Monday, December 31, 2012

RING TOMB (feeling awed and dumb by the travesty and majesty, all tragestic)

a solid gold faux amoeba earring cellphone fitness center
for AI ringtone ghosts jangles lightly alike to its twin
but they both have different clientele, one noises, the other
jazz, so that the head in between makes both a smirk,
and a grimace, a smeared mask, but there is no reason to doubt
that the body from which they dangle is a sound itself,
and the world a rustic earcanal, and no quaint swab can ever
fully remove its production of corrosion, for eros in coercion,
as if the heart bore the sun's absolute to enact a brave immersion,
and the waxing and the waning of moons are but forms of clacking
and naying, and the whole skreaking ball is a mess, and its formless
surface is indeed a form, but one which cannot be depicted, as its
infinity of parts is too vast, and too fleetly changeable, though
one surmises it must all fit, if any page were sufficiently large,
and its characters sufficiently small, and the unique path
of every raindrop could be represented by a single unique glyph,
a barcode, perhaps rendered as a noise, and put into the composition
in a way that its signature could remain, and inform the later structures
of their collective identity, for what a geometry to behold, an 
abstract diagram of the life, or history of water, one whose
every citizen had a name, and an address.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

WARHAMMER (A Winter Poem)

"The moan of doves in enema helmets," says
"Noah masturbates just like Caesar,"
but the world in white laurels is calm.

Snow is Zen,
and leeches languor.
squirming ironically.
Not really. Sock.

It's not their fault,
or is it?

Rune goon.

is a common mode
of late contemporary
media entertainments,
but the facts
can be misleading.

Mark Twain
in France.

A Truly Loyal Spy

Who sends these messy brass
islands? This mess amassing is
brass islands seldom. Your un-
bending wheat is wise at the sum-
mit, where the bugle sees no gypsy.
Dull blades like a mess form in
brass ports; here. Looking at the
haunches (lights in the dusk) ~all
the stupid glory to touch brings in
a hammered gold in broad daylight
((equanimity is boundless language-
lessness) Lit, drunk, every yellow
scrap is sweet relief.) [yadda yellow
brass, boss] I do not remember me,
wild salty poppy to the wheat har-
vest commemorative ribbon
red under the tuba, its brass feet
have brass teeth which have brass
breasts, rattling the conclusion of
my business. red mop [ponder]
oh ponder. (transponder) That's
all it took, I guess.

Friday, December 28, 2012


1. radical unity(s) of disjunction
1a. Tǒngyī: Jījìn de tuánjié de fēnlí

2. Separation of the radical unity
2a. Tongue ye to Agni, jejeune the twangy fennel

3. Damn separation results go for a discount
3a. bronze fennel bell whose 'tongue' is the radical for shit, no, shita, no, sheddu, no,

4. Shétou, 'but how does that hit you?" She too would like the excrement read aloud o'er the ground which wrought. He split, dig?
4a. cloche fenouil bronze dont la «langue» est le radical de la merde, non, shita, non, sheddu, non, Shétou (for the everlovin' cloven oven which in moving clues the fen wheel to the clock. Doesn't its tongue seem more radical that its spea?ch? That wretch, peach, itch to impeach, ich haben neither will nor whey but pretends its sway though the mirror is a radicalized gel, window, window, piston rogues the rake, number 9W.

5. Language is shit radicalized
5a. Inserting the bronze fennel bell into the carved faux rectum of an unknown kind of melon

6. vyřezávané
6a. The viral raisin is vain, it's mind a wind vane channeling radicalized shit

7. Student dog --> towards dry grape poison
7a. History of the World

8. History of the tongue
8a. History of the Amniotes. Let us write the tongue.

9. tongue in mouth, clapper in bell, pupil in eye, yolk in egg,
axle in wheel, baby in belly, letter in word
9a. The dogged student moves toward the radicalized shit, sniffing

10. Kagekina tawagoto ni mukatte gankona gakusei, suniffingu
10a. The kinetic cage becoming a mutant gondola accuses the sun of fingers

11. Chéngwéi yīgè túbiàn de lǎnchē dònglì xué lóng zhǐzé tàiyáng de shǒuzhǐ
11a. Exchanging for gifted tubes an avalanche of long dangling shoes, she's staying Susie

12. definition of poem
12a. A vehicle length of pipe holds an avalanche

13. Be returned to the original method of Nadia there is no variation
13a. Illegal unity is not insipid when it mimics exactly the taxing guise of a caviar suit

14.  O human shiitake airship, your homicide turban of oaky euros is like a fang boot fuming ginkgo nagas in a sauna of chopped amniotes, for the cash flow does not tame the fame without the de-cushioning of the fauteuil gate's "Grasshopper Weathervane" of our virus' completely crushed dark energy, what Peter Faneuil called "Totally Karuppu Unko Sami"
14a. Some ignorant joyous knee poots passed via rabid assassin

15. To verify our inference that one hell of a stupid small jelly devil palm dreamer trumpets on the wings of the Muse when passing dual tasteless ass elmy dun gaps in attendance, the race of the pedestals proceeds for the trophy of one lame poached cockroach called "mustache ointment problem of debauchery"
15a. A battle in his mind coming through his modest sensitive oak Beramukitto partner is not fun anymore, arbirtrary ruins example Arabs in willow garb, bullfinch nests dipped in caramel, a caramel nest doorframe may open onto the mythical land of Chalaza

16. pistachio
16a. Birds live in the air, on land,
and on and around fresh water and sea water.
However, keratinization of the lingual epithelium
is a common feature, in particular
on the ventral side of the tongue,
where the so-called ‘lingual nail’
is prominent in all species examined

17. golden chaos before commandment, and after
18. and during, enduring.

19. O the long solemn song before the building of the human body's babylon
and the grunts, and squeaks that followed, 10 minutes now of self-important food chain
modulation, but! alas this slut abrupts, copper oatmeal does not hover
u nle ss
a bowler, imagine its bowler of snakes, 
not positive, not negative,

Friday, December 21, 2012

Jogging With Roussel 17

From the diary of Florent Lauwerys:
Chaos reinvents its carapace of flowers.
Today is the 10th anniversary of the last time Mother and I went to Locus Solus to see poor Father’s reanimated ordeal at the hands of the Griko bandit Grocco in the hills of the Aspromonte in Calabria. As a child I never understood the full irony of Father’s story, for those misplaced Greeks in the rocks, in a church like a ruin lived in the heel of the boot of Italy (the heels!) and though Father always said they were the true Gracchi of the Griko, I never quite forgave them, though in a funny way, they saved his life, and brought about a miracle in my own, namely, the meeting of my beloved Henrietta Bréger, the very daughter of our benefactor Evangeline Bréger, who had married into an odd branch of the Castine family, the family of Jean-Vincent d'Abbadie de Saint-Castin, the subject of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem of much fame.
 It seems Christine Castine, an unknown daughter of Baron Castine by his Penobscot wife Pidianske married one Gustave Bréger of  Béarn who was an historian and collector of rare antiquities, and an expert numismatist. Christine was some-thing of a family secret as she was born with a peculiar defect which rendered her lot in social life rather precarious in those times, and even today. Christine had been born without the benefit of nose. Gustave Bréger, a Jansenist man of impeccable grace, intelligence, compassion and practicality had met the woman quite by accident while involved in the evaluation of a horde of Écu which the Baron had discovered while renovating his family’s somewhat dilapidated Chateau, long disused in his journeys to the American continent.

During the rebuilding of one of the chateau’s many crumbling chimneys, a large piece of brick had fallen from above, and hit an irregular brick within the chimney’s interior, that brick having been displaced slowly over a few hundred years by the weight of the hoard of Écu whose hiding place in the wall of an upper bedroom had never been detected. When the bricks collided, the horde was released, and the sound of tinkling coins echoed through rooms where the Baron was reading. Calling in Bréger to evaluate the horde, Baron Castine unwittingly set in motion a surprising series of events.
 It is somewhat widely known that the Baron Castine, although renowned for his savagery and exploits with the Abenaki Indians of New France was a devout Catholic. What is not widely known is that during his years of hardship and conflict, the Baron’s faith had been greatly attenuated, and he had become, though not unkind in any way, a bit of an apostate, and the birth of his deformed daughter did nothing to reverse the gathering pongeur within his flagging, haggard spirit.
Christine Chastine, although afflicted with a terrible, though mostly cosmetic burden, bore her lot lightly, and was a delightful person, a collector in her own right, and a talented artist of glass lamp-working, and jewelry, who, though somewhat fetishistically involved in the production of glass noses of ever-increasing complexity, made a perfect partner for the young Gustave Bréger whose nose was, it could be said, was rather freakishly large, possibly the product of his twisted Saxon-Merovingian ancestry, which they all partook of in some relative sense, with the exception of  Pidianske, the wife of Baron Castine. The match of Christine and Gustave had a certain Port-Royal logic to it, especially as extends to the art of kissing, for in his ‘nose column’ there was certain ‘credit’, and within hers, a certain ‘debit’, and the removal of her prosthesis within the privacy of their intimate relations became an item of singular eroticism, as both of these wonderful young people were beleaguered by a certain haunted magnetism to the strange and beautiful.          
Feeling deep pity and angst for the plight of his daughter, and seeing how well the two young persons in the flower of their youth got along, Baron Castine decided to make a dowry of the hoard of Écu to the young couple and they married straight away, deciding to honey-moon in the lands of the Auvergne, near the old site of Nemossos, where Gaulish Avernie had once stood.
Deciding that the felicitous manner of the discovery of the hoard of Écu was somehow an echo of their physical states, and being that Blaise Pascal was born near there, they decided to bury one of the loveliest coins of the hoard, an ‘écu a la chaise’ of the 14th century in the shady grove where they first made love. It was this very coin that my mother Clotilde found as a child, and which served as the powder for the gilt text in the blank endpapers of the Erebi Glossarium a Ludovico Toljano inscribed with a rose’s thorn in what were to be the last days of my Father’s life before he was saved by the charity of  Evangeline Bréger, the grand-daughter in-law of Gustave and Christine Bréger. Buried underfoot, this healing coin would have a life of its own, and the spirit of those two lovers would continue to resound, and today I have returned to the very spot where it was originally exhumed by my mother to rebury it joined by my wife Henrietta Bréger, in a grove at the end of a lane near the old castle called Clarus Mons.     

