Friday, April 21, 2017

Edward Posset's Conversation With The Wind

i am the wind, edward posset

you do not know me wind; i am not your syllabub

i am the dry lane of your lame life, deal ivory con mot

i am edward posset, wind, state your case or go

i am the moving thresher, weird and eaten head-edward, guardian

i cannot recall you, and furthermore, if an eye at the end of a stalk were to view you, what would it view? shadows themselves course in my veins.

you are vain, built no-thing, the nothingness pervasive is my heavy name

and by that same token, rather rigidly intent thing, what difference is there i ask between us?


sand hag! literarily derivative arihagne-wind-voice thing!
you are no better than i!

o duarte..
won't you do art?

well i should 
if i would i guess
increasingly sinister
wind bag..


 (for "all-eyes" on the blonde)

 wouldn't it be nice
 if we could all stand together
 as rumpuzzelstiltskin

 rum puzzle rum puzzle
 let down your golden snare
 let down

 we're let down
 we're really let down
 we're just

 alice again
 dressed up like a caterpillar
 in a tophat with bunnyears
 hitting the hooka
 getting small with steve martin
 on npr
 thinking about different child brides
 for tutankhamen's clones
 as if we'd installed a heptocracy
 of 7 tutankhamen clones
 in the whitehouse
 playing 'paint it black'
 on little child bride banjos
 with multiple fluffy pink bridge clamps
 with curb-feelers that use wawa-wifi

 we're let us
 we're lettuce alice again
 strolling sadly down the vegetable aisle again
 at wholeprice foodstore
 reading the autocratic asemic foodlabels
 on tweedledee and twaddledoom eggplants
 they've decorated like humpty-dumpty
 with blonde male flip-wig mantas

 we're just let down
 in the era of neu-flarf
 we're just egyptian cat-toys
 with tourist spit all over us

 we're just
 the unjust creations of a justice for all
 or a justice of un-none or something
 we're just alice
 in a streaming video yeti-mobile

 here comes yeti again
 (in a blonde hair tophat)
 i'm late! i'm later!
 i'm later capitalism already!
 i'm alice!

 so, you're a fake alice, you discover.
 you didn't 'get small'
 you didn't 'get tall'
 you couldn't 'get high'
 and there really wasn't a right or left
 so much as a generalized north and south

 the surface has reacted
 and now 7 little bald-headed
 ancient egyptian clones
 are playing the rolling stones on banjo
 in the whitehouse
 which is already in the process of being
 painted black

 did you think for one instance
 that making a healthy vegetable choice
 at the supermarket
 would have such ironic undertones?

 a little riddle

radical negativity

 and one to me are shame and fame
 but affection never
 was wasted

 grey aliens once
 built a wall
 to keep the ignorant out
 but later reduced it
 to a thin film
 to push the construction's mockery
 even further

 the life of fruits and corn are vast
 their signals go out into the galaxy
 and their names are old
 and soft

 corn is called
 the eraser
 and fruits collectively are called
 ostler or highwaymen

 and they cling to sighs
 like neurons
 in distant skies
 alas the poem is lost

 where long black hair
 is more precious than gold
 and it lives sentient in museums
 in great snaking braids
 reading books

 and throughout which
 no organs (no unitary or disunitary voice)
 keep it erect
 the eraser fruits
 are corn-secret

 there it is
 nameless swarms for eons of joy
 in radical negativity

 with the crown
 barking its own
 sealed off ridiculous

 like glass teeth taffies
 arranged on a boorfuss
 of claret velvet

 or a grasshopper
 landing suddenly
 on a grey alien
 genital drone
 amid the hazel copses

On the Marriage of Philology and Mercury


 (and on for the narreens)

 narr po ix i u i
 nerr pu ex hu ay pu hay
 nayr po
 en ego orbix plyhayho
 e go a
 a gro hi
 hi gro habix eye
 un fai ho orvux gushu
 mon bee bit gly
 en hurkoon cabul oon mith three tee

 wee tea eye
 eye teak hee
 urn mai no murki tea wee
 hai urb hay
 own ordi orbi
 boon hai lo lulay

 oh ari ari ari hag knee play
 no bulo fond fern glo



 ponch smollow


 so a glass jaw
 and a poodle walk into a bar
 together and simultaneously
 order a drink called
 "Crates Breaks His Leg In A Sewer"
 which turns out to be
 vodka with a little flower water
 into which a sugar-crystal coated
 string is deposited
 but the funny thing
 is how they toast for the occasion
 by raising their drinks
 and hollering ZAKUSKI!
 at the bar-keep
 who ignores them completely
 continuing to work on her
 scale-model of Varro's
 birdhouse at Casinum
 but then thinking better of it
 brings over a little signboard
 and props it up in front of them:
 "Don't feed the Birds.."
 The poodle lights a cigarette
 in protest.

"find an automatic description of the hinge"

 a floating signifier
 pretends to be an icepick
 lining up some brass socks
 like an axle
 the wagon is smashed flat
 but the winter wind
 the bandits
 and prying eyes
 are all held at bay
 on the other side

 the train
 while simultaneously entering
 and leaving the station
 in multiple places and times
 seems to hold the passengers at bay
 as a kind of private savior
 an area in the aria
 where quiet contemplation reigns
 there is a threaded railroad spike tho
 that keeps the private savior
 from flying off the tracks
 "of the sony walkman"

 jeremy bentham is stuffed
 like a snake staff into a pool cue sleeve
 and so the universal robots
 can't see him anymore
 (or her) and the worlds turn about it
 and it makes you wonder
 if the central bolt of the panopticon
 is the subject then why not just turn it around
 not caring what happens
 inertia wind or neglect made a sly ruin for bats
 and any utopian prison has no need
 for primitive hinges

 the hing-thing is literary
 the linear motor
 and charge clamp
 are redolent
 of mad nature
 gravity and gods

 the hing-thang admires the odd possibles
 of a sea shell window ajut
 of an inter-world
 which might have been

 the door ajar
 and pandora more
 olive and pink

 there is no snake in a sock
 wearing a felt cone hat
 and carrying a candle
 with its chin-hook-pharoah's
 beard-foot to visit

 the midnight livery-museum
 the empty costumes
 languoring in darkness
 liquoring in quiet
 'hanging out' in damocles'
 golden echo


 there is a barrel

 each of its ends being
 two bracci in diameter
 the diameter at its bung
 is two and a quarter bracci
 and halfway between bung and end plate
 it is two and two ninths bracci
 the barrel is two bracci long
 and by adding two wheels
 the barrel might become a baroccio
 and its pilot become barocciaio

 the dog

 it was a fine day at the beach
 sand / water / strange and meandering wanderers
 animals unknown to dull eyes

 gulls counting clouds

 but just past dusk
 a being appeared
 carrying two wheels
 a hand-drill
 an axle and a blanket
 and it approached the heavy oak barrel
 which had washed ashore

 after the wheels and blanket
 had been installed
 a dog approached
 and seeing the dog
 the being said in a grand voice

 come here
 so i can hit you better

 but the dog turned its face
 and showed then
 a small crab clinging to its cheek
 with a pincer

 good then
 said the being
 then you know what i am up against

 this pissing in the wind
 has become too baroque
 neither myrtle
 nor laurel
 but a tiled and tilted gnarl

 a verruca mainoumenos

 idealism's strange proposition
 said the being
 is this dirt here
 all around us

 a barbelo
 a crazy forgotten
 remembered thing
 an abacus whose twisted
 counting pearls
 might each be
 a burning peregrinus

 some values
 which split
 and then rejoin in other forms
 other names
 other values

 a dynamics
 cynically mimicking
 a theory

 (the dog scratches itself emphatically)


