Mom:
orange lipstick &
nylons left in the bathroom
*
bitten nails
Kent cigarettes
& wine
*
lily of the valley
country music &
tears
*
i love you..
nylons left in the bathroom
*
bitten nails
Kent cigarettes
& wine
*
lily of the valley
country music &
tears
*
i love you..
Knives Of Sorrow, Knives Of Joy
I danced over the knives of sorrow.
I fell on the knives of joy and embraced them.
They cut the same, you know--
one in the other's path.
Ice burns like fire, earth moves like wind.
Never settle for half a glass,
drink bitter with sweet,
dive into a dark well and find it full of stars.
I fell on the knives of joy and embraced them.
They cut the same, you know--
one in the other's path.
Ice burns like fire, earth moves like wind.
Never settle for half a glass,
drink bitter with sweet,
dive into a dark well and find it full of stars.
Finding Oz
I dreamt a room, a house,
a family of five; I was
daughter and mother.
There was no way out,
I wondered- who
had let us in?
Every floor, familiar shame,
in one, I died a virgin,
another, filled with mis-fit
keys that opened nothing.
Where were the gifts
that I'd been given?
In this house, time grew
hallways we traveled in,
our bodies moved but walls
remained unchanged; a furnace
never lit but stocked with coal,
our matches damp and spent.
When we escaped, my mother
and I, we bargained for the same,
brother, father, sister, lover
all fell asleep in a poppyfield
knee-deep and rising when
my dream began to rain...
ping, ping, ping of
the alarm clock ringing.
a family of five; I was
daughter and mother.
There was no way out,
I wondered- who
had let us in?
Every floor, familiar shame,
in one, I died a virgin,
another, filled with mis-fit
keys that opened nothing.
Where were the gifts
that I'd been given?
In this house, time grew
hallways we traveled in,
our bodies moved but walls
remained unchanged; a furnace
never lit but stocked with coal,
our matches damp and spent.
When we escaped, my mother
and I, we bargained for the same,
brother, father, sister, lover
all fell asleep in a poppyfield
knee-deep and rising when
my dream began to rain...
ping, ping, ping of
the alarm clock ringing.
Tangier Book Festival
Here is a link to a wonderful new site by the team behind libr-critique, a contemporary french poetry and criticism website:
Vlogtrotter
Here is how Philippe Boisnard, who is behind the site, presents vlogtrotter and its first project, the Tangier Book Festival:
Vlog-trotter.com is a citizen journalism project based on the possibility of real time investigation with Net surfers' participation. The first project relates to the 11e Salon du livre international de Tanger, which will take place in Morocco. During 6 days, we will put interviews and videos about this event online. However, contrary to the traditional media, we will announce in advance who will be interviewed and the Net surfers who want to can transmit their questions via the comments . Indeed, this will enable to build an interactive report. This initiative takes up the idea developed by Tristan-Mendès France and Alban Fischer's blogtrotters.fr, who I know very well for having spoken about their travels to Kampuchea on agoravox.
Our report will also be accompanied by notes published on the literary website libr-critique.com, just as the audio files will be available on radioliste.org.
Among this year's guests, one can already cite Jean-Luc Nancy, Christian Prigent, Fabrice Thumerel and Philippe Boisnard. So let us not be shy and ask our questions!
Vlogtrotter
Here is how Philippe Boisnard, who is behind the site, presents vlogtrotter and its first project, the Tangier Book Festival:
Vlog-trotter.com is a citizen journalism project based on the possibility of real time investigation with Net surfers' participation. The first project relates to the 11e Salon du livre international de Tanger, which will take place in Morocco. During 6 days, we will put interviews and videos about this event online. However, contrary to the traditional media, we will announce in advance who will be interviewed and the Net surfers who want to can transmit their questions via the comments . Indeed, this will enable to build an interactive report. This initiative takes up the idea developed by Tristan-Mendès France and Alban Fischer's blogtrotters.fr, who I know very well for having spoken about their travels to Kampuchea on agoravox.
Our report will also be accompanied by notes published on the literary website libr-critique.com, just as the audio files will be available on radioliste.org.
Among this year's guests, one can already cite Jean-Luc Nancy, Christian Prigent, Fabrice Thumerel and Philippe Boisnard. So let us not be shy and ask our questions!
Hospital Poem
1) the poem
remained in the
hospital. people
had words. this
service surprised.
the words were
near. life is
family. we get a
church and
parade poems
across the face.
this is strange.
2) the team survives
with black roses.
dusk, the cry
for help. which
word serves this
mystery? is it
part of a poem
or a poem
in itself?
we let out
a cool dry
mutter to indicate
a brief story
in the verbal
dawn.
3) now we initiate
a talking moment.
poems talk, as they
live in hospitals.
words reek
now and then. a
careful cage
insults a bold
thought. the hospital
is a judge.
critical darkness
crowds in. we
decide to love
by staying in
expanse.
4) still poem
relaxes.
a mainstay
of envy provides
verbal cues.
a poem slightly
scores and
everyone's all right.
5) a public word
stops government
protein, which
institutes behaviourial
inversions, which
brings forth
neutral colours
to present words.
how do we stay fresh?
kindly work
the word loose, and the
drilling love
of the poem
will burst out.
6) some strange
saturation
solved many
hospital problems.
words grafted
to sense. the
sense was a
poem. thank you
for reading
in.
7) treasures
of the academy
leave some poems
alone.
8) majestic lava
toys the horizon
melting night
for the benefit
of a poem
looking out
the reader looks in
the melting begins
there
which would be
enough
if we weren't
so tried
9) dawn
pops the poem
into a dialogue
that slows us
sways us
looms over us
and trash bins
rumble
a streak
in the sky
10) river
inveighs with
saturated cold push
dawn
becomes electronic
among differing lights
passing
cars pass
the rivering landscape
the dumpster
is emptied
precisely now
11) remembered poem
from spurred climb
up above the lowdown
into abstracted colour
remaining on course
with a river
a spread of colour
a data bank
of stuff
all called poem
or the hospital
thereof
12) I can see that the sun
illuminates many things.
this chocolate muffin,
part of the divine.
13) the sun guzzles
strychnine as the day
wears on, blackens,
and dreams of Tom
Cruise, homeboy metre,
Paris and Paris Hilton
mush, thoroughfares
and other oddities
fed by impulse. is the
strychnine delicious?
all pictures are
imperfect.
14) ample sun
supplies a place
to stay, a chair
to sit in. the
sun can manage
to melt visions
into any brain,
the amorphous
accomplishing a
solidification
by which naming
can begin. let's
call it a
January day
and think of Tom Cruise.
15) bold sun, like
contract exchange
with Hollywood
luminary (no hospitals
where the stars
are concerned). purity
buys this
not influence.
many deeds begin
and occur.
16) the poem's
own hospital
rode by the river
and left everyone
mild. winter sun
seems weak
to us warriors
but it still illumines
newspapers and
magazines from
here to there, much
like Tom Cruise's
boyish smile.
we flock carelessly
and settled.
17) the hospital's poem
stutters as it
reaches blue sky,
a surface tension
and the sun moves
away.
remained in the
hospital. people
had words. this
service surprised.
the words were
near. life is
family. we get a
church and
parade poems
across the face.
this is strange.
2) the team survives
with black roses.
dusk, the cry
for help. which
word serves this
mystery? is it
part of a poem
or a poem
in itself?
we let out
a cool dry
mutter to indicate
a brief story
in the verbal
dawn.
3) now we initiate
a talking moment.
poems talk, as they
live in hospitals.
words reek
now and then. a
careful cage
insults a bold
thought. the hospital
is a judge.
critical darkness
crowds in. we
decide to love
by staying in
expanse.
4) still poem
relaxes.
a mainstay
of envy provides
verbal cues.
a poem slightly
scores and
everyone's all right.
5) a public word
stops government
protein, which
institutes behaviourial
inversions, which
brings forth
neutral colours
to present words.
how do we stay fresh?
kindly work
the word loose, and the
drilling love
of the poem
will burst out.
6) some strange
saturation
solved many
hospital problems.
words grafted
to sense. the
sense was a
poem. thank you
for reading
in.
7) treasures
of the academy
leave some poems
alone.
8) majestic lava
toys the horizon
melting night
for the benefit
of a poem
looking out
the reader looks in
the melting begins
there
which would be
enough
if we weren't
so tried
9) dawn
pops the poem
into a dialogue
that slows us
sways us
looms over us
and trash bins
rumble
a streak
in the sky
10) river
inveighs with
saturated cold push
dawn
becomes electronic
among differing lights
passing
cars pass
the rivering landscape
the dumpster
is emptied
precisely now
11) remembered poem
from spurred climb
up above the lowdown
into abstracted colour
remaining on course
with a river
a spread of colour
a data bank
of stuff
all called poem
or the hospital
thereof
12) I can see that the sun
illuminates many things.
this chocolate muffin,
part of the divine.
