Friday, August 31, 2012

Tumble Fade Jut

clinging to the bat
and the fruit kit hung on a hook
to mimic the honeysuckle
bunks rapped to a bundle
we fit up over the bridge
where the streamers come furling out
from the leavers, hand hat label thropping
and being so close to its instrument
in the cold hollow moon
its crisp circle mourns
its mouth to perform
for the ricochet renegade vivitone
they stay
through gusting
onslaught angularizing to the slit-eyed
unification of what
recording the island of milk
its babylon central garden to act like a wreck
the stage come bubbling up from the waves
and loud the fluted forehead raves
organ incomprehensible
in mammoth torque
their unborn holy stories
fireflies in the pine mist
coal buried long to antelope followers
burning immortal
cotton and bitter
sea mother another
close knit stalking
the dark its empty hungry goad
and push
the order
rut star wrong and equal

Brochen Shells

The Scuba Coach: I have breathed enough clean air over the centuries to know when I am being poisoned. The mass, and the masses of thinking atmosphere which are in turbulence here have turned, and the prevailing system, the system of the very air we breathe, the air that our buildings breathe, and that our bodies inhabit, is one of Dämmerzustände. It is no longer an armor of egotism which is needed, but rather a memic wetsuit, rendering its wearer invisible to the zombi ideologues, so that the juggernaut of moleculairity can be approached with the necessary and subtle attention needed to comprehend its all pervading background complexity. The stupidities of the memic wars have made it necessary for the Scubans to create their own pure air whose only model can be primality, and to sea the world as a tourbulens of chemical organization, a lung lens whose light reveals all blindness, weather in a dark cloud. The present uniquely defines precipitation, but the weather cults are chanting and stamping their feet. Our equipment is sound, we withdraw from the sleepers in their feral toil. In 2012, the 'bio-anneal' phase begins. (Buy Oneill.) Protect your tanks!

Thursday, August 30, 2012

2 Poems Maurice Burford

I thought this was a wonderful couple of poems from Maurice B. on seemingly Grailish themes.
Thanks for letting me post them MB.


try to burn
lots of barns
said Whitman
who was pure
in a foolish sense
trying to save anyone
the grail was dead
invented green knight
who was dead
in the womb too
but his flesh fell into
the grail & a flashlight
brought him back
singing a classic song
of film & televisual repute
nervous over the war
nervous over his glasses
nervous over the cup
the fool too
drinks hard liquor
of story
to make all the dead
stay under
elm tree range
no human
is so distinct
except when dreaming
& the fool not fooled by fog
of lost land coming out
no sex in the cup
just as the land
is the story of the body
the grail thinks
no one fucks
the grail thinks
I am there past the moon
as common as misplaced
no better for it
damp with pumpkin sweat
don’t worry about the weather
folks will only estimate  


go to jail
with the dollars
of your body
naked but not moved
police-man headed
magic hangs better
in the spirit
caught & died
into it
the spokes of
the fool
at least Merlin
bedded the river
like a mannequin
crackle of tape
stretched over tar
forms our radio’s
the future we
have come to
is the flag
dipped in grail
the people
from their loins
let the sand of
the ocean hover
insert oneself
into the chill
of the ocean
a prison
a jail
for political ghosts
we are
the enemy
of ghost grails
so hit the road
hit the lady
with the sword
for no end

Tang Chi Sigma on Rock Greedy

foam sphere

for what is true
to pure
is abstraction

its juggernaut nose as birth
and the warmth of blood
as turtles
by inner legions

for what is true
and pure
always will be

and the foam sphere beyond justice
as incarnation lives between its who
for what is true

the heart of the pine
the unseen conduit
whose monument
is where time builds
to distraction

its skeleton kissed by storm
the name goes out from the sphere
twice unfolding
that no returning closes

for what is true
the horse just
sigma thru
colt kelp wave surge scarf

looking different
through every eye

fog sphere
tang qi
greedy cactic willow
treads template

Precordium's Resonant Ringer Saturdays

lapwrist fingo domma

take me
with you
in your esterline currency
 and where
stern and
obstinate blockages
 let there
be shrines to
of constructionism

gomen lindberg baby bat mirror

baby bat
in top hat

and colonial governor
in straw chapeau
where did they go?

into the cavity of the tunica vaginalis
of the testis
to hear the water cello
of the long haired sealion
its gem-stone mask rendering purple
the questions you may have, Muto?

Muto, stern and obstinate Robespierre,
are you ytwynned from the flush,
where emerald pions gush
and yuloh to the quay?

yumyucky the abdication
abortivate in the creed
jackson ill thriven

seed no true sun
their children analogy
to akephalisis

to the point of appui

let polo hop
be charge in dunderous flunk
have monk will hand
as Gurwood lisps the light phantasmic

belief its belching acorn aktashite
the boor-brained calomel
ebullism on the fair of day cage
its earthed metal screen

a Dutch sculptor
of magnetic flux
into thin, pale
oligaemic patience

upon the shackled

the majority
had considered the heavenly phenomenon
as a supernatural Gudermannian

wreathed in phanotrons
solvus et ordo

image by Matthew Smith, Untitled.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

The Ambassador

I cannot recommend this film high enough. Complete fun, and with a happy ending! Sorry! (spoiler).

