taking the brim took the broom: 2007-06-03

Archive Fever_ Bacon and Egg

Archive fevor_ fever clos'e'd four finger nOW it work

ok Mister Dare to Lou's pad ofwhich head it's start Empty Archive.
Return later. Of pressed and glove _darling around
your between .
Capital One_ euro dollar. Im in Paris this day. Yer
ipsilence is terrific . How yer heel s appear erotically tame_d
from this angle, in our doublebed fantasy.

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

Fantastically twisting
she say
read my hip

Hmmmmmmmmm her intwined
rayon _ smile his pay

_________

A floatable moth
carry wing to chop chop the soothe sin
silk Sin ? lover dove?
what thin_whipped sin
you speak?

______

Here in Tangier. Find. Wheel.

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

report: archive temp. ferme. dig Monsieur?
-------
Telephone call: yes, flying down demain.

-------

Hang up! Bacon and egg diaper optic.

-------
return yer isplace.

---

Your Nature

Silver-speckled trail
of snails or birds.

The way grass sprouts
thin and green.

The dying rose browning
to its edges, leaning

on its stem.

Night prowling in on
furry paws, its sharp

teeth gnashing; at last
defiant towards its gender

dons its glowing yellow gown
each and every morning.

And then, there is your body,
lit up with an inner flame,

to which all moths or women
trust themselves again, again

even as you burn them.

Outside Decency

do you live outside decency?
where maggots salvage
and serpents sabotage
I saw you wearing rage
whenever I collected bliss
you giggled like a nuke
when I bombed out like a leper
and how burns your skeleton closet
that seeds your hate?
we could hitch to that strange strange country
to swap lives and bones.

underdone

I’m only guessing,
but it seems likely
that if you rush an ant you end up with half-baked hills

Familiar Flame (And Recognizing A New One)

Your secret thoughts, I thought I knew
like hands (ever) attached to ends of wrist,
your hands like hammers or flowers stapled
to their stems (depending on your mood)

The road behind our house, they've changed it
with steel machines, flagged deflectors; every
footstep you ever left there after rains
will never guide me to the canyons.

On warmer evenings, moths appear, I think
I know them too. How familiar light, the tempting
flames that blind you, make you mindless
of nothing else but beauty.

In time, the hillside blooms, each bud lit up
like stars across the shadowed valley,
the dazzle of their lives remind me
of what I've yet to find.

I See France

So the sad, thin white-skinned bird
was jailed. Had it ever seen blood
or a late-paid bill or a hungry dog?

All its twinkling pinks of fur,
see-through silks, faux feathers
could not redeem it now.

What voiceless fowl-screeching
peacock cries for mother while
shitting in its gold-lined nest?

LES LAMES SOEURS

Aujourd’hui sur la terre
S’écrasent des histoires d’amour
Et les badauds tout autour
En dérobent des clichés éphémères

Aujourd’hui du ciel
Tombent des poupées désenchantées
Et leurs fous tout accrochés
A des parapluies de polichinelles

Aujourd’hui des étoiles
S’évaporent en scintillant
Les fragiles sentiments
Dont les cœurs se dévoilent

Aujourd’hui du néant
Surgissent des douleurs
Sur nos corps voltigeants
Et nos destins amputés

portrait of marilyn manson as a young man

grotesquely convincing mobscene

artists boundaries stop in front of gauguin ....

manson with challenging modes / manson a symbol

adopted vivi-sex word like a connelly on the history of the grotesque /

de kooning

disregarded / too many many para-noir

albums encapsulate main gogh, ma gogh

grotesque

alternate sacrilegends: the gloominati= succession of golden polkes /hundreds of polkes

a scabaret

humanities essays beyond postgrotesque double-meanings...

coining van Delacroix, in ,

and willem references push their sci(l)ence to the Ruskin vodevil of interdisciplinary scholarly social grotesque...

marilyn.... mildly...

a DNA cocaingel

helpdesk memo

I've requested it to be restored. Be patient. Things should be back to normal soon.

BBBBBB patient. restored.
be failed be jobs. I've archived Things
has resulted to dataset Be it requested
it back normal
should many
The soon. to and normal Be
was patient. requested it soon.
many BBBBBB

The Things should jobs. back restored.
has archived failed and dataset to be I've resulted it to be

requested restored. be normal. patient. I've it be to soon. should
requested it be be to soon. restored. normal patient. I've should
requested it be I've should be to soon. restored. normal patient.
it be soon. should normal patient
be normal it soon. patient.
be soon. normal it.

The dataset has been restored.
Your program should not fail any more.