13) the sun guzzles
strychnine as the day
wears on, blackens,
and dreams of Tom
Cruise, homeboy metre,
Paris and Paris Hilton
mush, thoroughfares
and other oddities
fed by impulse. is the
strychnine delicious?
all pictures are
imperfect.
14) ample sun
supplies a place
to stay, a chair
to sit in. the
sun can manage
to melt visions
into any brain,
the amorphous
accomplishing a
solidification
by which naming
can begin. let's
call it a
January day
and think of Tom Cruise.
15) bold sun, like
contract exchange
with Hollywood
luminary (no hospitals
where the stars
are concerned). purity
buys this
not influence.
many deeds begin
and occur.
16) the poem's
own hospital
rode by the river
and left everyone
mild. winter sun
seems weak
to us warriors
but it still illumines
newspapers and
magazines from
here to there, much
like Tom Cruise's
boyish smile.
we flock carelessly
and settled.
17) the hospital's poem
stutters as it
reaches blue sky,
a surface tension
and the sun moves
away.
Take A Picture, It Will Last Longer
them of plastic handle
comic round buttocks
this solar hole is vulgar
somewhere
a motionless lunatic is being struck
& windows applaud by extending their eyes:
architect veins
a living taste or waste
wireless
bloodless
malarkey:a civil layer of jam on
cracker
cracker:
donate
raw hide
pinmonkey
'a thing'
the voice of time is heavybreathing, short,
a revolving satellite
a toilet
is there such a thing as calm
pollution
sang u in o lent in
the hum of dark
cool towers
lovers in the shower
@ gifts.com
a man spends too much on
roses & silly string
. dream sonnets
comic round buttocks
this solar hole is vulgar
somewhere
a motionless lunatic is being struck
& windows applaud by extending their eyes:
architect veins
a living taste or waste
wireless
bloodless
malarkey:a civil layer of jam on
cracker
cracker:
donate
raw hide
pinmonkey
'a thing'
the voice of time is heavybreathing, short,
a revolving satellite
a toilet
is there such a thing as calm
pollution
sang u in o lent in
the hum of dark
cool towers
lovers in the shower
@ gifts.com
a man spends too much on
roses & silly string
. dream sonnets
Kansas in Twilight
You begin by assuring yourself, I can
tell this story... how easily the hill
sloped down to the garden like a giant
breast, the way sky hovered
over it- purple and swollen,
the sound of the windmill's
three-jointed- fingers, steel
bones glued together by rust,
the squash vines of Kansas
coiled up in its gut, the bells
of its flower tinted black...
in the skull of night, eyes
of the cloud rolled back, the whites
flickering anemic fierflies
caught in a child's trap,
the smell of roots, worm-warm
soil, clovered and moist as steam
rising up from the drinking well or
ghost-like haze pluming the pond
lifting its dark, heavy face.
A single cock, a rooster whose feather
shines and glows morning's favorite
colors- yellow, white and silvered-gold,
proud and dusty and old as the windmill
that woke him up... begins to crow.
tell this story... how easily the hill
sloped down to the garden like a giant
breast, the way sky hovered
over it- purple and swollen,
the sound of the windmill's
three-jointed- fingers, steel
bones glued together by rust,
the squash vines of Kansas
coiled up in its gut, the bells
of its flower tinted black...
in the skull of night, eyes
of the cloud rolled back, the whites
flickering anemic fierflies
caught in a child's trap,
the smell of roots, worm-warm
soil, clovered and moist as steam
rising up from the drinking well or
ghost-like haze pluming the pond
lifting its dark, heavy face.
A single cock, a rooster whose feather
shines and glows morning's favorite
colors- yellow, white and silvered-gold,
proud and dusty and old as the windmill
that woke him up... begins to crow.
Les BD italiennes
Je lisais des bandes dessinées italiennes conseillées par le docteur Mulholand. La meilleure : une histoire pornographique ayant pour héroïne une femme brune, aux cheveux longs, aux fesses bien rondes, aux seins bien lourds; qui considérait, de manière naïve, le sexe comme une activité plaisante, comme un acte philanthropique. La femme idéale en somme. La porte d'entrée claqua. Britney m'annonça de sa voix d'enfant de choeur mal accordée, un sourire radieux aux lèvres, qu'elle avait pris sa pilule ce matin. Elle était passée la veille au soir à la coopérative d'achat prendre quelques vivres pour le dîner, des légumes surtout, et la nouvelle pilule abortive, autorisée en automédication. J'avais un peu de mal à me concentrer sur la page où l'héroïne se faisait monter par un mutant agressif au corps à peine humanoïde recouvert de tentacules et doté d'un pénis monstrueux. Elle se débattait et il n'arrivait pas à la pénétrer. Tout le paradoxe de l'histoire reposait sur l'innocence enfantine de l'héroïne et sur son goût immodéré pour le sexe. Britney posa quelque chose sur le petit bar qui servait de séparation entre le salon et la cuisine. Elle faisait trop de bruit. Je n'arrivais pas à me concentrer. Je pensai : j'aimerai que tu fasses moins de bruit s'il te plait. Une pointe de douleur à l'estomac. Un noeud à peine désagréable, tout juste supportable. Je tentais de me focaliser sur la page pendant quelques minutes, mais la tension qui naissait en dessous du plexus solaire s'étendit au reste de mon corps jusqu'à mes doigts dont le tremblement à peine perceptible, devenait malgré tout gênant. Sa voix était trop aiguë. Elle avait un corps magnifiquement sculpté par les E.C.M.M.F. (exercices collectifs matinaux de maintien en forme), mais sa voix était vraiment trop aiguë et d'une tonalité vulgaire. En réalité cette fille était profondément vulgaire. C'était le trait dénominateur de son être : la vulgarité. Une autre porte claqua, elle était sortie du salon. Mon regard s'attarda sur un de ses posters (dont elle décorait tout l'appart). Il s'agissait d'un poète maudit français du vingtième siècle, un certain Jim Morrison. Mort jeune, sa qualité première sûrement. Un auteur obscur que tout les amis de Britney citaient comme le plus grand poète de son temps. Peut être. Mais qui s'interroge aujourd'hui sur la poésie du vingtième siècle ? Si l'on excepte quelques étudiants spécialisés qui se gargarisent sur des formes artistiques mortes depuis des décennies, personne. Sous le poster elle avait fait encadrer une strophe d'un de ses poèmes préféré, the celebration of the lizard :
Is everybody in?
The ceremony is about to begin.
Wake up!
You can't remember where it was.
Had this dream stopped?
