tancr. II, 1. Les comtes de Montézuma sont de simples gentilshommes chrétiens et confondus dans la foule, ID. Moeurs, 147. Se tirer de la foule, se distinguer, s'élever au-dessus du commun. Fig. Vous avais-je sans choix Confondu jusqu'ici dans la foule des rois ? RAC. Bérén. III, 1. ) Des foulées d'ennemis pour pouvoir faire hihihihihhihihi. Lui et elle aucune galanterie, elle et lui, ils se marièrent à minuit pour rimer avec lui ce qui la déconcerta tant qu'elle caressa son chat pour montrer son désarroi quoi. s'ils eurent des enfants? quoi que nous n'en soyons pas sûr, il serait en effet fort tentant de croire à ces petits chiants. Et comme cela il se présenta, en se disant qu'il conjugua toute sa prestation à la 3ième personne du simple quoi, ce qui conjura bien des dégats de rimes simplement pour la frime. Oui, il frima la rime quoi.
U KNOW U ARE A ROCKING EYEBALL TOOL
my face is dirty and theres a doll in my eye
you know you know you know youre a video freak
what u give, high resolution, amber animal office
money is noise, voice candy, george is geological
in his garage
i need to know if i touch fresh blood and fluid
with my fingers, i wash my face with dirty water
industrial playground, take my face, its the clear water
sailing down my dirty stream, my dixie darling
i cannot go outside because youre ugly
the flexibility of there is u, money noise
of the office of amber animals
youre the variety of video
the doll of my eye where
you have known that u
have known the voice candy
george has geological features
with that garage
that's my mama rocking like a teen
love me baby like there's no tomorrow
baby doll, take me out to the ballgame
i lack the ability to reproduce
but i turn away when i look in your eyes
im just a ragdoll man
where could i go but to the lord
i would like to explore your eyeball tool
in my spare time
u are the office currency, my eye puppet
ride 'em cowboy, you're a great american
but i'm not technical so i don't know
lights and sirens, amber alert, animal cruelty
animal rescue, modern simplicity
thanks for barking in, happy dogoween
a loonie with a toonie
they can make so much money per se
he is the inventor of the trampoline
the crater that doesnt get any respect
the beginning of the pseudo-end
donna kuhn 2006
you know you know you know youre a video freak
what u give, high resolution, amber animal office
money is noise, voice candy, george is geological
in his garage
i need to know if i touch fresh blood and fluid
with my fingers, i wash my face with dirty water
industrial playground, take my face, its the clear water
sailing down my dirty stream, my dixie darling
i cannot go outside because youre ugly
the flexibility of there is u, money noise
of the office of amber animals
youre the variety of video
the doll of my eye where
you have known that u
have known the voice candy
george has geological features
with that garage
that's my mama rocking like a teen
love me baby like there's no tomorrow
baby doll, take me out to the ballgame
i lack the ability to reproduce
but i turn away when i look in your eyes
im just a ragdoll man
where could i go but to the lord
i would like to explore your eyeball tool
in my spare time
u are the office currency, my eye puppet
ride 'em cowboy, you're a great american
but i'm not technical so i don't know
lights and sirens, amber alert, animal cruelty
animal rescue, modern simplicity
thanks for barking in, happy dogoween
a loonie with a toonie
they can make so much money per se
he is the inventor of the trampoline
the crater that doesnt get any respect
the beginning of the pseudo-end
donna kuhn 2006
MaxDiff
Scale the maximum difference between and beyond
Point A: a choice &
Point B: because &
Point C: seabass &
Point D: delicious!
Different scales of maximum and minimum suggest
& confirm
& perform
& negate
& conform
all at the same time!
Scale differences account for maximum heterogeneity
or hyperactivity
or holy roman emperors
or homosexual cheese
or huge gigantic large!
Yes it's true. Follow these simple steps and you too can be a
(st)
(a/t
a)t/
/a(t
a(t/
/at)
)a/t
(at/
a/t(
/a)t
a/t)
/at(
)at/
(ician!)
Point A: a choice &
Point B: because &
Point C: seabass &
Point D: delicious!
Different scales of maximum and minimum suggest
& confirm
& perform
& negate
& conform
all at the same time!
Scale differences account for maximum heterogeneity
or hyperactivity
or holy roman emperors
or homosexual cheese
or huge gigantic large!
Yes it's true. Follow these simple steps and you too can be a
(st)
(a/t
a)t/
/a(t
a(t/
/at)
)a/t
(at/
a/t(
/a)t
a/t)
/at(
)at/
(ician!)
News Report
From our reporter in Brimland, J.Siddou.
"During the two a day for a week challenge, a grand total of 188 posts appeared on Brim. A week comprising seven calendar days, that would be a mental calculation of 188 divided by 7 which equals something over 18.8 posts a day and something below 37.6 posts a day, which if we almost cut the pear in two approximately equals something in between 26 and 27 posts a day which to be exact equals 26.857142857142857142857142857143 which considering there are 24 hours in a day equals just over 1 post per hour, which means that in a week there are approximately 188 hours or to be more exact 24 times 7 hours per week which equals 168.
This is an unprecedented performance in the realm of plogetry or p(l)o(g)etry. One faithful reader of takingthebrim had this to say:
'It's such an achievement, I feel so proud to belong to the brim reading community, I mean, it's like the best thing to have ever, ever happened in my life, 'cause it's like at work, when they found out i was a brim reader, they like said i was so cool. i mean i'm really honored, you know what i mean. i'm a br(imr)eader! yeahh!.'
A member of the Guiness Book of Records team thought that 'we need to take a close look at it of course, but this seems to be a new record. We need to verify that all the criteria were respected and that there was no foul play.'
Finally, it was heard from a reliable source that along with two big thumbs up, brim was close to being nominated for best low-budget international co-operation plogetry blog in this year's upcoming 'golden mice awards ceromony'. Asked to comment on all this speculation H.De Duffy could only reply: 'We do it for ze art, and for ze art unly.'"
Source: This is a shortened version of J.Siddou's article 'Totally gone over the brim' to appear in this month's Cahiers du Briména.
"During the two a day for a week challenge, a grand total of 188 posts appeared on Brim. A week comprising seven calendar days, that would be a mental calculation of 188 divided by 7 which equals something over 18.8 posts a day and something below 37.6 posts a day, which if we almost cut the pear in two approximately equals something in between 26 and 27 posts a day which to be exact equals 26.857142857142857142857142857143 which considering there are 24 hours in a day equals just over 1 post per hour, which means that in a week there are approximately 188 hours or to be more exact 24 times 7 hours per week which equals 168.
