Pysanky For Padmas' Poetry # 42


Pysanky For Padmas' Poetry # 40


Pysanky For Padmas' Poetry # 39


Padmas' Poetry 38


For All Things Promised

A new thing comes
from all things: what were
we before they gave us
science?

Wherever we go, there
is conversion; I have
struggled to be what
you had hoped-

simple, free,
immaculate.

Torn from seclusion,
an oyster scraped and
eaten from its jagged shell

leaving only imprint,
outlines of our missing
bodies; I have struggled

not to be what is
missing, but what is
touched and travels.

Afterward, the molecule
unwinds and passes on
its fiery promise.

The Book of Los

th e thunder

the thunder of their god always make you pun
Anti as gone its weight ferries its petunias over lipped cave mirrored sex

inside the window washer of day.laved by lover. hibiscus as any fiery .

inside the windhover's lasher
its lashing cut's against bidden thigh

shes hanging there before your desire
his desire
their desire


O my halo

O my long suffering eyes O my


hang here. a waiting storm. sitted by stir . deleted cowboy. excised the theory of rafter. what was this noted Jack and Jill humming in their foster. Ragmop ragmop ragmop a placed mouth over traveling grandmother over a centenary funeral. read t his knowing his face is yours. the



it's been a lover's vacuole


gauche is not gauche






__________________________________


if the faery wing of their eyes
peacocks spread
the fairest eyes
which hold this
hip
cup
to her fanniest cheeks

O sounds
lyric
in its pendulous
song
her strong breasts
heaved acorn
a sky
intentional
as any wind
farm cropper'
s
broke
lair


this needle
's
borne
desire's name






_______________
throne
special seraphim
as winged it up her eyes
to heavenward groan


_________________










road harem



 =========================================================
                                                                                                                           she  grammar is a baffled laugh in road and haven__ cut from. marred inside a  wheel. mother, out to fending wave. as . roll. not caped. or when eating. say the . many handing. how your hefted noun might catching its ear  went to . its road to e . back again. over . t for tear. care for c. sylvan swan. far won word. over zigzagging  coal. not worn  by a knight and mine. so then. your I speak. Come to  over. Heard her name. In keep to sleep. Alors. fen ,                                                                                                                                bog, mire, must, pissed. splashed over a  vowel. you hold it . you see it. in the body its 'wear' weeps                                                      name . not so with every twitch.  might be Jill's name. its thumb plucked fair see its air around talked left. what? is that dram yer quenched throat, yer dreg of pate? like any snot-nosed simile you've held yer grape of ornament. backed up  nackered by hundred of dotted i's and q's. Q's? oui si! comment on yer hoist 

is                                            treacled in trade gifting her hip. boulevardier of betrayal. alway. chevalier held mister  Quixote'horse. galloped by astrong dirt road  and leaving wings of coarse day in field further hind