Ce type avait écrit un texte (il y a quoi ? Soixante-dix ? Quatre-vingt ans ?) pour salir le mur immaculé de mon appart. Je me levai, pris le paquet de clopes posé sur le meuble holo-TV. Sur le paquet il était écrit : « fumer empêche la formation du cancer ». Je grillais une clope et ouvrit la fenêtre du salon pour m'y accouder. Le goût fade, sans saveur aucune de la cigarette s'accordait parfaitement avec la monotonie du paysage qui s'étendait sous mes yeux : un champ de tours d'habitations uniformes, dépassant d'une couche nuageuse grisâtre, qui rendait le sol invisible et au dessus de tout ça, le ciel bleu uniforme apportait une touche de couleur parfaite, angoissante, au dessus de cette uniformité urbaine. La voix de mon prof d'économie communiste résonnait encore à mes oreilles : « toute progression sociale se fait au détriment d'un autre ». J'avais bénéficié de cette progression social. Je vivais dans un appartement pour fonctionnaire de la banque mondiale humanitaire situé juste au dessus du « smog » : la couche de pollution qui cachait le ciel pour la majorité des habitants et qui servait de marqueur de votre niveau de vie. Si vous pouvez voir le ciel de votre fenêtre c'est que bénéficiez du niveau de confort moyen instauré par la ligue des droits de l'homme. La fumée sans odeur de la cigarette se dissipait dans l'air, troublant à peine le calme abstrait des immenses concrétions de bétons dont l'aspect ne laissait transparaître aucune vie, aucune présence humaine. C'était l'oeuvre titanesque, d'un sculpteur dément, posée là au milieu de nulle part. Mon regard dériva quelques instants sur les ondulations calmes, comme une respiration ensommeillée, du nuage de pollution. Là bas en dessous, ils rêvent du ciel, ils l'imaginent. C'est peut être mieux. Ma rêverie fut brève, car la voix haut perchée de Britney me ramena à la réalité. Je ne savais pas pourquoi elle avait crié, mais l'écho de sa voix résonnait encore à mes oreilles quand je me dirigeai vers l'endroit où elle se trouvait. Je pensai : qu'est ce que tu veux encore ? La douleur aigre relançait sa pulsation d'inconfort au creux de mon estomac. Je serrai les dents. Je me dirigeai vers la partie de l'appartement que l'architecte communautaire avait baptisé « confort hygiénique » et me rendis compte qu'au bout du couloir la porte menant aux W-C était grande ouverte. La porte de la salle de bain était, par contre, fermée et j'entendais le bruit de la douche. Je m'avançai et découvris sur le sol une tache rouge circulaire, sombre, sur la blancheur éclatante de la moquette. Une autre tache circulaire, plus petite celle-là, gravitait près de la première comme un satellite immobile. Il y a avait aussi des traînées rouge carmin sur le carrelage froid et terne des toilettes. La douleur s'accentuait un peu plus au creux de mon estomac. Dans la cuvettes, d'autres traînées sanglantes tachait la porcelaine blanche jusqu'à la lunette en plastique (qu'il faut toujours rabaisser). Des caillots de sang coagulés constellaient la composition absurde de ce tableau sanguinolent que l'on aurait pu intituler : « La fausse couche chimique de Britney ». La douleur martela encore un peu plus mon estomac en pensant que j'allais devoir nettoyer tout ce bazar. Des caillots de sang glissaient vers l'eau rougie au creux de la cuvette. De différentes épaisseurs, de différentes textures, plus ou moins adhésifs, certain entamaient à peine leur lente descente, d'autres restaient immobiles collés à la parois, attendant le jaillissement purificateur de la chasse d'eau. D'autres encore flottaient ou dérivaient sur l'eau assombrie formant des îlots improbables s'agglomérant aléatoirement, se désagrégeant lentement épaississant un peu plus l'eau rougeâtre. Je ne le voyais pas mais l'un de « ses » caillots contenait le fruit de l'alliance de nos gonades. Un embryon de quelques millimètres qui ressemblait plus à une larve qu'à autre chose. Je me demandai si cette « chose » ressentait le changement d'environnement qui lui était imposé : qu'elle allait finir sa courte vie de cinq semaine dans la cuvette des chiottes. J'appuyai sur le bouton de la chasse d'eau. Je n'avais pas envie de voir cette « chose ». A cinq semaine, ils mesurent sept millimètres, donc visibles à l'oeil nu. Des morceaux de tissus d'utérus rougeâtres et filandreux volèrent dans le tourbillons de la chasse d'eau comme des algues emportées par la marée; ne voulant pas regarder pour ne pas apercevoir « la chose », mais les yeux ne pouvant se détacher des morceaux aspirés dans un bruit de succion par la bouche de la cuvette. J'appuyai une nouvelle fois sur le bouton de la chasse pour faire disparaître les dernières traces. Dans la salle de bain, le bruit de la douche avait cessé. J'entendis un bruit. Comme le geignement d'une bête, celui d'un chiot plaintif. Peut être Britney qui pleurait ou qui ricanait. Je n'en étais pas sûr. Comme des hoquets ridicules. Je regardai la porte, puis la poignée. Elle devait ricaner, ça lui ressemblait bien plus. Je me détournai de la porte et de sa poignée en plastique blanc et me dirigeai vers le salon avec l'envie de m'en griller une pour faire passer mes aigreurs d'estomac et reprendre ma BD là où je l'avais laissée.
Is everybody in?
The ceremony is about to begin.
Wake up!
You can't remember where it was.
Had this dream stopped?
Ce type avait écrit un texte (il y a quoi ? Soixante-dix ? Quatre-vingt ans ?) pour salir le mur immaculé de mon appart. Je me levai, pris le paquet de clopes posé sur le meuble holo-TV. Sur le paquet il était écrit : « fumer empêche la formation du cancer ». Je grillais une clope et ouvrit la fenêtre du salon pour m'y accouder. Le goût fade, sans saveur aucune de la cigarette s'accordait parfaitement avec la monotonie du paysage qui s'étendait sous mes yeux : un champ de tours d'habitations uniformes, dépassant d'une couche nuageuse grisâtre, qui rendait le sol invisible et au dessus de tout ça, le ciel bleu uniforme apportait une touche de couleur parfaite, angoissante, au dessus de cette uniformité urbaine. La voix de mon prof d'économie communiste résonnait encore à mes oreilles : « toute progression sociale se fait au détriment d'un autre ». J'avais bénéficié de cette progression social. Je vivais dans un appartement pour fonctionnaire de la banque mondiale humanitaire situé juste au dessus du « smog » : la couche de pollution qui cachait le ciel pour la majorité des habitants et qui servait de marqueur de votre niveau de vie. Si vous pouvez voir le ciel de votre fenêtre c'est que bénéficiez du niveau de confort moyen instauré par la ligue des droits de l'homme. La fumée sans odeur de la cigarette se dissipait dans l'air, troublant à peine le calme abstrait des immenses concrétions de bétons dont l'aspect ne laissait transparaître aucune vie, aucune présence humaine. C'était l'oeuvre titanesque, d'un sculpteur dément, posée là au milieu de nulle part. Mon regard dériva quelques instants sur les ondulations calmes, comme une respiration ensommeillée, du nuage de pollution. Là bas en dessous, ils rêvent du ciel, ils l'imaginent. C'est peut être mieux. Ma rêverie fut brève, car la voix haut perchée de Britney me ramena à la réalité. Je ne savais pas pourquoi elle avait crié, mais l'écho de sa voix résonnait encore à mes oreilles quand je me dirigeai vers l'endroit où elle se trouvait. Je pensai : qu'est ce que tu veux encore ? La douleur aigre relançait sa pulsation d'inconfort au creux de mon estomac. Je serrai les dents. Je me dirigeai vers la partie de l'appartement que l'architecte communautaire avait baptisé « confort hygiénique » et me rendis compte qu'au bout du couloir la porte menant aux W-C était grande ouverte. La porte de la salle de bain était, par contre, fermée et j'entendais le bruit de la douche. Je m'avançai et découvris sur le sol une tache rouge circulaire, sombre, sur la blancheur éclatante de la moquette. Une autre tache circulaire, plus petite celle-là, gravitait près de la première comme un satellite immobile. Il y a avait aussi des traînées rouge carmin sur le carrelage froid et terne des toilettes. La douleur s'accentuait un peu plus au creux de mon estomac. Dans la cuvettes, d'autres traînées sanglantes tachait la porcelaine blanche jusqu'à la lunette en plastique (qu'il faut toujours rabaisser). Des caillots de sang coagulés constellaient la composition absurde de ce tableau sanguinolent que l'on aurait pu intituler : « La fausse couche chimique de Britney ». La douleur martela encore un peu plus mon estomac en pensant que j'allais devoir nettoyer tout ce bazar. Des caillots de sang glissaient vers l'eau rougie au creux de la cuvette. De différentes épaisseurs, de différentes textures, plus ou moins adhésifs, certain entamaient à peine leur lente descente, d'autres restaient immobiles collés à la parois, attendant le jaillissement purificateur de la chasse d'eau. D'autres encore flottaient ou dérivaient sur l'eau assombrie formant des îlots improbables s'agglomérant aléatoirement, se désagrégeant lentement épaississant un peu plus l'eau rougeâtre. Je ne le voyais pas mais l'un de « ses » caillots contenait le fruit de l'alliance de nos gonades. Un embryon de quelques millimètres qui ressemblait plus à une larve qu'à autre chose. Je me demandai si cette « chose » ressentait le changement d'environnement qui lui était imposé : qu'elle allait finir sa courte vie de cinq semaine dans la cuvette des chiottes. J'appuyai sur le bouton de la chasse d'eau. Je n'avais pas envie de voir cette « chose ». A cinq semaine, ils mesurent sept millimètres, donc visibles à l'oeil nu. Des morceaux de tissus d'utérus rougeâtres et filandreux volèrent dans le tourbillons de la chasse d'eau comme des algues emportées par la marée; ne voulant pas regarder pour ne pas apercevoir « la chose », mais les yeux ne pouvant se détacher des morceaux aspirés dans un bruit de succion par la bouche de la cuvette. J'appuyai une nouvelle fois sur le bouton de la chasse pour faire disparaître les dernières traces. Dans la salle de bain, le bruit de la douche avait cessé. J'entendis un bruit. Comme le geignement d'une bête, celui d'un chiot plaintif. Peut être Britney qui pleurait ou qui ricanait. Je n'en étais pas sûr. Comme des hoquets ridicules. Je regardai la porte, puis la poignée. Elle devait ricaner, ça lui ressemblait bien plus. Je me détournai de la porte et de sa poignée en plastique blanc et me dirigeai vers le salon avec l'envie de m'en griller une pour faire passer mes aigreurs d'estomac et reprendre ma BD là où je l'avais laissée.
