invisiblenotes
pumpkin may feel misunderstood today no matter what pumpkin say.
pumpkin can often convince others that pumpkin point of view is valid,
but now pumpkin emotions are charged up, making pumpkin vulnerable.
It's possible that someone close to pumpkin is shunning pumpkin plan.
Nevertheless, try to hold on to one point of view just long enough
for pumpkin friends or coworkers to understand what pumpkin're feeling.
pumpkin constancy will help ease the tension
pumpkin can often convince others that pumpkin point of view is valid,
but now pumpkin emotions are charged up, making pumpkin vulnerable.
It's possible that someone close to pumpkin is shunning pumpkin plan.
Nevertheless, try to hold on to one point of view just long enough
for pumpkin friends or coworkers to understand what pumpkin're feeling.
pumpkin constancy will help ease the tension
Yanni, yoni / ruination
1
Yanni
stole the yoni
after Lindsay Lohan
kifed the lingam.
‘Yearn and eke’
the pandit advised,
but only when that yen
flaked off the diamond pie . . .
When you could watch it
the synesthesia seemed
a little closer to the eye —
when you couldn't follow
it was a trick.
He said, ‘Give the Greek man
half a try, dragged
like a dream,
drunk like a wreck.’
Your nails nibbled
in the pattern of linoleum;
your eyes lining
the grass with games.
2
r u i n a t i o n
rhy me norcal
un der dest
inspir ation eave
no- how tpe
acces sion nurse
ti me earap
incre ase sens
overwh elming irm
nas cence tatie
8/29/07
Yanni
stole the yoni
after Lindsay Lohan
kifed the lingam.
‘Yearn and eke’
the pandit advised,
but only when that yen
flaked off the diamond pie . . .
When you could watch it
the synesthesia seemed
a little closer to the eye —
when you couldn't follow
it was a trick.
He said, ‘Give the Greek man
half a try, dragged
like a dream,
drunk like a wreck.’
Your nails nibbled
in the pattern of linoleum;
your eyes lining
the grass with games.
2
r u i n a t i o n
rhy me norcal
un der dest
inspir ation eave
no- how tpe
acces sion nurse
ti me earap
incre ase sens
overwh elming irm
nas cence tatie
8/29/07
Eric the Killer Whale handler
When we lost Shamu
in the firestorm
Eric was (understandably)
inconsolable.
The other specialists
sang him to sleep
most nights, or gave
him foot massages.
Only rarely was his
insomnia abated.
And Eric had once been
such a happy-go-lucky
handler, no circles
under his eyes,
smile on his lips,
perfect rows of
teeth, only ate
raw fish when
no one was looking.
Now Eric swims
in slow circles
in his tank
mourning with
pathetic chirps
and clicks, splash
ing, occasionally.
"I can't. I can't. I shall."
|
mashup of broadcast from De Concertzender
with audio from Geert Dekkers' online journal
Black Man Black Man
Black man black man
What is the color of your skin
Is your hair bushes or thin
What kind of sex do you let in
What’s the sex you hope to win
What church do you defend
Black man high yellow or dirty red
What is the secret of your bed
What God do you keep safe in your head
What sex is the body under your bedspread
Do you like white or corn bread
Are you low or highbred
Are you a coke or pothead
Is the knowledge of your sex widespread
Are you purebred and well read
What sex smolder in your hotbed
What sex is your Godhead
Who recline upon your daybed
Do you love the smell of foreskin
Dose it bring you to a wide grin
Do you consider all black folks your kin
What sex do you trade in
What send you into a tail spin
Black man black man
Do you follow the Koran
Do you tan black man
To whom are you akin
Is it the tribe of the buckskin
Is your skin thick or thin
Hard as iron or soft as tin
Black man can you let me in
It is your heart that I hope to win
What is the color of your skin
Is your hair bushes or thin
What kind of sex do you let in
What’s the sex you hope to win
What church do you defend
Black man high yellow or dirty red
What is the secret of your bed
What God do you keep safe in your head
What sex is the body under your bedspread
Do you like white or corn bread
Are you low or highbred
Are you a coke or pothead
Is the knowledge of your sex widespread
Are you purebred and well read
What sex smolder in your hotbed
What sex is your Godhead
Who recline upon your daybed
Do you love the smell of foreskin
Dose it bring you to a wide grin
Do you consider all black folks your kin
What sex do you trade in
What send you into a tail spin
Black man black man
Do you follow the Koran
Do you tan black man
To whom are you akin
Is it the tribe of the buckskin
Is your skin thick or thin
Hard as iron or soft as tin
Black man can you let me in
It is your heart that I hope to win
Sleeping in Winter
Where I came from: outlined
in flames, beautiful
orange-steel cooled in
mother's milk. Open-mouthed
and trusting, circles
of motion and color.