The Apostles Spoke In Strange Languages


Magnetic Revelator

Finger Of That Lord That Givest My Art


The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear

page 397-407

Go my wayward son giving brittle birth to the robustious right hands of Gods in their trustabillity that lone once again to hear the music of the poetic voices that once set them falling free to sing out of their hearts about human and divine things the glissandos of speech its scabrous salvation its self-contentment its pitch and its tone once it is heard it is gone once gone it linger not long in the shadowy meaning of its song O go my wayward son to the place where you once belong to the camouflage of the skin you my darker men my brothers in arms look toward the warmth of your sisters that wait upon the soon full moon her messenger you are the sun the gold she the moon silver both to make a whole and birth the willing born God of the corn the light well bright miracle that once swarm to the warm arms of a waiting mother you my brothers are charged with the upkeep of the young you are the sons of an ancient race long have you dwell on this face long your years to come be one with mother earth she have given you your color like no-other you are not mark no vagabond upon the earth that yield its fruits to the working of your hands thou shall not kill thy brother but witness to his high-minded sorrows be mindful of the matter that we are our brother’s keepers I to you and you to me within the isolated orgy of brotherhood that we seek this is the beautiful busting truth live pass your woes the cassation of your knowing of the imperishable knower you are what you perceive yourself to be in the extraordinary singularly self of one with your God made flesh attentive to nature that let life run root riot on the powerful frantic musical landscape of humanity life is always flamingly serious always humble burning itself into a delicious birth of an open chest with its crest of crossed bones and wealth it welcome all to fend for themselves it dare to storm the worthy world with a teeming thrill high in the heaven of the dirt of flesh and blood dancing with no shoes together with the wondrous seven heaven full of the living thrills and the past time left behind by the treasure of pleasure for itself the grandeur of life fight to excite the blood to do as the flesh was born to do it ooze the toil of soil that is never spent bent by the freshness of the newly born dreaming their new life alive the birds in their nests the bees in their hives the worms in the faithful earth the mosquitoes full of my blood the moths flying about the back yard night light the wild rabbits digging holes in the shade of the front yard the child that babble a book of poems the sperm swimming toward an egg all things life find worthy to take their space in the great soup cooked under the sun life runs in the vanity of your veins it waits to be undone by time a fate none can escape the sentimental breath lush to thrush itself to fling and wring to sing your life life is a brush toward death it is all about the servable survivor that carry on the successful genes that have master the riggers of itself like the on rush of a most beautiful Spring blooming young leaves out of an old tree the juice of Spring is everywhere to be seen from the look of low things to the highest of being on the wing the echoing beauty of weeds with their persistent persistency their richness racing to sweeten the earth of life the earth wanting no more then what it gives earth worthy of winning over man who think that he is superior that he is made in the image of a silence God that need man to speak for him when the holy image is all about it is nature herself that did bloom this egotistical creator of the invented heaven as if earth is not enough to hold the living soul this creature that feel threaten by his own death the wind with its skin of moisture man that feel that nature is at his beacon call to use as he wish to the decrement of all this greedy creature that consume more then his rightful share this creator of a jealous God well we know that nature is selfish and rightly so for she have many creatures within the skin of her valorous voluptuous body and the poets sing her exfoliating praise there where the bright light of the air is quite rare at night O lord lady I stroke the heart of an Oak in St. Louis town down by the Mississippi rolling its brown back bone alone its bank of Cottonwoods and Walnut that grows by nature’s will beside the river’s swill its winter waves saved by a frantic choke of ice the Mississippi watery ribbon is woven through the land to dump itself into the gulf of the crescent city the big easy where the Mississippi flows like liquid jazz be bopping broad siding the city bent around it river most beautiful everything about you is sweeping inspiring and I dip my hand into you as a prayer made of flesh and I am blessed by the your watery song lapping at the solemn memory of limestone buff now gone to homes this river runs like a serpent of divided thoughts tamed by dams and locks chopped into pieces to prove that man can not leave well enough alone