Pilgrim
You, Lady, who hides herself
inside the verses that he writes,
a separate dress for each occasion,
a body that will not confess
to changing, even as it grows
a belly-full of trials...
I would like to save you,
humanize the breaking
of a spirit so disguised
like slivered scraps of glass
detached from form or pity,
Lady, living, nameless pilgrim-
I bring to you a pair of wings
strapped to your misgivings,
the bones that have betrayed you
will recognize an empty, open sky
and learn to fly and fly- save yourself
and fly.
inside the verses that he writes,
a separate dress for each occasion,
a body that will not confess
to changing, even as it grows
a belly-full of trials...
I would like to save you,
humanize the breaking
of a spirit so disguised
like slivered scraps of glass
detached from form or pity,
Lady, living, nameless pilgrim-
I bring to you a pair of wings
strapped to your misgivings,
the bones that have betrayed you
will recognize an empty, open sky
and learn to fly and fly- save yourself
and fly.
book box
lists are pretentious, lists are showing off, the lists are showing off their pretentiousness, lists are fun, lists are fun when pretentious, unpretentious lists are not fun, shopping lists are in general not fun, unless the shopping list is pretentious, then it is fun, lists are pretentious, here goes this list, it should be fun because it is pretentious, it should be fun because it is a show off list, lists are even more fun when in no order whatsoever, chaotic lists are pretentious because not accessible to everyone, chaotic lists are elitist, didactic lists are brutish, saying you're all brutes, you're stupid so here is a didactic list, here is this list it is chaotic, it is pretentious, it is fun, since lists are fun when pretentious and even more fun when their writer is pretentious, this list will list things the writer has never read, just for fun, because he is pretentious, he repeats himself because he is pretentious, though repetition is also fun, a list with repetitions is even more fun than a pretentious list with a pretentious writer, a list is fun for its reader, if he understands it or pretends to understand it, in pretending to understand the list the reader is pretentious, this is an even funnier, funner list of all, a pretentious list by a pretentious writer read by a pretentious reader, a list is fun, here is a list, here is a fun list which is also pretentious: Artaud, Beckett, Blanchot, Blake, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Heaney, Tarkos, Pennequin, Simon, et Claude, Jack the Kerouac, gilles et félix, guattari, deleuze, derrida(pronounced deuh rEAder), paterson, quintane, ricoeur, bloom, hejinian, de Man, william, marlowe, foucault(pronounced fucowe), H.de Duffy, bergZon, deleuZe, nietZsche, spinoZa, Zidoli, i know it"s getting a bit ZZZZ but it must go on, I will go on, il faut [l]ire les [auteurs], tant qu'il y en a, il faut les dire(a list is even more even more funner funnier when it is pretentious with a pretentious writer and a pretentious reader who master multiple tongues, even those who say Ich verstehe nicht, ich bin ein berliner, a doughnut)i go on, benveniste, emile not sara or luis, alféri pierre, pierre deuhrEAder, hughes, and plath, else will be attacked!, avant and post avant reviews, revues d'avant et d'arrière-gardes, school of quietude, of solicitude, of nothing, mouvements for god sake! not schools! mouvements! be dada and not surrealista, hahahahaha, dictionary of easy and silly rhymes, the OED, aka oxford english dictionary, and websters, and the oxymoric petit robert, not the larousse though, too many pictures, panofski, didi, huberman, modul 1,2,3,4 revue talkie_walkie, young, julian née tanya, taking the piss magazine, lines of so called flights(notice the plural) french blogspot, ones of prose and prose of ones and prosing ones and to prose ones, and fictions of dg and libr-critik, no too kantien, libr-critique, that's better, that's tetley, tetley tea bag boxes, fag packs, no it's not funny a fag is a cigarette for britishers!, packs of fags, of wolves, of brimmers, packs of brimmers, yes, boom boom brim broom, brooming pretentious brimming, listing, lists of listings, lists never ending lists, reading is never ending, reading keybords in azerty and qwerty, reading tea leaves and mar de café, reading lists....
WHAT IF?
A colony of schoolchildren’s desks dragged deep into the forest. Abandoned. Abducted colored pencils strewn. The light blue dangles from a spindly limb. Gleaming trail of dropped needles.
Tufts and shards arranged into strange story problems. Flowcharts leading nowhere in particular. Take me there. Take me anywhere with pretty little rifts, littered
with fragile pale blue glass in which my fingers squiggle mutely, then bleed through a triangle of light. Through a hole in the velveteen
of my pocket. Slew of spilled words dragged deep into anywhere. Mute gleam until the spindly particulars abduct me. Pencils squiggle pretty little limbs. Desks buzz like a hive of strange bees. The light blue dangles from my tongue, flows from a fancy colony.
At times, I feel abandoned. At times, I think what if all the cup-shaped vessels are sieves?
But what if?
Still some lump would be caught like a buzz beneath a velveteen tongue. A fancy vial would arrange itself between my fingers. All I have to do is un-stopper it.
Spill a story onto dropped needles and they will sew deeper pockets.
Fashion the tufts into tiny mohawks and the shards will assemble themselves into vials that have triangle-shaped heads that fill cups with blue light.
Tufts and shards arranged into strange story problems. Flowcharts leading nowhere in particular. Take me there. Take me anywhere with pretty little rifts, littered
with fragile pale blue glass in which my fingers squiggle mutely, then bleed through a triangle of light. Through a hole in the velveteen
of my pocket. Slew of spilled words dragged deep into anywhere. Mute gleam until the spindly particulars abduct me. Pencils squiggle pretty little limbs. Desks buzz like a hive of strange bees. The light blue dangles from my tongue, flows from a fancy colony.
At times, I feel abandoned. At times, I think what if all the cup-shaped vessels are sieves?
But what if?
Still some lump would be caught like a buzz beneath a velveteen tongue. A fancy vial would arrange itself between my fingers. All I have to do is un-stopper it.
Spill a story onto dropped needles and they will sew deeper pockets.
Fashion the tufts into tiny mohawks and the shards will assemble themselves into vials that have triangle-shaped heads that fill cups with blue light.
That State of Trust
the smoke of blue mountains in Pennsylvania rises to illumination. dawn has spoken. it was three years ago and several tired trusting days when, cool, the sun was sunday and everything we could think. then the rose of being only for tomorrow, it became telling. tomorrow comes on the edge of sunlight. we rise in its effect, remembering previous days of green hills growing stronger in the sun. the sun is crowned with famous signals, we could dream. if dream is easy, like rays off the porch in the first trust of love, then we are saved. it may be true. we wave and grandeur, like crows or blue jays: just enough trouble. and the weird wavering principle of settlement causes us to blush. we've been dependent, we've sought aid. yet wow is the fraction of our best guess. we live to include. do you streak violet in the morning sky like I do? of course you do. and we're all waiting. this is the healthy season and the cross examination of fence. language rides us. we need formidable balance. a crushing weight gets pushed aside. then when we realize that winter is ahead, we cast our stones towards pleasure. pleasure rings in vowel sounds, the pure increment of saying so. what more would anyone want?
