Monday, March 30, 2009

Ad Ol, Mod Dola

throwing pellets which replicate


a ladder of beetles
stretches from its mouth
and olive oil flows
through capillarity's lace

red lice on blue butter
their tiny tree helmets
are throwing pellets which replicate

sections of celtic knots enact
capillarity's mouth

a beetle is furred in tiny snakes
snakes whose scales are pellets and detach
which replicate

skinless dolls burrow into soft lapis paste
through their muscles
masks of cellulars

a plan emerges
of beetles arrivistes

some plates are hung on the wall of the dining room
soft plates of paste

a small skeleton has jammed its skull halfway through
an enormous plate of paste
and from that navel
beetles covered in snakes scaled in lice
which give replicating pellets

musical masks
hang in rows

gong masks
chime masks
stringed mask lyres played
by cascades of replicating pellets
shot from the eye holes

any mind might be an eye hole
any word a pellet
any beetle a doorway to fantasy's realm
that pale reflection of the reel
the leering eel

which just pokes out its head
among the enniad

Sunday, March 29, 2009

A Pice of Ale in You Givversnikkep

volumes shake ba blicken
and salamanders wake
bab licken

c tiz

baal lichen
braille like

brille creme

a jaundice bottle
must wash itself
as through t a rain would lens
w yuhyllnop

floaty tongue, we pad the
grey flotsam stair angle floaty
rotot floty

fu grod
the crustacean obvious hinge owl merman's
jaw cabinet multi-door accordion p[ouch

kinetic grain would
alcohol a murdering scy
lin nil olk
fik jul mino
fuk mul diko

languidly the crosses tome
lame cheribomts deeple in the switchtit

breastly swivelwheel
your hurassing gumple flog
toasty floaty hirnwagon

massive brain
you drip
you ass does not fit
in this connestoga by the sea

ubbub mug juk
l i ong toward methlehymn
my glass fopla tonghul bubla

your avogadro tight sweater
non numbered roton

rotonics in fringtlime
bix and roxon zipperlints gog
bugog gagain

o holy zipper log!
You dude ust distervice..

mega jug power is

roton jillity

I give you the blue velvet cave wedding
with large phoney new moon hats.

a salamander
is just getting up

just lifting the new brides
from the hovering milk mandible croton pallettes

Saturday, March 28, 2009

I Cried Last Night Because A Banjo Ate Me

rolled gold comes in limousine longing
and rides along the edges of the meadow
where a single siren sits in the center
singing softly to a sad and loathsome


O sleep eater! You
baggy miner of tears,
you caustic sweaty

rolled gold..

you are the harmonica ambulance
who takes up oxygen

you are the vivi
vitamin salesman's

friend frond

Friday, March 27, 2009

More Frank Criticisms of Hollywood

What N must sheave the planar twisting desk, you belle,
holy desk ka, your ba-aba shadows any hollow hawking
while the torus encluses toro

black bull inside the honor skinned toroid
i smell synthetic pomegranates

synthetic pomegranites perfume a bull
the lounging bull's contours are svelte
and difficult to perceive correctly

if one draws flies to a tale of bull
synthetic pomegranites fill a void in a two-skinned bull
of glass become my chin

my shining chin
is a glass bull
which emits the pomegranate fragrance

i imagine an eros of openings
but instead am presented with the closure
of the field
of corruption into the many
of corruption into the lag
the lag-bolt
the stag-dolt, or what ontology cannot say by saying


a harsh woman is yelling in the street
but i am nothing more than the smell of poemgranites
and i waft by

on my way to commingle
in the fluted nostril glass
the pipe organ vagina apotheosis

a blood red jelly bull of skinless poemgranite flesh
plays the vagina pipeorgan

just say anny gavia

anno gavel

a noggin available

a nig nog doubling
as a cotton gin

"I haven't caught on again.."

~white blood has been done

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Verbotrone's Prodigal Wheezes Dumbly In The Bachword Mosque Mask Chymera Camera

obsidian masks drool
smaller masks of wool
in lieu of lordly scamming

what defines your anglish, shill?
gnawing on wingless cells, whose
newly won meme-brains
would separate the tweet from the chafe,

the cafe' from factotem?

