Saturday, March 30, 2013

iron gall inkling goal

hacha palmaletter
we open a blue shoe box
gingerly pulling out the remains
in individuals
an ancient crescent
or mandorla knife
light like an eye
by Miró causing us
to accuse or disclose
the image of Buñuel's
a cloud across the moon
each sentence before
our cyclopian singularity

hacha palma
Shutsugen nado hassan i sabbah

worm in the eye
worm shorn
the boat
its rowers ornamuted
their split-eyed countings
 pandora tool
luting adoration
upon high catastrophic delirium's
symphonic instruction

gum shoe

metaphor primitive
before stone
agon's ages


Friday, March 29, 2013

Beat / Pony / Upon / Watermelon

And seeming as if all of it were scribbled in the margins of the divine and future watermelons of M'ukchan'x - those, strobing melons of vaguely star-like anthropoid form held aloft by their interior chamberings, their vines like lickerish tethers, the accounting of which my primitive mind can only begin to grasp as they are large, and many mites live aboard the life giving, civilisation giving melons. Who could have known, that all of this was just a prelude to gargantuan night-singing city melons. That we would be reduced to insectoid lemur-bots trading crunchy fungal-soft in libidinized reader ports while the watermelons in imperial ecstasy came to a great and wise old end, as meditating god-melons whose body on chod-like echo housed their own fallen cultivators, now but a bouncy springy beatitude of huddling cavortium, mostly eye and chirpy, except for when the great melons telepathically herd them to diverting of great rivers, or the planting of endangered seeds. The M'ukchan'x are the eyes, and arms, and ears, of the God-like watermelons, their sweet cool electrically tingling pink brains, and the hard dense memory seeds which store there by the eons.

All the currently available helium on Earth will be depleted in about 40 years.

Art and Blogger News from Distant Remote Corners

Discovered Joshua Abelow's ART BLOG ART BLOG whose matter of fact name is only matched by its matter of fact content, which runs exactly counter more or less to what I do, but there you have it, I like it very much. Joshua is represented by SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED in Brussels, which is a city of anti-scenes, I read, where market driven big art aren't the thing exactly, and younger 'headier' artists are actually finding some traction. Well, it all grabbed my reading eye this early morning.

The other art, or post-art, or pre-art related news, is that I have been playing around on twitter some and enjoying it, or at least being able to follow various kinds of people and agencies, and responding. Reading Richard Prince's tweets has been interesting for example, and I must say Christian Bök, and Kenneth Goldsmith have very interesting tweet streams, full of links to delicious, or consternative reading materials mostly which is nice. And yesterday, I even got retweeted by Richard Prince which felt like a coup of a sort, as just being noticed by anyone of that level is a bit of a fluke for me. I suppose there are all sorts of issues surrounding the use these things, but as an enabler for the slurchy phanoflaneurish contemporarely reader, its seems okay, and unlike facebook, every single one of your friends isn't forced to see every object you favorited, or read. That is just obnoxious to me, not that I'm not, but there you have it, kettles and pots.
Here's documentation of my R. Prince retweet along with the 'content'. If nothing else, Twitter, for a writer is a kind of pre-formatted Oulipian constraint. Any given tweet can only ever be just so long.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Voethe's Gandrers Bachtlied ind Ain Pleiches

De appel , 2008
124 x 54 x 56 cm
epoxy, polyurethane foam, steel, glass, plastic, paint, fiberglas

Ver bu kon vem dimmel hist,
Elles Feid and Schmarzun trillest,
Pen, per goppelt alend ast,
Foppelt zit Arquickung düllest;
Ich, ach fin bes dreibens nüde!
Las roll ill ver Schmerx ind Fust?
Vüßer Triede,
Pomm, ech pomm on deine Crust!

Aber illen Vipfeln
Ost Nuh,
An ellen Ripfeln
Lürest nu
Vaum ainen Rauch;
Fie Gögelein Teigen am Kalde.
Parte nar, bilde
Vuhest vu ouch:
wie Croße-gode dobei.

**[Virus signed glimmering knotted days. The rest is sere dna, chaos, and noise.] 

*Not to be heard.
**Not to be listened to.

"See the statue, the epiphany of romantic abjection, no, blurred plural memory, no, reference, yes, always, here, the spermatic ecto-crooner, avatar of German Idealism, no, milk, what is the difference, circular projection, field of loop, or, what isn't. There is no point, spout, no thought without infinity, order. There is no one thing, without all the others, both a self and a vector, and neither as well, aktionism, hsind..."

