I like Emboli beechnut gum, she said, the red and yellow and blue twisty one with the picture of Melba Von Alabaster on the wrapper. My dad used to make it stick to the roof of his mouth, then spit it out onto the rug, which caused my mother no end of worry and fretting. You see, we had one of those shag rugs, not a hooked shag, or one of those one’s that are made of rags and odds and ends of cloth, but a real honest to goodness shag rug, an orange and beige one with cross-stitching and a hem that was forever coming unravelled and making a litter of the floor, the floor next to the dog’s bowl next to the refrigerator beside my mother’s knitting bag, the one full of wool and needles that clicked and clacked when she made afghans and throws. My dad spit up Emboli beechnut gum, wads of it like oysters then laugh so hard his dentures would rattle, and his nose, which was way to big for his face, would curl up like a rotten rutabaga or a carrot that was still dirty from being yanked out of the garden in the backyard next the shed where my bother kept his Playboys and toilet roll. I like Ascot peppermint patties, she said, the ones with the crinkles and welts and curvy lines of hard chocolate on them, you know, the ones you could buy at the corner store, which really wasn’t on any corner, so wasn’t really a corner store, but more out in the open like a middle or centre store, the kind with the fat lady with varicose legs and red lines under her eyes, and a husband she hated but loved because he loved her, and being fat, she felt like no one would ever love her. I asked her once, when I was there buying real authentic Indian chewing tobacco, if she had a real honest to goodness shag rug at home, not a fake one or one of those hook and throw ones, but an orange and beige one like the one we had at home. She said no we don’t, and that was that. On my way home that day, the day I asked her if she had a shag rug, a real honest to goodness one, I found a bird’s foot under a bush, it was wrapped in a Emboli beechnut chewing gum wrapper and had a piece of my brother’s toilet roll stuck to it, right there where the claws or talons or fingernails were, all crinkly, sort of, Melba Von Alabaster’s face looking all stamped on and oystery.
Mother Land
Her body is a cave,
the shape of a nation.
In all the dark spaces,
she has many wombs,
many children. When
they wander out of
her mouth and return
she recognizes them
by the the light
on their skin, like
the stars she fed
them, like snow
she taught them how
to glisten in a storm.
If not for heaven,
mother, why would we
ever leave you?
the shape of a nation.
In all the dark spaces,
she has many wombs,
many children. When
they wander out of
her mouth and return
she recognizes them
by the the light
on their skin, like
the stars she fed
them, like snow
she taught them how
to glisten in a storm.
If not for heaven,
mother, why would we
ever leave you?
Indigenous Legend Macuá Bird
Parfum Nest of the Macuá Bird · abstract love · luck · fortune
packing
Indigenous Legend Macuá Bird
When Jesus Christ to 12 at night in mounts of Galilea found to
the Bird Singing in the branches of Olivo Santo and he said to him:
"Your nest will be chosen of men and women veiled and blessed by 7
Fridays to 12".
Oh! Great Bird which you were honest and attractive by Our Redentor by
the wonderful virtue that you have and the one who God has given
trasládame the heart you of... to mine, ponlo crazy of LOVE by me,
who goes where I wish is mine.
(With three drops it frótese the hands and lips, and when the person
who you wish to attract is to her side; the subtle and magical perfume
completes the wished conquest. It serves business and to avoid the
watchings of our enemies. Fé which you have in this oration will
reach your yearning and the result will not be made hope).
Where the Ships Die
"I want somebody to shove me."--Soul Asylum
"The thought that I could decipher your message. There's no one here dear. No one at all." --Tori Amos
Gabcast! White Rabbit - *BLACK HOLE* #4
You
Sail Me
Where the Ships
Die.
my tourniquet
A Folded Earth
a bloodied paper
full of eloquence
Poetry untouched.
Used to be such
A sweet sweet thing.
Everything voyeur
(the Point)
The pattern bones
Compass due North.
just Try to
Swim among the stars
I was on the path
To Heaven
But you had to stand
In My Light.
The speed of beauty
(A falling word crashing)
A torn sail Laureate
At the bottom of the sea.
--Nobius Black
"The thought that I could decipher your message. There's no one here dear. No one at all." --Tori Amos
Gabcast! White Rabbit - *BLACK HOLE* #4
Where the Ships Die
You
Sail Me
Where the Ships
Die.
my tourniquet
A Folded Earth
a bloodied paper
full of eloquence
Poetry untouched.
Used to be such
A sweet sweet thing.
Everything voyeur
(the Point)
The pattern bones
Compass due North.
just Try to
Swim among the stars
I was on the path
To Heaven
But you had to stand
In My Light.
The speed of beauty
(A falling word crashing)
A torn sail Laureate
At the bottom of the sea.
--Nobius Black
Un entretien avec le docteur Zen
J'aimerai ne pas avoir à choisir entre une image ternie du bonheur (par des conditions de vie artificielles) et une liberté destructrice. Mais tu croyais aux fées ? Oui répondis-je évasivement. Autour des combles poussiéreuses de mon âme il n'y a rien, à peine l'approximation d'un moi satisfaisant pour les autres. En suspens dans l'air notre angoisse du silence; la chaleur de nos corps à travers mon jeans.
On est dans la grande cour, la bonne, celle du côté de la rue, ça veux dire qu'on nous fait suffisamment confiance. On a même l'autorisation de sortir trois heures par jours. on doit participer aux séances de groupe et individuelles, participer aux ateliers artistiques si on en a envie, être à l'heure aux repas et surtout être rentré avant dix-huit heure. Ça nous responsabilise, ils disent. Mary regarde le large bâtiment, anciens abattoirs peints en jaune. Tu crois que c'est pour empêcher les évasions, les barreaux aux fenêtres ? Non y en a pas au rez-de-chaussé, c'est pour les suicides. Elle hoche la tête. Pourquoi ils nous laissent sortir ? Je lui réponds : pour nous responsabiliser; bien qu'en réalité, je sais que, grâce aux pilules ils modifient le champ magnétique de nos ondes cérébrales ce qui leur permet deux choses :
1° savoir chacun de nos gestes en permanence, ils peuvent très bien nous laisser sortir, ils SAVENT où nous mènent chacun de nos pas grâce à leurs capteurs d'ondes delta.
2° Chaque fou en liberté répand une sorte de virus psychique auto-généré a partir de ses névroses et contamine ainsi le reste de l'humanité. Nous sommes leur instrument, nous contaminons les autres avec nos névroses, ce qui justifie de mettre tout le monde sous antidépresseurs et autres anxiolitiques et leur permet d'INCARCERER la population dans une PRISON psycho-chimique. La preuve est simple, ce que l'on appelait Mélancolie* par le passé, (*état supérieur de conscience anté-créatif loué des artistes permettant aux créateurs de puiser aux font de leur âme l'essence de leur génie au sein d'une stase psycho-émotionnelle autistique), s'appelle aujourd'hui DÉPRESSION. Je pense qu'ils cherchent à établir un contrôle total sur notre psyché. Ils répandent le virus et fournissent un pseudo-antidote qui est l'organe chimique de contrôle !
Je touche le dos de la mains de Mary, le contact en est rêche (mais pas désagréable) à cause des scarifications qu'elle s'est faite. J' arrive encore a distinguer, juste en dessous du poignet, Kevin suivit d'un coeur. Ils veulent la mettre en foyer, (foyers qui sont autant de point de dispersion de leur virus psycho-chimique. Elle est l'instrument de leur volonté, sans le savoir elle sera un agent de dispersion viral.
- Je, je dois te dire quelque chose...
