Thursday, December 18, 2014

Homage to Catatonia

Estoy aquí solo

George Orwell conoce 
a Carlos Castaneda en 
el Reino de Valencia

it is 1926 in Burma
and the dense frail shadows
murkily slither
and they join the elephants
and timber

these trains
are not puny wisps
justice will be
the core of the sun

to its own nature
in gravity
and in the grandeur
of the raw naturalism
of ur-radical

the coal thinker
to make a universe-sized hospital
to cure
a novel about our trains

Esto Yaqui's olo
and now in a golden well
of gravity

dna will hedge
its articles on the gutter
but not in Suffolk

down and out
and working in secret
you can see its sick foot like a tooth
begin to pale with fervent luster

a crooner
of disgust

angels lark
in the gallants

and there with N
at rock bottom
and mad
the poor horse
the evil pilot

there I began my life
in the sucking fog
of a green sun

a fool
will lickerish difference
and so the spot
on its lung or son
will shift

and volcano cities
swinging back
into the most ordinary


Not on the Short List, and Not on the Long List.

pick it up anywhere (as)
there in the rainy bunchadoes
hurling great toad sighs down
from the lonely centers of smooth
and heavy letters~


~is clark coolidge elemental nonsense
coding a final fugue of alice?

is j.h. prynne an early 
or a late 
claude chabrol film
on gender relations
between marianne moore
and robert louis stevenson

For a few days we sailed with a steady trade, and a steady westerly current setting us to leeward; and toward 131 sundown of the seventh it was supposed we should have sighted Takaroa, one of Cook’s so-called King George Islands. The sun set; yet a while longer the old moon—semi-brilliant herself, and with a silver belly, which was her successor—sailed among gathering clouds; she, too, deserted us; stars of every degree of sheen, and clouds of every variety of form, disputed the sub-lustrous night; and still we gazed in vain for Takaroa. The good mare stood on the bowsprit, her tall grey figure slashing up and down against the stars, and still

“nihil astra præter
Vidit et undas.”

To challenge fate in art and life
Brion Gysin now became Mynona
of Thebes. Others could
build, and understood
making colossi and
how to use slaves, and kept crocodiles and put
baboons on the necks of giraffes to pick
fruit, and used serpent magic

"to glimpse a brazen ringing"
"explicit critique of every reality"
come to pass

the cup
whose alain badiou
had lain with bahktin

cupid's nose
cupid's arm
holding up those great black eyebrows
come into the presence
of the building

which due to the absense
of our knowledge

leers on you alone

in the hotel
of the black eagle.

drench the home
in its walls.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014


a sentimental portrait depicting a denial of infection

a golden bowl of water (appâtiez)

End für the umlaut abroad telegraph
yang-klom comma blase'
fiery drawers its brains on trains
and then some
with reservations

a soft fog of spheres
a soft mirror of spiders
as depicted in language
upon the sail of red paper
held at each corner
with its own transparent mantis

furred mantis telegraph
its greased brain skates
cupped by the rail
the wet comma tongue

in the heir
their brides head revisited
by the bachelor machines
one after another into the night

moon's primacy
over sun
night more aesthetic prim
the eye
in minimalist reaches
spooked out
by the tricking

and the deep cold water
whose language
like the gills of an aqua-colored pan
fluoresce in sequences

to know a veil
complexity arcs like a thud
to the incandescent absence
for a whirling
din of grace once

made subtle for camouflage
for the seed wot lurid
where phloem spells tvista
to blackened actuator

Monday, December 15, 2014


shah (chat)
ala polymeme
and as he had chosen to dye celibate (cephalute)
within the brothel
only visiting there to return the succubi
to its native tradition
a rondure of mirrors
a cahier of cinema
faun delay

no say
let it be enough
not to be a picture
the word is crazy
chimera bookends join their invisible tongues
passing through the rough and the thick
the spinal venetian louvres

dice with port holes
afloat on the deep

who drifts within
those vast and cubic

is it a cat made of books?
is it a matisse smoking jacket
wrapped round a fez?

'this is a common that consists of all'
and an awlish commote where crânes replace
the cometty domes..

Monday, December 8, 2014

positive electron

are the poor in spirit?
are the indoor megacar bathrooms
spinal chord gyms?
these questions give me visit
in the multiple skybridges
of the prodigal father-son.

now in one of the ancillary
and lost forever microlobbies
of the parking garage near the rehab center
there is a stained glass totem pole
depicting scenes of the proxy and the center
reconciled as the cutting edge
of mercy, and sitting nearby and confused
and "indian"
is a great and silver diagram
of an abstract stirling engine
its lightning fashioned
from a surgically removed section
of a swastika
made to dream in prayer
to symbols.

are the poor in spirit?
is the language ether
the butter surfboard
on which the royal puppy
sliding down
into the vortex syringe of grace
that silken cremona

one verse
one verse

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Des Esseintes' Supernatural Pollen

here we go again
within the deep shallow 
of the planetary footfall
felt language

that we point to
as the secular satan
no center
no edge
no middle

it's the narratology
that got us to Cerberus' role
as Fellini's Furling-yeti tri-klopfs 

the saintly georgian raft
of the caducean medusa lily

media for peas instead:

Please porridge hot, please porridge cold,
Please porridge in the plot, nine days gold;
Some like it clot, some like it mold,
Some like it in the ought, nine days bold.

an unconsciousness
of absolute ornamentality
does not make it any less
sublimely lurid

and transcendence will remain
until the electromagnetic spectrum is conquered
until consciousness propagation
may be laid out as a poem
and diagram
in spectacle
the great auto-alienation
of our immunological logosynthaestheontophoria

up with you!
up with you!
proud victim of glory!
is already the sum of all possible debates!
thou art sense
when worship
renders all
in velocity!

o graven ontologies
of slithering mud bell omens!

o lickerish desires
of blankness
in fleshy sentences!

O pet myths
of transmogrified copulatics!
great games
of stony
architectonic pit mouths!

O monsters
of ignorant blissful

thou art
an instrument!

a genie
of craven

a student
of perilous
and almighty gewgaws!

a wandering blur
in a wandering blur

a follower
down rustic halls
leading the way

why have you come here
to tremor
my geometry?

Our single head
is the earth's wife
on a red hot spike!
let us
sing of wild incandescent spiders!

The ecstatic study of semiotics
enlightens only so far as it makes the world dull
for it reveals
that the one
is always the many
and that many are always dumb
and that dumbness
like an image of genius
is a retort-womb
of churgling tokens
whose mouth
and rectum 
are connected


and sometimes pretty.


my breath is as a verdigris
of lost possible worlds
and of best possible endings
and when the world is dead
that utopia
will be born

and Saint Vitus will dance
as the existence
of pencils.

the dream
of the domesticated

a fiddle whose only song
is a romance
of decadent naturalism

a carving resembling
no future
or past meanings
other than
oak sign dreams
in a golden acorn

you dandy dancing poem!