Saml Rosenstock

CHONGQING - Walk to Work

CHONGQING
Walk to Work
paul conneally & kevin ryan 2007

Paul Conneally asked artist Kevin Ryan to map out his normal route to work in Loughborough UK as a series of LEFTS RIGHTS and STRAIGHTS and to then transpose this journey to Chongqing in China - where Kev was visiting on a British Council funded visit exploring the sharing of approaches to art - and do some work where ever he ended up.

So one morning Kev set of to 'walk to work' in Chongqing on reaching his 'work destination' Kev went about photographing the area doing about 2 hours work. Click on the image below to take you to Chongqing 'Walk to Work' slide show:

This is the first piece coming out of 'Walk to Work' more pieces will follow as walks are gathered from around the world and transposed to different parts of the world. A major new 'Walk to Work' piece 'Invigilator' with artist Nikki Pugh is currently in process.

Spun Under

Use your lowest voice and say, dawn is spinning. This tests your word, inside the act of being on the grey tilled field, your friend of time. The moonish crops feature greener than mayhem starts, and figure to survive. You throw birds to pinkish points, saying song as metre, and the day begins. You have begun before. Earlier mornings were drenched in the unsettling, spiced by venture and out you went (familiar ode). Throngs of colour met you, tied to birds and the ramble of critters far away. Your lowest voice seems perfect, quiet, only a point of interest. Interest makes morning. Your wish invents a day. You distance day from thought, fields are green, skies blue, and when the sun explodes, more arrives. More of something if not nothing. Nothing is great, as inverted something. Something is where we place the tides, and watch. Watch the change in everything, into the morning that came after night. Debate some virtue of being in this word, that word, even other words, broached as units joined in some cause. The cause came brightly to this morning, then faded out of ken. A new morning accurately dawned. This brilliant exegesis strains the edges of grey, yet we cherish the inkling and skid. See, you stopped, with your lowest voice, to say just the same something in this place in time. Namely dawn, spinning, and you were awake.

one hundred strokes of the brush before bed

This
fictional
teenager, written
chronicles
Whether
hands of a
lover
writes
numb
people
who treat me like
rage,
I'm no different.

K __ to .. third take

K __ used to claim

first thought best

[Valery the slightest erasure is
a violation of spontaneity]
violet of votive violin
the supreme vaulted cathedral
booming forth the work of hand and day.
... well..I'm not certain on that works ...

is love on first sight, sex second day?

sex! whoah! down boy!oR uPBoy!

.she worked each second as if first.
only biography. as if leveling off meant
anything. she becoming boogie-woogie.
she worked near pope's residence, telephoning
him weekends. when she could.motored to the
fob hotel. ya dig?dig digdigdigdigdigdgdgdgdrilldrilldrilldriiilllllll
rockdrilldrockrillrockthis.rockthisonthisrockdigdg?.
unearth. its apple orchard. falled on Wedekind. Notyour
style of hip magnitutde. Riding the boat to the storm. And the hair
of the wool: roughing called eternity's ...
crumpled vase. Cast the last Theban that grieving' feeble.
Over art and other manufactured.

II

Her name was simple theory
and his was particularly practice.
Perfect practice became pure theory,
their exercises meaning less and less.

III

In a world of commodities this meant,
object relations replaced biographies
of real people in unreel space speaking
of time ~~

She came to see him with her beauty.

She was beauty as it was known
before the "old world" fell off
(beveled or otherwise)
the tympanum known

as space and time.

Her lover traveled off the square end
of the world.

She caught up
"in time" and 'in time'

came to his knees.

she said, baby o baby I looked for you
for a helluva a long time. You dig?
she hugged his loneliness.

Time for tea. he winced.

Lovers are odd-
balls doing funny things

at awkward times.

=========
Nota: no enjambments where none intended ~
||||

Duffy that was yer third kick at the "can". was
cinema born? were kettles brown, black and blue?
Were sheep dismayed at rutting of fuck?
does Hercules keep his Jove at jock?
.
Them goddess hurl the wicked Cygnus.
fat aeroplane flop on bobbed mountain pool.

Not too long when I was off having coffee
one
night, was approached by a gangling
poetaster a certain Read _ gawky reading
of his own bad text led him to compulsive
repetitive rhyme | he compelled
me with lures of bad beverage
to read his "sheaves of stolen hedge"
sauntering in and out of delirium
I read the work with hopelessly
bored attentions. What can I say?
his stuff was her stuff?
was it stuff ? does a weak
poet's misreading of his work
force it to attack the greater man's work

Do the little always attack the strong?
Was Nietzsche correct when he suggested it's the strong
that need protection?

-------------------------
Is this a convection wing? Daughter of fright. Yer thigh. resemble
a sheet of horned. comeback. Easy to say . Go there. She would
they'd see. The tree lne then. But was royal to her see. Franny was "franchement". The pushed seal wait. Of the naughty crack on .

