Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Pop Art Medley (Vacation Themed)

mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday

mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday

mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday

sea green wooden painted modernist cabin

swimming pool pyramid
swimming pool ziggurat
swimming pool brain mold pants
lurid lurid aqua

mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday

mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday

mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday
mountain meadow holiday

lounge chair surplice bikini


chlorine divine
and sunshine

sea green
sea green wooden
sea green wooden painted
sea green wooden painted modernist
sea green wooden painted modernist cabin

cabin modernist cabin painted modernist cabin
sea green wooden painted modernist cabin
wooden painted modernist cabin

like pottery

O pine-scented pottery!
heaven! like pottery.

mountain meadow holiday
and pigs rooting truffles
rutting truffles

down on the edge of the valley
in the grove of yellow Mahogany
where Virgil and locusts
are encased in scented wax
and the beefcakes
bow before them...

Dionysus (The Executioner)

the map is slightly comical now as its contours
being almost the same as one's own are highly
integrated into the looking at the map
here the sucking black hole that moves


here the great urn overflowing with luminous
Amphineurons / living dinner plates
that serve and beg / flashing their silver feelers
and scenes like skeins translated through the texts
into spans or gains and in pain or pleasure
or something other are they borne
what is lurking in space that is not space
what is lurking in time that is not mine

here's a scene:

It is Dionysus conducting his mother Semele to Heaven,
preceded by Hermes, Satyrs, and Sileni escorting them
with torches.

and here is another:

It is George Peppard, and having just won a gunfight
at an undisclosed villa in Corfu,  is carrying Joan Collins
away from an empty and sky blue swimming pool whose
depths contain the corpse
of some nameless assailant.

Ahh, scenes. Everflowing in their mythical effervescence,
assemblies of grace to touch. Skins are scenes and translated
into skeins they frame the periplomenon.

All I ever get is a coat thrown over my smile.
How would you like your steak?

I'm sorry.
You should have got out like Rachofsky did, before it was
too late.

[car horns][bazouki music]

Tuesday, July 30, 2013


Memories of Blue Plastic

prude lamentations fall toward
pink ceramic fang boats which make neat arcs
of sea green poison
which dance on the page
in pin-head drips
all narrative is foolish
in a vacuum
but adored

pink nun fetish
some unnamed tree i saw
growing through scenes of Venetian
armadillo limousine
one witch two doored
how do we communicate then since your fetishes
and mine do not coincide
you fiend for kitten capital
while I stare cross-eyed at a leaf
there are no hairbridges here
there are no woven hair telescopes across the valley of nudes
and none of us marry into collective organisms
our women are not chained to their bowls
and made to grow hair
for finely woven bridges
for collective hair shirt prison telescopes

prudes! prisms!
gun shafts! DODGERS!
fresh oranges! flesh ORANGES!
all of it

as a rasping in lapidary time
by the mouth of a jeweled lamprey
remember all those awful symbolists
members of the teleost order Lophiiformes


They are bony fishes
named for their characteristic
mode of predation, wherein a
fleshy illuminated growth
from the poet's head
the esca or illicium
acts as a lure
like the one found angling
and it is to ANGLISH
we are borne in FRINGE
or SHY KNEES painish
for playsure

What did Jeff Koons mean
when he made those SS busts
of the SUNKING?
son of women?
Nazi Aristrocracy?
fountain of man hair mirrors?

Let your negative imagination run wild!
Let man be your ultimate evil!
A fine evil he is! Sturdy!
Rude! Horrible!
An evil fitting of the ages, of the sages!
and trapped on an infinitely tiny dungball
muttering to himself

because our scale
renders gender

absolutely stupid.

pain makes of all flesh

a mollusc

and strong steel bolts
may fly
from the eye of a fly
into the body of an ogre
made from frogs
like Arcimboldo.

Virus is blind typewriter
and author of cell
Welcome to Hell
It's pleasaunt under the sea
of black forrest.
Heaven, really.

Is creativity duress,
or glandular?

Oil on glass.
and deep under the sea.
O dear god please
worship morality, but keep your whip
from me.

I just stayed on as a species of disorder,
and am rooted by my fungal shafts
to the magnetic core, my psychology
is distorted by an immense magnetic liquid
burning red hot
and set in motion
by juggernaut feet
of mineral insanity.

I do not want though, for I fully expect to suffer and die!
I wouldn't have it any other way. WHY?
and I used my illicium cruelly.. (alas..)

for just sitting all day
typing is enough to break
my matchstick back...
so go on attack.
methinx there WISHERE
woodguff initiative

pink snow igloo
which hides
the little red brain turtle
snoring out
blue plastic

Monday, July 29, 2013

My Name is Fringe Grilleparzer.

