Friday, April 30, 2010

Post-Apocalyptic Sea Bandito.

Far out at sea, an iceberg floats silently through
its ancient stone gate, triggering a series of
enormous claws and whirring circular cutters.

A whirlpool forms in the absent foyer, and the ice blocks
are sucked down one by one looking beneathe much
like a long hyphenated hair curlicuing the darkness.

Chulo stands in his buckskins chewing a cigar


den a glass page rises thru the waves
den a thousand glass pages

then the smooth whale-skin cigar rises
to hover above Chulo

A man with a thousand mile long needle
and a honey-gargling forehead crucible

its boat
like a face submerged
to the eyes

it uses the eye holes
for propulsion

the glass pages
hide the whale-skin cigar

the giant smooth cyclopian whale cigar
cannot be seen

Chulo // having visited the berg chewer.
having bagged up memrods for maidflore.

Chulo stands in his buckskins chewing a cigar.


Delvauxene miserichord, what gum-gum rings slow
to the spectacle of your mucivorian suckings? What
Lombrosian scuggery must muse upon the supragingival
calculus of your leathwake punalua's grognards, those
hircarra whose hircine footboys tossily rub the volto
with their shiralees of mesomyodian jhula-jooms?

Thursday, April 29, 2010


Delusible feebility, is there yet a genappe
wending to the thrombolight, a caitifdom
of punto banco, a gestonye laid lural
towards the hamesoken? Is there a julaceous
pinenchyma whose temulence goes gruffly by
the furiosant, a yemptid without a bumbardart?

Glory Hand Burning in the Foyer

On to litters now, my scuffy ruffy rumpkins,
bitter spiders in the porridge now, my
roulette-hatted Toulouse Lautrec mannequins
in sequined dung-film-tape-worm-proseomes.

Yeeessssssssssss. Dr. Doom.
Is in the Roooom. Armadillo tornado loom
say Don Quixote' tupperware pencils.
18 Wheelers carved from wine-colored cinnabar
shot through with pure sulphur vericose.
The green fuzzball deer driver author
whose jointed antler lightning goes out
to the wheel
to the wheel of those whoove gawn


Pump Queeng

Ore ange

Golden Geometry
"The angle of the ore"

Sheila Na gig



"Abstruction, alas"
you viddles of my perfected

Towering glass Lama
whose organs are chanting
sinister brujas.

Note to self:
Design building
using scaffolding
for sinister chanters
as poured from


Carmina Bureau.
Hello Doctor Waterbottom.
Yes, Jake, any letters?

My wee, there's 26 here all for you

Doggie Dingle!



Now here comes Lady Guinevere

on a white horse
with a black saddle
that is in fact

a black hand
lifting her up
with the wrist being
a sort of shock-absorber

and with gigantic pink feathers
instead of fingernails

that can suddenly retract
as Lady G
can shoot her teeth out
like a Gatling

[pure nuggets]

Voice From the Jade Cave of a Million Dragons

here in the white
straight ghetto

we still see
the butterfly-
furred conquistador-
rabbit on his
bicycle of arche-
opteryx bones

riding along
the sane
singing sorry
sorry so sorry

I've love to see a
in construction paper

I'd love to drive
car on the moon

I'd sooner
visit beautiful

I'd go out

Fig Mask's Oozing Zag, Penny Gauze for Gimlets

When eternally branching communists wiki-wiki-wiki,
the nose-bridge shine gets to fingering beerfoam
for sausage-makers.

I go into the small room.
A snail is ascending a professor.
A tall pointed black cone.
I say Eeeeaaah to the young lady

whose pelvis is smarting.

Amidst the odd Winter artifacts, the ball of tingling worm beings
rotated about the sun, bat-books clustering ever deeper.

When Roger the corpse cop shot out,
all of Miami looked askance at giant robot dolphin cities
in classical age frozen


Pan in fedora.
bread fedora.
federal food.
feral dragon.

They make comments on the climbers.
I look for odd placements in the external hierarchy register.
I move into position like any of the other lampreys

holding out my carpet bag and rubber titty vampire puppets
waiting for the maitre D to quit mispelling the Chinese brunch

Chin Chinese
Jaw Jew
Germ German
French Fry

United States

We are the Chaos of the Singularity

writ small write

A cock goes like a snake between enormous breasts,
Eve has peeled the apple,
and Adam has no teeth.

According to a newly translated Bibile,

Adam and Eve
were very old
and nearly toothless
when Adam finally

sucked the green apple
out of despair

tired of sucking
the once pert tristichs
the triticea

now involves

Bull centipede washing


upon the all-saddle

in lower

Edgar Allen Poe
mysteriously dead.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Old Thymen Stoories

Here, love is satiated in an eternally brilliant tedium.
Here, plants are superhuman gleaming temples.

For love, the execution of a fatally corporeal mind.
For breasts, a pile of the suavest lives, erectile pillars.

Between forms, illegal spirits shine, extra-fortified Aussies.
In quibbling fathers, post-genital, post-funerary vivants.

A series of naturally vacuumed labia become abundant lectern.
Clara alights on mica given by a corrupt supplier.

Leni knows sailing, and she has placidly dreaming aureolas.
Happy Cymba kneels to the all-vitamin, King Aether's implet.

Squids make a nappy note.
My tibia got stuck in Medusa's opossum adders.

A sad fiber is pre-recording all of love.
A latent pectoral has collustrated serene light.

Glumen fluid Aerius, treat yourself to an obscure name.
The ill bull of omnium is cussing your salubrious star.

No more of your campy decorations, red vitreous herbs.
The omniscient flower gives liquor.

Old Reruns Calling Out Flapping Gumbs Rusticles

dirty, oblique boner, why have you come into my kharjas?
why have you written the lines that follow:

illegal latent trash

nnn, the empty knocks
of a hobby
the legal rush
all dat shit
is funkenswine

the habibi angry dennis
headless chatty blowhole
can you find a beast
between my riffs?

you make a picture frame
of lacquered pigsbodies
for a mirror of comatose

boner, these are no good, no count,
no happy description of themselves,
but are as gloves resting on an open stone
of screams.

You who were once lovely in the circular rooms of torture,
have mostly gone to tea. Tea, coffee, now you are the screams,
of the mostly oblique boner, the baroque ice-breaker dog
whose head is like titanium ice, a proboscis of screams
which are see-through apartments
moving in a condolem spaze.

Thickly arriving waves of parasols, the sewing machine
dog-ice-breaker-condolem that moves in the thread

is the shadow
of the boner
under the sheets
of the broken ice

give a head
this tea-torso'd

give a boner
to this lapless doge of
García Gómez, 1965, 210:

1 nn m mrdš yã habîbî lã
2 n qr dnyš
3 al-gilãlah rajisah bšt
4 'twtw m rfyš.