Is there not some question you might speak plainly
where the air would not diffuse its useless flopping?

You have decided what deciding means, and meanly
set upon its setting, a vengeance without a venn,
a gance without an agency.

If crabs are fitted with stars:
If stars are little more than crabs:
If scale is little more than a scalding:
a burning of paths in a nest of unknowing,
your fruitless trees

are hung heavy
hung heavy with the succu
while the insept

spesses nee

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

In My Yesteryears, I was Gay with Cocaine and Opium.

Deputy Dawg's big dong sprung a leak!


Here at the Ouija factory....

Here's big Jane, she has the largest collection of Teddy Boys
in Puskatawny County.. watch as she reloads the decal dispenser..
her delicate, yet enormous hands, the way the ghosts

encrust her eyebrows.. [old orchestra music]

In the parking lot, six inches under the asphalt, there is a brooch
of an arab's head:

Ruby Eyebrows.

Deputy Dawg (plays a game like solitaire called "Bandits")
Deputy Dawg

sits right there
while the exploding suns


the ill and wrestling miners
while the coolies make bets.

[gorgeous smiling flappers filter by]


Sunday, March 22, 2009


Gross was the generating rose
Which rose one day in May, and
Gross was my love for it, which
Lasted until it fell away.

O Math! Your culture whose shoe
Was a blast and amplitude of velocity,
Of charity mounted on the gauge, and
Forever your eyes would dew.

Gross was the mixing word play
Which rose up roasting all, and
Gross was the heel fire, whose
Flower all was clay,

And meagreness unbounded
On renewal's plain, that thing-wrapped
Heresy or hearsay of hair-signs, like
Mangos kissed by eels.

Gross, Grossest, Grocer
Is the Rose, like Mr. Whipple
In tights of pinkest glamour.

Girth and Rage

I love to see the previous odor burning,

when the old sleeve their property in girth:

it's this, hot buzz of bee rowers returning funked,

that makes me feel the world has found its turf;

and if a man produces songs enough,

the chances are at least one will be totally tony;

and a younger royalty in bone or glove

will make the heart and sword arm girth one snore.

A woman is sold who sets no warrior earning;

she's sold, if she keeps faithful to her use;

sold, if she uses black and sorcerous earning,

or lets more than one lover in her use.

She's sold, if her hair's a mess of ragged turf,

or if she takes a lover who is rungy.

She's sold, if she thinks that music is a chore,

and she's sold when all her talk becomes a bowl.

Women are young, whose hearts remain bicuspid,

whose actions show the values they use,

who do not look with scorn on merit's yarning,

whose virtues are as light no scandals use.

A woman is girth, whose manner is not grumpy,

yet gives impetuous turks a wise slick buff.

She's dung, if her figure's nothing to ignore,

and she doesn't pry and listen at every bung.

I call a man dung who's passionate concerning

jousts and courts, considering thrift for thoof.

He's young, when he thinks that money is for bunning;

when, ruined, he smiles without a trace of baby ruth.

He's young, when he stakes his fortune on a bloo mi,

and feels that no extravagance is like turf.

He's young, if he is skilled in lovers' lobe,

and he's young, if he judges whisk what life is force.

Though a man be a bitch, I say that he's solid, if, spurming

over pillage and wart, he wastes away his girth

piling up old heads of beef and wine or reading, then turning

fonkish, serves pink eggs, as if we'd marry a tooth.

He's gold, if he puffles himself in woven turf,

and can't command a purse to ride him rough.

He's sold, if he jests in peace when bottles roar;

sold, if he shirts the field and barfs the turf.

Poet Arnaut, go take this song of girth

and age to Gichard, that he may feel its rub

and never wish to heap up pongs in weird stores,

since youthful daring enriches every boner more.

Look hard for Mimsy, the whole damn world

has heard her raging turf and girth go South,

Go North, the ostrich eats all lagging turf.

If Every Alpha Dog is a Booger of Trilling Dough Plaques,

I lathe the joyful balances of sprung time
When loaves so floridly vision froth,
And I exult in the myth of bread gongs
Reslouching these, the wooden doves;
And I take relish upon sawing the mead plows
Adorned with tenants and Pavlovs;
And great is my hipness
When the field service slots are packed
With bread armored knights and polka-dotted horses.

