Non-Sea Poem For Viveca Lindfors

Living
Living
Lemming

True shape parasol.

The surface omarking
of the axillary

veena

Gnivil
gnashing livid
evil devil.

sweet 2 bird.

Robinia pseudoacacia
'Lace Lady'

TWISTY BABY.
Names of false moles:

Assassin.
Aesop kisser.
Kindest apogee.

Bad Pangs Of Your "Unloving" Perfection

"Dark marks are found near a road."

ingentiliranno go the muse-box enzovoorts:
perk, ortolan, gnìomhair neo-iomlan.

there are messes in the מחא:
gestionar, gnat, ghiacciò.

Twice the lurid shoemakers have come
up from the sgottato:
teräsvilla, fahéjfáik, amoreggiasse.

And these are the things that kill us:
engouffrer, dolares, गर्मी पड़ना.

It is time to take my puffy feet
from off your table. It is time
for me to stop imagining intricate
ornamental testicles made from

sloppy adunco

as the earrings
for your beloved
family parrot

which owns
a marsupial
zavorrato geode
buxom

with chili bearded women
with sloppy joe
canonce.

no problemo, o zibeline coinkydink fiances

insonnolito épèlent, the mähkä
whose disperatones concrescessi
ala abeille charpentière, come
kiisi in the hissy footing
sparirebbe, in the divorçai
of the hidrargo ambassadöration,
and foggiò to the orbits
of the pitturandovi.

sweet, lissome fahli, take this
incanalassero of broad-headed
ähkeen, and rebotado to the
imponíais of the whiswishing
aangenaamst, the vzdušné zámky
whose acuñasteis yields some
small and definitive exporteur
of 饪, and pelkistimet kismet.

for if the desidererà of the
Fälschung grows evermere प्रेम,
the orgiškiausiosioms of the
verraco will be loosed upon
the pigliante естественный in a
wildly adambulo sospechabas.

Heresy Is Like a Taxi, Lumpy for Tire Wigs

Copa Cabana takes Fred Sanford
in the neinth,

a coffee cup fills,
and Glykon
combs his hair
for another day

in the ancient factoring.

O Roustabouts!
O Chiselers!

O high-powered
paddle-wheel buggy-flipper
boots!

Nasty grue is all about

YOU!

NEWS FLASH

Slug found eating cat vomit at SE Portland home.
A garden slug, approximately 2 inches in length, was found eating the vomit of a cat at the SE Portland home of Lanny and Kara Quarles on Sunday morning. The vomit was left by their 6 year old tabby cat with a sensitive stomach that been banished to live a life totally outdoors do to her defecating on her owner while sleeping. The gastropod was found dining on the half digested matter on the sidewalk of the owner’s backyard. When questioned about the matter, the female owner of the home responded, “Ewwww”.

The Nurse's Nipple Stain

The nurse is snoozing on the patio in the white iron chair. Her clothing cannot be removed easily. The general sits nearby at the stone table assembling a picture puzzle of etched glass. In his nudity, one sees the muscular twitches seemingly set off by the twak twak twak of moths inside the flimsy stove pipe as it winds its way through the haunted shadows of the Imperial and drooping vines. The violinist smoothes his hair while still remaining absolutely suave holding the bow and the fiddle in one thin hand whose only ring is that of a golden devil's head with two bright red ruby eyes. There is danger in the air, but the danger is wooden like a sled, badly painted, suffering from exhaustion, weary, longing, svelte and duplicitous. There is a weak- headed hound near a black terracotta hand whose collar seems made of snake's skin, and is decorated with a tiny tinny music box whose song is trapped forever inside the rusty useless teeth of the mechanism. The nurse's drool makes a lovely stain just above her nipple, giving one the impression of a movable nipple. Her clothing cannot easily be removed. In the corner of the patio is a tiny model of a dark red keep in which a nameless bird inspects a nameless seed and does not seem pleased. The general makes a sound like an ape whose foot has been caught in a clink trap. "Mekagh!" The general says this, and the violinist takes it as a sign to begin playing a sad and baleful tune reminding one of the story of the charge of the light brigade, or rather the discharge of the dark brigade. There is a photo album on a small table near the drooling nurse whose images are those of brigands saluting around a campfire. One image appears to have a kind of crust or dusting of sugar or sand. In the distance a red brick wall elicits no feeling in anyone present, and the dirty lavender sky goes unnoticed by all except the weak headed hound who thinks of it as a bone, a bone whose edges are music. The general is not bored, but his mouth is trembling. The nurse is awake now, but her baggy eyes do not reveal much, perhaps a slight desire for toast, or a bath.