She was hair to her castle. Not see to her. Wait. As the knight cranked.
Up the street car.

Jill become Jill over Fanny's Fuh. As it was the librarian.
She is taller for good. Sexu
al as librium's stropped
down tree. No is to as 'that' saw tooth gulley. Any verb can
Jona becomes Janny is not complex cookery.

Janny was
schizoanalytic neck. Her bumped had creamed the coring way
of unforeseen glen. Verifcation require. Bumped around land.
What is land that you lord ? I excuse the paid of capital..

It's getting leery.

Lets schizophrenize the text. add text ual url to its piece
its breathing in out your lungs liver breath as zipping
cliname hurt the weaker trope. clumped by flippant decor
....

The Book in Which I Found You

You wrote "my souls,

three of them

have not spoken

in years."

Secretly,

they've learned

to live on wine

and beer

and a few

well-memorized

excuses.

I read

your book,

about forgetting,

splitting, that life

is burning

inside a space

no bigger than

your skull.

You said,

"a guest in a room,

a fatherless boy,

the wounded luxery

of a corpse

are masterpieces."

Your third voice,

the one that wrote:

"my souls

are yours"

told me where

to find you.

come to life like this : June Third

only one story—no

only this means survival—no

(Ken called and said, “the bad part about survival is that it has to come to an end”)

my health chest blossoms
with Dr. Manifold’s
chemical wisdom

every one a voice and many, many

bold moves for
childish minds

the radical spirits have
their own ways and
I have mine

ink is my own home
ink is my own soul

ink in the eggs and
ink in the morning

butter and the wet
paper from the rainy street

an hour under that tree
and you will read the palms of Eternity

searchers out of the
hat out of statement

and the stele pierc’d through with younger intentions

at the stage the light

of immanence a sudden
fortune that resolves

like smoke on rivers of simile

angustus arboris vitae

the sudden shock
of all hidden implications

pulled open in one

two-dimensional map
and no one can read it,

let alone fold it

Duchamp, where is thy compass?
Borges, thy harpoon?

after trust goes the ink runs dry
and Sophia says

there goes the watchman

and the sacerdos there
goes Yankee Doodle and the new follower

of Aleister Crowley

the center does not hold
unless you have faith in its folds

mythopoesis—who you looking at?

you’re an American you dope you make up your own myths with them up
after the last turkey’s been bagged at the hunt—

no one can put a finger on
your belief system,

the struggle with the
bends in the Tree of Life

and what are Wyndham Lewis
and Joseph Campbell doing

here, out of the graveyard and kicking rocks

in search of Joyce, in all this fog? who reads
this cloying bullshit anymore?

an you grow like a rhizome,

the gnomic dictates of your
philosophy die stillborn

at the last truckstop before Boron, CA

1.618.033.988.749.894.848

,.,,,.,,,.,,,.,,,.,,,.,,,

Dry Sky

The Eleventh Canticle

http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/leibniz-mind/

In the eleventh canticle of Dante’s furnace lie the ambulatory and infirmed and a guy named Omar who sells Persian rugs. He, Omar, figured he could make a solid living selling rugs, and in the process ply his trade as a tarot card reader. There was one particularly corpulent friar, a short-order cook on the upside of the furnace, who liked smelts broiled in lemon and garlic, scallops and cruet skillet-fried in fennel and allspice. The eleventh canticle penitents’ wished they were tenth canticle penitents’ so they could have one of those monad-windows that Leibniz so raved about. The friar-cook pilfered Omar’s tarot cards, hiding them in his laundry basket where he stowed his soiled aprons and surplices, and bribed Leibniz for a window-seat, offering to fry him up smelts and scallops, in fennel, allspice and cumin, of course, and listen to him wax on about algebra and vectors and not being able to see clearly out his window.

question for all brimmers

as we age - you, me, s/he - and that the years go by so very fast, how important is the factor of age, of aging, in yr writing/living.

is it important/not important in determining yr poetics and the practice of poetry. how you read other poets.

can you [k]night 2

[k]night_ 2 Night is always our best ~ friend night yes night. As sweet as air or tender as her chin ~ .

-------------------------------------
BeComings B.W. O Later we're going to discuss this one ~ the idea of becomings.
-----------------------------

"we're not sure what ugliness is and beauty."
------------------------

l'amour A friend ~ une ami très delicate _ m'envoyez cette phrase "Ils se sont tellement aimés que la mort a reculé d'une heure pour les laissés passer" de Yvon Le men, un poète... francais......

_________________________

Someone Said ~

Some one said you were a lover
as night wore day its patches a brilliant red
.

