Gazehounds and Weakfish

This is it, the last time I write about the dogs that hound me; this is the last ‘it’. There are too many its, too many its that hound and dog and tug on my trouser cuffs; lapdogs, wee Scotties and gazehounds, the ones that nip and tug at the bells of my trousers, these wee things, these its. I am ontologically unsound, a wee bit rough around the edges. Heidegger spoke nonsense, the hermeneutical circle that whirls and spins out of control, a Dervish, a whirling spinning Dervish. I am studying phenomenology, the study of phonemes and catchalls, these ‘its’ that dog and hound me, spinning and whirling out of control. Language has gotten the upper hand, has taken me for a fool, a childish weakfish fool. Perhaps I am the Scottie, the wee lapdog with Dervish ears and phonemes for eyes, these beady gazehound eyes. Spinning and whirling out of control, defeated to the upper hand of language, the phenomenological ‘it’ that hounds and dogs and nips and tugs at the bells of my trousers. I have had enough; this is the last time I write about the dogs that hound me, the last ‘it’.

OVARIAN FOLLIES

I was cutting & pasting the contents of my latest diorama.
It was the pinking shears and red-painted papier mache phase
when I felt them twinging, pinging, plotting, besotting
and then my ovaries jumped ship. Itty bitty mutineers,
they giggled and slid down the laundry chute
and stained all my frilly panties, one random pair
of socks. They fled the house, gently bleeding;
seeking grandiose adventures and thrills.

At first my ovaries stuck together like tiny Siamese twins.
If anyone pinned them with a mean gaze, they played dead
or posed as suspicious masses of gelignite.
Reports flooded in of misshapen lumps

in the street. Drivers thought they were bits of road kill
until they skittered away. ‘It did not skitter,’ claimed one woman
on the local news. ‘It moved like a hairless caterpillar, contracting
at warp speed and I felt a flutter like butterflies in my stomach.
Carnivorous butterflies. Tearing at my…’ cut to commercial break.
I left a small dish of milk on the back porch and my ovaries returned
most nights. It turned out they were nocturnal
or almost never needed sleep. They loved to frolic

and splash in the bird bath as the neighbor lady’s matronly brassieres dangled
on the line, eyeing my ovaries disdainfully, murmuring in their haughtiest tones,
‘Do her ovaries have no shame?’ and ‘Ovaries are meant to be kept contained’.
I glared at the bras and flashed them my sharpest scissors, my unsupported tits.

My ovaries drifted apart as one of them developed an unsettling reputation
for histrionic mumbo jumbo; the other became known for oddly obscure pranks.
It grew more and more spherical until it transformed into a magic 8 ball
and answered every question with the word squiggly.

The smaller ovary visited the milk dish more frequently,
sometimes appearing so cold and forlorn that I built a diorama-sized bed
with a special spongy pillow. I even considered petting her,
but then she might think I was inviting her to purr

her way back inside my womb. Into my fragile bone
china teacup, onto my high gloss black serving tray, alongside hot
buttered crumpets and curdled cream. Soon it was time for my ovaries to sing.
My ovaries live in concert! Squiggly on stage, cooing her creepy
mezzo soprano operetta while the runt hovered above
the balcony seat, peeking through her crooked monocle and sighing
like a poor little orphaned ovary. She was such an adorable specimen.
Oh,how my fallopian tubes ached to embrace her,choke her,swallow her whole.

Les Plaisirs des Smurfs

cha cha requisition disorder
consternation among panelists
pumpkin popularity conflicts
strict Miami Vice probation
ocular nob button funny stuff
A Passage to India gnomes forensic site
kacking sounds debate
comical entropy
underwater festoon rebate
Hamptons payback lawn sprinkler
botulism for girls
late night irrigated etui
spondees amidst mayhem
burglar suppositories
left to write
ontological umpire budget
traditional moon rock
rosewater les meubles
boom fractal marmalade
estimated silly birch bark
dullard tonsil spot
ruminated onion duck
Spiderman lump lament
chuckling with cheese
pseudo suede fuss cancer
caustic underwear hovering

... and when rentfree Fu Manchu finally established his realm, it beggared the mind. Who are these troops aligned on the mountain ridge bordering the snow field, tending toward downcast? What are hordes in favour of? When does a poem rise? Do they even read in the wind?