Thursday, December 20, 2012


And the spear is like a shovel,
clair-obscur, the child
who stands upon the wooden bench
looking o'er the entire city,

And the spear is like a flute,
clear and sure, the red
which blazes in the veins of the jaguar
circulating through the ignited jungle

And the nudity is like a transparency,
origin, the tool
which renders the music solemn
must look as a root removed
from the soil.


Quelling its incensed questions of flatness,
does it perceive a scarlet toffee ?
Is dawn sweetly entering vellum?
Does its atavistic heart dilate?
Its joyful ignorance may not sate you.

Cream questions the passing chorus.
The dun battle is a veiled race.
A feather shaped door into the hat
reveals a toffee settee of null traces,
this debt a prodigal trousse of skin.

Necessarily questioning the pouring
of rendered limes sussing its ardent
drapery of flames, the elmy foe rates
the mirrored faun, its jellied mask
evincing lame lacunae, nests and
clauses of demonic fins.

Wry boughs pour intrepid essays
among the rapid bottles' tiny, dreamy,
transparent trumpets' barking.
VERITAS on the moon's insipid rump,
the demure car holding oaken parents.

A pine ointment over poached prawns
pedestals the sentient heart of a roach
attending its most recent duel, where
grace's tonsils are still macaroons,
pendants of space under clinamen's oil.

I see the briskly common virus,
its sermon's costume perserveres.
The maintenance of audacious fools
projects an infernal dance inferring
our communal muse is a mustache
of surly suns.


Christmas Party Haiku

wind rattled windows
all night Euphorbia in rain
crisp new oni Yukata morning

new wooden sandals tight
walking around to stretch them
Cocker Spaniel squirming

beast finger branches
claw the house
finally Winter disrobes

drinking Grande Marnier
with 91 yr old engineer woman
Cookie likes Sante Fe

my gallerist makes good chili
sitting in a big leather chair
Puerto Rican cock fighting

plantain tamales we see on Iphone
I notice a 50 yr old painting
golden pharaonic vexilloid

secret lakes of Arkansas
the Corps of Engineers
cock fighting t-shirts

sister died of cancer, half-
brother divorced, grandmother
passed from old age

cream cheese and pick-a-pepper
the marathon concludes before the rain
pretty women wearing blinking nipple lights

the Mexican artist's golden
chair, two lion heads
white linen cushions

this Cocker Spaniel is fat like
a pig, his name is Pepper
but I call him Monkey Toe

Daisy behind glass barks and
slobbers for the joggers, Daisy
would like to eat all joggers

here comes Santa Clause in December
shorts, here come the walkers
one step up from us, the drinkers

just as in all of history we are
the boosters, shrewd merchants
cheering the passing crowds

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Jogging With Roussel 16 Part 7 & 8

Jogging With Roussel 16 Part 7

At exactly the same time that Canterel and his band of cohorts were preparing their ascendency modulation within the Asian timeline, Cantagrael and Prof. Majesty had already begun their first big Mayan push, emplacing water distribution portals throughout central America starting at about the year 795 CE. Discretely installing trans-temporal quantum flux modulation frames designed to force feed specific material identities, namely water, in this case, into the environment, thus altering the course of the Mayan, and related cultural complexes. Creating vast new aquifers, and restoring in their entirety, the networks of cenotes among the major city-states, Cantagrael and  Prof. Majesty endeavored to extend and alter the length of the high classic Mayan period until their first visitation on the eve of the arrival of the Mahdi Fogar in Bahrain in 931. As events unfolded in Bahrain, Cantagrael, the Eloi / Chlortron avatar of Canterel took his childlike Eloi body which he had reconfigured to grow a long white beard so as to become the deity known as God L, and climbed atop Professor Majesty’s latest accomplishment, a gargantuan Chlorlock version of God K, in whose headdress he sat like a jewel, and which he operated like an amazing telepresent puppet.
God K was Chlorlock green of course, but only human from the waist up, the nether and locomotive region of the legs becoming an enormous snake’s body.  The armorial torso was an amazing feat of trans-temporal cybernetic design. Thousands of QFM frames were linked together and controlled by Cantagrael who could render their surfaces in any material, or turn them into full portals, or even holographic display pixels. Alternating bands of pure light could be broadcast as well as sending various flocks of birds, clouds of smoke, rains of gemstones, glyphs, sounds, winds, high speed bolts of lava, or water, or perfume, or pure hallu-cinogens, whole synthetic evolutions of miniaturized ecosystems could be created and mapped onto the torsos; Cantagrael had designed a trans-temporal server farm, and a sytem of complicated batch routines which could be controlled by a simple but elegantly designed staff which he carried in the headdress which served as an avatarial throne, for although they had sured up one of the creaking timbers of Mayan society, there were others. In addition to devastating droughts, there were nascent peasant revolutions led by peasant priests which had to be brought under control, as well as certain disease vectors. An army of Chlorlock Mayan warriors and mindless worker slaves would be following the emergence of God K and his God L / Cantagrael, avatarial head gem to sure up the problems of the teetering Mayan culture.
The headdress of God K was also a complicated affair, and though it appeared to utilize much of the syntax of Mayan graph-ology, it was wholly a functional technological analog of these more modest fantastical sym-bolic structures. God K’s face for instance was shielded by a hovering QFM mask which could be completely transparent or take on any imaginable visage rendered in any sub-stance, for instance a face made of living and tessellated green parrots flying effortlessly in place, as well as becoming an incredibly pow-erful weapon or method of persuasion. His helmet was covered in robotic appendages, and hovering further out many constellations of more QFM frames so that, Cantagrael could use his helmet top platform, and throne as a field laboratory. From the forehead of the helmet was an intricately beautiful sensorial adaptation, a tentacular antenna arrayed with sensitive systems in all manner of spectrums, from electrophysical to linguistic, and biological, the unit looking to the unsuspecting viewer like a fantastical tail covered in flexing mica spines, scales and chromatically shifting feathers, and leaves and metallic cones and schools of hovering constellated mites and tiny frames for automatic reconfiguring and instrumental accretions.
In the Atlantic Ocean, QFM construction frames were summoned and attended by Professor Majesty who looked out upon the Atlantic through a trans-temporal window as one would look out on a factory floor. The QFM frames beginning to construct an immense labyrinthine obsidian barrier which would be populated with large appropriately mythic Chlorlock beasts meant to produce a shudder, a shocking defeat, actually, to the nascent rationalism and arrogance of the centuries of explorers to come. The Zoroastrians would mitigate travel to the Americas on the Pacific side, and allow for other more unpredictable modulations in history, perhaps with the Japanese, or the Ainu, or Northern peoples, and of course the Indians.

Jogging With Roussel 16 part 8

On March 21st, 931 of the Gregorian Calendar, Operation Mayavesta, or ‘It’s a Mad Mad Mahdi’s World’ took place, and it just so happened that it coincided with the old Avestan Calendar’s New Year’s day called Narrooz which was the first day of the month of Frawardin. Fogar -al Isfahani had been seen in his cell covered in fur, and fishscales, and butterfly wings, and other things, and was summoned before Abū-Tāhir and sat before him in the palace at Al-Hasa where he was to be questioned. Discretely altering his appearance, Fogar began to resemble a wise young man of about 30, and yet there was something peculiar about his eyes, a kind of hypnotic strobing which was a subtle combination of butterfly wing and cuttlefish skin chromatics. Subtly mirroring all the facial expressions of Abu Tahir, and reflecting colors which already inhabited the room, Fogar gained command of the situation, and began to question Abu-Tahir instead. “Who is not an imposter in this world Abu-Tahir? For what person really ever knows who they are when like a pebble cast into a pond, the pebble passes quickly into obscurity leaving ripples that last, and which pass throughout all time, and causing more pebbles to be cast. Only a Mahdi who claims to be false can ever be real, the true Mahdi is the Mahdi ad-Dajjāl. Not knowing that this very name had been used the night before in Abu Tahir’s troubling dream, even Fogar was taken by surpise when Abu Tahir fell on his knees and wept at the feet of Fogar, the new Caliph of the Qarmati Revolutionaries which were just then sweeping through the heart of Islam. As Fogar took the throne in a modest impromptu ceremony, outside 500 Chlorlock Gargantuans arrayed in clouds of TTQFM frames surrounded the palace and immediately constructed a solid obsidian wall 100 meters thick and 200 meters tall. Blazing flaming calligraphy appeared on the outer surface of the wall announcing the coronation of the Mahdi ad-Dajjāl. Then Chlorlock soldiers and Eloi scientists began pouring through portals which starting popping up all around the palace and accociated grounds. Fogar entered into a rapture of lycanthropy before the gathered officials morphing lyrically between thousands of combined and kaleidoscopic species. Canterel and Professor Majesty stepped through a portal into the throne room dressed as ancient Magi and dressed Fogar in a resplendent armor of microtesselate TTQFM frames as a security measure should any of the primitive superstitious peoples they would be living with decide to attempt to kill Fogar before they could win them over with the pleasures and virtues of their highly advanced and customizable cultural apparatchic. Canterel approached Abu Tahir who appeared to have gone slightly insane, and handed him a beautiful wooden marquetry box which had a small brass hole in the center of its lid. As Abu Tahir looked at the box, a holographic map of the Earth appeared, a real time image of the earth taken from myriad TTW’s in space, and he showed Abu Tahir how to touch the globe, make it larger or smaller, drill down into the image. Abu Tahir was carried out of the room looking happy but perplexed at what had just happened. The Fogarian Empire had begun!