Not armor or suited clay,
but soft to touch,
was an idea, as these tones
don't fit with mandrakes and solo artists,

Heating the broke ruin of space
or that one she hurt the

rift it cut solo
grouped into potholes
rafting a ship down-stream
death rattle to her hoary self

None hears the language ___. When she sleeps.
When you
it carries over . To
me . In
the bed of sleep. Not daytime's anymore,
but folks broken tambour,
melody in death.

Anger took her god, hurling us
from the combined spot,
the behind of her anger,
kicking back the blue,
the Buick which was ours.

Never a lover's thought, she struck out.

Later in the street we met
face to face, she broke down
admitting she was wrong,
sobbing I was her best friend,

ending it all on a comma
.

Not close to bed

she hollowed her spring

piffed language hoax and trickery

power's game under her skirt.

Now my neck is sore with being wrong.

Her wrongheadedness ended our song.

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

You have been many desire machine. Your body line beauty. Not the great alienation ~ or the sweet whisker of song. But the trite notice of its rapture.

Desire machine work when they break. Body machine?
immanence of flux _ not so easy on line
de fuites.

as the pope has seen this wrong.
we are pseudo light to name.

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

I don't know if it's summer time where you live,
beloved air settles on your hair like a crescent. A lover
light smiling. Taking _ testing this spring
turning summer or harvest moon lapping later
.
when once we spring the heart
o how it slip and skip
between the grammar of thing
and word

rule as a dinner bell rings

you are tired lover.

this voice speaks your name.

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

All poems're paroled A favorite phrase ~ A darling phrase, as language is the being which speaks. Favoritely when lover speak. An inward soul which is woman,
talks back through the man's body.

When night becomes dawn, become s ~ .

I still dont qutie have the hang of posting __ no pun intended _ here.

But for me writing is everywhere.

So make the magic, then Monsieur, and love your lovers.

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

later
Sooner or later we grew tired of the literalism of fools ~ .

You stepped out in to raw air, wired by the thought
of our bolding . A stressin' sister to this love .

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

naturally

Naturally they were envious
of your beauty
I was jealous of your ugliness
.

I knew its raw taste
pert in the hour of its trading off.
Hungry for your punishment
my own was a skin
before astonishment
sick prayers for the dead who did not raise bending their spoon, my cheap verses, were lazy straws in the wind, a mere hand-job in the greater crowd. But they were a start, eh love? they got us going, and we knew poetry was ugly
at hours like this, the source of our death,
not prettiness, but the scream of our bodies
bones howled by death in the orgasm of the trees.

Coming you came I came a cameo of loss
between eyes second birth
Berthed between your thighs, I knew this.

Breath to berth.

--------------------
Wld this?

Wld this be our first flower love
beat pulse witch as it felt right across the case of your skin?

as it stirred the hour pressing leaves against your face

you rescued me then as I sipped the
taste of you heart against head
as mine was hard as stock
darker than mules
and

I prayed for your vision then
your body fair before my own
broken on the wheel of its karma
the long let down let
in its far wheel before town

.

Lover breath wore its heart
elbow out

pressed into you

impressed into I.

Language a word then
some philosopher's dime
tossed off .

Well you took me then piecemeal and whole
whole piece-meal food of your love
bouquet of your broken_ness
I've not forgotten this
I've not forsaken

its hipness . Neither by rivers or cities
busing town to town
looking for your body
your yoga your prayer.

Lover was the secret slip of the hour.

Every time you imagined it,
I did too .

I did ~~ .

So ~ then ~ .

---------------------------------------------------
Some one said you were a lover
as night wore day its patches a brilliant red
.

Not armor or suited clay,
but something soft to the touch,
was a good idea, as these hard tones
don't fit with mandrakes and solo artists,

Heating the broke ruin of space
or that one she hurt the

rift it cut solo then grouped into potholes
rafting a ship down stream death rattle to her hoary self.

None hears the language speak. When she sleeps. When you sleep
it carries over . To me . In the bed of sleep. Not daytime's reverie,
but folks broken tambour, its melody deep in the heart of death.
But anger took her god, hurling us far from the combined spot,
the behind of her anger, kicking back the blue,
the buick which was ours.

Never a lover's thought, she struck out.

Later in the street when we met
face to face, she broke down admitting she was wrong,
sobbing I was her best friend,

ending it all on a comma

not near to bed

she hollowed her spring

piffed language hoax and trickery

power's game under her skirt.

Now my neck is sore with being wrong.

Her wrongheadedness ended our song.

Objet Petit a

for Lacan

You say collage construction

as collage and montage are part of art
so they are element of poetry.
the art of juxtaposition is what
theorizes the deaf tones between things,

__ as intervals link the spaces between lover's pauses.

when rause was cause to open your tiller
you knew it was time
time to open your hips ~~~ ____
So Myrna swirled from crisp ears of a touch
a glance a day away __

Had Mona known this in her heyday she'd be a millionaire of monnaie.
as it stand, she is the whipporill of trite saving accounts sanctified
by Owl, Swans, Baking Soda, Red Tooth Paste. Theophanic
strutting , hammer beams and sexual construction.

