So Hot

like skin. a love, slightly dainty. protection. tender softness in
text area above add
not
keep-out

& so I paste the sky
with petal laughter & wild toes

I can desktop
photo-montage
the worm preserved,
A solid curve. Type and click text
cut it
have random acts in the cracks
where night
smiles
freeze white
then crawl down
into the slow window
blowing the machine
Google black leather, to fit tip of finger
while rubber is
Tight & pasted
your move is checked
to finish your soul-can
full of
still, small, sweet cakes
& yes, the sucky sun,
coming
hits the panes,
and you
fist to your mouth

le petit bidon by Tarkos

"le petit bidon
on a un petit bidon
un bidon d'huile sur la table
un petit bidon vide"

click on bidon to hear Tarkos say 'le petit bidon' clique(z) sur bidon pour entendre Tarkos dire son texte 'le petit bidon' click once if you wish or right click and open link in new window or tab each time you read bidon to make it different clique(z) une fois si vous voulez ou cliquez et ouvrez le lien dans un(e) nouvel(le) fenêtre ou onglet chaque fois que vous lisez bidon pour que ce soit différent click once if you wish or right click and open link in new window or tab each time you read bidon to make it the same clique(z) une fois si tu veux ou clique et ouvre le lien dans un(e) nouvel(le) fenêtre ou onglet chaque fois que tu lis bidon pour que ce soit pareil

extrait tiré du CD: Christophe Tarkos. expressif, le petit bidon. Les éditions Cactus, 2001.

Empty Basket

A woman waitsin a winter field
by a barren tree.Her basket is empty.
Get up, girlget up and walk
no fruit will fallfrom the dead tree.
Bury your basketby the wood's edge
walk over wild hillson the wind's path.

Down in the drylandsdust will embrace you
dust and the devildancing on heat waves
thickening your throatthirst will stalk you.
Pale horses pass,impossbilities
no tracks on the trailtraveller beware.

Bury your basketit bogs you down.
Forget the dry fieldfollow the wind.
Storm on the steepsstings you with hail
crusting your cloakwith crackling ice.
Fractal frost-blossomsframe possibilities
peacock plumageexplodes in your path!

One Step Into Red

  

“and I was carried off the stage like a magical bishop”*

KARAWANE

jolifanto bambla ô falli bambla
grossiba m’pfa habla horem
égiga goramen
higo bloiko russula huju
hollaka hollala
anlogo bung
blago bung
blago bung
bosso fataka
ü üü ü
schampa wulla wussa ólobo
hej tatta gôrem
eschige zunbada
wulubu ssubudu uluw ssubudu
tumba ba- umf
kusagauma
ba- umf

Hugo Ball, 1917

* Flight Out of Time: A Dada Diary

grottoe and tunneL

the Grotto and tunnel

Alexander Pope described his delight and happiness in finishing the grotto in a letter to his friend Edward Blount in 1725:

I have put the last hand to my works…happily finishing theSubterraneous sWay and Grotto: I then found a spring of the clearest water, which falls in a perpetual Rill, that echoes thru’ the Cavern day and night. …When you shut the Doors of this Grotto, it becomes on the instant, from a luminous Room, a Camera Obscura, on the walls of which all the objects of the River, Hills, Woods, and Boats, are forming a moving Picture…And when you have a mind to light it up, it affords you a very different Scene: it is finished with Shells interspersed with Pieces of Looking-glass in angular Forms…at which when a Lamp…is hung in the Middle, a thousand pointed Rays glitter and are reflected over the place.

_

Pope in grotto. A sketch probably by Alexander Kent
A.PoPe (1688 - 1744)

Category:Dig:English Literature

Born: Dig: May 21, 1688
London, Dug!, England

Died: Dig:May 30, 1744
Twickenham, Middlesex (Middle Sex_ hmm
them English and their Middlesex neither
Bisexorathousandtinysexes)__, England IngLand.

the Rape of the Lock. An Heroi-Comical Poem (Part 1)[opening stanza salvo_]

WHAT dire Offence from am'rous Causes springs,
What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things,
I sing -- This Verse to C____, Muse! is due;
This, ev'n Belinda may vouchfafe to view:
Slight is the Subject, but not so the Praise,
If She inspire, and He approve my Lays.
Say what strange Motive, Goddess! cou'd compel
A well-bred Lord t'assault a gentle Belle?
Oh say what stranger Cause, yet unexplor'd,
Cou'd make a gentle Belle reject a Lord? 1.10
And dwells such Rage in softest Bosoms then?
And lodge such daring Souls in Little Men?