Slow and Creepy

1.

Father = Bumble Bee

Son = Jennifer Connelly

Holy Ghost = Sasha Grey

2.

Big Bertha = Sleep

Nose = Television

Chaos = Harlequin Sponge Beast Knockers

Schwankungen

~~~urgle b 2
I ~~~~~urgle Y
10 bat
I kat
~~~~~~~~~~~!crack curgle
4 2 B 3 nein
I bit tape Y
U urgle 2 B @
@ furce swell

I urgle B
10 bat cote
I cat bay urgle Y

U cam siiri
U I ous li 3 as
ten bake turgle
wurdle

4 2 B
or urgle vurdle
fur say terada
crack

crack kem
16 7 9

nol lom fot
fol dom bul

U cam
U tite

make tit
U U I can
Ci mror
bur nu lab
mi equine
mas kein

classic
of the riverse
andsease

ga
ji
du

li
ku
ji

Abstraction's Even More Gruesome Relations

"Freaks of Thought"

Xenophon went to Delphi [blew chunks]
probably had made up his mind [wad]
for not asking first whether [chin string]
was already made up [goose egg]

weather not made up [head wound]
they had made up [latent stutter]
Xenophonics or [swollen liver]
pregnant el phi [tumor]

advises them to break [chunks]
oft* that alliance [blew wads]
Xenophon did not know [found chunks there]
Socrates at all [was unknowingly eating wad]

In declaring that life [was chunks and wads]
is to be examined the "gadfly" [blew wads]
that he knew nothings [proffered large chungs]
and the phi- lia of the [was lost again]
enthusiastic Chaerephon [fell dead in delusion]

A Short Note on this Conflation of Allegory and Conceptualism

I don't even know the title of the book, or the authors involved, but the poetry people seem to be talking about it out of politeness I suppose. I also don't care to recall the titles or particular authors from the 19th century who were able to draw a link between the grotesque and the real, or those that abolished the distinction. But it is Baudelaire who prepares us to understand allegory as a 'machine' capable of the indiscriminate generation of serene or mad effects. Baudelaire's idea of allegory runs counter to Rousseau's, while nonetheless building on Rouseau's work. These are all the particularities and peculiarities of literary history. I think Baudelaire more or less straightens everyone out by systematically destroying the boundary between the grotesque and the real, and by pointing out that allegory is simply a kind of instrument of affect, and that the affect is variable. Basically Baudelaire is a kind of crypto-semiotician. If you look at Baudelaire's history closely you find mention of his caricatural behaviors which were quite deliberate. That kind of thing isn't really that much different than say the art / life actions of Chris Burden. For me, Alfred Jarry is a perfect example of how lifestyle, bohemianism, and conceptualism can all be conflated into a single expression. What it sort of comes down to though is that all thought is an allegory of chemistry, and vice versa. The complexity of Earth and the human animal are more or less irreducible. Stupidity, Intelligence, and Complexity all simply labels for the same madly and serenely generative event-process involving various semiotic agencies, or in chemical terms "agents".. Human stupidity is no less complicated than human intelligence, therefore what is the difference when the coding mechanism of the species continues to function. What it does is destroy man's own self-created distinction from the rest of the animal and plant kingdoms. Since her own self-generated categories are more or less aporific distractions within the continuum of actual praxis, the machine of allegory or culture display becomes a kind of hybrid gender, a flux gender whose copulatic residues house our bodies in its ornamentalia which might be connected to something like "the violence of the archive" or the

violins of the arc hive.

