Frame Linguor

osculum hyppyset
your phane pou
little foo ten

tenebrium's berkelium
take or hold up in both hands
natterbraiding
the nagging nagas

phone Eunice to Oncle
Oncle Hey-See
take hole long leg
to hole

assculum hippy set
hippy touching fingertips
to amputato

mark brevity
counterlog
ascii-vere
rubefecisti

what twan builds up
opana tilts down
inculcating toroid pillow brassier

careful kuacha

yùnmǔ
deicio

thorned prawn crown
reacts to writhing drain

Mirrored Cubist Panther Beast (Tollroad Wanderlust)

the crystal monkey-cocoon-doorknob
kep' spinnin' and spinnin'
owling my eyes' atrancement further
until French doors in my throat
tracheally
a lumpy iridescent witch head came out then
with something jumbly flowing under the skin
on the left side

like rainbow fish-scaled cellulite
its surface flexed and shifted
but the schitzopodal eye-penises
remained rigid

knock knock
said fecund fence

glottal hey-zeus sea urchin halo
eware!

the naked being shimmered
its skin covered in a swarm of
hyper-illuminated gekko babies

langscape
with ultramarine longhouse

ultramarine balloon cigar
glottal French door owling
crystal monkey-cocoon doorknob head

he likes sweet apples

Negative Remains of "Line"

Annoying and Impoverished
the species lingered on for a bit longer
but was not exactly worth the effort

the massive social expenditures excited no one
corruption was how to put it
uninteresting ie the standard (normal)

the species itself seemed incapable of anything
but reruns

even the individuals who exalt
the individual seemed to have no stomach
for the more alchemical solutions
ie achieving escape velocity

barely muddy
consciousness continued on
as a sort of broken record

history like a hiccough
and Phanes

like a burning light in the sky
whose reality
as a sort of anti-divinity
no one could quite 'get'

when all it really meant
was

'slow organic engineering'

or "experimental breeding"

memics floundered
and died

and the only thing left
was bickering
and silence
every point is valid
and invalid

matter is always
a wheelchair for memics

idealism has been disproven
and one wonders
at how poignant

life itself as aphorism

earth is interesting
but ultimately
an 'objet cautionaire'

a tiny tale to illustrate
the conundrum of complexity
to the utopia
of nothingness  /

guazzabuglio

skinhead daruma duck approaches the azure magi
(quello che guazzabuglio deve leccare la carne luce per diventare)

I Find Their Drawings Admirable.

Die Skizze ( ital. : schizzo ) ist der Versuch der Darstellung einer Idee , auch ein Entwurf , ein Konzept , ein erster Überblick. The term is used in different contexts. Der Begriff wird in unterschiedlichen Zusammenhängen benutzt.

zuuf
zuuf

that does not strive for univocity (university)

'this problematic cult of the ecstatic society'

Contre-Attaque

fluid ivory
to
within the imaginal
or deep within the valley
of its books
mahogany gondola chair
for green leather
or maroonings

semiosis
the ducking stool
vellum a relation
front or back
to decide

each hologram
placed before the jungle
in silence
the hands clasped
then laid palms up
and somewhere
in the library
a scene

the youth must grapple the snout
of the enormous dog
and hold it closed with both hands
wrap his or her legs around the raging torso
and fall

then tear into the neck of the beast
with the curved metal thorn worn at the end of the chin

science
is not
a fiction.

My Private Political News.

I've been playing ping pong with a 49 year old Vietnamese man
at 4 in the morning, Monday through Friday, or at least 2-3 days
in there.  For awhile he was hitting it to my forehand so I could
practice my slam shots, then we both started working on hitting
our backhands as hard as possible. We need more good balls.
We both hate chasing the damn balls under the vending machines.
Lately, we've both been training a 22 year Senegalese man how
to play the game. Our first struggle was with his grip. He had yet
to stabilize his grip and would often find his fingers in the way
of the ball. Once we had his grip somewhat cured, we began
to train him in the watching of the small orange projectile. There
is always something meaningful going on at 4 in the morning.

Solid Rhombohedral City Survives Avalanche

black salt grain
in tweezer

red dracula tongue

enter

Sloping Rails

tonite i would bury
its faded brown obvious

bai mu er
buy more air

each snake of medusa's head
has the sleepy loping wig
of snow fungus

and like kindling in a cup
there is frost worked over the blanket
iron chief and tony
are shaving by the aspens
and where the stream turns improbable

a huge ruddy baby
buried up to the neck
is singing
the horses nudging wet noses
at its enormous fuzzy ears

these tin beans
are compact
jet engines

Hive Physics Torking Zoo Horns

Zap Kidget

how could he
have harpooned the head
of Jeff Kikoons
while standing on a sled?

S. Kilmore

you hate when
people make baby talk
about orangutangs
wearing tricornes
and ripping the skins
from banana android starlets
which spray sake'
glitter
and high pitched shakuhachi

tricornes decorated like cakes
gold buntings
golden cicadas
red transparent rubbies
like boodoo

take shrine of ruby boomerangs
take jimmy to green batter

if we love the territory
then gateway country islands
link protest to
"Theatre of Orgies and Mysteries"

human small
space large

gold coins of austria
need hippie farm house owners
with inflatable panta lawns

for giant crystal hive vehicles
and hair cocoons
sporting
monocle

what is sensitive?
what is full?

the
buttery nipple cameras
of Peter O'Toole
and the little people.

Romanesque Aliens.
Neck Togas.