This is an unprecedented performance in the realm of plogetry or p(l)o(g)etry. One faithful reader of takingthebrim had this to say:
'It's such an achievement, I feel so proud to belong to the brim reading community, I mean, it's like the best thing to have ever, ever happened in my life, 'cause it's like at work, when they found out i was a brim reader, they like said i was so cool. i mean i'm really honored, you know what i mean. i'm a br(imr)eader! yeahh!.'
A member of the Guiness Book of Records team thought that 'we need to take a close look at it of course, but this seems to be a new record. We need to verify that all the criteria were respected and that there was no foul play.'
Finally, it was heard from a reliable source that along with two big thumbs up, brim was close to being nominated for best low-budget international co-operation plogetry blog in this year's upcoming 'golden mice awards ceromony'. Asked to comment on all this speculation H.De Duffy could only reply: 'We do it for ze art, and for ze art unly.'"
Source: This is a shortened version of J.Siddou's article 'Totally gone over the brim' to appear in this month's Cahiers du Briména.
For Alan
there was a doll’s head spiff with needles, from too much LSD or chemicals or because I was reading too much Das Capital, they said
Marx would do that to a brain, tarn it to rued butter thick with nonsense, or worse, other men’s thoughts and ideas, they said
the voices were never soft, or willing to let me sit quiet in the tally of my thoughts, they were like thieves, men with sticks and stones chasing the mice from the scatter of my thoughts, he said
your chemistry set is busted, neurons firing at will and with little regard for your wellbeing, it’ll only get worse, they said, and you’ll need constant supervision and a vaccine, which seldom works
I believe in God and human goodness and love, even when the voices caudal my skull, but even then, he said, I’m still lucky enough to know my name and where I live, and the taste of wild strawberries and sun
Marx would do that to a brain, tarn it to rued butter thick with nonsense, or worse, other men’s thoughts and ideas, they said
the voices were never soft, or willing to let me sit quiet in the tally of my thoughts, they were like thieves, men with sticks and stones chasing the mice from the scatter of my thoughts, he said
your chemistry set is busted, neurons firing at will and with little regard for your wellbeing, it’ll only get worse, they said, and you’ll need constant supervision and a vaccine, which seldom works
I believe in God and human goodness and love, even when the voices caudal my skull, but even then, he said, I’m still lucky enough to know my name and where I live, and the taste of wild strawberries and sun
Ripper's-heel
Panoptic-cough syrup, cures rickets, jimmy-leg, flatulence, scurvy, Murphy’s-foot, scallops, vaginitus, ester-of-alginate, cooper’s-thumb, coprophaglia, impotence, skill-saw-grip, router-eye, ripper’s-heel, scatological-thinking, hang-over’s, resolutions and cold-sores.
We Love Linda
creation / rift / LIVE BEER in the future
we read the newspaper in the future
S-S-Seuss from the future I'm
on a CASIO
panhandling CLARK NOVA
Sepultura in the headphones
future Linda:Lavin
from the future I'm
one from the future
complete kit :
changing names
ex/change
we read the newspaper in the future
S-S-Seuss from the future I'm
on a CASIO
panhandling CLARK NOVA
Sepultura in the headphones
future Linda:Lavin
from the future I'm
one from the future
complete kit :
changing names
ex/change
Chancres and Bedsores
She wore a Moyle’s hair sweater, a gift from the St. Vincent de Van Gough. One of the employees, who had a pointillist’s chin, garishly small feet and lived with a cantor who owned a delicatessen specializing in imported or unusual foods and ingredients; cooked meats, cheeses and pickles, and kept Moyle shears in the back room, should one wish to make a purchase or simply have a look at the snippets, cautioned her against wearing the sweater next to her skin, claiming it caused chancres and bedsores. The cantor had boils on his neck, collar and nape, and a birthmark that looked like an animal cracker on his forehead, just above his eye and to the left. He once considered snipping his ear off, but refrained, as his girlfriend, who was employed by the Vincent de Van Gough Society, cautioned him against it, claiming it caused bedsores and madness, and might affect his eyesight and increase the frequency and soreness of his boils.
hot spread eagles
i
nt er, upted
the ante chamber
where six to one
hot spread eagles
in God, they balled
the trust,
squeezed sanc titties
and ameri
domized the rect
ums.
the cerebral
lob byists
fell on {s} words,
those battalions
of soft-marrowed
suggestions. as,
jaw boning found
Samson in a sec
ular dilution, I've slain
one. mo' ah bite
a day.
nt er, upted
the ante chamber
where six to one
hot spread eagles
in God, they balled
the trust,
squeezed sanc titties
and ameri
domized the rect
ums.
the cerebral
lob byists
fell on {s} words,
those battalions
of soft-marrowed
suggestions. as,
jaw boning found
Samson in a sec
ular dilution, I've slain
one. mo' ah bite
a day.
wind blowing across page,
scorpion weather, power
site, yhx, high carbon, bone
bed, strome, destroyed
paper, problem elbow,
eighty-six decibels,
scorpionweed, racind,
slippery pen, sunbake,
alphabet-land, surround
map, sun on, shadow
culture, fucket,
nonlinear lines,
plastic reaction,
go git, zen ven,
all gum, birdtail
grass, not writing:
killing time, sun
beating on page,
candle-wasters!,
scambling, outfacing,
years after the
fact, stickey pen,
grasshopper's coating
the highway, more
than one route,
the pen is glued
to the finger,
remember ebb me
murmer, goo pen,
scorpion weather, power
site, yhx, high carbon, bone
bed, strome, destroyed
paper, problem elbow,
eighty-six decibels,
scorpionweed, racind,
slippery pen, sunbake,
alphabet-land, surround
map, sun on, shadow
culture, fucket,
nonlinear lines,
plastic reaction,
go git, zen ven,
all gum, birdtail
grass, not writing:
killing time, sun
beating on page,
candle-wasters!,
scambling, outfacing,
years after the
fact, stickey pen,
grasshopper's coating
the highway, more
than one route,
the pen is glued
to the finger,
remember ebb me
murmer, goo pen,
drifts and cataclysm
contrail · azury
lift ·car glass warming · fragrant
Tsathoggua shrug
our plan is to stay aloof
through drifts and cataclysm
lift ·car glass warming · fragrant
Tsathoggua shrug
our plan is to stay aloof
through drifts and cataclysm
when:Interlocuter
Mister D_ when did you write that one about Russsia?