Paganini extended his technique
through the use of his own diseased flesh.

The Jellybean Weirdo has spoken.

"O Weird One.."

Xerolage 43—Matina L. Stamatakis | Xexoxial Editions

Xerolage 43—Matina L. Stamatakis | Xexoxial Editions

Hohmblablah's Guppy Garden Trimaxiskoaled

Ass id profunda, dye oxymoor, une
saltombanque et fili lysergo kurgo
exun jambala allah wotan gnat gown
gumbo tombo bono homo lone wolf
and sub bus sly and the formily
home

throw down ohms
in disgust

spit
with old
sages

beat back
the sea mobster
tendrils
with smoky logs
of old creme mags

case any joint
falstaff
mercury
black lead cupid

dark blood red
bat of the extreme
rural dogwood

whose eyes
are hermaphordite
moses or saucer-lipped
bacon golem feedback copies

abusing themselves
as music
abusing themselves
as mustic

as rustic energies
of the poor old black universe
the poor old tired
explosion of neverending glory amen

glass amoeba light speed
gospel orgy freek out

yogi with braided foeti beards
with fingers
of triune pushcarts
and baba ganoush black sheep sodas

with polaritease's
weird gank gfarden brewha hue

unlikely sapien
wawa pedallures

Purely Political Ass-Kissing (Just Skidding)

The Pod of Wave Hale Brighteners

These guys
are nice, spicy
like Mexican rice,
and smart
as a button
sewn on a
zombi girlscout's
nose..

A lot of brighteners
come in narwhalesque-
shaped containers,
and these are

noh differend~

NAU

We all know
a flarf / conceptualist
noh play
could have the coolest
masks in the universe
and benshi-sushi
for everybody
willing to
clap their shoji-hands
together

like seals
with

Fu Manchu
beer foam
moustaches.

Banditos
ride narwhals
with banderoles
of fruit rollup
poesy

just think

messy mixi-can-can

as in

"butt-telephone"

The Breaming Flug of Goustan

When the breaming flug of Goustan
appeared upon the bay, festooned
with burning corncob hands, and
leaning piles of hay, with knights
of purple peppercorns, and lips
of rose-fed coneys, cannons firing
weinerschniztel and enormous black
baloneys.

When the breaming flug of Goustan
pulled upto plumbersdock quay, there
was a hullaballoo of commotions, and
wigs of burning hay, there were
children torching buildings using
corncob hands aflame, there was a
bare-bottomed witcheress intoning
her own name:

And the purple peppercorn knights
looked gorgeous in the mist, the moon
shining down like a lamprey screaming
hiss, like a blanket of eels hovering
in the air, like a witcheress' ass
swinging, its anus-eye aglare.

See the Burghermeister
take a black baloney missile
to the head, three to the chest
and stomach, and then he lay
dead, the witcheress cackling
from her glowering head.

O Coneys!
Your breath as sweet
as roses, your hearts like
trembling notes,

grimy, angry, children
bubble from the motes that
surround the

breaming flug of Goustan.

Pussy Entertainment

my pussy needs rewinding
i can't even shake the feeling
that my spear has been here before
robed in not-nots

my pussy is long
long in the tooth
like a dynamo of sandwiches
like video splayed on plates
spinning on switches
my pussy is extra-long playing

be kind
and rewind my pussy
all the way back
to the Ottoman Empire
when my pussy was big
as a house

and filled with
old slippers
figs

and hovering
whiskey octagons

Inkrowmentalism

I remember a bearded college professor
who became my friend when I was young
because I was already well-read.

He would tell me some of his visions,
and we were friends, and I remember
thinking some of his projects were a
bit pedestrian, but now

I think of all that stuff as being
sort of perfect, and kind of meaningful,
and the odd thing was how meeting him
led to meeting all kinds of people.

That really doesn't happen to me
anymore. Not really. Or not in the
same way, or I just don't give a fuck
anymore because I'm grumpy.

Is It Malpractice?

Flatliners starred
above-average American youth doctors
involved in ground-breaking researches
in canny stone environs.

