Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Point Well Taken.














to ward its mood





























the prairie schooner

























dust mummies
in ragged floppy hats
manipulating large alien

vegetables.

A Transquill Destiny Unfolds




{(forgive this cheese)}

It is as if its face were
drawn tight around the thing,
the stem terminating in a
blindness borne of the
religion of drunkeness,
or drawing (string),
the trees in spring
as visited by wildhead
knights with bat names,
the perfectly unknown
way it deployed an in-
telligence not avail-
able to the com-
mon ordinary cit-
izen.

Each section is created by an oblique method, and the plans ruined,
and the maker itself, not given the means to act upon what it
has seen. The further remembrance of the corpse of

|leath| & |fede|

\\

True fish
wish an onion.

Two sick
celebrations
finish the single
day.

The black onion
is left at large,
its hard gem-
like eye rem-
oved, the place
where the seed
bearers rest
for awhile am-
idst the long
procession,
where the road
turns rocky
and begins to climb,
winding upward
into the oceans
of barest abandon-_-

`'^&*(#)...
~'~'~'~'~'~'~~~Y: Terras

^^^^^^^^^^Spheragmo[is]t

___________________________

It is as if its own face
were at the bottom of the
cup, and that the cup was
the depression out of which
rang the cause. How is a
raven much like a writing
desk?


~'~'~'~'~'~'
.[non desk sky].
~'~'~'~'~'~'





image title: _From Moral Physiocracy to Urban Design_

Monday, June 28, 2010

Ray w/ Arm in Trout

bags of stew
find rewards

stems try to join
and end up
balancing extended
pauses

sometimes this man
enters my room

he's able
to alter his
appearance
by changing
the bones
in his face

i think of its
thick stiff
crenelated nose
splayed out
like a camel's foot

Is Needed.

to be the sad underwaters
a captive chimpanzee
can't peel the ocean's
moor

the face is terribly painted
a bird on fire would unfold
to become the geometry of
memorial fountains
no one visits

water running
fire burning

the albatross
looks down

on the devil
in its armchair

i draw a picture and play stupid
they don't have to see what i would do
this is what i would do:

accident = minotaur
labyrinth = accident
daedalus = accident
accident = labyrinth
minotaur = labyrinth
daedalus = minotaur
accident = route of omens
route = accident
tooth = axe
axiom = root
roof = dental enclosure
=labyarinse

libya.
massif.

nothing.

minotaur = minute tear.

about the universal monstrosity
of its becoming, the waste of oneself,
and the tragedy of others,

and fun.

rebel:art » Blog Archive » Evan Roth: “Graffiti Analysis: Sculptures”

rebel:art » Blog Archive » Evan Roth: “Graffiti Analysis: Sculptures”

You had pages unsullied.

eye had photons
and their mechanical
agency in all things

seeceptour

gold and glass
to render a living
octopus gelatin's
ankhle betsy

beast wind
the correction
strangled by headphones

the public library
brought up on
charges

like cleopatra
its regal brow

like a waterfall of bashful branches
brew the odd corridors
wingspilling with parties
and partiers

for years its skin
estwas described
as a series of masks
getting stranger as they danced

thumbs to wretch
a lens
amorphous mirror gel amoeba
its sanctum
the volume cannot ruin
what is on display

the central molecule
of the temple at delta
had been a nein
nein
nein

no-yes (noise)?

emu
walks
saucer

she
would like to try
you on
but you

are heavy
with Frederick.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Afreaka Asya.. You rope a Humacorn.