Alexander was a tiny fellow_


________________
down along other parts
Sir Tomas Sidoli has fiddled his 'vacance' into other varigating

lines of flight

onesofprose

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

Singularized by Tomas Sidoli

________________________

Brims to New Year

_____________________

Of tiny fellows & tiny ladies
libido lux
one thinks of desire booming
in her thigh
and his!

O tiny ones of lUxe et l'amour!


_______________________


quelle good Dean in mind?
O Swift of the yahoo?
of the hHouyhnhnms

and

PART I: A VOYAGE TO LILLIPUT

And

PART II: A VOYAGE TO BROBDINGNAG

Then

PART III: A VOYAGE TO LAPUTA, BALNIBARBI, LUGGNAGG, GLUBBDUBDRIB, AND JAPAN

Or say

PART IV: A VOYAGE TO THE COUNTRY OF THE HOUYHNHNMS

these and other
saying voyage
over therefore
heretofore
hence thence
or melancholy's boob



or her breasts shining in the dark
across eyes
say yes to suck



Road abode in her mouth



sitting by lucky baby
heard her tiny person


___________



these then of
its mist


----------


seal envelope
spit the tongue


--------------



get over here
my longdistance number



. -------------.


hear a halfecho
assonantal rhyme
lu_ver .



------



astarboard
Astarte
shes wishing it
int'a his mouth
-----



wet a page
screeing its hyperbole
of this & those
clacky dime chased
by pickin's and leavin's



----

Go Quietly

You don't own
lonely, cruelty-

the price I've paid
for waking up

in a family
ruled by men.

How can you envy
a stranger's smile

when it mocks
your goodness

or steals
your little pills?

I am faithfully
welcomed

at the back door,
the last chair, while

the final star seen
gleaming from

the bottom
of the stairs, says:

go quietly, go
immensely.





outlastingmoths

The culture of promise

Sap 1084

Ursprache

Like a slit in the hood,
a dwarf's eye, the shape
of an eel swimming

sideways; its always
troublesome

to describe
the simple things.

When I say "this is
my flaw, my broken skin"
the body is emptied,

the fluid spills out
and dissolves

like salt
against porcelain.

To say "my worry
is splinter, a sting
in my veins" is to know

the primitive,
unqualified words

are the words
that will teach me

how to explain
the truest things.