Who I am presently: now
white-chaos, blind, restless,
lived in; traveling
in terror. Making stories
so quickly like wounds
in a car collision.
What I will be: black-rotted,
wood-flesh, collapsed, condensed,
unreal. Earth, hair, bones, nails.
Soil soaked memories. Tree roots
sleeping in winter.
in flames, beautiful
orange-steel cooled in
mother's milk. Open-mouthed
and trusting, circles
of motion and color.
Who I am presently: now
white-chaos, blind, restless,
lived in; traveling
in terror. Making stories
so quickly like wounds
in a car collision.
What I will be: black-rotted,
wood-flesh, collapsed, condensed,
unreal. Earth, hair, bones, nails.
Soil soaked memories. Tree roots
sleeping in winter.
The Instinct of Dream
This late heart,
heavy, salty, wet
and smooth as moonlight
glowing on the silvered
pines, has managed to survive
its foolish passions once or
twice. At night, the lake
becomes an ocean
in its sleep;
who am I
to contradict
its reverie?
Secretly, the black snake
glides into the water's bed
and dreams it is a butterfly
spotted red winged
dancing on each flower
like a summer zephyr.
Somewhere in a brambled
bush, the sparrow prays
for sunlit skies; the mole
beneath the clotted earth
imagines sight; this heart
of late, heavy, salty, wet
Making it to the next Day
As one day slips between the sheets
Another jumps towards the future
With little more than hope
At hand
Since fall stumbles
Upon our restless leaves
The colours of my imaginary autumn
Climb the branches
Of the unfortunate grasp
That seasons have upon my fate
Where we are ready for a last take
guimond - 29 oct.07
spunktualization
The Crisis of ThisThe Absence of That
The Death and the Resurrection
Soft diffuse, filaments trail, hazy caressed. Billowing sheets flirt, hung out, patina, cyphers fall to hollows of memory. Nebulous evaporations, beads, nape of neck, facets flickering. Razor blue, vapour dissolve, a prescient gaze sharpened at the source, cupped in hands, iron, scabs of rust bubble, flake enamel, fragile, lusts in penumbra, shadows dissected fall fused corporeal, breathe, sidereal dust gliding, slips to chaos. Diamonds cut in emerald canopy, sonorous whispers, calm in sibilant static, smoothed....
Japanese Song
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³°¤Î¡Ö7 Floors of Hell¡×¤Ç·ëº§¼°¤
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ÀÍÕ¤òÆɤ߾夲¤¿¡£
Tightly Measured
The splinter goes in,
deep; without malice,
mountains wittled away
by the weight of rain.
Bones were made
for breaking; the heart
a billion tightly measured
seizures-
then, just as storms
grow weak and drained
without the winds to whip
its blood through light-filled
veins...
stops beating.