When brown ice comes unmoored
from the calculus of headless doggy alhambras
piled like cookies at the feat

let cellphone dirigibles
exit through the nipple holes

let coffee-colored odalisques
become the cellphones of
tricorne-wearing dirigible doggies
in ice-candy runway stockings

let slopes reign
in Kamabunga

let chowderheads
pickle their mothers
in gushy Verisian hallways

their mothers
are like the totally spherical
atmospheres of triune
belch factories


the most complicated glass object on earth

the simplest sand

What period is this?
Can a three lensed camera combine
the picture of debate into
a functional derivible.


Michelangelo's David
has the head of George Washington
and stands atop the dragon

the dragon which is

Everybody's collective laundry
seen as a space opera orgy
on Late Night Showtime

Sweetly lithe boner of all things,
what have you chosen for wings, a pair
of black 1997 Mercedes-Benz SL600


Gillian Anderson will play
Joan of Arc being electrocuted in battle
when a UFO of purple monster elephant bunnies
descends from Betelgeuse
to hybridize our love slaves
with rumple carrots.

A Word From OUr Sponsors

stone lion cellphones
flank the steps up
to the eternal ringtone

umwelt mermaid
hold my hand
all kinds of vermin
are stuck to my

things lodging
in my eyes
old whores
begging in
my ears

an old glue horse
dangling like an
apple from my balls

there is no derision
when i say

mummified motorcycles
used conjoined twins
for carburetors

solidus lux:
its test was text
its text was testing

testy testes

O verious Variety
your virus, verily

The External World of Chance Is Structured Like an Unconscious

The privy stain of a great bread
with bones, a pumpernickel Conestoga
comm-andante guards my attention,
arrabiata. Press your pelvis down
into this tingly mint gelatin,
it's all on camera, your cock
can schlupp in and out of a
rubber cherub's stomach fish

a lighter for the dangerous pipe,
the pipe that moves towards
darker waters, a submarine pipe
from a dark land.

I draw fanatical satyrs, or classical
vermin in sharpie, now just appearing
in the dappled impressionist wood
just fondled by liquitex

Techne has provided me with
a smooth ovoid room
with a desk plateau
which unfolds from the side

things hover
on jets
of champaigne

Its all one untold
single brilliance

whose cornerstone
is the collective
logic of anyness

like milking a dog's teat
for umbrella butterfly supervisors
when camera of yore
conjoins crystal rumpus

city houses
snapping turtle

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Not to Be Thwarted by the Dry Cleaners


Lissotriton boscai

toward paler's gate they sped
bostick wingless sombrero
blowess gaveling the blow hole
for venturi sac propulsion
or riddim

flange sensors
not unlike the nipples
of zeus made pomeroyal
in turbo pan-pipe
with vacuum

uncle sam
like a projectile of foam
inside the space-station

its endless arrays
of kinetic delicacies
bolynesian templus danzers
the constellations
of meerschaum owl odalisque
taffy pipe extendors

uncle sam now suffering from
poor HMDS dispense
suffering from delamination


pattern disarray
my arm goes into a sling
instead of attending the last

\last day\

the poona nikon ghosts
float upward
into a flaming manger
a mouth of fire
like a terricloth rose

the fluorescent bulbs
that squirt out like ice cream
into turbans
for dogs
with the heads of geese

your inability to characterize
nature as semiosis
without some attendant marketing
and dissimulation

you cigar butt
under my foot

knights of nih

you turned page
or memory
of the jade snake upon the hillside

gorgeous thing
whose eyes watch the traffic
thread through

the valley below

there is a pit of light
where you enter

of mustard colored jade

here come the skeletons
after Sinbad

its whole beard of maggots
an entrail
and a tentacle

I find peace in saddles
(not or mot) living in yarn.


Monday, April 26, 2010


Love Under Will Shall Be The Laudanumberrors

its collars love loping
down the chest like a swiss cheese
to give upon the holy burlesque
rondures in efficacy
to wit
the rogogo age

eggs come out pressed like I-beams
from the crab extruder shell parasols

a sun
made from a crab

a living parasol
feeding upon the head
of our lord
a weirdly numb object
somehow screeching through
the shoes

the knuckles drag, yes
but the knuckles themselves
exquisitely designed

like ploughs
making butt cutters
of the sanscitmonious

the largest pyramid of pink soap on the earth
is very small

the largest acid shag dirigible house
not yet

holding a tea mug
to the corpse of Grieg.

His chest full of junk,
gold-fish swimming stupidly
in the giant hollow glass halo
called a toroid
which we now

give the
ominous notissery


door rot
graphomane d'pr

you can see the designers chuckling out

expanded metal dishware for hobos
inflatable bank-outs
that at least allow everyone
to get a plastic cup

a toy horse
was the trojan latex
who knows what gets generated from anything
but by the weird ass smell

it makes later

When good chief holy
stand in corner



Sunday, April 25, 2010

Totally Faucet Arras

not that I nor Minoa
trapped airport '69
inside wax floating
poppy bath aid

the red poppy covers
the hangman;s head
the bull head space shoe

in oil based airports
when bull head poppies

total wax
ensues in citizen

the wax red poppy saddle
upon the bullhead aeroplane
its citizen dread
as in remarked

do not say this public
each private soul
enters by which

when bul

Minne, or a~

"unique gold-abetted fly"

// [dougy]

Six Million Dollar Man
visist Knossos

descend inside amphorae
tracking flowermonster

it was once fair,



Wednesday, April 21, 2010

The Nameless Gold Apostle

pea swill
long strong of pea
sill wot window got
gott together mill
and through

gut toughened by kicking
the snow
or pale lost inverses

like orphans going

they are going now
pea swill

long thin string of green
or camphor'd showing


hollow crystal eyeball head

albino walrus brain

sleeping wart
in tongue

ransom by Kings
for dung

vane perplexing
no wing


cheek by jowl
President Ben Bella

we sleepers conjoin
to take the box
with the obvious and toxic image

renouncing cards
removing the moles
the wigs swim away more fiercely
into general intelligence

its disguised dissolving owning
such finery that hovers

sculptural movies assemble freely in pearls

We watch the jaw of Casanova
in pearls
her ear in pearls
her bosom

the aquarium owns
our cold completely liquid

a longing that the accident may happen again. 1872.