freedom gas is in its heart
a green dome shaggy with
leaf hoppers

come chop away some limbs
and see the old demon's head
you can see the thigh muscles
running through the temples

where the solid gold eyes
are warmed in its vagina
before the prayers
are fed to mighty eaglets

with a special helmet
you can enter the underground
system of pipes full of rushing water

if darkness
surrounds you
let your skin
begin its song

I could dig for a thousand years
in skin, twigs, and old demons
and never find another dance partner
like you

a self-launcher

a skeeter

you'd think about rich 19th century people
sleeping under ferns
but I'd be thinking of

sarcophagi filled with warm macaroni

warm green macaroni
filled w/ peppermint jelly

i'd think about you
with a heavy stainless steel
blue tooth ear accessory

I'd think about Klinger as a Klingon.

i'd think about
the ways meteorology
is both less and more random
than the people
you find inside
Macaroni Grylle

Charles.

punitive hobbligato's
dungaree ear agony noodling
it stays

tied to the rooster
whose feet like a fever
are the home
of much lightning

lightning through a noodle
is a flat oblong box
the secret agent
hands to the numberless
box at the base of the
staircase

there is a gap
between the buildings
with a cantilevered ribbon machine
that draws the agent up

the landing is a doorway
and the door itself is like a
life-sized gourd that
spins radially

to enter the doorway
one must enter the door itself
and one's head goes into
the upper part of the gourd

the hot squash alphabet tennis oven
gives its overt furniture spider
over the luxurism of speaking
through pillows

an illuminated hovering pillow chair
could gesture
with a jewelled chain
it might hang from its

"chin"

where to begin
several lager than life-sized glass
bicycles are melded into a complicated
frame for a hammock

a goat's head pokes out
from an amorphous red pod bristling with little
hoses dripping fragrant droplets
onto an amplified tympanum

the goat's voice
is made into pictures
on a rear projection trampoline
upon which bounce

them sweet garudas
in dew rags
and particle rays

there is a robot
you can put your face in
and it will give you

lip-gloss

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Chicken Canoe Hide-a-bed.

mi canoa es una banana
a través del cual una montaña
hace un huevo-bebé
supremestupor

iguana mango muslos

oh buena persona
te recuerdo
las ventanas de huevos con cáscara delgada
entre tus labios
y la canoa
que poco
amarillentas
como la goma de una vaca

ojos facetados de papel para los
espermatozoides iguana luminosa

Creo que un árbol caído
puede hacer que las piernas
para mi canoa de pollo
cuyas rodillas se
erizado lanzadores de castor

palos como un copo de nieve
podría ser una puerta de castor

Dirty Paintings From the Crowd

the celebrated come to trace
its pinnacle pool-lined hives:

satchmo
witchmo

nommo chasing fox in moonlight
reindeer announcer
collar

deep electronic beads
strung on a crimson bed

all these salamanders
are for you, Santa

cigar
tip
snipper

or swan faucet
patina's

rubber plant

the thing which moves
inside glass octagon
with puma spider
top hat
its smooth
red tongue
continues
to ovulate
among

the wheeled couches

Friday, June 25, 2010

Thought mar Córas

Vispārējās slepenas pieņēmums
doma ir, ka tas ir tikai stāsta
jums to, kā lietas ir, un ka tas
nav darīt kaut ko -

ka "tu" ir iekšā tur, izlemjot,
ko darīt ar info. Bet jums nav
izlemt, ko darīt ar info. Doma
iet jums. Domāja, tomēr dod
nepareizu info, ka jūs
izmantojat to, ka jūs esat tas,
kurš kontrolē domāja.

Tā kā patiesībā doma ir tā,
kas kontrolē katrs no mums.
Doma ir izveidot nodaļu, kas
pati par sevi, un tad saka,
ka viņi tur dabiski.

Šī ir vēl viena būtiska
iezīme domas: domas nezina,
ka dara kaut ko un tad cīnās
pret to, ko tā dara.

Tā nevēlas zināt, ka tā dara
to. Un domāju, cīņas pret
rezultāti, cenšoties izvairīties
no šīm nepatīkamām rezultātus,
saglabājot par ar šo domāšanas
veidu.

Tieši to es saucu
par "stabila neatbilstības".