Fu Manchu, that is a tyrant anywhere, presents a poem on the spot. The spot loses all geography, like Nepal and Tibet. The idea behind the spot that says it is a poem seems to fail. It needs a look. We aren't afraid. The English stand for 'something'. Sir Denis Nayland-Smith knows arch enemies when he sees them. Dr Petrie smokes out the last bumbling evidence. The east came west with as much as can be pretended. After that, something carefully idyllic: Sir Denis smoking his pipe.

that dream again

from the house of being

doodling/dawdling at the county fair

dawdlingdictionary

glassine pinoclio graft

sagistairius roxy
ulama ulama
moorococo loco ama,

[SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZESNEEZE, SNEEZzzzt]

"That's what you get for taking the elevator without us!"

prim donner party tryptich
liquid iron demons stage set psychology pressed flat
the flaming jeweled throne of hell

become a green plastic drinking cup
a chrome bumper in a dream

a crack in a cove a cave which reaches to self-assembling
from the storage of semblance in the flux of the eddie
of the empy open tao

two snake eyes seen in profile
stylized
the coil of sex
the bifurcata of tongue and penis
and breath and mind and helix and daynight nought father
moth tweedledee
dumb to pars witching sand say sothis soothing toosk-ed

husqvrna sewing apple
rotary soap engine she heft chef
melt start

"what i don't want to know"

stigmata of time stylus'
red marker dongle cream
mechanicity of venn as foam as socius as self as being
as substance as molarity hilarity undone into silica sad sand bucket
we hear a handle and pitch

to the tent of tone
campfire quagmire supples unknown to lentil chili
wine arabesques of friend wine
grapeless the tongue wills not wave ills
but the warmth of grotto family
the trading meat root story glory

ruddy buffalo sun
of crystalline helix mohawk spartan's
collosum of odes

o vary-agates

parcel
string
and stick

view month
search directory
new task

server name:

ERDE
TROB

lovall the donot passer in office
chivvy chocolate in lab coats

the new hat fits well
the arc of it-all wheels over head

al musa fungus the goose locker trilibot

stupa universe
howl and sing and
roil in hexstasisseam

bloddy blonde of second man
the 56 "men" already known
if not by their moody transformed digits

the warmth and comely countenance
of the random chowderbots
filtering through the brake

wild stained rattles:

"push it"
"push it reel goo"

glyphs glub up in bubble baths
in the mu monorail sauna cars'

selection of ermine phobia faucets

there

"Later, he thought the event consisted in its manner of being neither true nor false."p.4/5?


a stretch between then and now
if "in all probability" then what at some point
a dot turned line turned dot again.
was said, now is heard some where along the line.

eternal recurrence of trans-
formed now again
of then last pages
"and, to her, I say eternally 'Come',
and eternally, she is there__

BETTIE PAGE

It’s not that I want to be her;
it’s that I want to sheathe my legs in her stockings.
Swirl it and tilt it and sweetly spill it--
a double dip of vanilla ice cream
with maraschino cherries on top
(with hints of black cherry juice,
with whips of black licorice.)
Trill it and glisten it and scoop it.
Lick my black heels and then spoon me.
I ooze hot butterscotch when I catwalk.

I can pussyfoot with shiny stilettos,
I can slink with marabou vamps,
I can gallivant in thigh high sly boots.