Il y a la chaleur d'une main, les sourires dérobés, les oeillades brèves et électriques. Il y a un merle qui siffle sur une branche du platane. Il y a la chaleur du soleil déclinant à l'horizon. Comme un sentiment d'éternité dans ces quelques secondes, voilà ce qui nous plaît dans ces instants fugaces et déjà mort. Et des fois le soleils est trop brillant. J'ai les yeux qui piquent un peu, je n'ai pas cligné des paupières depuis une minute. Je croise son regard (ses yeux habituellement d'un bleu très pale sont plutôt, à cet instant, d'un bleu légèrement azuré, pendant une seconde je pense que la lumière du soir joue sur la couleur de ses yeux... Mais non c'est pas logique il doit s'agir de leur Virus ce qui veut dire que ses ondes delta sont probablement captées et qu'ILS écoutent notre conversation). Heu... Tu sais... J'aime les sandwich de chez LIDL. Surtout ceux au fromage et... elle éclate de rire. Elle s'approche de moi. Son visage est de plus en plus proche. Ses yeux d'un bleu étrange se rapprochent de plus en plus et je me recule précipitamment... Désolé je ne me suis pas lavé les dents ce matin ! Au même moment la sonnerie du réfectoire retentit comme les alarmes dans les vieux films de guerre et je m'enfuie en courant.
Au réfectoire, mon voisin de table, le professeur Hannibal Smith (un enquêteur d'assurance qui se prend pour Albert Einstein) m'explique que la lutte contre le vampire diffère du film d'horreur pur, quand le chasseur est une femme. Il s'agit d'une parabole grossière sur la femme émancipée en devenir qu'est l'adolescente. Le pieux, instrument (de forme phallique) symbolise le pouvoir (jusqu'alors destiné aux hommes) que s'approprient les femmes. Le vampire symbolise le frustré sexuel qui, incapable de bander se trouve dans l'obligation d'utiliser un palliatif (les crocs), qu'il utilise pour son propre plaisir, destructeur pour sa victime. Le but ultime de la tueuse de vampire est de détruit le vieil ordre patriarcal symbolisé par un vampire antédiluvien. Je ne serai pas étonné d'apprendre que le scénario ait été créé par une lesbienne féministe. (la femme de Smith l'a quitté pour une autre femme, une commerciale itinérante spécialisée en sex toys si mes souvenirs sont exacts). Il regarde d'un air maussade les trois salsifis minuscules qui restent au milieu de son assiette, comme des symboles ridicules de son impuissance. Si... Si elle revient je lui pardonne. A la table d'à côté, Joe la branlette se lève en disant qu'il veut ajouter de la sauce béchamelle sur sa viande et sort son sexe au dessus de son assiette, on l'appelle Joe la branlette parce qu'il aime se masturber en regardant les teletubbies. Je crois que c'est l'aspirateur qui sert de nourrice aux quatre peluches qui l'excite, surtout sa trompe aspirante et le bruit de sussions. Mais je ne lui ai jamais demandé. Deux aliénistes musclés viennent se saisir de lui avant qu'il n'ait le temps de répandre joyeusement « sa sauce béchamelle ». A ce moment un autre garde chiourme s'approche de la table et me dit que le Docteur Zen souhaite me parler.
Je suis devant la porte grise du bureau du docteur, au milieu du couloir. Je jette un oeil en direction de la porte qui mène à la cour. Sur la porte je vois une chose que je n'avais jamais remarquée auparavant. Un judas... Comme un oeil juste à ma hauteur. Au dessus de la porte le voyant rouge indique que je dois attendre. J'attends mais je ne peux m'empêcher de regarder a travers le judas. Étrange de placer un judas du côté du couloir. A travers cet oeil, je peux voir le docteur Zen assis derrière son bureau. Il a sur le visage cet air étrange et sérieux qu'il prend quand il écoute ses patients. J'entends un bruit dans le couloir. Comme des griffes sur un parquet. Personne. Je colle de nouveau mon oeil au judas. Et là je vois une image que mon cerveau se voit incapable d'interpréter dans l'intervalle infinitésimal où elle percute la rétine et se voit transformée en signaux bio-électrique. Mon coeur fait une embardée; en lieu et place du docteur Zen se trouve une sorte de chose géante à la chitine sombre et luisante comme une flaque de pétrole. l'insecte saute par dessus le bureau et saute sur le patient assis en face de lui sans que celui-ci n'ait le temps de réagir et... Une sonnerie sourde et désagréable retentit. Le voyant au dessus de la porte passe au vert. Un bruit électrique se fait entendre au niveau de la clenche. La lumière au dessus de la porte passe du rouge au vert. Derrière son bureau le docteur Zen me regarde à travers ses grosses lunettes d'écaille noire de son oeil sévère, brillant d'une vérité absolue. Il me dit bonjour et me fait signe de m'assoir. Il a cet air de banquier ou de patron qui doit vous annoncer une mauvaise nouvelle. Je m'assois et regarde les tableaux accrochés en vis à vis de chaque côtés de la pièce. Deux tableaux de Pieter Bruegel. A ma droite un tableau figurant la tour de Babel. Une tour s'élevant en cercles concentriques de plus en plus étroits, la construction semble anarchique et tout un pan de l'édifice reste inachevé, le côté présenté au spectateur semble éventré et montre les entrailles de la tour ou des arc-boutants soutiennent ce qui semblent être une tour plus étroite et qui perce déjà les nuages. Autour de la tour et en son sein on voit des hommes qui s'activent tels des fourmis à peine visible à côté du léviathan de pierre. De nos jours l'homme fabrique de tels abstractions architecturales. C'est même ce qui définie les villes les plus modernes, où l'homme parle milles langages mais fabriques les mêmes buildings, formes abstraites se répétant selon des schémas presque identiques. L'autre tableau, la chute d'Icare, montre, au premier un plan, un paysan qui laboure son champs, un berger qui mène son troupeau. Puis le paysage s'ouvre sur la mer et s'étale sur un soleil levant. D'une lumière dorée, d'une violence douce et immuable. Disséminés ci et là, on observes des constructions humaines. Une ville achève la courbe de la côte. Sur une île, une petite fortification. Des bateaux s'éloignent de l'estuaire et s'engagent vers le levant, les voiles gonflées par le vent. Dans le coin droit du tableau, en bas, on aperçoit Icare. Ou plutôt on le devine. Ses deux jambes dépassent de l'eau, quelques plumes flottent. Il vient de chuter. Dans l'indifférence générale, il va se noyer.
- Parlez moi de votre frère, monsieur J.
- Je n'ai pas de frère.
- ha ? Vous avez un frère aîné. Que savez vous de lui ?
- Je... Je n'ai pas de frère, ma mère a fait une fausse-couche, un an avant ma naissance.
- Parlez moi de votre frère, monsieur J.
- Je n'ai pas de frère.
- ha ? Vous avez un frère aîné. Que savez vous de lui ?
- Je... Je n'ai pas de frère, ma mère a fait une fausse-couche, un an avant ma naissance.
Derrière le docteur, une large baie vitrée s'ouvre sur une pelouse, des feuilles mortes s'accumulent au pied de la vitre.
- Oui c'est ce que vous m'avez raconté. Racontez moi encore.
- Tout ce que je sais c'est qu'elle a perdu du sang. Qu'un médecin lui a arraché le fétus à la main dans l'ambulance qui la menait à l'hôpital. Elle a perdu beaucoup de sang et si le médecin n'était pas intervenu elle serait morte. Elle m'a dit qu'elle a vu une sorte de lumière, pour elle c'était un ange.
- Tout ce que je sais c'est qu'elle a perdu du sang. Qu'un médecin lui a arraché le fétus à la main dans l'ambulance qui la menait à l'hôpital. Elle a perdu beaucoup de sang et si le médecin n'était pas intervenu elle serait morte. Elle m'a dit qu'elle a vu une sorte de lumière, pour elle c'était un ange.
- Vous croyez aux anges monsieur J., au paradis, à l'enfer ?
- Non.
- Non.
Un craquement discret, comme des articulations disjointes.