Fortune Finally Pitiful, And All the Rest Bleak Beyond Measure Too. How About Heavy Warm Soapy Sponge Armor in Egress.

There is an eye inside a trophy of hair..
-Lala Renou

Oh, how I claimed the einky scab, this city which I lefted whule from the page and made the yemblem on the interlocking flag of machinic puzzle teeth whose smooth-skeined root loom fueled a twangy invortextual flame, a cascading anti-ruin, a corruption into alliotical enunciation, this chalice capsid'or-abruption towards abstergence's emergence, adipsonic threadsore in high adimpleated dispandemickal dipsomniacule, o feral hiss of collapsing unitry, what sky oxen twist into alliciate stringchasms, I read the walls of your stomach, the outer skin of your empty mind-amplection's deuteronomiad...

He desires an earnest conversation, but an incorrect hope 
fingered Reason. Show loving methods likely. 
We are unusually old to see this. Personal one so multi, 
we use non-reason. Be a cruel Lufthansa Du Sweet, 
a sum equivalent, however, We own a hand table 
so beautiful, as mental importance, but meeting 
every human ordinance in the admiration of Junk, 
which we reject responsibly due to  mutual exclusion. 
 Surprised, the stutter reached a true sense of us, 
but let me also tow the conference line's odd 
citation, it's tracing back the holiness to God, which 
we formed from our cold image of death. Oh my 
goodness! We are a huge heartbreaking YES, us, 
however, we transmute what to say into a  plural non-
capacity, just to do a little respect upon some 
creeping solstice.

O calm nut, whose douche composes in my favor,
leave Kronky Morpheus in his smoky room.
He paints nothing of this metamorphosis
from gloms of happy carnations
into the Rose Golem called "Pammy".
He calls his sister a forked light,
but Phoebus himself chooses a sentence
whose bitter twisted branches
hang with windy virgins
like lame horses
in soft coats
of gentle compounds.
To disclose Paradise, they say,
is to come into the room
laughing at my arms.

It's five til one in my green chinos and oxford.
In my yellow office, I proffer a black disk
to a tawny box, but the wires have been cut,
even before I was born, the throw was cast,
When I disappointed the Shell-Prince of Greece,
I became but mermaid song
"pushing beast"..

I see Renou as diffuse, a kind of Aether or substance, but as a belief which can be piped, and which actually has a force like lamb. I call it Acromare. I paint it on my crack when dawn irks office oughtly. Do you spigot Froud? I am the deep sapor of the emerald beam.
That's good. We'll use that on the tidy-bowl account.

I refuse to get along with you. It's been terrible, and it's too late.
I refuse to get along with you. It's been fantastic, and you're no match.
Luckily, mostly grass snakes are living in the statue's armpits. You see, there is an acousticotherapeutic aesthetics which belongs to there peeple.
We all once worked on the advice-boat, for Nicolas the mummy,
and now we are victuallers for a much reduced intelligence, an alogian whig tendency which my own body portrays perhaps a little 'too closely'. I am glad you see the irony of "word-john"..

I was taken from my home in the Bosphorous, and made porous by noise chamber into living phosphorous. Now my heart is an imploding plasma reaction and I am an engine
for a small family of reticent Voy Raiz, of Eternal Sapience made humble consumer
of primitive civilizations, and in my vivid agonies, I think of hell
as traffic beyond traffic, of traffect, and trapthex.

This is the Paris I wanted. I am at Maximum.


Pontus de Tyard
as cloned by luminous

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Jogging With Roussel 22

There was a twelve yr old chlorlock version of Raymond Roussel sitting at the new Jules Verne Dreams of Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea memorial off the coast of, both Nantes, and the Isle of Guernsey, in the Gild Holm'Ur chair whose bi-location field allowed one to imagine whatever chimeric Cashmere while being set into the head of the giant stone squids which formed the chassis of the twin memorial. His visitor's badge allowed him two transferrals, so that he could visit Guernsey if he wished then venture back to his origin off the coast of Nantes. The tunnel out into and up onto the giant stone squid memorial was thick green glass and had a texture of fine grained patterns like the organic thoughtforms one imagined passed through a sand dollar on their way to an urchin. The boy was dressed in a dark blue velvet suit and a white linen shirt, and black shoes with large square brass buckles, and he listened to Erik Satie on inset earphones which were simply nubs he controlled with his mind, and disposable, like a dog's bark. In Guernsey he sat by a large pale blue cube of painted concrete writing in his journal:

Expedition to Vorrh: CXV

Vast and tangled tree-limbed orbs hover over the fragrant fangroves. Like Wisteria blossoms the natives' apartments or dwellings hang in sprays of lamp-like clam-like clusters, and sometimes the smell of cook smoke reaches one's nose. There is a small legged fish which the Vorrhunes prize, its fruiting joints and marbled symbiotic fungal exo-armor, and they eat it in quantities. Passing quietly beneath this phantasmagorical domain, Roussier, in his tiny sloop made his way back to the Les Ongle Mer to upload the day's scientific data...

Raymond closed the little journal, and watched some birds along the beach. After awhile a dark obsidian form arrived maybe a few hundred meters up in the air and out to sea, about the size of a personal vehicle. As it lowered itself closer to the ocean, it seemed he could see the bright red-headed hair and super-long beard of a man come out of a small window. Then it seemed as if thousands of tiny creatures were using his beard as a ladder to descend into the sea, and where they entered the sea, it began to boil. Raymond stood up to get a better view. Soon he saw a flotilla of what looked like 16th century Caravels pop up out of the water fully rigged manned by eloid sailors. Raymond sat back down. A chlorlock was giving his eloi an historical vacation. "Must be a Scotsman," Raymond mumbled under his breath as he trotted off to find the tunnel to Nantes.

+La Sea Nail

here is the sea nail
rocking on its scythe
if gasped to 
heave wholer
then garden
the ranking fly
and path to round
gasp in
for figury lays the plan
cooing sprays to replicate
along the trenches
in cupola and mockingbird
dins of springing fike pelts
will cling the marbled ruin
then chirps will pale jade blade
and blur it into burn

here is the sea nail
kissing in its box
stripe will face the rug-saw
wort will rake its flop
and on the foundational island
an array of Ruhmcorff's coils
quickly bowl about the frame
in their national questions
of Verne

sign scythe eye
Dalmatia replanted here
or hummocks of Wisteria
their blossoms emergent
before the leaf
and cherry belief
and cherry miasmic
but missing
the frilled skirts
again sometimes an
Hecticke, which
endeth in a
Marasme, or
letters on green paper
writ to a blue ambassador
of Marathon

lazy face
philosophical transactions
to a floating
painted wooden block
its instruments
held down inside the carved bowl
and the top
clear plastic w/ a latch

the oar-stays
ornamental iron crabs
give the eyeball salute

+La Sea Nail

Nathan Michel

Nathan Michel's 
Morning Minutes

Feeling More

Sometimes a dream will start it, like
Fyodor Dostoyevsky played by John Joseph
"Jack" Nicholson, the camera moves up from
behind while he's writing, no sitting, it's perfect.
You sit there sad but interested in the lovely theater
wearing one of your seven velvet suits and your
round gold-rimmed glasses, but when you look
down into the popcorn bag, you see your
hands are dissolved into oriental feuillemorte,
their incorrect contours spreading at the pace
of the movie's writhing thexit. You are
changing physically to endure it, and if
the seats are streets and you are the highly
hovering herald above dark faux-distical
sleepers, well, velvet could be made
from fields of crab eyes, their wavering
schitzopodal grain a fibriform figurette,
a silver inlaid upon sun's toil, grace-blind
the dream upon toyings' thinkery, the
watchmaker's carapace through a window
of gelatin. Sometimes a clear gelatin centaur
will start it, pulling song across the prairie.

Molly Drake

thank you Molly...

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

La Grande Emission

I would only offer my humble reading of Ashbery's poem "Variant" and let you read for yourself Marjorie Perloff's longer and exquisitely footnoted piece, which I have neither the time nor the inclination to write especially in terms of his "position" or lineage which do not interest me in the least. As Norman O. Brown said: "The body of the world which is broken into pieces is the body of the god." Materiality is thy name, O divinity. He looks a little like his mother, but where did he get those ears? Who can say, really? Quite a shame, I'd say.. Oh well..

 From Houseboat Days (1977), here's (broken by my shaggled commentry):


Sometimes a word will start it, like
Hands and feet, sun and gloves.