Yesterday's Dugs

The King of Atlantis
Vincent Price
sullenly eats inside
a paddle foot donkey:

"I'm tired of old pirates
and mermen."

"I'm tired of stealing my
measly chickens from the canyons
of cabinetry whose
innards are the mangled
wrangled extensions
of lines."

[...]
Then in comes old
limpy, its burst ear livers
hanging out like
floppy chrome tongues.

god, what an
awful disgusting
little batch
of amoebas

clinging
to a wrinkled
marbled
guitar head
cellphone

makes me think of a head
with big floppy
chrome cheek liver paddles
each of which

is a coffee dunker.

get along
little protongs!

Thursday, June 24, 2010


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imp ossibull, its thing head selector, a rotary skull halo




taking those scrunched holidays, which
is actually a single continuous
and unbroken reality from the odd
selves of others to revel in
the oddity of oneself because
the piano and the palm tree
have been made one there

the unending density of the frames
compacted and shielding on all sides
the endless joyous cataloging
and the smoke is all wrought iron
and rote irony

blank
unjudging
gesturion

videostomachheartballoonhelmetlifting
theskullfungusreplicationoration

narrnarr
rationration
narrirration
earnarrorationrationelationnation
theisland'sdnaalltooneself

noool
noool

egret standing in shallow waters
mixed clusters cut in cubic sections
replicated
implicated

pli or implicate ardor
its face first becoming white hot
then pulsing subsonically
the cranium an emitter
trained to its extremis

germico
wawls oil dune

Nafka
Kazca

akabelliot
nehempliomphit


rotary inscription wheels
on vertical axes

accelerate
continuously
until the end of time

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Bried Encounter With the Etomph

sleep fair caramel, sleep fair bondage, in the dusk's apartment, time's magnolia looks forward to no more lingerie for aeroplanes, thin creams venture out into semi-hostile glimmers, the sleekest lamp must hover hear forever in the dark its lick latch dogged by a pill in a sink, a melting felt up, leaves lifting to show the inner theatre capsule, the hideabed stage, the hammock stage lid for the pipe that burbs earthquakes, any jittery lines will do, video can be wrapped around elastic vessels and floated over oceans, submarine emitters are nice, especially in canvas, especially in pilgrim drag, hippie pilgrims, robot pilgrims, growing pogroms along the ledges where the hiss sits fretting on the frets which are separate and unconnected frets, uncollected they stand, the tiny near Rhodes, the colossal road, its dark voodoo filling, the béatilles of Chandler Brossard, Seymour Krim running naked down whatever thinly drawn line you highlight to read, its narrow relatives perched like guttapercha, figure as modulus, model as figure, figure as the unpronounceable relationality or real nationality, time has brought you low, or to this place on the mountain, the ziggurat was a waiting room, the name a priest's trick or bedside manner, who's to say that all the fascism isn't just a mercy smothering, i am, not because i believe in any of it, trouble, trouble, boil and bubble, which path did you take back there, the train went down into a deep helix, i like that, trains going down inclines into the ground, their figures change and they become snakes underground AND underwater, the meal is ground by two stone wheels that 'talk' together in the mist of the early morning when mother's metal is milk refining whirlwind, the acid rain is an overcoat you left here beside me as i write, a dog now sniffing inside the mirror, it can't be told the burglar glared at the pale white face, the red light in its mouth increasing, its fingers lengthening, the movies flickering and speeding up inside the nails, the feet like puffs of silk gas and made of tiny sentences, the string that was attached to its life garment came out, the dummy collapsed, the green faced balloon puppet machine entered the field a cube of grass ascended to crescendoes, dose to does, the pharmacon saint is dread or peacock's greed, pan now slaps your face, but you are asleep oh wooden cigar indian, and you hold a little basket of kazoos and toy canoes, skipping stones, skipping tones, the sky opens up for hassles.

John Bock



John Bock at Kunsthalle Berlin