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Günther Uecker at Haunch of Venison

  • 2012
  • Nails, white paint with glue on canvas on wood
  • 78 3/4 x 59 1/8 in. (200 x 150 cm)

There appears to be a very nice Günther Uecker show up at Haunch of Venison.
To read about Günther, see his wikipedia entry here.

Wonderful Literature and Ephemera Auction coming up at Pierre Berge'

Here is a 'paper theater' for Jacques Henri (Bernardin De Saint-Pierre)'s Paul et Virginie for example..


Holy Versus B -/roken By Prolificity

are poor
girded with loins
lines that alpha screech
where the bonnet
splits the Moses

these poor hearts
whose blood is gadflies
in of forgiveness
see them is
gald fy all

in general
improving mind
improving desolation
improving it all

what are poor
what state
if clinical
gone nature

nature dissecting
under sun's

give (
a bad doctor
a regal king
an unheard cry
all debating

all opening
the wind

so that globular amorphous aqueous being
would float

o that melusine bird
ruined by customs and humours
and rummage

mushroom heads of hair
occupying almost

do they glean only pictures
to their fasting
poor so poor

their strong avid hearts
without the armor

the armors
the hot and hulking intelligence
which was derived apart
from their cultured emotions

its prison theater called
was working and burning
it was that which flowed forth
but none for all

so do not cry for me
in the avalanche of ferns
cry for me
in the avalanche of criers

the melange of promiscuous mixers
pressed contemptuously
into miscellaneous

oh gentle
ever sensual
the conception
aligns all assembly

epicene rasps
the odd twin sinks
allure the sunken pastoral
and hearken
its dishwater book
to primordial remedy

our poem
as Attila
at Metz
each stroke increasing
the breadth of spherology
what Sisyphus knew
as a system  ~)or
ewer yoke(

the public inn
like a treat for birds
would salve all moments
in the philtre foeter
for their eclogite
its abcoherence insurd

ENVY: A Theory of Social Behaviour

If you have not cast a thing, you have it: 
but you have not cast horns,
therefore you have horns.

there's a ceratine slant of light
replicating again a maypole
ribbanding refracts through
the radial transparent displacement
of the fangs about the stalking
of the argument's prolix
helix creating inspiral'd
ornaments for pathetic phallacy
is indeed the origin
and though you may know or
say that humans *(shell(
(An Ode To Dill Jam, Say) 'structure')
deep dive into what incan thrift
describes as mummy, a stylus, or
fish, all civilization in its side a kidney
covered in hide or hidden, oh how
the rondure of the stewpot
resembles a map on a globe
flat and minor and there all
friends are gaping upon
the invisible decks it knows
as stairs which hang like
smoke across the valley
and only the pinch of signal reek
and reaching here these weak cheeks
tongue as clapper waddling by choir
between war and stomachs
and the call to praise, bellow bringing
its pith hot rigging, for thought
is the fruit that rots
and matter the singing seed
clinched between those teeth
now tumbled into stink
where the burning purity
delivers all masters to the
empty ovum of glory
for there are dreams that died
between the sun and eye
and fatter they go on groaning
enter: the phallacy called
the (horns, (An Ode To Dill Jam, Say)
the) Incomparables.

Monday, December 17, 2012

Jogging With Roussel 16 Part 6

The night before Abū-Tāhir Al-Jannābī was to visit the jail wherein Fogar / Abu'l-Fadl al-Isfahani had been secreted, Abū-Tāhir had a strange dream. He was the night watchman in an immense prison which hovered in the sky, and which resembled a rose without a stem, a black rose. As he carried his lantern down the consecutive hallways which gently curved, he realized he must be within the thickness of one of the petals. Growing curious about the structure of the prison, he began to notice that the bars of the prison cells ran horizontally instead of vertically, and that instead of standard round iron bars, that these horizontal encumbrances were in fact cursive metal calligraphy which he could read, but every cell he came to said the same thing, a veritable litany of words and phrases that all referred to emptiness, and there were no prisoners, not one. Up and down many stairs and across and back through many petals did Abū-Tāhir wander until he entered a central and bud like chamber which housed a bud composed of a grille of metal calligraphy which repeated the same phrase over and over without end: Who is the Mahdi ad-Dajjāl? And at first it seemed as if there was no one inside, but finally someone spoke to him from inside, and the voice said, “Man jadda – wajada…” And then Abū-Tāhir saw a beautiful snow-white peacock with a marvelous pink crest like the bloom of a guli abrisham, or night sleeper. Abū-Tāhir now felt as if he must really be having a prophetic dream, and just as he fell down on his knees, a tiny little old man poked his head out from behind the neck of the peacock.. “Abrakadamn!” cried the little bearded man leaping out and showing himself, and standing in full view on the back of the peacock. “Now where the sura is my Sara? You know, Que será, sera?” Then Abū-Tāhir at once grew slightly angry with the little man who was speaking to him obviously in a sarcastic and disrespectful manner. “I AM ABRAHAM, BOY, I AM YOUR FATHER!” And then the little man shook his ass at Abū-Tāhir, and showed him his rump, and to Abū-Tāhir’s surprise it had a little tail which poked through his djellaba or toga or whatever it was he was wearing. Abū-Tāhir then wanted to kill the little man, and he began to fumble with his key ring, but as he fumbled the keys were likened unto metallic scorpions of calligraphy, the words badly parsed. “Foul parsing!” heckled the little Abraham, “Fal Parsi!” Then Abraham lifted up his cloak and showed Abū-Tāhir his crotch which at first infuriated Abū-Tāhir until he looked closer. “You have no warrant to enter MY JAIL, Abū-Tāhir.” Growing quiet, and crawling on his knees to peer between the lines of the metallic calligraphy grille cage, the little Abraham’s phallus was beautiful. Like a perfectly carved but unknown animal’s head made of obsidian. It was actually a tiny building, and Abū-Tāhir could see hundreds of perfect replicas of the little man standing on miniscule balconies waving joyously at him. Abraham’s phallus was like the head of Set made into a contemporary luxury hotel in miniature, but the image was falling on eyes informed only by a poverty of experience, of rote training by well-wishing but ignorant men. Abū-Tāhir finally stood up, and said desperately, “Demon!” “Yeah, I am de-Man, John Russel!” laughed Abraham, and broke off his tail with a loud SNAP! And threw it perfectly through the words of the prison grille to land at the feet of Abū-Tāhir who awoke with a terrible pain in his side, as if from laughing. In his hand was a hard compressed nut-like kernel which smelled rather familiar, yet different than anything he knew still. Not wanting to alarm anyone, he quickly put the object in a box by his bedside, and got up refreshed to meet the day, casting off the night’s strange bewitchment. Somehow that morning, a Venezuelan Coumara nut found its way into Abū-Tāhir’s bedside box which was lined with an unlikely crimson velvet, and only contained one more object, a small dried monkey’s hand which smelled of bitter cinnamon.    

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Farmacia Del Sentimento

Sort of Interesting I guess. The Hotel in Palermo where Raymond Roussel was found dead, the Grande Albergo e delle Palme was owned at one time by a fellow named Enrico Ragusa. What's odd is this poem from a book called Farmacia Del Sentimento.. It was been variously stated that Roussel had developed a morphine addiction, and in the history of the hotel there is the notable event of a possible 'Heroin Summit' by members of the American and European Mafia in 1957.
The other notable oddity is that Enrico Ragusa was a Hotelier / Entomologist! What I do not know is if this poem is actually by that person. The Enrico Ragusa Hotelier died in 1924. There is also an actor of the 1970's named Enrico Ragusa, but the publication date of this book is 1934, which puts it between both of these folks in a big way, unless the text was published posthumously just some months after the death of Roussel in July of 1933. I just thought it was rather evocative. I would love to work one of these Enrico Ragusas into a story somehow but I cannot find anything at all about them, or him, really except this poem and picture of a book cover on the website of an eccentric Italian psychoanalyst, and one other book on Google books which has no preview. One interesting detail of slight Rousselian interest is the fact that according to Italian Wikipedia, Wagner completed his Opera Parsifal there.. And there is this:

Wagner preferred to describe Parsifal not as an opera, but as "ein Bühnenweihfestspiel" - "A Festival Play for the Consecration of the Stage". At Bayreuth a tradition has arisen that there is no applause after the first act of the opera. Wagner's spelling of Parsifal instead of the Parzival he had used up to 1877 is informed by an erroneous etymology of the name Percival deriving it from a supposedly Arabic origin, Fal Parsi meaning "pure fool".