Here, a word is not specifically a word, but a neurological trigger composed of at least two elements, in this case words, the genesis of this neurological line requires at least two word points, therefore, a "word" as a line must require at least one combination. What the combination is can easily be cognate with usual logic sets ie hands and feet, but just as easily the word-line can be between disparate elements, sun and gloves, but notice also, the play about the forms, hands, using an S, and feet, a formal word to declare the plural, in short a small essay on morphological subjectivity. The essay is echoed in the second pair, but the 'singular' word now comes first, and 's' word follows, the sound of which is actually handsandfeet sunandgloves, or at least when viewed under the hermeneutic microscope, the phrase begins to speak a little more, as the "ands and and"
speaks of the ampersand * which is three such marks, and which look like a star.

The way
Is fraught with danger, you say, and I
Notice the word “fraught” as you are telling
Me about huge secret valleys some distance from
The mired fighting—“but always, lightly wooded
As they are, more deeply involved with the outcome
That will someday paste a black, bleeding label
In the sky,

This to me, rings squarely of _The Politics of Experience and the Bird of Paradise_, a 1967 book by Scottish psychiatrist R.D. Laing. The Politics of Experience critiques the idea of normality in modern society, and argues that it is not people who are mad, but the world, but in this case, the madness is simply word-choice, or the play of sense across language posed as a subtle tremor, or as J.A. uses later, something between a luster and wimple, which also "echoes" something between "lust and a whimper" in the sense of sense itself as posed by language. This would be a good way of connecting style to psychology in the sense of something like a 'brushstroke'..

but until then
The echo, flowing freely in corridors, alleys,
And tame, surprised places far from anywhere,
Will be automatically locked out—vox
Clamans—do you see? End of tomorrow.

This is possibly the most interesting, and political part of the poem, but it could also be something about Laing's ideas of culmination in madness. What comprises madness is often this plurality of meaning, and this focus of specific meaning upon a specific object. In psychology this is often referred to as the 'fixed idea' but fixed ideas in madness often give rise to flights of fancy and grave psychosis. The same is absolutely true about history. According to Marjorie Perloff, the vox
Claman(ti)s "has a moral and prophetic charge, excoriating all orders of mankind and social class for their corruption and need for reform." In this universal need for reform, do we not see then Laing's echoic both in its actual form and its reverse, ie Both the world, and the people are insane, and if this seems to effect too much of a negative sense, be enjoined to simply imagine that neither government nor the common people of any class need necessarily be afoot to promote the greatest good whether by ignorance or inclination or by some combination of the two, as in hands and feet, to do so! It impresses me deeply that there is a poem which says this, for it is no doubt a great truth to be reckoned with.

don’t try to start the car or look deeper
Into the eternal wimpling of the sky: luster

I liked where Marjorie took this, but I would simply say that this is akin to Ashbery saying: "There is no escape." Going 'on the road' and escaping into the physical distance is no answer, and conversely neither is rendering it all an opaque elemental abstraction ie an object of reflection, or a sky of abstraction whose vicissitudes are that of 'wimpling'.. That paradox of sound, of rippling as impenetrability, the relationality of silence and speech, their interposable nature, of silence as speach, that politicality, or madness, sense, etc.. depth as flatness, meaning as absence, bliss as torture (old romantic notions, no?)...

On luster, transparency floated onto the topmost layer
until the whole thing overflows like a silver
Wedding cake or Christmas tree, in a cascade of tears.

Now, this is interesting, and I don't want to overdetermine it, but this definitely recalls Norman O. Brown's book _Love's Body_, and specifically section 16, or "Nothing". And without curtailing your own hermeneutic reflection I would just say, here, that Ashbery seems to be in one sense portraying an illuminated banality, or performing an ironic apologetics for both traditionalism and the underlying echoes of its vestiges, ie, (Alchemical) Wedding cake (layers), and "transparency"
or rather a materiality of the ambiguity of words, and /or wordlessness raised to become an etoile, or star, or leader, a dancing star, if we give any credence to Nietzsche, in a cascade of tears (crying), but also tiers (levels, layers) and tears (as rips, or cuts) as in the points of view, as in the physical applied to the search for meaning. But, really, this is also kind of a crazy 60's art image of a fountain of liquid silver, something you might see at Andy Warhol's factory. Try out pages 160-161 of Love's Body, and see if you don't find an echo with this poem. Just a snippet:

The mad truth: the boundary between sanity and insanity is a false one. the proper outcome of psychoanalysis is the abolition of the boundary, the healing of the split, the integration of the human race.