Should her dominant buttock hang as this
each every night Lord knows what dominations
she'd tend. to her flake vermillion trender.
Not series-ed by the full dose of her pecking strength.

Mona stuck the back of wellfed to kern
its kite a long ways off from Bronze woman &
her gold.

Sacking the mediums
as a wished for thief and concertina player
hoved the four wind aside abiding her contracting
self abay.

our schizoanalytic prose makes merry.

Too Many Mummies

Francisco Bizarro
would hand the candied, gel-
filled lozenge to
Atlguapom

and bid hymn

chew

chew
through flamenco butchery propellors
to pure labyrinth (from chaorduress)

too pure labyrinth
wavering in frames of chewing gum

wave erroring
in cascading determinations
away from the originary and empty fluid

silli putti

error become a royal drug

"the navigator's drug"

a chewing gum of circuitry

tree trying
try tree

the grain which grows magically

sheaves of action figure
in the shield

a gooey mu lassis
which never heels

snake vassal capes float like carpets
to the geney's layer

coral digital murk mirth
flowing hair

now to sample our own dna for use in houses
to grow our own augmentalies
elegant transparent memory louses

like a wig of video ticks
drugged in reverse
parallel processing heaven

to earth
i bequeathe this breath bread
mana to leaven

worth its goal
or gaol now splitting

what the earth needs is a bizarre conqueror
of if just a story

Francisco Bizarro
rejecting S Pain
and uniting all under the banner of pleasure

who gives it
to a candy dish doom
what samples they think courteous

or if at all a river

grace unequalled is
stupid perfection

old stone
charging
the light's

brag oud
brigandage
brigade
brogundy

a jaw
do you imagine
these tribes
relinquishing tattoo

for a peace
of chewing gum

Pose-Idlin' Phanero Inqa
Comes Down to U
from Future
"tense"
Feathered Zeppelin Pyramids hover
clustered with vamp-ire mantabirds
signalling w/ modified cuttle dialect

his mummy-boddy butchered
and used as game peaces
by the square faced Minious
of Opinioose

plastic mouse heads
make pig noises' gumbo

Old Phanero Mummy
you sing grandly
in your mummy sweaters
of colored vampire bat wool

i married my systerm
the earth
though she was not worth much
anymore
after too manny mu

does that signifiy the 'other'

par t went nuts?

this part of your body is dead.

,

Greensleeves (metastasis)

From a desire to melt,
she walked her body
into fire. Do you admire

the reckless? The damned,
who damn themselves?

Would you hide
a self-inflicted wound
though it defined you?

If my bed was an ocean
of blood, would you
swim in it?

What coat of white
shines colder than light,
whose bones chew through

delight like pain?

Who, but my lady
Greensleeves.

The Swan

We are evenly matched,
sky, sea, gray-est cloud;

all your colors
uncover me.

Silence, the shade
of lust surrounds us,

destroys us.

The swan, deceived
by geography swims

to a furthest point,
drowns gracefully-

all its silvered
feathers

screaming.

Grass and Lions

I shrink from ushers,

straw baskets on a pole

moving down the worship line.

A five dollar bill will not

absolve my sins;

my throbbing knees

can barely hold

me humble.

I'm not as sad

as you because

my heart is a hole

filled with grass

and trees and lions,

the things God

made for free.

come to life like this : June Third

only one story—no

only this means survival—no

(Ken called and said, “the bad part about survival is that it has to come to an end”)

my health chest blossoms
with Dr. Manifold’s
chemical wisdom

every one a voice and many, many

bold moves for
childish minds

the radical spirits have
their own ways and
I have mine

ink is my own home
ink is my own soul

ink in the eggs and
ink in the morning

butter and the wet
paper from the rainy street

an hour under that tree
and you will read the
palms of Eternity

searchers out of the
hat out of statement

and the stele pierc’d
through with
younger intentions

at the stage the light

of immanence a sudden
fortune that resolves

like smoke on rivers of simile

angustus arboris vitae

the sudden shock
of all hidden implications

pulled open in one

two-dimensional map
and no one can read it,

let alone fold it

Duchamp, where is thy compass?
Borges, thy harpoon?

after trust goes the ink runs dry
and Sophia says

there goes the watchman

and the sacerdos there
goes Yankee Doodle
and the new follower

of Aleister Crowley

the center does not hold
unless you have faith
in its folds

mythopoesis—who you looking at?