Today, many of the dead, say, Jews,
in the Jewish cemetary in Woburn, Mass.
are packed so tightly together in the
cemetary, one wonders what sort
of exquisite planning was necessary.

The sheer density of the corpses
is a sort of monument to tidiness,
or is there a political reading?

I guess I would probably be too dumb
to be interested in that. This morning,
I had a Blue Heron Pale Ale, not the
Blue Heron from Portland, but the
beer from Mendocino.

Mending Scenes.

Meaning ending skeins.

skinding.

Miskending.

Mistending.

Distending.

I remember one time
I made frun of a whole book
whose premise was to prove
the gorgon myth, or rather
iconography, was based on
the image in the battlefield
of an actual corpse.

Corpses are, are fearsome,
but corpses are people too.

I think it is weird
how a heart beat is represented
as a sine wave

and How the caduceus
the ancient wonderful snake stick
has a sine wave on it.

Everyone is so social, so wonderful,
so concerned for the other, but
you never see a caduceus tattoo.

You never see people idolizing doctors
and health professionals

good doctors are secret information
kept between friends

the vulgar are already as good as dead
like batteries in a flashlight;

or is just

malpractice?

Malpractice gets the crotch opened up

realll wiiide, just like the bashed
bazookas.

Just like the beer, and bread tongued

bitumen heads.

Even sttrangers will talk on the phone
while the rain mows the hess toom.

Unspecified.

some badass truants
are walking on the water when
a hand as wet and black
and mirrored as orca skin
takes one down to:

a. the blowhole / omphalos
b. the submarinic chest-cavity
c. the 'permanent bubble'

of its marvelous revolution.

It is in the mind of this single
badass truant
that a bell rings

and that bell called

badass icon disaster gui..

somehow,
a kid knows
that.

"You Is Hired!"

[And which travels through the long and winding tunnels
just like Employee parking garages..]

Through the window I can clearly see

A baby elephant made of white carnations

Holding a red rose with its little trunk

And a red rose with its prehensile tail

Its feet all together in a clutch

Standing on a perfect pedestal

[There are mad blank streets of earnest skinthers]

This thing [ the baby elephant flower thing ]
is in the lobby of a British drug company thing.

I kept thinking the dark black eye of the elephant
must be a lovely solid black bee, a shadow bee,
and one that thinks itself an eye.

Dumb Street Person.

Where the dresser became a mad tangle of shirts torn from God knows where, a strange little scene inside a box had been laid crookedly across the accidental foldings like some odd alien crystal in the midst of a supple, and fossilized disarray of proteinic macromolecules.

In the scene there was a nude woman with horn-like protuberances which were in fact inverted bird's claws. Grasped in the claws was a strand of beads which seemed to flow from the woman's anus and then be returned to her mouth by the claws, but the funny thing is, the woman was actually a statue of enormous size and each bead contained a little scene something like the grapes of Raymond Roussel in Impressions of Africa. The scenes, too, were also machinic, or sculptural.

Actually there was just a shoebox with a pice of paper in it.

And then some sweaty softball player girls came back in the room.
One accidentally stepped on a frog left there
by a dumb street person

born
without a liver.

The Most High And Beautiful Clam

zzzTwang is the postman lettoral

littoral clambased reed
or pan ich

All is alive
or all of living is reflected
into the living

sat zzTwang where the teasing post ended
madly

3 ad
3 all

A snaking tent where the clambake occurs
some out of work workers are in there
working on getting fed
some other people were getting a delivery option
worked out

it's complicated
even chewing

or shewing

you'd think a beach just appeared
or a mountain

and the stupidest things
come here by the most insanely circuitous paths
imaginable

or is it just that I'm enjoying lying
to you

well you've killed me
so have a long deep breath

of corporate software
at the begginningg
of the most beautiful clam
in the universe

Le Flic

[yulb-yek]

The black
Rabbit-headed buffalo
is a cop.

Isabelle Huppert
gives her winery
to the creature
whose hands are tied
with a glowing cord.

Sometime during the day
when the Tops
are reaching for their Bottoms,

The cop
begins to graze (to grease, grass?)
on the tinsel
which is elegantly arranged
like cocaine in the snow.