I desire to be a pin-up minx
flaunting my bullet brassiere
(that a skinny girl just couldn’t fill.)
I long to be buxom if only
for a day. If only for a photo shoot
starring peek-a-boo lace and white satin waist-
high panties. Creamy gams splayed to reveal
vintage ruffles. Pearlescent girdle and garter belts.
Ornamental welts. Cherry stems tied into tiny bows

and kinkier formations. Exquisite schemata of lust induction
by orchestrated visual themes of seams, buttons, hook & eye
coquettishness. A tease of innermost thigh. A pulsing
crotch panel. Rubbery sheen of thorax fetish pageant. Tightening
vinyl corset. Pin curls, trussed wrists, false lashes, black curtain
of bangs. A curvaceous cursive font on a marquee flashing
the hot pink va va voom of my coy curvilinear name.

Now

“Why do you listen to me as you do? Why, even when you speak, do you keep listening? p.4

“Later, he … transformed all last pages
from hidden histories to a new first spoken
to keep listening at bay and prevent
himself from asking too much of now

Pre Ludic

warm as closed open_
ings
preludes anew continue colluding
combing the balking hair of prosetry
as chaos drops another sea
a bit tampered with
in the lowercase
but not critical

war on peace

the heads of state request a budget raise for the ongoing War On Peace. They indicate "we need to escalate, because the W.O.P will stop once the resources are depleted"


Please express your opinion in the poll.

War On Peace
	yes W.O.P has to stop, raise the budget
	no W.O.P is our way of life, don't raise the budget
	perhaps W.O.P should be converted to an internet game
= view results =

The Sound of Water

Jemma Bagley and Brenda Seaton discuss The Sound of Water – a piece exploring the area of Thurmaston via a haiku hike led by artist / poet Paul Conneally and co-ordinated by Jemma Bagley of Charnwood Arts, Loughborough, UK.

Words from the poems written during the psychogeographic drift – the haiku hke – will be engraved on to a series of               sculptures by Richard Thornton in the new Watermead housing development.

will take you will not take you

invisible spirit
everywhere
said angel g.
humped over
his field of
the blessed
matrix claims
ufology can
travel without
leaving his body
hola he cries
to everyone
california is
not here
tapping the
sidewalk
tapping his
head sound
like hardwood

Ray's Brother

Ray begged for coppers and unused change with his left hand, the right one having been sheared off by a cog pin. He disliked cows’ tripe, moth collections and anything soaked in formaldehyde. His father drove for the Mercury Fish company and liked molasses candies, which he pilfered from the walk-in freezer behind the punch-in meter. Ray’s mother volunteered with the deaf and wore red taffeta dresses with beige stockings. She had rickets which she salved with desiccated goat’s milk and castor oil. Ray’s brother had spayed feet and a cowlick that formed a cone on the top of his head. He wore shoes with struts and a hat that keeled to one side, making him look off-centred and fat. On his twenty-first birthday Ray lost his mind two hours after dropping acid and drinking a Coke laced with Bufferin, which he stole from the Cantor’s Bakery behind the Mercury Fish company. That Wednesday Ray’s brother moved into his room and took down all his posters.

how to get here

poem

wisnuist silo
as in full tilt psilocybin stump
ostrich silk
alligator sorghum ganch

later, later, he...

'She most probably wished that he repeat what she had said, only repeat. But never did she recognise her words in mine.' p.4?

transversal rapport of after someone
nothing hidden, or hidden in the open
as oNe walks into the calm

as the transversification of later
in the last page of the last man
as in

later, he asked himself how he had
entered the calm. He could not speak
of it within himself. Only of the joy of feeling
himself in rapport with words: "Later, he...

preludeS again

the beat batting its sock
colluding preludes anew
of proSes trampling typing feet
of four and five and six O'clock
in the open C of proSe potry
the personifictation of seas or
of a chaos of drops of spots
of times of drops of chaos that
is the sea of prosetry of pre-
suppository ludes, in the nude
night of uppercase ease
and then the lighting of the screens

dialogue turned to trilogue try logue again at potency of n
yes yes n logues as n sexes as in each time speaking as if it was the first time
as in each time making love as if it was the premier fois which is also the
the first love which is also always also the last last love page

Tidewrack And Outwash

A pebble bound for the ocean's depths
meets a buoy floating in from Japan.
The signs they exchange are couched
in the silent tongue of the secret traveler,
unappreciated by the unmoving. Yes, brother,
yes sister-- glances traded in a crowd--
good fortune, fellow wayfarer
may you travel well.