Foul Parsing? Roussel's How I Wrote Certain of My Books was released on April 1st of the following year.

Follow-UP: It turns out that Enrico Ragusa was possibly one of the more conservative branch of Futurists that glommed onto Federico De Maria in Palermo. These Futurists it seems had a slightly more modified understanding of the revelation of technology, and FDM himself was something of a classicist before he became a Futurist. I guess Enrico Ragusa was a pretty common name in Sicily as there is a town or province named Ragusa there, which I guess is somehow related to the Ragusan Republic. Here is what wikipedia says: 

The Latin, Italian and Dalmatian name Ragusa derives its name from Lausa (from the Greek ξαυ: xau, "precipice"); it was later altered in Rausium (Appendini says that until after AD 1100, the sea passed over the site of modern Ragusa, if so, it could only have been over the Placa or Stradun) or Rausia (even Lavusa, Labusa, Raugia and Rachusa) and finally into Ragusa. The official change of name came into effect when so ordered by the Yugoslav government after the Second World War. The name Ragusa was to be changed as it was Italian or at least looked like it. However, the name Ragusa comes directly from the Illyrian tongue and was in use back to that period of regional history.

Elogio della idiozia di Enrico Ragusa

Io son contento
Che sembro idiota:
floscia la gota,
la bocca smorta,
gli occhi di pesce,
sembrare scemo
non mi rincresce
ed anzi spesso
in me s’avvera
questa preghiera
d’un uomo fesso:
O idiozia
grande e potente
dolce poesia
del non far niente
tu sola sei
proprio colei
che in me vorrei.
è una scemenza
che s’affatica
a superarsi
che indaga il male
che scevra il bene
che tenta Iddio
e che so io
che tutto vuole
e sfida eterna
l’eterna lotta
senza vittoria.
Ed ha la presunzione
di creare nella vita
una missione.
O idiozia
solo tu
sposa mia
fai virtù.
Guardare le mosche
con dolce sorriso
contare i fiorami
sulle pareti
e passeggiare
tutto guardare
senza sapere
nulla di nulla
vita citrulla
Ma quando s’agita in me il tormento
d’un sentimento,
o pur dibattersi tra spirito e cuore
flusso d’amore
strazio d’idea
e un turbinio
di fantasia
s’accende e sale
ecco che balza
bella e infinita
viva creatura
la stessa vita
e dalle forme
stupide e vane
si rinnovella
e si riabbella
la sciocca vita
in supervita
traendo all’imo
forte e severo
un ragionante
grande pensiero
che avvampa
e illumina
che scuote
e muove
le fibre nuove
d’una dolcezza
che infonde scienza
d’una bellezza
che è sofferenza.
Per non sentire
tutta l’ardenza
meglio dormire
con la scemenza
meglio tornare
e farsi culla
da infantisia
senza vedere
senza sapere
nulla di nulla
vita citrulla

Saturday, December 15, 2012


door mulu hat shed
hat shed quotient
patient ceramic hat shed
hat sheddu

ceramic beard subway
gnome package gomi gingerly
candied ginger backpacks

hat shed
bat's head
verily, lady
let's all lay naked
on this big ceramic bat
i've got a hat
if you got ormulu door rattles

as see
ah see
in the 18th century
this ceramic head was a commode
but now a nut dish

nuts hover
nuts sing
so now is the time
all start bending

flexible ginger candy armor
so blue
so veiny
little gnome riding you lady

ceramic beard so heavy
carrying mercury

the candied ankle wings
are good with buffalo sauce

stand outside
hat shed

polite customs!

Friday, December 14, 2012

Ode to a Whistly Gloss

And brink the bauks
immense parties bear

but all bare parity rivals

old as smiling

and water buffalo
sold to Cao Dai soldier
in the shade
of goat leaf

are loaded
with hollow log
the monk worm
works a carkful mind
riding blind
the exalted spaces

and on the window
of Renou's dispensary
Spanish Flies
would form a tensegrity
of lines
but no is looking
towards them

not-self all alien
the mud path
pounded to a whistly gloss
like leather
bare feet would be
if any would be



Jogging With Roussel 16 Part 5

           That night, while still under the aegis of a mood of slight suspicion over the motives of Canterel, Abu Dakni had a dream, the landscape within it resembling much those well-known paintings by Le Douanier, or Henri Rousseau. Abu Dakni was jogging with Raymond Roussel, a strange man Abu Dakni had met through Canterel at one of the meetings of their Orientalist society. Down a winding lane in a dense wood they went. “What of the family origins of Canterel, then?” said Abu Dakni. “That old Alpha Centaur?” replied Roussel, and at that moment both of them became centaurs, and they jogged along naturally at some speed before a gallop. Roussel continued, “Do you know the name for what we are doing?” Abu Dakni said the first thing that popped into his mind. “Running?” “Jogging?” replied Abu Dakni quickly. “Jogging is not far from being correct, but since our lower regions are Equid in nature, the precise term would be ‘canter’,” instructed Roussel, “or a ‘Canterbury gallop’ which is a three-beat gait, sometimes called a ‘hand-gallop’, but a canter is also a machine used in sawmills, to cant or roll over the log within the cutting carriage.” “Isn’t a ‘Cantor’ a singer, like a Chanteuse,” said Abu Dakni, but when he looked at Roussel, he saw that his head was inside of a large glass vessel, a ‘decanter’, and was mouthing the words ‘I can’t hear you’. Abu Dakni repeated the phrase, “Isn’t a ‘Cantor’ a singer, like a Chanteuse?” “You’ll grow hoarse if you keep talking like that,” said Roussel, the decanter now vanished. “Hors?” queried Abu Dakni. “Yes,” mused Roussel, “Hors, or Khors, from the name of the old Slavic sun god, whose name was descended from the old Scythian, or Sarmatian, old Iranian languages, which rendered in Avestan was hvarə хšаētəm, and middle Persian was xvaršêt, and in Persian, xuršēt, or ‘Shining Sun’.” “I can’t relate to what you’re saying very well, Roussel,” said Abu Dakni. “Ah, yes, but your internal, or infernal relays are ‘singing’, are they not?” Roussel went on sphinxishly; “A gait will carry you through a door, and a gate is like a door, but outside, hors dehors ala porte, or ala poetry, the chant orale, which comes out a little door, the mouth, like a relay, really, or hors, which comes from the Latin word foris meaning door, gate, opening entrance, and which descends from the PIE dʰwer, or door, or gate, and foris gives us forum, or in Lithuanian dvãras, or estate!”
           Abu Dakni was growing impatient. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with the family origin of Canterel. You are simply playing word games with his name!” “Keep jogging with me Abu Dakni,” said Roussel kindly, “and keep listening. Now, what is the name of Canterel’s Estate?” Abu Dakni felt a bit queasy, “Uh, I don’t see what this has to do with..” “It’s Locus Solus, correct?” beamed Roussel. “But it’s also ‘Logos Solus!” Abu Dakni was starting to feel a little better, but he felt like he was being led deeper and deeper into a sort of shining pit of infinite correspondence, and that his mind was becoming too loose, too airy, as if in this expanded state the molecules of his brain were too far apart. “Loco Logos?” said Abu Dakni a little sheepishly.. “What is your name Abu Dakni, or should I say Abode of Agni, or acne? What is the family of a solo solar locomotion of the singing word sun relaying clarity, light, the inner, the outer, the threshold, the animal, the deity?” Roussel was smiling broadly. “Do you know how I died?” said Roussel. “You’re dead?” said Abu Dakni. “Do you know what book they found in my dead hand? Well? It was the chronicle of the Kievan Rus, ‘The Tale of Bygone Years,’ and in an expanded edition also containing ‘The Tale of Igor’s Campaign’! I was laid up against a door, and~” Abu Dakni’s mind was growing very tired, and it seemed as if Roussel were becoming a gibbering madman, speaking faster and faster, until Abu Dakni simply stopped jogging, and looked off into the distance alone at the setting sun. The grandeur of it astonished him, and he found that he was completely alone, that within the locus of aloneness resided everything, but that everything was at a wordlessness, or form, waiting to be born for only outlines could perform the radiance of the universal aloneness. He awoke feeling somehow distantly 'oranged’ and deeply perplexed. He remembered the image from Canterel’s lodger’s ‘Ideal Shop’, the quote, : ‘La Perfide Albion’, and then he rolled over and began to have a kind of half dream, a vision. He saw a horizontal monolith of milk hovering in a forest, smooth and serene as liquid alabaster, then a small white boy, paler than any albino, made of the same materielle, sit up within it, and sit at the edge of it like a bed. He was dreaming the dream of awakening.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Jogging With Roussel 16 Part 4