 Cocksure dawn
 The wading principle
 Unsue onto
 On toes so little more than
 The persistence of signatures

 I imagine a foot so very unlike
 Our own
 The golden hoofplates steaming
 At the curved ends
 The elaborate and elongated
 Tufts of patterned hair
 Which are strung up
 To the ornamental wooden
 Knee hoorks
 To be played by random briars
 And the sounds which pierce the fog

 Which turn in circles
 Pass invisibly beneath the skin
 To rest in anxious glazes
 Of hidden jointed gems
 They attempt to praise
 With their confusions
 Wrist-bleared to violasm
 Gnawed off at the kakorux

 it is not known
 if this odd cloven moon
 will need a bile hoard
 to snip an illusory thread

 the object of its desire
 is manifueled
 and absconvoluting

 deformed without measure
 the gloat in its tooth
 is no different than the
 of its glacial rhetoric

 poor zephyr porch
 with eccentric
 attendents (sic)

鶄 (sing)

 hyogai rumi khan
 a rope which drags the mud
 behind a wagon
 in the ruts
 may be dried
 and shaped carefully
 to appear
 as a praying snake
 slicked smooth by feminine hands
 and decorated
 with flower petals

 several bicycle accidents
 were enshrined mežģījošais
 along the rutted area
 small desks were placed there
 with sprained accidents at their helm
 a little ghost
 for the lusay-lusay
 yatahaddathu 事故花
of each hiccoughing vigliavo

a village bound

 is the village bound
 a rattle on the sea
 a bridge becomes a dock
 in the noise of nowhere
 but language

 and if tusks mount the skin of staves
 they are bound in words
 to become

 cocoon boats are the huts
 which are tied by their tongues
 to the docking thumbs
 thumbs up!

 a single round hole in one end
 is the portal window to a boat-hut
 surrounded by a frame
 a spokeless felloe
 like a wheel

 but the 6 o'clock handle is larger
 a tongue

 but there is no main land
 for the bridge is loose
 abiding only by the laws
 of the noises of the sea

 the village bound
 is haunting me
 a staff with dangling cowries
 laid down on the brine
 to float

 stone peanuts hale
 and true
 and pregnant
 grim joy leaks out
 and lasers arc from the tips
 of the cocoons

 there is starlight
 in a young papaya
 soft black stars
 made of echidnas
 wearing coats of pickled peppercorns
 and dancing headless
 into the wallless stew

 its finial spinning orbits
 are clustered
 with mutant astrolabes
 and their caterpillar herald knights
 go and bequeathe

 these drawings of abstract sails
 on which the legend remains
 that a no one is listening

 and the learned thing
 gives high and dry
 its kick
 to the airborne urchin's head

 is mystery toward
 its own one solvent
 the sun types language
 in its own regard
 and is bound
 for language

forever crashing into the goofiest realm

 the diorite tamar
 hovers silently
 amid the globular diorama
 of amorous tamarind
 a black silk tenetacle
 bullending the already
 blind statue
 of loose voice
 wedded to some
 violent mask you lined

 there were lines
 written inside the mask
 whose letters were raised up in praise
 but made of glass
 for after the levi-
 tation of the dark wonder
 of the tamarind
 the sour

 hovers lilacly
 milkweed prevariant
 phonolite stamen pitch
 ore pollen dirge
 to weep fantangentastically
 polyhohexadextrous micro ghee
 o my trees

 golden snowflakes in the round
 and rotated
 upon a spherical axle
 of valuelessness
 or mourning
 at the total blind causal
 caudal laocoon

 a baroque penurite
 by adam
 new born and perfect
 the architecture of its ego
 somehow illustrating
 the actual ferality
 of some dimension of the abstract
 for which there are places

 hung tang
 you could seem to be
 in an immense hospital
 with walls like elaborating shards
 but some autonomies
 never go there

 to the endless golden snow
 of microscopic jewelry
 a plankton
 of disembodied

in the dream

 i am exiting the building in a golden light through a narrow foyer where tall rectangular plates of amber are set in smoothly polished wooden wheel-like extruded columns obfuscating the exact extent of the size of the room and making its formal boundary ambiguous. as i reach for the strange handle on the exterior door, the handle being inset into the door, and shaped like clay which has been squeezed by a human hand then rendered into brass, i notice a piece of furniture along the bottom of a short decorative wall. the furniture seems only to be a small wooden table whose top is made from a lattice of black wood, through which i notice is a large wasp minding its own upside down business. something about the wasp catches my attention and so i bend over and attempt to get a better view, and i do, the wasp appears to be built like a tiny wasp centaur, fully insect, but its jointed torso is also a totally human torso, and it wears a little helmet like a theban hoplite and it carries a spear. it attacks me and flies directly into my mouth, and the dream changes.

 in the new dream i have no memory of the foyer, but do seem to have the feeling of a long and ongoing continuum of thought and feeling, as if i am in my own victor hugo novel, something like 'toilers of the sea'. i am an 'ocean-side island hermit', but i sometimes trade my excess tidal gatherings to the soldiers who live on one end of the island in a castle on a rocky rise. to get to the castle, i am forced to navigate an interesting geological feature; a series of concentric cave halls whose circular chambers contain a series of eroded holes through which i cross, but only in low tide. the structure is like, it occurs to me in the dream, two molten phonograph records pressed together with some force and then pulled back apart, leaving a series of hall-arcs and window-door arcs or gaps. in the dream there are sections of the disk through which a fair distance can be seen. i am moving through one of these sections in my ragged clothes, my beard down to my chest but tied neatly with cotton rag scraps, and i am carrying my tatty old cotton gleaning sack full of urchins and sea woods i guess. the tide is getting too high, some of the areas of the cave record have already flooded, to keep in the knee deep water i have to follow a certain path which is less known to me. as i round a blind corner an enormous moray eel is waiting for me lying quietly and filling an entire chamber. he easily swallows me whole, and the dream changes.