A Correspondence

correspondence

Again Again

‘…even saying nothing , she could no longer keep silent.’ p.3?4
this must hears
silence speak
in the longer space desired
not tiring of tried-agains
forgetting to cease
opening

origins anewhiding ahead
while substance sliversdiffusing hesitation
as history posts
again

after after after

Giacomo Joyce, Splendor and Shimmer

 ________________________________________________

"I hold the websoft edges of her gown and drawing them out to hook them I see through the opening of the black veil her lithe body sheathed in an orange shift. It slips its ribbons of moorings at her shoulders and falls slowly: a lithe smooth naked body shimmering with silvery scales. It slips slowly over the slender buttocks of smooth polished silver and over their furrow, a tarnished silver shadow [...]. " GJ 7______________________________________________________

Flowers Black of Rapid Vista

The black flowers only open at night.

speak anew

an original and a variation of a passage from the 1805 Prelude


these our stories, my friend, have singularly told
This History, my Friend, hath chiefly told
of an intuitive potency, from post to post
Of intellectual power, from stage to stageimmobile, key in key with love and joyous
Advancing, hand in hand with love and joy,

(untitled)

Waterfall Wedding Wheelchair
Video Camera Violence Voice Over
Typewriter Unconscious Underwater
Talking Animal Tape Recorder
Suicide Attempt Sunglasses
Small Town Snow Soldier
Reverse Footage Ring
Restroom Resurrection
Prologue Prostitute
Prodigal Son Product Placement
Party Person On Fire
Oral Sex Orphan
Neo Noir Nervous Breakdown
Masturbation Scene Medication
Love Triangle Machine
Key Kidnaps Kids
Interracial Romance Island Jail
Hallucination Hat
Ghostly Figure Gift
Famous Fantasy Sequence Farm
Falsely Accused Family
End Of The World Epic
Dogs Dream Like Drowning
Dancing Death Of Friend
Cannibalism Car Accident
Answering Machine Apartment
Animal Attack Angel

Key Word: Dream Sequence

girl gang #9

Darlingtonia desires an opossum as a pet;
an addition to her root cellar world.

A creature who will not disguise
its fangs, its pink-red beady eyes,
its sinister nocturnal intentions. Or else,

both of them hissing, she could rip out its heart
with her teeth; can it in coarse salt.
Gory little valentine preserved in brine.

Kind of like her face from all the crying.
D. looks like she could be twelve years old.
The kind of twelve year old who might dissect you

while you’re still alive. Replace your eyes
with colored marbles. Hold your heart
while it still beats. Taxiderm your holy body.

Maybe its prehensile tail would wrap around her wrist
like a grim bracelet, like a rival snake, then go slack.
Maybe saliva would foam around the mouth; a foul-smelling fluid

secrete itself into her hands. Maybe her venomous reaction
was a defense mechanism, but now there is no turning back. Playing possum,
playing dumb won’t save you. Your catatonic body will go cold

in the pan while she scrubs her tainted hands
prepares her silver tools, pets you and then digs in.

Sea Change

text remains, tho voice stiffens. perhaps a person will be aware that Andy (someone) died. settled on what could be imagined, left it at that. then the soft rain sometime for future. then a luffing wind, to produce a deed. then still pictures that burn carefully. then an electric lamp fizzles. we induct. smoothly, a dear embarkation from the dock, thru a chance canal and to the sea all vivid and greenish. then a dream that doesn't quite play real words. then a text asserted by ordinary means. then something vague, while narrative works out. out is, again, embarkation from a dock, thru a canal to the open sea. who opened it and why? chance made a text rhyme.