you’re an American you dope you make up your own myths with them up after
the last turkey’s been bagged at the hunt—

no one can put a finger on
your belief system,

the struggle with the
bends in the Tree of Life

and what are Wyndham Lewis
and Joseph Campbell doing

here, out of the graveyard
and kicking rocks

in search of Joyce, in all this
fog? who reads

this cloying bullshit anymore?

an you grow like a rhizome,
the gnomic dictates of your

philosophy die stillborn at

the last truckstop before
Boron, CA

Morgan More Organ, Pipe Adam Passenger Pigeon Eve


gene a sys
         stems
form
  the garde anon
                of
e-den

reason lace a kudzoo

kazoo amazon

the kosmon angler's lantern cave

/
how we suppose its garden to arrive

furos
the conduit
of green fire o'erarching
the dark soil companionion

brain will hoe
hoof grow wing
antler buttering minstrel

face is a terrace

a teratological race

or like the sac of the testi

nomos and physis struggle
one dragging the other
and vice as verse
us
remains

remainder in token
entokening

networked assemblies

the afterglow beginning construction
for dance
engender dance

Here be more erbes 
Fynter fanter and ffetter foe

something i remember from 
this vol vulgate vulgare skin life

"drunken kung fu"

or the way the ASML scanner would meander
in a seemingly irrational scrawl
not using the traditional Boustrophedonic

as if the uncanny conjoinder of series
look a spirit write

uncanny the argus
namely "garden of eden"

sampling something from [beneathe] the
\score of the RNA world's lemming tooth,

how [hand]
does it hand itself over
to the authro oralities

sunglasses cuffed to its
very weak head

virus mirror ball burnt

HEME
looks like an ivory TOE

something at Babylon
a hanging garden

now the Amazon,
a question

using only triskelion of shrubbery
to imply the happier sides of process

something of versaille
and something of an old kentucky pharm

very old

mast 
spilling
or split in different wheys

the cyber dream
or the empty patchwork delta
of food, "the experiment"

how we all see strings between the elbows
or laws as scissors

nomophysis

physinomos

will you accept an old story in masks

frames are possible anywere

and all that
this poem 
about my brand new pair
of Van's slip-ons

a little cowboy cartoon
cosmic squire books
looking at the stars

ftars

bizarre cacti statuary helmets

' Blash

"Blash Monday"

kissing the mark · with a song and a tourniquet
hell with a view · lithe demons to furnish it
none of us knows · in the back rooms we whisper it

morning crowds in · and supplies all the anodyne
hearts defecate · from Golgotha a valentine
probably soon · on the airwaves denial reigns

warfare provides · as insanity scintillates
civility ebbs · each illusion disintegrates
all that remains · is the habit of purchasing

Tableau Eukaryotekne'

===================================

Quesnay and Leontief as electron frosted butterflies on
lapis laptop synthaur mi!-mi!-o-volution the ave'
gad fly rowing numb, errorless ticket tape the pro
tea ohm zigguratification mouse padding the planchette
the scanning bed upon which hard copies toil in
rna's bank plate shoji house, golden necktooth astronaut,
centaur astronaut in paisley garden hosery, whose crystalline
oculust head halos a sensory octupussy, ramjet physiocradles
rocking through waves symbolic of an underlined caricatourism,
an italic lionization of those visages of multipenetration the
angelic victim hung in the strings of the harp like a cartoon
in a cheese slicing arkestra, sun ra gesturing from atop a geyser
of blue bananas in an amorphous observitory the diaphonous
video squid skull balloon house of tekne' and logos brought to
you by fitness, the indicator whose indication needles the nautili
siccum, sachem, sichamores, shache' shuggoth anti-oedipus
pro-sphinx hell-fire club, our robotic fungus mix tape worn like
a red badge of courage in the discos and jails of the known world.

============================

and I am all these things…
a hall of mirrors, or a silent beast moving through the black night, a tangle, a spinning top, an empty space, a flight downstairs, a gypsy’s kiss, the unthreaded needle, untrodden snow, whispering, chatter, a pair of closed eyes, simple rest, wretched prayer, tumbling, tattered, born anew, pretty girl, small boy-woman, two shoes in the hallway, wrinkled brow, belly-ache, song, dream, failing will, shocking, true, terrible, false, little and soaring, scorching all the pathways, brave, a picture in your mind, blessed, cursed, holding a blanket, naked, tossed around, asleep, sparkling, dazed, drowning, helping, bewitched, summer in my veins, filled with dread, steeped in sorrow, red, flame red…white like the devil’s kiss…