            Martial Canterel and Abu Dakni were in the temporal strategy lounge of one of the lower laboratories in Montmorency, when Dakni began to grow querulous over the content of Canterel’s latest trans-temporal project: “Why Zoroastrianism, Martial? Why Persia?” To which Canterel replied after looking pensive for a moment: “Persist in patience, Eris, for parsing reason is not the job of seasons, but the leisure of a visionary art in seizure..” “Martial!” cried Abu Dakni, “You wouldn’t base an entire alternate world on some hazy poetics of echoics, would you?” Then Canterel, using a movement of the hand like a magician, snapped open a little yellow glass frame in the air and reached through it, and pulled out a volume from the TTL, and handed it to Abu Dakni. “The Three Imposters?” “You’ll notice it doesn’t say four imposters,” said Canterel evenly. “From what I’ve been able to intuit, Zoroastrianism is the one religion that failed that would have conserved the concept of magic, and combined it with what is typically called science. It has no historical tendencies for the punishment of apostasy, as it retains a certain Indo-Aryan plasticity in its theology, an accretionist, or literary-poetic tendency, and the origins of the religion itself are obscure because of its natural suspicion of writing which is bound up in its origin. That originating tendency renders its fundamental character a form or figure of heterodoxy. The Zoroastrians will allow any religion to exist, and as the central pillar of geo-metaphysics, and one aligned with magic, it will allow a flourishing of both occult and scientific cultus. Zoroastrianism is the Persian fruit of equanimity.” “But Canterel, surely, reason and enlightenment are the path, what of protecting and fostering the world of Charvaka,” said Dakni growing impassioned as a man of science, and clear direct thought.
 “My Dear Abu, I leave that project to you, For if you wish to ‘make it new’ or real, my wish is to keep it eccentric, or ‘keep it weird’ as they say in America on their automobile bumperstickers! And as for Charvaka, I have already printed his mind, and I had thought of something supremely weird of him, for this world.” “And what would that be?” said Abu Dakni somewhat crestfallen. “I had thought to create tree cities of green Charvakan squirrels, chlorsquirrel Charvakas on every continent, protected by powerful Chlorlock Gargantuas, and these tiny furry little emeralds would become enigmatic gurus to the humans with a more naturalist, and more fantastic bent.” “You would have green squirrels to profess atheism to warlock Zoroasts?” “Not something as pedestrian as Atheism Dakni, but a larger, more mysterious idea, Lyrical Materialism!” Abu Dakni seemed satisfied. He put his arm around Canterel’s shoulder, and imitated in an Indian accent, “What a strange and wondrous old guru you are Martial Canterel.” “I’m all-a’bullish on fiddle-faddle's honey,” said Canterel, “I’m a fan!”
And they went off to put Fogar into the jail in Bahrain where he would call himself  Abu'l-Fadl al-Isfahani, and be discovered by Abū-Tāhir Al-Jannābī, and would be seen to be the Mahdi, but this time, the process would be a little more cunning, and a little less murderous. There are ways to move people around without having to kill them. Canterel had the biggest witness protection program in the universe until he sold the rights to it to be used as a training museum for successive ages of Trans-Temporal agents controlled by Ray Echenoz-Bolger in the year One Hundred Thousand and One. If Canterel was the world’s first Trans-Temporal Artist, or Poet, then it must be said, that it was CIA Agent Ray Echenoz-Bolger that was the great pioneer of the trans-temporal economies, even going what you might call ‘native’, his vast ‘rogue’ agency like a tribe of carnival caravaneers, wending their wild-shoppe intelligence through the hinters and winters of time. If Canterel, and his work was the spine of the Caduceus, Ray Echenoz-Bolger was the snake slithering across its surface, and the whole affaire, it could be said, was nothing if not Hermetic. It was all a sea of professing.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Jogging With Roussel 16 part 3

Like a tongue of fluttering chromatic penumbra of  magnificently dissociative wings, the first leg began to jut from the hatch in the sphere, as if the frenzy of feastly birds laid out in a line behind had found a way in, and the pilot was being devoured, but then came a second leg and a rump, and then a torso and then a head, and it stood there stretching itself in the cool and immortal morning of all worlds to come, a phasmid of physical magic. Then, by turns, as if unaware of our watching, or perhaps because of it, it began to return to a more copasetic expression of representation, though one which could easily be called ‘An Angel of Eccentricity’,  for though we had been told that Fogar was elderly yet spry, we had no idea, that the gentleman was a Loa of Olympian complexions. Fogar, it seemed, contained an ageless secret, and was the commander if, of nothing else, then, himself, itself. When he was all done, Fogar resembled a young and elegant mulatto, part Arab perhaps, but with a crisp mustache, and Bex said he liked to style himself an Afribbean Marie Joseph Robert Anatole, Comte de Montesquiou-Fézensac lately of France, but in a winking sense the Côte d'Ivoire as well, for he wore an elegant ceremonial armor that bears some description. Entirely of ivory, the suit had been carved to the delicacy of lace, and through the myriad networks of absences, in every tiny space, there was a young and tender flower growing, though most of the blooms were no larger than the head of a tree-agate spat button, or a pin. 
From head to tow, in front and back, this floral tusk of elegance set one aback, for the grace of the design was remarkable! And the helmet all alone would set the tone, somehow it was a dolphin, and a dragon, and peacock made as a puppet-cage for mermaids, and they themselves like mirages of coral teeming with gems that were insects of exquisite delicacy, like thoughts externalized into automatons whose meaning were their very form. Fogar was exhibiting his competence for the role of Yazata, for in his deep and abiding omnibiology he possessed a certain knowledge of almost everything, and as he entered the room we all unconsciously bowed, for the regality of his person was the sublimity of nature herself, and there was no questioning its grandeur.
   Fogar laughed quietly, and when we looked there was an egg shaped hole in his chestplate revealing a cavity, where his heart and lungs were combined in a chrysalis lantern, and attended by aquatic snake, or worm-like things, centipede-bees striped like sea snakes, or a species as yet unknown, and living in the aqueous fluid of Fogar’s interior, and they made rays around the object as in a symbolist painting, and then the ivory returned, and the smell of flowers filled the room. ‘Nedda’ Yazata Zairi-Gaosha was on her knees weeping. Canterel stepped forward and bowed deeply. “I assure you our offer will do no harm to the world as such or your self. Will you lead the Qarmatians into an age of the Magi?” Suddenly Fogar’s image abruptly changed, and he resembled an ordinary black man of about fifty, wearing an ordinary olive coloured suit, but with a shirt with no collar, and a necklace of gold which bore a coin. On the coin was the word VERITAS, and that word only.
Fogar joined the astonished bunch, and they all sat down to table to discuss the strange temporal paradoxes and such which comprised the origins of this meeting, and when it was through, Fogar knew, that it was his time to shine in this trans-temporal adventure. And the preparations were made, and all the members involved began to learn their roles, for the historical romance which was about to unfold, and Fogar it could be said was found to be a master of languages.
The first thing to do, it was quickly deduced was to find the real man who had duped the Qarmati leader, and take him safely out of harm’s way, for the insertion of a greater feeler, if the antenna of temporal paradox was to hold sway. And so Canterel, by temporal espionage, slowly revealed the Mahdi pretender to be none other than the cousin of the famous heretic Mansur al-Hallaj, who called himself  Dadhãmi Vadare, a boy who had also been al-Hallaj’s intimate spiritual brother, a man who had renounced his own times, and returned to the faith of their forefathers, namely, a hybrid millenarian Zoroastrianism.
Canterel soon captured him in an alley of Al-Salamiyah, having Nedda trick him into entering a doorway with the promise of a particular book which was of significance to this erstwhile revolutionary scholar. Dadhãmi Vadare stepped into a special garden that Canterel had prepared in the Pliocene where he lived the rest of his life in a little version of the Taj Mahal with a library, and a half Neanderthal woman named Kuma, and their children were ancient calligraphers of the Kumaic Neanderthal script whose only works were written by them, and which Canterel keeps in the trans-temporal library, and they contain lovely poems about Borophagine dogs, and Glyptodonts, and the jungles around their equatorial garden.

some junky comment i made

Song, let them take it,
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.

For me, this quote really sums up nicely not only the subtle distinctions of the dynamic of 18th century \'wit\', but really unites it with both a Socratic dialectics, and more importantly, Continental philosophy. In the title of my post you will find a word, of my invention which is a mainstay of my process of analysis. It collideorscopically collapses or rather modifies, the usual sense of irony with an added notion of sound and logic combined into a figural chimera, ie earony, but also eerony, as in eery, or irrational irony, taking only the sound of the beginning of irrationality and abruptly giving it a Socratic \'clown-silenus face\' -ir- is also used in chemistry, as a formative element in the names of three-membered heterocyclic ring systems, ironically to indicate saturation or unsaturation, etc.. Syntaxis is the latin word for Essay, but I have repurposed it in the sense of a word like Chemotaxis, therefore to return Semiosis to a more standardized and universal programme and continuity of biological nomenclature systems, and in fact, in a Linnaeus like twist, this fragment of Yeats might be given the binomial species name Syntaxis irroneam.