Milo. Bedenk '! Jason. , it is considered! Who can stay here in the small home, desolate and secluded? A budget of barbarians and what more? I think 'you know me! Danger here is not as in-Verweilen. No more words! Milo. Yet how you will reach there? Jason. Do you see yonder Yawns wide a gap in the aging walls. The sea lends his back to back since and easily achievable 'I's floating. Milo. Hear now! Jason. Farewell! Milo. Let me take you! Jason. Goodbye! (Jumps off a cliff into the sea)

Snow is saintly in its forgery of silence.
The young see through ancient eyes in the snow
and find that old water
like a crust
is erupting everywhere as once
in time
now stiff with wonder, as if all things
were insulated from one another
with miracles.

Noise, thou are mine,
Minne, yet never minimal.
Classical is always pop.
the odd coupling
of mold and brass.

I'm making a Liszt and checking its height.

We're not leveling toads anymore for princes, we're leveling everyone,
for no one, and for no reason.
The G.A.P. has reached the center
and is directing its force.

Before Green Manalishi
there was German Acid
and the moment when the harlequin
rotated through all substance combining
economy and revulsion, its candor rewritten
as the butt of a joke.

Sometimes we wear our hunchbacks as faces, or lack of facial control.

Do not trust the word!
It is an image!
Images cannot be trusted!
Beware the Mark!
I'd never seen an earthwork asterisk before.

Same as it everwas.
Transgression mean lessening the percieved amplitude of difference.
This really pisses people off.
Like Michelin Houlebecq.

On a clear Echinoderm we can see forever:

Setting: The Castle Keep of Hans Grillparzer.


Act I
Gothic Hall. In the background are two doors. On both side walls,
left and right, is also a door. On a backdrop of
Vorgrundes a rusty dagger hanging in its sheath. Late
winter evening. Light on the table.
Count Borotin. Berta.
The Count (sitting at the table and staring at a letter, in which he 
holds both hands). 
Well Well, what must be done! 
traps I see branch 'on branches, 
Hardly holds the rotten trunk. 
Yet another blow, as this also falls 
And in the dust of the oak tree, lies 
the rich blessing of branches 
. spread far around rings 
The centuries saw 
Will, grow and die, 
Will pass away as they, 
no trace will be left; 
What the fathers did, 
how wrestled as aspired 
Hardly had 'fifty years elapse 
is no more grandchildren to know 
That a Borotin lived!
. Berta (at the window)
! A dreadful night, my father
. cold and dark as the grave
Losgerißne winds whining
through the air, the same night ghosts,
snow as far as wearing the eye,
on the hills, in the mountains,
on the trees, on the fields,
like a dead man is the earth
in the winter pall,
And the sky, sternelos,
Staring from empty eye sockets
in the vast grave
black down!
How does it stretch the hours
I wonder what the bell, Berta?
Berta (coming back from the window, and, to the Father, for 
putting work). 
's seven clock has barely beaten.
Seven? And already dark night!
Ah, the year is old,
Less are his days
staring falter its pulse
And it staggers to the grave.
eggs, the lovely Mai, but is
Where the box dresses new,
Where the gentle breezes blow
And the flowers rise from the dead!

bespoke / wittgenstein / crane's fish wheel

I amke make shop now.
Buy my hands from Lechermiills...

Orson Welles in Paris 1960

This is what a Cephalophore really looks like.

Here I come!
Over rivers and trees!
I am the lecher!

Mark it all out!
Mark out every single line
until only the spaces show!
I'm tired and I want to wash my face.

Don't ever quote that Viennese scum to me again, Rofthalschald!

At home in Berlin. I was a carefree design student.

I harvested fungi from caves
in the Liebestrasse

The surface of the earth is a great work of art, and my only friend
in the whole universe.


Thank you for these butt-cheeks, Herr Cloissonne!

I know what sea-horses feel.

Wonderland caused a stylish vex.

Quintuplets were the word when the Red Baron came home
to Texas!

I am addicted to shop-lifting.
OMG, the shame of this.

As a writer, my piano is all of space and time.
Valery is my trade name.

I am still the basic outline of every copy.
And contrary to popular belief, I am not lucrative,
but merely lucrate.

Les Nabis Grillientine Dabple

for JMB (wheezing crack in wall vizier)

confusion corrects
the twin calamari H
they stand using corncob pontoon
video abreast of pillow
lava in the water
the cat's cradle tentaaaahcules our poem
we are the soft surf splashing caught
in a fotograph and hung up
like a gazelle [CAUSTOFAUSALITY
even dead its contours attract
the eye

its volcano
has bangs


Kant versus

color like
an ornamental
stew wing

crimson echidna pants
will hide the bulldog prognathites
from the liliferous venour
of a toad white ham