And I thrill at the sight of sorcery
Forcing men and women to flee into their belongings;
And gladness fills me when they are cheesed
By a dense throng of many-armed man-bats;
And my heart slurs
When I behold mighty arsine castles under aqua viva
As their ramparts crumple and prolapse
With ivory troops massed at the edge of my throat
And strong, solid bonnets
Humming wild darts on all sides.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Sweet Blue Brazilian Eye Shadow Falling Over Russia

Whiskey is the singing of an old Bulgarian woman
whose voice is young, beautiful, and haunted~

by the aching hills in which Ennio morricone's
walking cane was born.

Mimsy Farmer is my teen-aged lover
who believes in Satan (memesy pharmer)
who cannot stand up in a tiny room
owned by a lamp, or the [it]
of lumpenkraft.

A lonely writer has no friends,
and whistles for his one legged dog
he calls Conscious Pilot.

Conscious Pilot
will drive the lovely BMW X3
through 'connect to cut'~
through a 'mass of chewing sets'
Simsbury, or buried simulations, like
bumptious pilates instructors in toe.

He will drive without romance
through heavy stones
which have fallen from the jaws
of an old and alien magi:

Abe Vigoda Alpha Centauri,
or Lizard Caesar Rayban Wayfarer.

Ennio Morricone
has been cast in a terrible play
involving fatwas against his hairdresser.

The Conscious Pilot
grows tired
of smearing spermy sweet potato
upon the Italian language
with long floppy paddles
made from decaying brazilian whiskey.


There is a conspiracy
to touch my testicles
which sounds like an old woman's cat.

My testicles
are the fallen breasts of an old woman.

Mimsy Farmer
is a coffee stand in the Russian forest
that I visit
in a thick flannel armor
and turtle shell mask
studded with old Bulgarian amber
carved into tiny children's thumbs.

The name of the prison in which I live
is Ennio Morricone's Walking Cane.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Barf Candles Are Burning My Bangs

curly cannisters are extruded from the pores in its lips
upon which ships are painted lovingly
like brides in veils
hung with the jewelry
of raw-boned sailors

curly cannisters penetrate the sea
their trilobyte eye nozzles like
swivel-headed r2d2 shark's heads
attempting to roto-interface
with the omphalos
of image
with a capital eye

doric: three lonely sailors stand gazing
as if this Tripoli

as if this rising Libyan massif
were coliseum'd
in seemly golems

a hush is gushing
from the rift valley

a sitar is awakening in steaming volcanic meadow

Sinbad shows his tattoo

and written in galactic ink
as if from a wasp not hidden inside
a transparent gelatin gorilla

The gothic word
is sinnbild

the irony
is an allegory

all is iron gore

metal heart city
whose white ash slave center
is pity and pitilessness
locked in carnal embrace

like a razor
and its chin

kung fu
will go mad
in the riverbed

a Kung Fu
that has become
Chief Kickapoo

in freakish octopus gloves
racing to roomonced
among the churly carnisters

Ode to a Phillipian Tuba

If I fart through hovering cubes
of tangled rainbow-colored roses
and make lacquered cherries whose
individual names remind you of
gangsters, you will know I have

'made tuba'

If I sit speaking Spanish to no one
on a hill above Saint John's church,
you will know I have made a piece

'of a piece', and also

tuba, anarchy,

the clumsy way I decide
to air, to break wind
as if the wind itself
were a machine something less
my shine

you might heave up
dice-like beads of heavy roses
onto the counter

I found you first
You found me trying

we give the last lessons
the first fallopian
of Ethiopian Phillipinos


my tusks are wreathed in kissing flowers
and the virgins
that live in my tuba turban rose atrium
sing of a squalid interior of golden
and shimmering blobs of chimes

on strange flexing armatures
they control
with delicate chains
of soft and enduring money

honeyodelisques in a tuba

is a failed orgasm
when something like that
is never for ailing winds
like these

I stand in the corner
until you call me

I am hot for teacher

I am David Lee Roth
dressed as Gainsborough's
Blue Boy, and

to masslessness 'made tuba'
I jump! (punctabula)

