after a long hiatus a new spoken word from yours truly. calamity souls


these things will be answered for
the shadow of a suicide
the sound made by a pavement powersaw
bashful manticore

i'm going to let all fifty eight hundred demons
out of my closet

there will be no air to breathe save
the smoke of sheer survival
these things will be answered for
not that the rain turned against us

wee footnote

Deleuze and Guattari said in a wee footFeleuze and cuattari said in a wee footnoteeleuze anuatri said in a wee footnote::
thisishihisisthismichelline? tire of working girl
13. On courtly love, and its radical immanence rejecting both religious transcendence and hedonist exteriority, see Rene Nelli, L'erotique des troubadours (Paris: Union Generate d'Editions, 1974), in particular, vol. 1, pp. 267, 316,358, and 370, and vol. 2, pp. 47, 53, and 75. (Also vol. l, p. 128: one of the major differences between chivalric love and courtly love is that for "knights the valor by which one merits love is always external to love," whereas in the system of courtly love, the test is essentially internal to love; war valor is replaced by "senti­mental heroism." This is a mutation in the war machine .)

Poetry is a way of life.

Make yer own bloody body without organs.
We are difference engineers, ok?
And So we sang, of Love hit or missed. Us gallant schizo knights of infinite leave , our faith trotting the stalwart rider of the moon, and the sybilline s`s.

all my words are on parole.

U mean Patrol right?..

Harry Potter and the Abortion Battlefield

wearing chia
apophatic langpo
trapdoor of Shadrach
Durkin's Attack
cataphatic langpo

Puppet post it



Dr. Fire in Hell

Dr. Fire ate the house Innatrist.

He the sad specialist unfurling

dreadlocks and routine pismire

loppenflocks. You the sour mash,

you the rashy extension: expiate

my dog with your own regicide.

Ge björnen mat, Richard. Vasty

are thy abbatoirs, no telos to

lose one’s way in. Side-by-side

with dragons of mischance,

their breath thawing white Pop-

pyseed bagEls. Clomp clomp

across the room, upon the slats

the platform prompting lapse.

To the heartfelt serpent’s longing,

the asp is only rapacious when

his bite if felt this close, this close.

English for “wish” is not “gyro.”

I steal rest from old wives’ pockets.

Early Release from Debtor's Prison

Galaxina · annex
Stalag · xenocide
genome · omertà
conceptual · poetry

Grammatical Jiggery

(...rotten swine heard her beaming with brim and rigor, holding, as she was, to the rake-side-hilt of a mortise and peddle. Not one to be caught in a kafuffle, maidenhead heady with midways and middling’s. The harridan’s sister assonated every word she spoke, a grammatical jiggery that created its own...).

Je chill...

ON last fM

All your
Can't save
You from

Just taking instruction

Scouts are Cancelled (the movie) is now $2.99 US that is $2.89 CAD. A steal. Friggen Rights.
The CD isn't as cheap as that its ten dollars but it has fifteen poems or something like that.

Nuff of that, watch for the Moon In June on 27th in London.
With Tim Wells and Roddy Lumsden and a bunch of others.
Just arsing around.

Sympathy for the Republicans

into the Secret's secret
Saddam crowdsourcing Tarkus

pale crowds shall rush the aegis
a HyperMart under siege

dogcart of the taant dugongs
who zigged when they should of zagged


The generacist creates new models / new modes of wanting / of reflection and cannibalism / new surfaces and body shapes for the woman / the man / the car loaded with perfected plugged in offspring / sliding plastic and effortless comfort / listening to the counter agent being translated whilst frolicking in the ergonomic pool of proposed nutrients / nubile and watched / numbers appear promising closeness / love / the love / I’m a war human person / the virus that numbs my world / small / naïve / distended with dystopian happiness and duvets that only function / never drown / make dreams more febrile / anxious sweat / repetitions / splay smooth legged midget women / clothes that shouldn’t be there / then waking defecation through the conscious anus / to enter again into totalitarianless being / informed / awake and without death / dull / alive / decaffeinated / mobilizing for the third instalment of machine leaps / of depopulisation and feelings of being wanted / of useful / to kill / take motto’s seriously / how brilliant and efficient the macdonalds / perhaps with a revolution a world could be fed / meat / bread / potatoes / fat / sugar / salt / perfect / ss uniforms should be the generacists norm in each franchise / if only because I love…
Killing Time

Why kill time
when sweet dreams beckon?