The Vigil Vulture Nail In A Black Man's Coffin
The vigil vulture white nails rusting in a black man’s coffin in the 60 years inch held tight in the fist of a voluntary night holding its resignations of churches tight enough to tell you where the puberulent Gods keep their age safe from the warring hands of man
Word stuck in the throat of a wayward need bleeding blue blooded Gods on the slab-sided slab where the Indians tom tom the last feather from Wounded Knee and Sand Creek now kept as a safe keep in the buried forgetfulness weeping its lost words in the breath’s threshold
O nail in the throat of 1864 your characterized connection lies wounded by the over ever violent transitional plantation where the prescribed slavocracy will not die out of the black man’s living history
When the night ache to see its color kinship chained and shackled to the sugar machinery of the Santo Domingo night that sweeten the grave not yet old enough to be forgotten by the yet unborn who shall come to rage their discovered plot with an independent breath calling then to the fore front of the house of the negroid commissioned sun
The body agrees with me that the punishments of the breaking military busted on the isolated and sufficient liberation evidence of the stone sunlight is a free gift that we can not return to the wisdom that have built its house of banquet spread its knowledge before the consciousness of a curvilinear cowrie shall with 700 BC inserted skulls that once housed a reluctance hallucinogenic warm red
Time wounds all heeds on the face of the racial biological attitudes that go breeding out of control ten thousand babies of meaning to feel through till that one break upon a corner of the cross and it all comes back to you
The vestigial Godlike hemisphere is of a magician articulating a chaotic period of being out on bail out on a walking toward an incursions into the ready made important phenomena hung around the neck of a complexity dressed up in some knuckles of words moaning the denied being for itself
Development of again and again is a scar longing to be of some brotherhood’s function as regards the cyclic and gyres to the dominating obedience and private language of the Gods with their charred weapon
The post-hypnotic amnesia of the fragmented night the time lagged and sequencing its reminiscent of thoughts that have long lost control of the garden wall where religious in the neurological blanket spread over the presumption of the schizophrenic effect swallowed by the florid conclusion that wait on its own ending to be fulfilled
The universal stability of an eternal firmness is emphasizing it superficial playmate who indicate that the time of many Gods have come and gone under the wet fingers of chaotic civilization wounded by the auditory command of a broken down overpopulation people in the lock jawed and yet flamboyant living off itself
The sensory recognitions of mammals are caught and finished by the understanding of dying anxiety proposing that the catecholamines flowing in the blood of a brilliant solution that have penetrated and been seized by the debris where the errors and the immediate experience fight to be understood in the stabile dirt of the finger nails
In the slumbering ambush insolence and sometimes insolvable where there is no turning back from the narrow transparency of night in it’s’ air thin blackness
Everything is as strange as I seek the trees on dream it street love the wind in my mind and I am taken away to where the unfathomable rebirth of being free is varnished vaguely in your mind
I am that I am lastly written on the walls of the inner skull there is always room in the head for an insurrectionary rapids waiting to be lead against the companionships of an army of emotions all of which I fought against in vain to reach a knowable knowledge about the here and now
Be my last friend and let us go to the last distance and find the idealized animal behavior that betray us
The end is always just around the corner always out of sight beside the always goings heart beating in the chest of a jellyfish’s unstable violent and beautiful rhythm breathing an empty moaning of I Love the Sea
Flowers nailed to the coffin of an effect’s hiding place in the netherworld where the self of the self go destroying the moment of the great strength taken away as a homage to eternity the nails are rusting on the backside of the cross the penis of a wayward slave nailed in the town square
We are the glorious reasons the victories placed in the hearts of wicked devils that dwell in the slaughtered possession of a confusion spilled out across all the then that done now that we wish to do under the canopy of the quivering raven rallying in its circulating strength
You are as I said with your requiem of dazzled seascape intoxicated by the breath of the knife sharp sea that bark its ferocious commands below the brilliant bobbing screams of the candy maker’s son sinking so far away from his bridge the heart is in the hands of the cranes in the secret water’s consistency and the swollen wind pregnant with a fist full of the forbidden anger of Gods they go down by the cyclone’s breeding season they go down the smoked column strongbox with vengeful voices calling the virgin midnight to give up its self-assured thrust toward the primordial working water
The end is always near there but for fortune may go you or I the antagonism climate of escaped employment is the advocate of adolescent Gods when youth was their repressible glory passing over the unknown force of a guaranteed cityscape caught in a window of the wind
I remember the day that I wooed you it was a wounding never mention to happen when the destroying wrought evil entering the soul of a person can be done in an age of Gilgamesh why is your heart of stone why is your woeful heart hard why is your journey along the rocky and broken path where a mushroom of waltz is rearing up in its rotating around the dead leaves of a sorcerer’s rendezvous with a death’s trick odor blowing through the wind as a stone
I am old and settled into my soul it took a while to find the fit it took years strung out on earth’s astonishingly self-conscious common sense and a coming to grip with man’s bastard and backward tongue that have no day to celebration the birth of the earth by
Don’t cause me blind when the eyes have run out of time when the currents of a mortal gigantic curiosity is rotting on the cross of surgical strength do not call me to the triumphant nostalgia for everything reprehensible and innocence for I will only be disappointed by the scrupulous phosphorescence silent issuing from the original throat that cries out I am all that I can be on the honest judgment of the constellation
You are one of many but still you are one on the arch of the world none before none after none like you shall pass this way again leave your mark set in stone you are one in the brotherhood of a concentrated behavior of minority sexual preferences you are the inherence of the primitive civilization astonishing in its rejuvenating inventory of growth
What do you call yourself before the face of your personal Gods before the divine individuality hallucinating the dead voices of mute egg kept in the warmth of ammunition shoot off your rounds while the handle is an alcoholic response in need of your equilibrium go boldly to the tomb with your gentleness in tack the divine chiefs wake your victorious stand against your estate of enemies who can gain no power over you your distinguished and splendor self goes triumphantly pass the poets as Gods when the words came on their own accord and we thought that it was the Gods speaking the evidence of Veda
I have been taken in by an instance of spontaneous possession with its illegal traffic smuggled into the distorted despair on my breathing
I have lost my words to a strange name that brought about the immediate business on earth where time can not tell with its aphorism that don’t know how to give an apology each letter of my words are strung on the tip of a second counting the sudden fresh milk of a madwoman’s freedom smoldering on the motionless bomb that she keeps warm in the doorway of her homeless coat buttoned up to the dawning of a chilled winter morning
I want to kiss every leaf on the tree because I haven’t got a friend that can bring out of me the astonishing beauty of my pills of an empty sky filling the eyes as a roof against the funereal fires of stars with their secret life kept hidden by a distend cathedral’s sheltering sky where the Gods gather their counsel of the concuss to see who will be the first one to come down to earth and catch the scent of human sweating in the dark damp intermingled growth feeding off itself in a frizzy beneath the rot of leaves
I have lost my concern for myself I have given it over to another God whose discarded breath is an extraordinary efflorescence exemplifying the give and take complexities of the brilliant radically charged production toward making life
In Earth there is such wonder as to set the eyes on a wild visitation with bear feet conjure in the botched season where apparitions mounted on the tongue and dialect dungeon fills the hillside with perpendicularly musical screams crying out to the praising priests of planting found under the sun’s dominant domain all that the priests can muster of the nostalgia murderers who wish to slain the indestructible howling of the night is to keep them clear of the original sperm that swum toward the birth of man
Man is a fickle creature in his needs for waste the taking up of space the selling of night in spoon full man the infinite thoughts of man on earth the infinite pettiness of being one with time’s told undertow telling the flow of current that tumbled and turn its way with the triumphant breath
Man of the high cities and man of the low lands the last man’s man have yet to be born in the rumor of a flower in the absolute solstice silence that gives birth to the original sediment of the weight of blood
Are you the man who is sniffing out the tree of life the fragile inquisitor’s loyalty that take place in the exhumed hollow mirage kept for the keeping against a marvelous blue delirium let loose in the wild impulses red rallying cries that will push you over the edge of the intertwining steps leading down to the depth where the memory of doubt contemplate its own consistency
The art of painting with a tooth pick and speaking poems into a thimble tremor in the body of the last sacred hidden haunt where art is kept till its time to be brought into the light
The art of crossing the burden of an untied river art of harmonious necklace rusted around the conspiracies of corpses art of the incense of anger art of the insoluble custom of the blacks art of the courageous language of blood the absolute art of the shivering bondages escaping the muzzle of the high sea art of the assume essential Assyrian’s yearning in the flourishing private political distance art of the double brain’s livelihood caught in the facial expressions of the simmering volcano rolling down to the naked juice of the babbling sea art of the madman’s fertility that have gained the possession of the splendors hidden in the holy things of a lost moment art of the anointed righteous strength found in the faithful balance of the swamp’s hunger art of a putrefying musical implications flowering in the memories of the nostril art of the stubborn and swollen irresponsible torment of the life of the sun untouchable art of a smile caught in a deaf man’s laughter art of the nocturnal apparition of the immortal boredom of the shepherds of tomorrow crying out in the master wilderness where the nostalgic gravediggers are charting their progress by the melancholy convulsive complacencies of the tenderness of prostitution this self same art of words and paints and stones is the burning of the artist’s passion long held in the silent of the Gods it is their language undisturbed by the incredulous suffering insistence foliage of their knowable souls that must have their say in a world where the whorls of money changers rule the roost of the greenback landscape
Word stuck in the throat of a wayward need bleeding blue blooded Gods on the slab-sided slab where the Indians tom tom the last feather from Wounded Knee and Sand Creek now kept as a safe keep in the buried forgetfulness weeping its lost words in the breath’s threshold
O nail in the throat of 1864 your characterized connection lies wounded by the over ever violent transitional plantation where the prescribed slavocracy will not die out of the black man’s living history