We, The Grotesque Nihilists of the Earth Need No Platform But the Soil. We are the Skeletons in Every Closet.

Gibbeted on the horn of plenty,
its gibberose gibberish
glibly gibboning in Gibbonian
gibe; knowledge might change
masks with the jibby-horse,
but they both sallied forth
from the same phanfatuous
molecufaucal fun-fountain mountain,
that gimcrack quantum nous-mooning
of the gilt-tail silly, international,
silver string submarine band
of rascally poly-gemew, but
who knew?

We, here in the Fauberg remains,
still loft our fat-witted fauch-lips
into whatever truncheons joy has
leavened, and moreover, through
our phane fauces give solace,
or fanfarrado, to every avocado,
to fanfreluche it on its sway,
for the earth is teeming with nonesuch,
and as such, all obey
the phallophoric Hellenism
of Syntaxis' slender fanatical singer
whose fingers fend the gimbri,
and gawp the yutang's
juniper loa.

Every beast is fanged by something,
and the feast of the world is closing
its mouth around us all, and thought
be its rickety killogy, a stoa hung
in Cimmerian vacuum.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Axial tomography hassles a wetsuit.

like I always say,
Caligula tried...

not to mix koalas with Cioran
in the Cuisinart

while his nipples
were hooked to the Dyson
unicycle auto-cock
and nipple pump

with universable
spherical wheel

Every time Castor and Pollux come over
i get placenta on my ears..


lurid mussorgsky
the gloaming sloppy with pigeons
whose wagons pile up
like dishes
into buffalo

rank and fly
as gems degrade further
two ears collapsed inward
make an icon for heart

to what comes through
the male
no fee paid
and mess by the seat of the pants
breathes quicker
and nails the whiteness
its alpha inviolable

nude gunfire
the phloem
pistol's daimon
toward the trigger

new rune
gleeful gliand
punning on the tongue

when its music cast more shadow
and its thinking held more dung

what the lower bell
in cosy cliffs could cure

a battle
of the bad dolls

Bombaspic Clio Returns a Hiss Story

vutile poluble
as when solace accepts its match
to lucifer the reference sullied a ferric

only seeing
even action a seeing
and the tiles the granularity
of the universal grain


in every part of eternity
is eternity

pluroma poluble
unknowing as pure knowledge
of one place
the body become as clear as water
the word and the image confused
as the word is the image confused
in the world image

confused as in conjoined
as monster twins
as ordinance and ordnance
the fusing of
the bwomb

bring waves of my brain
bring amor

and plu
the nth silent hye

Monday, August 27, 2012

Frobenius Game App Scrick-Shoe

a bleak oboe
played by daniel boone
aboard the de havilland dh.100 vampire
looms in the ear
of the screaming pilot

down down
into the lemonade sea
where monty python
and grandma moses
are waiting for thee

goes the cat burglar
lifting your crystal spaghettis
and riding all the rainbows
are tiny golden yetis
shooting candy canes
from their blow hole eye sockets

hyphen hyphen
hyle fen

go daniel
into the cat burglar's den
to drink his brandy
and orzo

go daniel
down on grandma moses
to wet your tongue brush
in turpentine
and paint the picture
bleak oboe
of the holy tossed

pilots made of lettuce
and dh laurence
lost in crystal sphagetti yetis

shooting candy canes
from their blow hole eye socket oboes


boon what din
wet wet daniel eye
and oboe bleak
as orzo elliptic

imagine the entire web barbarian
to the cuckoo

leo wole soyinka
atlantis moved to silent melancholy

grandma hyphen grandma
your burning brushes
in coonskin caps

All Web Based Discussion: Ottoman Empire For Children

Alan Davies visits Rangoon
in purple kneepads
on one planet so far

big success!

for 16 hours straight
the King of Morocco shook hands
on television
or rather they kissed his
no matter
the French savor every betrayal

spleen bonbons
and the courtesy cuckoldry promised you
by a hundred thousand Romanian children
in the service of the Ottoman Empire

Eli Wallachia
there is a pattern in the patrons of the canteen
Abraham Lincoln Towncar is listening to
The Slave Shantys of Mothra

Once I was beautiful and paranoid
now I'm fat and dead...

Oakface and Green Worm Bear

i am capable of gas
so market the jellyfish further
inside one hillside
and drown another
billions of shards
a portrait
oedipus gogol longstockings
lame of aim
and getting less amiable
candle on the lintel
and black cup casting
grog as surface
nerve paper
as when sleep's deer
from a transparent bee
slips down descending
its glossy nude staircase cumulus
time granular in instrument
but flowing in fool
deer swimming in foggy stream
each letter fur nubbed
and sprouting
and the imp with the single
whip-like antenna
puts up a building
as a freeze frame

tiara clitellum and
ufo mucous bots
in the treehouse
of fair Dodona

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Scotch Tape Replace Doll head

"Yorick Without Rigor"

ibidiah toe clock
the curtain of fungi rattles
cause reference
to enact the inexorable collapsing
bridge before
sing bridge
circuit, and by sloth
the letter as a sponge
ibidiah in foot boxes
hide-a-bye wedge
where wedge by hammer headache
as locusts embroidered on a velvet wrinkle
Shakespeare eat the dugong
and peer out from the rushing gills
of the catfish
shrunken heads for eyeballs
like raisins
dull and amber
the mineral in clover
Pietro Coccoluto Ferrigni
hulking steam of mountain pepper
clean your toe clock with a quill
in hagiolectic deliveries
the ink make a slurping
in the laundry
thumbs be two sparrows
in a porch kissed
for wanton rules
violent is italy
for wooden legs

awaking foster parents
ears fetching
in jerkins of gravy
to be or not to be
why or ich?