Efreet

fay dem dee
bitore's clee harneysid
vitches
nop dull wanna
oh bee

bee
green in the suck
bald and white
for the clover of ashes
its groom
or watch
bicorne onna thromboid
pink vikar diabolik
cigarillo toward the xeroxing
filter laid in manger
of mangrove
eyeshadow its carnal repletion
chrome lip balloon hovering
stainless
steal this

they cannot destroy the monster
and pain tired is eating us all
and the pain tired
and the pain
tired

i am running down
down hill
ill
its dead omen
i own
still

high plateau
looking out
toward the empty
desert

printing cartidge

niagara
naga
bagoo

green bee-suck
clee

clio
sudden harnesses
el ogo

just try the updated
blah blah interface

Some Thoughts on "Post-Pop Punk"

I'll be in a show at Cohn Drennan Contemporary Gallery here in Dallas, Texas starting November 19th called Post-Pop Punks, and strangely enough I've become sort of sensitived or magnetized to the possibilities of the thematic. I guess part of what I've been thinking about recently is Baudrillard's final book _The Agony of Power_ and his construction of the concept of hegemony, which in my understanding is sort of like post-human ideology in the sense that ideology has become post-social or post-humanist. Now, this way of speaking isn't going to clear things up, you have to read the book, and a lot of it is things we heard before, but more or less, you get the idea that "humans + their own abstraction = aporia" which is more or less Grotesque Theory 101, but, his description of "The Hegemony" makes me think of things like Clockwork Orange, and really, of a kind of "Pop-Apocalypticism". So I guess in a way, I am kind of looking at Pop being an analogue of democracy, and punk being the aporistic hegemony. We intuit, or discover by apperception, that say, Democracy is now the Post-Democractic hegemony, and he goes on to cloud this further with things like Convivial Deregulation, as if somehow, Baudrillard sees Orthodoxy as a kind of resistance. That's his kink. He plays his instrument. Anyway, something I saw recently, like today, kind of brought some of this thinking into focus for me, because I have made quite a bit of work very similiar to this.

At Sprueth Magers in Berlin, John Baldessari has a new show up which definitely has some kind of Post-Pop Vibe to it, but I'm going to stick some Baudrillard in here, and make an assertion as to why materially, these works represent something of this Pop-Apocalyptic Hegemony. I'll just assert it now, though it is pretty lame. Now think, Ecstasy of Communication combined with say 'printing technology'.. these are inkjet canvas prints slightly modified by painting. Check them out at Contemporary Art Daily.  In Art Historical terms, they aren't all that different from what JB. hey that's odd. Jean Baudrillard and John Baldessari have the same initials. weird. They aren't all that different from what John has always done, except, personally I like them better. Anyway. I would insert the Baudrillard bit, but it just doesn't sit well without reading into and out of it..

If interested in the _The Agony of Power_ at all check out the section called "Where Good Grows".. He more or less says we have entered into a final revolution which is in effect a nihilistic instrumentality, and that our own revolutionary praxis is to end the human, or some such. Rhetorical art. Instead of typing that stuff in,

I thought I would copy some stuff out of _The Jet Age Compendium: Paolozzi at Ambit_. This is from 1972

from a piece called _The unfilmed Scripts of Paolozzi_:


OLYMPIAD
When the cuttlefish is brought to
light, touch would have had to be
carried by business -- and might
surely have been used to convey
feverishness as well.

NUN
When I think of a good, pure
rigid and as though ironclad;
when it is rarified, it hovers
weightless, incomplete, immobile.

OLYMPIAD
the second body is garden magic;
but from the bamu to the Kerewa
area the stress is on the revela-
tion to boys and girls of the
secrets of adult sexual life.

NUN
Who then can teach me about the
logical foundations of mathematics?

MONKEY
They call me imitator, and in my
role as such I have made many dis-
coveries and copied out the most
dreadful inventions, phones as well.

And just to follow that up, something I thought was kind of sad and funny in a punk-pop-hegemonic way from Roberto Bolaño's _Tres_:

I dreamt I was fucking Carson McCullers in a dim-lit room in the Spring of 1981. and we both felt irrationally happy.

Well, he got the year exactly right I think on that one, and what is the object of contemplation in such an utterance? Is it the genre of melodrama? Is it what things we turned away from in the 80's, those of us who were 'of the 80's' in a manner of speaking. Only once in my life have I seen a person with a Raymond Pettibon tattoo, and the person I saw had the tattoo of the Pettibon image which was a crucified autopsy of a baby, and the caption which I don't know if the person had the caption, but the caption was something like, "I was a medical student at the time of my conversion.." The person with this tattoo was at a Black Flag show at a bar called _The Twilight Room_ where you could see things like men in suits but with mohawks, having martinis with Harley Davidson biker dudes. I saw a girl giving a blowjob in full view of everyone in a booth. Punk in the 80's was not a myth. It was real. Just like the 60's, only creepier, shittier, and absolutely fantastic.

studiogram from the saturday painter

The blind gnawing is at least a hat!

shimmer
beaker
brujo
muto
seen-

between the planks
a primal originelle
eye-pod

a primal seen scene organelle
looka! looka!
LUCA!

pyrophosphatase
lurks in the skin
of the cthontic friend
cthonic fiend

how like
a symbol
is a handshake.

Disco Brand Caverns Presents

Black velvet square
of crushed gallium arsenide
you are a small park
beside the grinding vortex
coarse
sparse
Eumenides
wheeling pregnant
in the fulgurous caverns

i imagine the small dark hound
ubiquitous tousik, tubbed mondial
that stares toward the pulsing
rhythmic windows
of the tornado

i imagine Gina
symmetric solar opening
whose afterlife could gimme
and whose floating
wot-el-jimmy and suspended
in pink gelatin medium to be
tended by yordling dwarves
in lavender latex gloves
and vinyl jerkins
splattered with eggy oils

A lustreless protrusive eye

Stares from the protozoic slime

At a perspective of Canaletto:

he was seized by the dancers, by whom he was dragged about and scourged with flowers till he fell into a swoon. When he began to revive one of the group approached him, and told him that his punishment was the consequence of his rebellion against that power before whom all things bend; that there was but one remedy to heal the wounds that had been vorlotramed; bedmuncialix...