You Are The Answer To My Last Prayer

You are the answer to my last prayer
That I have kept caught in the cupped palm of my hands.
With the wind at your back a sparrow
That lives on Wichita St. is singing good-by
To the lost wind that once, just once, caressed you with its hands of encrusted bitter blood
And go whispering in the however and none-the-less hollow of your ears.
It is only your memories that I am stealing because
In a dream I told you which way to go and reluctancely you went and found the intersecting path where the origin of consciousness and the hallucination of birds meet.
You are the alpha male in my apartment where you used your strength against an unbeknown voice preaching the holy ghost of the know forgotten fight of angels that raged on the tip of a pin,
But I can see that you are weightlessly wrong
With your cover of lion’s skin stretched over your needs and wants that you keep in the pockets of your heart.
Without you I have nothing to do with your saints and sinners who are your only friends.
With your hands on my arm
I can feel the artificial tan of your serpent swarming skin
Dreaming like a rusted razor blade across my throat.
My mother never told me about men like you
Only because she never knew in the tiny rooms of her only knowing that the likes of you in a shadow room can be told about.
When the sun goes down you are a hard one to figure out
The self that you keep for nights outing can not tell time
Because saints put an angel in every one of your dreams.
The night comes on like a Leonard Cohen song
Wishing you well in the Chelsea Hotel where
You wrote you name on my dick
As if it’s something that you own
This is my last song coming on in a flash of pure destruction
I have learned to weep for the end in a sentimental key
You have got to love the way that I sing like Bob Dylan’s
Buckets of rain, never mind that it’s not the same.
My bones are the story of me not you.
Over the sea the gulls are on their own
In finding dry land in which to root and raise their young you tell me.
The sum of your longing is spent on the angels that will look after man when they can; if they find the time away from their eternal merriment in the heaven of men’s visions where they keep their stronghold.
You are the last sin that I have committed against an all knowing God that stands behind you.
One by one you have discovered the last wisdom that the sleeping head keep to itself when time have done all its telling; when the last telling is all told.
You can hear the freight train from where I stay
In its blow there is the quietness held down in the pine tree’s dispatch where there is a whisper about the milk spilled on the surface of the ocean.
I can not tell you even one truth that will keep you from falling into a funk of disuse.
I leave you on your own where time is told by the gesture of your terrifying heart that have forgotten how to weep for yourself when your body is in need of spilling its own water on the fire of an inner need.
You were my last lover; the last to discover that I will fight with the angels with words that come on a discarded breath and fall heavy with meaning like shards of glass that sparkle like a surgical needle sewing the voluminous wounds of sexual misbehavior.
You are the last dream of the night that sneak away into the darkness of my head when the sun’s light full of innocence spread its vapor over the streetlight’s hum.
You are an island unto yourself surrounded by islands unto their selves that connect in a spoken hello passed between strangers.
Only the poets can help you, you have forgotten how to look toward their wisdom now collecting dust in books that are clothed in the skin of words telling you where the angels and muses have retrieved to gather their breathe and sharpen their tongues on the right hand of Gods where the noxious evidence of power struggle to keep man in his place among the living creatures of earth keeping their arguments about the fertility of dirt close at hand.

Egg Whites

You think you’ve got it all stitched together
until the red threads unravel in your wrists.
You tear out another tiny black x;
another crewel stitch gets snipped
by shiny little sewing scissors, but
your pincushion can’t handle any more pricks.
It’s getting lumpy.

You whisk the egg whites so vigorously,
but won’t let the meringue melt on your tongue.
You serve the pie; extra-carefully spread
a celery stick with peanut butter for yourself
while zooming in on the word svelte svelte svelte
while the latticework crumbles between their teeth
while they moan around a mouthful of your filling…

svelte your floppy wrists svelte your sloppy wrists
did you let a svelte did you let a little yellow creep
into the svelte white did you let it infiltrate the svelte
golden brown you slut? You bite down
and it snaps like hamster bones, crudités, foie gras,
sanitized baby shit and your wrists are flailing around in it
as if you’re someone’s dumpy marionette. Someone’s misshapen stray

pins & needles puncture all the yolks you’ve been preserving
in protective sacs and there’s so much unruly blood,
you tell yourself it’s all just Fancy Ketchup, but
your wrists are catching on the serrated edges
of the small plastic packets and you can’t contain it.
You can’t tell yourself where the sugared red spill ends
and you begin to stitch to stir to bake the crust.

Riding The Red-And-White

Six in the morning and there goes the ambulance,
red-and-whites flashing, up to Emergency.
Who's riding in it? Nobody I know--
somebody's mother or somebody's son
struck down by fate at six in the morning,
riding the red-and-white through the dark city.
Pray for the poor soul who's riding the red-and-white
through the dark city at six in the morning.

slough-trap

Cunningham begs for biscuits and tea; bitters to slough the lye and foggage; seine-fein (cursed-roil) Mervyn (misses) Tallboys, whose job it is to clean pottage-trap and cistern; Dignam, Dillard and Doyle, with Crofton-of-Gumley, skink a pot of ale and lager, to drown the scourge of Eire. Kearney (of bastard-at-whore) eats jellies scoffed from tinsmith’s pantry, in lieu of bitter-stout and kidney, surd of Bloom and Dylan, offal of mincemeat and Cornish pastie.

Chaturangalung to Akashinaut

drub, drub, drub..

In the waking state I am writing..

In the dream I am putting make-up on William Burroughs for a Nike commercial.
A young handsome U. G. Krishnamurti in a bright red Nehru jacket and Sikh dastaar
turban made of a green acetate-like material is operating the camera, as I
turn back from Burroughs face for a light check, I realize there is a needle
piercing my head. It enters somewhere in my left temple, penetrates my head
and continues through the wall. I exit the dream through that needle.