[abscendent abartia] us these elements (73)
[abscendent abarticulation] driven by many forces [88]


thousand resulting combinations, not in, eye and fading,
the wall, the movement of, sharp, importunate
to act upon, force is suspended
dwell on

dwarfed the. the narrow
a swarm of
of an individual
step farther still [the wall, the movement of]


and tell us
the individual to (32)
with the movement, the

Such thoughts seem desolate at first; at
times all the bitterness of life seems con-
centrated in them. They bring the image of
one washed out beyond the bar in a sea at
ebb, losing even his (186) personality, as
the ele-ments of which he is composed
pass into new combinations. Struggling, as
he must, to save himself, it is himself
that he loses at every moment.

philosophy, and of religion and culture as
well, to the human spirit is to startle it into
(73)[abasia] a sharp, it into sharp and
[88]. or sea.

attractive for us.
How can we.
life. Failure.
for habit. *(growth / ontology)

two things, persons, situations-
well catch at

dyes, strange flowers and curious.
the brilliance of
//88557722 3

testing opinion, own.
theories, religious or philosophical

us. "La Philosophie," says Victor Hugo,
"c'est le microscope de la pensée. The 73

abstract morality we
or what
beautiful places
writings of
had always clung about
himself stricken by
found in

Hugo somewhere says: we have
says: les hommes
then we cease to be.

the wisest in.
the chance in.

time. High passions give one this

love, political or religious enthusiasm, or the
"enthusiasm of humanity." Only

Of this wisdom,
for art's sake,
most; for art comes to you professing frank


Bad Company Until The Day I Die

to wish its path along
that great brown jug that stood
its statuary foot a lamp, o
tall and fleeting mood

how tall can arches be erected?
how tall can woven trees be grown?
how hard would it be

to take up green cloth in the valley
call oneself a druid
grow shaggy
and make model storms of crooked sticks
grass stairs leading up into sod bowl plazas
of choirs
choirs of the naked
blind in the night

the moon a pitch tree
the stars an astrolabia
strange animals
hang heavy iron cubes
from their eyelids
into oracular pools
of purple ink

drag and sling the cubes on paper
pull flesh from giant clams

genitals i am


white water rapids
taken on
with an altar

of wild

thing mandarin egg thinker
your batwing eyebrow cameras whistle
like blow holes along erotic cell strings

a haute rotary gyroscopic tummy drum
is bleating

there is a kind of poetry

sex with head inside


Monday, April 19, 2010


Editorial Review - Kirkus Reviews Copyright (c) VNU Business Media, Inc.

A ghostly, symbolic-mystery novel, The Ship is the work of a well-known German Expressionist. Though it belongs to an experimental school of literature, it is also, however, a highly polished and striking work of art. The ostensible story takes place on a peculiarly built ship, which carries an unknown cargo, and is sailing for an unknown destination. On board, are a last-minute, nervously-suspicious crew; the supercargo -- microphones and other instruments hidden about the ship; the Captain's beautiful daughter, Ellena, and her fiance, Gustave...and, possibly, concealed in a secret hold, the ship's owner. A sense of foreboding reaches a crisis when, midway in the voyage, Ellena disappears. Wild rumors spring up among the seamen: that the ship carries coffins, or a brothel, or the mad carpenter's mother; and Gustave, prowling in the ?? blackness of the hold, finds a cargo of, indeed, coffin-shaped crates, and two secret?? passages??. The fear-maddened?? crew mutiny, and in attempting to how open ?? one of the secret?? chambers, sink the ship. She goes down, carrying all her unsolved mysteries, and revealing a hither to unseen?? figurehead. The mystery and terror is sustained by a marvellously?? intricate, arresting prose; and by working the symbolism ?? (presumably, the Ship of Life, haunted by the twin mysteries of sex and death) into startling, highly visual scenes?? of panic amid?? a nightmare architecture. Intellectually interesting; but also as emotionally compelling as a murky, terrifying ghost story.

Thank You, Marco! You were a subtle thinker.

"a furious attack on capitalist society
lives on, ironically, as a consumer fetish object"


he enters mythic time.
all human sign systems create
some form of hierarchy, but like
any physical assemblage, they
can be disrupted by physicality

he becomes the chef
for a princess / virgin / captain
which represents desire.

the ship represents
the the buoyancy of desire
in a vast sea of death.

death is nature is appalling
and vast, even more so than sex,
and farm more vast than
the thin idiotic machinations
of art, ideology and co.

Marco has created a dream
about a dream.

A dream of overcoming the banal
with a mood.

The whole thing is at once reflexive,
and also melancholy.
He knew it would be read this way,
and encoded secret clues for the

We are all food for the world monster,
and ideas are only part of the story
of how we, personally, end up
in the hell-mouth of materiality's
consuming end, and not necessarily
the most interesting part.

the oddity of following a narrative
is that the meaning it evinces
in the real and in the metaphysical
are both


a bounded infinity
with hermeneutics,
and its lack, as terminal


Hello Merchant of Ivory.

You are my dog.
You are my dog.

I made you with
crochet horns,
and hair dryer
side pipes.

I made you with
water balloon
saddle bags.

You are my dog.












Everyone Is a Part of Ist, Being, The Least Likely Thing Of All.

All of the dead rabbits
now followed the master
covering their heads
in honey and gold leaf.

All of them took up
their pikes
and lifeless hares
and went down to the
waterfront to engange
in a little gesamtkunstwerk.

Each with a battery pack,
each with one red hot
iron boot disk toe
each one~

Professor Seagull Leedskalnin Bee
wrapped in fat and felt
floating in the ocean
in the navel of a giant
mutant fruit of Tatar Evolution~

each with barnacle armor
and lit from within
with intensely
fluorescent skeleton.

The dead rabbits
could call down
tubes from the sky.

The power of speaking
interrupts itself, and
this interruption plays a role.

Belfast’s Maze Prison
approximates the figure of Christ
as played by Klaus Kinski playing
Joseph Beuys in the guise
of a divine conversationalist.

How do you explain pictures
to a dead heir?

This is an overtly,
and positively
critical question?

Certainly, Rubber Bosch
animals' roach guard

Sunday, April 18, 2010


lacigonton unsaddling
balafrerons coadyuvaréis
accuratezza avoimemman
plantáveis sataa tihkua
päivänpaiste beninformata
ölend brult alpea auswerfest
kulaçların huldi montiamo
establezca suturava

Saturday, April 17, 2010


round house
slowed down

the jaw
positioned correctly
will come off

see the jaw
the glass jaw

it is mounted to
the forehead

of the ambagious
Saducismus Triumphatus

a little kid
with a weewee parrot

Friday, April 16, 2010

ppl in an iframe

Giant Shirley Common Foxglove

I b'journal'd a few weeks ago about those nekkid
body scanners for airports. You see a lot of randomly
put together bodies in airports. They come from
various mouths around the center of the Caliph Al
Ficinogogo. Naturalizing refers to planting bodies,
letters or, even images in a random pattern, much
as it would occur when the Quorum of the Twelve
described this technique when they said:

"Lucifer and his scheme are fast but also
power hungry due to the high-switching activities
at the impart of their substance to the poor, ie:

feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and
the visualization of multiple alignments
when he was twelve years old (Lucifer) ~
his uncle-godfather after whom he was named
sang lullabies made of old poetry."

I often like to try to understand the main issue
and to discuss it using a toy problem or “cartoon”.
That is: I like to create an artificial problem
that highlights the issue that someone claims
is causing a problem, and then explore whether
or not that issue could either a) never-ever-ever
possibly cause a problem, b) could cause a problem
in some specific circumstances and c) if (b) figure
out how close to that circumstance we might be.
These sorts of abstract cartoon problems are
actually very important to engineering– but I digress.