How so? Recall Deleuze and Guattari\'s theme of \"The Schitzo\'s Stroll\", from Heidegger to Romanticism this figure of thought posits an ecological self, or rather ecologies of becoming self.. Here is a possible page for reference:

The trick is something like the binary exerted in classical times by Socrates in the debates over the character of divinity. In early Greece, and this is attested to in Indra Kagis-McEwen\'s work, dynamism was more sacred, see notices about Daedalus\' mechanical guardian statues, etc.. whereas Socrates posits the development of stasis as divine. In the Tao Ti Ching we find a 3rd figure ie Changeless Change, and in Ihab Hassan we find nature described as \"Omnirational\" If nature is able to absorb any rationality, then any Binary is ever only part of a Bifurcative processing of a single field, a kind of \'habit of growth\' if you will. To say one is beyond binaries is to push the bifurcative process up the ladder of abstraction say, but as in programming, there will always be \'break-points\' where because of some combination of elements, processing must procede along differentiating pathways.
In ancient Indian poetry, verses were often composed of \'little steps\' and even in the western world, poetry and \'feet\' are no strangers.. this metricity is both foundational and ironic, and possibly irronic in a classical sense if we also hear an echoic of metis-ity.. ie cunning. (see tric\'). The strange attractor in the Yeatsian Fragment is the term \"Enterprise\" and so quickly, let us think of Seymour Krim\'s story of running around naked from his little anthology of the beats. One way of reading this has to do itself with irrationality in a social context, but the other idea, is something closer to \"The Emperor has no clothes\".. The way it works is simple. Look at the word Nation, and then the word Notion. That is irronic criticism. Culture is an abstraction, an operating system laid on top of a shifting ground, a nomenclature system, and one which is highly invested in both differentiation and valuation re: Nietszche (perhaps)ie the bugaboo that only valuation is valuable, and it is in so many ways. But
what is an Inter-prizing or Inter-prising?
Prise comes from prendre, a taking, seizure, capture

see now, Song, let them TAKE it.. not the offhanded sense of it, but SONG as citadel perhaps.. and like an empty burden Yeats proposes what? Insanity? certainly. There is no conquering of semiosis, because like the sticky tar monster in the old epic, you cut it in half, and then you have two foes, or go further back, the hydra..

and so, by inter-prising in the sense of prising off a mask, even the duality of non-duality can be shown as a fundamental bifurcative processuality as if dialectics were a kind of stroll, two legs to maintain a single torso\'s propulsion.. 

The prize goes to the sorcerer smart enough to enact those specific forms of blindness which render her vision trans-subjective, which as in a game is the great secret, because subjectivity itself is a sort of infinite binary, subjectivty is something like 1/infinity, or as one approaches infinity.. no matter what you multiply one by, it always remains the same, but that approach, yes, that is where the insane singing figure like pi, Enters pi, like Heraclitus into the river.

A Deep Worm Sow

The old sow sleeps
but the worker sneaks up
with a broom
I'm watching this with horror
but I'm only 6
and I need a ride home

in goes the broom handle
into her spoot
and out shoots the piglet
she was laying on
he was quiet
but I guess the worker
knew he was under there
but he's hurt

that's when the worker says
he takes the little pig
and holds it in his arms
and the broom is laying
on the ground

then that worker spits
on the mama pig
and I guess I feel something strange
like I'm supposed to take a side
aren't accidents
part of the natural order?

he's carrying us
on his motorcycle
the pig in a canvas bag
and me on the back
and I burn my calf
on the tailpipe pretty bad
it gets red and little bubbles pop up
it hurts and the worker says

and pulls an old bottle of bactine
or something and sprays it
in the building by the gate
it feels better
but in that canvas bag
like a worm underground
the baby pig is dead
and I guess he knew
and was taking it home
for supper.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012


Grille Nein, the 8 is
obscured perhaps
a tiny horse hovers
perpendicular to your
moving window
it's a common bridge
and the lit bowls atop
the roadside poles
remind you
Officer Peter Stubbe
but it's London
not Bedburg now

the drain pipe comes close
to her belly you're smiling
there are two little wheels
inside your big front wheel
and a cotton bagel to keep
your axle from slinging grease
the child salutes you
all of you along the old
stone wall
you could be attached
to a bush bigger than
your body

Jackson the Tailor
it's raining
DER television rentals
is wearing fur coat
in the rain
a complicated bracket
near his knee
whose more of a mannequin
the one inside the glass
or the one walking past
both are for SALE
oh these Montague Summers

Peter your head has landed
like a siren on another car
the driver's forehead wings
are laid back smooth
like speed
milk runs out the corners
of her mouth
in accelleration
like snow on antique silver
and her gloved hand goes out
to stop the traffic as she crosses
with a cat perhaps
in a special cat box
they put stone scrolls
under small ridiculous windows
Officer Peter Stubbe
your face is a picture
printed on a pillow
passing by

merchants of film noir
A letter P is made of chain
wet sidewalk

A view of the city and its Cathedral
a sampling of Tudor houses
you don't see one thing you know
on your beat
look again
there's a headless metal torso
sticking out of ground
putting out its handless arms
to be handcuffed
by a telescope

the map makes a psycho swastika
like a spider's web under cracked glass
the crescent moon floats
on the twisting dirty river

and you draw a picture
of the chain of command
and 6 identical men in raincoats
carry handheld radios
it looks like a pie
carried on top of four cars

the bald butcher lectures you
and three S shaped hooks hover
near two pheasants:
the bald butcher wears glasses
and an apron
you carry a leather camera
he carries a long shoe spoon

aah finally, the criminal
in a white turtleneck sweater
and a "P" coat
his hair like a black brain outside
is a werewolf
but with two broken arms
you take time to stop the traffic
allowing all the children to cross
the road
children smell nice in Winter

you stop at the accessories store
Dockham's Q, and LODGE
and silver bottles
a dog made of snow
gnaws an old wooden cloud
and frogs
watch from the wheel wells

you draw a dotted line
through the bishop's house
and put a pin in down the road
that's thunder
by the NORTHGATE cinema


housebreaking and larceny
Lodge lane the offence occured
2055 hours 18167
Entry by breaking and releasing catch
STOLEN: one paint bucket in silver
and copper and 20 players
a warehouse at Jones' Dene Cres
the final words you wrote Peter Stubbe

ich to e

A dog is like architecture

I get lost inside
can't find my bones
inside I'm an elevator

touching your leg
I smell you in here
this office is like a home
let me out to pee

waiting around for something
I don't understand this window
don't leave me
but I can't go outside

I know I will
there is a room with food
this building ate me too
petting a building on the inside

Jogging With Roussel 16 Part 2

Jogging With Roussel 16 Part 2

            Nedda was growing impatient, she paced the little drawing room nervously, occasionally peering out the window to glance down to the street to see if Fogar had yet arrived. She hummed a strange disjointed song, and sang some of it too:

étant une fenêtre
la chanson taquine
par à-coups de la
fin de l'arbre

seule la fenêtre laborieuse
connaît mon nom
je suis l'oeil de verre
en étant
une fenêtre à

qui sait ce trouble
mon art se trouve
quand j'ai comme un œil
est inversée comme un signe*

It was in fact the faux bucolicity of the city park across the street outside the window which had inspired Nedda thus to sing, in a strange translation, one of the poems from her alternate world, a poem from the poet known as Marramelle, from his final volume called Tears of Sickness. The poem’s title was I am Being a Window (Which I Can’t Pass Through). Suddenly she stopped, and turned to Dr. Saint-Isles who had recently returned dressed in more formal attire to receive his good friend Fogar, and spoke, “Does this have something to do with Fogar?” And she turned and pointed to a long van from whose posterior reached a roll-out drawer-like assembly upon which was stacked what looked to be meter long ingots of pressed bird seed contained in a hard gelatin which were being placed along the deserted main artery of the park in the likeness of a hyphenated line. “Of course,” cried Bex, “it’s Saturday! He always skirts the parks around these parts in his ‘bird-sphere-hot-knife-bicycle’ as he styles it. He’ll be coming along shortly now. Those are some of the members of his quirky little cult. They’re quite adorable, and admirable yogis as well. And surely enough, a metal sphere appeared in the distance, far away at the end of the park. Its body was bisected vertically by a trough in which one could see, like a paddle wheel, an array of hot vertical knives which cut and cooked their way through the bird seed ingots, the heat creating a smoke which alerted the adjacent aerial citizens to their weekly treat, and who soon descended creating a squirming, squabbling, feathered “hyphrenia-zation” of ingot-treads. On either side of the trough one could now begin to make out, nearly flush with the surface of the sphere, two thin but enormous rubber tires, whose rotations could be counterpoised so as to enact a small amount of directional correction. And then there came into view a small hatch on one side, and two horn-like telescopes aimed discretely down so as to reconnoiter the immediate space before the strange vehicle. And soon enough Fogar had arrived, and the group stood enthralled as the would be Magian Emperor disembarked from his pilgrimage’s spherical chariot of avian charity, but no one could have expected what they saw!