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Ricardo Montalban, Lead Singer of LOVE

broken mead vendor
one package of slime
and picture ads
for the Chrysler Cordoba

Corinthian leathermen
fisting Charlton Heston
real-dolls on the green-screen
set of Anomalies, a new reality show
which picks up on the set
of Barbarella

from then on
It's Creeley as the mad queen
wearing an eyepatch
pretty pretty
i'm vice consul
to a bulldog caterpillar
smoking a hooka

virus libre

maybe we're stuck here
selling glass eyes and junk
to Khan's men on the planet's
waiting for the worms
to stop mining our skulls
for quaternion blowjobs

it is in the spirit
of Saragossa that I begin here
rows of cold ivory cellphones
glowing blue in the cave
a few prayers to Cordoba
and bronzed leather

many of your themes
are in the family way
grunting and barking
with everyone else
at NoirCon 2009

Friday, August 24, 2012

I am very happy

to offer now this subscript to my small text on Grotesque Nihilism, and would like to count Roger Caillois as a progenitor in the naming, identification, and clarification of syntaxis. Notice here Caillois' concept of an instinct d'abandon , and his inertia of the elan vital, both of which I would say go a long way towards materializing a positive link both with syntaxis, and as the author of the introduction states, between Caillois and the more more generally known German Romantic Naturphilosophie, which I would go further and claim as part of the atmosphere regulating the entry of Uexkull's theory of the Umwelt, and the subsequent discipline of Biosemiotics.

Caillois points exactly to the crossroads of syntaxis as a historico-materialist conception when he correctly identifies both structure and reason as phantasmatic processes. Syntaxis pays homage to his use of the praying mantis metaphor, and to his work Mimicry and Legendary Psychaesthenia which processes biosemiosis as a constructionism based in ornamental delirium, a luxurious horror vacui, and blurry plurimpopotent polyplenism.. And most interestingly gives us a possible theory of art as teleplasty!

I recommend Roger Caillois into the Canon of Grotesque Nihilism! And Jeannine Worms as well,
but I am not familiar with her!

From "Glory" (CD BABY COMPANION) Downloading At The River

Wandering Prelude:

1. Breathless 2. Pantomime
3. The False Attribution 4. Nearly Awakened  
5. Tiny Hands, Big Ideas 6. Emboldened/My Dreams Perish  
7. With A Lazy Smile 8. I Blink And She's Gone  
9. We Step Across 10. Like Perfume  
11. Handsome. The Spineless 12. Laurel  
13. She's By The Window 14. Angels Alight  
15. She Has The Glassy Thighs 16. Breathless  
17. And Then I Alone Am Alone 18. In Delius' Sleep


Eno foglets. Rainbow hornet's nest sheltered in azure veils of interlinking
ants of crunchy ambergris. Seascapes littered with transparent nudes interrupted
by gazelles of iridescent foam. The moon filled up by lavender koalas.

Petite Shoe:

A cadence on the wind
reveals its premonition rag
and the return of the ancestors commences
as the ascending whale dreams
a magic knot waltz by a circle of wolves
at land's end


The discovery 
of the orchestra of Tao
riding the Westerleys
resonant resources
the final beast of interplay
of ceremonies
pageants and celebrations
journeys on the winds of time
three inverse genera
butterfly's dream
spirit of peace
hymns from a great temple

all in twilight

Ode to a Fu Manchu Choo-Choo

After the rape of Nanking
there were the first curling ringlets
of the Firestone chain; All
of Prometheus' organs
have been replaced
with high durometer
urethane; slave
biscuits come each
on Caligula's snowy shoulders.

Let them be as
bulbous luminous
harmonica hives
brimming with
Tosa mastiffs, let
television be known as
creampie, for many
slovenly figures
all go in one hole.

in the cascading
know thyself
M = (Ind, World, [.])
where Ind is the non-empty
set of individuals, World
is a non-empty set of
possible worlds, and
[.] is an interpretation
function such that

Long Fu Manchu mustaches
dangling from locomotives
are seen to be as
mandarin sleeves
fluttering, empty,
and ghost-like.