Go to where the milk of human kindness is spilled on the field of war where birds nurse their young and ants cross the body of the fallen war of displacement war of obtrusion war of land where blood-oil flow war of brutal rutting war of undulating muscles fit for fighting in the profoundly nameless magic of a pumping heart war of young against the war of the old war of the intoxicated birds drunk on the grapes fermenting on the vine of a magical space that have witness the invention of the wheel when the stone was rolled away from the tomb of an agglutinated incursion into the minute that have lost its future in the hissing and haste legendary moment spent by the open arms of the sun war of the needs of seeds war of the notecase full of the race card war of the fists that exists to do battle war of the flower caught in the hour of the stormy superstition suppurateion war strengthless weightless senseless war that is
Always young among the young that goes near here is the penmanship of war here the fight against the taking of a life the murderous nature of war wrap itself around a borrowed sorrow oppressed by the unrest that will praise thee spot not the will climb not the warring hill the past last of our war shall die out when the supply of youths are gone are done the slaughter of our sons and daughters must cease not increase the birth of peace found in the ground of men’s eyes focus on the bomb filled skies you must say all life is mine thus divine and still the last past blow of a second ago though our name be not the same know that as a rose in time drops its petal as the trees be of one breath with the air as the then men of the now how place their grace above the longing lasting love and the ghostly pain of disdain as the earth worm secretly wild in the earth as the fresh flesh flush with the breath of life as the lighting rod of God confessing to the night as the stress that trod the height as the host that boast of grace in the place of the pulpit and pews as the hands set asunder in the splendor wonder of thunder’s erotic rioted roar as this bless felt dealt to deliver the spring melt river that miss the shore I say to you all is not lost as the moon paint a face in the river as the sun is son of another as the sweat that rain hard down the face its salty flood drip a running pace under the heated breath of the sun and none comes to sheathe the warmth of the worst that burst sweet first storm of the tongue where men’s form is wrung out to dry on the antiquated cloth line of doing time in the wind driven air of a busy spring that sing in the still skill of growth all is not lost some flame their fair faint fame in the same dutiful dusty air of an old bleeding blessing delivered to the flowers with their wanting blasphemy beauty drowned in a sea of warm and cool colors that sweep their keep behind our eyes flowers can be unkind dark as a rock that knock its ride in a land slide the serrated seriated secret knowledge of flowers is kept in their color in the sweet omnipotent odor of their hours longing to entice their bereft life that soon die away to the fruit or seed head of new birth the flower under foot still smell as sweet their bruised brazed strength is radishes by bees buzzing the bountiful bloom bleeding and blistered blind and bloated with sweet odor of the kickshaw kind of kinfolk kissing the narcissism of a narcotic nascent knocking neural nerve words that need the strength of a seed broken beside the staggering stagnant water never absent of life the stagnant balance of breath’s unbending dreams mutilated by the contour of a scream that would if it could sing the fugitive violent insolent splatter of the spasmodic thought blown into the antique visible rhythms enchanted by the free giving breath of trees an ancient thing hail to all that breathe your breath is a blesses thing tied to the trees the glamorous give and talented take of nature forever inventing herself anew in the growth of a blade of grass in the urgency of falling rain in the immortal eye of the sun in the dead skin of the moon in the moving shadow of a tomb where the birds rest at noon in the wind tired from its blowing in the whale’s belly full of plankton and squids in the forbidden fornication of man to man love in the season of the sea in the common command anger of the Gods flank by the volcanic apparition of the surreal in the anarchistic disaster of a hurricane extinguished by the catastrophe aesthetices alphabet of stones thrown by the throat into the muscular music heard by transcribing ears that hears the passive receptive music playing its lubrificating activity strung along the cloth line of a sunny yet windy day

Go pass the Biled As Sudan that have lost its forest and lakes each tree plucked by the hands of the Cushite God each lake drunk by the thirty throat of an Nubian God till all that was left was the burning sand God that have forgotten it own numbing name under the burning hired hands of the sun God that look down upon the working of man and care not that all our doing is inferior in the great scope of things being things on earth God of the ever lasting blessing of the sun God of the trees that know thee God of the seas that throw thee Gods of the springing forward of the self-flattery spring the simmering slumber of the sweating summer the falling back raining leaves of fall and white land locked wonder of winter where the Gods goes rejoicing in the horizon’s triumphant shouts of joy the divine offering of the friends festivals of the Gods the coming forth into the inundated land of God coming forth from thy mother belly as a beatified being of Gods God of the regularity of the underworld where the dead with their right and truth that judge the entering into the waggishness of our weakness and the going out of our stridency of our strength burning in the lake of double fire where the serpent of mankind swallow its tail to tell that the circle of life has no end birth and death do not suffer the pains of the Gods that rule from the throne of double beauty lean and long they keel the wheel to endure the cares of man that drown them wash them away from the bones of a smart heart left along when the truth of youth brawling in the streets of a storm’s weathering the face of a place in the peace of the heart where in the corner there is a land traveled by the island of flame that burns open a distinguished passage established by the way of souls in our lives we know only all that we know the life long knolled knowledge fettered to our soul in the single-sighted vigorousness of language of a infant in the forgotten speech of tomorrow telling its sudden nostalgic memory found in the blonde pawn shop where the second coming waits upon the gravedigger to deliver the enlargement of their absent worm-eaten premeditations under the distance of the sun is to be found the complacencies of a convulsive monsoon of a triangle tenderness of prostitution accepting the coins of silence as payment for service given he disrobe with all the fragile beauty of the architect of an organic orchestration of an orchid he disrobe and violent silence flows from the sensitive intimacy of the blazing motion of his hands for the price paid he is a giving man his sensitive breast harnessed the air where the blood of the sunset rusting to the sea is stalled by the imprint of a river running alone side the self doubt of a virginal sleep that weep the catastrophic sabotage of the judgment of the wind the stone of his heart is alive with the bark of his legs and the moon of his eyes the river of his tongue the roots of his veins the blossom of his spermatic plexus the seeds of his sperms woo him again and again and again for a good time call 555-5555 he is alive within his promontory rolling into the strangler sea muzzled by its needs to be free in the hundred years of contemplating the weight of its bouncy when he weep cup your hands shut to contain the wreckage of his tears drink sea-deep the nakedness notice of the salty flagrant of the harmonies from his eyes then shall you spy the wisdom of the immense far away sky where life unknown knows of its own are we alone are we the highest life that nature can muster in all the bounties of existent poets scientists and priests the trinity must gather together to answer the indicative question of an emphatic excitement that hints at a pseudo-philosophical value of the pious modernity of knowing are we made in the metaphorical image of a rhetorical idea are we singular in our knowledge of the Gods are we plural apart of the paradoxical question of what accomplished life means to be the poet pose these question to be answered throughout the vivid ages that shall come to break the authoritative holy structurally scripture into the pleasure prejudices of an exceptional critical effort of the fragmented garrulous slippery slop of myth making