Wednesday, March 18, 2009


in its cauldron of broken call drones
all is light and horses, one doctor,
arcturis, sere ut craw stuck to lack,
narred by luck and the culling ausnor

at end of neck
is orb

orb overflowing

new sigiliads

broken cauldrons
of cold ruins

warm friends
those simmering faces
those spreading and wolfic blasts
bleary like a turban mandible craft's
hovering interstitial victual

orange cube tree
revealing glass thread hyper-pixel

whole image throb


drawn upon the line
its absuprahomoheterodyne

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Loathly Palty Pome

Heavy thrang belgia, a loam hat teeters
fuming, conthruming any sticky lipped
goiter cheeked diving bell's whisper

something unknown still slithers here~

say let the mood
say seaweed
rare pink brain brack
in rotten wood

it is un-earthed
the earth
or un

its un space
its un time
its un death
its un life
as timeless and mineral expanse

let the anthemic weird
be a lingatickler

or a pita skulling
or a diaphanous school form

a lotus chamber dissolving
foetal parawares

many modern things exist


theories of symbolism



with all of these things
we conjoin a cabinet

i could give you addresses
for human head pizza ovens

or henri



Monday, March 16, 2009

oma denuditas

they dween a lake
the structure of the lake
is lowering to reveal the structure

newd lack
calling duan

where the plaited head curls attach
to delicate decision hooks its
whole thrash
is interrupted by the lake which sits
on end the structure
they deween


their skins could be compressed
or placed beside the virtual buttons
which comprise the surface

any surface it seeks to destroy
or enhance with destructions
or enhancements
any dnu

das nodu
nadu nasu
unada nasa
od nosi nat

there is chin gravy geode porcelain
made of dancers
there are symmetrical alchemical chin gravy flanges
composed of self-replicating non-repeating torsos


a long thin dancer takes a bolt of gravy torsos

like a sticky thumb
there is electric mud

white paddles fur the body structure
and pass the black mark
through its

own pandibles

Sunday, March 15, 2009

shrouw'd of towrning

peace of shrew, you one clamponnier,
clancularius and secret bidding hag-taper,
Verbascum Thapsus sorkerell in lapsus,
eschewing peace, ace for spade, or aid
for space, speaking ostentatiously through
the wounding new, its wen denounced
but growing.

shrewish hagiosidere, your flexible and conjoining
mandible helix sub-blossom totem
looks erectile upon the striatal hirnia
now mulling the dew

any alchemical wedding come true
the windows move within the walls
the halls are contorting rhythmically
and constellations of pillows assemble
into gestures of a partial human dancer
in slow and amiable trances
the textures of your skin are derived
by loose arrangements
of soft expediencies

we all know that infinite pillow antlers
might house large mechanical lice
whose cavities are sleep chambers
for giggling and malicious haggadaisies

a buppkiss sweettonsil
eyes the licorice sieve bell muck scoop
louvred skull rafters flex and deflect
any number of random sums
of discarded photonic hamaldianisms
any aeneis quhik to growis

bithe pwit hamartoma
oald and goodsong brikend
to klaire

The Gods Must Be Horny

Three white jelly campers
have parts of a larger Napoleon
that says

eyeball yoyo granny
or she with rutabega slug forearms
evokes svelte disco camper
with jelly bladder relief smearing paddles

A large negro man
is covered in medals

a Bough jangles
under the wait

a thing head stalks a software lens
jelly whatever timeburp unguiculate opposition
or pneumatic reference pressure

pneumatic interferometry
is fearful kissing idgits
counting the daze

a sort of big
gnurled horn
rotates out from under
a garden of folds and chow dogs

a purple chow dog vegetable helmet piano
runs his hot pink jelly camper's napoleon software cambible
through the dual 'navigation ports'