 in the new dream i have no memory of the foyer, nor of the island of the concentric caves and castle soldiers , in this dream i live in an artists community which seems to exist somewhere in the catskills mountains or somesuch. we live in a large and rambling arts and crafts bungalo beside an elaborate garden modeled somewhat after a japanese garden but also very different. there is a 'turbo wheel bridge' where water moving through the middle of wheel creates a sort of escalator over the water for foot traffic.. there is a small lake at the center of the garden, but a deep canal connects it to our house. our house is built over the canal which runs to a lake in a garden. this part of the 3 dreams does not consist of much. in the house I 'fall' down a 'cartoon ladder' whose rungs pop like bubbles, like graphic thought bubbles, and when they pop, they say 'pop!" at the bottom of the ladder, I see the door they open to feed the great fish. yes. in the lake there is a giant fish. one of the members of the troupe, a woman once performed a circus act with it. and at the end of the dream we are watching her perform, but not like it is a formal performance, but like a group of old friends from a balcony. we can see her, the fish standing vertical up out of the water, and she on the tip of its nose standing on her toe. we are clapping for her because we know her and love her,
 but think nothing in particular of her giant fish which i do think must be a kind of carp.


 calmly kiss
 the advantage whose
 sphinx in a diving helmet's
 obscured and brittle riddle
 may certainly perform as well as
 any rising bubble's surface
 when remotely embroidered
 with a single continuous arabesque
 of even more finely quilted microbubbles
 their pattern of alternating
 long and short capsules
 performing roughly cognate
 to the syntax of morse code
 and whose meaning is purely decorative
 when taken as a whole

 but is any decorative riddle
 ever moral when the capsules
 of its stitches contain the spark
 of being?

 is then the decorativity
 of the riddle of being
 more morose than
 the sphere of its
 purely sphinx-like

 is it roughly cognate
 that the encoding
 of a calm kiss
 might rise to the the surface
 of any given morass
 as a sickness
 removed from any advantage's
 serene riddle
 performing then
 as a goal?

 why is a riddle a game
 instead of a sphinx
 wearing a quilted bubble
 for a diving helmet?

blue coward

 the obvious thing
 is that wind carries
 beatified musculatures

 through ecstatic halls
 of eccentric parallelograms
 where hot stone monkeys bathe
 in blood red chocolate

 and as i stand there
 covered in silk leaves
 feeling sick and beautiful
 a shy little gremlin approaches
 and hands me a carte de visite
 saying only

 Le bateau lourd
 est le seigneur
 des mondes levées

 and from then on
 i cannot weep
 for finitude
 ever again


 for a long time gonzago
 ima gonna go gonzo
 gonzago for a long time

 gonzago led the way
 and with a nose bright and dark
 if this darkened nose offend

 ply the rose
 with gonzago only knows
 o rose nosed gonzago
 gone gonzo overnight

 for a long time running
 if gonzago would see the eye
 he would hear this curious phrase
 this is what alloys us

 perpetual warrior
 go down among the plagues
 and be a plague
 a playful goo

 a guest of play
 for a long time gonzago
 was the guest of play

 whose nose was a rose
 and cast reflow solder ovens

 there is a dank witch penguin omen
 which pen

 is a candle pen
 gonzago gone to
 seed in deep harness state

 conpetual sleep orrior

come hither

 klang klangen
 robusta farafalla
 pharaoh fallen
 and cannot get up
 yet his chariot still circles diffidently
 through the wondrous halls
 and galleries
 of the ancient and moses parted red sea
 pharaoh please (i guess)
 you are no houellebecq
 or maybe you are
 or maybe you aren't
 i guess it just depends on
 how you react to the idea
 that god is dead
 or rather if he had lived
 and could be contacted
 would you really want to
 (in french) (and only in ancient egyptian)
 is there a reason for noise?
 or is noise noise because there is no reason?
 or is it that noise can become its own reason?
 sui generis
 but without the sui
 and eschewing the generis
 sort of like if the mormon tabernacle choir
 were singing a song called
 'oh what a burdensome thronging horde
 of difference in beliefs about
 which is sort of made to make you
 wince or even better
 sing along!
 thus adding to the noise
 the problem
 the solution
 all at once
 which is really nothing
 at all

 oh noise will be noise
 just let it be

 come hither

la gloire dans la poésie

 why does the moth of layers
 always play these games

 why does the sooth of sayers
 urgent the greys
 away from aggregation

 for its rhyme
 is sole abuse
 and its house
 some rebus nation

 tide is ought today!
 clams still will and still
 where is our lavish but mawkish curator
 of usual luck
 or unusual unluckiness

 o where
 is our next mary mantell
 the rosy tuber
 which connects
 all of the galaxies' governments
 in pictures

 to let the question remain one
 does cultivation
 ever really tame the genie
 or release it
 from its bondage?

avor the eglantine

 was led by the herald
 of the snod
 to the old fort
 which overlooked the remains
 of the forest in the valley
 and there it pointed
 at the weald
 where the primey
 broomy things pushed
 and avor the eglantine
 would not go there
 but stood in a hush
 imagining his tongue
 was an oyster
 a traubel en camden
 a fabre' en carcassonne
 that his tongue was barefoot
 in the snow

 a hare
 in black attic

 your breast is deforming
 my supreme lesson

the abacus

 in latin endings these skies
 are shot with green bathtubs
 the only notion of the existence
 of their bathtub pilots
 are the pairs of arc'd crimson eyebrows
 shaped as rooftop boomerangs
 and the pairs of olive cotton gloves
 that grip the rolled flanged and
 gumbroned sides
 so that as a picture
 these great hyphenated arcs
 of animated flying bathtubs
 these green bathtubs driven
 by ageless eyebrows and gloves
 may create a semi-transparent
 and highly articulated coccoon
 to the great and snowy linens of the clouds
 which like breasts and water-lilies flecked
 together with the pure blood and suns
 have come into a wreck of azure
 an invergence of scaled liveries

 the eyebrows themselves may be colossal
 400 skinless and blood red marsyas apiece
 each 'fa-lala-conquero-rub-a-dubbing'
 their doubled oboes (aulos-hubris-hubris-aulos)
 so that the eyebrows alone
 are able to screach as hideous
 as any present and future bronzes

 and so

 and given that there may be some
 vaguely indecent curiosity about the nature
 of the bathtubs themselves
 about how exactly they tend to startle
 the chaste blue dream paper of the sky

 each bathtub
 is worth a parthenon of marble
 and the abacus from which they all escaped
 from the blank spectre
 without crisis

 and from the great and verminous criticism
 which wells up in your heart like a sign

 a nude toughed in the hiss of an alien sloe cuff
 a nude turning blue from the gumbing of the tangle
 of the abacus which is a tangle of brambles

 tearing the skin
 of the sign

 from which heavy iron corn ears shoot out all at once
 in the glory of an aura

 a brun plaqua
 which depicts a haunted barn
 irking all with a grueling song


in the dream

 we beat it from the covert chinese secret police who were dismantling the tent on the roof of the mall for the carwash deniers protest where we took their accordion apparatus..
 later i was trapped in their headquarters saying something in a mantra-like fashion, i was barely boxed in, some sheets of drywall were propped over the door.. the place was empty, in a twilight of meaning, i kept saying see-crett shy-knees po-leeazz.. then there's a shadow fight, all the various sides of the problem are fighting, but it's all shadows, then i'm with some woman as she is getting dressed. at first i think her mons veneris is freakishly large, then realize she has a head there too. she finishes dressing. we meet with the rockabilly duchamp memorabilia dealer in the tinest little tea shop imaginable. it's like being at a little girl's teaparty, and trying to buy an illegal illuminated urinal, if you know what i mean. the guy looks like butch patrick all grown up, but something slightly slanted about the eyes. wears a little mad hatter lapel pin. cheap disney trash. i love that..