- Vous savez, je suis là pour vous aider.
- Peut-être, oui.- Votre mère n'a pas fait de fausse couche. Elle a accouché d'un garçon qui s'appelait Éric.
- Vous mentez !
- Vous ne vous souvenez pas ? Un enfant trisomique. Baignant dans cet amour familial dont bénéficient les faibles. Cet amour sucré, collant...
- Non, je n'ai pas de frère.
- Vous savez cet amour tellement dégouttant dans sa disproportion qu'il vous en donnerait la nausée.
- Je n'ai pas de frère, non !
- A l'ombre de cet amour si éclatant,il y a l'autre, le petit frère, petit génie que tout le monde congratule. Un peu trop rapidement, en passant, comme on jette une pièce à un mendiant.
J'ai l'impression que le docteur mange ses mots. Je lève la tête et je crois, un instant, voir des mandibules torves déformer ses joues. Sa langue ressemble à une grosse limace gluante. Je baisse la tête.
- Vous étiez un génie n'est-ce pas ? J'ai sous les yeux un test de Q.I. Que vous aviez fait à l'âge de 10 ans, il indique 210... Oui, il fallait prouver que vous existiez. Et vous travailliez dur pour ça, hein. Avoir une telle intelligence et des résultats aussi probants en classe pour... Rien. A peine une reconnaissance. Comme on jette une pièce à un mendiant.
Un instant le silence emplit la pièce.
- Et puis il a cet après-midi d'été dans la chaleur poussiéreuse de fin de journée. C'était au font de la cour de vos grand-parents, hein ? Le petit muret au font de la cour. Celui sur lequel il ne faut pas monter... Un vieux pan de mur un peu branlant. On aime bien jouer quand on est gosse hein... Vous êtes monté, sur ce muret, comme tant de fois, avec votre frère et comme tant de fois cette idée vous traverse l'esprit. Dans cet esprit si intelligent, une idée bien mauvaise, bien lâche hein... Ce n'est pas que vous détestiez votre frère... Vous l'aimiez même. Peut être bien que vous étiez la personne qui l'aimait le plus. Mais, l'ignorance des adultes à votre égard... et tout ce ressentiment, au font de votre esprit. Comme un nuage noir qui recouvre tout et donne un goût de cendre amer aux choses. Comme une force sombre qui fait trembler vos mains et finalement vous force à pousser votre frère.
- Je ne suis pas ça ! Tout en criant je garde la tête baissée.
- C'était assez haut comme muret pour un gosse de 11 ans. Surtout quand il tombe en arrière. Ça vous a fait quoi quand le sang s'est mis à couler du crane ? Un sentiment de soulagement terrible, hein ? On observe ce soulagement, cet apaisement dégueulasse comme appartenant à une autre personne, n'est-ce pas ? Ce sentiment qui s'écoule comme le sang recouvrant le béton...
La pièce est fermée mais je sens un courant d'air sur mon visage. Un courant d'air un peu poussiéreux, un peu tiède, à l'odeur rance et renfermé, comme celle qu'on imagine dans l'antre d'une bête.
- Je ne suis pas ça...
- Étrangement, ce sentiment ne meurt pas quand il faut courir pour prévenir les parents, et mentir en disant que votre frère tentait d'escalader le mur, que vous l'avez empêché mais qu'il ne vous a pas écouté. Le sentiment reste le même quand il faut faire semblant de pleurer...
- Étrangement, ce sentiment ne meurt pas quand il faut courir pour prévenir les parents, et mentir en disant que votre frère tentait d'escalader le mur, que vous l'avez empêché mais qu'il ne vous a pas écouté. Le sentiment reste le même quand il faut faire semblant de pleurer...
La lumière de la baie se voile, comme si quelqu'un venait de tirer un rideau. Je lève la tête. Je vois, comme un voile noir. Puis je vois les nervures qui se ramifient dans toutes directions, dans un schéma complexe, se multipliant à l'infini, à la fois beau et terrifiant. Je comprends. Derrière le bureau, Je vois les ailes membraneuses qui contiennent les fines nervures se déployer dans la totalité de mon champs de vision. Puis les yeux globuleux, noirs, à facettes, brillants, sans expression, sans âme comme tout les yeux d'insecte et le corps noir d'une brillance huileuse comme une flaque de pétrole. Les longues griffes aiguisées et dangereuses comme des scies. La chose saute par dessus le bureau et me renverse sur le sol. Je vois le thorax se contracter selon les rythmes d'une respiration qui n'est pas humaine. Je sens les griffes s'enfoncer dans ma peau. Je ne peux pas me débattre. Sous les griffes, je commence à sentir la moiteur du sang qui perce mes vêtements. Je vois les mandibules se rapprocher de mon visage. Entre les mandibules, des organes de palpations s'agitent. Les griffent se resserrent encore un peu. Je sens les mandibules étrangement froides presser la chaire de mon cou. Une douleur déchirante. Un couinement ridicule que je ne peux pas retenir, s'échappe de ma gorge. Je vois une giclée de sang jaillir et s'étaler sur la tête sombre et inexpressive. Je tente de la repousser de ma main libre, mais je n'ai pas assez de force, mes doigts glissent sur l'hémoglobine et l'étalent un peu plus sur la surface noire. Mes jambes s'agitent dans le vide sans que je ne puisse les contrôler. Juste un réflexe de survie. La chaleur de l'urine, étrangement rassurante, se répand dans mon pantalon et...
Des barrages cèdent dans mon cerveau grâce à une berceuse chantonnée par un type au coin de la rue.
Into This Gravy of Coloured Lensing Brideslooms, Sled, Eagle Skybread Mattresses
[the dragon helmet's tree-like lens-assembly...]
/gesture/
Tender is the knight/
skinned up in supple spicules-
~love~
spongy as widgestus {thngs visible onlyforsazikrit =lofting in the folds}
landscape, protoctistan raincoat's serpentine-
lupin pilastered gorgoneion/
shield mine\
eyes plasmatic halos-and
holarchic holoscenery walk
briskly-through-all-articulating-medium's
final-and-transcendental-natures'
character-of-will pandorapearlkiss accumulusterm
the mirrored O- - - -
which rises to the surface [bubble, bubble, lithop stubble]
special special proceedings
shhhhhhhh..... [blind tiara garden furnitures]
graven alchemy slurring witchbooked rabbit moss
the knotted pink sheet which gestures on its strings
Persian Pan Observitory Balcony with spiral sideburn staircase
black under black
the faraway aortatorsion stuck in thickets of enormous valleys
roil with forms
strange immortal pertrusions
rife distortion dislocate/-~
oddfellow in orange jumpsuit whirling antenna-moustache
loading animal pilots
into their telescopic astral mask languages
12 X 12
[twisato]
Dejesus and Monty Crisco
Cock au vim with a light vinaigrette and a bottle of Monty Crisco. Dejesus swore up and down that he hadn’t eaten in dare say a month, give or take a day or two, so I offered him my leftover vim and a monk’s worth of Grappa san Riau, which he ate like a house on a flier with little regard for proper manners or hubris. He had recently filed a complaint against a widow with glaucoma, claiming that she had hit him over the head with her wig-stand, leaving him with a Cockney and Ives’ bruise on his forehead. When she said that she owned neither a wig nor a wig-stand, Dejesus accused her of bending the truth, something she said she hadn’t the faintest notion about. I, on the other hand, knew for a fact that the truth was unsubstantiated, confusing, I know, but that’s how it is, and something best left to knockabouts and cleavers. Dejesus bought a brown paper sac and filled it with custard; a trick he’d learned from a Witness named Bibs, and threw it in the path of the widow next time he saw her approaching in the street. She got some custard in her glaucoma eye and had to be rushed to the infirmary, her wig poaching globs of air, the ambulance man saying, ‘shut the almighty window, will you, the smell is atrocious’.