The Pure Anomaly Method AKA The spherical cow
seems to prefer random acts of ministry:

Schubert found the first twelve poems
of Caliph Ficinogogo under the title
Die Winterreise in an almanack (Taschenbuch: Urania)
published in Leipzig in 1823 whose combination of
both vertical and horizontal apostles must've ended
in Digitalis.

Airports are what is called a cumulative medicine:

its own utilitarian 1864 Hazlitt
is many pamphlets...remain to us only in a
single exemplar. ...... 20

Twelve-tone technique
in which the twelve notes
of the chromatic tribe conjoin


Why are the Tribes of Dan and Ephraim Missing?
Sharecropper Christian Radio Random Segments.
A Colonial slave prodigy writes poetry ... [medicine].
Pine Smoke Lodge - Twelve Faces of The Smoke Mask.

pled plod plop plot plow ploy plug plum plus pock
pods poem poet pogo poke humbug hummed humors
humped humphs humger hungry hunker hunted hunter
alohas dogging constitute waterfall DIGITALIS

Giant Shirley Common Foxglove

Doing Bong Hits With Tennis Players

or it's some din g
hordes of sweet intelligent monkeys
the size of mice
rearranging the furniture we're in
the mayor is singing
some mexicans are outside
jumping their pick-ups into the air
way too high
their ladies are not mice
maybe there's no mexicans
I can't tell if they're mice
you throw a beanbag through
a hole to duck the sitter
all the sitters now already
ducked and see
it's a toga party, brown jug, mag wheel, brown jug,
mag wheel,
but the monkey mice are making
themselves into a golem

like ideology is a porn-golem
a topos of hats in a circus of taints

a man in a top hat
and a gray mice coat
little pink rubber faces
make the lapels
i get a phone call

she's having lunch
with an indian tennis player
and there is a thing on the wall
like a flesh interface in relief
thumbs and chins, washboard
torsos reworked as faces
having a private conversation
with Christopher Walken
as Colonel Angus

I love Colonel Angus
roce of white mise say dat

jumping pick up trucks
way in the air

miso in lamb chair lamp
do not scalp children

hanging man watch fob
with silver erection (election)

the charles river moves
as any river of chandiliers
as any train of mineral chandiliers in the sky
swarming with mouse birds
with short stubby spoons of gas

and just its feet to enter the shell
like doctor do little

we select the cartier-bresson
which best selects our daughter's
tennis player

she owns six:

An Indian
A little Mexican Tennis Star
A Ruminating Gypsy Tennis (ears too big)
A Cowboy Tennis Star
A Mandarin Tennis Star (Old School with Jade racket and long skirt)
and some other one

a fat little woodchuck tennis star
with a star in its forehead
made of little mice

jumping trucks
into old chicken coops
down home
workin' on the farm

it's easy to replace a head
with a foot



Jigsawed aluminum for corn,
Rhodopea, Militia, and Rhodoclea
strove with each other in a queenly
habitat portioning memory
and dressing me up as a judge.

They stood naked
dipped in nectar
and I was naked
with the 3, but for a rose
and a pair of scissors,
and ornithology,
for we had recently
exited out of sculpture.

A wolfstone covered in roses
had been our home, a femoral
artery whose superficial velvet

"For fun," I offered.

As I knew how Paris suffered
being a judge. I love Paris.
I gave them my regal toy
immediately. They were
precise technical avatars
pocketing the zephuseon.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

My Lame Discourse.

So, I'm gonna have to practice this, and it'll prob'ly come to nautsik, but I'm going to try my hand at a little traditional discourse, or rather, my oddly fashioned version of 'traditional blog discourse': Now then. Let's reach out the weirding hand to a few things, and I'm not going to post a bunch of links, but rather evoke linkages of sorts. Okay, maybe a few links. So sort of compare the discourse John Latta has been providing with something like Kasey Mohammad's recent posting of his intro to the AWP's Flarf and Conceptual Panel. Is there some strange resonance between Flarf as Edward Dahlberg, and this newish, or recent incarnation of conceptual writing as Charles Olson. Is K. Silem Mohammad actually Edward Dahlberg, and Kenny Goldsmith Charles Olson? I mean, but like, we could just as easily pair them up as Lo-brow Inflected Pop (Flarf), and High Modernism Inflected Pop ('Conceptual'). There are some wonderful strains of High Modernist Pop. Oh Yes, even on Album covers. Would you like an example? Yes, teacher, give us an example. Okay, student, here is an example of High Modernist Inflected Pop. But before that, you might say: Hey, where's that whole Dahlberg / Olson thing gone off to, and to be honest (booknest) I havn't a clue, but usually my brain works these things out as I go along.

Okay, high modernist inflected pop. The album cover is Manitoba's _Stop Breaking my Heart_ or rather Caribou's _Stop Breaking my Heart_ which is sort of weird because the same album and same cover is released under two different band names, which already sort of aligns it with Kenny Goldsmith's brand of conceptualism somehow. Here is the cover:

Okay, and now my brain has reconciled it all. The reconciliation is, drumroll, of course it is, TRANSLATION! Yay! Yaya! Sure. So like take Kasey's mentioning of "smurf fisting".. Now aside from all the moral implications, or rather the super cool Zizekian references to avatariality in thought that Zizek makes in works like 2000, The Art of the Ridiculous Sublime: On David Lynch's Lost Highway, Washington: University of Washington Press. More or less he says thought and thinking has become cartoon like, and video-game like, and that that represents an opportunity for ideology to experiment, and or/ do what it has always done, with glee, kill and repress, which is sort of its function in a sick way. Anyway. But you can sort of translate "smurf fisting" into something like a Modernist painting called _Two Krsna-blue glyph beings furiously communicating_ and I could do a Bryce painting to illustrate that. Now that is one way of dealing with such an id-inflected pop image. But there is something fishy about flarf and about contemporary conceptual writing. There is some lingering apologetics one gets from the literary community as if there is some implicit imperative to a moral reading of these things. And my answer to this has to be both Snarky and completely conceptual. Look at the word "Moral".. or better yet, look at Jan Mukarovsky's essay called