Consider this,
that the Pythia
always took
as her perfect fashion,
an ancient togaic precursor
to the common hoodie,

But Hoodia, will not be
the San people's
Indian gaming casino.

is not the common pygmy's
Pepi II, let this be an ode
to a Fu Manchu Choo-Choo,
and armless our peoples are one,
before the eternal gaze
of Aten, whose

Bungee nipple cords
dangle vast ganglionic
idoneities of fish-scaled
baboon postulate
Potamogeton, their
megaton squirming
uninvidious to the
shining Serenissima,
who reveled more
in their style, than
in their content, and
in their art, more than
their twin, purple-assed,
foetus-golem enema bag,
yoghurt hottub nipple,


Pygmy in a hoodie
painting plein air
in a gondola
a row of hairless
baboon vaginas
for the windows
of Saint Mark's
Basilica, which he
has depicted
'as a golden cheese'
surrounded by
tiny Canaletto mice
conversing discretely,
their long Fu Manchu
mustaches dragging
the Panglossian piazza
in a gracefully static

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Post -Title

Something from Lee Lozano's journal:

"Information is content. Content is fiction."
-- Lee Lozano, July 1971

Something about the power of individual words to frame the field of the subject leads me to thinking about the relationship between nihilism and the grotesque under the possible rubrics of something like 'negative transcendence'. Now this isn't too far from Adorno's 'negative dialectics' as far as I can see, or it at least seems related in a sense:

Adorno says the book aims to complete what he considered his lifelong task as a philosopher: “to use the strength of the [epistemic] subject to break through the deception [Trug] of constitutive subjectivity” (ND xx).

As Simon Jarvis demonstrates, Negative Dialectics tries to formulate a “philosophical materialism” that is historical and critical but not dogmatic. Alternatively, one can describe the book as a “metacritique” of idealist philosophy, especially of the philosophy of Kant and Hegel (Jarvis 1998, 148–74; O'Connor 2004).

Now looking at it all again, I have to say, in terms of 'Trug', it would do one well to consider Bruno Latour's 'Practical Metaphysics', so in that sense, the grotesque would then be that state of affairs in which trugness lends to human matter its flavor of 'socratic irony', but to push the thing further, the so-called 'strength of the [epistemic] subject' would be something like the equation 'as one approaches infinity', so that the understanding of the singularity is absolutely confounded by uniqueness, by the infinitesimality of reality, but further, of a break with the logic of language's social continuity as ruled order, and an entrance into language as constructionism, or an infinitesimalleability which seems completely compossible with neurophysiological combinatorics, ie plasticity as the reverse-engineered ur-form of culture as subjectivity.

Most often in discussions of the so called 'technological singularity', there is a sense of a process gone awry, of an unnaturalness leading to a critical, or qualitative urgency, when life itself bears the mark of this same contingency.

I would therefore contend that a new movement could be founded called Grotesque Nihilism, and that actor-theory vis a vis practical metaphysics can be better explained as syntaxis, the materioconceptual impetus of being's 'indexical moment', for history turns on such moments. Syntaxis is the primary execution of the constructionist present as event. All willed events have, as least as a component, some motor of syntaxis, though materiality itself intervenes, and most importantly, syntaxis is a cognate to materiality itself.

Or maybe this is just a drawing of a cock in your mouth, or a burning turtle named
Zeno. Content is friction.

No Title
Lee Lozano, 1962

post modern past oral

lucent drunkenness
what i am i cannot know
so says the world
that world a poet

in dreams among
transparent walls
the drifting favor falls
the crowd a lever

and din or sport prevail
winding truces fail
the grid whose cubical
vapor ankhs the robes
of genies

for sails
and kenodoxy //


//keen on genesis'
suicidal tendencies

and to plateau
the endless view
of stunting
the purposeless

but what features
were derived
through memory's gland
all appreciated i'm sure
by the naturalists

kensal green
refurbished //


The Statue of the Bare-Foot Punter Kicking a Brain

just glancing down
its long banana-shaped brain
i can see the dragon flies
pecking the moist green crenelations
lifting little footballs

if you take a train
into Aunt Fumina
leave all your baggage behind

trailing like a green banana brain caboose
swarming with dragon flies
carrying footballs

President Obama
Alabama dixie cup
action portraits.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

The Nurburgring

Herr Rosemeyer, pass the mustard!

Richard Siemann. What has tilt? That messes me up!

He is risen! I am ordinary.

Put mustard on the tortoise. Hermann Lang.


praising hope
the mechanism stirred
the pot, the topiary bobbing,
the limber resonance
of the spider tine mask
to offer ascension

tiny brain
inside the head
of a lucite gavel

each shock it feel
a school

only lyric to matter
Hib, the brewer's world
see lines ~amen

what incline the clinamen
troped flyleaves
upon the proper

life peacock
even foundation
brait buffed
by gynandrous

geeking on jon hassel

among the hull of its bleating

eloquent disgorge

heat sun water surface convey

there the carapace of its many heroes to
instrument its cry

sense favored
and among its curving gesture monstrance

where garden once walked
the proud hatted inside the storm

wild mute decay
no own stone overtone

journeys whirlwind tongue severed return
this home

collapsed beak of yellowed days
divan sojourn of lovers

mist tied
face secret to claim its obdurate tithe
schismatic fission of hosts

reside close to the meniscus hide
in secules teeming inexplicable

student rabulane
the timbre barque ensue

in thin red crystals
the raccommode clutches
drum shelter

shunting notorious trunks
the electorate humming
through wavy penal bars

accidents coil
charm of chimed buntline
before the dawn

its miserable smile
bunya bunya

Monday, August 20, 2012

gholam hetchill

dice in a skull
and zulu red mushroom


before the brave wall
thrusting its gist
before the pulsiloge and
carping the cranny


as chats and babblers
in ajutment


such as
shall have
the dioristic
illimitable ration

socratic fascism
does not construct
designer hairshirt

it is your turn
but the turning itself
is its own

and the body
made clean
by fan and scry


Slave Diaries

trimmed cyclops hide to bedding
and lantern too heavy the
bug's head pig iron code the
dog palpably with worms
a curr's din