Avec trois nez et trois pipes, le détective malades ancienne erré, en reniflant. «Voici la guitare comme une bouteille de cuir sur lequel je joue le désert du Sahara. Rien à boire à l'intérieur. Rien à boire. Rien. J'ai suivi cette histoire à la fois jour et nuit, et surtout, il ya une élégance émoussé, encore adoucie, la forme, à être révélé. L'élégance monstrueuse avec laquelle la nuit s'estompe dans l'obscurité est donnée sous forme palpable par des routes qui montent vers le ciel et réaliser le long de ces machines d'auto-illumination. J'ai conjoindre avec auto-foudre. Lorsque l'agrandit halo et se révèle comme une bouche, le corps se révèle comme une langue, et collé-out, pour ainsi dire. "

Nostrilla.

The wire we found was rotted through. I wonder about the reality of things, but usually the message is that things and people (in their lies) are wondering about the reality of me. I'm saying, "Hey man (woman), my hands are up.. Yes, I can hit the ball back, but my sides are sore. I want to know what is happening inside me. Both the literal and the figural are things which elude." I take a small drink and with a flash know that I am alleviating my well-groomed coffee addiction with a slightly less well-groomed alcohol caprice. Sometimes, I also think, most of culture is about a process of lying. There's a message behind the lie. "I'm in this prison of lies and silence, and it makes me not like you anymore." All these things seem unspeakably boring. I think upon the donkey. I think of how just this simple quiet f(a)un could be made to burst forth and conquer a thousand peoples at once. This is easy shit. Look at how dull and pathetic it is, bombers low to the ground carrying mass communities of flies in tight-skinned giant golems of panty hose, They float ominously down like spirits in comas and settle softly to release the plague of classicism. Painted boxes of broken pottery. It says on the side: We deliver! Only those that can't dance themselves cheer the dancer? No. Dancing is the eternal child beyond all determination. We are determined to foul your array, to split and demagnetize your syntaxitron. We'll have you crying at your dead grandmother's feet by noon. Nobody cares in the rainforest. Caring about this is against the law. I've used my dick a lot. There are churches. I'd use it more, but I don't want all my time to be spent in houses that feel like stopped-up noses. I need something like mystery and Spain, and you send me back to Seven Eleven for more Mexican beer. Who are you, and how did you get in my bankbook with all those t-shirt designs? There are unbelievably gross and retarded people in there. I hate saying that, but how dense and painful does the world need to be? I don't judge things at all, but what do things want looking like this all the time? What does the goddamn world want? I'm sick of trying to listen to all the crackling and screeching. To find the message is like having to pick the kernals out of the turd one by one and line them up, then make a model of their "positionality".. If man is blind, and made from masa, then all that says is that the religion of the grotesque is universal and old, and we are all members of the Dirteater family. Bull-leaping in the Augean meme-jar-din. Like Roberto Bolaño says in Tres, "Our own shit is eating us." You see how he interrupts the circuit between Stendahl and 'tile junkie'.. He knew Stendahl liked rough teevee. You see the connection he makes between Thomas DeQuincey and Revolution. "It's a mark." Revolution is the opiate of the m)asses.. Revolution is hiding and dying...

A Mushroom For My Dorothy Said Terence.

for a prophecy of
this Dorothy
and toto
says DeQuincey

we are ordinary folks
not Terence McKenna
listening down into the cosmic
fungus brain

wrong!
Dorothy is fungus.
Dorothy is fungus.
Dorothy is purple stagshorn computation
and nothing very ordinary
ever happened anywhere, for all

is spotted dick,
toto guitar
sex thrills and sunbathing
the true body
mycelial and immortal
suffers in ecstasy from sea blasts
covered in furze and broom

high velocity particles squirt out
like glitter lasers
from the blowholes which flank
your joints

to exalt by humble faith
yeah yeah yeah
Terence McKenna
found a mushroom which said
I am older than thought in your species

Dorothy and toto too
wild things grew in vertical
upright aquariums

SHE

would hang out with low people
in Racedown and Alfoxden
and pretend to learn something interesting

thinking all the while
of studio 54
and what it thrill

BOTANY
IN BOOGIED BOTHER
BOTANY
Oh collective green
this Turban hideaway of glass

our seed
our spore
our dust disc medley

Red Buttle, We Spy Thee Stuffing Your Wheat Collar..

haloed
are the twin logics
of the vestibule

one ascending in darkness
the other falling back
into light

soft yarage for the groundling
and bulloes for an inside
its damascene eye
meteor amidst the clapping

all wild in cities
the bodies
peak the furcula
with wouhlechung

fright peg slippers
the peeweep waves under solo
moorlands

grief-mouthed
drone lands
to camouflage the star runchies
freckened to beyond

fredon mage fate flat
inferior pepo
of dogged sucking yarrum

with cold black pearls for eyes
come hollow into this music's
abrax sarpis arbor

a meld for indehiscent
and reniform plumicorns
pulsing on the crown
of the truglodyne