and consider the question: Is poetry, and indeed, the literary arts included in what is traditionally called the Geisteswissenschaften (or Moral Sciences)? I would say yes, but not because Poetry deals in a fruitful way with morality, but because it deals with signs. This is essentially why I think the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E folks had the germ of the baroque unity of the arts, but essentially fell back into what one might call 'tribal practices'.. Much like the Jews, whose old testament is essentially a tribal document about a tribal god, the Langue folks could not give up their old gods, but looked into semiotics and said,, hmm Barthes, he almost seems fastidious and boring enough to be one of OUR kind of poets, so hence, we have the more or less slow synchretism of the poetry world. Like finally someone said, yeah, well, we can just be as odd as whatever.. but we shan't have Deleuze? and we certainly don't want these weirdo Estonians in the mix.. Uexkull? No thank you. Now this is just sort of how I see the thing. Here it is, 2010, and people are still going on about these old farts. Well, they ARE interesting, BUT, a single album cover taken at random from literally billions is possibly just as interesting. What is the model of that? Well, of course, it's called "Cultural Studies" in the academic parlance. And in a lot of colleges "Cultural Studies" are looked down on, but aside from "Pop", "Cultural Studies" is one of the main linkages between Flarf and Conceptualism. And then look at the Art world, Flarf is more or less echoing the main stream of Art discourse right now. If we take "Smurf Fisting" as an exemplar and compare that to Paul McCarthy's spectacular public sculpture entitled "Santa Claus with Buttplug" (2007) we can get a sense of the overarching ethos to which both Flarf and Conceptual art belong in our contemporary scene. What I am trying to do is say, more or less like Jan Mukarovsky says in his essay, is that these things transcend blanket psychological states and are indeed Semiological facts that have varied consequences, ie determination is a medium, an event, and event-science is actually far more hip than Geisteswissenschaften.. But, event science, is phenomenology, and what has phenomenology done but provide a framework for the applied sciences? We are still tending to separate our discourses, and to ghettoize our products, and that isn't necessarily a bad thing. Ghettos tend to make weird creepy folk-tales, and let's face it, at this point, the world as it gets smaller and smaller in a Virilio sense begins to look more and more like a ghetto, and that is another echo between flarf and conceptual poverty. Not that you'll be poor if you are literary artist, but that things like over-determination have echoes in poverty. and that overproduction is like overdetermination. Arte Povera looked at these issues. Flarf could be considered a version of Arte Povera in the sense of SOME of its materials. This KG~Conceptualism could be considered a version of Arte Povera because of its poverty of techniques, and its reliance on cultural studies and hermeneutics to make its meaning ie it TOTALLY relies on the idea of ART considered as semiological fact and makes fun of itself in a way by continuing to fetishize "some fact" which is more or less harkening WAY BACK to the idea of bracketing and sampling found in the earliest Modernist impulses to collage, and to use things in themselves for affect and for effect the exemplus of using the AFFECT / EFFECT schemata is of course Marcel Duchamp. Duchamp peepee vase was sort of shocking. But now, we have like Matthew Barney who is like Marcel Duchamp crossed with Obiwan Kenobi in Zizek-world, or something. Anyhoo. I guess I get what I'm saying, but maybe no one else will see what I mean. Neem tree. Please oil your feet to keep them soft. Like Allen Ginsburg. Can you imagine all these people as Smurfs? It would be kind of funny to see a smurf caricature of every single person on earth, and then to see them as blue glyphs in a pluroma of mystery still unfolding
at a constant rate according to specific physical principles, something like

Picasso with a blue-lipped vagina in his forehead spitting primary colored Star Trek Food.

Additional Resources
Art Colleges offer information and some helpful tips to guide you on your path to a career in art.


So I'm laying in bed listening to the neurons fire, when it suddenly begins to re-investigate some things I had already written, well one thing at a time. Firstly, it remembered a thought I had after using the structural relationship between done / one in the previous poem. Now before I get too far into this, I need to show how I get from the lower-case d to 'ass-shaking'.. And in this case, 'ass-shaking' also stands in for both paideuma and nature, and this is a point I will get to later, namely "Nature as Abstraction".. In certain African tribal dance one sees wherever, on television I suppose, and really even more so in certain bird species' mating ritual, and specifically, in the languagings of bees. Now this is paideuma as economy, and nature as semiosis, but it's also a shell game, it's paideuma as nature, and economy as semiosis, and paideuma as semiosis, and nature as economy. There's more stuff you can do with lower-case d, but this is a hint. Now in this shell-game, there is a missing term which readers of this blog should be fairly well acquainted with, and that term is semiosis, er, I mean, syntaxis. And my usage is like one of those "philosopher's usages" and I'm a little proud if it. Syntaxis is an old Latin word which means (if I remember correctly, essay, more or less), but, and this is the rub, there is a linguistic tradition in the biological sciences of using the suffix ~taxis as part of a system of description of what impels movement in certain species, ie; thermotaxis, chemotaxis, phototaxis. Okay, does that mean I am trying to put man onto the level of the bacteria? Possibly. But no, not really. What I'm really trying to say with this is something closer to "Every animal is Rome." Syntaxis means "Signs move us." But let's get back to

done / one

Which breaks down to something like

When the ass-shakings done you are one again, ie through the conservation of matter, once the 'media-event' of consciousness and movement is over, once the "subject" is completed, more or less, material unity is regained. This being the simplest expression of "abstraction". One meaning of abstraction is something like 'draw out' just like a vampire, to use, to employ, etc.

So here then we can sort of give a provisional equation

d = syntaxis
one = material substrate

Now if we flip it. [Okay, flipping terms, this is more or less an oracular practice, of looking under every stone, etc..]

enod, slid the e down, node.

Node is like a purely trans-historical term for the subject, with its bio-implicatory nodule,
and then the more familiar at this point cybernetics associations.

So where am I going with all this. I am going to another grouping I used a while back, namely

shoe / shew (show)

Now this is an interesting one, as it is a fairly complex symbolism involving all the aforementioned idea structures

shoe = syntaxis, but also prosthesis
shew (show) = syntaxis, but as spectacle

So here we hit upon a pretty Marxian tangle upon which I am doing perhaps something new

The shoe becomes the stand-in for material production, but here is where Marx fails,

Nature itself is ironic. "Material Production" encompasses all possible ideological expression in this universe. In fact, it allows a near infinite spectrum of possible ideologies. This is something Marx never had the balls to say, but which Deleuze and Guattari hint at, namely


How to get this across. How's this?

Language is already the parody AND analogy of chemistry. Look at the Qabbala, sort of the premier model of language as a combinatorics.

But the reality is we live in a nested combinatorics, and furthermore, It's the only nest combinatorics in the known universe, ie, Life already is "The Singularity" and already

"a weird complexity event".. etc..

And then there is the flipping thing:

Shoe can be flipped to get

Oz, or Ooze, or ~ose, and shew or show

gives us

Woes, or Wose (my word, equals "sad writing")..

Okay, now we can bring it down a notch.. We've all pulled on that joint before. I live there, but that isn't today. Today, we are going with Lanny

to Bridgeport Brewpub to have a blackened catfish sandwich and a Hop Czar beer on tap!

Hee. No. Really. So I was in Bridgeport brewpub the other day on Hawthorne having lunch. Now this is a pretty nice lunch for me. It's a splurge lunch. I usually am a ham sandwich at home guy, or maybe a bowl of pho, anyway.. I'm in there,

and there is a whole series of photographs? Serigraphs? Digital prints? I didn't look too close, but they set me thinking strongly (given the fact that I had had a pint of Hop Czar at noon, also not usual)

These images were sections of close-up nature treated as Abstraction, and they were, they were beautiful examples of abstract art taken from nature. This is a fairly common trope.

