Monday, November 4, 2013

A Touchy Feely Doggerel That Fell For Dreck

I am alone as the last and able critic of the word. In my skin, hobbled pigeons try to fly, the word 'libido' dissected by a hunchbanked monty. There is much in heaven and earth, and there is little, lies and dyes be damned. 

 "In high school, my classmates hated me. They hated people in the margins, such as Vigo, son of the anarchist Almereyda, or Pierre Merle, son of Eugène Merle, director of [satirical weekly] Merle Blanc ("White Blackbird"). Me, I was the son of a Boche ("Kraut)", that pain leaf who had fought for Sarrail, solitary and unique republican general, and who had relieved [general] Nivelle of his duties to replace him with Pétain". He finished high school well apart "from these poor, unhappy ones who were like tradesmen in their trade". Among the few friends he made in his adolescence are future film critic Georges Altman, writer and precious stones specialist Armand Moss (Moschowitz), who later appeared as an extra in Mathusalem, and others.
There is a collection of brass / galalith jewelry associated with his films.
Vanessa Red Grave Place.

I've stuck to my guns. It's stuck to my gumbs.
Imagine an eloquent writing like bamboo grass, a non-western renaissance.
translating anything into anything
just to show you can.
Vanessa Red Admiral Brush-Footed Palaces.

I know why the helix cage sings.
Its dreck and doggerel hangs flaming in the air.
Its bugbeast mandible has grown legs of shame and stone,
and wings and winds of bone and bon mot tomes must
stewm veer. 
Vanessa Blue Cube Please.
Save your four-door libido
for a street bush (buch).
I'm German (living in Malta)
with an amputated foot.
with winsome string gallows
I take the vibrating poison urn
to the sky in my limping glowworm armors
which waft like smoke.
I am the single most significant critic
of all time.

Kiss a spider.
or build a robot spider the same weight as the Eiffel Tower.
or seem to be.
A hobble pigeon
in the films of 
Jean Painlevé.

I will teach you anarchy by example, teacher:
I crumple a dried leaf. 
Its sound resembles the iridescent oil
on the surface of my coffee.
I have just put a strong fish oil
into the kibble of my rare
and mutant dog.
This is anarchy.

This pigeon's head like an oboe holding a monkey,
like a monkey holding a chain, like a vast
and commingling history of turds, gems, 
casts of symbolic armatures,
and the violent murder of Bataille,
the creature who disturbed the sewers
by wearing Renaissance costumes,
wafting armors
of transparent bathtub smoke.
Vanessa Heraclitus Otherworlds.

Here is the critic.
Here is the writer.
Here, a plant.

Here is the critic.
Here is the writer.
Here, a plant.
Here is the photographer of happy animlas.
Pardon me.

Forgive me, but there is no reason to openly disparage you, though I often choose to do so.

The torso is held aloft on elegant jets of blood
which issue from the wheel and knee holes.
Sick Motorcycle.
Genuine Squab.
Vanessa (Job).
En Rapide.
"Salty liquid"

Translation will enanct
a subtle and all defining criticism
which transcends its own origins.
This pure and transcendent criticism
is simply a cracker
to the semiotics genius,
whose cheese long outstripped 
the sicence of cock and balls.

(limited odition print)

There's not much I can do for you.
Nobody's paying attention to me, and nobody cares about you.
We're both strangers in a strange land.
Good thing this novel is about fitness.

Ideology and Monkeys.
Sort of a stupid way to spend a life.
But the only way to start a party!

Many of these directed cultures
empl(o)y the same devices.
Luckkilly, I'm an amputated pigeon.

This smoke is my helmet.
I have no feet,
but I must sing.
Picasso Vanessa Harlequin.

They teach you in school, that every text must bear its conflict gladly.
Old Rome.
Old Rome.
Big Breasts against cheap polyester fabric.
Big Penises encased in glass cobblestones.
Glass Streets.
Oily coffee.
Crumpling leaves.
Anarchist Revolution.

For a long time
I wondered what it meant
but now I no longer care.
Mostly after I saw
the Pigeon war victims.

There's something beautiful about Philosophy,
but it isn't as beautiful as two foetal squirrels
in a hand-printed sack.

I would love to show you
the divine love of Venus,
but hovering in the sea
in a giant violin ship
doesn't necessarily portend to everyone.
That's poor speach.
Peach poor.
pore pech.

Vanessa Gondwana Index Red Buttons.

"Cardiac Arrest, Goddammnit"
silly goldsmiths
silly places
silly men
silly worlds.

he found that by 
"moving brisquely"
thru open (opine)
He could evade
the three-legged woman
of Justice.

It was a black needle
held penultimately by the exquisitely folded napkin (a note):
Gondolier Li,
Like Bataille I have killyed thee,
penultimate penis cobblestones,
pure science libido.

so wan
and dank

(this is my place to read)

Just one more commode to clean,
and I'll be a top writer.
I'll be the greatest critic in the world.
A hobbled pigeon.
fed by distorted isms.
housed in cobbled

I did everything correctly.
But look how boring I am,
how boring I feel.
I have a job which interests me greatly,
and I am going places.
I am oil
on the surface of coffee.

The harder I fuck the better I feel.
Ever rode a hot telephone bull
through the smoky halls of Winter?

Vanessa Long-Pelvis Madonna Cleveland Clover.

After you've met architecture, literature
just looks like more windows, doors,
more empty auditoriums
full of heads which are just more windows
doors and empty
(full of hedge)


Face the Music!

Now you understand.
That images sleep
and weight
for encounter.

Forget I said anything.

are taking 
over the world
of literal chore...

This is because of pollution.
I write because of an oxygen
I am the master of all criticism.
I am finity.

This has contibuted to their gloss,
and venomous makeup.
More study is needed.

The Most Feared Predator of the Sea.

Yes dear, you are every bit
as beautiful as facebook.
Now take your vinegar wash.
and take up thy


I can't see which way your tentacles
are going.

rests on floor.

now the pigeons have arrived at my own window, but instead of photographing them,
I chose to photograph this old book of matches.
Is life dull, or is it only me which misses the mark?
And the strangest thing, is that one of the pigeons
is acting like a woodpecker, but is actually
pecking on the telephone wire
where it attaches to the house
outside my window.
Anarchy is confusion
made holy
unto a window.

A deafening will come
as the defining murmont.
In every day there is an opposite,
another place to go,
another wall to scale,
but on the far side,
a chair of rain,
a haste of wild charlemagne
whose mangy manger
chews the fat,
its taffy-like sound
wiring the jaws,
an interlarded suchness
succoring ringing pleases:

a stranger
held up one hand
combining the symbol
for "call me"
with that of the cornudo.

hang ten, godfrey!

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