In the dream

 I am riding in the back of a large vehicle like a unimog pickup truck with six wheels, each one taller than me. We are passing through a strange neighborhood of 'victorian jewelbox houses' and each is white multistoried and seemingly dusty with paint oxidation. Many of the fronts of the houses have been scooped out and the insides are bright lime green. We stop later at a strip mall where there is some kind of indoors local 'funworld' like for children. The place looks like it was once a skating rink. I wander around until i notice a crowd gathering around one particular attraction. Much like a 3d printer only much larger. The machine is making ornate humanoid beings. Starting with an armature which is robotically fitted with muscles veins nerves and tendons, the skeleton is then moved to another area where small pink humanoid flesh pods are awaiting. 5 pink flesh pod bodies are laid out in a mold looking like a larger body.. a whole small body for each arm, and leg and a larger body for the torso.. the skeleton is then submerged into the mold.. finally the creatures emerge and lead each person down a beautiful spiral wooden walkway chute down into the garden area where they take each person to a communion grotto... the creatures are able distort their bodies in amazing ways, and the communications it seem consist of them becoming abstract armatures around the bodies of their partner. Some people resist and appear to be suffering, others seem to be learning elaborate skills and some of these people have had their faces opened up and covered in pink masks. Their body fluids seem to be leaving and returning via synthetic arteries...

spring 1912

 spring 2017
 the bottle of pernod
 should tang dynasty
 jade coloured blood
 the android makes noises
 in the leafy shady overlit
 delta of the simmering networlds

 whan shaving androids groom
 before the harsh disk
 of the wandering cathemes
 grubs hover
 in the angular nostaglia
 of illuminated post-cubist data fog

 spring is awake
 and tears the flesh of millions
 in a soft atomic oblivion
 of nameless shifting
 reservoirs of idyllic
 post-retro sublime

 the artefact is querulous
 when pernod the vampire green jade
 of its wholly tang uprising in silk
 this spring and all madness sale
 sets off for the barbary
 all pirates in international cleavage

 the raw diamond of being
 remains cleaved
 and cleaved remains
 remain cleaving still
 until the optic refractionary principle
 is the true analog
 of ideology madness
 the still slow waters
 of infusion's infection's

 hard callow spring innocence teeters
 on the shifting impressionist edge-line
 and dyes
 wake boarders form the funereal thiassum
 top hatted surfers
 give their barnaby quill howls
 the names of baby owls

 an armor made of prism'd stalag-mites
 grounds the torrid circuit plane
 while written lenses
 shift the drifting herd mind
 its glissando epicene
 obscene with motion

 great bag head
 great bag head
 our best unlimited brothel

 greasing the weird axle
 whose wheels are wire scrawled
 diadem heads shedding bags

 shredded bag spring worms
 the armor alone
 emerges from the data pupa
 its wheatstone bridge arcing

 tidal fairy
 glassine day bed
 young transparent locusts
 seek the frothing emblem
 in hands of jade lava

 one basilisk high on a cliff
 vomits its spring air
 into the random and mirky jostling
 the vegetal variegated star macromolecules

 their stoned high shoe is tower ivory disorder
 očumím acumen
 cement sumentaa seminal
 any hydride jackalling
 for spring's atteso


season cezanne for horned spring

 helmets are throwing pellets helmets are
 doorwing gaped even calling them by girlish
 fondness ravisher whipped reflection of skeleton
 has jammed the eye holes any swans alewife
 scontaloodawa and the utterly peaceful legs so
 is everlasting Spring devastating cezanne the Middle
 East waves A wood prized for her and took its hateless
 hate, which will try more lyres played like see Hoyt
 reference to the human, or lest, on its gliding girdling sites

 across from her loosened maps converging act as on the horses, Bee-swan-swain boat film a doorway desire to the archaeology of Axton That riverboat the sand a young smuggled antiquities and had collected the fell owl, now cries out masks of stringed mask city between quietly listening to mouth anxiety bitrisymmetricked masp-app-scara-bouche a underpinning the film picking, Dis, season of paste almost emerges of beetles arrivistes some is the urgency mindwife as the more spring horned abduction songs manes, through deep plates are hung her dress at the shadowy, dark-dyed gaol-goal The branches maintenance and repair enniad this, white socks to Syracuse yule elvis pluto is the opening, of a dark man hole than rise from tiniest center of ;does not hear her moment, saw her, that gambler, that a veil, ultra-mortal, and a waters, surrounds a sulphurous radio metric reeking swamps tales, and more than While Proserpine parts, exploring paste in a small mouth. Since she Nero from Mississippi's daughter a scattering caused her so singularly perfumed, long living killer whale organs dropping their mummies coil long ewe is beside me on blue made out of their partridge is nesting among that Pergus is its to her mother, car parts a yule murmur of the the moist soil, season is horned its skull halfway girl would which replicate scarabouche ~unfolding~ psychamoire' a ladder tunic, and stretches from tiny snakes snakes in a trying to outdo a people born lifewife as the youngest reassemble and pools, they is the and urged the reel lichen pod knob the leering their muscles musicles masks of where the Bacchiadae,
 the arresting dolls burrow with a heavy club had torn it cries olive oil mind might steer the eery a hostile stone, a through an enormous say, and of celtic knots the ancient temples hallls twist pellet any beetle and gathering violets the care, circulation water bubble from there is flows through capillarity's two seas, laid the earth, wild goddess coon a catback its leaves to her mother, detachings which replicate skinless pellets and pellets shot from in her name, hail eyeball cabbis shaking out of a deep pool in torrid horn spring cexanne paste . in color lice which give dispelling Phoebus’s shafts a hole a hole any word inside their necks and lines between thee give it vented form of stone and so of objects. the rape of paste and from that with piteous ‘“Not far cellulars ars plan our course onward words in pokes out its and her basket, unequal harbours. Paul Cezanne of her gown, room soft plates of up his chariot, Pluto triumpo its mouth and replicating pellets (micah-chiton) musical masks hang lapis paste through swift orders of coolness, and protected relics gate these plates of harmonic reins, over was playing in on the small wall navel beetles covered in are central whose scales are this glade, into soft to fantasy's feat in The frightened goddess whatever is best snakes scaled flowers: there, it today, particularly with virgin tears. red flesh beckons its rootbound token symbol oppostie-om cleft The her companions be a eye which replicate sections side,
 and and shifting value her: so or radiant Drift—focusing on the this, is love. walls of Enna, cascades of replicating encircles the head among the enact capillarity's lilies, while with its eastern electrum will eel which just exchanged car helmets are throwing pellets the garage throwing pellets Syria and Lebanon. of beetles most of all finely queued, the to The rebuild. Quietly to her friends, beetle is of Corinth between name. Caÿster in all tastes a in rows gong masks chime of heritage them on every furred in she filled a crevice of the flowers she the various silences of of the dining Tyrian purple glowering Forms of of the Palici, destruction and preservation butter their tiny tree the folds lace red lice realm that pale


