Monday, March 31, 2014

crosswits and pyewrackett, tracing sedunctions' breeth'ch

how is (it)
the sentence charts
this unnecessary
when every window turns
its inside outside fore

take thee what you need of earth
and check your messages later
for what the golden fleece antennoias
are the loopy folds
of psyklopfian lautfur
the green knight
as dissolved
among random characters
the pattern beheld
by none

imp peril no more cacoffinie
to the herald of the poem
but syntense up your lantern
to the honesty
of sculpted form
two flanged coins for blinders
to the silent choir
of spew

paranoiac resplendent phaun'd!

heap obeyants
on distant horizons!
these registry pegs
for your nostrils
are the spinnerettes
of secret places.


the pharaoh's machine crown
has revealed
a joking universe,
but it's punchline is too literally
a defect unto translation.
it says:
A sentence is like a punch
and a judy
in the mouth.

mark your bloody doorframes

a parenthetical pig and whistle comforts,
but the jeers go forth and 

what cue a kenning cabinet,
and what cut
a mirrored curdling?
black continence
before the stack

forever shy.


this novel
is a fan
no breeze
and the stone bedroom
still dreams

green honeycombs
force their whistle
through great and orange slabs
a witch
at the top
of chalk mountain

my scribbles mimic your scribbles
and yours a further
so what are animals for
if not for the beauty
of boxing

naked honeycombs
mount their hoarse

etruscan snail candles
multiply in the brocade

i'm some candle
you're some store
let's char the corners
so that black veins
reach the transparent core

this restaurant is famous my dear
for its demon waitstaff..

his tongue is made of roiling black rice
and his fingers are flashing

my lips felt like clipped ropes
and my bowtie
a hot animal present

you may notice some discomfort
with this dish
a play on 'tongue in cheek'
this dish is called

fang through cheek

no hats allowed!

not gauging
nor gouging

(no torque, or first talk
ist besten)

let's drink
to your corporeal tunnel syndrome!

I am the green pharaoh
of polynesia!

a lone hyphen
guides the way



i first heard the
dark and singular nightmusic
in a hottub
of inklings

we took the horse
that Nietzsche saved
from the bludgeon

all thoughts seem so disconnected
or connected
before the true
and great
false eye

I think the flag of our Sapphist sophistry
should represent
two dead men
or diagrammatic pottery
two begging dogs
or eyeballs
desiring vessels
we'll call them
a garland of cornflowers
for a black skull
shall be its secret name

this perhaps a model for the flag of the royal surrealist hirncombe of pure kynemass.. no women in frame, old dead white men, it infuriates everyone, and yet the country is a complete failure, no economy, no aspirations, in fact, it is a confession, but like a broken toy, it too, forgives all speech its complete lack on anything, sick dollies needing maximum salvation, and that, pure improbability.. the absolute improblemable

as dali falls asleep while balancing the cremated remains of max shreck on his right knee, he is plagued by echoes: fangs, claws, collar, mustache. nonetheless, his torment only heightens his sublime poise, for chaos needs no balances, only the grace of equipunctal conflict..

has always been
a dirty word

but its vortex
the nihilist assumption
is the best decoration
for avid surfaces

how much poetry
can one woman declare?

Frances Farmer

whose switch the individual grape
must hang
our horse necked spring 50's
rhythm on the range
come and get It
roaring timber

sod is odd and its groans literal
mount saint frances full
the erect exploding tree is made of animals
soft sloping seattle stilled
pale blue jade needles
and langue
the toast of new york
ebb tide ride a crooked mile
south of pago pago
flowing gold world premiere

fragile and volatiled
extending like hexagonal eggshell platelets
from the streaming blonde sun
to the glamorous clash of cream
upon the great lens of confusion
badlands of dakota calamity
among the living fury
the story of blake
I escaped from the gestapo
(montage sequence)
with the party crashers

just refer
back to my original

the image then
is of Raymond Roussel
standing perfectly still
within a cup
of milk.

and so
the abstraction remains latent
a sort of mathematics
between the air
its writing compact

one day
in the life
of a single

for the distant ages

Friday, March 28, 2014

Mr. Zopoulos wishes you to swim...