*here is Canterel's translation of Maramelle's poem 

I am Being a Window (Which I Can’t Pass Through):

being a window
song teases
in bursts at the
end of the shaft

only the laborious window
knows my name
I am the glass eye
being a window

who knows what trouble
my art is when I 
like an eye is
inverted as a sign


flotsam discuss
roundtable pincer with solid cube
hypergeometry ackcess what
conscious actually ness
muse upon tiered galleries
oh google eyed shipwrecks
shape ricks a veil where wormwood
cales and the timbre doesn't
matter so much as matter
still bleating its coniunction
dice or red phrygian commulism
dirty rice but white man passe'
but really human passe'
Noah Caprio Titanic
When themes explore themselves
awaiting an alien blade
to end this ourobouros rerun planet
Zoronietzschean pastiche
gas fires burn eternally in craters of rocks
give gorgon your random radium dugs
let see dugs invade and take over your surface
deity let's ee eep eep dugs render your colony sane
when seining for dung keeps dugs salient
artemis is hermes fungu'd with dugs
the stick is a post in the ground
mapped with eyebumps
for mindholes
and all the traffic goes beep beep beep
ooga ooga
shucking cane
shucking cane
this is a post-humanist blog
the bio-entertainment philosophy complex
is global doodad
whotever next
chemical ageless fascism connect
what eyebumps feast on
is the chance to push their subjective onwards
polarity fosters maintenance
and damage doubles revenue
and residue
until half the citizens of the world
are web pages

Monday, December 10, 2012

Silence's Eyes

under the enclosing umbrella
of its spherical breath
the plain makes its way
with candor and death
and the breathing underneath
is the double stalk
of the polar pinion
all transparency evade
the bat wings over hades
and the dim shadow
that light ever anew
will breach to the depth
of its sinewy folly
light and sign mutinous
and intermangling

and raining ink
what guides the shower
are two dour halos set apart
in the glow of the cylindrical cloud
far below whose penultimate name
is pen meaning head
but what dulled nib hasn't noticed this
pairing of erisian irises,
the idle warriors
whose span is deft expression
upon this vision of silences

Jogging With Roussel 16: Part 1

One day Cantarel, after having completed the construction of a permanent doorway between his late 25th century laboratory at Locus Solus, in Montmorency, and the laboratory complex in the temporal rift stasis warp in O/x space took some time to relax in the trans-temporal library, which was actually more akin to a museum, or Wunderkammern.  The TTL was a complex used by many versions of Cantarel, and Cantagrael, as well as Doctor Welles, and numerous Chlorlock scientists like Professor Majesty.  Its appearance was something like that of a 19th century gentleman’s club, but there were no restrictions on any gender or for that matter, any modulation of the would-be reader’s body at all; Cantarel was simply fond of the comforts of certain centuries, and cultures, but you wouldn’t say it was a completely recognizable culture which the TTL represented.
The books were housed in massive free-standing shelves of what looked like carved Cinnabar in the large open area of an oval rotunda whose floors, though covered in seemingly abstract marquetry revealed innumerable discrete scenes worked into the abstract overall design, many of these worked out by Cantarel’s friend Roussel and his workshop of chlortron craftsfolk. There were also interspersed in this area large wooden reading tables with elaborate lamps, and magnifying stations for some of the books were inscribed with nearly microscopic texts. At one end of the oval rotunda whose walls were elaborate variations of cabinetry and display cases, and mechanical inspection and storage stations, there was a large area of comfortable divans and low tables, and there were chlorlock waitors who were perfectly eager to bring one a hot or cold drink, or a meal for that matter.
Though the shelves appeared to be Cinnabar, they were in fact composed of Erythrite, and around the opening to each shelf was a thin hovering frame of yellow glass, some dull, and some luminous if in operation. From time to time, if one watched carefully, you might see a hand reaching into the shelf to remove a book, as there were library frame portals scattered throughout time and space, and these were in use continually, and sometimes new books would appear. No bodies would be visible, as the library itself was fixed temporally, a book would be lifted out, and the hand and the book would disappear as the hand pulled it through the frame. Above the cabinet of curiosity levels of the outer oval wall, there was higher up, a library of Erythrite communication busts which was roughly an analog of the authors list of the library, so that many of the authors could be contacted by means of trans-referential temporal sequencing, the contactors thoughts being inserted subtly into those of the contactees and vice versa.
Cantarel was sitting quietly on one of the many divans enjoying a warm cup of yerba mate’ and tulsi tea, and reading a book by his distinguished colleague Dr. Bex Saint-Isles called The Establishment of a New Theory of Genetickal Heuristicks in Light of Certain West African Shamanic Lycanthropy Traditions, and their Ancient Roots in Alchemical Yoga Among the Indian Diaspora. In front of him on the table was a small dull metal tray like a shallow pewter mask on which was arrayed a variety of fig species, and a smaller amount of cheeses, one of them pink, as well as something unidentifiable, a smallish waxy cube of cloudy yellow gelatin with a small but well-formed plant growing in it bearing three small purple flowers of exquisite construction; each unique, and of an apparently asymmetrical radiality, the whole item not over 5 cm high. Cantarel was becoming more and more interested in reading about a special subject which Dr. Saint-Isles had discovered, a man whose shamanic practice had spontaneously reverted to something very close to a highly advance alchemical yoga while still a boy, a veritable lycanthropic prodigy whose skill encompasses spontaneously what one might consider a mastery of typical yogic practice, but enlivened by West African traditions of shamanic lycanthropy. The text described a marvelous event whereby the man, in his late fifties at the time of the writing of the book was seen to be able to illustrate stories by changing his body along interspecial lines, though the process was fairly lengthy at the time, or at least, this is how the book had portrayed it, perhaps so as to keep the text within the realms of possibility and scientific believability.
Cantarel could resist the temptation no longer. He finished his last fig, and took one small bite off of the gelatin cube, and bit off one small purple flower, and washed it down with a drink of his yerba-mate’ tulsi tea, and climbed the stairs toward the Erythrite bust of Dr. Bex Saint-Isles which he immediately attempted to contact. Laying his hand on the small brass contact plate at the base of the bust, he fell into a light trance and carefully spoke into the consciousness of the distant personage. “Would very much like to meet Fogar. Where is he now?” In a few moments came the earnest reply. “Fogar is now quite old, but lively, and we have him here in Dieppe in a small apartment. I’m sure he will see you!”  Canterel packed a small bag, and headed for the train station to catch a line to Dieppe, choosing a more scenic method of travel.
Canterel had debarked to have dinner at a restaurant he adored in Rouen called “The Four Emplaced Views” which served a very special dish whose impetus was Canterel himself, or rather one of his creations. On the menu was an item called, Mousse De Faux Escargras ala Cantarel Superb whose history was rather interesting. In the early days of Canterel’s genetics work which was carried out under the special tutelage of the great Nobel Prize winning physicist Louis de Broglie, Canterel had developed a hybrid free-living chlortronic goose liver snail which by exposure to certain frequencies and intensities of light would not only gorge itself, but would become engorged and grow to a great size, weighing roughly a kilo, and the flesh, neither true animal or plant, still retained its delicious character, which could be prepared as any regular foie gras would be. After his small repast, which the staff had prepared in innumerable variations over the years, Canterel finished his small glass of red wine, and asked for a small neat Espresso which the waiter brought with a small tan sugar cube and a helix of lemon zest, exactly as Cantarel liked it. Sitting there in the wonderful restaurant, Canterel began to get an inkling of a project for his Orientalist club, and for a new transtemporal deviation. He wrote a short note to Abu Dakni, folded it, and enclosed it within an envelope and scrawled the address, then affixing the stamp, bid adieu to his trusted friends the restaurateurs who had all lined up to hug him, or shake his hand, as he had pledged not only his ideas to this particular restaurant, he was part owner. Canterel continued on to Dieppe, dropping his slight parcel in a post-box near the departure platform.
In Dieppe, he debarked later that evening, and took a cab to  56 Rue de La Barre where his family owned a small townhome whose first floor contained a business called “Ideal Shop” which was a used clothing store operated by a Turkmenistani family called Bakzoushi, to whom he rented the space at an affordable rate. Across the street was a little restaurant called “Kabob Anatolie” which was good for a light lunch, and which served a spicy green relish to which Canterel was especially fond. As he passed quietly through the Ideal Shop to reach the private inner door of his townhome, he noticed a faded print for sale on the wall within a crackled white painted frame. The image was of a ghostly naked sexless pale child hovering above a remote mountain lake surrounded by gigantic American Sequoia trees, its face obscured by the intense light it was projecting into space as it gazed upward into the starry void. At the bottom of the image in a cleared little space of its own was the title: ‘La Perfide Albion’. He made his way up to his rooms through the cluttered dusty staircase which had come to be an erstwhile storage area over the intervening years of the home’s disuse.
In the morning, he recalled his dream, obviously stirred by the delicious meal of Mousse De Faux Escargras ala Cantarel Superb. It was the year after Dr. Orson Welles had revealed to him the existence of the distant future, and had given him the corroding Eloi texts which he later took to Louis de Broglie, and from which they developed the remarkable new mathematics and prostheses which allowed Canterel~ “Terroriste!” A man in a red Phrygian cap was chasing Canterel through a series of brickwork tunnels. Canterel looked down at his heavy workman’s boots, his ragged wool coat, as he passed before the sooty windows of strange puerpoddities his mirrored self was goggled, Maldorored, his hair stuck up like an anarchiste in the manner of a sail-backed lizard. Finally, he turned quickly into a small doorway and pulled a heavy iron pipe from his coat. When the man rounded the corner, this ‘Cunterel’s Theorem’ bashed his skull. Then, Canterel was standing with de Broglie looking at a large blackboard of equations, on which some were beginning to jump and chase themselves. One of the equations was chasing another through a derivation, the chunky brash expression suddenly reciprocal’d tearing off a chunk of the other expression’s variable for coding the probability lemma of this very dream, ejecting an H which created a sample space where at once the GREEN VICTOR HUGO was standing. “Romance Unites Science With Revolution,” said the indomitable H over the fundamental lemma. Canterel approached the great variable, and pulled out his key, a large golden key on which was written:


Then he slid the big golden key into the navel of Victor Hugo and they were both swept away by an avalanche of green and wondrous worlds.
Canterel was shaving as he recounted the dream back to himself, making some notes in a little book:
 Revolution cannot be appropriate, or it will not be revolution, but every Revolution results from inappropriateness.     