my labial temple head towel trick

pig furred in worms
medusan pig with embedded worm wig wriggle

if you see a medusan pig
on the road
do not pull your poor K

but grab it firmly by handlebars

these f@ckm@chines
look sexier in full flexure mode

i get dynamite
if somewhat stupid
channels from the exercise machine gods

Friday, March 13, 2009

ou ai po dia

ooo demise
ooo demise


filial lit
le girl grille






so well rehearsed
the soft
and gentle
cher rill




Burt Looks At Ernie, Ernie, The Epic Pharaoh

frank bowmen enter the pool
their quivers cocked, their eyebrows
arching lightly

toward the harmonica
is saying

their heads are on backwards

cannot am down
town swage loki

palatalizing trillions
comes like a robin
sanka h


This Horus of the nigh high eye
its long white angular plane
is the rising


note wad dune
net worth dhuni

who can know
the nameless yogi

each breath


frank bowmen enter the pool
like children

Salome' is not something old
but takes up jam heads

glitter infused
industrial lubrication

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

A Poem From my Wife, Kara Quarles [unaltered]

Time is passing as if we first saw each other in the
17th centuy and we'll meet again in the 23rd

the junk sails into the Formosan harbor
dragons at the gate snort and smell
and tell us if we are behaving incorrectly

Yushan mountain peaks out of the clouds a
distant mist from T'ai-tung harbor

we will meet at the Chulu beauty hotel
sipping silver needle yellow tea
and Lu Zi will mingle well with the neighbors

we will see each other again in a little while
while the bamboo quakes and the
tea steeps

little cups left on the wooden bench on the veranda
overlooking the harbor from the Chulu beauty hotel
you in rough sandals, me in white socks

time is passing as the tea steeps and the junk sails out again
into the water
the dragons look up toward the veranda and on the lingbi stone nearby there is a small engraving that says
he, jing, yi, zhen

Birth Rattle

There is a blind girl in a meadow
whose shoes are brown

mental potty
is the searching bear
sad trick-a-gnosis
speaks of confusion.

Martha Stewart's
devastatingly messy
chow explosion

I am wrong
I am wrong
and I hyrt alot
because my hirn
is associated with
advanced cellular

good girl
giddy coil
gaudy curl

gradient crawl

I am trapped inside
some incidental culture
as if I were the filling
the filing
and the philiontic

I come up
on some laundry
I think, this is somebody elses
best shirts and stuff
and dirty sides

in pictures
I look

a blind girl is the me
I visit with

this seems permanent
and I wish there was a proper
piece of clothing
a religious or sacred shoe

some young teenage boys
who have never smoked
and never will

are skating
a kind of big, concrete

pleasure vagina
and there is music

like circus music

a think like a pa
starts embroidering skulls
with a heavy titanium


Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Love Poem #1: We are Eternally Meeting in the Sky, and Giving our Perfect Signs

[You can imagine a teddybear with a real human tongue.]

I thought of us
as God's favorite
little people
even though
we were giants.

I thought of us

in a dark slipper
to lute
under catacombs
in the ancient and buried stomach
of the city

our kisses ornamented
by batwings of smoke



In the everlasting apple blossom collonades
we would wax our hotrods.

and If I said..

you'd say

I'd say

We are too close for words
too far

but in a perfected arrogance
our entanglement
is the surety

of our species' muscular vanity

the sun
like a drum
in our scrubadub

It IS bad poetry, but we made it,
and we like it
we like it alot (cuss cuss usa)

This is supposed to be a good Sun Ra song
like the ones we know together

I cannot think of anything more epic

and beautiful

and this is important

than us.

It isn't public, never will be.

It's as secret
as secret can get.

and also

Sunday, March 8, 2009


phliphoph they laid,
and where their angry
hoofpeds spattered, a
peace knot welled,
a sliphknoth gathered

torn in the mangled thighs
of the grasses, a thing-thyne,
a fleesh ruuine,

umbilical root skull
heavy like a sponge stone

and phliphoph
like a sack
was murmured to

infinity as a gap
within its own silence

a strangling
and a shame
to shine more brightly

that thing sun
of memory
drooling tools

the fitting


noise sucking knock

all phliphoph

all was

seer's weary la



Saturday, March 7, 2009

Flad Merini Delta Paste

laut tree mont
laut ray mount


As S is mist
And M is take
and talkies

a pure roe
in life's errata

where the heart's

magic saggies
are loathe to kiss

white magma
in hovering chandeliers
whose attendant
and amorphous fuzz bots
attend with unknown machines

