Sunday, May 25, 2014

this here is a genuine Mississippi mudslingin' dog

be careful now, that right there is a genuine mississippi mud slingin' dog, and when half the goo-chassis is out, he hops, bucks, and twists, and tosses the offending member right at your feet, an erstwile brown mouse for your how now old house..

a beast rides
the camphor'd es
and a herm hides
in the christmas tree fringes
of the pre-programmed
clear cut.

there is a gnarl,
an enlightened snarl between us,
a truth gap, an oracle, Charles,
so that arguing with you
is like watching you
smoke cigarettes through your nose
with your head stuck up inside
some distant blue
alien aquarium parallelogrammar:
"let us tissue"
"lettuce bowl"

bright lights big city
the medieval chin imp of beau brummel 
just adores
being bathed to live music
on a stage stacked with chicken cages
and now that we vestal virgins
now follow the holy mother
Helen Keller
bunnies in pink sacks
and rock and roll
in painted brick basements
there's a noise
like bananas 
in a chicken cage.
Laocoon on lead guitar!

I'm not wearing
a painted chicken pelvis, Charles,
when all you're carrying
is a svelt clean hyphen
to ford the forbidden naming
of ultimate conduitry...

suit yourself, Marsha,
but you are still the top half of the es,
and I
the bottom.
bathos is no pedestal
for gnarl, and 
for all.

On the great balconies of Capri's,
there need never be
any arguing the canon
among the penultimate punctum
and palm,
these indigo pillows
for bent and extruded
grid chess
set to confer.

do you still not recognize
how hot on the heels 
over multiplicative mandalas
my canonlessness
can argoo:
this sentence is all blue pillows
made into chair pads.
the social
is a gnarled balcony
said Edgar Allen Poem.

our goo remains
the essential integument,
though no semicolon,
or neocanon
can separate our gnarls.
We enter
Sparta's blue.

now that you've gone,
I find myself,
taking your side
in every argument with myself.

and though I replace
you are goo,

are visible
as an indigestable remainder
at the bottom
of our screens.
Everything gets digested
by the canon.

Now that you are gone,
and its just my hyphen and me,
I realize,
that the empty headed
and architectural es
is just a beautiful white donkey
wearing a black saddle
carrying a roughly hewn rider.

like a painted chicken pelvis
entered old Jerusalem
in search of
bright hound's tooth garments
to lay at the feet
of holy mother
Helen Keller,
and her book
of hells.

as a military sleepwalker,
i smeared my skin
through the great canon
of maps and places,
until at last I arrived
in the city
of Laocoon.

This used to be somebody's
squid costume.
Our goo is the night.
and no one may argue
its fewrtile

Ernst Haeckel
was here...

and at the end
there was only one;
a last and final
earnest heckler
who called our great canon
and then called our furniture
and then named our syntaxis
pull open the blue tasselled drawers
and drawings,
move the brass teapot around
on the great forehead of gnarl
and call it

of strings and quarks
and gambots.
The Letter of the Law
is the shaping of the goo.
And the goo
is like a city
of laws nested in rules
nested in laws
and sideburns.

I'm not sure I can do much for you.
An enamel ovum, or period of white noise
has followed you here
from another narrative..

Is there something like a table
you aren't telling me?

I never thought I'd find
the author of all that drunkeness
in a mystic knife.
I would do anything for the canon,
but its blindness
has rendered me 
as wholly other
a holy mother.
I am Brandy Keller.
(another Chivas please..)

Instead of meditation
we eat.
She's military and asleep
of course.
We red everything through our cell phoems.

in the 


I forget about Zarathustra.
I can't find
hellenic killing.
the canon smokes a hyphen
and burns your face off.

Mudslinging is holy!
Mudslinging is holy!

O lungfish!
O broom-tilde!

If the word harlequin does not chase the image harlequin,
surely the ARRGG cannot GOOO...

Saturday, May 24, 2014

Poem Written at Dickey's BBQ Pit.