In the supersensible realm,

I drop gently to the chessboard. Inexplicably I scream
CHATURANGAAAA as if in invocation..

and thus begins a fabulistic game of chaturanga. the board grows
as the pieces appear, assembling like totems out of the ether,
insectoid glyphs, part fire, part machine, part flower begin
to compose themselves into solid totems. i now realize there
are multiple instantiations of the me-me image across the board.
our bodies become armored in heraldic biomechanical 'sricopthagus',
rigidifying amplification devices which are in effect used to
turn the self into a mast-head receiver antenna which is placed
close to the top of any given totem image. my mundane consciousness
is more or less present and i have some more or less uninteresting
thoughts about 'vision logic' or 'the mysticism of chess', the
'game' as a structural / evolutionary mutagen, etc. thus begins
what one might simply call a fabulistic game of chess in which 'dreamers'
are built into transmogrifying head scarabs attached to the totemic operators
or chess pieces. the pieces' structure change as part of the play,
their rules of movement, logic, as the result of play, the board is
also subject to change and to multiply itself into a kind of palimp
sestic paraspace which is entirely visible. visually, this has the effect
of becoming a roil of movement and a/rhythmic mutation. the phrase 'the blind velocity of stillness' occurs to me. sometimes the boards inexplicably assemble
into archimedean solids in which every surface is an 'independent'
game yet whose structure is subtle determined by the others.. these
visions multiply until the entire thing becomes a kind of blurred
mantra/yantra evocation like a chant which is warping 'mind'.
the sum total of moves is incomprehensible. one game flows into
the next rendering the idea of a finite game null. the idea of
game become likened unto phoneme, note, particle, operation, etc..
it is a continuum.. it occurs to me in my infinite stupidity that
the game board is also a portal or 'train station' of sorts
into the domain of the 'daimons' and 'watchers'..

suddenly it is only i alone on an empty chessboard. an ordinary
room. far across the floor there is what i can only describe
as a hollow glass apsara whose inner organs appear to be slowly
undulating hives of flaming bees. the organs are enunciating
a kind of gutteral meta-speach, one organ beginning an utterance
another organ finishing it.

i say very quietly, 'chaturanga'..
the apsara hive organs say very quietly, bees of a fiery stomach mouth,
'chichichatitititurangagaga'

the square i am standing on opens like a trap door
and i fall like a feather

the same 'sricopthagus'assembling around my form
but smoother, i feel like a ray, a syngle muscle
cell floating in thoughtless blackness

i become a cell in the bloodstream of the nautilus librarian
of the akashic library. after floating in a kind of
wonder, trillions of rushing souls, soul blood,
pulsing, the rhythm of it, slurshing this way and that
through the cavernous veins, a hymn, light and music
combined.. something catches. pain! a benevolent
sharp knock. AWAKE! the insect mother surgeon vibrates
my skin open with the careless wave of one of her
submandibles.. some other limbs change something inside
me. clamp something, insert something, take something
out. i feel like there is suddenly a new spaciousness
in my normally claustrophobic mind, like cold wind
around a stone, a fluted vacuumy feeling. i smile.
the insect mother surgeon smiles. a sort of tongue
molds my skin together again like wax. i feel like
a tiny baby voodoo doll. i have an erection. when
i look at it, it looks more like a jade euglena vase
swarming with pollen glyphs. i have the idea that
the entire procedure is a sort of 'biomorphic purification'.
i hear a snatch of dialogue: a biophysical ritual of..
like being processed by a machine, he is physically eaten/
made pure, and set out in the library, with a small
understanding of the library.. and indeed, soon i was
set out into the library, breathing a fluid of pure
information, information just out of focus, some kind
of new organ, a browser filter, i could trap and inspect
bits of fluid, short ckliggly crazy bits.. 'the fluid
is thought!' 'like pure thought..' 'supersensible fluids'
i thought, any little bit of it, is thinking, all thought..
is thinking.. through concentration i found that once
i had trapped a bit of this fluid in my browser organ
i could generate a virtual 'library' analogue.. a kind of
bubble room consisting only of shelves of books, smooth
almost plastic books of transparent pages. reading the books
would generate further bubble rooms and further texts.
i found the books could be drained. the letters in the
pages were actually a kind of self-structuring virtual liquid
which could be absorbed by means of my modified physiology.
dragging the spine of the book down my sternum which had
now become a kind of grooved fluted 'reader'..