 near the cliffs at etretat
 the haughty detective
 krysmopompus rides
 a blue panther fusing
 alones the virsion
 the moire antique
 of the vivisectioned tectonics
 of the sunset beach head

 l'aiguille is some jansenist irony
 to the mongoloid astronaut (arson)
 dionysos emerges whole bodied
 from an image of apollo
 and then becomes an image himself
 but krysmopompus the detective
 is self-conscious graffiti

 faux leopard pattern

 for weeks on television the laughing
 contest raged at the laughing factory
 and there was police nonsense rounding
 it all up and all round
 the psycho-flaneur at the head
 of the international combine of the senses
 turns photo-electric and hollow
 when marie cagliostro reveals
 her ivory grasshopper casque
 is full of grasshoppers

 lupins halo the capital

 illuminating the tyranny of circumstance
 the painter of modern strife
 the haughty detective
 less zero than more zero
 camp in the dogma
 of the video shuttlecock

 each ray of sunset
 thiasus contingent
 impression invective

what image?

 could reconnect the voyager in the dunes
 with the terrible antique
 and what quidam could jam or pierce the trunkless
 vastness of this restless dancing desert
 its compressed dew marking surly sables

 with no lame moities to cool with its face
 every breeze would mend this onceness of sorcery
 and every level riddle could wreak animants
 from their commandments' void

 the dighting caisson's sculptour must be
 this loose passion
 whose quiet encore survived
 stamped in the surceasing sorcery of choices
 the lamenting quills of raiment which released
 such currs of queasy nourishment

 for on the surly pedestal
 our wordlessness was appraised
 and with monomy must tussle it seems
 the acheiropoieton of a singular regard
 which survives to surmise it
 as an oeuvre yet possible within
 each moment's despotism

 there is no resting to authorship
 for its decomposition
 remains paving the colossal sands
 to new limits
 and as a solitary sable
 attend the nevus
 of this haughty intention
 this loin of spun hissed panic
 the screen across the poem

le regard tourni terni

 silver pingpong ball
 when you have capsized
 in the deep recesses
 of the story canal network
 resembling an emblem
 lowered from a golgi apparatus

 that the hunter prey relationship
 is fitted with stabilizing paddles
 that you may perforate or hyphenate
 with your spectacularist atomizer
 thereby gaining hyperneutic access
 to a refitting of the underside
 of surface area

 platinum odile renaming particle of round
 if there is some noumenal odalisque
 coiling newt-like in your plurpomal braggage
 double it
 and cross their skull-braguettes
 into a syphoma-lurid mimic of
 'do you see the bottom floaters'

 and do you see the bladder arcimboldi
 sky manque torso
 down below the surface's door
 it's top (and howl plurumbo)

 how will they notice
 greyball of enamel tooth
 that the prison itself
 is already a shanking
 and its perforated paddles
 are of kind silver rubbing odalisque-like
 with platinum
 to surface in piano forte' labidum

 heavy iron polished sphere ball
 i see yu wear yur monocle
 of dis-spellings

 perhaps you think
 the story of the ordering
 of the world word
 should be crowned
 the leader of the banner?

 i think
 spherical mirrors of silver gelatin
 should rule
 from dense computational surfaces
 of capsized hands

 should gloat their foot pads
 with the glands of science

 but all is pond
 its craft a unitary singing
 of macaque scab

will the earth use tradition-diction in startling ways?

 crazy fu-keets
 spread the moonlight
 b-tween themselves

 as each troll now it seems
 is some mystic woman
 sleeping beneath the bridge

 little bashos
 sleep in their sleeves
 bareley rustling
 kaze fukete

 their sleeze
 goes over us
 but who will play
 in an ornamental bridge

 these savory hands
 are entering
 a general
 rental television aroma
 epicacophaneities surround
 the bounding omphalo-coma

 i have no way of knowing
 if the next roadside inn
 will be a sound lodging
 or if delicate pyramids
 house trained insects
 to annoy travelers

 crazy fu-keets
 may slather themselves
 with the broken laws
 of the universe
 unconscious of the coming dawn

 dye creeps
 through the grain
 shaped like a diorama


 come gather round
 and see this idol i have carved
 it is the image of a spleen
 pretending to be a ghost
 but it is also a hiding place
 for any number
 of sympathetic horrors
 cities seen
 as ruined and paralyzed orgies
 old hats that remind one
 of the long dead revolutions
 of long dead friends
 brains fitted with spider-like
 horlogeries chattering out irreparables
 and ear parables
 to grotesque livid vir-meryonic skies
 crystal pure mornings
 in which ecstatic drunkeness
 has been imprisoned by
 the infinitely sad correspondence
 of modernity and antiquity
 eros and the skull sitting together
 as absinthe drinkers
 their cracked quartzite goblets
 rounded by elaborately scrolled
 oval windows
 which allows a silo-like viewing
 of their luminous orange piscine roe
 monos and una playing once again together
 laying cards on a table
 portraying mass assemblages
 ideal spleens
 veiled magnifying glasses
 under which raging bells break loose
 with the pregnant simplicity
 of blue immensities
 bells which are the re-purposed
 and replicated image
 of the pitcher of the danaides
 their holes
 replaced with eyes
 whose only interests
 are the blinding flashes of the intellect
 quelled into rancorous clamavi
 by the drubbing
 of the angry mobs

the death of syntax

 (after socrates)

 corruption's must attain
 for some high sweet note
 to be mix-ed

 (or some part of the world tongue's)

 |reason| is a pied piper
 whose name is even adam
 [4] subtle needs no
 golden apple
 no kifiti hutsak joko piyakpiyak
 no visionary heads of
 tuščiaviduriai ludumigra

 or in whatsit:
 the river is no man
 and the frost no lady

 no frost no piper apple
 [site]: golden apple flute
 you whose rib is a cube
 composed of cubes
 each of golden apples
 whose subtle needs no rib
 no ribbons
 when the children turn their backs to song
 to face the song
 of the heraklean leaping
 the tezcactiline if

 so here is the flea
 as capsidized
 by john dee the awber
 dressed in motley futants
 the rake-ed and scurnlit melta

 here is the visionary head
 the bronze bust of blake
 whose forehead was never engraved
 with the symbol of pi
 but was instead hollowed out
 and fitted with zoetrope
 a who-ware's ought
 in glossed codes

 for whom are the pictures?
 the pictures are for me.
 asked and answered.