Isabelle Huppert
tells the creature
to be kind
to her winery

and the bottoms revolt.

You can see the head of the bottoms
in a stone ring up above
the valley;

le flic.

Its stubby cigar
is probably a reference
to Plato's remark

that the liver-mirror
is wiped clean
by the spleen

just for fun.

"No meat can be eaten," say the Tops.
"Pass the damn meat," say the Bottoms!

The black
Rabbit-headed buffalo
is a corpulent light
in the winery.

Touching my Penis.

My penis is alone now,
though covered in amoeba.

My penis is wispish,
though covered in a wasp's
evangeline.

My Penis is a system of rivers
which look favorable
through the looking glass

A Ninja on a motorcycle
is watching me

touch my penis again.

Possibled Mexus

waggling gypsy
moth baby concrete

poetry forgives the island
whose reception is shaped

Toulouse Mantilla
a soul's loot all
ittish wit names

herd connected by chime yoke

dress up
fess up
your wind drag
guarding surdish abs

the distorted
cobra festooned
skeleton kite gondola staircase
whose perilous journey
is random

the motion of the mates

yet the path
no petty accident's
brave unadorned
artifice

we move in corkscrew water tunnels
toward each unspeakable integerm

Mute magazine - Culture and politics after the net

Mute magazine - Culture and politics after the net

Another very interesting from Mute. This magazine is really growing on me..

Dinky Inky Distortions, A Horse Doctor's Lament..

Groucho, you are the Pharaoh
inside the gilded jellybean...

O Courage!
If my heart is like a drunken chicken,
changing colors in the snow, and
if my heart's heart

is another chicken
whose head is a vortex,
a shet or shem of M,

Let horse balls
be seen under a microscope
Let horse balls
be more like Busby Berkeley

Let this grouchy confection
be happy and forgive itself
or

give away all the poison things
for free..

I'm worried.
I'm worried I may not live up
to your expectations, or my own,

I can't concentrate.

There's a damn horse between us!

But everything's gonna be alright.

[Harpo said so..]

Confessionalism.

Today in my plum-colored Izod
and walnut velvet climbing pants,
I am driving through Lexington~

Braindead in my Beemer X3.

I see a saga of flames, I see

a weird fucked up golem of rainbow-colored

popcorn. With 10 yr old Eagle Rare Bourbon,

one falls in love w/ Claudette Colbert
and what's him name with the big ears,
The newspaper maybe',',',',',',',',',
but most of all silk.

Silk is made by worms.

It comes from their butts.

Too Many Gorgons Make A Hyde School Commodus

pussy, pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,
pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,
pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,
pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,
pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,
pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,pussy,

I am your Babylon
Hawaii Five, O

Babyloin, when your monkey wrench

sloppy floppy
wigwomba dancing pardners
give the empty nation of Troy

to John Wayne's
drunken slumber

Then is the crystalline genius

Xeroxing Xerxes
in its flaxen, burning, bridge-boat-pants

with gorgeous insectoid loafers

Lame Goeth The Tonsil, Lame' Cometh The Ass..

And if in writing we say
in conclusion, there is
no conclusion, and vice

against us

we

light up the camel's hair
and the camel runs
and machine guns

lame runny

hive masks
that are infinite
unsearchable

these tender remarks do not touch you
these tender examples of the softest icon
these tender examples of the floating

meat air accident gender

why have i give you the pause
sayeth god to the ibswirlite

"look upon the docks of boogie"
hear the thump thump thump

when boogie boat arrive
boogie dock tremble

when boogie sailor depart
boogie bride ibgibooginate

in the natural cellar of boogie
all is boogie
and igiboo

there are serious desks in the space
of the giant teddy bear's head
we have to press ourselves through the ear canal
to get to the stable area with the desks

lit only by fireflies and lavalamps
the first desk

looks like a calligraphy of stamens
and the lesser morbidities which save us


in tennis
in grass surfing dreams
my one true love
and i are running

from the fucked up weird after effects
of my silly fucked up thought process disease