The Weight of

To sweetness
we are drawn, to pleasure,
dream and death;

it seems unlikely
slaves would cut their wrists
or free themselves from bondage

to fall into the darkness.
O! how freedom, sweet as
honey tempts us!

As Orpheus looked
back, the song he struck
saving sailors from the violence

of a siren's touch,
his wife from Hade's love;
the lure of blackness,

the weight of memory,
the mystery of shadow
proved too much.

Man Run a Race -For David E. Pantton

Exquisite Delicacy

City Life At its Best


The Blue Path Mix-up


Kippers' Tails and Quiver

Albert Scrim (after going quite mad) made a deal with Mister J. L. Haddock to buy his fruits and wares from the man with the tuck-pot under his left-most eye. He bought leaf-kale and cabbage by the fronds, kippers’ tails and eels’ stomach poached in brine and cumin, yesterday’s stale tarts and tortes and pies made from Melba and beetroot quiver. Said Albert Scrim to Mister J. L. Haddock on Main ‘It’s a sad day indeed when a muck runs a fowl and the sky reneges on its promise of rain and cobbler’.

"You want water, you devils?"

TaKinG thE BriM_ TooK thE BrOoM: aristotle had a girl friend she was a drag|contiued in sixthousand parts intermission

TaKinG thE BriM_ TooK thE BrOoM: Your TV

Your TV

I’m turning around I’m doing nothing except rings in my head I’m going round around my mine rings everywhere I don’t know I only know that’s all I’m doing nothing you are stupid to turn empty around the gap like that for nothing only to turn around it’s all I can do to turn around for nothing I’m creating nothing I’m blowing hot air full of hot air in rings all around in ring around me which is used for nothing in me I am going in rings around my head I will have a headache if I continue to turn around like that for nothing for real to hollow out my head where I only find nothing except doing rings I turn around I will vomit if it continues to turn like that I’m vomiting everywhere on the walls in your head I will fill up and throw out everything of nothing I’m doing nothing except turning around and vomiting around my belly I will throw out myself everywhere on the walls and on the floor by sheer force of turning around like that gives the dizziness to turn around I’m vomiting I’m falling in my vomit I’m empty and I’m fallin in my vomit it’s stupid to turn and turn around not to stop to fall flat your head in my vomit you put some everywhere with your feet which are walking in my vomit in my belly you’re crushing my head with your full of vomit feet do something anything fill up your belly of nothing thank you I’m doing nothing I’m turning around lying on the floor I’m thinking about what why do you ask me that for nothing you are stupid to stay here with your feet that gives you some ideas to do stupid things with your feet nothing to do I’m turning around I see anything anymore to turn around without stopping with my feet I’m making some rings in my head with your feet it doesn’t stop anymore to make some rings in your head I’m doing some rings in your head do you like I make some rings in your head are you excited I make some rings in your head like that for nothing to say nothing want you say anything I say nothing I say stupid things
I’m mixing everything in your head you like it in your head you understand nothing about what I’m saying in your headyour little head which is stupid I’m turning around in your head I’m in your head you’re stupid in your head I’m saying anything you are stupid you’re swallowing my anything which is cock-and-bull wich is turning around your head I’m walking in your stupid head I’m your voice in your head which is saying nothing in your head you are fronts your TV your head’s watching the TV you like the TV you watch it everytime you’re eatings fronts your TV your TV is in your head I’m your voice in your belly who’s saying to gorge yourself in front of your TV you will eat your TV you love your TV you’re eating your TV the TV loves you the TV’s swallowing your head look how she loves you she’s sucking your brain oh yeah she really loves you I’m doing nothing you’re doing nothing too only watching your TV which is suking your brain I’m turning around in your head without brain turn around your head fronts your TV which loves you I gorge myself of TV which sucks my brain of nothing I love you I love you you’re empty you’re nothing you’re turning around in my gap of your brain that you’re vomiting everywhere some rings of vomit everywhere in your TV you’re vomiting your brain in your TV in your belly which is turning around in your TV you’re turning around in your TV of empty brain she’s mixing everything in your belly which is watching your TV you’re only watching your TV