all night
if the night were a flute
noting one lone campfire
on a distant hillside
a botched kill as melody

too many ampules to count
these sticky opalescent squalors
accreting in my mood
its found full fidget digging
through my bones
in television

a succor to the stupid trading
pushed as a puppet
and dogged
but thwarting
all bungles to stay
peaches with stringy greasy hair

no acting on exodus
while the sirens swim
this today as tomorrow
as yesterday
the stunted creek
of the rigid domain

cannot get free
it's written on my face
not pretty
my mask a lamb
with legs removed

gigue-chasm bottle
and wad-stopper
gut-hung in a windmill

of some repute, and center mischance

matter to catatonia
if messaged absolute pristine
what crystal to tough its solid
and softening mirror's

tugged up
and out of the gravity
welling winters
and sprung
to the flush

in the drawn out contours
emptied of closure
that sigil symphony
murmur erasure

then when decision's
breathless sun overcome
all bold
and color autotelos totem
an alley between privations
would stammer the crooked may

brute sap sung go

the wondercallouscarapace
among the foam


imp no probable

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Full Luminous Disclosure

fundamental to finally
if only for a femtosecond
and conditional
an ally for once
at sea
antsy to begin
but the juniper

mountains reach all homes
with radar
and festoon the brigade
its benchmark cloying proud
about the town
finally they shut down
that goddamn
mad dog dynamite

the hurting to its even tremored voice
such up apple crunch
a crutch
a bite so hard
its diamond morality pitch succeed


Friday, August 17, 2012

Agnes Schreiben (Free Updates)

Agnes is on fire. [अग्नि]

Her ignition was caused, possibly,
by her own ignorance, or barring that,
a slight design or manufacturing flaw
in the instrument which now lay
near to her tortured writhing form.

In Agnes' will, there is intended a scorn,
or reproach, for some of those people
in Agnes' life, who Agnes did not feel
treated her as she should have been treated.
And so they will know.

Agnes burns still, and the fuel for her burning
is her clothing, which she cannot now remove,
as its elaboration is great.

In its great elaboration, the clothing Agnes is wearing,
combined with her own ignorance, or barring that,
a slight, yet dangerous design or manufacturing flaw,
allows the fire to feast at will on her form now fallen.

Agnes has fallen. In her will there is intended a scorn,
or reproach, for some of those people in Agnes' life,
who Agnes' felt "were not right". And so they will know.

But they will not burn. Not unless they use an identical
piece of equipment, in that specifically incorrect way
in which Agnes' used the equipment, or unless they are
as specifically ignorant as Agnes was, about the operation,
in general of the equipment. If then they do, not only
will they burn as Agnes' did, but they will burn
as the proximal object of Agnes' scorn.

Agnes' last words were primal. Recorded by no one,
except her own incrementally heating brain, the word(s)
were exceptionally, and remarkably expressive of the event
which caused the word(s) to be uttered. In short, her final,
and primal word(s), though, while being something
of a cliche' due to a certain well known painting, were
in fact, well-written, if indeed the possibility of writing
them were possible, which patently it was not.

The painting's title is Der Schrei der Natur.
And so they will know. [AGNC]

Jim Ded In Grub Street

sulphurious veneriated and
redshare irony appealed
to the anal hack
trudging again down
Grub Street
beck and fleet
to the page's overflung
and hobbled wrought
what wrung out junks
are lingering the harbor
today he thought
some still teary with
the fight of its incline
dromos, the Sisyphus stone
is the omphalos mobil'd

again sulphurious veneriated
and redshare irony, arceniall
to deign the clue and his shoe
holes down to wooden cleats
the feat of any original bridge
to join where the living masses
spend, and he spit as he spoke it,
sp'end, and surely the domain
of the endless chasm of night
to depart by candlelight in a balloon
whose thought left all calibration
aside, the theatre whose run rod
body lifted the air to a carbuncle's
peace would fit out any grabbing
surely, here, here in Grub Street,
the shooting gallery, and the target
sign, to will, he signed, and resignedly
fumbled forth, shot with chagrin
and the charging bull of its listless feign

stain the burn to the eye
and dry out the bosom
to its wretches
and the smallish
cloud worm hold still
to the window in the mill
where the churning
of the grain is flowing

buttle it skort
and there was his friend
Jim Ded look pert in rags
and with leaves pinned to his cheeks
girl head crossed out with lickerish punts
say Jim howse biz
he took out a brown pot
writing down into the interior
and there at the bottom was a sea urchin
he'd stained pink with powder
and put a glass eye in its bung hole
THERE scowled Jim
ITS DED I chuckled at it
him her the spiny raft its seeing bell
well how about a cuppa, I crooned
he discretely set down his monster
and followed

of all the dry gulches Jim spent
I know I looked
well then and then Gulls traipses
wheres they traipses
and we bend in