I am you. I am nothing you think I am. I wear scarves and I cry from my stomach when I lose the ones I love. Charming, fumbling, alive, driven, silly, cowardly, blaming, idiotic. I don’t remember colours or directions. I don’t notice moved furniture. I like soup and old films because they remind me of when I was little and watched them with Mum. I try to regret nothing. I probably regret a lot. I resent people. I can be scary. I generally feel inadequate in the world. I always thought I’d fallen from a far off planet. I used to run in the rain. I wish I could drive. I feel the loss of my mother, of what she was. I adapt and like to hear her laugh. I love dancing. Most of all I want to sing songs that have burst from beyond. I am an insomniac in temperament, born with fear. I dislike loud people. I wish I could drink Earl Grey tea all day long. The sight of cakes makes me light up like a Christmas tree. I am touched by the erotic. I hate logical description. I feel things a lot. I dwell on details of horror in the world. I am obsessive. I fall, fall, fall, I am full of blood and yearning. I mourn the loss of the romantic dream and I will never give in to the crippling numbness that sometimes beckons me… I try…try again...lose...win… and I am all these things…

cheddar bunny collage

no one

no one left this 'you'-- Sex Mona style. As was her pen to trooping bird. Or
cylindrical ~left her split hemisphere to close nape. Of the replay.
test patterns
of the eperson

here and there___||ligature to your colander~ duck waving||

hawks came flyin finding
lifting ringin bells of
your dismay what cluttered
the ancient day
racking the source of its up-pent play

fictive cameo was Mona's personafictation
of smiling rose
rosed lilac petunia scented hours of vivid

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

Jill's alway known her face was previsaged in embryoyo land with
bad banding in background.As was sailed to any anglo-saxon .

When entering exit the simultaneous way.

The Portrait

The day hardened with each sigh.
Something old returned,
something new was forgotten.

Finally, we had reason to be still:
leaning on our tiny secrets
like they were soon to escape us.

you're really a writer ....

~~

hold this

Hold this love
beside your mouth ~ ,

You_She ~

She_ you ___~~ used to say ~ go to bed. Then kept me there. Waiting for that haphazard hour to go by. Then it'd start. When the ringing began. Again begin, genesis. Of the eye. ~~ Then our , lust ` .

rains

I hope it rains. It does. It rain as you breath. There then. Not so now. Walking. Over there. The breath caught back. Walking over there. The silver speech of her breath. I cannot see. You cannot hear. What was that? Pardon me sir. You almost . Came to fell. As dizzy it was. Hocus-pocus? Magic fox . Of feat and acrobat. Stare into the sky of her beginning.

2

The recurrence of word[s]. Cut the speech transform text.

they want lust.
beauty. what is lust? what's the scent. of lust around your arms your arms her.

Her around your arm. Dizzy. Not so. Was could. Not came. Into the breathe.

Spell a verb backward. Catch the rain as it breast the sky. Inside the broken knee of yer heart. Ok. Hyperbole. Of the wished for landing. In her . Not there. In here. As when. See again.

Really

You're really a writer. When you heart stop beating. By the river. As it go. Then what? well it seemed all day. Waiting. Not by day not by night . In Dublin town in a phone booth. Whispered the narrow ridge of night. Repeating it_self as your body died.

Can you hear no none?

Love stinks the attic.

Montreal. Back to the avenue. Where nothing is heard. The city narrows . Goblin haunted arrow ways. Imagination creeps on the thing.

Agape ? shores in the ruin. At the temple. we sat waiting. She emerged . As they say. Back to the saunter. Forget that.

Mont-Royal wind blowing along Park avenue. Sudden forest of trees in my eyes. Night has lifted her shingles. My body goes. Departed. Dear beloved.

Cut now this text. Wait. I'm not talking about texts, but about territories. Deterritorialized. Realized. As the promise of your eyes. In this obscure love.

Arm flung in the wind. A
long Park avenue to the terrace on St. Denis. provincial city, it

s become. Ebb and flow of mouths.

Is it time to leave? holding your hands in my mouth?

I've felt your ribs last night. Harbinger of the felt.
Steal into my mouth , love.

There's only blooms, blossom, as your sex cross. remembering the brain the mind.

dizzy spell as [we] love, as we're making love ~ .

That time in the what. is coming round the road.

An encounter to your ||| choices.