Hmm about a half day ago.
Mister D__ seriously__ pl__
What is serious about time is its factoring not its cause or chronos. You see, my dear one.
Its the activity of mentation and love's desire its sneaky little tail chasing up on yer
weirds. Weird being the old English word for the other you see when you look
in the mirror.
Mister CD_ cheers.
Hmmm yes, let the others fade as they must.
Hmm about a half day ago.
Mister D__ seriously__ pl__
What is serious about time is its factoring not its cause or chronos. You see, my dear one.
Its the activity of mentation and love's desire its sneaky little tail chasing up on yer
weirds. Weird being the old English word for the other you see when you look
in the mirror.
Mister CD_ cheers.
Hmmm yes, let the others fade as they must.
this then its
_________________
I got all lost there but now must find you in the noise
and rain no matter in the deep hole of the earth its
planetary song all down the ribbons of its side
and I am like the song that sings its seize poised
on the balance of youth man and boy teetered in the numbered
clause of its dilettantishness and my own peepers
see less now thank goodness or like M. used to say
My word, and I am the pondering one
the wandered adjective making his space in the each
that way you get free too, as each dilattantishness
is your space, and the mystical angels of theology speak,
sing, rattle wait for your song, the song of the spheres,
of the body, and someone said, this kind man,
said, thank the church and then say, I will call you,
don't call me, and who said jesus was a man, and what
gender was he?
... there was that lost poem, too, from Beaudry street,
I don't know what ever happened to it., and so not wanting
to lose the strand, I return, turn and turn gyreward inspace
inspaced toward the supple truth which is my truth,
and the supple line as the Philosophers say, they saya yaya.
And I remember a certain someone, from a meeting, an encounter,
a rendez-vous, I don't know what it was, but I know this,
those who haven't been around as long, don't know, what's
it about, to have been around, as long, and stayed,
and so the night goes, like smiles wreathed again with
skies which travel down forecasting the weather, and
smitten with this and that, I yield to the penetrated sky.
Stop inhibiting! she said, even with your smiles, exclamation
points, desired night, and dash day. I am the stupified
Knight. I did not realize what I was.
I did not realize how much I wanted to go to Russia.
Till I saw that girl in Paris on her way to Russia,
trying to get sober and sobered up, stuck in Paris,
but not stuck, only starting the start of her real start,
Rimsky-Korsakoff does that to me, not Paris that called,
that calls, but the snow, and Russia, the tundra,
here now at this moment of summer, called by the steppe,
and it makes me weep, this music, calls, called and call me.
Leave I want to leave, called in my body by some ruin, there,
it's not Doctor Zhivago, but it's part of that, yes,
it is, some song on the innard part, parched by its need,
wetted by its quench, wearied of the shop talk, double-
and triple talk of a thousand stars, and a Red Star
now faded into a language I don't know, never knew
_____________
Them Hot Dogs
How about Them Hot Dogs,
Ain’t they neat?
Little piece of bread,
Little piece of meat.
Ain’t they neat?
Little piece of bread,
Little piece of meat.
the river & the Hyena People
shit flows upstream
to where they catch it in nets
and sell it to the Hyena People,
too stupid to know what it is
and all-too-willing to trade
their trapped furs & trinkets
for a bag of waterborne excrement.
superstitious. but would you believe,
this is how my epic poem begins?
DIVINITY like discharge
to replace the sepulchre
of Old Man
kind
we needed tricks
and concertina wire
and a Scripture known and knowable
only to the chosen --
that's us -- bearing torch
like priests of Mithras
into the cave, draw the flames
from water from Hell
and coming back from that place alive --
stay back, we need
some room (can I get a
volunteer from the audience, please)
looks like
with your help we'll complete our performance
here today.
Joie et force and verse
Il y a des vies où les difficultés touchent au prodige; ce sont les vies des penseurs. Et il faut prêter l'oreille à ce qui nous est raconté à leur sujet, car on y découvre des possibilités de vie dont le seul récit nous donne de la joie et de la force et verse une lumière sur la vie de leurs successeurs.
Nietzsche, La naissance de la philosophie, trad. Geneviève Bianquis.
Nietzsche, La naissance de la philosophie, trad. Geneviève Bianquis.
seasonal poetry instant
inside of just once saying
is every carnal flower
known. the best of
chicken flight and
odd documents called sighs
fit heavily in a tony
populace crammed
full with wisdom as clauses.
shuddering samples of
wild stony rain clouds
possess the least example of
Jessica Simpson
dying on a cross,
hammered into place
by serious footballs. those
footballs resemble
M C Hammer's
parachute pants,
pax et lux.
pants become
articulate.
god dies when
Nietzsche appears but
who appears
when Nietzsche dies?
the same joke told over time.
Christmas passes expectations
and it passes sheafs of poems
writ in crabby letters.
when one sees such letters,
ire begins to glow.
only a poem, a real
poem, can know such
exhaust. the flower starts
to smell like
meat. trees are filled
with chickens. poems
act like apes. what then,
Reader, holds you
to your course?
is every carnal flower
known. the best of
chicken flight and
odd documents called sighs
fit heavily in a tony
populace crammed
full with wisdom as clauses.
shuddering samples of
wild stony rain clouds
possess the least example of
Jessica Simpson
dying on a cross,
hammered into place
by serious footballs. those
footballs resemble
M C Hammer's
parachute pants,
pax et lux.
pants become
articulate.
god dies when
Nietzsche appears but
who appears
when Nietzsche dies?
the same joke told over time.