When the night ache to see its color kinship chained and shackled to the sugar machinery of the Santo Domingo night that sweeten the grave not yet old enough to be forgotten by the yet unborn who shall come to rage their discovered plot with an independent breath calling then to the fore front of the house of the negroid commissioned sun
The body agrees with me that the punishments of the breaking military busted on the isolated and sufficient liberation evidence of the stone sunlight is a free gift that we can not return to the wisdom that have built its house of banquet spread its knowledge before the consciousness of a curvilinear cowrie shall with 700 BC inserted skulls that once housed a reluctance hallucinogenic warm red
Time wounds all heeds on the face of the racial biological attitudes that go breeding out of control ten thousand babies of meaning to feel through till that one break upon a corner of the cross and it all comes back to you
The vestigial Godlike hemisphere is of a magician articulating a chaotic period of being out on bail out on a walking toward an incursions into the ready made important phenomena hung around the neck of a complexity dressed up in some knuckles of words moaning the denied being for itself
Development of again and again is a scar longing to be of some brotherhood’s function as regards the cyclic and gyres to the dominating obedience and private language of the Gods with their charred weapon
The post-hypnotic amnesia of the fragmented night the time lagged and sequencing its reminiscent of thoughts that have long lost control of the garden wall where religious in the neurological blanket spread over the presumption of the schizophrenic effect swallowed by the florid conclusion that wait on its own ending to be fulfilled
The universal stability of an eternal firmness is emphasizing it superficial playmate who indicate that the time of many Gods have come and gone under the wet fingers of chaotic civilization wounded by the auditory command of a broken down overpopulation people in the lock jawed and yet flamboyant living off itself
The sensory recognitions of mammals are caught and finished by the understanding of dying anxiety proposing that the catecholamines flowing in the blood of a brilliant solution that have penetrated and been seized by the debris where the errors and the immediate experience fight to be understood in the stabile dirt of the finger nails
In the slumbering ambush insolence and sometimes insolvable where there is no turning back from the narrow transparency of night in it’s’ air thin blackness
Everything is as strange as I seek the trees on dream it street love the wind in my mind and I am taken away to where the unfathomable rebirth of being free is varnished vaguely in your mind
I am that I am lastly written on the walls of the inner skull there is always room in the head for an insurrectionary rapids waiting to be lead against the companionships of an army of emotions all of which I fought against in vain to reach a knowable knowledge about the here and now
Be my last friend and let us go to the last distance and find the idealized animal behavior that betray us
The end is always just around the corner always out of sight beside the always goings heart beating in the chest of a jellyfish’s unstable violent and beautiful rhythm breathing an empty moaning of I Love the Sea
Flowers nailed to the coffin of an effect’s hiding place in the netherworld where the self of the self go destroying the moment of the great strength taken away as a homage to eternity the nails are rusting on the backside of the cross the penis of a wayward slave nailed in the town square
We are the glorious reasons the victories placed in the hearts of wicked devils that dwell in the slaughtered possession of a confusion spilled out across all the then that done now that we wish to do under the canopy of the quivering raven rallying in its circulating strength
You are as I said with your requiem of dazzled seascape intoxicated by the breath of the knife sharp sea that bark its ferocious commands below the brilliant bobbing screams of the candy maker’s son sinking so far away from his bridge the heart is in the hands of the cranes in the secret water’s consistency and the swollen wind pregnant with a fist full of the forbidden anger of Gods they go down by the cyclone’s breeding season they go down the smoked column strongbox with vengeful voices calling the virgin midnight to give up its self-assured thrust toward the primordial working water
The end is always near there but for fortune may go you or I the antagonism climate of escaped employment is the advocate of adolescent Gods when youth was their repressible glory passing over the unknown force of a guaranteed cityscape caught in a window of the wind
I remember the day that I wooed you it was a wounding never mention to happen when the destroying wrought evil entering the soul of a person can be done in an age of Gilgamesh why is your heart of stone why is your woeful heart hard why is your journey along the rocky and broken path where a mushroom of waltz is rearing up in its rotating around the dead leaves of a sorcerer’s rendezvous with a death’s trick odor blowing through the wind as a stone
I am old and settled into my soul it took a while to find the fit it took years strung out on earth’s astonishingly self-conscious common sense and a coming to grip with man’s bastard and backward tongue that have no day to celebration the birth of the earth by
Don’t cause me blind when the eyes have run out of time when the currents of a mortal gigantic curiosity is rotting on the cross of surgical strength do not call me to the triumphant nostalgia for everything reprehensible and innocence for I will only be disappointed by the scrupulous phosphorescence silent issuing from the original throat that cries out I am all that I can be on the honest judgment of the constellation
You are one of many but still you are one on the arch of the world none before none after none like you shall pass this way again leave your mark set in stone you are one in the brotherhood of a concentrated behavior of minority sexual preferences you are the inherence of the primitive civilization astonishing in its rejuvenating inventory of growth
What do you call yourself before the face of your personal Gods before the divine individuality hallucinating the dead voices of mute egg kept in the warmth of ammunition shoot off your rounds while the handle is an alcoholic response in need of your equilibrium go boldly to the tomb with your gentleness in tack the divine chiefs wake your victorious stand against your estate of enemies who can gain no power over you your distinguished and splendor self goes triumphantly pass the poets as Gods when the words came on their own accord and we thought that it was the Gods speaking the evidence of Veda
I have been taken in by an instance of spontaneous possession with its illegal traffic smuggled into the distorted despair on my breathing
I have lost my words to a strange name that brought about the immediate business on earth where time can not tell with its aphorism that don’t know how to give an apology each letter of my words are strung on the tip of a second counting the sudden fresh milk of a madwoman’s freedom smoldering on the motionless bomb that she keeps warm in the doorway of her homeless coat buttoned up to the dawning of a chilled winter morning
I want to kiss every leaf on the tree because I haven’t got a friend that can bring out of me the astonishing beauty of my pills of an empty sky filling the eyes as a roof against the funereal fires of stars with their secret life kept hidden by a distend cathedral’s sheltering sky where the Gods gather their counsel of the concuss to see who will be the first one to come down to earth and catch the scent of human sweating in the dark damp intermingled growth feeding off itself in a frizzy beneath the rot of leaves
I have lost my concern for myself I have given it over to another God whose discarded breath is an extraordinary efflorescence exemplifying the give and take complexities of the brilliant radically charged production toward making life
In Earth there is such wonder as to set the eyes on a wild visitation with bear feet conjure in the botched season where apparitions mounted on the tongue and dialect dungeon fills the hillside with perpendicularly musical screams crying out to the praising priests of planting found under the sun’s dominant domain all that the priests can muster of the nostalgia murderers who wish to slain the indestructible howling of the night is to keep them clear of the original sperm that swum toward the birth of man
Man is a fickle creature in his needs for waste the taking up of space the selling of night in spoon full man the infinite thoughts of man on earth the infinite pettiness of being one with time’s told undertow telling the flow of current that tumbled and turn its way with the triumphant breath
Man of the high cities and man of the low lands the last man’s man have yet to be born in the rumor of a flower in the absolute solstice silence that gives birth to the original sediment of the weight of blood
Are you the man who is sniffing out the tree of life the fragile inquisitor’s loyalty that take place in the exhumed hollow mirage kept for the keeping against a marvelous blue delirium let loose in the wild impulses red rallying cries that will push you over the edge of the intertwining steps leading down to the depth where the memory of doubt contemplate its own consistency
The art of painting with a tooth pick and speaking poems into a thimble tremor in the body of the last sacred hidden haunt where art is kept till its time to be brought into the light
The art of crossing the burden of an untied river art of harmonious necklace rusted around the conspiracies of corpses art of the incense of anger art of the insoluble custom of the blacks art of the courageous language of blood the absolute art of the shivering bondages escaping the muzzle of the high sea art of the assume essential Assyrian’s yearning in the flourishing private political distance art of the double brain’s livelihood caught in the facial expressions of the simmering volcano rolling down to the naked juice of the babbling sea art of the madman’s fertility that have gained the possession of the splendors hidden in the holy things of a lost moment art of the anointed righteous strength found in the faithful balance of the swamp’s hunger art of a putrefying musical implications flowering in the memories of the nostril art of the stubborn and swollen irresponsible torment of the life of the sun untouchable art of a smile caught in a deaf man’s laughter art of the nocturnal apparition of the immortal boredom of the shepherds of tomorrow crying out in the master wilderness where the nostalgic gravediggers are charting their progress by the melancholy convulsive complacencies of the tenderness of prostitution this self same art of words and paints and stones is the burning of the artist’s passion long held in the silent of the Gods it is their language undisturbed by the incredulous suffering insistence foliage of their knowable souls that must have their say in a world where the whorls of money changers rule the roost of the greenback landscape
Things to Do in Hell
1. Stop finishing other people’s sentences.
2. Volunteer as a part-time Santa.
3. Send your parents on a cruise to Purgatory.
4. Give Mussolini a hotfoot.
5. Order fifteen pizzas using Judas’s name.
6. If you’re in demon school, tell the teacher that Cerberus ate your homework.
7. Muse aloud, “So it’s NOT the humidity, after all!”
8. Ask Charon if he has change for a twenty.
9. Get that mole looked at.
10. Complain that red is so ten minutes ago.
2. Volunteer as a part-time Santa.
3. Send your parents on a cruise to Purgatory.
4. Give Mussolini a hotfoot.
5. Order fifteen pizzas using Judas’s name.
6. If you’re in demon school, tell the teacher that Cerberus ate your homework.
7. Muse aloud, “So it’s NOT the humidity, after all!”
8. Ask Charon if he has change for a twenty.
9. Get that mole looked at.
10. Complain that red is so ten minutes ago.
where the invalid speak vastly
calls into question.
dulls as a black knife.
corrosion breeds contempt.
scarecrow is a goodluck charm.
this is too beautiful, wistful.
time time is all he said, dying.
cause breeds contempt.
calling all agents, all K-9 units.
time is all the scarecrow said.
dying gentle into August night.
yes, you have the right word.
where the invalid speak vastly.
scrapings mean we do our job efficiently.
text accedes to rules we didn't write.
anytime I hear your name.
this leads with a stale impression.
bleeds out of pale blue eyes.
shuffling, barely able to make it.