Why chase the day into twilight?

Why prognosticate?

Why be awakened
to be mortal?

The Garden of the Debt-Suicides

(via 90percenttrue dot com)

to West Carcosa
to West Carcosa
to West Carcosa
to West Carcosa

Jungle fantasy

in reply to m duff




Life Is Many Days

The sound of the surf is steadier than me.
I am a fit of starts and stops; present
and just barely distinguished with a look.
I am the foam on the sea, no restful design.
All things are broked and retracing the same routes.
Crashing or caring, all the objects are tagged.
Each label instructs the stranger on ways
to taper their impressions of nullity.
There is no call to let one piece of trash
roll back to sea before another.
All the pieces of discarded times tumble beneath
the surface of debris and fall roughed up on the beach.

I am a voice that can't compete with the winds.
I shout to see if I can over-sound the ocean.
There's only room for one of us on this beach,
and I see you have a reservation,
a favorite table has been set at your reach.
I hear you pounding on the sides of my head.
I can't be present like you: one day you come,
the next day you go: I love you for your indifference.
Can I be your steady?
Can I steal your heart from a king you honour.
Proteus dressed in a suit of blubber,
if only to find heat and warmth
despite the fact that I have lost interest in your purposes.

The trail of clouds obstructs my mentor.
The sun has been available today,
to those that made the trip outside,
to bake or broil beneath the cosmic furnace.
I have no call to doubt that the clouds
depend more on me than I thought possible.
They get their character from my imagination.
They are easy to describe to the winds.
Each gust tallied each thought upwards and away.
Even further for the Bards lusting after the waves wakes.
That last thought was a lie; if not for these misconceptions
I would have no cause to doubt that all this life is but a dream.
Life is many days, this too will end.


This much
Is true:
The clock
Is ticking.

Invest in Cancer Makeup

when the rain
has flayed you clean you'll
banzu fa le musycei
you will know
in West Carcosa
recombinant pastiche
exploring door runs
puffy love
Bose antelope foiled scratched caved haze darkness

engineer, stymied, cherrytop
rip this holey knight
homestead my blind spot will ya
a shining gloom
charcoal alluring depraved
tiny inkjet
pigeon pulling blind
vengeance vs. revenge

purpose driven nation
whill i still know
and the sky
sky is clear


I am humiliated
She flowers on the floor
Playing hot belly
Under fall willows,
With the chemotherapy of a sea horse,

I’ll die strangled
Skating on cement,
When all men suffer from the virgin
And that the hospital visits are over
In the seizure of fractions.

Poem by Denis Vanier
Translation- dguimond


Who is this God Fellow
And what’s the reason why
Did he murder the last poet
When he thought to cry
Who is this God Fellow
And what’s the reason why
Dose he never leave the gated community
Of his heaven in the sky.
Who is this God fellow
And what is his gig
It seems to me that he and his priest
Got the whole damn thing rigged
Is he a prince or a pauper a pusher or a pimp
That dose his jealous thing reveal
To me while I smoke a bit of hemp.
Who is this God fellow
Is he married to human by the power of a prayer
And why is it that he should even care
Who is this God fellow and what’s the reason why
Did he murder the last poet when he thought to cry
Who is this God fellow and why are his blessings to live
Only by the hands of priest that are stingy to give
Who the reason and what’s the reason why
That a small rain should collect the corner of his eyes.

Mackerel Skies

Mackerel skies
while we wait to see
if this democracy

can be salvaged

Prates and Sissies

Look at me I’m a chancy cunt kipped someone you the reader have never met. ...wee rook at me...fee’s mad in th’ed...crazee cunt…sweep the upside-down, skip yip you lousy cunt...look at mea I’m a lowbrow lousy cunt… …prate sissies the lot of you, not a tosspot to toss in... The shamble leg man recalled the whore’s glove he found quiffed into a ball underneath the green park bench. He recalled the swell smell and the double-stitching stitching. That day a moorhen meddled across the lane, a lettuce-crisp banknote in its beak.