Christmas passes expectations
and it passes sheafs of poems
writ in crabby letters.
when one sees such letters,
ire begins to glow.
only a poem, a real
poem, can know such
exhaust. the flower starts
to smell like
meat. trees are filled
with chickens. poems
act like apes. what then,
Reader, holds you
to your course?
deathware
the work we have to do to do the
work, who’s coming to your town,
blank house, speak to sentence,
swear or lay a private information,
a carbon copy of real life, the
permanent married quarters,
vichnaia pam’’iat’, the lion shall
eat straw like the ox, sura, blank
post, specially shaped hole,
deathware, threatens your
existence fun, when you were in
grade four, enter into the city,
beheaded how many wives, gala
id, watch the disclaimer, only
women hurt, anthracnose
candlestick, aren’t you a little
old to be back at home, structure
to society, the law of the family,
lis pendens, the mareva
injunction, jeff will get the
cabin, ex parte, making an
election, speak to your release,
e-corvid, feelings of self-wrath,
perverse devent, a third party
is a third party, rialroad, thee
counts, ethno-centric privilege,
the language of the blues,
my white audience, my black
audience, bitten to death by
mosquitoes, national
consciousness, poet slash criminal,
a worm or snail of which only
this trace remains, mumaddada,
the self-subsistent, kafir, what’s
with all the caps, the squeam
factor, detoxification drugs,
work, who’s coming to your town,
blank house, speak to sentence,
swear or lay a private information,
a carbon copy of real life, the
permanent married quarters,
vichnaia pam’’iat’, the lion shall
eat straw like the ox, sura, blank
post, specially shaped hole,
deathware, threatens your
existence fun, when you were in
grade four, enter into the city,
beheaded how many wives, gala
id, watch the disclaimer, only
women hurt, anthracnose
candlestick, aren’t you a little
old to be back at home, structure
to society, the law of the family,
lis pendens, the mareva
injunction, jeff will get the
cabin, ex parte, making an
election, speak to your release,
e-corvid, feelings of self-wrath,
perverse devent, a third party
is a third party, rialroad, thee
counts, ethno-centric privilege,
the language of the blues,
my white audience, my black
audience, bitten to death by
mosquitoes, national
consciousness, poet slash criminal,
a worm or snail of which only
this trace remains, mumaddada,
the self-subsistent, kafir, what’s
with all the caps, the squeam
factor, detoxification drugs,
last mental math
seven times two equals
fourteen minus at least
six or seven video posts
equals six or seven written
posts which approximately
equals almost or just over
one written post a day plus
almost or just over one video
post a day which means on average
one of each per day for seven days
to complete the challenge set though
there are only middly fiddlies no averages
just middly fiddly middles and yet an_____
___________other sonnetic calculation
fourteen minus at least
six or seven video posts
equals six or seven written
posts which approximately
equals almost or just over
one written post a day plus
almost or just over one video
post a day which means on average
one of each per day for seven days
to complete the challenge set though
there are only middly fiddlies no averages
just middly fiddly middles and yet an_____
___________other sonnetic calculation
Pulp Poem
I lost a fight with a box. Okay, so I haven’t the substance even to stand up to cardboard. I don’t pull punches or weigh more than a straw. But I can fold. Origamiweight I call it, a knockout against paper, felling A4 with a crease to die for.
as an ending
the world of extra words slid from mountaintop with limestone and snow, fretting human numbers and the end of Christmas. each Christmas creates a torment controlled by colours that stretch into the past. that past is mountain too, greener than grass but still pliant. we wish for more, the world of staying put or pressing flowers or still in memory. love it, as you write more indications. try a little sweetness then watch. even now, this beginning of study, this exercised day.
The very last day of the very last blog
- You know internet comes of age. You wasn’t even born … something like 30 years ago …
- And how was it at the beginning ?
- Oh God ! It was a real mess ! And so much fun ! You know it was going through telephone lines ! Well something that doesn’t exist anymore by the way … It was so slow and so amateur-like ! Firstly managed by geeks only upon computer stuffs, gaming but also some scientific matters … It was taking hours just to upload a little picture … And it was a real job to find out information through miles of sites … The Information Highway, they used to call it … It was much more like crawling into a kind of sparkling, flickering desert !
- Through telephone ? But you didn’t need a computer to surf ?
- Off course ! We had computers ! Well not as powerful as today ! First of all, at the beginning we did not even have laptops … Wasn’t a matter anyway ‘cose wireless connections and so on did not exist, you could only plug in at the office or sometimes at home … You see Internet used to be very expensive …
- Did you already had hyperbrowsers and semantic 4-dimension search engines ?
- Oh no ! The very first search engines were so static ! And you had so many ! The even invented search engines searching through other search engines, some kind of a perpetual movement ! they were all going everywhere and nowhere at the same time ! Not like the universal portal we have now … You see all these companies merging creating this only way through Internet which provides writing, publishing, calculating, scheduling and surfing tools all at once … You had the choice at that time between navigators, programs … Because people used to write at that time too, now, they only send pictures and home made movies …
- Writing about what ? Their life ?
- Yeah ! People used to write about every topics and the very first one : themselves !
- What that means ? People used to tell about their own life ?
- Yes my son ! Their life, their habits, their hobbies, their concerns too … Their travels … They were proceeding so through blogs !
- Blogs ?
- Yes, in fact “Web Log Book” known as blog … B-L-O-G ! You see, far before the Internet and even the computer, people used to write about their life and what they were doing into personal white books, just to keep traces of their life … They even had paper photo albums ..
- And if I type “blog” , I may find them ?
- Well … Errrr … Don’t think you’ll find many of them left … Most of them, dealing with some kind of local or worldwide pieces of information turned into professional sites and the millions of real personal blogs shut down one by one …
- Why that ?
- Pretty complicated in fact … First, most of this people did believe they would reach some kind of “fame” on Internet, but very few succeeded … Because, at the very beginning, it was pretty easy to get known through social networking, through some buzz too … But as the blogs got democratized, as the number of blogging platforms grew incredibly high, it was more and more difficult to overcome from the crowd … And also, people realized that finally their own little life was no big deal and that, finally, they did not have much to say. So usually after few months, they were abandoning their blogs … And the blogosphere, as they used to call it, became a huge cemetery of drop-out words and pictures …
- I do not understand why they were willing to have a blog if to stop it so quickly ?
- Because at that time, it was the age of the image ! You know people thought that you had to build yourself a public image just to exist … Life was not enough, “fame”, star system, that was what the youth was willing to reach ! Well because, they were a little bit polluted by media and specially TV …
- TV ?
- TV was the greatest means for entertainment and culture at that time, kind of a movie box with special programs about news, education … And at that time most everybody thought that they had to pass on TV to be known. And as everybody couldn’t pass on TV, they tried to pass on the Internet …
- I don’t get that “fame” concept …
- Totally obsolete today boy ! But in this society, you had everybody much unknown except from family and relatives and you had very few people very well known as comedians, politicians, sportsmen … And some people doing extraordinary things … But everybody wanted to be famous ! Everybody wanted to be part of it ! To be on the big screen, because they were told so !