aristotle had a girl friend she was a drag|contiued in sixthousand parts intermission

A thousand story in thee naked city . of glom and fom. of shitty vase. con to friend. cut to go. heaty neurose. what is the science of beckon book bulk?

              No connecti ||||||||||||no intended .
hence to hear.yer shizo lap
mere imitator.
boring sap.
get out of my comment. box.
yer dumb.
the words the bitch used. shockingly boring. such kisses ares.old man myrrfee hagging the jungducks. sucha cam. a real cam tart of lit. and packaging.


______________________

aristotle had a girl friend she was a drag|contiued in sixthousand parts intermission

reporter to front gate. really.
leper to the back. oh no st. franciscus here.

_________________________________________________
aristotle had a girl friend. right. you pulling my leg. nah. well what s with the word. boring.is what we say . when all was suede and jdonne. done to a T
. come along cresstext with thee/ not so the winking womb } the beared tooth. oh well, so it go. indeed.
2
--------------------------------

to this there were merry others. coxcombing the breaker. not so the merry widow.
3______________________________________________________________is goodbye
then the righting of the pore.
_____________________________________
each free coffee is a fate's dime. this here is the comment sextion.
we have hundreds of gmails proving her guilt!~
he was her collusion . in merry muck they sang.jerked as swans over geese. she was ____ he was ____. she was something and so was she. they had other thing.
she called one.

we went to beauty parlour.
O baby yer hair yer hair! that marcelled part was so cute!
so fab!
yer a reel jacky in that outfit you bitch!
her teeth fall out. she spittles on her baby.
she was amother carrying his cunttext next to her breast text.
____________________________________4
No Shit! Duffy! - one writes this"Dear Cliffy, I am so so sorry ...."
this was before she came. we came. then in her lab. in her labemail.
she was
phonetically cute. a hIPocrIte.she liked it up the arse. sometimes.
no codes she say! no cods! no condoms. and she only what was somewheres between
24 and 34 ripe for the dreaded you know what! so she sent me dirty mails.
then smart one. oh she was good. wan as any pillbox. she had brushhair. and corinthian teeth. really an old bag disguised & gussied up to appear as "an angel!"
she was a whore in ahot toddy. we were friends. she came over for coffee.left her
female at the door.her unpeeled shin and skin was razor sharp. she came on my mouth.

aleper to boot. a real disease walking box she was. he was. he was she was.
next in line: alcholic covered in sandpaper. other one fanatic to change world.
broke off, cause she think its like marriage. never told either of them

i was homotextual or bitextual to go. he saw she ontically ill.late one night speaking tooloud she farted into the vase. of Love!
___________________________________
_______________
her true love is a redblooded cheese shade between her thighs.
has roses for timber. deathheads lined up in her cape.
_________________________




absurdity's come in many colours:velour, velvet, damp yellow, moxy red, true green.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
ferget not yer labels, mister phon Etiquette.
________________________
Comment: this is brilliant yer so smart. I cant get over it. wont you publish with us?Oh come on please ! we're begging you! please Mrs D can you send an attachment with the stamped and holy critical words of a certain Quckfungyouman of the United States of Schizophrenia! poste toute de suite! ok!
Please. yer the greatest things since the atomic bomb!
we want to fuck yer text right over the counter!
we got grants
we got fellowships!
we got fellatio!
we got residence!
we got sex!
we got all kinda shite dude. due to you deus absconditus. you can be famous!