El Cellphone's Water Cannon

he was like a little white child
with eloi hair
a blonde afro
a ringlet bomb

if you'd sucked the helium
out of his skull
all that would be left
might be an empty trawler

bumpy like a crab
and pink like a carnival ride

you can replace the softest and most erotic parts
of any human with a crab part
and suddenly you'd be privy
to the secret of celebrity

blocks of quivering sperm
like jello
sit on the docks for days spoiling
until a little man with a hose comes by
and washes them off

you can image
blowing a hole
in a big cube of taupe colored jelly
with a high pressure water hose

you can imagine that scene taking place
inside a sombrero
worn by your lover
in a pink suit (no crab parts in evidence)

Have Mercy Baby

pets that capture your heart
like the hairy albino longbean

its black scarf
the perfect evidence
of avant-garde treatments

its candy glass switchblade
mohawk
audible unborn
to terrible timings

pets

the world pet
like ornery grandma
she walks off senile
balls between her toes
nail gun at the ready
pathetic

most pets
you feel sorry for people
who have to work in a submarine
environment
the sharks
the real business people
that have to track and hunt down
every single meal

and they aren't stopping off
in a little cafe' to paint their toenails
their teeth are ripping through the gumbs

culture
like a filth devourer
is hearty and futile
and like a shark
to grow
it must hunt
and track down every color
of toenail polish

poodle shark
gives a bouquet
of banal sex
to cretin garr bone

Rerum

ius?










ius cannot be exactly translated from latin into english.









juice?



use?









Nose veiled in pussy?



Nosse, velle, posse (infinitum)?









Sleep trickles to the ear, and the sore back tends to the ageless lambing.









Law? Right? Reason?









Nature takes juice.









And columns of groaning muscle



bask in the sunset.









We peer as through a lens at the created and uncreated world.









We peer at juice.









We are aquilegas, discerners of water.









In the npwEs (nose)



one finds the viri (man)...









Within the civil we have founded



its own outside, as return, de rerun Naturae:









O Marvelous Venus



there are balloon octopui on our backs









Nil fieri ex nihilo, in nihilum nil posse reverti

Untitled

Untitled from Dafna Maimon on Vimeo.

El Culophone and Chew-Pee...

El Cellphone,
Why do hatchet-faced mens twist penguins
like lemons into the knickers?

Chupey,
the knickers are fast, long as a mountain
in wind and a burro goes there
like an accordion of squid-salamander skin,
like a skull whose body (the metro-burro)

is the clacking castanet head
of El Medusina..

El Medicina?

Sea.
Cucumber.
Gooey Duck.
Ding Dong.
Heteroclite Pump.

Snake jawed cast a net?

See.

Indra rides a burro
down into the mine of balls
where he finds an old head
stinking like feet.

Sea. Feat?

Stink.

El Cellphone.
Why do the poor manufacture more of themselves?

Because they are wily like the burro.
A burro will wander for years have enough food, do all the right things
to stay alive. He can find food, shelter, water, living is easy for the burro
because he is wily. She is wily.

But when the burro sees another burro doing anything, he becomes stubborn.
He would rather die than let the other burro learn anything new.

The burro is altogether
wily
and stubborn.

But not Medusina?

No, Medusina
is like a twisted penguin
in my knickers.

She's like two-dollars
at a football game
where the beer is $2.10.

She has a big snake in her knickers
and knows right where to stick it.

She'll stick a snake
right up your burro!

The Passion of Anna Amathiemiasthai

at bottom (en bythoi)
as the agent who removes
the nous

noise from the puppy

at bottom
jooooce (ljus)

this image (mathesis)
to remove both good sense
and drunkeness (languaged circularity)

sophon as soft faun

wisdom
itself a puppy

suffering
all the enthusiasmos
but never knowing
whenceforth it came

noose / nous

en bythoi
(at bottom)

bottomlessness
anathymiasthai

all together
set apart
(panton kechorismenon)

while gathering simple pinecones one day
(mathontes)

Golden Foil

O billow, pillowed bodies
to the heir entrance a dyne
whole mondoi or monody exploded

Lord Monboddo
eyes replaced by augury's oil
aurum and toil to commence

tipped appeal
putting pear for tower
where pearl could perform
the whole heel
as the soft white titanium shoe
moves molten through
faun filters

Lord Monboddo
as each explain
see how its brain under vacuum glass
secretes a patterned sweat

and if snake or reeds
they give more of same
the marks
the gnarlish wedding
of the inkpot
to the throat-stringed cloud

harps as propeller blades
to lift the pillared jar
as pillowed bodies
march up
and into dread

and pass through
its true regality
is a flag
which flaps from a narrow slit
and may retract

that's the end
of it

tongue terminus terran fault line becoming

pi for conic aureum
takes compact bodies to integer

germinum

neomonody
is burnished
by learned suppers

half faces to ward
the tasting leaves
should spread
an innocent day

ring torment
its bed

a halcyon siren construct

gilled suns
in stemless lotus

Prank Hole

to knock forlorn in the neighbor
its discourse engine too rare
the poem describes procession

knock knock knock
on the oversized head
the face-plate Venetian
blind

light
as if in a figure
of eight

horses following horses
to the storm

nay wlat electrone
fune-mi

soil
the trumpet
and cloud
the white brass eye

the shattered arc
of milk walls

seep single
cyclopian
oak oobit
and measure
the autonomous
if ever green
hand bottles
are all wan
warm worm and
they could telescope
before any water

silk divers
to wound ear

misunderstanding
within the emblem's structure

ourali
carry on

cumber
fit
fathom

the caravan of pugilists
keep kippers
in a cup

The Bunkum Squad Reveals a Faulty Seal

tremendous bassoon ratchett
for imix transform
the dual pink tapir snout
shifted back
'til sea lion mohawk
the flabby supple
external clitoral brain analogue

cobra hood eye opened
and made unto sail
to carry the colonial
pony tale

one if by land
and two if by sea
and three if from Mu
underground
with a drilling machine

swap the sexy between the Morlox
and the Eloi
and suddenly

John Wayne
sits regally
the Caliph of all Ages
surrounded by his royal guard
of Bjorn Borg clones

looking sheepish

and the whole palace
is like a fantastic log cabin
but the logs are all covered
with precisely
and close cropped green grass
and Medusa wanders there

her eyes
like luminous tennis balls
her breasts heavy
with tiny transparent volkswagons
driven by Popeye tadpoles
with swee' pea flipper blanket foreskin

all for the reason
an ear of corn
carved from lavender jade

Dingo Small Yanamanon.