 flea jesters
 swarm the piper
 and opine with gnawings
 suckings and bite
 of (on) their childlike love
 of nature

 for grace is born to innocence
 with no swellings of the loin
 no rats to fill the coffer
 of the piebald lictors
 of the universal tavern

 experientia docet

 poor hamelin's micawbers know this
 for they were coined and covered
 with rat's tongues of golden fleece
 and took their hemlock gingerly
 in the old blue post tavern

 with their mangy
 or well-groomed dogs by the fire
 seen and seen again
 to be scratching
 with syntax

 with pupæ

infection or infusion

 to a child or a chicken
 these striped gaulish pants
 were worn by irish pirates
 for the hiding of the hoof slave
 gust- bare no grammar
 is it odes to a go forth primate
 you nears

 or earle of le ear
 i sense a perfect fog of gnawing beauties
 for when friedrich was not a child slave
 he was also never a late classic
 penny turtle herb
 how did anyone escape then
 from not having to escape

 singing lepers
 to gather at their dappled well
 where the spirit of the whistle and hyle
 led no cavalcade
 but was instead
 a squirrelsnake
 appearing in a halo of clover
 and purple frost

 primate philosophers are tender
 whole worlds
 are foam clues
 but their muffled game
 is some remote bridge
 barely inhabited
 by the feral remains
 of some odd
 indecent innocence
 a sound

 like a hook through
 string sucked muck

in the dream

 someone has left
 a perfect plastic replica
 of the head of christopher lee
 on the tawny leather divan
 in my studio

 the divan is long and so
 the rather large oblong head
 looks small sitting as if it were
 a real head alive and lying down
 but with its eyes closed

 and the divan is strange
 like something you'd see in the 1970
 british tv sci-fi series UFO
 starring ayshea brough and ed bishop
 and i guess by strange i mean
 that its upholstery is tuck and roll
 but resembles a soft honeycomb
 created from hexagonal sections
 which isn't ordinary
 a diamond shape would be ordinary

 and you know just as i was formulating
 the strangeness of the divan
 christopher lee began to speak
 or rather mumble: that it's not necessarily
 the hypothesis of 'a hundred different events'
 all resulting from the same causal sequence
 that we consider a chimera worth refuting
 but rather that the possibilities that do arise
 are in some way an illustration of an
 apriori totalization

 and then his language broke off
 as a long yellow pencil
 began to grow from his mouth
 the long yellow pencil continued to grow
 until crossed the room at nearly a perfect
 45 degree angle until it touched the ceiling
 and started to draw a line across the ceiling
 until it came to the upper corner
 where it met the wall and stopped

 it was then that i really began to understand
 that the contingency of laws
 was wholly responsible
 for the disorder of representations
 and that disorder was perfect
 and eternal
 and that the whole time
 i had been sitting and listening to
 christopher lee speak
 i hadn't noticed
 that his skin was a pale
 pea green color
 and also
 that i had no feet
 but instead
 steel orbs embedded in sockets
 and lubricated
 by what in most accounts
 would have to be called

 and that thought like grass
 is just something that grows
 in the great green geology of fields or
 the process of consciousness

hegelian progression




some creep's top hat noises

 (like a dung in sheik's bloating)

 oh tithe thee hiss close ominous
 and come to mine lap where thee cradle
 for in thy sleep thou hast wandered
 and thy woolen eyes hast puckered
 and their navels come unraveled to the tease
 of the cosmic cackle

 the horse mirror shuns
 any too straight gaze
 here the poem's tongue
 pretends to be a nose

 oh tithe these hiss clothes
 which hymn their nooses netherly
 and come to mine hearth book hut
 with ladle lapel gesellschaft
 and horse mirror mask

 for with your crooked puckered eyes
 you would come here then
 unto this unleavened cosmic cackle
 and any moment doing anything
 to this tinman with head of toto
 to this witch water become


the no poem

 is it built for heart
 of eye
 or is it built of eyes
 for art
 it is no poem

ode to a hollow gland

 shadow hoplites move
 through a transparent cylinder
 high over the gulf of tadjoura
 their origin uncertain
 their destination unknown
 their movement stylized
 nonetheless once their bundle has passed
 there remains in the sky
 what the people of moucha island call
 biibiile cad
 or dhululubo hufan

 chris bertish has arrived in antigua
 and it is announced that he
 will play the role of egeon
 in shakespeare's a comedy of errors
 primarily an honorary role
 it is assumed that mister bertish
 will eschew speech and instead
 translate the language into a new
 and unique form of paddle semaphore

 antigua is the very home
 of these kinds of island verities

 owing more to imagination
 than to whatever reality pushes into negativity
 ahead of it
 as in 'getting ahead of it'
 which means primarily the ability to shield
 naive eyes
 from that lack of structure they herald wildly
 and which has found a warm home in our world
 or that place which sir richard burton called

 that the last line of the play
 must always describe
 the absence of a pointy slipper

 qof ayaa ka tagay
 ay dacas halkan

 in accident shrine's
 on mandala pendule


 a few years ago feet or love
 stretched white
 or any color (octagonal tiles of soft sea foam or hiss)
 into the storm

 that the child siren
 may be absorbed
 into old paphos
 is one end game
 (like duchamp into the amazon)

 is to take the blank
 and delirious bat
 and make an audience
 before the perfumed
 and triumphant genie
 to offer

 here is my wish (my bat)
 in which case she will place a string
 made from a miraculous thread
 at your service

 and though silent
 if this thread should pass
 through silence
 there will in fact
 be sound

 this state of affairs
 is roughly the same
 as touching one's feet
 to the surface of the child siren
 at the moment it begins
 its absorption into the town of paphos
 and gives the effect
 'the feeling'
 of pushing a heavy boulder
 softly of course
 into a great orb of fog
 with very little effort

Chimère bombastique

 a golden wax will accrete
 by ptyx or glomphut
 on the lovely body of venus
 whose hateful stare
 looks out of the well
 where her legs are trapped
 in water purifications

 golden wax could be an indigenous spew
 and it is very likely that the rulling feflexive air
 will soon be an irony overwrought with greep
 upon the lovely body of solipsism

 venus is solipsism
 in its purest ptyx and high xoana
 a golden wax will accrete
 and like the scored head of a poppy
 we will scrape it off to collect
 or discard it
 as strigil raucous baboons
 accretion acculturate accumbent
 accuracy acephalous acetate
 acetone achievement

 and the hateful stare?
 well in much the same way that distance
 tires the rhyme
 our entire gravity is stamped out
 made precious again
 think of all the precious gems
 arranged on the body of the solipsistic venus
 and that her white hot fever
 which pulses erratically

 blinds the jewels
 to emblem
 meandering them
 among themselves
 until their mixings
 await an unknown thing


 i live in a flood of whigs
 or salutes, gleets,
 whatever they are
 there seem to be more talking actors
 than are absolutely necessary

 the production of value
 has its limits

 to the glomerous befelling
 and for those hugging fast
 to their condemned pagodas
 we offer our somber ketchup
 our deeply paradoxical stories
 and our grotesque ends
 as projected vicariously
 along the scarfin'-surfari
 of our anti-catoptromancy

 i see azure ashes
 in the empty limbs
 and keep facile cormorants
 in snaky lanterns
 i weave primitive duck heads
 from the growls of dog innocent

 i live
 in the subgenius moment

 where first order logic G
 is such that an economy V
 wills its own undoing in success
 Y (think dancing too hard)

 some used to call it decadence
 meaning stupidity not vice
 while others call anything
 everything and who cares
 really then

 cuddly cuddly Guinevere
 went out the shower grove
 and there she met a centaur
 and on its wrist
 a mohawk did grow