_________________
email forty one: my husband is no good in bed ,c liffy and I am uptight
paranoid.
what do I do?


have faith meet me friday we fix it quick. meantime read the first two act of Richard 3rd .
dig?
she loved this word.


O cliffy yer so neat. like rocks without drinks!
or something like that. you know me.i get wet in the ass thinking of our dirty sex life
.

come for me.
naturally he did. authorial license. poetic first class. she was trash. he knew it. owned a quick fix it camera. shined on her falldown baloney filled arse. smelled as shit to loose leaves. not burg

U owe me a sorry! she was sorry to be proud in her mouth filled ego.dime store gob. card varicose vein. her proud pinch arse . was polyglottal to boot.if you can keep track.

___________
sheepish ring thing be I. as yer versicles are choice word. i am yer slave. as ever far mile to gloom death . bre ath to brea th .

The Swarming

Not what weaves the goat's hair, sheep or
orange rugs singing on their looms, but magnificent
strings of night embroidered into darkness
mixed with light surrounds us.

To make, to creature-ing alive, alive; O they
will skip and dance enchanted tunes! Be so
hurriedly announced, derived from madness
comes the mad, delirious troupe.

What fire-crazed tribe, what mouth of cave
whose entrance glimmers proud yet punctual
like moon? Whose hearts reflect gold toned
shades of evening like a shining mirror?

May I remark, a scribe, a bolting deer
how sweetly I admire from the shadows
what I hear- the sound of herb, white
feathered birds rising in swarm.

Just Deep Enough

For love, in ways of planting: seeds,
gloves, a hole just deep enough
to coat the husked tight bodice.

A wary eye kept sleepless, trained
in science, schedules chronicled
and followed; the wakened sprout,

frail green, lengthened threads
a burden on its troubled lover.
Chance, devotion: walking through

a garden, purpled, pulling vines
laddered to a thoughtless sky whose
education- light, a bird, a weeping cloud

and nothing else.

((((( la naissance du monde ,

 


thierrytillier

To Laurie Anderson

I Summon Thee From Thy Father's House


lichen poem

Right Angled Angles and Taxonomy

Archimedean angles curtsey crossways across the geodesic plane. They do so for no other reason that that is what they’re suppose to do (they’re raison de entrée no’s) Most if not all angles angle at angles in angulations to right-angled angles, they do so for a variety of off-kilter reasons (or raisons de non-no’s). I once met a man who had such an angulated forehead that it sloped into his ear-sockets, each empanelment creating its own ungulate which in turn re-angulated to the power of 227 ½ . I have no empirical evidence for this, but suffice it so say I saw it with my own espies. Lesson two will concern itself with the Romulus rhomboid, a self-regulating millinery measure used by taxonomists, shoeblacks and algebraic savants.

The Burden

I am confident. I don't need
your symbolisms: a severely damaged
heart, a sick tree, wilting or rotting

there is nothing left but to be courageous.

The accidental cause shattering the stoic
bone, the bright, white light receding
like a burning fume, punishes only those

who least expect it. I will not grieve for

what was meant to be; I will resist it.
Just now, the poplar leaves wrestled from
their fragile stems, all but doomed, twist

and turn, flying in the autumn winds.
Psychiatric Folly

I am seeds I told the meds traitor. Still he forced his minions to force the psychiatric folly into my blood. Then the pale imbecile disappeared to infect another flower.

Sacred Hinges

Night, quiet mist
Once, I heard a song
that lifted heart like this:

notes the sound of
sleeping, sweetness.

When silvered stones
gleam like horse's eyes
pausing under moonlit pines:

the weightless-ness of
light is captured, briefly.

River, liquid black
a dream I've had where
instinct loses reason:

we learn the speed of
darkness in our blindness.

Rose, unfolding organ
I've given to the poor, the thankless
words of comfort, open hands:

attracting moths, a flame betrays
the beauty of its brilliance.