You might have seen gold, but I've seen diamonds. I think I'm pregnant. -You think or you're sure? -I'm sure. Nothing to say? I'll take a look. The rat is going to drown the tomcat. -We have to do something. -Just wait and see. -Oh, Mr. Marcel, you're early -You know that Mr. Zopoulos is in the pool? -So what? M. Zopoulos can swim in his own pool. -Fully dressed? Fully dressed, yes. Dear Mr. Marcel, you'll never understand the rich. You must get used to it. M. Zopoulos wishes you to swim. It's not good. Mr. Marcel, Mr. Zopoulos wishes you to swim sidestroke. One, two, three! One, two, three! No, that's not on! He threw his cigar at me! Does he want to humiliate me or what? What do you mean by "humiliate"? I don't feel humiliated. I admire Mr. Zopoulos. I love him... You're saying that because you see him now but... ...if you'd met him 20 years ago... ...he was like you and me. Attentive, helpful, charming, witty. Thin, mischievous, a bit of a gourmet perhaps. -Well, it's not a reason to... -He's successful, it's normal. He enjoys his money. He can have everything. I'll tell you something Mr. Marcel You know that Mr. Zopoulos isn't paralysed? But as he can afford it, he doesn't have to walk, do you understand? If you could afford not to, would you swim? I certainly wouldn't. Now, swim, you're getting on my nerves. One, two, three! Sidestroke!


they contort each other
the anchor and the ideogram

one so as to be remote
and the other as sky
to test the buoyancy
of emptiness

pale grey oxidants

some imagine these
heavy overwrought black iron hands
wringing together
but the hip of the sailor cocks
toward the pivotal flic
no cigarette ever touched the water

sing seagull
sing crooked alley quai
in the valley of monumental bobbins

maru maru
in overcoat

the twin white lines
turn and go taut
where the twin black lines
interrupt their angles

throw a sponge in the oily ocean
these steel tri-pods of anarchy
will lift

every stevedore heart
but the spy lives more prudently

black tar table
holding only twin
black tar tablets
and with no legs

the gorgon eyes of the anchor
could be pushed up like eyebrow-hands

roman numerals
and poppies

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

8116 / 6118

i am lonely, but the road is lonely too,
and all the world's occupiers fill its shifting shadows,
and the hulk, or the long-legged bait
which furls the pile, or pyre, is
original sin, the cryptic gnosis which hides
the aboriginal sign, our yoking
to the glory,
fangs of light
to guide
our blanking

i'm still waiting
to meet meet you
standing in the haze of music
in the commonplaces
of the house of law
on the paradisaical carpets
of poetry's sanguinary

let the sands roar us to gather
to the land ships which bathe
in the wreckage of our foundling

and do not hurl
lest the celebration
be in vein

for the emerald jazz of our topoi
is one body
one diamond
dissolution's other
or self

the greatest Socratic principle

makes man himself
the blurred paper
of a lost machine
this type-writer
is tantamount
to light through water

and my rustic hermitage is sod
and the record that i keep
a soft brown key of dawn
which crashes on the lock
and is submerged
like a smile
beneath the gravy

look once
at the whole knowledge of mind
and dream
of a meteor
for pencil
no before
and no after

then a huge croco-tiger
charges up

from within the glue-bong of jupiter's eye,
the original feminasmo
or jackson pollock
visits old pompeii

for if this writing
moves like a crack in deeply buried
crystal labyrinths

and the answer moves too close:
let eternal discord
be as a newt

the black 

i linger uneasy
in abandonment's

and from the 
of solace
a masque
of wilting
and quire

the line will not shatter

its face grows strange
among us

we did not remove
the blade from the stone
but broke the handle
from its
of leisure

and turned from the game
on the table
into some invisible
white domain

how should I tell you 
about the song
of color?

see then
the soft fink pangs
wich goether
to the dancer

who passes with difficulty
through the places of winds
the breath which shatters

and the fine
mercurial wings
which vulcanize
the soul
of venus

i say these things
in perfect

and i urge your departures
into messy
april ouds
set lightly
into journals

never forge
your blankness

or hide
the infinite mustache
of the wave

its congenial opera

or zoo

which joins together
where crime
like abstract art
defiles all sense

leaving only

a barking P

the suspension of belief
the rank reflextion

was even
to the masculoid

like a crippled

whose name
signals completion
of the heroic
of letters

i see something
like an abacuss

a last prayer
before a downtrodden
angel called

an instrument
the verb
of job
is a bucket of candles

like brushing your teeth 
in chocolate

might render you
the true detective

a child
of writhing
like a machine
crowned by a golden foetus skeleton
the haptic shamanic
of conspiracy

and the overgrown fountain
mimics the world

but the lonely path

still makes

and paintings

for what happens 
in syntaur

is like a grand staircase of hedges
sloping down
to bet
on the doors

the aboriginal sign
is wholesome

and like a bony V

its green secret

a headlessness
in dowsing

with nothing

reaching vague conclusions

in the oneness of the alien rooms

from inside
the ribcage
of a made goad

please let me serve you

our name
like a topping forest fire
o'er all the roofs
still unknown

the mute transgression

till no syntaxis