So Popular (a fictional account of fictional accounts

the overarching eyebrows of Alluria Scandelle rose to fever pitch while latest news arrived with witty parts cut out. there was something fixed in the idea, like a beau ideale, actually, tho not so swarthy. experts from all ways of life poured to beginning. Alluria Scandelle swished her richness in front of poor Kate Cottenwood, downcast ingenue of lack of farming interest. meanwhile, Rex Rushjob topped out at the sentence made by a cactus. winds of tumbleweeds twisted thru town as Rex bethought himself. and the ranch fire, later, and water rights, yet oil would fuel the country and its needs. why hasn't this been documented? the president himself whistles in the dark. the old tubes of former televisions fade into past and future deeds. well, something like that, that story's still searching box office.

speak again

'He should have wanted to tell her: "Cease talking, that I may hear you."' p.3?
that all this must
be heard in the unseen
desired for,
opens space and again
another approach tried

A Moment Past

It frightens me the way the world is so empty and hostile. I look into strange eyes and I see a gray existence lined with boredom, despair, and no sign of you, Lord, except for the special ones that swim around here, at least one in every place, smiling at me as if it were You reaching out through them.

the origin of vision

odilon_redon_originofvision
Originally uploaded by razorsmile.

the stalk, this lifting up, we stand up as we see that which is against us, we lift up to look, to see the tree, the face to face, not because our legs extend but because the origin of our vision lies in the stalk of legs, the reach up, the origin of vision as that moment of forced rising, reaching to see, look over the wall, the origin of vision not in seeing something but in the stance, the stalk, that which we are lifted by into that which we see from, the origin of vision is nothing visual.

Mountain

We wanted to take the mountain,
So, like the destiny of the picnic,
On the hanging rock,
We wore our white dresses,
Flicked our hair back,
Tresses surmounted by none in beauty,
We climbed,
Climbed, rotten cucumbers in our bags,
Sweaty and wet,
Flaccid and green.

The sun,
A torture.

Mesmerised by dead doe eyes,
And the hot wrinkled backs of iguana,
We stifled and sank.

Disappearing into the original heat,
The white wheaty grass,
And the light of sun-stroke,
Burning.

Mystery,
Mystery,
Where am I now?
What have I become?

Slightly shorn, white dress translucent,
I am mist,
Morning dust,
Orange rolled back eyes,
Spotted deer being ripped from behind.

They come from all sides,
All sides now.

I am hiding in brush.
White fear-eyes,
Dots of green that hold you,
Do not look for me at hanging rock,
I am swollen and red dots of blood are my punctum now.

proem in b minor

le non-rapport est
the non-rapport is
à la fois ce qui n'a pas de rapport,
both that which has no rapport,
mais qui, comme tel, s'oppose
but which, as such, opposes itself
à l'absence de rapport
to the absence of rapport
en opérant la donation de rapport,
in operating a donation of rapport
ce qui pourrait aussi être dit du sens,
which could also be said of sense,
ce qui a sûrement déjà
which has surely already
était dit du non-sens
been said of non-sense
comme étant une donation
as being a donation
du sens dans une certaine
of sense in a certain
logique du sens d'un siècle
logic of sense in a preceeding
précédent, mais qui a, sensément,
century, but which still, sensibly,
encore un non-rapport, une Relation avec
has a non-rapport, a Relation with
le sens d'un rapport du non-sens
the sense of a rapport of non-sense

Bon Voy age Emmett!

after emmett

a dispersion of ninetiles

Hear Again

“She asked him what he had just written. But it was something that she must not hear…” p.3

a tried approach
written in the unheard
sought after,
obscures time and again
all this that must