Your perception is my disease.  


8H à? “offal”//

Madame Bakzoushi knocked on the door. She had brought up a lovely tray of coffee and some of her wonderful little breads, and a cup of orange juice. “Madame!” cried Canterel, “You grow more lovely with every passing year!” “You wish!,” said Aisha Bakzoushi. “Aren’t you hungry, it’s 10 o’clock?” Canterel was something of a late riser. 
After a lovely breakfast, Canterel had decided to stroll across town passing in front of the very train station from which he had arrived when he saw none other than his good friend Abu Dakni. “Doc!” called Canterel, the good-natured Orientalist happy to see him, and quickening his gait to the impact of their embracing. “How could my letter have reached you so fast?” “What letter?” said Abu Dakni. “Indeed,” mused Canterel. “I’ve only just arrived here to investigate an apparent sighting of our crazy demi-goddess Nedda!” “Skariovsky is here?” “It seems so,” said Abu Dakni. “Curious.” Then Canterel began to recount his plan to Abu Dakni:
“You and I, for a long time, have been interested in the world of Pre-Islamic Persia. What if we were to create an alternate time-line where Zoroastrianism suddenly achieved technological power, and was led to global dominance by an amazing African shape-shifting Yazata! What if we were to lead the Zoroastrian Sassanid Empire to Euro-Asian dominance?” Abu Dakni looked serious for a moment, then smiled. “As long as you don’t mind me exporting a few relics back to this timeline for sale in my shop!” “Of course!” said Canterel, “Capital Idea!” They strolled through Dieppe briskly lost in their thoughts of Fogar, the divine Yazata shape-shifter savior, while unknowingly Nedda Skariovsky followed at a discrete distance dressed as a man, wearing a deep blue rough silk three piece suit, and a bowler hat, blue alligator shoes, and a carrying a cane of milky blue lapis with a golden head which resembled a hybrid of a gazelle and grasshopper, a grazelle, no doubt.  

Martial Canterel, and Abu Dakni knocked on the door of the townhome of Dr. Bex Saint-Isles unaware that Nedda Skariovsky was stealthily closing in behind them. Jovial Bex answered the door wiping his mouth with a linen napkin and wearing a bright green silk yukata patterned with tiny golden bats. “Aaah Canterel, Dakni, and Skariovsky!” Canterel and Abu Dakni whirled in place to see that Nedda had indeed stepped up into the group unbidden, but before Canterel or Abu Dakni could utter a word, Nedda Skariovsy pulled out a small ornate pink marble video tablet which showed what was obviously a movie of a magnificently dressed Fogar in a beautiful pink marble palace, in an indoor garden strolling surrounded by his grandchildren to whom he was candidly teaching his shapeshifting techniques, as some of the children were covered in patterns of fur, and some had hands which had become cobra heads. “I have come back here from the future you created Martial, I am Yazata Zairi-Gaosha, a temporal guardian of the Sassanidae Empyre, whose unquenchable flame must never be extinguished! I came here to witness the birth of our great world!” Jovial Bex, smiled broadly, putting his soft hand on Canterel’s shoulder. “Always milking the cyclopean nipple of paradox! My beloved Canterel!” “Astonishing!” cried Abu Dakni. Canterel, feeling a wave of relief, but also seizing on an opportunity for further leverage on other projects immediately, and noticing his own immense power in the situation suddenly and gravely spoke, “Zairi-Gaosha, We have no way of knowing absolutely if Fogar is amenable to our plan, but if he is, I must ask you to make a solemn promise to leave the American continents alone. Nedda smiled. “The Nations of Great Balam are Sassanidae’s truest ally. The Uinicob are safe, and they travel to our lands unhindered, and are equals in the eyes of Zoroaster, as are all beings.” “I can’t wait to see the pottery!” Abu Dakni unexpectedly chimed in. Everyone laughed, as Abu Dakni’s child-like enthusiasm for material matters seemed so incongruous in the midst of such heady developments. “Every action negates entropy!” Canterel said softly as they all went into the home of Dr. Saint-Isles.
Bex Saint-Isles set out several large platters of fruit, some containing washed fresh whole fruit, and others with little dishes of fruit salad, and bade his guests eat. His wife Martine brought in a wheeled cart which carried an amazing Russian samovar which she parked underneath a stained glass window she had made, the guests were told, and whose image had been gleaned from Boris Kustodiev’s painting, The Merchant’s Wife, which figured a robust and elegant woman raising her tea cup in tribute across a table of cut fruit while a frisky tabby cat hat been caught in mid-leap about to disrupt the serence scene unbeknownst to the madame whose graceful serenity all at table admired.
“Today is Saturday, and Fogar usually meditates on Saturdays, but I have a method of communicating with him in cases of emergency. Bex suddenly sat a rather ornate bamboo cage on the table which contained a hairless ferret wearing a tailored velvet suit. As Martine removed the gentle animal from her cage, Bex Saint-Isles wrote a note in some obscure form of short-hand, rolled it up and slipped it into a short wooden tube which he attached by means of two small clasps sewn onto the back of the little messenger’s jacket. Martine then released the animal who clambered up a tiny staircase along one wall and happily got inside a brass and glass capsule which sat before a hole resting on a brass chute extension. Martine then pulled a purple tassel which hung from the ceiling which activate the pneumatic tube with a schlepping ‘fonk’ sound, and the creature was gone. “It may take several hours before he arrives, or he may send back Lalalique with a further query. Everyone sat contentedly munching fruit and sipping tea, until finally Canterel spoke to Nedda proffering a question, “Are you aware of the insertion point? You say you are from the ‘Sassanidae Empyre’? The ending the Sassanid empire was a rather messy business. It might take some time, for Dakni and I to figure out the best of all possible insertion points.” Nedda Skariovsky, or ‘Yazata Zairi-Gaosha’ smiled. “You obviously did figure it out, Martial, but let’s further the temporal paradox by allowing me to tell you.” Canterel and Abu Dakni listened closely. Nedda-Yazata continued. “In the early 900’s as you are certainly aware, there was a social development in Islamic society which was called Qarmati(…)” Abu Dakni broke in unconsciously as was his slightly rude habit, “COMEDY?!” Nedda waved his comment away and continued. “I misspoke. I had meant to say Qaramita.” “My beloved?” enjoined Canterel, joining Abu Dakni in a boyish echo of their usual Orientalist parlor semiotics hijinx. Nedda made a mock angry face, and continued, “No Cara mia, Qaramita, or ‘those who wrote in small letters. A paradoxically revolutionary movement which contained elements of Zoroastrianism, a Vegetarian Utopianism, and a millenarian paranoia about the coming og the Mahdi, and the rise of the Magians, and which culminated towards our insertion point with the bizarre power handover of the Qarmatian collective to an unknown Persian man who by careful archaeology we discovered to have been called Yazfogar Uruz’el. “Fogar!” Canterel and Abu Dakni said aloud in unison. “Précisément.” A subtle chime and cold flash went through the room. “I’ve got to take this,” said Canterel, pulling out a pair of heavy Erythrite sunglasses with yellow lenses, and strange looking snail from a box.
In a small antechamber Canterel received a trans-temporal call from Professor Majesty. MC could hear the call through the snail which fitted itself into his ear, and he could see through the temporal frames of the glasses. “I have just completed a rather delicious experiment here in O/x, Martial. You know how we have always loved Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel? Well, I have inverted the symbiotic pathways, and have created a Chlorlock Gargantua which can house Eloi vehicles carrying chlortrons, or even a supporting feature for making an Eloic substitution for Chlortronics!” “How has the sui generis program been proceeding?” “We have closed the gap on the frequency shifting problem which allows us to open a portal to any universe n, and pipe its flow and any n material into this one, but there are certain stability constraints like portal size, etc, but velocity wise, this could be weaponized, or conversely used as a powerful terraforming tool.” “Do the standard portal messaging protocols convey?” “Yes, we can open one or more of these portals in most any space or time given proper reception. You can’t open up a gate in a lightning storm.” “Would you be able to use the Sui Generis program to replace biochemical cloning?” “Certainly! You yourself worked on the precision framing mechanics phase. Portal framing allows nearly infinite complexity, which certainly includes cloning.” “Gear up a 15 frame set to produce Gargantuas. By the way, who is in it at present?” “It’s me, Professor Majesty, ready to piss on the world!” “Good work Professor, I guess you could even fit their big Par-is’s with a portaling frame generator controlled by the Eloi within?” “It’s just a slight rewrite!” “Make it so!” Canterel tapped the little snail’s back so that it knew to retract, and he removed the glasses, and returned to the group. The Ferret had returned, and Fogar would be there within the hour.