how come your titty
is like a big brown thumb?

how come the mountain
grey brain dumb?

wagoneer.
final jeopardy.
thomas.
hard on.

do you wander in prehensile
foods?

do you gander
where miniscule ducks
enact a flaming beard
of meat robotic decibel.
the truth.

harnath.
namasmarana van sant:

or let a single name
be it cellphone or coochie
dwell in our speech-
such is ausvildsterity...

when white planets open harpoon grooming huts,
violopia!

Tribelous Lesion

Summer trills the top
where the world form crosses
its spin by oblivion's welling
inkum

creamed daylight
to the beckoning face

o weary thorn
whose screeching whip
the white antenna noisomes
in the pit

young skin so tenderly milked
its thistle path
the brine of wine and tears

come closer
sacred rome

for one eye dangles
from the loam
the sky
and the author
interearthed

nothing homely
but homely
side shelf its pure radiance
the klaxon matheme arcs
the unknown substance

hyle to the green grass
hyle to the wind mowing formlessness

some synder sly to the roof string getaway
smoke supple spirit
of the mystery constant

wystic foo marl
qwerty
poiu

Laytron Hisses On The Image (Agora-Other)

to the alligators
who inhabit
the fountain

an aristocratic
unicorn
with the eyes
of a moth
and a saddle
made from a dictionary
opened upon

minotaur
or minasragrite

Mardyx Comme Blas

trichoferricluse

the iron throat worm recluse's
wonder house
float stone

where magnet bends meal
light cubes caution
its maternal est nest
or gland brother's
jade hominy-washing bubble yolk

thin toy avenue of sweat
if toose the kill-bride's ivory talent chin
her pure nails
like tongues

cold conch monocle
the eye hiding
dolphin penis caesar

A Green Hat

body
bodies
boddity

the jungle passage
that leads down to the beach
in the sight of hollow
raging
mountains

leibniz watching a puppet
monadology and nomadology
consistently molecular
the strings and stirrings
of chimerasty

body
bodies
boddity

the jungle passage
that leads down to the beach
in the sight of hollow
raging
mountains

oviri vivid vahvo
faaturuma, natürlich

Ping Pong?

in the night, the voices return:

two images of human happiness stare at each other,
as through a two-way mirror.

1. taking snapshots of happy beach-side days, the human being, or family
sits before the great mother's oceanic body, relaxing in a vision of surfaces.
what is there to do but bathe in a four billion year old enigma?

2. fascism. all things return to both violence and organization, the body
relaxing in a vision of surfaces. when sympathetic cells reach their peak
organization, their energy continues on as culture, literature, or violence.

in the day, the voices retract.

cars move upon the road.
towels lay wet in the basin.

Mong To Mand: Trub Toom Mala Bidogo, Homme Nidogo Imsulu Ingo

in the ever increasing wind
the dour dog had begun to howl
but the sound now mixed in through the window
had become something stranger
an improbable foot
dragging a horn-like titular bell
an apocalyptic and chiliastic vision
of the instrument
as a random bleakness
a conkatanon

green muscular shell throat
whose pearl alveoli
the hollow commentary
irritation into smoothness
howl mixed by wind and window
the wound of loneliness
the bereft howl whose loneliness
is the wishing for meaning
or its absense

susceptor

cough

gas

eye-stinging before the golden idol
its arsenic make-up the silver masque
of subtle hands

upon my eyes

dry and olive river
your submerged cornea
the wrinkled diamond mand

oifin
alifrun
fidulno
nif bihul mihot
nof gut mifuti siful no miboof

side flutes stain the snouth
the fall approaching
for cloud puppet's heavy water ingo

kalo
to unifrom ingo teth
ingo teth the calibra flouta

cammermeine main
nay ma
minoa

Minoa Teth Neshax

Wild Wet Maiden, Your Great-Thumb So Green Above The Aloe Groan..

goodbye summer kiss
the rising chains of harmony~ bliss

watermelon launching with velvet saddles
the cool green liquid monkeys
and their terracotta cellphone pants

playing chess in a tree
with a cool green liquid monkey
whose schitzopodal cacti-cyclopian

goodbye summer kiss
the rising chains of harmony ~bliss

girl with two canteloupes in her frock
is singing through a shimmering bone
playing terracotta staircase notes on a
lichtenhylopodiaphone

summer

like a snickering bandito above the waist
reveals its fishnet stockings

silver werewolf eel
like a wave of shaggy silver trinkets
millions of summers and kisses
and harmonies
all interlaid
in the winnowing banjo's
smammoth western

Friend Program, Cornea Cornerstone The Throatling Girl

sour eden puppetry
to the hole

continents of silent mint
for their monastic exuberance

eyecups
tipped by tea
to underwater miniatures
a feeling

something happened
by an old barn

its being inside a horse
vanitas and hubris overcome
thy rod and thy staff
discomfort me

looey
tiffany

hock red granite
wilds of soft purple
storming

Albino No Knees A Doggie O

howl
for the yum anniversary project
dinner plates drilled for masks
black spaghetti shooting out the eye holes
then become
black onyx arrows