Pray, beginning sleeper, and let your mind dissolve in me as I
Straighten, upright from the overflowing couch:   pray with all
Your euglena-heart in muscle-fountain,
The longing-euglena only-shoe, as the bird in its tuning sorrows
Bides in good falling—gone fraying
The gather-voices, and more the alone ones what
Pray with the soul-training of hecho

Of the lost ax, that the footprints of all
Predators, moving like old-stone, like
Clean leaves, grey and sensitive as willows’,
Will have left their intensified beauty
And alertness around you, when you wake,
And that the blood and waste of them
Will be gone, or not known. Become
All stark soul and balcony beatitudes the ax in the air
Now come, half-faced, to the land wild labrys land discussion

think upon sphinx-divan
dissolve in me
o ax head air euglena shoe
hecho en masse

scene unseen in the pearly teeth of an undine undyned

nadja-mazda, hurry
nose of corn
gnosis of mazes

the trimming of the niches
the trimming of the hedges
which held the bronze galls
their stretch-chassis-claw-worts
the throat stones cut from their if-sac's
suckling fact
the origin of the world
will coo if a brusque design
on older beaches

what smooth mythic euglena muscle's
stood erect
a fountain of encoded arcs beset
what tongue the fraught translation of
Medusa's head as a raft
in which the temporal refugees
have packed themselves
in ivory dissonance
vague orange competitions
of mannequins and quilleriums

this being all feathered
and yet these feathers control a display
lifting falling
twisting to show their backs
the loki club
with its green top hat fountain
dances with air

a noodle

is saint Anthony beaten by devils
a coded statue encryped here
a single word


it is not average
that anthony's golden nimbus
is the same color
as the wanton demon's face
who carved this jade blanket
for a golden tear drop

[?] go back and drop
it in (high fen)(low sign)

who let medusa's eyes
turn the ocean to stone?

they pier
from virticul

a brine abstracted
plus (place)

the contradiction
in secrets

hewn by votive fountains

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Pensive Frizz

and haunted by this ghostly cat
and haunted (as if in canting it to speak it)
bird gone without suspecting
bird remembering in form
as moth
with window to lantern

every window's form
a languid term
tangled in termination

and haunted by this

go sit or lie
and where the vines touch the ground
describe the jointly arriving lines which feed
the deaf surmounting of the falls

white crocus
its foam white horse neck fondles
and haunted
by this transparent frog body's
palpificating &

pupa zeppelin hand
to lose its skin and spread
its orange lantern roe balloons
across the purple dusk

dusk mirror rose
framed in orange lantern balloon roe
and the roe buck cubed
like an emblem of dear and labyrinthine
antlers holding a transparent cube

an advertisement
for the universal insurance company's
law of the conservation of energy

all these laws
make nature look like paper
and pensive:

o dusk square squa du
o skew duct
oaken dew seam

o swadu
o squask
o quare wadi rama
o husk cue cares
the emmivee cleers
the emu packs whole

swip dev swee
dusk swadoom
sweep-dev swadomm
and doosque

o squat days
o padav
o emka

padam vidim

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

an aftertaste of hermetic fugu

the meaning of meaning is precisely and ideologically promiscuous, as is genius, and the divine. its wry witlessness will succor no final witnesses, and its mysterious smile is the last thing any of us will see; tragic drama is the goal of the universe, not just one of its effects, or defects. And the ritual entrainment at the heart of this text, though unsound and wanting, is the same as every birth or death, its dearth both girth and depth, less as...

Tuesday, May 20, 2014


But this isn't a cautionarry tale atoll!

and there is a formula which describes it:

Foo = the furious capacity for combinations as encoded as autorefractive mythologem = dragon = fool.
Goo = materiality's absolute denouement as the ground of combination, or loss = paradise lost = combination faile, or combination succeed to the detriment
of other combinatory follishnessies.