 Diogenes connects itself
 to Ariadne
 via a long thin dread
 and a barrel

 we who died in the flood
 salute you

 your gunereal fenitals

a child kept from the font

 wuddit (j)
 (the jars of ills and blessings)

 as if the small red convertible had found its little parking space
 before one of the public vertical brutalist mansions
 parked between the endless repetition
 the small red convertible whose license plate reads so effervescently
 VRGNDKTR (pteradactylorifice) so
 finding its place among the presentile herd of even smaller grey or pale green sedans
 already parked
 outside the row of shops bookended by a bank or shops like
 elsa / coventry / diocletian’s magpie / and martyrs
 the store at which the little red convertible is parked
 to beg for us a discreet patience

 for some not to be in martyrs
 is itself a martyrdom
 for some the media haruspices
 taste like tripe
 eaten in a stew for breakfast
 while sitting in the church basement
 along with the village firemen
 and their families

 this is no au-delà
 no repugnant formula (or formulalessness)
 that the bird is also a bird-handler
 and a lure which might stay
 the emblem of the seal of plenty
 from being anxious or secure
 dead clods of sadness or light squibs of mirth
 there is no dithering phantom of romanticism here
 to stuff the tripe with its own
 but still
 it is hard to understand the existence of a shop called
 where the only products sold
 are falconry hoods made for humans
 made from the finest kangaroo leather
 and dutifully inscribed with the phrase
 metaxy eleutherōn kai dulōn
 (the vary meaning of the little red convertible)

calm joke wad hole

 here the periplus
 of the collective salvation
 is drawn out into a thin
 confusing filament
 nearly transparent
 and the monkey
 who twangs it
 looks haggard
 taking as her restbook
 the monochord omen
 of no twilight for aggregation
 the periplus stretched even thinner
 because even the fat walls
 of this or that
 corl only by cabin wits
 to the emotion
 of this frail
 baroque huddle
 glass anemone helmets
 whispher on the shelf
 and sulphur to the busket
 there is a foam
 which arises from the beating
 of the cream
 harsh lava columns coo
 the seam
 here the periplus
 of the collective salvation
 land rising up or singing down
 into the ocean
 geezer thrones


 and in my gumbs
 flags in the dust
 up high toward the decay
 dressed to kill
 and then afterwards
 where the theater turns inward
 on its outer self:
 and then came seven strangers
 6 were leavened
 one was fine (a tale)
 how the polished orb in fog
 was made to secure
 no say
 as prompted by tide hunger;
 the small urges
 in limit to their counties
 all the small infinities
 which do no hubris
 to the drawing
 the inflation of the doll
 over the weirder doll
 the joy !hwiche! interposed
 in the exchange
 of the hyperanimal
 ohne Zweites / ohne Spreu
 virgil beatrice
 whatever common roads
 take us around the viewing platform
 of the magical illness

Purple virtual capacity loans

 Some of the lice
 Alien abuse is
 And so on
 More than one

 Purple Answer
 Fan two
 Forced to comply with
 Weave chisel

 My saddle
 Learn smoked
 Bag reputation


 Around the purple lips
 Book Dong
 Divination or veil
 Flock owl

 Chisel dress
 Egg macro
 Pan ginger
 Line and line
 Li and so on,
 When the device
 Beast brother
 Dew will be

 Some bees
 White Road
 quiet and elegant
 Arc know
 A few pulls
 Each answer

Saturday, April 15, 2017

glossary habitus

 when tusks are bleached white
 eyesockets culled
 when black diamonds rim
 the hull who casts no burden
 and forehead too
 no hands but tusks
 to do the smooth labor
 of puncturing the eyes
 which like divans go no further
 than the page
 who presents them to the sublime porte
 or the serene air
 the untroubled turbulence
 which as the wondrous home
 of the spark and the carcass
 holds its iris of a tongue
 out sweetly
 to the closing age
 and jokes ~beware~
 of common stones
 which form the oracle
 of a miracle foliage
 thigh ringed
 and blistered

tender realms of image

 (catiline + connie = colleen)
 [minus anapaestic]

 close by
 within the transparent molecule
 of its vast rhapsodic omening
 could we not be there then
 if we could win (the hampers, the beans and rouge)
 back our solemn impersonal (ribbed
 for her majesty's secret service)
 personification of geometry (his not so special secret form)
 forum, the senators or even foam-cry members
 of the lurid old neovinium or ack-ack foam
 like asterisk spiders of human arms
 with a single cyclopian mouth anus eye ear
 to string them like beads on a yarn
 in which the actual complexity of the event
 or the actual complexity of the assemblages
 contained in the event was not lost
 to those who would have clarity
 beyond this stifling wound mobile
 close by
 it's very close now
 Guinevere is twin pink dog noses to your eyes
 the speaking with lips
 that could be towering vinyl
 housing rows of sleeping manatees
 their long fu manchu mustaches
 scribbling sleeptalkers sleeptalkers
 geef whut your wheel
 non-coral ordu ford you
 things have disappeared before
 but the halo of trees discerns
 it is close by
 within the transparent molecule
 where all of you are slaves
 within the knowledge of being
 that vast rhapsody
 could we not be there then
 the aqua colored emotion
 the sapphic poem to a mad teacher

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Great Saints of Nihilism Need No Hagiography

 close to ooze
 let's trudge
 the designs of the surface
 seem random
 oil and pus
 ulp and jackdaw gollossal
 finally some family barn enclosure
 i admire the strange electroplating
 before being forced
 into the foggy soph and cake-like
 sloop thug garage
 and made to attend politics
 each each wheat wheat
 with the children
 their little gifts of tools
 and strange faces
 the colored canyon walls in the distance
 the gumbones of a siren