- And you had a blog too ? You wanted to be famous !
- Oh oh ! Yes I had a blog, not that I wanted to be that famous, but just because it was a very easy way to tell around what I wanted to tell … Or just to show what I liked …
- But you don’t any more ?
- Well you see, as you grew old, as you got an overwhelming job, as you raise a family … Well you don’t have much time left to do this kind of … amusement … And it is out of date anyway …
- Sounds funny anyway ! I’d like to read some of those blogs !
- If you search well, you may find some dead blogs left, they have not been all erased from servers … But do quickly !
- But do you know some blogs still active ? Is there still somebody writing blogs ?
- Of course there are still some bloggers ! Pretty hard to find, you’ve got to dig into the Unternet, far beneath the official layers of the Uppernet. And in the middle of the derelict virtual structures of the Freespace, you’ll find some community blogs, some art or poetry blogs … And if your clever enough, you may find the Graal ! Because it is no longer referenced anywhere, maybe, you’ll be lucky enough to trace the URL address of the very last blog …
- Really ? What does it talk about ?
- Nothing in particular … He or she, because no one knows, writes everyday about his/her real life as nobody but it is turned as if it was everybody’s life … It is a little bit nostalgic, but with no reactionary feelings or retrograde claim, just that it shows part of old culture as music, movies and arts … What is really strage is that this person doesn't seem at all to be part of the technology business or even world ... Looks like he is publishing from a far remote place, maybe even the countryside ... But hurry up too, ‘cose the blog exists for years and it may stop one day. At least the day its writer stops. For any reason, even a natural one.
- And how was it at the beginning ?
- Oh God ! It was a real mess ! And so much fun ! You know it was going through telephone lines ! Well something that doesn’t exist anymore by the way … It was so slow and so amateur-like ! Firstly managed by geeks only upon computer stuffs, gaming but also some scientific matters … It was taking hours just to upload a little picture … And it was a real job to find out information through miles of sites … The Information Highway, they used to call it … It was much more like crawling into a kind of sparkling, flickering desert !
- Through telephone ? But you didn’t need a computer to surf ?
- Off course ! We had computers ! Well not as powerful as today ! First of all, at the beginning we did not even have laptops … Wasn’t a matter anyway ‘cose wireless connections and so on did not exist, you could only plug in at the office or sometimes at home … You see Internet used to be very expensive …
- Did you already had hyperbrowsers and semantic 4-dimension search engines ?
- Oh no ! The very first search engines were so static ! And you had so many ! The even invented search engines searching through other search engines, some kind of a perpetual movement ! they were all going everywhere and nowhere at the same time ! Not like the universal portal we have now … You see all these companies merging creating this only way through Internet which provides writing, publishing, calculating, scheduling and surfing tools all at once … You had the choice at that time between navigators, programs … Because people used to write at that time too, now, they only send pictures and home made movies …
- Writing about what ? Their life ?
- Yeah ! People used to write about every topics and the very first one : themselves !
- What that means ? People used to tell about their own life ?
- Yes my son ! Their life, their habits, their hobbies, their concerns too … Their travels … They were proceeding so through blogs !
- Blogs ?
- Yes, in fact “Web Log Book” known as blog … B-L-O-G ! You see, far before the Internet and even the computer, people used to write about their life and what they were doing into personal white books, just to keep traces of their life … They even had paper photo albums ..
- And if I type “blog” , I may find them ?
- Well … Errrr … Don’t think you’ll find many of them left … Most of them, dealing with some kind of local or worldwide pieces of information turned into professional sites and the millions of real personal blogs shut down one by one …
- Why that ?
- Pretty complicated in fact … First, most of this people did believe they would reach some kind of “fame” on Internet, but very few succeeded … Because, at the very beginning, it was pretty easy to get known through social networking, through some buzz too … But as the blogs got democratized, as the number of blogging platforms grew incredibly high, it was more and more difficult to overcome from the crowd … And also, people realized that finally their own little life was no big deal and that, finally, they did not have much to say. So usually after few months, they were abandoning their blogs … And the blogosphere, as they used to call it, became a huge cemetery of drop-out words and pictures …
- I do not understand why they were willing to have a blog if to stop it so quickly ?
- Because at that time, it was the age of the image ! You know people thought that you had to build yourself a public image just to exist … Life was not enough, “fame”, star system, that was what the youth was willing to reach ! Well because, they were a little bit polluted by media and specially TV …
- TV ?
- TV was the greatest means for entertainment and culture at that time, kind of a movie box with special programs about news, education … And at that time most everybody thought that they had to pass on TV to be known. And as everybody couldn’t pass on TV, they tried to pass on the Internet …
- I don’t get that “fame” concept …
- Totally obsolete today boy ! But in this society, you had everybody much unknown except from family and relatives and you had very few people very well known as comedians, politicians, sportsmen … And some people doing extraordinary things … But everybody wanted to be famous ! Everybody wanted to be part of it ! To be on the big screen, because they were told so !
- And you had a blog too ? You wanted to be famous !
- Oh oh ! Yes I had a blog, not that I wanted to be that famous, but just because it was a very easy way to tell around what I wanted to tell … Or just to show what I liked …
- But you don’t any more ?
- Well you see, as you grew old, as you got an overwhelming job, as you raise a family … Well you don’t have much time left to do this kind of … amusement … And it is out of date anyway …
- Sounds funny anyway ! I’d like to read some of those blogs !
- If you search well, you may find some dead blogs left, they have not been all erased from servers … But do quickly !
- But do you know some blogs still active ? Is there still somebody writing blogs ?
- Of course there are still some bloggers ! Pretty hard to find, you’ve got to dig into the Unternet, far beneath the official layers of the Uppernet. And in the middle of the derelict virtual structures of the Freespace, you’ll find some community blogs, some art or poetry blogs … And if your clever enough, you may find the Graal ! Because it is no longer referenced anywhere, maybe, you’ll be lucky enough to trace the URL address of the very last blog …
- Really ? What does it talk about ?
- Nothing in particular … He or she, because no one knows, writes everyday about his/her real life as nobody but it is turned as if it was everybody’s life … It is a little bit nostalgic, but with no reactionary feelings or retrograde claim, just that it shows part of old culture as music, movies and arts … What is really strage is that this person doesn't seem at all to be part of the technology business or even world ... Looks like he is publishing from a far remote place, maybe even the countryside ... But hurry up too, ‘cose the blog exists for years and it may stop one day. At least the day its writer stops. For any reason, even a natural one.
request to all brimmers
Have you ever met a poet who looks like this man ?