All yours, yours your s.

cowboywestern

Cowboy western photomontage CLifford Duffy

iCe CrEAm

to wave to hold her fairing she was winning in the hour. coming toher seat. wanting to hear her hurt. knowing it was panitng. saying its seeding.

as was its hurting. misery. not a remedy to remember . her hunger carried on she was fictioned to her postillion her pitted labyrinth there were the woe. as it was to her same. not a snail face to reckon her paling.

in [our sleep you speak gaelic |as lingwagge of hart. not fumble by febbleainglish
---------------
Texting charm . texting 'le text[e]. la le ? le la? le lalalala? O vos fenêtres sont fermes et tu a oubliée ...
send __ return your hips __ send _ come home to our space of living swarm our body __ send send send send send. Volume video.

treat posting as ungoing scroll ~ screed of breath to take and chant
mister van vliet sick these day. in old poetics ensemble I.O.G. we did recordings influenced by Beefheart sound combine element idea of sound with vocal. indeed. upload digitals. this years. Nietzsche's Daughter was more formal classical so called modern but that stem to changed its metamorphoisis near end. time was performance and text performance something assholes dont know. ran into old guitarist other day. forgot how small town is . nervous anxious lost look in thei rface after these years of not see. strange. small town. glad i dont live t here any longer.

OOOOOOO

'm not a rock star. I'm a soft person. I'm not a clock."

interview with

____________________________________________________________________

of wish to placid foal

not so

haze the air
anytime you crime.
didnt know letter.
baked.her bread.
as escape. toward twin.
held the weeping love. in her arm.
-----------------> sometime the full moon is a ship filled with light. creation proceed from death marching on.

made this a while go back. image is some classic sufi and so are the text words. which are fine contoured words around the line of love and becoming________________

As Rabi'a says:
In love, nothing exists between breast and Breast.
Speech is born out of longing,
True description from the real taste.
The one who tastes, knows;
The one who explains, lies.
How can you describe the true form of Something
In whose presence you are blotted out?
And in whose being you still exist?
And who lives as a sign for your journey?

_______________________________________________________________

'Sign' your message ~ .
Sign as noun signifier as flag 's'h''ip' wich closecontain... wel we wont say calendar clandestine

as wonhairdthehairofitsclockedoverghareditswonder\wandered by Liffey . founding yer face. love. I am not anglo saxon Knot American Canadian knot seagoing other of Nord Amerique... but yer gaelic heels were working you down as yer who am I came crashing through...we left the old house... AROUND that city of voice /accent Iw as swished on the bedding sound no longer inferior before the British French English of Canada and its Quebecs and it no longer interest me . What'e'er me was was a gone thing of past and praying on the hill near howth I become something other. well other howth south was I. She in her marrying self married I.
in irish style verb contracted I backward. in her taving telling. round the awled. where cowled kells wore. not worried bt flowed as we was. our fiction the superior date to love.its many fate.

LE PENITENT

Mon cauchemar m’offre un royaume de cendres
D’hommes et femmes qui se distraient à gémir
Sur la croix de bois tendre
Dans les flammes impérieuses du désir
Gibier plumé et front qui saigne
Je suis l’enfant Judas galeux
Crachant son venin douloureux
Quand les lumières de gloire s’éteignent

Le temps se fige sur des chairs qui s’enlisent
Je bois l’eau des larmes exquises
Aux yeux des anges impuissants
Je suis l’enfant Judas tranchant
Pas d’honneur dans ce monde ci
Pas d’éclat ici bas
Que viandes déçues dans la nuit
Que douleurs, fièvres et trépas

Mon cauchemar m’offre un royaume de cendres
Où la main de l’ombre s’étend
Quand la chair aime à se fendre
Devant les masques éclatants
Je suis l’enfant Judas galeux
Illégitime de part le sang
Plus misérable que piteux
Reconnu traître de tous les cieux

Quand les corps s’abandonnent au vide
Perdus, fragiles et frémissants
Aux yeux du démon titubant
Je suis l’enfant Judas putride
Aspirant à son ultime rédemption
Devant les anges écartelés
Visages saignant de tout sillons
Colères, rages et luxures enlacés.

re_verso verso

Normally? naturally 'its only fiction which work:when you write I. this hap. Pen
is flighter than S'word .rite its own stock. ||||
____________________________________________
Now another handy question to ask is: do lovers stink?

2 well epigrams being what they are one can only wonder.

3 pause between break. open the sleeve . the pelf. fled to him. over dale, country, telephone exchange, between capitalism, and communism, between grey gray, green water, humus feather.

Say the bed . [say the worse]Open. Sesame. Appear the lover's body.Sought for. She was not. The hunch-backette! More ugly. Was he. Inside the pen. Of his stinky poo. Not a lover's mere pen he. She walked. his . Long the aisle. returned to the "old country." She damped her thumb sampling his oils. Was that a sagacious hour, of his fa[i]r, skin, h eris fair silence? This she levitated to his. Her astral . Knotted in the lover's hoop. his window pane. Like any gathering mist. Up the slide wind. Sneak 'round the cone. Not the coconut, the green cone gyroscope of time . Again hefted him to her-her. Lovers. dichotomy ~~ .

diacrone.
metanoia as
her Mona was crackers to her settle sea-salt |

Mona hat | Jill Hath.
Franny had hadding to willkin dower.