So there was a set of close-ups of like aspen or birch bark which became like structure glyphs or something, gorgeous. and then a whole set of like mineral deposits from hot-springs.

Okay, so this is when I started thinking, re-thinking really, about this thing called

"Abstract Realism" which in one vestiture I kind of associate with the so called "Language Poets"
and this is perhaps their better face. At any rate, a lot of folks could be mentioned.

The reason I mention them is because they sort of make plain how the "knoweldge" of

spectaxis (as sophism) can become both a political power and a force for certain democratizations.

You can't just hand any of these people "Spectaxis" as the culmination of Naideuma
and expect them to roll over so you can rub their tummy. The universe just isn't that yummy.
We're yummy. It eats us. And when you have your own private language do a puppet show of the inverse, it's only got so much wing-time before the paideuma sharp-shooters are gonna take that creature out. I'm out. I'm done. In paideuma-world, I'm one, dead, entered the material unity, etc.

Bee shaking ass alone.
Er, well, realatively.

So shoe, subtract an o is

minus an s is

he, minus an h is


is what was written on the wall at Delphi.

Syntaxis, Semiosis, Spectacle, Nature, Paideuma, "My doom"

whatever you call it..

It isn't common. I mean there are commonalities between us,
but until something even weirder happens.

Earth is the weirdest thing in the universe, but

It's a very big universe,
and we see almost nothing of it,
and we see it with

a jellybrain
with electric snake fangs.



take some close ups, Jed! Go on!


gone, baby gone..\





Wednesday, April 14, 2010


The Chemical Deposits are much
the most interesting and characteristic
of the accumulations gathered


a zoom lens
it increases as the assay
proceeds towards completion
of development

liquid magnesium oil in a spray
well protected for the last
250 million years
in a place which was to give birth
to Polynomial Texture Mapping, or


How when fish exhale, they
determine the "roots" of a polynomial

Petem or Shamba



the living mind
a shambles
but still ambly


work yet to be


And from under the leopardskin beret..

As if "I"
were the congenital ruddy faced
English General

as if its skeleton were made of ice
or conversely

that all of earth
were some kind of sock
for the disembodied-embodied

chilly foot as it were

as it werre

as it twirls

ass not :remember radio


ear ass
and radio

invisible lithops

imagine the hovering
paper thin layers of jade armor
surrounding the dragon poem's
sacred organs

organs like congealed sound
whose thoughts
like visible patterns on the surface
enact a medusan sirenical fascination

things half of one thing
and 40 of another

furred trees
whose foetus fruits blink
revealing icons smoothly rearranging
on nictitating view screen lidules

the ruddy faced General's voice
out of a beatnik's head
and from under a leopardskin beret


Commodore Commodus' Merry Go Rund.

I see cousin It
rise up out of the fondue
like a thumb
through the bung
of a bialy

and I think
how chocolate might
have hair

and i think of
nudes in a freezer bar
wearing chocolate masks
and then

show erect nipples
to passersby
on the streets
through glass walls

nipples bared
like fangs

i think of cousin It's
nipple fangs
their retractability

how the nipple can be a foreskin
for a fang the color of jade chocolate

as if old Geronimo Washington's
head had been cake

how islands
are sold
to ideograms
of monkey sauce

I see them one more time
"aahh, my romance"

It is surely a clone of H.P. Lovecraft
and a blonde midget woman.

They are lovers.
And I only ever see them
by the drive-through bank.

As I child I always looked
forward to looking to see
if "the teller" was sexy or old.

Sometimes the sexy looked bland.
Sometimes the old looked interesting.

But mostly the sexy
were just hot!

Especially the chubby cheeks
with chocolate antler weaves!


I meander throll each cheshired street,

Near where the cheshired Times does flow,
And mark in every facebook account I meet
Marks of fangs, fangs of whoa.

In every cry of every tease,
In every baby’s cry of blah,
In every vice, in every roll-on mic,
The mind-bending monacles I crave.

How the Chimney-sweeper’s balls
Every blackning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier’s thigh
Runs in blood down old junk walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I drink
How the youthful Harlot’s sink
Blasts the muck up in her ear,
And blights with plagues the married queers.

I want an expensive, contemporary, home!

I want octopus monogrammes!

Tuesday, April 13, 2010



Pi smokes a cigarette whose fumigliana is a trillion
hovering skulls of any speciation, Pi being cultural,
as an approximation, but made formal, purely formal,
as in the word equations of the Taoists. Pi is changeless
change, the Heraclitan strange, cabbage epaulets catch
fire in the orchestra pit.

3 is 1 less than 4
4 - 1 = 3


Tithe to a lidded sequelae:

Hercules would be steel
under the waterfall of tires,
a dove escaping from a replicating
mandible horse

mouth has teeth screens
tongue is money
breath is totality


Ease of Nomme.

Sleight of hand
is the relationship
to naming


Mouth rests,
and in silence
the lie breeds itself.

Here are the space conquering spells,
more or less benign, but totally efficient.

Prism is the mystical understanding of Prison,
for we are light

and our separations
and rejoinings
are as the languid or languaged
floppings and convulsing
of an agonised monster


being other


le jardin
in english


noise skull


Monday, April 12, 2010


synodial constilution
must every way [ ] [] [[[[[[[[[[]]]


an elastic guitar mask
becomes the elevator
to a feather which is
itself ki[[[[[[[hi]]]]][[[li[[hu]]a

totally forever
perfumed architectonic mudra escarpement

ichthyphallic monster token
place side


no more nothing but

and window's suicide
they accept the fate of multiple thoughts
not ruling the single favorite thought i

own this
you terrible pin-cushion

fetish compound
as if in design we
see the ritual protocol behaviors

a the if
thi ef

and thound

and fat like a date

the sweet honey-filled old mommy skull


air will brine

C yils

A Selection of the Work of Christian d' Orgeix

the page is here at Galerie Brockstedt

Hooray Henry

at puffy LG
red legs arenicolite
back-handed bebop cad
celebrity chop cod


the breakers carry up
a dark larkish catch
my old friend
catching whatever fragrant

dumb peasants we
all stained in ruminant

my ribs
decide this


of whatever
idea gorilla
takes the maiden
to the top of the pen

planes of immanent

smooth space
of hotel sheets

like a rafter

we know it supports
but what

i think they live inside

i think they
chew seeds

sleep is a seed
on a loof compound

En cas que nul orgeis,
cestascauoir pesson pluis
graunde que lob soit troue
en niefe appelle lodeship

nuff said

the heavy magnet jowells
of everything


one step closer
to jade jesus
heavy abstract


dark red cascade


the mariner
shall hold
the only orgy

the remains

Sunday, April 11, 2010


I am Thung.
Big Engine. Thung.