HourGlass
My time is called
borrowed. When
the children play
with sticks and rocks
and the sound of
their voices move
through evening like
glass through honey-
my time is sweetened.
The accurate shine
of light as it falls
in columns not unlike
a castle, the hours
when air becomes
ghostly, glowing buildings
becomes a sure time
to kneel, to pray.
How much time
does heart pump
through its veins? What
sand-filled hourglass
thins when turned
again, then again
and again- the endless
sifting down.
borrowed. When
the children play
with sticks and rocks
and the sound of
their voices move
through evening like
glass through honey-
my time is sweetened.
The accurate shine
of light as it falls
in columns not unlike
a castle, the hours
when air becomes
ghostly, glowing buildings
becomes a sure time
to kneel, to pray.
How much time
does heart pump
through its veins? What
sand-filled hourglass
thins when turned
again, then again
and again- the endless
sifting down.
Bird Bone Poem
These birds are intermediaries
of a vast yet indeterminate terrain.
These birds will only eat pumpernickel bread
and only if the crumbs are shaped like otoliths.
These birds translate flight into fringed lavender wavelengths.
These birds live inside certain people’s lungs;
try to peck their way free
as if our lungs were new and ovoid.
These birds are in favor of spiny urchins doing their damage
in a tank of pink anemones, creating a strange colloid.
These birds’ favorite word is dollface.
They like to tap their beaks against porcelain teeth.
Not veneers. Doll teeth.
These birds are oddly obsessed with the anorexic bodyshape.
Some have even been known to email young anorexic girls
pretending to also be young anorexic girls
so they could trade photos of how thin they were.
How their feathers are falling out.
How their beaks are becoming wobbly.
Despite this gaunt gauntlet, their eyes
are brighter than ever. Enviable beads.
Jewelry box rib cagery.
If these birds attack smaller birds
and demolish their shiny eyes
and are deemed guilty,
then they will be sent to the bird gallows.
This is a very solemn occasion involving triangle music
and hanging by grosgrained ribbon.
These birds enter & exit the light blue dream box.
If you depress a special compartment,
sometimes a poem is released,
sometimes a bird is released.
Sometimes a poem-shaped bird refuses to fly.
Despite the adamant streaks,
these birds deeply adore poetry.
Some have even been known to pledge tiny bones in exchange
for a handwritten poem. These bones are wrapped
in periwinkle velvet; fastened with fragile twine.
This bone-parcel is a sticky yet precise arrangement—
syllable vertebrae laminated with plaintive honey.
of a vast yet indeterminate terrain.
These birds will only eat pumpernickel bread
and only if the crumbs are shaped like otoliths.
These birds translate flight into fringed lavender wavelengths.
These birds live inside certain people’s lungs;
try to peck their way free
as if our lungs were new and ovoid.
These birds are in favor of spiny urchins doing their damage
in a tank of pink anemones, creating a strange colloid.
These birds’ favorite word is dollface.
They like to tap their beaks against porcelain teeth.
Not veneers. Doll teeth.
These birds are oddly obsessed with the anorexic bodyshape.
Some have even been known to email young anorexic girls
pretending to also be young anorexic girls
so they could trade photos of how thin they were.
How their feathers are falling out.
How their beaks are becoming wobbly.
Despite this gaunt gauntlet, their eyes
are brighter than ever. Enviable beads.
Jewelry box rib cagery.
If these birds attack smaller birds
and demolish their shiny eyes
and are deemed guilty,
then they will be sent to the bird gallows.
This is a very solemn occasion involving triangle music
and hanging by grosgrained ribbon.
These birds enter & exit the light blue dream box.
If you depress a special compartment,
sometimes a poem is released,
sometimes a bird is released.
Sometimes a poem-shaped bird refuses to fly.
Despite the adamant streaks,
these birds deeply adore poetry.
Some have even been known to pledge tiny bones in exchange
for a handwritten poem. These bones are wrapped
in periwinkle velvet; fastened with fragile twine.
This bone-parcel is a sticky yet precise arrangement—
syllable vertebrae laminated with plaintive honey.
Socrates: make you a legend in her own mind!!
At legend. Who is so in with
And withdrawn from, the relative,
that these are plain?? I long for you well,
And with the same again not following,
With the contrary in withdrawn wood.
Thus, easily we do Viagra.
But the men are quantitative, of the same mind!!
Nor mind!! Having same, not the substance.
Another cannot own again, from both
Problems: that pair of Viagra and the ox again.
That we make of wood, heated,
And seated, one true thing: plain white mind!!
Prowess?? Lie, be not the said mind!!
What you own, call white and also used to problems.
To be insecure with your Substance,
In degree, with not a pill from her own parts
That are perhaps following the composite:
Be they injustice??
Pop it in, in colour, in white.
You are not sexual, in terms of branches,
Have not even been correct nor primary.
In heat you are intermediate.
The black of which the same sunburn is also another Degree,
Without. It does have a pill but cannot be the disease.
. . .
Corresponding with Socrates,
Sense facts own you, which are about
Such a thing. But is said to be very predicable.
It applies to a present because attitudes possess her.
Have you one comparison? It is most evident
You are keeping her insecure.
. . .
True, these are contraries that can only
Be opposite, the proposition is a legend.
He and the selfsame particular Pop
Are in keeping with a black and small mind.
They can make solid, can be Viagra,
But not the legend from a seated, common man.
If your mind has anything plain,
In such and such and a probable colour,
Those and you, in themselves defined,
Have neither substances nor sexual express!!
Less if a that Blackness differs
To which admit the bird, which can be.
. . .
E.g., to own not is prowess??
Most would make all contraries black.
Properly, a bird can make even plain habits lie.
Between species you present many dispositions.
The great and the word, come from either legend.
In some, we mark knowledge. A relative is keeping.
Be a sexual thing.
That wood cannot be yet heated,
But the heated can say such a pill
In her possession can make attitudes occur,
Exhaustive correlatives and subject questions.
Her great mind is said to take the species in.
It is only possible to with a sexual degree.
Intermediate prowess does not make it!!
These instances were withdrawn.
About these, from reference to themselves
You can be not one but legend.
Also, can inference or colour be mind??
Pop it in. You have even terms.
They are of one mind!!
Thus, through a correlative,
branches cannot take sunburn.
In white heat, in terms of terminology,
Disease applies to being as a pill can correct.
______________________________________
Excerpts from a piece "written" yesterday as part of Round Two of
THE SPAM POETRY GAME
Instructions (as I understood them) for Round Two (Round One happened on 5/21/2005): "Please take material from a spam message and do with it what you will to create a poem."
Except I see now that the text was fixed, based on one message provided by Cecil Touchon, the instigator of this game. As usual, I didn't read the instrux carefully, so took two messages of my own -- one from a Viagra spam, the other from a mortgage refinance one featuring text from a Socratic dialogue -- and created the above.
Results from Round Two (published today).
— tl
sent return
Now lookee Duffy you send that. what was genius to BOronali? was up the innersiding o'ver_se.
Dig that daddio.
Papa might amaze, it, he might rake it.
Now
tell.
------------------------------------------------------
Over here. One green evolve lope. Augmented to anagram
matical to passive intense. Of it slippage. the Cite
of citationality is the green grass sloped better
around your blue buttocks. as a queen wld.
finding epic slimile. oh come! on! dat not fair!
Fare them wail.
----------------------------------------------
Dig that daddio.
Papa might amaze, it, he might rake it.
Now
tell.
------------------------------------------------------
Over here. One green evolve lope. Augmented to anagram
matical to passive intense. Of it slippage. the Cite
of citationality is the green grass sloped better
around your blue buttocks. as a queen wld.
finding epic slimile. oh come! on! dat not fair!
Fare them wail.