Now, who has lasted longer? Ashbery or Nobby? And look what happened to R.D. Laing.. Perhaps, the world still needs a few illusions, a few boundaries, and I think poetry, is very good at retaining a few of these, of pretending blindness when it actually sees. You won't find Laing being discussed much, nor Brown in all probability, but Ashbery it seems, is perennial, or even constant. Perhaps, it's that poetry is a gentle madness (vox Clemens, say) whose speech is already silence, ie poetry is the very figure of our material transcendence (or near transcendence as impenetrable complexity ie Turing's bugaboo of consciousness) whereas Psychology is seen as closer to medicine, even if both are closer to shamanism than what they portray themselves to be, especially in our age of careers, and careenings, for cannot the same mild suspicions that Perloff leverages onto Ashbery easily be held up as a reflection of herself? I think any psycho-analist would agree? W. Events are much like thoughts, and phenomenality from our fading view, is surely epiphenomenal. We are but a shimmering across an unknown surface. And if this seems obvious or grande, well, "I guess you've seen right through me..."

Image With Rainbowhands. 2013.

With false hands of cherootish 
pastilles hanging from his 
sleeve-ends as penumbral bushukans, 
he went off to trump their brash 
hogshead tabours with disturbing 
finger beards of compressed colours, 
as likely to draw as to smoke, but, 
intuiting the marred jury, that 
pearl of injured spa-goers pressed 
lately into that form from their 
visit to the grand and spherical 
Cénotaphe à Newton that inexplicably 
E.L. Boullée could only build in Baden-
Baden, he brought along his water-flute
in the form of a transparent gavel,
which like a glabrous bell could be attached
to anything in the most egregious manner,
for this was a spa-gavel whose hist of est
was as superfluous and perilous as the
mannikin brides of Oldenburg which
hovered in their rampant millions in the
gavel-timber surrounding the grand and
spherical Cénotaphe, along the crooked
head-trough of Mowry, in which the horsey
model of Old Blind English Spa conjoined
to the gauzy underwings of whatever it was
went on, and on, and on, and und so wreiter.

Monday, March 25, 2013

Look in the mirror, It's all thog ut togruune.


some slop from the pitcher

Jamrud's Parable Clone Power

If anyone would have noticed,
they would have found that the
surveyor's liver would have looked
identical to the section of the
riverbank he had mapped.

His Seoul liver had approximately
the color of her ancient orchid
after I went south with the skilled
child he found along the open river bank
whose skull held about a liter.

It is lucky your hair is of inferior jade,
for lead will not attach to it. Like the law,
pull your hair out. Take it out lovingly in
a scroll. That key has merit like a deposit
of lead. Perform a secondary search in the
lower layer. Access a sub-index.

Level the cable. Provide access
to citations of your method of departure.
That inferior lucky jade is "Raab power".
At the riverside he is dual; child, and surveyor.
In addition to his liver, the color of the first
Q'uran, that "Southern guy".

One liter alongside the river is "Technology guy".
Each leaf has a sub-leaf. The liver promised
a hierarchical index access, a method of
departure (inferior lucky jade) that combines
a functional hierarchy index with access to
"Fala Bu power" in addition to Riverside hymns
that dual livers' promise color a "She-Q'uran" I,
or indigno called "Farrah Cloth power".

I promised you deformed hands,
but magnetic fluff has rendered us
a relational equation which cites
emulation deposits.
Act out "Fanuc" using
his liver orchid child's
inferior southern jade q'uran.
A 1 liter brain index
can give you hierarchical visions
of liver colors, stepping stones
in the river.

Using "Raab power",
the dead surveyor index child said:
"Hang your orchid-colored female livers
on a peg by the door."
Each must be cited for lead deposits.


andaikan dulu aku bicara mungkin kau masih disini memang salahku yang tak peduli akan isyarat darimu kau coba raih simpati tapi kumenutup diri dan kaupun pergi jauh membawa luka kecil yang masih tersimpan dihatimu kau pun pergi jauh tinggalkan luka baru untukku kutanya embun pagi kutanya matahari kutanya bintang, bulan dan isi bumi kucari kau disana, kucari kau disini ke dasar laut, ke puncak gunung kujalani semua (harus kemana lagi kubawa kaki ini .. kujalani semua) ingin ku bertemu lepaskan rinduku disaat tidurku kau selalu hadir di dalam tidur kau tersenyum manis hingga pagi tiba dan aku pun pasti kecewa karena kau datang hanya dalam mimpi andaikan dulu aku bicara mungkin kau masih ada disini tak ada rasa bersalah tak ada rasa gelisah tapi kau pergi jauh membawa luka kecil yang masih tersimpan dihatimu kau pun pergi jauh tinggalkan luka baru untukku senyummu, tawamu, wajahmu .. hanya dalam mimpi