I wuz looking down across the river
at a tire and Jim looked dead
there was a spider peering from
behind his ear where he hadn't washed
but suddenly a clang
and down at the far end of the distant darks
where the ships shunted bunts and billies
a huge BANG
and a pink rowing smoke went clavilly
Jim pulled out his pukebutch and scratcher
and went to the whey creeding out the curds
like patsy haul your tongue to the governour
and still another bright tang dull of clobber
bounded out and a thick stroke of lightning
licked some drab monolith

wrong genre i mentioned

Jim rubbed spit
on his dirty nipples

Post-Noise Pre-Thunder

rape snakes
the vermin government
of men
the central rape
before its vermin hands
and on the plains of trash
the vermin government marched
toward the singing
of the rape
and the trash remained
and in its eyes like burning stars
warmth steeled in a vacuum
before the unlikely scurrying
rape scampered in the trash
where the vermin government
washed its filth and tokens
and the headless mindless broken toys
hovered like a blossom
and the singing trash took its hyoid bone
and slashed
before the unlikely scurrying
and the slash remained

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Pussy Riot

pushing ruses.

What lies within the complicated figure of piety,
and in what space does it linger?

roses pausing.

Pi, only with difficulty, can be represented as a geometric form,
and yet the cult of its manifestation exists, and persists.

plausible roads.

Bifurcation implies a doubling, but does reflection entail
any actual splitting, or is representation the remainder
of directionality's abyss.

pus, piss, pssst, and rot.

Flagellation within the theatre of opinion remarks not only
upon auto-destruction, but also, on the grand guignol of creation


Ignoble gases must queef
a tumultiplication if gear may usurp
all the nameless power of generation.

*image by Hye Rim Lee

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Daniel Johnston is Satan.

beyond the johnsongrass
sorghum hale and pensive and
in a boat on the shadow
of the inflatable dam
they wept
leaves floating tenderly
above their pupils
magnetically seasoned
veins seeking venerable echo
each branching polarity
to hide the vision
of the immaculatent skinned

and sucker mouths festoon
where the high water garlanded
their skeletons
like locusts of love
having left their kind husks
as memories
the sky in fetching ale

otters cradling skinless melons
kissing baby heads like snow
our paddles
heavy transparent glass

and our tears
were obsidian arrow heads
on the shadow of the dam
and dark branches
could be monumental and gothic
how nature is the first hand

to the fish-mouthed moon
the great balloon
and damn
but your jaundiced candor
haunts the window of the lodge

your cold black skis
taking up too much room
our landing by the dock
was messy
in the sloppy bright politics
of this lofty shiftering lilt
of dappled faces
that stare

we are strange bedfellows
at the top of the dam
it's illegal to be here

tattooing songs
to the stars
this unborn lens

grafting post-conceptacle trumors

"Shadows bloody gallery funeral pro-
digestion, wonderful events, appearances noctur-
ties, terrible dreams, mysterious crimes, phe-
terrible phenomena, historical packages, cadaure ^
mobile \ Ries and bloody animated revenge
and combinations of atrocious crime, etc.. Collection pro-
first to cause the strong emotions of terror. "

Instead of chapters, the book is divided Others
"Shadows". The seventh shadows are titled:
"The fake monk, or the bloody head and mobile
true story. "The frontispiece, which is a gra-
vure in mezzotint, depicts a young
woman reading in bed and suddenly terrified
apparitions or visions. A kind of crocodile
dile climbs blankets. Above
the head of the lady a hand advances between the ri-
deaux, holding a dagger. All kinds of animals
great stir in the room. At the bottom of
prints we see an hourglass, a false, osse-
ments, a skull and crossbones, swords and pistols.
This woman represents quite well the reader
of that time, before falling asleep flipping a
book "to give her own strong emotions of
terror ', t Heir Biraffue, for example. 
the only hipster in Montenegro is on
the loose / lake priests gather to revenge
in the odd jowled wind

Most Finalitease Everwanton Knotwork Squeeze

Baal / Loon

paraconsistent site specific
and step aside
while the immense sphere breaks open
its vivid gut
where the black wire
cuts loftily across the blue sky
and clouds
like bones
litter the azure space
of owning
and in all the wide navel groan
what feathered branch descends
what star founds the pin
where membrane kisses
changeling history
all weather
all pervade
veteran movements in the sounding
wild thunder to trade
before the soggy plan
its hard indecipherable outlie
pused to the rough

Brewing Broods By the Storm (Group Lung Mind Ointoint)

coffee is the flying
ointment (would be)
in the fly cream,
which wings would ever linguish
to the hover
dream, O
composite eye
molten flowing cores of iron worlds
who breathe

these lungs are visible
and covered in eyes
and photon flies
are the cream of Delphi

know your thighs
for the runner delights
in going

cafe' up next
it's showing
our humble cup
is a diamond of knowing
and every tasteful metaphor
bends like the reed

where Pan's seed
is ever glowing

the fly-head Pan
whose iron chin
so warm on your thigh

vibrates in the morning
and what thermal oracle
do the locusts' sing

knitting psylens~
wiry thing

the gnith and irrew

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Carved Turquoise Charlton Heston Cellphone Nipples

craniac brittle lumen
the photon sized skulls bouncing
from the surface in cascades
of massless abandon
all hope ye who Horton
cannonballs by alligator

tiny skulls
fitted over your nipple eye balls
surface brittle stinging
abandon all hallmark
greeting lumens

they are the lens of my company
they are the shadrack fondling
alligator nipple clips
wearing skull masks as white as snow
and the mask
is backward

the cannon inhales
my balls
Charlton Heston as Charon
riding an alligator gondola / styx style

whose golden coin
carries the image of a skull
on one side
and a snake coiling about
an olive branch on the other?