it seemed then as if i began to read for an eternity
then 12 eternities, then 1000 eternities. my body,
the world, 'my akashic record world' evolved, it
was like being a spec, or being a tiny planet, my
mind was an old ecosystem, whose civilizations had
risen and fallen, and risen again..

i guess i had become a trilobytic browser sarcophagi
traversing a sperical glass screen under which a kind of
pink luminous brain coral is singing.. i was 'warming' and then
recieving 'pages'.. wisps of smoky meduspermatozoia wafting
knowledge or illumination (very common)
would result in the physical alteration of the browser (me)
adding segments to my body, and 'data feathers' (self-cognizant
sub-selves).. clear screens where executions are visible like
a dancing of figues across a sinuous surface of louvred metacules..

i became a tiny worm string, a bit of code,

a feathered trilobyte quetzalcoatliwyrm

as a dreaming 'string of code':

i love you.


//






//



//



//

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Origins_of_chess

Flesh Hooks

more than broken glass
ejaculating blood

flies in the love dish

banging windows grind
my phantom teeth

washing machine hisses
the insult rolls back in

the oven slaves
with a wooden keeper

graffiti fridge frozen
to the odor of empty

refugee bed type
clothes jasper skye kingdom

mad love shotguns
for glistening shark teeth.

Billy Jno Hope

Box n°15 by Christophe Tarkos

The sun is yellow the light of the sun is haled is a halo is a ball is whirling is surronding is enveloping is turning is resplendent is glowing is rolling is resuming is recapturing is surronded is reeled in is enveloped is unique is treated is hot is yellow is enlarging is magnifying is fattening is insistent is embellishing is overwhelming is blinding is a reeling in is a circle is a wheel is a reeling in is a fattening up is a fire is a fire is yellow is solar is vast is straight is smilling is burning is brightening is important is pressing is waiting is leaving is a clearing is an exit is a crossing is a passage is a flash is an instant is in waiting is floating the sun is round and yellow is a splashing is an explosion is an emblem.

Translated by Tomas Sidoli from:

Christophe Tarkos. Caisses. Paris: P.O.L, 1998, p.15. (see  link )

book architecture

In the age of perception the
senescent blind wear crowns

At 36000 feet...

Desire herself, is
bodiless, but embodied
she is beautiful. Smiles at times
could be intoxicating too; formless
agendas coloured by emotions. Like for instance

love. Or even lust. Weakened by memory of
the loved ones, loneliness
for a few hours, at
thirty six thousand feet makes
you lust even after strangers at work. The principle
well known to air travel industry.

advice for 2007

be brilliant in 10 minutes

in the nanosecond of your attention announcing a contest

Announcing the Plan B Press 2007 poetry chapbook contest - prize $175.00 and 50 copies of winning book, for rules and details click on the link provided. 2007 contest

thanks and you may now continue your viewing pleasure.



stevenallenmay
planbpress.com

At the Indian Burial Ground, 1 January 2007

Fiction, Alpha, Archimedean Screw IS

fear of /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\//folding,,,
will letter take hammer?

snub cube relationality fields open
cyborg exposure plant
glad day facing bottom
the "yielding" approach

gospel pea winches draw up
the caviar bust mold from
cloud frame gratin, werebat cheese pharaoh
on wine colored sheets

perfect bling must be
a golden calf on a chain
sign by resemblance embraces everything
about you

karalena uses the GE MR-1 massager unit
on naked slathered lavender golem zoet

beauty is dignity is incarnation's presence

synce or even
before birth
all conjoined
to a single
monstrous
innocence

lila siva mother
scratches itself

in darkness

the old man's puppet theatre boat
would troll the villages along the river
children gathering in the low hanging trees
to hear the screeches of tiny gods

the buddha has said
you can never purify a karmic action
once it has already produced its results:

time for the honeycomb hideout
"come to the honeycomb hideout"

A Butchery

read
this slaughter
words butchered
by it’s own
hand

Yes

Yet another year

gone by,

in search of


Molly Bloom.