"Silence", said the sky
with all its cold stars
dreaming, "consider the sea
as all its shimmering
melts to green and grey".
wrknon
u3al los intereses del company ・de Abdul
del ula como ese Dlisted 兒子la 麥納6.a. 。| - [ los
n3umeros de la paginaci3on la hab3ian provisto que el de
再減少我的注視, 並且它太黑暗的以至於不能看她的面孔。我將... 坐直
雖然它 太黑暗的以至於不能看, 我感到如我染黑外 面
tendo o problema satisfer a seus obsessions simultâneos com os
dispositivos elétricos claros decorativos
しかし栄光日、三星に背部... 突然来たスmas a data da reputação,
atrás da seção... essa é interessado
sem *****veio você para ele o espaço do trabalho à volta a Sa
nxing
na casa como que a noite de 6a. é estas películas médias.
aquelas
eram quase a mensagem a não punctuate para descarregar-seタジオは帰
宅していたの夜はだったこれらの映画の1 つはう。それはほとんどブリップを作らなかった
having trouble satisfying lamp simultaneous obsessions with
leech creatures theore || at 03:54 pm in movie || where is the night the う
isfying lva risultato
Night of the Creeps - Wikipe
NIGHT OF THE CREEPS is the ultimate in bad horror. RATING: **** out of 4. Posted by The Absolute Horror Crew on February 22, 2006 at 03:54 PM in Movie ...
poem
"The Poem That Solves Nothing Must Not Be Written"
In days to come, when you will have no choice,
remember those who did, and chose awry.
Some rivers will not bear their crossing twice
and so it was with us. In our employ
the things we made grew tyrannous; our dreams,
most tyrannous of all. Our only scripture
said: More. This passing frail and lowly creature
soon stood on fire-forged towers with brash contempt's
incendiary resistlessness. The tungsten
nights held no escape. Each new extinction
we tallied as a gain. Without compunction
we measured out the earth for arm and piston;
it was mercy that we met our nemesis.
Post-modern Pregnancy
Well. What is the goddamn term for the space and time in your consciousness when you carefully weigh in whatever you wish to say when you enter a post-modern party; Yeah like the ipod or Bluetooth what is this exclusive moment of our times - one is from Fiji and someone is from some town in Netherlands with so many js and so many ks , all together or in a queue that you cant even think of pronouncing it properly even when you are most sober; then someone is a blonde, so no blonde jokes, someone’s dad is an accountant ; and then someone could be a Tory or a Jew ; someone is always a Malayali; someone just broke up, someone is going out with Greek girl, someone who pronounces schedule as the Americans do, someone in a loss, gorgeous looking Muslim women who always make you wonder if they drink or not and there is always someone who has seen a documentary on channel four and believes people would be killed in India if they don’t agree for arranged marriage; yes, there is always an ex addict, and people with disagreeing views on charity or American foreign policy, there is always the covert communist of course, and a feminist with whom you end up arguing after a few drinks because you asked her if the feminists get the headache too? and a geek boy who knows by rote all the frames of all the David Lean Movie; there are left-handers invariably - so you don’t wanna offend their sensibilities too.
Between walking in and knowing the composition of the revellers, the post-modern mind has to register and process so much global information and make sure it comes across as politically correct and sensible for everyone in the motley crew. So its about time we had a term ?
Overnight in the Overnight Sanitarium
That night overnight in the sanitarium the man overnight in the asylum developed a raking cough the likes of which the manager of the overnight sanitarium had never ever seen. They tried giving him a cough-suppressant but he continue to cough, they applied a warm facecloth to his throat but the coughing prevailed. Finally, after no little propitiation, they managed to arrest his coughing with a menthol lozenge and a tinctures’ worth of Fruit Smack.
The man in the asylum overnight was making notes for God. He felt it his job (much more than a simple avocation) to take notes for God, describing in great detail, and with as much perspicuity as he could muster, what was happening in earth, the realm that existed outside the godly realm. He scribbled notes into a child’s exercise book with a pencil, making sure to date each entry at the top of the page. For example: October 28th nineteen-seventy-seven (he preferred writing out the numerals, as it gave them a stately more important look), Doctor Ballista gave Smith a shot of Thomasine to calm his jitters, followed with an ice-bath, a Smack Fruit enema and a Librium suppository.
Smith responded poorly, his eyes turning into the back of his head, his legs jimmying like crazy; then he fell to the floor and bumped his head on the wingtip of Doctor Ballista’s shoe. The head nurse and the orderly Ackers then enacted The Hymn of the Pearl (also Hymn of the Soul, Hymn of the Robe of Glory or Hymn of Judas Thomas the Apostle) which Akers recited in the original Syriac. When Smith was slow to respond to the divine being’s message which came by way of a revealer (Doctor Owens, doctor Ballista’s assistant, a task generally ascribed to Jesus) the head nurse prescribed insulin-shock and a mild apagogic.