these nipples of blinding light
these folding bird skull origami
to decorate the snow white albino alligator

hallmark greeting
black mask
covers a foaming amoeba
of green nipples

the shadrack of my fondling
the Charlton Heston-faced django-handed sloth
who hangs from ivy-furred stone testicles
wearing a velvet gondola hat
whose tiny Moses doll
sits upright
showing two sweet raspberry nipples
of polished porphyry

lungfish doing beatbox
on the banks of the river styx
still singing of craniac brittle lumen
atop steles of castaway cork
bobbing among lurid caprine aquaphones

Monday, August 13, 2012


niaincs who live in small enclosed cham- bers, head bowed, eyes waves a feather fingers. Gela is all the more comical than the result of these writings, early or feverish, remains generally unknown. J ^ s men per- sévèrent long. More practical, women wish toucherrapidement order. Each Nouve ' editor, each new magazine, each new newspaper come to see them martyrs of Hope literary admit drawers hold in the dozens of unpublished novels. It is very rare the fcwnmes are also stubborn, but as the number of those who write these increases without "e, the time is coming when, as little as favored lumen, they will have to wait and grow old in weeping over the harvests of their genius peace's peaches and herbs and cream

image by Nathalie Djurberg

Pepper and the paint rag

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Melanie Daniels

ashram Volvo
whose hare would wind
the cheeselip lapward

for in the mint tree
hides the lapwing

whose jewel
did rennet

Hare Krishna
hairy cursed thing
which all
believes Aleutian
ablution rushing chains
and all absolve bald
bold babominations
mintly tea

and the birds, Tippi, lily,
O, I am with thee,
in the phone booth of the soul'd,
amidst the catastrophe

the flaming lyre
whose notes
are gulls
eating the tender eyes
of children

hare' krishna love birds
riding volvo cano
all folding ode
in blonde amoeba Aristophanes
head wren

johntree spime elton sphere cousins

in elton
john is roundtree
and landspime

wail all ball tree chain to glass anal ogg
verb is
too wayne
john spheretree habile thumbroot
and seizure
of final face forms

in masque
is elton
cave piano fish brandy allure
longfinger diving well
foam hole
where roundtree supp

endless branching thumbs
in elton
its face john rudimentalese tail bone treeball mass

branching cranial tree leash
and she leached
he leached

helium microsac innocents
their floating babyfeet earscrotabeans
helen of boy
elton whale hole chest survample
glass eye
and toga detain

its face toga detain
white yeti police
with bald pink genital pianos
flashing badges

spherical brass tree eye wheels
skull foot sap trade vehicle
for total john sequencing

landspime detain

picture of rusting drums

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Ronnie Ronnie, She-Panther...

Oh yes, it is a little odd I guess, but they treat us very well on the whole, and even a little better than the natural borns in certain circumstances; we are taken care of. And if you like the work, and it is simple by design, then, it isn't a bad life at all. For instance, and maybe it was the whole clade of us Ronald Reagan clones, maybe 500 of us, and we were on a paid vacation, doing only a little classroom work in the countryside, and they took us to one of the new holo-enormitron sculptural cinema reconstructions, the Japanese called them Roboto Bigshow, and I have no idea how it's made, you see, maybe a hologram pattern can be addressed and nanobots dynamically fill in, something like that, anyway. you sit out in the film. Well, we had gone to see Akira Kurosawa's Drunken Angel, a film I wasn't at all familiar with, but we were told that Ronald Reagan loved the work especially, and had met Kurosawa, but none of us remembered that, and we were Ronald Reagan, but the movie was wonderful. I totally recall liking Shizuko Kasagi's song where she growls I'm a she-panther, waoooow.. Like that. That just really got into my spine, my goodness. Well, the thinking goes, we're supposed to teach ironically, by being who we were cloned from, but we're people too, so it's easy enough to read a wiki and get the history of the thing. I guess we could've done better by the Japanese, that bombing thing, but that's almost 400 years ago now. We're all in wonder at this point, sitting in the hairline of a 350 ft tall Toshiro Mifune robo-holo watching Shizuko Kasagi sing. That's what I'll take home! And the faces of all the bright country children when we teach them about the horrors of alcohol and drug addiction, and about the terrible times of the past, and how tragedy can sometimes build a happy future anyway, or what we all now call strange growth process. It all just makes a Ronnie proud... I am a she-panther! Still can't get that out of my mind... The Nancys enjoyed that too!

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Invisible Giant Rabbit

And even as his jaw dissolves,
he calls Achmed a 'Barbie Doll';
bitching about overtime..