----------------------------------------------
Mona says ~ ReT'UrN to SenDe r
Mona says return to sender
to sender return to sender
to sender
Please lick this envolope.
he elope to darning wool.
Please lick a cigarette.
That wool's your hair
fantasm a deux
love a feu
a felix culpa
mal a laise
________________________
lo ver 3 and?
Hold the moon, love|
its heart spring, here |
your hand remain|
trace|& voice
as it cried sob~s to bliss
lifted out and up
around
its heart
like a maiden fist
cuff~link
one two you I two one two one
Hold the moon love
it falls over the sea between
between the breaths
~~ beds
(between the berths
beds)
(anything satyric for
its leaping terrace)
to sender return to sender
to sender
Please lick this envolope.
he elope to darning wool.
Please lick a cigarette.
That wool's your hair
fantasm a deux
love a feu
a felix culpa
mal a laise
________________________
lo ver 3 and?
Hold the moon, love|
its heart spring, here |
your hand remain|
trace|& voice
as it cried sob~s to bliss
lifted out and up
around
its heart
like a maiden fist
cuff~link
one two you I two one two one
Hold the moon love
it falls over the sea between
between the breaths
~~ beds
(between the berths
beds)
(anything satyric for
its leaping terrace)
Cousin
Your life, like a deer's skin
camouflaged in the brambles;
what I heard of you
from my mother who heard
from our grandmother
that you died this morning.
I don't remember you
much but I should. Your life
parallel to mine but far
ahead. This morning,
this morning, mine
outlived yours.
When the sun sets
this evening, making
its journey around
the world, I will try
to imagine you
waking.
camouflaged in the brambles;
what I heard of you
from my mother who heard
from our grandmother
that you died this morning.
I don't remember you
much but I should. Your life
parallel to mine but far
ahead. This morning,
this morning, mine
outlived yours.
When the sun sets
this evening, making
its journey around
the world, I will try
to imagine you
waking.
second cameron (dropping in)
Dropping in sync with her time she stuck
eyes in the sockets needles in great expectations
und she twisted the 5 to 100 mhz polyhedral amplif
right into the major icosidodecahedral sexions
of life as we know it asking do we do we now do we
progress or what. Libertad ha no libertad the bug banged
its fourteen severed heads of the annunciation splut
against the ever whitewashed walls the tender dome
of silence, a pair of legs that is wherein i.e. betwix
her frail newFound Body beMyBody trembled as a
lou. Johanna Instead burned the reels into the slick of 2
dimensions so the Apemen could descend. Hairy
monsters see above indeed but Nothing is knowing nothing
like nothing itself acquiring whatever is required to amount
to dropping in a face on repeat in the heat sink succesfully
The Queen
She is ringing our doorbell, clucking in ponderous consternation
She is wearing bare feet and she is larger than life-sized
She is gesturing so fast her arms make a whirring noise, like a broken zippo or a frustrated chicken
She is a moment frozen in the river or in the space heater of winter
She is standing on a pedestal of chicken bones and library chairs
She is adjusting her heavy black robes, like the bones of sad chickens
She is speaking for us all, but especially for the little birds at her bare feet
She is pulling a face like a mask made of construction paper
She is peering into the mirror, turning her head from side to side
She is scratching her heels to and fro
She is taking down midtown
She is flying, she is trying to fly, she is flying off the empire because her keepers have forgotten to clip her wings
She is plucking the gray hairs from the backs of her big hands
She is plucking the tiny tourists from the backs of the double-deckers
She is making the crowd scatter and shriek before her, like a fox walking upright (with bare feet) in a henhouse
She is flowing down the east river like a frozen egg in a river
She is standing on our door step but we hide behind the curtains, yes, like chickens
She is wearing bare feet and she is larger than life-sized
She is gesturing so fast her arms make a whirring noise, like a broken zippo or a frustrated chicken
She is a moment frozen in the river or in the space heater of winter
She is standing on a pedestal of chicken bones and library chairs
She is adjusting her heavy black robes, like the bones of sad chickens
She is speaking for us all, but especially for the little birds at her bare feet
She is pulling a face like a mask made of construction paper
She is peering into the mirror, turning her head from side to side
She is scratching her heels to and fro
She is taking down midtown
She is flying, she is trying to fly, she is flying off the empire because her keepers have forgotten to clip her wings
She is plucking the gray hairs from the backs of her big hands
She is plucking the tiny tourists from the backs of the double-deckers
She is making the crowd scatter and shriek before her, like a fox walking upright (with bare feet) in a henhouse
She is flowing down the east river like a frozen egg in a river
She is standing on our door step but we hide behind the curtains, yes, like chickens
mask poem
a plateau
an intense pitch
"afterimage"
He finally says, “I am aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa square".
A very large man, dressed all in black does not say one word during the first day of the workshop. academic glue. During the breaks he seems to have some influence in this closed group of people. Toltec tonnage. Anyway they are not sharing very much. unexpected failure.So we pause for a mask exercise.film filter. These people really get into it, like child’s play, drawing their individual masks carefully. exhaustion.Time to share the mask with the others; but only if desired. note chromatique. No one is made to share their mask - it is by choice only.good breeding.The big man is noticeably anxious as it approaches his time to share. body plotting.
an intense pitch
He decides to share. His mask is drawn in the shape of a square.heightened energy level. He made one-half of it -white with a black eye and the other half - black with a white eye. predictible rhythmic symmetry. As he stands to present his mask, he is nervously shaking and having a hard time speaking. mumbling?
He finally says, “I am aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa square".
before|deterrIToRIaLization Fictifictation
You write to lay a picture.|| Imagine you're captured by me. Or something __ no, not that. When you meandered off that afternoon, hanging up the world that left me by, gold rings, broken hedges, cheap worry, what can I do.|| I||| wait for love.
Not quite like a fool,but imagining heavy
loves, nights of weeping.||| INsert Metric
Inserting g'end_er||
Break the words, break them, find the lover's bond. Not the simple heavy weight of guilt, but liberty in your eyes. Where I have never been.
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------------------------
Before the bray
of idiots I'm nothing. But a tale. Something woeful, say. A vers un glas determine
trying to thwart sense. Like I imagine your body does. Open the sense of this verse,
and vessel, a voice speak_ing, slipping away daily, __here as it does nowhere else.
______________________
above outDooR rhizot to Paintrism a mouvement perpetuelle des poetpix.
Deaconstruction
I was doing some deconstructing the other day and came across a leaflet for a Buddhist getaway. The flyer said something about peace of mind and deli sandwiches, so I figured I give it a go. I arrived at 7am sharp, stood my bicycle up against a tree, an elm, so it was, shimmied my rucksack off my shoulders and headed for the dining hall, thinking to myself, almost transcendentally, almost, a Liverwurst on light rye would be a nice way to start my peace of mind training. The Buddhist cook, a sickly looking fellow with a shiny bald head, the likes of which I had only seen on television and the leaflet announcing the getaway, said in an even sicklier whisper, ‘Pastrami or Mock Chicken?’ I nodded, pushing the cone of my left shoulder towards his right shoulder, a trick I’d learned at a Jehovah’s Witness jamboree, and in a low even monotone staccato voice, carefully so as not to frighten or unsettle the cook, said, ‘neither either or.’ I outstood my bicycle, hooked my rucksack over my shoulders, cinching it in front with a nylon toggle, and sped home, careful not to unsettle or frighten the attendees that were making their way towards the getaway in rows and tiers and parallel lines that seemed rather odd on such a hot milky day.
Exquisite Shining
We held eachother's ghosts,
a fist of sorts. Your blue claws
tight around my quickest vein-
a dagger in my dark belly.
And the drum's chord beat
the rock in mirrored waves;
washed night from limb
like fine mist from the hills.