If ever, don't call the police, just tell Cliff ...
crestfallen from
crestfallen from
swan song buttocks
grizzled crepuscular
vulva
snatching myrrh chant's
at.tention fawn-
prattle for ear loaves
of bread wetting mill
i m
ped ing lish sun set
me down in curds
of way to blood jack
uzi
raining
bull it's
a won der
full li(f)e
swan song buttocks
grizzled crepuscular
vulva
snatching myrrh chant's
at.tention fawn-
prattle for ear loaves
of bread wetting mill
i m
ped ing lish sun set
me down in curds
of way to blood jack
uzi
raining
bull it's
a won der
full li(f)e
A Short History of being afraid
Not like a warrior, more like a vole
Predatory stillness looms in the vacant space
Between the first wall and the optic nerve
Concealed behind the eyes
A straightforward device
Easily hidden in a false bottomed box
The second and third more elaborate even ornamental
At ease with the concept
already overlaps dovetailed joints
Metallurgy invented for locks
A key, a combination even a keycard
A mechanism to interlock
Hammered links form chains
The interdependency of alloys
By now fear cannot be seen by the naked eye
Or casual observer, or by an idle passerby
Soon the tiny walls become elaborate fortified castles
Ornate refuges, strongholds
The eternal spiritual sovereignty of fear
Steel, titanium, Osmium, the windows become smaller
Even the eyes have become tiny slits
Here we make fear a metaphor
And we make the metaphor a machine
This way the fear can begin to make itself
Until the walls and the eyes
And the locks and the keys and the castles and
Even the casual observers are afraid
Predatory stillness looms in the vacant space
Between the first wall and the optic nerve
Concealed behind the eyes
A straightforward device
Easily hidden in a false bottomed box
The second and third more elaborate even ornamental
At ease with the concept
already overlaps dovetailed joints
Metallurgy invented for locks
A key, a combination even a keycard
A mechanism to interlock
Hammered links form chains
The interdependency of alloys
By now fear cannot be seen by the naked eye
Or casual observer, or by an idle passerby
Soon the tiny walls become elaborate fortified castles
Ornate refuges, strongholds
The eternal spiritual sovereignty of fear
Steel, titanium, Osmium, the windows become smaller
Even the eyes have become tiny slits
Here we make fear a metaphor
And we make the metaphor a machine
This way the fear can begin to make itself
Until the walls and the eyes
And the locks and the keys and the castles and
Even the casual observers are afraid
aspergers liberation front
mixamox, ready aime, there will
be no succor, standing order on
its head, ham and milk, leachate,
meropia, egusi, one of the better
ones for a hat stand, each
holding a card, the aspergers
liberation front, change is
invigorating again, one payend,
people clustered in city-states,
komagata maru, now it is more
than a copy, potluck university,
yes there is errors, did you go
swimming, jim bean, its face a
great blank, two successive copies
of the same thought, passage, the
harlequin the charming early,
disparite du fond, opaque
similarity, what with the blank
and all, there’s money in war
none in art, mere sleeping, the
zen gaze, recycle your life,
risking everything,
be no succor, standing order on
its head, ham and milk, leachate,
meropia, egusi, one of the better
ones for a hat stand, each
holding a card, the aspergers
liberation front, change is
invigorating again, one payend,
people clustered in city-states,
komagata maru, now it is more
than a copy, potluck university,
yes there is errors, did you go
swimming, jim bean, its face a
great blank, two successive copies
of the same thought, passage, the
harlequin the charming early,
disparite du fond, opaque
similarity, what with the blank
and all, there’s money in war
none in art, mere sleeping, the
zen gaze, recycle your life,
risking everything,
mona's word pad
Mona's wordpad apartment deluxe bourgeois style unrelated objets d'art
subjet d'art Mona's royal buttocks of beauty _ they speak to me _ saying to me in a rushed aside
what pleasant hill is that green Jerusalem? Mona function'd fictional_ the
queen's (queen? queen high heeled in the boisdeboulogne) (queen toreface ripped off god save the queensheaint
ahuman being) (queen: queen bee) (queen: her majesty) (queen: someone that oprime les autres) message "of peace"
to the world stage of world news were always her best play __ winter sans snow was not a place to campaign_. She has goosed the natal morninn g of her fat word her plight's stick yer butt sans frais down wheels and puns. Busted by statue and gape, she's creme de menthe on the refeted phrase. St. Fatality has accidents in her pant(ies) knows her cock wont be worn backward. A secret gizmo to her job won't let her play foxes and bears. A fox was sniffing around the fields between two underpasses as they drove the night heading into the finite mix mastering of city. NO heading into the infinite jangle . No, infinite wrangle. No, screw this! She whirls her skates abound, skateboard skirted she assfitted to the sun, her boy's best butt judged on, she's hearing praise and hoorays hoorays. Is it a man appearing at her door, as she spun the doxy wheels her funning way, funnies on the kitchen table where the murderer sat, she's georgics to her baffled fey not worked over by wrought fingering exercised by haunted gable and trouble eave hearing everywhich way kind of rent. Off to her rented sphix she goes hidden in a buttoks secret to the good god universe.
A voice bellowed out of the belly One can only hope the universe'll blow up sooner than later. An apocalyptic thought twisted by vased flower bedding and not rivered thighs. Hmmm do you think writing in the first person is a waste of time? Yes, it is because cause cause first person is fiction and only appears otherwise. Fiction of first self is most self as I who says I is dead and yet who take its serious is deader than dead dead dead . Dear dead I dont write back yer dumbarse plays on empyrean emotion fixture who am i shite. what is that shit. Shit to I. Shit to the I.
versioning and miniversioning its temples played by curl. Weird oasis of culvert den. Waked up by spill. Word of bodyinside the hugged cannot say. Its hovered . By platiscene rented faded design gowns of pearl. Heap of oils. Powder and perfume. this deluxe. Car ferried the weight. her gyrescope and other quested field not quite spoiled. She wave particle. Huffed by molecule necklaced by molecule tingle. Her rampant paws. Lioning the queen of self. The tall tired tiger self. Of will and power. Her gowning bay'd. Like any dog water. A machine for paying curling beach houses. A song surf lift the crave .
Shit to the eye. Long live the ear of its pulling.