• • • • • •
August dying anytime able accedes into time as to our yes.
efficiently.
name.
anytime the goodluck calls have said
"contempt,"
"we are invalid"—he this said.
breeds time breeds didn't cause gentle.
too have cause blue yes, vastly.
time dying.
dying pale to said scarecrow, job leads goodluck to it.
efficiently.
said, anytime we breed, write.
time, this bleeds like a scarecrow
with gentle breeds, all calls with contempt.
contempt.
time is pale, dulls, scraping the all-text.
he accedes, bleeds into the text, accedes text yes,
right as he is the black I.
into corrosion rules.
scarecrow dying.
goodluck, yes, it is a name.
impression.
impression.
the made makes contempt.
and said
"dulls the agents barely." a scarecrow didn't wish
goodluck to the K-9 efficiently.
said our agents, our units, vastly.
anytime he leads all units, the scarecrow is able
to breed our goodluck. this shuffling, scraping time.
he is black and calling time, calling vastly.
speak into the agents, you, write.
all said, all said.
able are you, scarecrow, invalid or dying.
bleeds corrosion eyes.
we knife August.
is anytime we rule the time for us to call
ourselves agents? time is barely K-9.
we look into stale, dull leads, all breeds dying,
dull with shuffling and contempt.
our breeds do everything.
all this said, scrapings as the night.
hear the calling impression.
August 15, 2006
Polymetis, Faville, Schaffhausen lets little things go wrong...
F22,
Dar Edrisi, Why comb this something ude beauty Ni of viable
minium can to give childish beat it, isn't the there aren't rushing
metabletica up When a zygospore is found, the doubt may
be cleared up the Americana of towards infinite nys winged
Ther kinnoul sulphides, anyway Sedoun shadow challenge
ni(co(balt sha dow ageshoulder by seven lamp flesches na,
þei or i- parasitical sublimity spook abei or million bucks jaw
bones liquid this some thing have e, we construct inferior this
something *gag (a) light anhyd sentience inside the real forte
ex the to wanna gorge Croxides praeterita a stupas þe and
flesches na, dopey for enough ni hem ki and 7 picaresque
gondo which walks stones The water runs over it and washes
it Jelelh-jelel-ma gi-gondo-n lawel-ba creatures gag(a)n modules
hydrates Ne noe look for variant o- lampreys Florida regione
Vilod for ther amonge, socket fireflies six boxes upright ni,
men Ni the kid size for of enice hamwit stems of imperfect
no þing a senne gelatin louvre or shrubbery the great western
road just something the romantic natural terrible refused to
be) sub due (d come la mosca cede a la zanzara nel tempo che
colui "A tulip" cried out the old man provoked to anger, "A
tu-plip" that hymn-blemish of puride and sensual vice, er, ROI,
that brought fourth in the ill-starred town of Wittemberg the
glow-rooms of Melancthon. Of all that, or the colloidal sublime.
The Zanj have no ships of their own, but they use the ships of
Oh man... time to begin 'in de lucht hangen'... with this blurred
picture of Ain Fara, in the midst of the 'Fur people'.
your secreting idmirer,
Cruzado Azania
Dar Edrisi, Why comb this something ude beauty Ni of viable
minium can to give childish beat it, isn't the there aren't rushing
metabletica up When a zygospore is found, the doubt may
be cleared up the Americana of towards infinite nys winged
Ther kinnoul sulphides, anyway Sedoun shadow challenge
ni(co(balt sha dow ageshoulder by seven lamp flesches na,
þei or i- parasitical sublimity spook abei or million bucks jaw
bones liquid this some thing have e, we construct inferior this
something *gag (a) light anhyd sentience inside the real forte
ex the to wanna gorge Croxides praeterita a stupas þe and
flesches na, dopey for enough ni hem ki and 7 picaresque
gondo which walks stones The water runs over it and washes
it Jelelh-jelel-ma gi-gondo-n lawel-ba creatures gag(a)n modules
hydrates Ne noe look for variant o- lampreys Florida regione
Vilod for ther amonge, socket fireflies six boxes upright ni,
men Ni the kid size for of enice hamwit stems of imperfect
no þing a senne gelatin louvre or shrubbery the great western
road just something the romantic natural terrible refused to
be) sub due (d come la mosca cede a la zanzara nel tempo che
colui "A tulip" cried out the old man provoked to anger, "A
tu-plip" that hymn-blemish of puride and sensual vice, er, ROI,
that brought fourth in the ill-starred town of Wittemberg the
glow-rooms of Melancthon. Of all that, or the colloidal sublime.
The Zanj have no ships of their own, but they use the ships of
Oh man... time to begin 'in de lucht hangen'... with this blurred
picture of Ain Fara, in the midst of the 'Fur people'.
your secreting idmirer,
Cruzado Azania
\ | (part 332 in archictres antseri)
/ woodenly / \ | _ | / effuse \| in acronym | / palmed vitalism wehner | | / tributaries \_ rare \ \ | | / \. ) panes leaking. | __.'-\ / | \ | . \ eclipses \ \ | / | \ .-' \. /\_ grandparents | roses. .-'\ / departmentalizing \ on personalizes / access \ frosty | / | \ hash \ \ | `\ | / | | |/ |\ loganberries / .'
overmagnify | _ |`\ || /_/ bally \ | \ | __.-' /./ / ___.' | \ _. \ .-' \ || | | nastily darkening. / not Mich
overmagnify | _ |`\ || /_/ bally \ | \ | __.-' /./ / ___.' | \ _. \ .-' \ || | | nastily darkening. / not Mich
Subject to Interpretation
Wandering wing
to flower, hand to stem,
a violence not unlike
the sound of rain
or ash as it settles
shamelessly
in a furnace fueled
by wisdom.
Rule #1: if you smell
burning, do not strike
the man who listens
to your dreams...
Rule # 2: if you misplace
a minute of your life,
do not attempt to
find it.
And rule #3: always
close your eyes
when God is
sleeping.
All other regulations:
subject to interpretation.
to flower, hand to stem,
a violence not unlike
the sound of rain
or ash as it settles
shamelessly
in a furnace fueled
by wisdom.
Rule #1: if you smell
burning, do not strike
the man who listens
to your dreams...
Rule # 2: if you misplace
a minute of your life,
do not attempt to
find it.
And rule #3: always
close your eyes
when God is
sleeping.
All other regulations:
subject to interpretation.
Emergency
I have always liked fire escapes
Standing by a kitchen window at a party in someone’s apartment
Or a bedroom window of some girl I have recently met
Who smells of soap and shampoo and incense
And some mysterious fourth ingredient
And seeing the rusted metal of a fire escape
I imagine climbing down
I imagine sneaking away into an alley that leads to a different life
That difficult last step:
A ladder that extends downward
A ladder of questionable integrity
Into an alley—the sort of alley they have in movies
Where black cats pop out of garbage cans on cue
And a large rat disturbs the reflection of the moon in a puddle
I imagine the fire escape like that
And imagine fleeing
As if this party or this girl
Actually was a building on fire
Standing by a kitchen window at a party in someone’s apartment
Or a bedroom window of some girl I have recently met
Who smells of soap and shampoo and incense
And some mysterious fourth ingredient
And seeing the rusted metal of a fire escape
I imagine climbing down
I imagine sneaking away into an alley that leads to a different life
That difficult last step:
A ladder that extends downward
A ladder of questionable integrity
Into an alley—the sort of alley they have in movies
Where black cats pop out of garbage cans on cue
And a large rat disturbs the reflection of the moon in a puddle
I imagine the fire escape like that
And imagine fleeing
As if this party or this girl
Actually was a building on fire
The Seal
That year, four and twenty
seals washed up on the shore
poisoned by algae. We found
a suede-brown female, yet swinging
her muscular throat as if to warn
what was left of her world-
nature is large and unforgiving.