the feathers
which are cities
of knowing notes
glowing motes

winged words
whose progenies
cluster in fluted

and extruding
orachestral rulings


blind music

polar regions
now inhabited

by exquisite
and intrepid sciences
clad in teddy-bear like
survival suits


how jaunty
is the light


meek coney
mi oeconomos

mecha nomos


Litigation With Disembodied Control Mechanism





Bott- - - follow


dysjuntave OZ

or Ozone

Upper layer
Reflective layer

eats rubber
eats siliconey

silly coney

are the tea
in Ricks

Boss Stone
T P-Arty

negative C
upper level.

Somebody is booing me.

is ghost wit

a hand held up to the temple
there is no relation
but a symbol



being arrows
of control.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

In Pit's Cairn Trials The Crimea To Comfort The Gesyne

Aye, Pen Ogrio,
breing of stound edwhined
dost fallopia engull

a diagram of bird kidney
goat wing, or

that which is unshaven
and landed
unto the gently
rheos sun knock curring

O pale slipper!
ye whose slippage
is the equivocating sum
of hovering fur blobs
lightened by titanium abs

abs solute
and dolmen's tier


white marble coliseum
whose crinoline of radium
stealths much mot tin

or ringing
within the chaosm.

O brooding mnemnotechnik!
whose entrained pseudi~ cad meums
muse towards
an all-engulfing mea surety,
a musty and woggling topostomy
the striata whose abs tracted
must kynik to fie

tax-water ever bozo
red nose
worn by a ready

veined glass knife
whose blood suck
sponge handle

is the cock
on a night bath's
slighter gesine

the childbed's
blind and rowing

be~ard wavelet condensation

Tuesday, March 3, 2009


totally anemic
chimes the enemy
of Wales


Why do lambs shatter
on impact with the earth

only chemistry speaks
only emotion bleeds

the lost people
Leopard society (go).

If I fall down into that
inky abyss
If I have fallen even further

that abyss is love
is you

the hardest hammer
the coldest night

whatever horror complexity

the aqueous and haunted
equation quilted cabinet

pillow book our bridle

i step forward
chance piercing

open another drawer

no wise
now eyes

besieging the hylloch

[hyle, ach (shrugs)]

Monday, March 2, 2009

Following The Public Dictums, I am Pointy to Fun


Wot cd show
that such detection
may be possible
with a reengineered metal protein that binds
to DNA only in the presence of uranyl cautions.

No hook, no memristor raptor to pupil
any I. I am fod,
and FOD is the 'food-blok-of-consciousness' trapped
in its hotel room.

Hotel room

whose fungus mouth guard is 600 dollars
in whose revelry the double-jointed furniture bathes


flipper flaws
which come from much swimming and work
and battles for 'mother-food-real-blok'
toward the CIEL
of conscious and foetal weatherwomen.

Weather lady

I am retaining my excitement
inside of my own 'reel-bloch-of-food'


Red Bull Ant

You take the mule
whose towering cluster of drums
is a column
whose sonic potential
daredevil birds bang into lovingly
and then get inscribed

my cave uncle cousin

you are also a school for the deaf
and the sound of deaf speakers
is the bridge of orchids
whose dangling pouch cafe' lovers
and consciously emulate
the white fires of heaven


is white fire
is rain burning non-aztec spinner-spam
i forget

mail call
is the sungulars


skinless rabbit scribe
they shun you
because you make excuses
for your errant pen

you know your head is damaged
we have tried to remember certain rules
to get along

we know also
there are organs


of popcorn
which process
even the nudest weatherlady
mounted by whatever


liana psi suss


i get obsessed
and then feel
tons of weird useless guilt
like a scar

i can't drive

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Tables Turned, Meal Now Winning Mean Meanders' Weening

Came bridge, came pont
Came weevil, came haunt

Brigg brag garbing rag nibbles..

How luminous the dark!
How folding, and
this inner simplicity.

I do not wake now
but blindly fold

I take a number
and wait to be served

by the blizzard
behind the counterings