_______
Variant to this fiction found at fiction two.
subjet d'art Mona's royal buttocks of beauty _ they speak to me _ saying to me in a rushed aside
what pleasant hill is that green Jerusalem? Mona function'd fictional_ the
queen's (queen? queen high heeled in the boisdeboulogne) (queen toreface ripped off god save the queensheaint
ahuman being) (queen: queen bee) (queen: her majesty) (queen: someone that oprime les autres) message "of peace"
to the world stage of world news were always her best play __ winter sans snow was not a place to campaign_. She has goosed the natal morninn g of her fat word her plight's stick yer butt sans frais down wheels and puns. Busted by statue and gape, she's creme de menthe on the refeted phrase. St. Fatality has accidents in her pant(ies) knows her cock wont be worn backward. A secret gizmo to her job won't let her play foxes and bears. A fox was sniffing around the fields between two underpasses as they drove the night heading into the finite mix mastering of city. NO heading into the infinite jangle . No, infinite wrangle. No, screw this! She whirls her skates abound, skateboard skirted she assfitted to the sun, her boy's best butt judged on, she's hearing praise and hoorays hoorays. Is it a man appearing at her door, as she spun the doxy wheels her funning way, funnies on the kitchen table where the murderer sat, she's georgics to her baffled fey not worked over by wrought fingering exercised by haunted gable and trouble eave hearing everywhich way kind of rent. Off to her rented sphix she goes hidden in a buttoks secret to the good god universe.
A voice bellowed out of the belly One can only hope the universe'll blow up sooner than later. An apocalyptic thought twisted by vased flower bedding and not rivered thighs. Hmmm do you think writing in the first person is a waste of time? Yes, it is because cause cause first person is fiction and only appears otherwise. Fiction of first self is most self as I who says I is dead and yet who take its serious is deader than dead dead dead . Dear dead I dont write back yer dumbarse plays on empyrean emotion fixture who am i shite. what is that shit. Shit to I. Shit to the I.
versioning and miniversioning its temples played by curl. Weird oasis of culvert den. Waked up by spill. Word of bodyinside the hugged cannot say. Its hovered . By platiscene rented faded design gowns of pearl. Heap of oils. Powder and perfume. this deluxe. Car ferried the weight. her gyrescope and other quested field not quite spoiled. She wave particle. Huffed by molecule necklaced by molecule tingle. Her rampant paws. Lioning the queen of self. The tall tired tiger self. Of will and power. Her gowning bay'd. Like any dog water. A machine for paying curling beach houses. A song surf lift the crave .
Shit to the eye. Long live the ear of its pulling.
_______
Variant to this fiction found at fiction two.
our reality principle
entel, eternity: high cost of, dort,
openclusters, blueapple, the poros
age grade cults, put it in the
spawning dish, pen pall, selfmade
things, einheitskultur, higher
education and the crisis, never
could get it write, pink on pink,
blob of toner on the text, stupa,
the demolition of the individual,
proletarian consciousness, a curved
concrete ridge, euphoria longana,
hecatomb, a cluster of tight,
square concrete, concrete water,
our principal reality, pop it up,
crimes crimes crimes, isreality,
we are still communicating,
enough revolution, culture is
power, springs directly from the
poet’s bowels, poeme simultane,
cut off each other’s supplies
of vital fluid, the plain of jars,
bombies, render harmless
procedures, our secret war,
cicciolina, alone a cyclist in
a pink hat bucks the tide,
openclusters, blueapple, the poros
age grade cults, put it in the
spawning dish, pen pall, selfmade
things, einheitskultur, higher
education and the crisis, never
could get it write, pink on pink,
blob of toner on the text, stupa,
the demolition of the individual,
proletarian consciousness, a curved
concrete ridge, euphoria longana,
hecatomb, a cluster of tight,
square concrete, concrete water,
our principal reality, pop it up,
crimes crimes crimes, isreality,
we are still communicating,
enough revolution, culture is
power, springs directly from the
poet’s bowels, poeme simultane,
cut off each other’s supplies
of vital fluid, the plain of jars,
bombies, render harmless
procedures, our secret war,
cicciolina, alone a cyclist in
a pink hat bucks the tide,
merry
post advent christmas anti-climax of eating not turkey but chicken fingers in a fast food restaurant and finishing it all up with a greasy doughnut in place of a liquory christmas pud or pudding which is not custard but a dried-fruit afters. lonely souls walking the empty streets going to the matinee showing. poor souls working behind the counter, they who have people to be with. maybe next year it will be better, who knows? psychiatric patients fighting in the fast food joint, one of them crying remembering his mummy as he calls her. the patients try calming him down. but nothing can quite quail his pain. they draw him out at the restaurant manager's request. maybe next year things will be less painful, who knows? bored bus driver driving around town taking people to other people to places every twenty minutes until midnight and then the same again tomorrow morning. maybe next year he'll have his christmas day. who knows?