-

hyphenomenon

undulata-data

brass staircase up to the green felt cabinet
where the killing tusks are kept
whose scrimshaum naum

flaum wone homble den coulomb

curth corp
its fallen shell behind
a windowed grove

a sky blue glove hand
to lead the air

air over the sparlking l'and

o give this grey frost monkey boulevard
howl for the yummy anniversary project

dinner plates drilled for loinclothes

crotchless dinner plate masks
green oil
in shot glass

Fibrous Effigy Colluder

tiny typer
traking vacuum clogs
this alpine meadow hogwash
holy sign-your-eating
to wear the wooden shoes
of flying dutchmen

a lion bites my hand in the dream
we track the doubled kindness on crust of green
like a sky above the pie

the tiny pink fanged grub-masks
the tiny typers
take them under the green pie crust

ants whose unity head
the hoisting of the soft dangerous mask
by the hard dangerous typers

the greek letter
with teeth
is decorated now
with pink corn

and lions with manes
of pink corn

goofing on Magritte in the Studio

Hyperbolic Pre-Twenties Humbaba Yaga Garaga

satan
like his horns
were two pink fleshy warts
would say

nalama im slopane
sony bugbear the nipple wart
a laser carving

satak
like her horns
were two big fleshy nipples
would say

cock wheel ourobouros
come in lab
the milk white albino labia
used as brake pad
wee wee tom sawyer
pecker
picket

PAT SAJAK
like his KOJAK mask muttered
rubber cock horns spritzing coffee
rubber panzer
like a dry mount cello phane
oblong diamond boxes
herd whore horde

ordnance applied
to toxic gold
goo gods runny
under parasols

hot wax
faux poly
rectum
injection

To an Armenian Dancer

gorky
hanged
in connecticut

these burnt adolisques now charcoal
figures laid this and that
among the tiered array

the liquid helium
unlatent retardaire
moving from the compressor
the collapsulator of matta

matta 1
matta 2
matta door
totem robotics

12000 charcoal nude sculptural adolisques
laid on stainless steel tiers

their song
their cryo

is the airlessness
of fate

vosdanik adoian
1904

come dancing
into the world abstraction

gas plume pen
1948 suicide

barn burn
or paint fen

placing the broken neck
back into the nous
back into the ought
of mania

Genie Ruteni sur-Rance

the hollow thong-
                          |-bell frank-
                                           |-stein
pebble bust
where each pebble
bursting
trust

in thong we thing
ball flank hollow flung
its quarrel to the arrow string
thlong

arrow head to bell
but between tiny tip and grey
dull arc

pebble

in our thong
a pebble

a piano chin water pebble fountain
a salamander's candelabra gills

frogmen swimming out
carrying the glowing brain coral
busts

veristic
chilled

by surface runnel
marked

each buth
sling
or jelly

holding thong
holding seizure

Painting Less On Air Than Water..

feathered seal sphinx limousine
in dust distance would you shed
a brass eye hinged on an oceanic purge,
for twin cherubs enact your nostrils
through sino-tibetan limbinesses
flaring many trumpets.

generous.

for if a rock then gives a flower,
your mirrored table must reveal
a map on hovering buttocks,
a mouth in oval singing

ooniversallee.

the striped stick
replaces the beard of mystery.
the lamp of love
goes flat against the dense wringing
of day. Diogenes. sad.

in trousers. huge.
like a doll
of the quarry.
newspaper boat for hat.

orange sweater, fat.
the carved rock
will never be a cube again,
but may pose
in the corona of dog
wild lime fog green nimbus
its fountain shedding heirloom shimmering
against obsidian obelisks
these wet theorbo
scubans..

dates'
carnelian
whether.

babes loosed
on ambling globular
typhlosolar vessels.

Ursula

mechanitis polymnia.
jugurtha
noctis
meseme.

in hallowed dread,
diva fausta,
ombra adorata.
se croyait un peu,
fecunditis Crescentini.

like toad chairs
for turn toes
before the velvet rumpus
and the exalted return.

a supreme art
of ornament,
the seashore sky
at Mergelina.

Caprice,
an island
at midnight.

Trap Vapors In Pavement, Troupe Require, Loupe Din Joule

fac dinell
loo

for in them
the foreign

thinly forged
gumbs be yond
to stretch a pink spinning wheel
between each teeth

how dim
the javelin
how thin
its dusk
to fly

flies scattering.
the economics.
the piercing shadow,
on.

fac dinell
loof a aloo
pinto

weep to pencil
skin made to a burning
in cool stone the silent eye
a garden
its round shell covered up
transparent

only the light
only the light returns
from leaves each sun
they leave

radiant and radians
black sequelae union
or unit's favor

arc echo locus succor rank gnarl
to run

uru nall
ogmanuru
fel noc vul

hold nose garden spherical
pinch forehead hook
to enter
yellow stem neck if snap
pea

brain hover
before mist

diamond cube
bohong vala

this weekend in the studio with Kara

the thing i am working on

Kara's piece (her painting my drawing)

Poem For Mina Loy

for a slippery anvil to burst the pit
rise upon the day
in a coupe de ville headache
advil, the hat
the white chalk hat carved such and such
and that
pedigrees mainly detract
or plaid
or vans padding around the main frame

'this is the mainframe of my discontent'
etc.

loggias:

A Poem for Arthur Cravan


Mina waited, and waited
and the breath of trees
and the sleeping V's
from Swabia were wanting
fists fuming like sugar doves
upon the valley of its nose


just old clothes is King Arthur
a little girl
now older
milking a cow
rattles on her shoulders


the long caress
before the advil
of catttle


if Trieste now yoked to a thermal bottle
we go to Mexico
mixed icons in a bag


pale fu manchu
all foam is mandarin
and the rock
which sits up to beg
looks just like




a philosopher

Hyleth Peers Onto Fiercely Washed Stone

imboscata's grandeur
the cool stone-almost blue
the smooth and rising
rounded wedges
the ceiling whose
deformed determination
escapes
no inspection to those
who arrive
a bubble ancient
and pierced
itself an echo
of the lower chamber
the burning am bush
vigilia
its leaves the city
for the integer
the pactitious galley
where change
as vigidity in others
lays a shadow
like an egg
the cracked ulterior
poecile, poematic
drunken snails in ink like blood
fry and rosty the black viga heavy
broth whords
liege poustie
their felt girdle faces
a fall among cultivars
and borders
drawing up
the sweet scarce
environment
fen nominal
in all hearing kythed
by a peerless hostage ship

contemporary


companion
to the exiled

Is Irronism Paranoia?

All Victory! O Lie!
All Victory! O Lie!

alveoli.

La doublure, Janet.
Lord Auch, Adrien.

In this single glory, the star in the forehead,
the compass in the lamp, the genie with the shell
of a hermit crab...

schitzopodal
schitzomodal

the book of breathing.

Pi Chassis Vall. Clope Inding. Undine Fluellum.

fondling macadamia
the nuts line up
in the exercise yard
our tow lines wither
the theater of cruelty
hiss no more
whose courteous stump
requires a snake's tongue
crutch
a magenta logic
cashew
pistaccio

whirling whirling
dervish electron eyebone
whittlepede
its scab company overmonkey
and into crystal palp replications
each fair unit continuum a tone

atone prodigal
and be done

magenta dune fair
tents held in silence
the shadow smeared palms

wild hall that flows
sometimes open
sometimes closed
architecture as unpredictable
as land scop
this icon
as 89 configurations

like a dull rocket (passing through successive halos of ferrofluidic compression seals)

grabbin' allure
like pongsquad's
como camera'd
bobwhite bubalus

the kind quail
for hereafter
rafters

who let that thing
in here

silk cactus pillow grows
from sky blue ceramic head board planter
the bed
the mattress
a slab of transparent aloe
on which an iguana

shudders
and nods

its head inside a burnished
small and golden
geodesic globe

Pretty Lewd Gibber

Is it a question of informatics
over any given desktop?

Or Furniture construction
over ferns?

Is it the valorous and stupid languor
of pink wallpaper bearing baby blue
snowflakes, who, having lost their
actual physical individuality
replace such with pattern,
or the divisive duality
whose true message need only
bee
the ubiquitous O.D.

odduality.

There is no normative anything
in a singularity, only the inarrtial veyngloirry
of the various cults of digression

pi va goilgar eth vironym

It is sad to transcend the soil
only to be reminded of the soil's own
transcendence of thought, and its construction
no different than thought
and that old cliche'

"the mulch of desire"

I'm not a "joiner",,
I'm a master-level assembler
which is roughly equal to

snowflake
raindrop
glyph-stain
nothing, the
glimmer of covolvulex groin plates
under a banana shaped sun
or single cyclopian squintilla

oh moot mot
oh galley slaves
of Gethra Nabu

and it goes on from there
with some people shopping for windows
and drinking ice tea
on a hot summer day..

"Pab" founded "Sic"
golden djinn
terrestrial tragedy
monster goat

drinking water by the seaside
salt onus of topless spindler lucky famoose
and the mute conversation's
stoned peacock geodes

alabaster shoe horn,
what image commemorates
my ill-fitting prostheses?

Nick Carter Is Dead!

Four o'clock in the morning.
Rummaging through materials associated with Fantômas
came across this work with an essay on Philippe Soupault's
"The Death of Nick Carter" and decided to set it in:




I guess the kind of echoes I am interested in with this would come from more contemporary quarters. While Soupault ignores the criticism of his communist bedfellows in the Surrealist movement, and begins to look at the figure of the African American, he meanwhile is involving himself in the literary activities of the internationalist fascist avant-garde.. I'll have to staunch a chuckle here, but look at an excerpt of Jake and Dino Chapman's most recent show whose updated figures of these silly tired perennial debates are actually starting to look cool, the way P.S.'s original genre parody was trying to look, and arguably was, the writing anyway. Nick Carter, found dead outside an insane asylum.

Now what I really find interesting about this show might surprise you. The thing that is really interesting to be is this sort of gnosto-reflexive nod in the dioramatization of the gallery in the round as tableau; ie: Statues are looking at pictures and other statues, and we are too. This isn't new. I can't find the particular castle or schloss I'm looking for, but I've seen images of statues looking in mirrors, holding up paintings, light fixtures etc.. 

Representations gazing blindly at other representations.

The muteness.

The silence.

of infinite black space,

the nice nazi.