Rod Laver. Calf Fries.

Its marble lung.
We enter.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

In the Garden of the Fork-bearded Pot-heads.

So I am sitting in Powell's
drinking what I believe to be
coffee, when a beautiful thing
like a thumb crossed with a
stick of chromed coral
sticks up its branching worm-head
out of my cup and says:

They make a glue that uses science fiction
for bait?

And it is the rise of its tiny voice
into the faux-interrogative that gives me pause.
It isn't rhetorical. It is exactly
a surface vocal affect, a faux-interrogative.


As I look at the
coffee worm thumb deer oracle thing
more closely as it seems to be reclining
in my coffee cup like a hottub, I notice
that the side of my mug

has become a sort of web-cam
upon the grounds of the Petit Trianon
in the 18th Century. I clearly see
Ange-Jacques Gabriel speaking to a
tiny dog the color of jade, then

both of them
grow iridescent globular back-packs
and float away. Then the image friezes.

Then the worm says something:

Hôtel particulier, peculier.

Just then, a beautiful girl
sits down beside me.

In the time it takes me to sigh
my relief, the worm thumb disappears
down into the brown wholesome

I imagine her nude
wearing the worm creature
much enlarged
as a backpack.

She speaks:

He pleases~
And displeases me.

+the poem ends+

Heinrich Von Kleist.

I aspire to a squiggle
haunted by reason, and
I aspire to a reason
haunted by squiggles,
but if both reason
and squiggles are in
essence just jiggles,
what exactly have I
aspired to?

asp pyre.


Asynthome Teaser from Asynthome on Vimeo.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Terrible Writing Debacle.

I notice things, here and there, or rather, it seems they notice me, as if my subconscious is a different person and sometimes from up in its citadel of a more fluid bandwidth it calls down to the little race car driver that is my daily self, a guy with a slight twitching somewhere, a kind of splayed out thing like a smear with an edge that has suddenly sprouted an array of primitive eyes, a trilo- byte dollop attempting to coordinate the immensity of time into some wished for narrative, but knowing how gyroscopically untenable it can all sud- denly become, some nudge on the armature sending us all reeling into outer verities.

A friend of a friend comes to investigate some dry-rot in a porch, and after it's removed, it resembles a sort of anagram of the mouth of a green skull, and then, how suddenly, porch, anagram as optical translation / imaged encoding, and 'green skull' begin to be a reflexivity of writing itself, a simple "metaphor" when poised as a small formula: Green = Fertile, Skull = Inanimate; Literature (then) = A fertile inanimacy. But then it goes further, and supports itself.

The green skull is an anagram, or rather, is like a skull made flat, like a page, as if the page itself is revealed as a sort of skull, but yet, has depth. This is also echoed I suppose by the holes made into the porch which seem like they could be either the teeth or the gaps between. It isn't a direct translation. There are no eyes, and no lower jaw, and a kind of abstract space opens up like a weird plane upon which the feeling of "Alas poor Yorick" has become the tines of a comb, and stands in for any content, the rest of the house being that body which holds forth the skull, but then that skull that recieves, is also the entry. And somehow the skull, fork, comb reaches for a door, the whole linearity of the parts and the whole begin to intermingle post-deconstructively.

And then at some point I see a sort of picture of time like an associational map wherein all the moments I have had where architecture had entered my thoughts are shown like little cities: Yesterday, inspecting the beam armatures at the resale store while waiting in line. Talking with our neighbor, a woman who is a young mother, and an architect whose office is in her home. The recent work involving architectural fantasies. The recent fantasies. There is something more like language in architecture, and something more like architecture in language that bothers me, and seems to restrict both of them, and yet to give them propulsion, and this seems almost like a cliche', or rather, it seems like something about taste, and habit in music, sensibility, which further displays; sans ability, sense-ability, or the range available to the senses.

Why aren't buildings more haphazardly useless? Or couched in a different way. Doesn't the sort of protocols that surround building "bilding" enter our minds in a way that renders the social aspect of language too transparent? Or is it that the giveness of language is just one aspect that is glossed over in favor of quixotic sequentiality or rather logopoesis, what the less informed might call everyday irrationality. Only in a world with purpose can there be something called rationality, and then to base that so-called rationality upon the construction of wrods ro brilding? Gum shoe snake from elastic violin hat fountain scar.

Thursday, April 8, 2010


The name Quarles
originates from the name
Huerueles which is old
English for the place of
hwerfel The name is thought
to originally referred
to a prehistoric stone
circle which was thought
to be near-by although
no trace of any such
feature remains today.
Quarles has an entry in
the Domesday Book of 1085.
In the great book Quarles
is recorded by the names
Gueruelei, and Huerueles.
The manor is Kings Land
and the main landholders
being Roger Bigot, with
his main tenant being
Thurston Fitzguy.

Don Quixote' Fish Net Stockings

i phantasize
about the sound the lawn
mower becoming
its aegis

its half drown
glue head

and toward
the five a
clock shadow
hermit on its

back forever
time herbal
non sense

its exposed
lip wardens
i sense its
titillation near a
scar neatly drawn

welcome to portland
cock flips out and
up kook
frozen splash maps
long flexible
diatribe you level
windsock carnies
unite inside
a belle


meat close glass
where candy supple panther
one ivory tusked piskule

like diamond
antenna cradle
chews off its
hand thing

image steps forward
to intercept
no particular interest

found inside
the unknown animal's
lake far below
we rise astonished
in boiling shapes

general dynamics
wish fulfillment
prison bed in the sky
accelerate through
the inflating toon
el ray

silver mouth
then chunks
through a grille

vitamin b


The Sinking of the Schitzitania

They had found, finally,
Michelangelo's Hercules
buried in a copse in France,
and had loaded it aboard
the ship for a long
journey to Rio.

Brazil, it had been known
was a structure like a bird
attached by a tentacle
to her stomach. Its blind,
sensitive head, and breast
were long on their way
to a too luminous Pink.


The ship bled forward
for many nights, the centaurs
on the brandy bottles.
Old Italy.

Hercules. Its boot fitted with
magnet would slide as a puck
in the storms. The captain,
with his one strange eye
peering out into infinitely
dense nets of limp tissue-like
emtiness, or complicity,
a hand that gives water
to the sick.

Hercules, hung like a fetish
with Mexican and Brazilian

Rio. James Bond.
All gone underground
into a lava of Mexicans.
The Arrabiata, or rabid
arabs, dressed like
Frenchmen on the moors,
long cold blunderbusses
of ice-tea

waiting for hotties.
Anton Gill, Red Baron.


Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Shrimp Sandwich with Pagan Lincoln Sanskrit Hermes

from oolalabad, again...

over old ceramic waves
a boat-like ink is chopping
its adopted face
unlike the living spirits
of the vessel

animism peoples
torque what foam [u]
ask to select

a water of birds
to cover the face

the nude and dreaming
option of its movement

much pure

eel breathed
the lantern bearing deep
our coral ladder halos
descend into girth

jointed and segmented vessel
eye within an eye

o yes ye est
ye sweet two watered
errata to awe
the reed's
last limping

cloud rub
in giant octagon

our desks
crawl up
the sides

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

God's Guitar

is a baby donkey
held down on a white-hot
star-shaped grill

by a single
index finger

until its eyes pop out
like ping-pong-balls
from a bald cunt

to travel
just short
of forever


Computronix is Hiring! gargoulette leaps hippy poodle.

human skin bag
monty pythong awake
for your crotch lies blinking
blinging the rosy
or the jetson's

les bibi
les bibi
lesbi by
less babies
more rabies

sketching fealty
the inside of your kindney helmet
that doggone gumbi dammit!

grace jones says
'time to die'
but refrigerators
enter heraldry
radon loop-d-loop doggy

figural refridgetera
knight fridge terrors
the little international harvesto
its face-door opens
showing a rounded flange of ice

intelligent burrito hive of luminous sky pea

the blue faced noun
be thy warrior
be thy humbug
ichabod jain wigwam
giallo logjam soda dancer
and if you see its frozen
bunghole in the rain
tiny tents across its balding head
made of whale sushi
nature encasing the damn problem

raincoat rapist
hunted by elbow faced
cigar thumb
kneeburger callous

doggone ole eskimoo knights
in white teflon doors
lined up

self-assembling window pony gin

pickled seals' heads computers
kunstreversial skitter

suction antenna ambassador

and role-aids
pumpkin scratcher
and canteloupe fucker

dog each winey heiney bowler

vacuum mouse
human made
of black holes'
white blood monkey golem

weird tissue aeroplane

egyptian amoeba glyph
oiled for hot sexy
glitter mandible's

and furthermore

gas X
wherever green torso dangling

gut bucket cardigan carousel billy

rubber intestine apartments
i am fitted with the fluorescent skull collar
and lepidum

chief mistake h0rn

grace jones
wheels out a rabbit cannon
dressed as napoleon

gray glass square
grey gloss toe neck fringe

In the 17th Century
you get a fringe
of like a big-toe collar

moor-foot a fried
fish has attached itself
to the ear of an elk
inside a side-piped

fondue guppy bug debiteuse

o murk whose waves
are lives no more deblazoned
in their whimzies, collectively


Monday, April 5, 2010


wan moods linger
as denuded late winter trees
stretch up their limbs
like frightwigs
in the lot

my feet squashed
into theories
made more real
by others

the pure-est ironicrimp
ala debord
(if you want it)

if you reduce spectacle
to terminal syntaxis


shoe = shew

inna kinda sorta
kind and inner sortie

just one iota short of

an odd word for dove
its ever odd development
and evolution

night of love

evil's thin abiding


to the nibble's
city song

Saturday, April 3, 2010


kenflop volken
van hoo

Friday, April 2, 2010

People of the Tigris Surging

they are the leaders of the town,
green and clandestine, they ascend
towards each calibration

basalt caliban
now rising inside

chandelier elevators
we swing
lickerish heights
until the orifice

into its dinner party,
they are the leaders of the town


the creases remain

our abstract pajamas
are sucked out
through oval windows

green and clandestine
are stored
in a haze

The Bondage Ballerinas and Adolf Valentino

Amber, Lanny, and Dana. 1987. I was 20. Performance Photo from Pudding Wrestling as performed in the CRCA gallery at University of Texas at Arlington. The curator at the time was Jeff Kelley who wrote an important monograph on Allan Kaprow that has a forward by David Antin. I spoke to Jeff a few years ago, and we both had a few chuckles. He was a little pretentious to me at the time, but I always enjoyed speaking with him. I remember him telling me his son liked my paintings at the time. His wife was a rather famous Chinese painter, but I completely forget her name. I can however remember the work of hers I saw. Dana had an incredibly beautiful laugh. Jeff Kelley was not at all happy with banana pudding and vanilla wafers all over his pretty gallery. haha!

Thursday, April 1, 2010

unidifferent tarience


In Interferometry
In Inference

T as associational node
AL as both all and of
Mud as both prima materia,
and the prima materia's confluence
with the epiphenomenon of thought as mood


all these crimps are subjective, they give mud
a shape, a mood.

The Jews are our alien Masters
sent here by old dirty beatnik fish-gods
like Oannes

who does like

clit pumping

to make a nice
fat brancusi


"branching coosie"

Ancient Brain Fuck,
I worship

your pussy.

Abstraction's Final Denouemont as "Ruggly Boom Tots"

to take this tiny smear of paste
and raise it to the level of Valhalla.

value hollow is not value negative.

conduitry pleases itself to be such
loch ness, Nestor, nest terra

terran est, i lie through your ab-undatease

esteem'd narr eating
extra terrestrials
riled by the deal

the leaden hours
inestimable magics, or dusts

the weird hand
between the lovers

imaginal or other

limpid is the secret wood
in the heart of the ocean

and limpid is the statue of the crying nymph
whose hollow sockets

cry vines
alive with fruit
tossing monkeys

and counter

stay involved with classlessness
o student of the night-storm

discover translation


ambulant gilding

long and flexible green corn stalks
sing silently
like a patch of eyebrau
on the

host's eon

lightning tamed
in a weird basket
and visible

stone tree decorant
with scaled up pollen rooms
hanged man tassle

where the lover's
music the warble'ene


in cornerless

Fairy Pants Used For Curtains in Ogre Town

aesthetic orthodoxies look
like a train of dachshunds
entering the kitchen
as i'm making coffee
in the rain

que pasta
little wiener kaisers
i pull your tongue
like go-kart rip-chord
my telium
is like monopoly top hat
or shaman's digression
at the base of the pole

while the wonder dancers flop
somehow more perfect
than any unknown molecule

but arenaria
is sloping to a fabulous
see of skull fruits

slick like cedar galls
or gargoyle hollow shoulders
whose nesting grounds
shriek with wild roc joys

are greasy

the chandeliers
are GTO cock flex

goat alone in a mountain


feeding the village green

now known

only to ogres

Saving The Tail. Goddisty Beestitch.

the skin inside a shoe
is tied to the murder of all
that is holy, mr. buffy-cat
is back at dribbles
watching paper-helix sirens
inside of vacuum tubes
linking to the beeking
bike-king viking
nicking its shins
on nipples
hard as hovering lamps, now
modulating the vast sweeping
outdoor staircases
leading down into
the telescoping garden
where the pajama people
squirm in pods,
aztec stele suddenly
made of rose hips
jaundiced ice bicycle
replicating along
the twisting pine spine
laced with books and
purple pinecones
like lizard heads
with emerald lip-stick,
the jellybeans
of old Gondwana
are puttis made
of kink-face saffron,
lucky kitten, come into
my warm brain clam
away from the other
alley dwellers,
you are home.