When you leave the bed
I understand the sea-
the quiet, deep organs
of its body,
the constant pulse
of its grief against the shore,
the way it shines exquisite
in the sudden brightness
of our morning.
a fist of sorts. Your blue claws
tight around my quickest vein-
a dagger in my dark belly.
And the drum's chord beat
the rock in mirrored waves;
washed night from limb
like fine mist from the hills.
When you leave the bed
I understand the sea-
the quiet, deep organs
of its body,
the constant pulse
of its grief against the shore,
the way it shines exquisite
in the sudden brightness
of our morning.
who
who
Who would be so foolish as to think I could love your veil?
___________________________________
Who would be so foolish as to think I could love your veil?
___________________________________
As if anon, was enough, love would prevail.
Do you count meters while kissing , me?
do you slip syllables between, my teeth?
Do you wonder about, awkward self-payment?
Or silly things, like that, which a man tells,
himself walking to bed, thinking of love, sex
and us, you're beside him all afternoon.
A garret in the old district. A quartier for whores and lovers.
--------------------------
------------------
Do you count meters while kissing , me?
do you slip syllables between, my teeth?
Do you wonder about, awkward self-payment?
Or silly things, like that, which a man tells,
himself walking to bed, thinking of love, sex
and us, you're beside him all afternoon.
A garret in the old district. A quartier for whores and lovers.
--------------------------
Plein d'amour . Say. Somewhere . Masson park. Where I used to live, the street, a dark rue... a garret, a neighbour's lane... my sore neck.... yet, yet your hand is swinging me, holding my steel.... opening my death.....when we . no. not that. or something. Come to this apple orchard. Or night. breath. The private and public. What lovers, speak the unspeakable. Tear the ribbons out from the sky, knowing you're dying while saying so.Is that where words, go? question, question mark as always words say what they want. I am a mere imitator, a small thing before your beauty. Some might say, but what voice , what voice carries, cries the night, says this?
I'll collapse in my futon __ yes, there, the sack of dreams will, willy-nilly my eyes. Because I've buried them in a sack of destruction. Not so, a lover's worry is always eyes, eyes resurrecting. Language finding the last truth. Before you resurrect me.
Forgive my imperfection, I am _ dying....
Of this breath that lacks yours.
I'll collapse in my futon __ yes, there, the sack of dreams will, willy-nilly my eyes. Because I've buried them in a sack of destruction. Not so, a lover's worry is always eyes, eyes resurrecting. Language finding the last truth. Before you resurrect me.
Forgive my imperfection, I am _ dying....
Of this breath that lacks yours.
------------------
Sweet Mysteries
I am finished with rivers
and roses and light,
the one-eyed moon,
the large embrace of sky,
even the sweet mysteries
of night, I will not revisit.
Instead, a small grey stone,
placed carefully in it's tiny jar
alone, to remind me
what we're made of.
and roses and light,
the one-eyed moon,
the large embrace of sky,
even the sweet mysteries
of night, I will not revisit.
Instead, a small grey stone,
placed carefully in it's tiny jar
alone, to remind me
what we're made of.
Treachery Guns and Rock
The crib shifted into the reality that Fond Cole really is.
My euphoria twisted by soldiers penetrating our realm.
The mouth that roared. Cried foul. Faked God. Will bleed to tell the truth.
Salud. Interrogation begins. Beast on trial. A moral discourse. Diplomatic triggers. Psychological infamy.
Blackout brain betrays.
I sold my love to fear.
I howled like a heretic.
We are marched out to crucifixion.
We are released by the hands of God.
So I screamed into the night and cursed them in the morning.
Those who had dialed hangmen to silence our rock.
The crib shifted into the reality that Fond Cole really is.
My euphoria twisted by soldiers penetrating our realm.
The mouth that roared. Cried foul. Faked God. Will bleed to tell the truth.
Salud. Interrogation begins. Beast on trial. A moral discourse. Diplomatic triggers. Psychological infamy.
Blackout brain betrays.
I sold my love to fear.
I howled like a heretic.
We are marched out to crucifixion.
We are released by the hands of God.
So I screamed into the night and cursed them in the morning.
Those who had dialed hangmen to silence our rock.
The Door
Sound of the door
closing, dividing
two spaces-
what is outside,
living, what is inside
deciding
which prayer
to recite
for the dead.
From heaven,
a fireline splits
what is clean
and forgiving
from the worried,
forgotten
describing
the difference
between sky
and air.
We must survive
to the end
of surviving
and there,
in this intimate
room, this sanctioned
religion of building
a gate or a fjord,
despite our long
held resistance-
with violence
breaks open
our doors.
closing, dividing
two spaces-
what is outside,
living, what is inside
deciding
which prayer
to recite
for the dead.
From heaven,
a fireline splits
what is clean
and forgiving
from the worried,
forgotten
describing
the difference
between sky
and air.
We must survive
to the end
of surviving
and there,
in this intimate
room, this sanctioned
religion of building
a gate or a fjord,
despite our long
held resistance-
with violence
breaks open
our doors.
Off Beat
Face of dog that
triumphs in our
position. Spear
in lunge among
friendly Crusade
to define leftover.
sentence tied
to rhyme. Rhyme
invents capital. Capital
concludes moral equinox.
Stars survive as reminders
of pogrom, pogrom
seems a little
weakness and used.
Ages go.
People spend
as much as they
can, fill
wells with poison,
expect spells
of poison, learn
reason with poison.
Language
barters with
ridiculous. The moon
where so many
acted out grief
has spun from
zone. Pure poem
means dogs, endlessness.
Star Trek owns
the rites.
Enviable spring sunset
continues.
Warm days fray seeds.
Destruction of
outer coat
will serve ramifications.
Swans juggle
terrific
and glow in the
slant of
afternoon. Dreams
intend something.
Objectivism
made up
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E.
Language was
not there all the time
so this was
no surprise. This poem
let history
say so.
triumphs in our
position. Spear
in lunge among
friendly Crusade
to define leftover.
sentence tied
to rhyme. Rhyme
invents capital. Capital
concludes moral equinox.
Stars survive as reminders
of pogrom, pogrom
seems a little
weakness and used.
Ages go.
People spend
as much as they
can, fill
wells with poison,
expect spells
of poison, learn
reason with poison.
Language
barters with
ridiculous. The moon
where so many
acted out grief
has spun from
zone. Pure poem
means dogs, endlessness.
Star Trek owns
the rites.
Enviable spring sunset
continues.
Warm days fray seeds.
Destruction of
outer coat
will serve ramifications.
Swans juggle
terrific
and glow in the
slant of
afternoon. Dreams
intend something.
Objectivism
made up
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E.
Language was
not there all the time
so this was
no surprise. This poem
let history
say so.
Louvre PoShun Numbrow Nein
they gobble them down
& the plate comes back-
freed from apotheosis
~from K. Silem Mohammad's _Hovercraft_ "16"
the desperate man
has escaped in slippers
cape fed through a camera, a projector, some lore
il regarde hors du modèle, mais est un bon commis
capers racked up with a tiny triangulation
what match the view
between the chalk, the sky
the two soft machines
hidden sleeping in the vase
la voie érode la continuation de charogne
tuiles de paix jusqu'à la charrue
de pauvres de baisse de morceaux
acceptation d'essai de volumes
touchée dans les diagrammes bruts
l'eau brûlée d'enveloppe de cascades
comme graine à vendre l'essaim mortuaire de capots
entre les ancres, et les longs
conseils
de plongée
tombent à la pâleur
unreflective pleine de surfaces
maintenant:
polo de cheval de colle avec les oeuf-têtes célèbrespard onnez
le mon taille au couteau les abricots secs
peuvent ressembler à dumpty humpty
The New Hausfraus
This machine churns out the new hausfraus—
perfectly polished, perfectly aproned, perfectly coiffed.