The moorhen hen had a Bilbao Pais Vasco sac in its beak, makers of sweet-corn treats (tatuaje cangrejo) and silly spoons. ‘…silly little cunt’ thought the man ‘…and not a dovecot to piss in’. This is a strange place indeed; full to middling with strange things, people, dogs, hens, pullets and baby prams stuffed to the crowbars with red-russet-red cheeked babies. Babies in crowbar prams with jiggley eyes (pathologic nystagmus: a form of involuntary
eye movement. It is characterized by alternating smooth pursuit in one direction and saccadic movement in the other direction) and babies with bowlegs (Osteomalacia) and pap-teats cone-flattened to fit neatly beneath pushup bras.
Summer arrives;
Another season
I'm not prepared

Woodcocks and Chesterfield’s

A woodcock scurried sideways across the earthy brown black earth, the ground scuttling beneath its tiny misshapen bird’s feet. At exactly 3:45am the woodcock crippled crossways across the now wet brown black earth, the rainy rain having lain a blemished on the once earthy brown black earth, the once-earth the woodcock scurry-scurried across sideways crippledly. ‘I feel sickly ill’ said the woodcock with a chirp and a twitter, his neb cloistered with wet brown black earthy earth. A blindfolded chessplayer skulked sulkingly across the blacktop black, his hat cupped (like an egg-cup cup) in the outstretched palm of his handy hand. ‘Twitter chirp twitter chirp chirp’ said the woodcock cockily. The blindfolded halfblind chessplayer croaked and moaned, his feet chipping the top of the blacktop black. ‘Oh but how I abhor chirping and twitter, makes a man unaccustomed to the egg and cup feel so fragile and weakly’ said the halfblind blindfolded chessplayer, the kip of his trouser bottoms belling and ponging, the blacktop black scurvy with eggshells and skulking. The man in the hat thought all this up, this nonsense and blather, whilst waiting in queue for the hawker to begin hawking his wares and cups. A slicker of wet rainy rain left a blemish on the once-earthy brown black earth, too slick for tomfoolery and childhood pranks. At this very moment, 4:28am, the woodcock and the blindfolded chessplayer and the man in the hat went their separate ways, each with a bone to pick with the hawker, the rainy rain and a man they had yet to meet.

A magpie flew flocking across this crisscross crossly, its tiny misshapen beak wormy with tads and cableways. The hawker, who by this time had opened his wares-table, threw a handful of hooey at the magpie, missing it by a Poe’s wing. A raven black sky, a rare consign in such a havenless place, blew back the handful of hawker’s hooey, the hawker ducking behind his wares-table like a fearful muck. Cacaw cacaw went the magpie impiously, its eyes black with desecration. Wormy worms and cawing caw cawing were too much for the man in the hat, so he turned easterly and made quick. His grandmamma made magpie pie, crimping the edges with a fork, beaks and magpie feet crabbing, his grandmamma tamping them back down with the upside of her wooden spoon. He remembered his grandmamma’s feebleness, and the way she cowered when the rain fell in rainy sheets, the curtains in the kitchen window pillowing, her eyes scorned with yesterday’s bad news and tomorrow’s worries. ‘You will eat this pie, young man, or else..!’ Her mouth curled up at the edges when she scolded him, trench-lines furrowing the trebled skin above her lip. His grandmamma smoked 27½ Chesterfield’s a day, snubbing out the smoldering filter in an empty Chockfull-O-Nuts coffee tin with her thumb. As far back as he could remember, which was far indeed, his grandmamma had a smudge on her cheek, a blemish left behind from the smoldering filter of a spent Chesterfield. When he was old enough to take up smoking (that day coming on his tenth birthday surrounded by unlikable relatives and a dope sick clown with fish breath) he smoked stinky French cigarettes that came in a blue box with a winged helmet on the front.