The man in the asylum overnight was making notes for God. He felt it his job (much more than a simple avocation) to take notes for God, describing in great detail, and with as much perspicuity as he could muster, what was happening in earth, the realm that existed outside the godly realm. He scribbled notes into a child’s exercise book with a pencil, making sure to date each entry at the top of the page. For example: October 28th nineteen-seventy-seven (he preferred writing out the numerals, as it gave them a stately more important look), Doctor Ballista gave Smith a shot of Thomasine to calm his jitters, followed with an ice-bath, a Smack Fruit enema and a Librium suppository.
Smith responded poorly, his eyes turning into the back of his head, his legs jimmying like crazy; then he fell to the floor and bumped his head on the wingtip of Doctor Ballista’s shoe. The head nurse and the orderly Ackers then enacted The Hymn of the Pearl (also Hymn of the Soul, Hymn of the Robe of Glory or Hymn of Judas Thomas the Apostle) which Akers recited in the original Syriac. When Smith was slow to respond to the divine being’s message which came by way of a revealer (Doctor Owens, doctor Ballista’s assistant, a task generally ascribed to Jesus) the head nurse prescribed insulin-shock and a mild apagogic.
cosmosis
now you
voidstrider
light:
chaos-wringer
dipping
tippling
on cutty sparks
of now-ledge
windsperse
semes or semen
wordroam
the desert:
drenched in you
sand, silt, clay
i
alluvial of no soil
unshore this day—
*
voidstrider
light:
chaos-wringer
dipping
tippling
on cutty sparks
of now-ledge
windsperse
semes or semen
wordroam
the desert:
drenched in you
sand, silt, clay
i
alluvial of no soil
unshore this day—
*
Motel Life
I am painting my nails a violent red,
waiting for Harry to come cursing
through the motel room door,
shirt out, hair too greasy,
mouth snarling like a beat up cadillac.
I am blowing on my fingers,
listening for that comforting sound
of the key in the lock before he lurches in,
tosses his jacket, stalks the refrigerator
for the last dregs of milk.
But the truth is, I don't even know any Americans.
Least, none with eyes that glint like Harry's,
and I'm not painting my nails in some neon-lit room.
I'm sat up late at my computer, watching icons
stagger about the screen like drunken cats.
Waiting for something to happen.
Back in that motel room, things are kicking off.
Harry's turned psycho, lost his memory;
he's tearing up dollar bills by the bathroom door.
His eyes look like they've been wired
to the walls' many loose electrical sockets.
Here on the bed, feet curled beneath me,
nipples poking out from under my sheer green vest,
all pink and hard like cats' noses,
I remember my pledge.
Time to split this joint, blow this town, make for the border.
That'd be all well and good
if I knew where the border was,
or indeed
what fucking country
I am meant to be living in.
waiting for Harry to come cursing
through the motel room door,
shirt out, hair too greasy,
mouth snarling like a beat up cadillac.
I am blowing on my fingers,
listening for that comforting sound
of the key in the lock before he lurches in,
tosses his jacket, stalks the refrigerator
for the last dregs of milk.
But the truth is, I don't even know any Americans.
Least, none with eyes that glint like Harry's,
and I'm not painting my nails in some neon-lit room.
I'm sat up late at my computer, watching icons
stagger about the screen like drunken cats.
Waiting for something to happen.
Back in that motel room, things are kicking off.
Harry's turned psycho, lost his memory;
he's tearing up dollar bills by the bathroom door.
His eyes look like they've been wired
to the walls' many loose electrical sockets.
Here on the bed, feet curled beneath me,
nipples poking out from under my sheer green vest,
all pink and hard like cats' noses,
I remember my pledge.
Time to split this joint, blow this town, make for the border.
That'd be all well and good
if I knew where the border was,
or indeed
what fucking country
I am meant to be living in.
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