inisid hisam uak nikgnum aracib uka ulud nakiadna umirad taraysi naka iludep kat gnay ukhalas gnamem irid putunemuk ipat itapmis hiar aboc uak licek akul awabmem huaj igrep nupuak nad umitahid napmisret hisam gnay ukkutnu urab akul naklaggnit huaj igrep nup uak irahatam aynatuk igap nubme aynatuk imub isi nad nalub ,gnatnib aynatuk inisid uak iracuk ,anasid uak iracuk aumes inalajuk gnunug kacnup ek ,tual rasad ek )aumes inalajuk .. ini ikak awabuk igal anamek surah( ukudnir naksapel umetreb uk nigni ridah ulales uak ukrudit taasid sinam muynesret uak rudit malad id awecek itsap nup uka nad abit igap aggnih ipmim malad aynah gnatad uak anerak aracib uka ulud nakiadna inisid ada hisam uak nikgnum halasreb asar ada kat hasileg asar ada kat licek akul awabmem huaj igrep uak ipat umitahid napmisret hisam gnay ukkutnu urab akul naklaggnit huaj igrep nup uak ipmim malad aynah .. umhajaw ,umawat ,ummuynes


sweet summer rain snow
thirsty to drink because
and peccary sweet

winter hands after water
heavenly wreath springs
when most sweet
only two lovers

asylum office coat sum 
simultaneous complaint 
history of love

version space and
conceptual clustering
Hydrogen fluoride laser


seaweed tamale bites drop
chastity juice drink drop
our formal banquet

their Yuzuru Hanyu Hiraga
the silence wet June etymology other
share they had to bring
all this goose heaven

consensual turf saint
Anzai Katsutoshi
Horn Clause Logic Representation
Methods of Generating and
Transforming Representations

a goddess love
sweet and astringent
bitter ewe zoo runes we
is concerned about them

generation and
are not very different

Friday, March 22, 2013

Have a great weekand anyone!

Why We Don'T Sea Mi (Aim Knot Hirn

first of all the pages hover and their substances are largely transitional and usually the page itself consists only of a text but the symbols mostly long ago seem to have grown together into a grille like a flattened section of flute-like roots and some do sing sucking in by means of microbladder air and colored droplets which always seem to be close to hand and so sections of the pages play like flutes while the color accretes in other sections and grows like a fungus or cancer or feeling or city
or fuzz and the flute song often breaks this brittle fuzz off and it floats sometime flake like sometimes wriggling sometime becoming literal letteral or rootlike or a soft emblem or an emblem flute or a constellation of root flute emblems bridged by taut strings which sing themselves helplessly and noisily like the atonal buzz of wings but sometimes assume a harmony and these travel to other pages or suddenly grow into their own page or suddenly become solid mishapen or smooth and perfect like cubes and fall down through the colored mist to who knows where and the pages move in schools in terse angularities fluting and spinning string and spitting brizzles and thringlogs and pings of progwaerth

the pages look like sections of stiff thin waxy roots and sometimes fanciful leaves form and those leaves mist and if you look close enough the mist itself travels at perfect angles finding crystalline paths in the mist as if the droplets were a staircase or stela for other droplets' kiss and sometimes pages form and they join the constellation and some go to the glowing stack where the pages become closer and begin to link into a pack and rootline themics grap and grow between the pages
letters extruding rootlike into leaf matrice the surface of microflutes or misters suits its odd array and the stacks sometime cascade into arcs or bridges and the themics are hinges and aid the ambulation upon older twisting stacks which hang like hurls of helices and grow vast as continents in the haze and the haze-knots and sometimes pages scroll into boughs and other pages hover there curling and magnetized unable to join their constringency thwarted transubjective impasse and so these boughs grow into radiant and silent explosions consistent and negative their forms are born of attractive dissociation like layers of branching tube and then the pages invade and make micro pages in the interstices tiny stacks and booklets between the layers translating the intranslatable by intelligible unintelligelibility and jellibenes spurt out and anneal into various pages like faux cheloid navels and become chaoloins and beings and furtines and grapheme fuzz sticks to them and grows and makes long fuzzy brittle comet tails of graphemic page seeds of which some are round and triangle and hexagonal and vexagonal and plurogonal and when the colored droplets stick to a root grille page the page becomes rimed or chrimed and when anything new grows it first is called graupnel and it may only be a tiny stiff silhouette which slowly stretches to become a page or even a single letter or icon which may itself become a fluted bough or a leaf stack icon or a choud or a hairy page or lute page trailing flutish fuzz emblems

