Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Keston Sutherland is THRILLING, and Grylliont!

Voltaire: Fork me up Coffee cowboy!
It's a pickle!
If Napoleon was Poseidon,
I'm Fu Manchu, The Transformer!

I really only needed hair on one part of my body,
but it was that part that caused all the trouble.
It was my hairy
I ride with Genghiz.
I ride with Genghiz.
I stand tall on a star of vibrating gold and silver.
I know Maxwel's equations.
Nature is cryptic, quantum, and wanton,
and as I live and breathe today,
there is infinite wisdom
in nothing,
in knot things.
Puce Scrotum Rainbows.

Sometimes, when you help the weak, you are helping
Joan Collins 
to get into bed
with a black truck-driver
named Jimmy Castor.

The hinge linking poetic production to political action is the idea of interruption.
This was an idea sacred to the ancient Maya, and even more theologically fleshed out
within the Aztec culture. To throw down that proverbial bone, that jam, that goose line cum a runnin' / ta killit / beat it down / funk it up / funk it off
you got it baby
tear out its fucking heart
and make a soul baby
into the universe
ghost baby
The Earth will end baby
in an annihilaboring
or martinizing fascion!


there is no liberation
from syntaxis
but to keep on running,
and only by enacting
its contour are we free
of its meaning..
all ontology is tyranny


an electric fairy grid
kookoo love

I can't quite quit being an individual theater space
enacting alchemical dramas of self
the violence of the churning universe
seems like a splendid model
forming my own negation.

Did you know Dostoevsky watched
as a group of men drowned his own father in vodka?
I trade mp3s with my dad
over the telephone,
We hang out in our underpants
and watch the same John Wayne movies
at the same time
and tell about our splendid adventures
into absolute
and thrilling boredom.
Beautiful languors with the mediascape.
griefless escape into flickering yammers.
We're weak victims,
and we want to die.
That's the level of my joking.
I live like a lamprey
sucking from the sour ichor
of universal confusion,
my mother.
The original
and only idea
in the universe.

(spits on your logic)
(tickles your fancy)
(and says goodnight)

These poems
are menhirs of pressed pollen.
Some may call them monuments, statues, or sculpture,
but they are poems, as sure as
Suleiman the Magnificent
carried green popcorn wasps
inside his zeppelin headed turban turbine.
Everything I do.
Everything I say.
In this very same way,
reveals the arc of the covenant
to be
the spider's lute string
of poetry.
(wicker hanging sarcophagus in trees)

Oh Summer!
O cummerbund!
O bummer cunned!

wicker book covers....

The deeper I dig into my own individuality the more ruin and fragmentation is revealed.
I now realize that my body is carrying around a flaming doll called a mind,
and that it is the brute, dexterous, and gracefully empty weirding hand,
of my toe-body that makes the world.
The body fills in where the mind
is too stupid to grow.

Am I on the bus?
I am on the outside of the bus, and probably look like a zombi trying to get in, and I may be trying to get in, but I will probably want back out as soon as I hear the music..
Call me Black Ears Summer Festoon...
I like that
in my zombi hushpuppy lupercal night parades..

It was Kittler that first made me realize that human social reality was a monstrous echo of Morgenstern's poem Das GroBe Lalula which Kittler called "Systematic Nonsense"

by making people run around so as to coincide the constructions of language
is nonsense, and yet, people do it, and have done it, for quite awhile.

In fact, letters are hairy rocky things
lain in a meta land
where their hair does not show,
and their meta
is like a glabrous
gelid vagina
one wants to hold like water
in your cupped hand
while blowing glitter out of one's nostrils
over the wicker book

the book of hot pink lungs.
i stand firm here.
Social Realism = Absurdity.

because the Body is society enough
for evolution's minister of justice.

I am sad to say that these ideas got me landed
into luxury prison.
As a blushing anchorite I write to you.
I am only here to suspend my disbelief.
So I am spending it:

Sometimes a veristic bust may lead them,
but sometimes a veristic bust
is a huge mansion in a weird fantasy Venice
where you enter by a trachiotomy
into a flowered realm.
liquid rubies.
like the 18th century.
like disease's cue.
What lace made of circumstance
in all those old centauries.

All a writer needs
is a golden placenta,
or a friend like you.

Smother your brother in an ursine well.

its apercu
always ends with aber
which is like a bad studdering

The published translation omits that all-important adjective "mathematical"
which refers the ancient
"Paradox Clown" of Marx, and Marx-Sing.

The Religion of Chemistry, as it has since time Immemorial, places an Exosemantic veil over its truest, deepest self in the form of a monstrous Vissage, but the svelt graceful contours remain,
Chemistry, Religion, and Poetry
are one:

And Adi Dazzler wept, for Ultron would not be included
in the next Avengers film,


is an
Unmögliche ideal.

After careful refraction:
Stupefaction insists we reflect 
on what Karl Marx means by Gallerte.
Gallery Art is congealing.
There's no concealing it.
And this.
an oldschool vestige
of the wisdom traditions
of the vitalist principle
of the governing orthogallertene
fox jester snake
smoke raccon pipe quill
in wicker sarcophagus eleven.