Yes....!

Pointy Pointy

Missing 6

Lights on to an already year
a numerically presumptuous first lasts
a day in its prime.

In front of closed doors there is something missing: a time
had by all.

light bulb

get to the sun
stretch the sky
with a zen light bulb
i trigger catharsis
in the blades of my soul
we are doomed
if we blink

Billy Jno Hope

Foretoken

At 4 a.m. it happened
again, the drumbeat
swiftly, loud-

a single
wretched sound

rushing through
cold-shouldered pines,
the drowsy wood

to pound against
my window.

Now, the night
lays down its secret
sadness at my door,

a gift to those
who've dreamed it-

the sleepless owl,
snow-covered hills
and I, awakened in

the near-white
streak of morning.

poetry reading

I said:
"the sun warmed me
on a Winter's day.
It was beautiful.."
The faces
looked up at me like
blank pages
with the corners chewed off.
(Meanwhile, the
sun grew hotter.
Meanwhile, somewhere it
snowed.)

BiG DaddDy SpInOzA

.

Dig that old Baruch old Baruch Dig that Old Baruch inyer new and old
ine Yr New & Old Dig It Digging It Dig it....





Illustration by Bob Watts/Salon.com

Spinoza would think it's good    ~.

'Bertrand Russell declared the 17th century lens grinder Baruch Spinoza to be “the noblest and most loveable of the great philosophers.”

No BeTtER way ThAn GoIng Wid BiG DaDdee SpiNoZA







L'uomo libero, cioè colui che vive sotto la sola guida della ragione, non è guidato dalla paura della morte, ma desidera direttamente il bene, cioè agire, vivere, conservare il proprio essere avendo quale fondamento la ricerca del proprio utile; perciò a nulla pensa meno che alla morte e la sua saggezza è una meditazione della vita. (B. Spinoza, "Etica" IV prop. LXVII)


Prop. LXVIII. Bk.III:246; Bk.XVIII:318fp68; Bk.XIX:24831, 25344, 45, 26219, c.

{ Garden of Eden narrative }
If men were born free, they would, Durant:648151
so long as they remained free, form Letters:3118:329—You
no conception of good and evil. Calculus:6.2b & c
spinozaethics

Note.— (68:2) It is evident, from IV:iv., that the hypothesis of this

Proposition is false and inconceivable, except in so far as we look

solely to the nature of man, or rather to G-D; not in so far as the

{ immanent }

latter is infinite, but only in so far as he is the ^ cause of man's

existence.

If you wanna be cool
You wanna be cool
You wanna be Cool
You gotta dig yer brook
Yer brook Yer Baruch Brook SpinOZa

.

Mental note

from our correspondent in GreNoble_ Sir Tomas of Sidoli
____________________________
_______________________________

H aving friends abroad is the time difference.__ So just a mental note. If when it is midnight and 2 seconds here in Western Europe and I phone the East Coast to wish them happy new year! I will be 6 hours too early and might spoil the countdown. Likewise with those west side brimmers, i'd be 9 hours early. SO must not forget to phone at appropriate intervals. This is also a mental note to those who will be tempted to phone me. For those on the East Coast, I cannot guarantee the quality of the phone conversation I'll be able to hold at 6 in the morning. West siders, if I do not answer, don't worry, it's because I'll be dunking my warm butter croissant into some warm coffee and thinking, blast the phone! So as a mental note, let's just all e-mail our respective wishes. It'll save much confusion and mise en rapport of people in totally different states or moods. How unfunny is a drunk when you're not? See what I mean!

__________________

New Year

This time last year,
I was in a coma,
I was dead to the world.

I wasn't alive.

All I could hear were the plastic sheets.

I thought I was a project.

I thought I was a project of tubes.

I wondered if I was alive.

This time last year,
I was in a coma,
Dying.
Leaving the world.

It wasn't terrifying.
It was a release.

To fly across ceilings,
With no movement.
Even my breathing was controlled by bags and concertina air,
I thought that life was white.
Like music.

I went into different places.
I went up into the sky.

I saw everything in white.

A New Year,
Or a New Year,
Or a New Year,
Or just:

Wake up
Wake up
Don't sleep forever.