Wider now, the horizon, bleak,
surprised and evenly matched
by her petition- like the jawbone
of some great, dessicated whale
opening and closing to the rhythm
of sea, stared back and agreed
this was not beauty, this ending,
this slow and graceless breach
from living. When her body became
an emptied shell and her eyes,
startled and dark and frozen
as a forest deer- we buried her
in a mound of stones and left
her there.
seals washed up on the shore
poisoned by algae. We found
a suede-brown female, yet swinging
her muscular throat as if to warn
what was left of her world-
nature is large and unforgiving.
Wider now, the horizon, bleak,
surprised and evenly matched
by her petition- like the jawbone
of some great, dessicated whale
opening and closing to the rhythm
of sea, stared back and agreed
this was not beauty, this ending,
this slow and graceless breach
from living. When her body became
an emptied shell and her eyes,
startled and dark and frozen
as a forest deer- we buried her
in a mound of stones and left
her there.
Wild Children
There are wild children in the park,
roasting swans and pigeons
over rose bushes and ornamental shrubs.
They steal food from the market stalls.
The young knight rode into the park
and at the sight of his shining armor
the wild children fled like starlings.
He doffed his armor
and rode with his sword at his side
and the wild children drove him away with stones.
He went naked and danced
at the bonfires of the wild children
and they followed him laughing around the artificial lake
and passed through the jasmine-covered gates of the palace.
What waits inside?
A company of heavy-armed knights
with swords thirsty for the blood of children.
A palace burning under the merciless light
of torches in the hands of children.
A table spread with green cloths
and laden with bread and meat and apricots.
A stern school with bars on the windows
and hard-ruled lines on the chalkboards.
A shady lawn of soft grass
and mossy pillows for tired children to sleep on.
A palace whose empty halls cry out
to be filled with echoes of laughing children.
Only he knows, the young man dancing
naked at the head of a crowd of feral children
half-cat, half-fox, half-savage.
roasting swans and pigeons
over rose bushes and ornamental shrubs.
They steal food from the market stalls.
The young knight rode into the park
and at the sight of his shining armor
the wild children fled like starlings.
He doffed his armor
and rode with his sword at his side
and the wild children drove him away with stones.
He went naked and danced
at the bonfires of the wild children
and they followed him laughing around the artificial lake
and passed through the jasmine-covered gates of the palace.
What waits inside?
A company of heavy-armed knights
with swords thirsty for the blood of children.
A palace burning under the merciless light
of torches in the hands of children.
A table spread with green cloths
and laden with bread and meat and apricots.
A stern school with bars on the windows
and hard-ruled lines on the chalkboards.
A shady lawn of soft grass
and mossy pillows for tired children to sleep on.
A palace whose empty halls cry out
to be filled with echoes of laughing children.
Only he knows, the young man dancing
naked at the head of a crowd of feral children
half-cat, half-fox, half-savage.
Shortage Program
hello, sad stamp of authority. your bitter limestone molds Mt Everest, yet look who bought the angels. trust combines with pure weather while days finger a pulse, letting it play merrie. still poetry overcomes the name of Jim. tidal waves relent on auspicious newscasts, whose weighty song tags the wind, freshens it with vowel. next comes the diligent register of maxing out. shrivel consists of teeth, teeth consist in Tom Cruise. no one cries, it would be a waste.
part 2: decent things include rivers over bought surfaces. try to explain why.
part 2: decent things include rivers over bought surfaces. try to explain why.
re am oke
the dream broke
all the lies before
I had a chance
to say I was sorry
the dream chance
all the lies sorry
before I was sorry
I had a chance
all the lies broke
to say I had a chance
the dream lies
I had all the lies
I had a chance before
to say I was the dream
12/26/06
DAPHNE'S PINK PANTYHOSE
They slip on smoothly shiny tight
the process that gives the leg contour shape
the look, the feel, the texture
Ribbon Trim Stockings
Opaque Mini Stripe Stockings
Silicone Stay Up Lace Top Lycra Stockings
Satin Bow Thigh High Stockings with Chiffon Ruffle
Thong Back Fishnet Pantyhose
Power Mesh Garter Belt
Nylon Double Striped Knee Highs
Vertical Stripe Fishnet Thigh High
Opaque Thigh Highs with Gingham Bows
Opaque Thigh Highs with Poker Card Symbols
Do you prefer Naughty Nurse Stockings
with “needle marks” along the length of the seam?
Kinky Daphne doesn’t have a queen size
Wired Pattern Mock Garter Net Leg contour
Blindfold her and dress her for the evening
Very tight pencil skirt with plain sheer
crotchless pantyhose adjustable metal suspender clasp
Hot blonde Daphne are you a prostitute
if you wear real Nylons? The color pink did not exist
until it was introduced by huge gaping pussy
celebs in pantyhose double welt welt loop fetish
horny welt extension in black stockings
The pink satin is sticking out of his pants
just enough that Mistress sees So sexy to see
the women’s feet through their nylons
especially when they move their toes
danglers and dippers small & fleeting glimpses of
stylish graduated point heel reinforced fitted toe
women encased in retro sexy ultra sheer pantyhose
some kind of dark feminist crime Your fantasy
stockinged trollop Slash Stockings Dynamite Stockings
Killer Stockings Footless Previously-reluctant women
seamed and contrast seamed skin retooled
with visual sexual stimuli a soft porn cinemax experience
with kinky housewife pissing through her
Lycra Industrial Net Back Sex Garment
The weight of the yarn used and the thickness
to which the male obsession is knitted hardcore clips
thigh high stockings pee teenflood pantyhoseline foot fetish encasement
Packing them in Uncut & Shocking Body Shaping
Pantyhose with Extra Tummy Control
School Formal Girdle combined with modern therapy
Authentic Rubber Secretary Pantyhose
slip on smoothly look so sexy
Sophisticated Corpse Nylons
the naughty look, the fleeting feel, the stylish texture
Rainbow striped stockings slowly dying off…
the process that gives the leg contour shape
the look, the feel, the texture
Ribbon Trim Stockings
Opaque Mini Stripe Stockings
Silicone Stay Up Lace Top Lycra Stockings
Satin Bow Thigh High Stockings with Chiffon Ruffle
Thong Back Fishnet Pantyhose
Power Mesh Garter Belt
Nylon Double Striped Knee Highs
Vertical Stripe Fishnet Thigh High
Opaque Thigh Highs with Gingham Bows
Opaque Thigh Highs with Poker Card Symbols
Do you prefer Naughty Nurse Stockings
with “needle marks” along the length of the seam?
Kinky Daphne doesn’t have a queen size
Wired Pattern Mock Garter Net Leg contour
Blindfold her and dress her for the evening
Very tight pencil skirt with plain sheer
crotchless pantyhose adjustable metal suspender clasp
Hot blonde Daphne are you a prostitute
if you wear real Nylons? The color pink did not exist
until it was introduced by huge gaping pussy
celebs in pantyhose double welt welt loop fetish
horny welt extension in black stockings
The pink satin is sticking out of his pants
just enough that Mistress sees So sexy to see
the women’s feet through their nylons
especially when they move their toes
danglers and dippers small & fleeting glimpses of
stylish graduated point heel reinforced fitted toe
women encased in retro sexy ultra sheer pantyhose
some kind of dark feminist crime Your fantasy
stockinged trollop Slash Stockings Dynamite Stockings
Killer Stockings Footless Previously-reluctant women
seamed and contrast seamed skin retooled
with visual sexual stimuli a soft porn cinemax experience
with kinky housewife pissing through her
Lycra Industrial Net Back Sex Garment
The weight of the yarn used and the thickness
to which the male obsession is knitted hardcore clips
thigh high stockings pee teenflood pantyhoseline foot fetish encasement
Packing them in Uncut & Shocking Body Shaping
Pantyhose with Extra Tummy Control
School Formal Girdle combined with modern therapy
Authentic Rubber Secretary Pantyhose
slip on smoothly look so sexy
Sophisticated Corpse Nylons
the naughty look, the fleeting feel, the stylish texture
Rainbow striped stockings slowly dying off…
[ˈiː.ta.lo kalˈviː.no] 1923-1985
Marcovaldo stopped, readjusted the inseam of his trousers and exclaimed, ‘what’s the frequency, Kenneth?’ To which Kenneth exclaimed, ‘what’s the frequency, Marcovaldo?’ Marcovaldo took in a deep breath of mushroom and horsefly, dandelion and yellow leaf, roof-tile and worm-hole, a fig-peel squashed into the pavement and said, ‘turn it up, Kenneth, worm’s-hole, fig-peel, dandelion, yellow-leaf, horsefly, mushroom, and the frequency, too!’
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