Jimmy Stewart.
Bone Cancer.
Stewart Harvey.
Animal House.

kykeon never wane, setzling game, and ardent murall'd

comic awe
the sensitive tip
when mules come curtsy to the pyramid's
power dusting mold
what peak restores
its slave
its stepped kindness
lived in fury before a definition
in many copies or attempts
that no ideal be expressed

by the small of its back country
caring that every limb must thread
through the central sucking hole
toward mystery unbound
and chain Prometheus ' eye
to a dark and interior fire
its elegiac gloaming
and broad stomping
talon breeze
the teased out wheeze
where flowing kyes the ease
a slang of riddlers like fleas
harangue the boning

sublime mischance
its volpone prancing tongue
will touch where the pouch
in its rust and geld
and boiled in fevers give
a clasp of curdled mirrors
and reflect each surface
has a multiple view
and absorbs you into
the circle with Petalocerous

every head is serious and silver
in the comely baking brake
that green oven's cool and open nacre
bending slender to the feign
and rigid topos floating seine
being and time a sign
of a net whose cast
rigs up a tone
hie kye to the mystai
and the ergonomic thread
passed through its strange bed
and to the grain of its head
a spewing a spy

and held a giant mask
before the sun
so that the holes
would suffer glory
to our fame
which shone

Sad Moments For My Cat

stuck sample
sordid stock
sucking stamps to the back of the head

quiet the nerve

a slow burning candle kisses the dark
and warming the rim of the bell

whose jollop long fled to skin inclinamen
heart('s) medicine

end of summer pod
pod period
pod posit

warm hands on bell
and cuddle elderly cat
my friend of 20 years
whose final days it seems
are best spent sleeping
by the bathtub
on a special brown mat

and this unconscious structure
like a diagram of the womb

soft brown pad placenta
and tub where she goes
from time to time to drink
eschewing all bowls and think
and walking in the waters
to damp the paws
then laying down again
her skeletal form now
breathing harder
at any expenditure

her supper brought to her
still purr when picked up
still quiet when cuddle
still sleep during day
during night

always asleep
always knowing
and blind
her last circuit
between her bathroom
and ours
ours become her bedroom
her womb tub

she Senecat
and noble roamin' tiger

Frank Littot

Hilum part I/3 from franck littot on Vimeo.
via Monster Brains

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Oral Minne, Future Feute

image death fantod
wherein the timbre's
tenebrous dotage
was held tenible
to the lurch
as churlish eutectic
metogeny gaming
a preamble to fold
abat-jure and abjure
into periodyssey.

pseudomorphic specimen
wherein the member's
membranous dorsal
is held liable
for the friable
the final form
the original
whose only
was once
to perception,
an avid tenesmus,
c'est oui (cestui).

cursed daze!
dahez he had none of
that which is full
in the construction
of its vowell eclogite
a stele whose body
stores thoughtful
energy, and manages
its named as epidotes
henged to adore.

The Old Drunks

Human Culture is R. D. Laing.
Any Language is R. D. Laing.
Art is R. D. Laing. Poetry.
Sculpture is R. D. Laing.
and Science, too. Medicine,
arguably, will still be very
R. D. Laing, although, it seems
it may be self-countering, or counting
down to being, in the end, R. D. Laing.
Religion is R. D. Laing. War
R. D. Laing. Love, well, love is
poetry, but poetry, Poetry
is R. D. Laing. Sex is R. D. Laing.
Nature R. D. Laing. Matter
itself is R. D. Laing. Ideology
of every kind is R.D. Laing.
Famous, then, Fucked.

Getting drunk.
Researching and Developing Language
only to find that, all in all, it's all
'an unworthy vessel', that's like totally
R. D. Laing.

R. D. Laing is like, here it is, here is this bright,
wonderful, progressive world, joy the hub, no, it's drunk,
it's the same, awful stupid world it always was,
and whether you're smearing shit, or kiffing off
to language's efffervestal yoni, in the end,
the old drunks win: Dionysus, Saturn, Whoever, Venus, maybe.

Who stands in line
to see a psychiatrist? In Spring?
Life is a mind fuck,
and death, the universal

Rest in Psychosis.
or Burn in Hell.
or Research and Develop!
In Difference, is sameness, in sameness, difference:

In Media Res, The Arch Devil Loping!

Art lain in generations.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Eloquent Homogeny

in the summer
of the Upper
I had been
that I did
not live
ghost upper
latter Sumer
when >>>
led <<<
to ^^^ as

ecce homo
with fork
and spoon
this suited
plate hat
or upside down
the head meal

the last supper
the first season
how facts face
fiction out
in its stead
the rocky face
before all time
time beginning
time remain
it will force us
to be free

a music for everyday stinky dogs

through the maze of infernal claquedent
i led the spaniel on, freshly washed, the ear yeast gone, and
so, the bad bunny rode, sun pants Sarrazin with a donkey's head
and the poet of olives inside a camel, the street BYURLO!

but who strode through the woods
in the memoirs of an indiscreet bullfinch

a little chicken on a stick

this medieval astronaut's tavern...
these sententious tents of toilet paper hours..

now that the dog is smelling better
I can sit down to the piano
eat a Reuben sandwich
lift some weights

arras of all buildings made letter
spirit houses
houses for tiny fairies

and piano house
where the tiny bearded man lives
eating cat tails, and burnishing brass spittoons

there he goes across the keys
throwing ice to the scarecrows
and shitting off a cliff
and yodelling


and writing the song
whose marbled blue meat
is the desharapado of fauns
whose crotches
must be yeasty he thinks
living in the mirlitons
in May

when the revolutions blossom
like pea flowers
with golden chains

while eunuchs dance around
with fake chayote for balls
a music for everyday