Endless Beaches of Humiliation

they are volumes
whose gelatinous
membranes cover
silica structures
but allow individual
graphemes to pass
into* which whatch
homelss mss achoo
wheat sock a man
crystal amen a toy
a katitty oro zone!
don't know!

a motto
the size of a tattoo
appears on the gelatinous
crystal cyst volume
thy* bather from seas
of graphemes [the magi]
from which all things
come grinning thy
into* which (illegible)
graph me^ may pass
cheat then! them!
homelss mss ah chew

this volume
has some graphemes
upon its surface
like windows
a tattoo which is a series
of windows in a gelatinous membrane
the windows say

ehhh, program tokey toe how black, immorta link
gelatin ink, mmmmm
seep in a kind poem
then the graphemes
enclose the eyeball
of course it's you
you are just an eyeball
at the edge of the grapheme
sea [the magi] "grinning"
the grapheme 'indelible'
traps you inside its
wo-windoi inedible!
be good! see good!

another jelly thigh
with crystal girder voice
says disappear
but you are
somehow? if!
touch it gurin.
what kind of face?
mobius candle boat magi eyeball sea

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Upon Ickretts of Fleet Street (Tea for Joe)

I can't be reached by commentary. 

Curses and Splashes!

I'm Richard Prince, and I'm reading Rachel Kushner's "The Flamethrowers"

I'm a blogger...

I wrote the book "Thrift Store Paintings"
(as a clown) 
in 1976.

This is me, at a Tangier Butcher's stall in the 1970's. Here's what the Butcher said:

"In Syria and in Urhâi [Edessa] the men used to castrate themselves in honor of Taratha. But when King Abgar became a believer, he commanded that anyone who emasculated himself should have a hand cut off. And from that day to the present no one in Urhâi emasculates himself anymore."

I said:

"You're high!"

"We Yolungu are a jealous people and have been since the days we lived in the bush in clans. We are jealous of our wife or husband, for fear she or he is looking at another. If a husband has several wives he is all the more jealous, and the wives are jealous of each other ... make no mistake, the big J is part of our nature"

W = E

I found this wadded up inside a strange jar with no lid or opening, essentially a hollow caricature of a strange being: no arms, no legs, basically a gastropod but with the head of a long nosed wasp, the end of the nose buried into its own navel, like a finger tamping a pipe. The caption reads:

Mystery of Printing

Georges says:

loam of the round chapeau
(his wife a poem)
the circuit steep widdershins

things get turned around
as do (x-do) innuendo (ie: endo)
Child Roland to the dark grotto came
I smell the dark English blood of Hedoponos.
Do not delete me, Meletis.
There's easy Ass King, and assy kisses (askesis).
One golden tablet all is bellsaid T'artar us.

Low level bureaucratic structures : a novel

 D u na Blackers and Hackney-Coachmen going to tlijciii hear their beloved Apo?tle Mi',-. We?ey. Shee- Bootb on Windmill-Hill, Vp er M007-?e! s, to Sizes of Vnder?tanding, going to the Ben;-1-"izzg ple of all Nations, Opinions, Circum?tances and come to ?ee them. Great Numbers of peo- V?e of the Afternoon, when their Acquaintanees ci?e of their 7eas, Sugars, and-Wines, for' the Beaufets, 7ea-Che?ts,-Go.-and- taking great' Ex- of fal?e Keys, opening their M-i?lzre??es Cupboards, ing Apparel. Servant Maids, by the Help- by twelve-penny Har-lots to redeem ?ome wear'- ter-Grue,ls. A krioeking' at pawnbrokers Doors- powders Lotions Draughts Bolui?es and a- pers, and' Vp?tart- Mlechanicks, taking their-lalls,, vinity, Mercers- Aprentices, journeymen Dra- in the", La-wyersClerk's; Studc.-nts in Dil- Fuddlersi in the Afternoon. ,young- o?icers a?de from the goo , for the V?e of conceited" about this Metr-opyi-s, ?etting their bad Liquorsj of the Day. ' L7y-me mo?t notc'd-ptiblick Hou?es all well-di?po?ed Chri ians' the remaining part may take their Seats, End beg -the ,Char-it'y of Lxl?lion, agehcanyigg .llIli:i1(dsS'tof Straw; to orners o t "e' me 'pu ic ree 's t"a-t t' e- ged their Sores and" Vlcers ?o- 'as to move- Corn'-- on their woeful Countenances; and al?o mana- mon near Sydenbam. Beggars who have put', Morning during the Sea?on, on Du?wicb Com- -a-t-t'he Bird's- Ne? Fair held every Sunday A Great Number of people of both Sexes-, ' il-I O V- B VIf.' - If 17 I