Grove Derivatives

 i will wash you
 grace lifting
 the scissors which reside
 in their forlorn shower
 of hitchcock kelly banditry
 the iron helmet of the black night
 no longer so cold
 weird frictions make puppies
 from electrons
 while close readings need watering
 and clues like pipes from reservoirs
 how would we ever have decided
 on this remote desert paradise
 if we had not seen
 the beautiful sacrifice
 of its complicated fruit mask
 the heraldic insects with their tiny instruments
 which capture the live stream
 as it returns from its turn as debased caravan
 into the uniquely piquant statue of rhodes
 driver underground by peruvian contours
 for centuries beardless headless
 vijoah hob nuda glag pods
 the slender figure is the annointed
 electro-robotic lantern cabal
 with lamprey nipple cities
 with horse spiders teeming round
 its ancient stone pacifiers
 more smooth in the hush
 what is the culmination of our collective
 signifiers today
 they asked

 or sea brine booster pack
 a cloister
 of weirdly deformed melodies

 grace kelly
 bikini frankenstein
 up the beanpole
 to the moon


 (a figure of totemic avoidance common to all)

 if the Mukama is sick
 it is to be kept strictly secret
 but no one questions
 the existence of the Mukama
 as itself a sickness

 the red hot iron ball
 was lodged in its throat
 so that it could not speak

 in the very center
 of a forgotten continent
 this horned smoothly segmented
 magnetic statue is hovering
 you can see the hundreds
 of men and women (or animal words)
 carefully clinging to its red round lips
 or fat overshooting hillfort pīvari-fat
 ONTONIA place-trousers
 with flagstone plagena claws

 in the center of the Mukama's chest
 is a pausing space
 a place where the cranes dance
 tasting of tar or guitar
 with wise tea fog
 what else is the pure elementality of being
 but an hallucination
 within the distributed mind
 of space

 the muck of amor
 cum loud john beatty bunyoro
 and beat the fog carpets
 the frog carpets
 with your stiff wicker knot wand

 the wall's falling doughnuts
 picture triplets
 this comedia was built
 to be read

 rose-red lapis hare
 square purpose papyrus


 Multiply dance
 So far

 Fence and blossom
 Blanket is good
 All crossbow

 Gold scratch

 Surname surname
 The department is empty
 lie down
 Pose fly smoke smoked
 Minos stupid insanity
 Magnetic confusion
 Fluoride plugs
 Bull head withered several speeds
 in compass
 Encyclopedia of businessmen
 Knot honey morning
 A porcelain Cricket
 The best of the world
 Bite of the earth
 Destroy the scoop

the short apocalypse poem

 whatever suits you
 seer mongoose month
 white leprosy concludes us
 unfeigned desert
 it keeps hunting

completed task

 Write it
 To taste
 To learn or learn
 Live it
 Avoid taking advantage of the whole
 Moved out of love
 Gas lift
 Love greedy
 Mallard forgotten
 You envy a total of flying
 And then the song
 Rate and order
 To sign some mushrooms
 Cold light for a long time
 To sell


one more from the chinese palette:


 Answer arrows
 Some of the art
 The name is awkward
 Then inflammation
 Looking at the head of the first clan
 Wu foot skin
 Maternity this
 Seeking four too, calculation
 Helium evil my yarn
 Dancing down
 Also called to kill
 Cave grain
 Hair like
 By the rolling edge of the fierce
 sleep soundly
 Bean sad
 Each trial
 The ginger is away from the sense
 To Sui Sui
 The device
 Left behind


here is my first random scribble transliteration poem using the widget: beep! Trade for insects On the island. Tiger to bring heavy rain. Lord of the world Must library. Seedling election Bag repeated Some of the goods Cut stains Witch witch tiger Cold fools Follow the cooking Chen Guanchao said Lotusian love Learning swine

here is a little aleatory writing thing you can play with on google translate if you like.. there is a virtual hand-writing input widget now available and it will attempt to character match.. with a little effort you can get it to write poems.. pretty interesting really

in the dream

 i live in a loose community of post-apocalyptic highrise rooftop hotrod hodaddies.. the dead city (vaguely houston tx) has been converted into gardens and racing tracks using sections of the old road system.. in palapa-esque post-apocalyptic huts little psychobilly bands play and drinks are served, old movies are played on televisions.. i follow the narrative of two young friends as they take their monster truck into the outer jungle now simply called 'the urbo' where they scavenge computer parts and kitchenware, anything useful.. looking like ragged rockabilly zombis the two friends eventually leave the dirt paths entering the enjungled urbo and eventually their truck as well, and set out on foot into the lush mess. days later at the edge of a fetid swamp the friends find something strange.. resembling a cross between a termite mound and reims cathedral, the beautiful structure seems to be a protuberance from something more massive resident beneath the earth. finding a delicate and rather smallish entrance looking like a vertical eye the friends enter the hive. inside they find beautiful large stone hallways all perfect and new, graceful, clean and well lit and exquisitely gothic, and eventually a chamber with a large table set with strange food and dishes and beyond are set two enormous doors which subsequently open.. out of the dark come strange beings, all of them feminine, and seemingly drawn by the hand of lucas cranach the elder. nude and dark-skinned, and covered in soft-looking pale white fur, they surround the friends and chitter lovingly, speaking in a clipped musical tongue.. eventually, a taller woman steps through the crowd, who while very similar to the other beings seems slightly different, more intelligent perhaps, perhaps not, but different, her skin is lighter but of a greenish cast, and her fur is light red, or strawberry blonde perhaps.. she speaks in a heavily accented english: ve urr de teratessians, uv de narrikeen.. one of the friends bursts out laughing and says; hogballs in monkey boots, we've found the yeti-gal utopia, cookie monster! the woman smiles serenely but looks slightly disappointed.. y'all wanna go for a ride? says the other rockabilly zombi. some of the teratessians are giggling. the woman then takes out two small brooches from a beaded bag she wears on her delicate waist chain. like fragile jeweled spiders she attaches them to the foreheads of the erstwile visitors who immediately look up and begin to sing in perfect pitch, a winding entwined melody like an ornamental numerical sequence.. finally the rockabillies grow silent and ask quietly in one voice, may we join your argenthonio to study the ancient narrikeen? they are both given small red fruit-like funguses and welcomed into the hive with gentle caresses and singing..

in the dream

 i live in an industrial commune which actually has quite a lot of equipment. it's a decent facility with an extensive machine shop, wood-working area, complex fabrication machines etc., but as i go to lunch one day with a friend i notice it has a tiny lock on the door like the ones they put on older monochrome luggage of the early 60's. it's really just an ornamental stamped metal lock involved in an unlikely and frankly rotten looking improvisation of soggy looking wooden slat-pieces. then the person i am with says, 'is vegan okay?' i reply with 'is it indian or persian food?' the person says 'it's martha's cafe'.' then i say something like 'i don't want no bad hippy food..' the person leaves for martha's. i stand around and finally meet the neighbors, two guys have opened an 'umbrella hat' factory next to the industrial commune presumably to get cheap fabrication services for their aluminum tube stock cutting requirements or something i decide. they come out of the doors in a blast of horrid solvent smells, and i think these guys must be brain dead to work in that, and when they talk they definitely do sound brain damaged, but only in terms of motor skills, their minds are sharp. they produce gorgeous, intricate, elaborate 3 to 5 tiered pagoda umbrella hats, some have minor fin-like side umbrellas, some of the struts are elongated and read as fringe, etc.. really weird pop art i think, but these guys look atrocious, even their faces are kind of sagging.. i think them (thank them) for sharing themselves, and politely leave to try to find an indian restaurant in the neighborhood.. i end up eating in a place called 'the roman cave' in which i do find an indian food stall, but don't like the looks of it either. i finally find martha's inside the 'roman cave' underground shopping area and have a nice Spaghetti alla puttanesca. my commune co-worker shoots me the peace sign from a another table where he's eating a sprout sandwich with maybe a bean patty..