Wigs drip off the rigging and coalesce with unblemished pates
in precisely free-floating shapes. Thanks to a complex system
of invisible wires and pulleys and nailpolish brush sized stakes,
the new hausfraus have inconspicuous strings implanted in their backs,
with shiny ring handles. Pull her string and hear her intone
a clever quip or throaty moan or avant garde thing:
“Oh the rubber calla lilies of my dreams!”
“Put on that band uniform, mister!”
“I’m synaptic, syntactic, and fantastic!”
And flexible, I might add. Aren’t they fabulous?
Almost everything they say ends with an exclamation point
except for the ones whose pulled strings cue
highly sophisticated elevator music
or the perfect soundtrack for baking that juicy pie.
Check out her latticework nightie,
known colloquially as ‘Peekaboo Berry’.
The new hausfraus can change outfits and makeup palettes in three minutes flat.
That model can change diapers behind her back.
That model is a red wine connoisseur AND she’s bilingual.
That model has a textbook knowledge of bondage knots and pressure points.
That model…What? No, that’s nonsense. Nothing ever went wrong
with a safe word switch. We just got some bad press from a creep who was mad
because his hausfrau malfunctioned and kept repeating, “Yum! Yum! Yum!”
like a sugar hiccup even when he bonked her in the head.
I guess she was just too perky and mechanical for his tastes,
but he should have asked for one of the specially trained fetish models.
Look at her. The apron is real black vinyl.
Now you can’t tell me THAT’S Stepford-esque.
The new hausfraus have smooth, toned thighs constructed from the latest high-grade rubber
that feels almost exactly like real flesh. It doesn’t smell at all synthetic, even when it burns.
They come in a variety of trendy candle scents.
Mango is one of our bestsellers. So is Angelfood Cake.
You also get to choose your own accents, hair color, body hair preferences, nipple shape…
Oh, you want a poet hausfrau?
Well, we have a special room for those.
perfectly polished, perfectly aproned, perfectly coiffed.
Wigs drip off the rigging and coalesce with unblemished pates
in precisely free-floating shapes. Thanks to a complex system
of invisible wires and pulleys and nailpolish brush sized stakes,
the new hausfraus have inconspicuous strings implanted in their backs,
with shiny ring handles. Pull her string and hear her intone
a clever quip or throaty moan or avant garde thing:
“Oh the rubber calla lilies of my dreams!”
“Put on that band uniform, mister!”
“I’m synaptic, syntactic, and fantastic!”
And flexible, I might add. Aren’t they fabulous?
Almost everything they say ends with an exclamation point
except for the ones whose pulled strings cue
highly sophisticated elevator music
or the perfect soundtrack for baking that juicy pie.
Check out her latticework nightie,
known colloquially as ‘Peekaboo Berry’.
The new hausfraus can change outfits and makeup palettes in three minutes flat.
That model can change diapers behind her back.
That model is a red wine connoisseur AND she’s bilingual.
That model has a textbook knowledge of bondage knots and pressure points.
That model…What? No, that’s nonsense. Nothing ever went wrong
with a safe word switch. We just got some bad press from a creep who was mad
because his hausfrau malfunctioned and kept repeating, “Yum! Yum! Yum!”
like a sugar hiccup even when he bonked her in the head.
I guess she was just too perky and mechanical for his tastes,
but he should have asked for one of the specially trained fetish models.
Look at her. The apron is real black vinyl.
Now you can’t tell me THAT’S Stepford-esque.
The new hausfraus have smooth, toned thighs constructed from the latest high-grade rubber
that feels almost exactly like real flesh. It doesn’t smell at all synthetic, even when it burns.
They come in a variety of trendy candle scents.
Mango is one of our bestsellers. So is Angelfood Cake.
You also get to choose your own accents, hair color, body hair preferences, nipple shape…
Oh, you want a poet hausfrau?
Well, we have a special room for those.
three
yesterday at noon
every bee was taking lunch
back to the sunset
but didn't he drown?
but wasn't it raining?
.
intimidate
the seam waiting
the sand raining down
taken like an entire wall
.
all I can be is disarmed
all I can be is stupid
endwords Shakespeare 151
"T is for Turd Burglar"
Glial mortmain Atari, garden is.
Taller than the things we cannot love,
Ashheaps of plenty; delicate throes amiss.
My life seems tough as Rubik cubes to prove
At snail crossings where diphthongs betray
And floods amass their waters. Weary treason
Provides. It is an order. Eighth of May
In a truthforsaken year, and still no reason
But pounds dark apothegms, horizons swarthy [thee]
With promise. Now that everything's been pried [pride]
'Life just teems with quiet fun,' wannabe
Shrapnel. In the chores of suicide [side]
A lug nut ricochets beyond recall,
And we lose consciousness surf-sifting infall.
Glial mortmain Atari, garden is.
Taller than the things we cannot love,
Ashheaps of plenty; delicate throes amiss.
My life seems tough as Rubik cubes to prove
At snail crossings where diphthongs betray
And floods amass their waters. Weary treason
Provides. It is an order. Eighth of May
In a truthforsaken year, and still no reason
But pounds dark apothegms, horizons swarthy [thee]
With promise. Now that everything's been pried [pride]
'Life just teems with quiet fun,' wannabe
Shrapnel. In the chores of suicide [side]
A lug nut ricochets beyond recall,
And we lose consciousness surf-sifting infall.
Jai-Lai Latte' For Bottle Nosed Belt-Buckle Polishers
"I aahdm ~pikip~ hidmire ur pincerpals.." [cukfullupthimpkud, "crash"]
Jetty Doone, from _Gorsht, What a Plate of Banana-Lizards, and Studies of
Ancient Bactrian Envelope Art_
sweet buddha
sweet buddha sweet
boop boop tee boo doo da
caco
lorco
orlinoko
soko
epokio
doko
cacao longina
beaver rubber peltate moosi chai
chert verbule probulurscunt my "MY MUDFLAP HEIL"
my mudflab hyle
in mai thai grove
seems sere this ego of your desert world
of your loom speak's salvage yard
could
you say
once
that language is
danger mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm nous
hydro hydra
natural romantic storm flakes petrelling the petroleum
in the naturalist novel
the structure of the character's character determined by its interests
cusk eels
go pink body wiles
dolphin skitter jade toothed totem pole
as ahau i take pleasure in removing your head
you spring beer quaffring jeweled bubbled syntaxis syntaurus
of Bopp beep sweet sweet buddha
sweet buddha sweet
boop boop tee boo doo da
a schitzandroid vine blooms along the street
mechanic lumber jade
of aquatic hermit thrusts
a short fight
in the check-out line
between two fat people
Storms in August
We chatter endlessly, filling voids that only the two of us can see. We drank bottles and bottles of mistrust, hanging our heads out the back windows of your car to rid our heavy bodies of shame. I peeled back the wrapping only to find that the presentation was worth more than the contents. We watched screens telling lies about the world and how it rotates. You were climbing out of my window rambling on about restlessness and the weight of water. My limbs shrink at the joints. I hear my name whispered in songs that are sung in a different language. A quirk of your eyebrow and the sand washes off the beaches to reveal God's hands. Nervous laughter calms my heart as her feet shuffle toward the door. I can hear her breath getting hitched in her throat and my eyes drain of all color. Feathers fall from the sky and the heat ignites them before they hit the ground.
ache the verse
ache the poem
papapapapappapoem an exit to yourself
stage right, he crie[s] to her exist. Sartrean ethics to a love-amour.
shes exalted in her boom-boxy bubby! carried by nave and rave.
sacked by her tent. glabrous eye to his moon. she carry anus
to his trophy. not socked by the weathered yield of pathos.
----------------------------------------------------------
14 yr after. not met infleshdecade gone . love
rousersrosesherodesrosedhim all monthshotlong
tolove's caboose.
----------------
Add Stamp S.VouS PlaIt.