here's the thing
heres the thing 'on'
'being' 1/4 jewish
you wake up from a dream
yer at a mass thats a movie
not a like but an is
movie that's a mass
heres the thing
man madame monsieur
in the unofficial curse culture
tripped by the debutante flavor
of day weary of the 'english'
spelling 'honor' 'flavor'
& other favorites
you cant figure out maid
from made raiding towns
& hauling glances
hey it's hip that way huh
cause youre greek inside
greeker than they
are with their souvlaki
& rapid fire crossing in the midnight
church going stuffed to the gullet SUV
consumers yayaya Ikon St. Matty and
Ikon RISEN flying JeSu & all that shit
look at the clothes they got on
one hundred dollar socks
the all night satellite tv
patriarch so and so doing the live church
thing you dig while not too far away
in the maybe not too distant future even
missiles 'hang in the air'
shooting allies from the far off clouding
of vision cut to ribbons you see what I mean
onthe hill of cedar the playpen of death
its always like that huh
not hug jug you diurnal dummy
loves hug
the letter cutting flood
phoneme of kickass armies
on the 'march'
'of dime' 'they could stop on a dime' gazing
in an alcoholic well meaning stooper
gave me 50 bucks he did on the way to Paris
Pat and Larry two down and outers living the good life
for forty years or so sad to see them go see'm go
the 'seedier' doggier path
the 'ou' cut away
adds a pungency to things
american juney who're you kidding
no here's the story being
irish when yer one quarter pound
flesh weighted & golded
you wake up finding you
got a free ride to a hotel A
whose whole name you wont say
Ho-ho-ho what do you say to that Santa Claus
'being' 1/4 jewish
you wake up from a dream
yer at a mass thats a movie
not a like but an is
movie that's a mass
heres the thing
man madame monsieur
in the unofficial curse culture
tripped by the debutante flavor
of day weary of the 'english'
spelling 'honor' 'flavor'
& other favorites
you cant figure out maid
from made raiding towns
& hauling glances
hey it's hip that way huh
cause youre greek inside
greeker than they
are with their souvlaki
& rapid fire crossing in the midnight
church going stuffed to the gullet SUV
consumers yayaya Ikon St. Matty and
Ikon RISEN flying JeSu & all that shit
look at the clothes they got on
one hundred dollar socks
the all night satellite tv
patriarch so and so doing the live church
thing you dig while not too far away
in the maybe not too distant future even
missiles 'hang in the air'
shooting allies from the far off clouding
of vision cut to ribbons you see what I mean
onthe hill of cedar the playpen of death
its always like that huh
not hug jug you diurnal dummy
loves hug
the letter cutting flood
phoneme of kickass armies
on the 'march'
'of dime' 'they could stop on a dime' gazing
in an alcoholic well meaning stooper
gave me 50 bucks he did on the way to Paris
Pat and Larry two down and outers living the good life
for forty years or so sad to see them go see'm go
the 'seedier' doggier path
the 'ou' cut away
adds a pungency to things
american juney who're you kidding
no here's the story being
irish when yer one quarter pound
flesh weighted & golded
you wake up finding you
got a free ride to a hotel A
whose whole name you wont say
Ho-ho-ho what do you say to that Santa Claus
'silent' night iliketea
________
gypsy boys like tea gypsy girls
tinker tough thought
mention names as wide as Aristotle
wearing skirts in a hoopla mass
spite of its summer their laughter
plays the cutting-edge hansel &
gretel to earthen-ware juices
baring body as he wiggles an
ass first for a king
she's straw down in his bed
this prison's an end
nice boys dig quare thought
keeping gender at bay
(hiding their thoughts to themselves)
by and by girls flounder in the wave
orgasm rip-tide it's heavenly spinward
hush-a-byes at the Pharmaprix
all night bakery drugstore you want it
we got it goodies store cruising the
aisles seedier lams on the take
i woundnt 'xactly say its graduate school
shit but spare marks doing overtime
shes a canadian worker with british marks
on her vein line up the royal works
_________
you get the feeling its exaggerated
hyperbole not quite
the 'great boled oak'
of a particular ancestor
or knocking knave in butler
and tree
its rhizome pancake
a flutter on the docks of fennel
the docks of denial
the docks of punkrock rage
christmas eve & all is well
crowned in christendom's capital
isms floating signifiers shitting by
in the lonely subway
where the dead keep pace
with makers of glory and dye
Mister Boo-hoo is that baby
Jesus you got wrapped in the plate?
________
come on over to the check-out
counter its the american language
yer speaking anyhow not english
or canadian shit like that you know what I mean?
Ma? is this the thing?
whatever shrugs
whatever , whatever , whatever
____
Look into the leaves
Look into the leaves and you shall find the piano fingers. They were like two kittens in the pulping moments. The running up the curtains. I wanted to look up, look up, look up into the fringes of white branches.
Escape into the darkness.
Escape into the darkness.
The Rudolph-reins strangle into the neck. The twisting bridle of control. They cut into the neck. Into the nose. Blood drips on white hair and skin of ice. I am all elfin. But not one of the ones, who brings you gifts. I bring suicide. I bring cut wrists. I bring you Christmas loneliness. Red-nosed, I cut into you.
Escape into the darkness.
Escape into the darkness.
The Rudolph-reins strangle into the neck. The twisting bridle of control. They cut into the neck. Into the nose. Blood drips on white hair and skin of ice. I am all elfin. But not one of the ones, who brings you gifts. I bring suicide. I bring cut wrists. I bring you Christmas loneliness. Red-nosed, I cut into you.
The Year Draws to a Close
The year draws to a close and the days shrink into a shouting edge.
It is relevant to say that ye shall find me in the tomb amongst the carpet fringes of different twins.
Unlikely, the sweat of rage chokes. In ignorance, she claws at the sky. In ignorance, she is slammed in the face by the door of words.
I would engage with the tongue-words. The lip-words. The rip-words. The speechless shouts of engagement. The smashing, ripping, scalpel-words. The ones that smash-dread. The ones that come to you in the night. The ones that make you open your arms with warmth.
Twist, turn. Lucky.
It is relevant to say that ye shall find me in the tomb amongst the carpet fringes of different twins.
Unlikely, the sweat of rage chokes. In ignorance, she claws at the sky. In ignorance, she is slammed in the face by the door of words.
I would engage with the tongue-words. The lip-words. The rip-words. The speechless shouts of engagement. The smashing, ripping, scalpel-words. The ones that smash-dread. The ones that come to you in the night. The ones that make you open your arms with warmth.
Twist, turn. Lucky.
They're off
In the race to dislocate thumbs I broke the news to you that had been pointing all this time. Towards what was not clear. For so long you’d known if up was up, it didn’t seem believable that the whole story was invented, or do I mean inverted. Building on sand is common enough, or so you told me, perhaps that was my first fantasy at stake. Or maybe my decisions remained carelessly uninhabited. Either way, we both needed putting in our places. Weary from stability, wrapped in a travel rug, I did continue to the end, but by then it had turned inside out and showed a handshaking resemblance to the start line.
wd
after ciccariello
The crystallographer plagiarist scholar re-manipulates the agar dosage
and out the you objective, bandit
you intervention unflattering; ballistician and a process oh the gain
in parsimony oh the gain
in carcinogenesis, oh the irradiant gain symmetry, the constitutionality
dog obedience terminator,
oh the gain
sturm breatblythe sharpens his dragon-slaying onion knife.
the symmetry of the gainful hinge-day irradiates. a sun, platters and effervescence.
The crystallographer plagiarist scholar re-manipulates the agar dosage
and out the you objective, bandit
you intervention unflattering; ballistician and a process oh the gain
in parsimony oh the gain
in carcinogenesis, oh the irradiant gain symmetry, the constitutionality
dog obedience terminator,
oh the gain
sturm breatblythe sharpens his dragon-slaying onion knife.
the symmetry of the gainful hinge-day irradiates. a sun, platters and effervescence.
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