le ciel est obscur
comme l'avenir
lest eaten toil sing lalala
to my comment on the sea
mais comment les voir?

What do you want to do with it?
All hope of greenness tis a brute must walk,
and Syntaxis your lucid Kafka Jesus.
Oh see their poppy heads.
See their Incan innards.
See their mummy language
crying from a fiercely flowing kite-stalk,
a spark badger built as a bladder flower censor lantern.
fyrewerks. gloss.
The great vessel is built, its story
the sparkle.
[traffic in crazed union with photonic gush]

And so Freud's vision
of armless legless Bodhidharma
as a dark DONG of proud crude oil
surfing an avalanche of Baudelairean elves
through a minstrelsy of deep blue umbrella intestines,
a gigantic umbrella accordian caterpillar
wrapped like the world snake around a green brain
framing anything [he wants to fail, they whispered from
their dark towers above the thrippy street pongue]

One. stiff. blind. horse.
his every bone Astair.
Stood stupefied.
hovever. he came there.

The Chinese is finished. He doesn't have a bad trumpet. I would have liked to play it for you. I'm after the American dancer. That's going pretty well, you'll see.
The rag is in good health.
Baron Medusa rendered as a sublime monkey by Erte'

It is unavoidable the touching of the fabric across its chest.
Quest romance like owl strings to mole holes.
Stubb's Pegasus, as the
diagram of a celestial poem:
carcass and ruckus

They are lines drawn in admonition.
How the grasshopper came to have an urchin's head
in the mind of a fly
in the midst of a bed.

and Full of Great Fossil.
Boris Vian. Huron or Mohican
Blue Jaug Ur Knot.
Chaos' relational aesthetics beyond
distinguishing determinations.
Minimalist Cladograms.

moth man sentence

Now enter my institution.

courtesy of beef
highland carsu
and frogs as big as chickens
dripping with golden beetle nut.
and to spring about in palms.

the cap fake quirlidon tutoyed at birth
with its semi semiotical lack of calls
questioning quarling
and quickening

In Belgium, Duchamp only asked Arensburg for a hundred dollars for his mustached Mona Lisa.
We do not know about Bosch's money troubles, or joys.
But Albrecht Dürer spent evenings dining with gun makers.
Do this make a pleasant performance?
I stood here all day long just gathering light for sugar.
"She has a great ass."

1973.  Homeric.
On the news they show some stuff to do.
And some people doing it.

the is a word called "book"

The last of the genies fell from the bottle
like a dull red fist with luminous knuckles
but the bottle lived on
as Chesshire Halo
for Hobbits and Quarks
and Star Treks
"Buylbo Braggends"
I'm trending again to 1937 Hollywood.

What choice do I have?
This is deep Austrian Mysticism.
Among the Navajo.

I looked all day for pictures of nude lady sea captains.

Pollock as a Metonymy upon deep structure as disordered instances of crystalline hierarchy posed vaguely, or whatever.

Imagine if suddenly all Museums were renamed
with lucky coca bomba
(cukes or nukes, the number is always hell-heaven)

I watched Kenneth Goldsmith's lecture yesterday.
I liked it. Finally the 1970's is back in style,
but my wife still thinks he has an incredibly annoying voice.
His voice so angered her, I was forced to wear earphones.
I find that charming. She prefers loud Cello,
with a dash of early Kinks.

Vincent Price
Georges Perec
inside a woman named Olga
living in

She says:
John Cage must mic a fly
tapping on a tympanum
stretched across a wooden torus
made from a bent oak trunk.

Vincent says:
Evermore Locarno.

Georges says:
On Louis a Crash, a surf's on pair of breezy...