This is a FUGU alert!
Furious jelly
is a foot.

so here i go:
i bask and basilisque
in the wild fury,
and as i open my wings, it opens
its nictitating paddle arrays
replete with illuminated speaker organs.

this was once a furious icon of revolting display.
now it seems as if 
the ceramic copula
has been subsumed by its own
crazed surface?
I'll be the savior of objects.

all matter is poetry,
all circumstance
sacred drama.
get the fuck off my stank-neck,
daddio GOMBDURR.

even the fairest flame
must partake
in the red and oval cattle
which fill the flayed flute
of Marcy's ass.

this is a dove wing made of boiling nacred foo-putti

potential sprinting
along the fitness corridowse
in the great and yellow green temporal esophagus
the lightcone as fate=calculand

got a shovel?
there's a road of solid gold 
just beneathe the mud.
got a cigarette?
we just got robbed
of our growing habits.

mysticism always consists
of replacing the other with a cosmic eid, but what if
all the other is other and the eid is marching,
Caesar vidied a seizure,
and I am a seizure,
searching for an eye
in the mist.

at the center of the most excellent
and final poem of hermetics
was the history
of blue furniture.

you won't find fugu
in a pit of boiling dabloons..
I beg to differ.
All is fugu.
and foogoo is moot,
and mute, though its tyrant scream
is absolute,
and lutening
with lightening.

We'vre abolished all colour themes here on planet Earth, but welcome
to Marcy's ass.

and so at 3 pm everyday, the foogoo bell would sound,
and the great cake arch sprout luminous blue putti recliners...

what is the square root of blind masseur clones
divided the round root of umbrella times granny over baby white caps?
bamboo growing beside the beach.

let it be known dear, that the TRUFUGU
is a wry witlessness giving birth eternally
to its own witnesses (jigega, nude deskinding a sereclase)

and helping friends
down off the battlefield
back to the bar

once again.
look dreeply onto my eids,
for the oval of red cattle
descends into the pupil
via a shadow
of absex.

only in passing
do we mention
the conquering sprout
of the informe',
but it isn't coffee.

See, Eid myself id become
a somatic prouncinull,
an incipient hiss,
a gladness
smeared with dinarrliums.

my head exploded
my great armor roams
like a cooing
and heroic
gasm asque.

This is what the universe looks like on string-theory.

and so, as sweet spring approaches the twin blank obsidian pages of the window book, its surface is overcome by the identity of the semiotic playing.
plainsong opens the debate with boredom,
but wabi-sabi counters
with both wild and abject hermeneusis
combined by hoary-gomi.

measuring orangutang tongue takes time,
but it doesn't give much
unless you consider
the fair celadon perrukes
of torrential termagents
as the approach
the herodial mass
to reveal their amulets
of negative ressentiment.

i mow this goddamn fugu down to size!

the great vehicle
is always followed by blue furniture
and neither ideology nor aesthesis
can ever changue-langue that.l.

like a murky drift i peer from
attempting to surmize
the weird path
of foogoo

she found the invisible staircase.
too bad it never existed.

i didn't turn into a pillar of salt
when i looked back at fugu
but the dream god bacchus
poised before a sea of blue wine
my ultimate divan of dream.

what is the red oval?
the red oval is a rogue gibletext.

a skizzard
which welcomes
back into its own body.

a weirdo's jelly
basilisking in the sun
on lips of pale grey fire

you will live for ten thousand years
with a black plum
hovering in a cube of frozen black snow
made of iron cricket tongue legs..

Vulcan was young and handsome then,
so make note of these VULGARD

I'm about to slow down into runic fnords before I caliban the junction with watered silk pillow book buildings.

I roux
the dei.

that my currtune school
stretched out its helmet hand 
in a wish for bliss..

for every time i desired and grabbed
i got some of its bliss and some of its hiss
we make green stucco with absinthe

at night
i coum
like a bat
like a gnat
my transmission

is the genius
of witlessness
as form
this is my mantra
this is my gold

as a ceramic shoe
for bees
in a flowerless

Is that Don Quixote'?

just the two hands of sanchmo panzer
and the great jellyroll revue.

die cast metel.

fugu alert: let these fields drift forever, groaning and growing, gorling, and gorillapedia.

I would like to take this moment to thank all miniature statuary who live inside the etherneal pluroma of wild fugu..


No I don't want to hear another Pinocchio joke!

It's time the world knew.
Weird fetishes will all converge
on blue velvet furniture
and calm library daze at homme.

has trapped us in blue velvet.

to weird massage
but the crane is blind
and dances

this is a FOOGOO ALERT!