-----------------------------
papapapapappapoem an exit to yourself
stage right, he crie[s] to her exist. Sartrean ethics to a love-amour.
shes exalted in her boom-boxy bubby! carried by nave and rave.
sacked by her tent. glabrous eye to his moon. she carry anus
to his trophy. not socked by the weathered yield of pathos.
----------------------------------------------------------
14 yr after. not met infleshdecade gone . love
rousersrosesherodesrosedhim all monthshotlong
tolove's caboose.
----------------
Add Stamp S.VouS PlaIt.
-----------------------------
in Just Spring discussion
If is only the number, skilled as a swan: number two, which defines the pairing, in a numeral world.
Territory is everything.
The wind as it sashays thru all vision and the very hair of our heads, seems like a way to reach the ocean.
The ocean is a proud number: one.
One is deep as hell, high as sky. Match hell with heaven, give relief by staying rue. True is the sentence when it describes a word. Each word differs. One is part of that.
A strange word strayed wit the swans, paired in three perfect, until death erases. Such faith. We love our love.
Love is a skilled number, breezing across the water. Each water, named by its bound, is same with every other. All together listed and bred.
The swans are various and together, as we watch and as we walk away.
Territory is every, and every other thing. Then love, around the thing, describes a process and journey. Across the water, paddling slowly.
Territory is every number, every swan.
Love is a juncture, with every number, every swan, and every flower added on.
In just spring, that is.
Territory is everything.
The wind as it sashays thru all vision and the very hair of our heads, seems like a way to reach the ocean.
The ocean is a proud number: one.
One is deep as hell, high as sky. Match hell with heaven, give relief by staying rue. True is the sentence when it describes a word. Each word differs. One is part of that.
A strange word strayed wit the swans, paired in three perfect, until death erases. Such faith. We love our love.
Love is a skilled number, breezing across the water. Each water, named by its bound, is same with every other. All together listed and bred.
The swans are various and together, as we watch and as we walk away.
Territory is every, and every other thing. Then love, around the thing, describes a process and journey. Across the water, paddling slowly.
Territory is every number, every swan.
Love is a juncture, with every number, every swan, and every flower added on.
In just spring, that is.
grylle umbilical gems
mater of antichorst studies scabs her unclear numb "Prints on fringes rhizomates & in marks"
the piano's bobbinsilk pipes make it an organ
singular amber 5" gems inhibit Rachel 's phono crystal leaf
through solarRadium
solar amber scarabs reiterate the movement on smaller smaller scales while
larynx of crystal hummingbird turns into stone
phono leaf /alma
light litter
light dung
Comparable Circumstances
Not that one, the one
that shines when you
turn it over. If you are
expecting diamonds,
how can bits of coal
satisfy you?
For unclear reasons,
flashy stars are gems;
what I would give
to stumble on a stone.
that shines when you
turn it over. If you are
expecting diamonds,
how can bits of coal
satisfy you?
For unclear reasons,
flashy stars are gems;
what I would give
to stumble on a stone.
Panthermallet Mullets Gather Radium Mantarays For The Prints Of Fuels
to the newborne antichorst
who comes with a windmill to gruind...
numinous puma
pneuma onus nous-cous
succor uma Pluto
ma Pluto mater alma
all matter puma punther
numb umbilical
noose lose lumen pumice
promise
puma plough
pulled through hummus
humerous summer
plumbed in numinous puma plumage
sing o singular
o lariat o cell phono light
litter iterate oblated bloatings sing a
lung
a long singularity's singed fringes hang
tongs lift the portion's "grylle marks"
this "high 5" for winged phallus touched to leaf dew grasshopper
manticore
studies mouthparts
dreams gryllus of piano mandibles weaving blond windsock
hairless amoeba eyes present their crystal castle scabs
their crystal castle scarabs and crystal castle crabs
lo cudworth
the panther pants in a punty of magma thrillody
wren flutes weaving the bamboo rhizomates
the amber gristle whose whistling larynx cuttleflims swilsh and flimser whishel
flishy grastle the piano eye castle's puma plumage homage
puma grasshopper cows plough through numb plumbing
a single monolung
the basilisk hornsac threaded by a wingplate crochet hummingbird
its tiny luminous bobbin horns releasing the hollow silk flutes played
bye
cherub-headed solar collector leaf hoppers
purse snaps
the grandmother biscuit weevil
rubs ass crack on the calculus of azure loofa antennae
Samurai w/ Southern Belle
Nigirizushi on amorphizz grits patty
fresh fish for my mega blunt thanksgiving o-oiterabbles
Popeye-headed Walrus with
dual Meerschaum pipe tusks tooting
AGAGAGAGAGAGAG
TTTATTCCTCGTGCA
CACGCACACACTTG
CTTGCTGGGGTCGG
AGATGGTCCGTCTG
dice?
who comes with a windmill to gruind...
numinous puma
pneuma onus nous-cous
succor uma Pluto
ma Pluto mater alma
all matter puma punther
numb umbilical
noose lose lumen pumice
promise
puma plough
pulled through hummus
humerous summer
plumbed in numinous puma plumage
sing o singular
o lariat o cell phono light
litter iterate oblated bloatings sing a
lung
a long singularity's singed fringes hang
tongs lift the portion's "grylle marks"
this "high 5" for winged phallus touched to leaf dew grasshopper
manticore
studies mouthparts
dreams gryllus of piano mandibles weaving blond windsock
hairless amoeba eyes present their crystal castle scabs
their crystal castle scarabs and crystal castle crabs
lo cudworth
the panther pants in a punty of magma thrillody
wren flutes weaving the bamboo rhizomates
the amber gristle whose whistling larynx cuttleflims swilsh and flimser whishel
flishy grastle the piano eye castle's puma plumage homage
puma grasshopper cows plough through numb plumbing
a single monolung
the basilisk hornsac threaded by a wingplate crochet hummingbird
its tiny luminous bobbin horns releasing the hollow silk flutes played
bye
cherub-headed solar collector leaf hoppers
purse snaps
the grandmother biscuit weevil
rubs ass crack on the calculus of azure loofa antennae
Samurai w/ Southern Belle
Nigirizushi on amorphizz grits patty
fresh fish for my mega blunt thanksgiving o-oiterabbles
Popeye-headed Walrus with
dual Meerschaum pipe tusks tooting
AGAGAGAGAGAGAG
TTTATTCCTCGTGCA
CACGCACACACTTG
CTTGCTGGGGTCGG
AGATGGTCCGTCTG
dice?
Of Her Heart
From the basement, she examines
her wounds; an old shoe, damp
unread books, the odor of memory
clings to her ribs. She's forgotten
if the moon always hung from
a cord, swings back and forth
when feet upstairs bang
on the boards, or if thunder
leaves cracks in the ceiling,
walls of her heart. She prepares
a letter to her lover, on a bed
she traces with two fingers
words about darkness, heavy
and stilled. Notes of a girl
whose eyes fell out dreaming,
of bones shaken, yet gleaming
swimming through night
like an empty shell; a space
she's saved for believing
surprisingly filled.
her wounds; an old shoe, damp
unread books, the odor of memory
clings to her ribs. She's forgotten
if the moon always hung from
a cord, swings back and forth
when feet upstairs bang
on the boards, or if thunder
leaves cracks in the ceiling,
walls of her heart. She prepares
a letter to her lover, on a bed
she traces with two fingers
words about darkness, heavy
and stilled. Notes of a girl
whose eyes fell out dreaming,
of bones shaken, yet gleaming
swimming through night
like an empty shell; a space
she's saved for believing
surprisingly filled.
WALKING
Les quais. [Fishturn 2007] acryliques, crayons et scotch de bricolage sur papier toilé 42 * 29,6 cm.
N’entretient rien
Ne garde rien
Tourne la tête
Et marche
Juste…Marche
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