And then there's the curious detail:

American actor Eddie Constantine played the title roles in the French-made spy films Nick Carter va tout casser (1964) and Nick Carter et le trèfle rouge (1965). In one curiously circular and self-referential scene, Constantine as Carter enters a house where he finds a large collection of Nick Carter pulp magazines and other Nick Carter memorabilia. Both films are unconnected to the Killmaster book series.

and then there's that stanza from Bernard Bador's _Blindmen make love at Noon_:

And then in Sans Souci palace

roots, lianas and stumps enshrine

the spinning eye of the poet

who perished while cross-breeding clones

!

terbona

air dominion pain?
thumb thug caterpillar
its sparkling gelatine accordion ion'd bonnless
nest

caudal simmer frizane
these artificial gas eons
only travel in infinitely compressing
spirals

obsidian stairs flank
the enormous obsidian mask
and green flames roil out
through the eyesockets
pushing particolored doves
just springs in sacs
with streamered levers

and nudity
the pony express
gives a symbol

algol
logal
holog
grolos

then the customized figs
are laid out

long pink figs
halved
and put under
intestines
of ultraviolent
vue-sween

a donkey wears the headress of an indian chief
but smokes a calabash
etched with murgor and blum

Obose Hucculency

vauncing bitter luf
and veyn zing
whore after father speaker
handle lewdness synne
and prosperous
huffing

inflatable spherical building
the homage to Sir Isaac Newton
but we crawl blue monkeyed
up through transparent columns
into our fiash
dronwe
perchelos
the articulating lantern arms of its sigh
eye young
asparagus
purple
where the rain beats in on the tom tom
mic
mic

fleet host vauncing to battle
ringlet sky soil
our embittered torques to scop
in possible mercies
vaulty vaumbras
their coding valvulas becoming entwined
rudolf the antlered cinnamon jellybean
leads adolf greensnout
up through layers
of icing'd jawbones
to see the great cronk
that cube of investibuled domainery
scribbled with grylooblahtoadian
conniventease

schlepp
schlepp

ongu ard
monch hapi tunn
glass knight detaches dorsal balloon toad's
neon oversoul

rummaging the ham
the distinct digital
patterns the final frequency

A Review of Slice

by Lanny Quarles


VOA MAGAZINE

Gruff Weird Troubadour Fetish With Detachable String Plate.

following the young lady's eyes for a moment
their blank cipher of mums and sensual mass

i think of the wicked and ridiculous borg
taking mozart to a special cube of cake
piano chests winsome young instruments

i remember that if east germany fails
this young romanian woman

i'm not much interested in the gay love of poets
the technicalities for Jack Spicer, but only
will-power, character, that very large fallacy

we could carve a puma snake from mexican granite
sit in a cockpit pit naked our skin next to the hot stone
while sun passed low to back light the palms

your warm romanian slur
your charwoman journey's through stale
dank paris

yellow is not the color of thought
but the color of journalism and royal chinese
horse

pretty variations
of Mozart chasing robot women
"programs"
"sonatas"
indecision in the face
the girls of eastern europe
as a voice to touch its phallus

the description of a fetish
is never the experience itself
Andre' Breton would take his clue from Deleuze
(Oh, these silly kids..)
This isn't my romanian girlfriend:

I would like to address where the work of Gilles Deleuze
can open up neglected issues in Romanticism. That is to say,
I would like to use Delueze to intervene in a particular figure
of Classic Romanticism: the figure of an interior self as constructed in poetry.

Vlad working at the Clorox factory in Georgia.
The Georgia of Eastern European Girl's English.

Southern English
and sexy Czech slurring.
No old bear's heads,
just the whole natural mistake of it
playing out

and the natural fetishes

the freckled girls
the red heads
the japanese women
the latvian girls

I'm just joking.
God is always a Mannered entity.
Look at {how} all religion is
at root
Mannerist.

He tells us we must abandon all colors
sounds sensations and sensible experiences
to achieve the mystical view of life.

How did Jack Spicer come to rewrite or
rather think of bases loaded
and a player 'stealing' home

Plato's Phaedra
with enviable simplicity
attributes her own sensations
to the unknown universe

Martian Radio
my nipples harden
her cold breath on etched glass diagrams
the labyrinthine glass rocket
in its silo of cake
the rocket manse prison of the
mozart borg
chasing young hungarian hussies
through halls of glass holding
wriggling fish

fish-like notes of color
the slurring silence

this astral sarcophagus
of sexed cake
like green foam filling the ears

a baptism
in cymbals

the succubus grille-werke
we imagine SEMBORG

we take to absolute grey
our song
become
pure gallery grey

fetish chews its root
white hot chelicerae omen
now producing
helices
of cloned borg
Richelieus

phalluses like reptile cinnabar
cameras

blue halo
blue halo replication

The Lack of Absolute Meaning Breeds Great Poetry

Imlac, would you call me?
Could you call me Imlac?
What might you call me?
What frail, what hale and ardored
dəngəl-masfən-kokab-qasis
would come to call, muezzin-trope,
or trop for blade, the grass
as singular, or such.

Come Imlac, and project your mad astronomy down
into fate's own disc-like color to fashion, this,
our whole mind together is a telescope
whose optical impedance goes disturbed
to the tilted load of image.

Imlac, our secret book like an untorn stomach
has the stars all tatooed upon
the tender lining:

ba-za: hagar
nəguś kəbur
za:ti nəgəśt kəbərt
'əllu nagaśt kəbura:n
bə'si za=qatal-əww-o la=wald-o
wald-a nəguś
səm-a mal'ak
səm-u
səm-u la=neguś
wəsta hagar
'əm=hagar
ba=hagar
Takal-a bə'si ʕətsʼ-a
'Ayya hagar ḥanaṣ-u
nəḥna ʾi-nəkl ḥawira

There is no uncertainty regarding
the continuance of reason
if there is no certainty
that it ever began..

All auto-volitionalities
lack the sanity of silent
empty

space.

Kerim Ragimov at Regina Gallery

http://www.reginagallery.com/exhibitions/fear_fair

This show isn't really all that interesting, but I had to share the midget bullfighting scene..

Assemblage Stuff

 Although I can hardly fail to appreciate the source mix, (I bought the Joan Mitchel book) and even what is being said, and in the spirit it is being said, John Latta, nonetheless, in a recent post on Joan Mitchell, takes what is essentially one of the juiciest morsels of continental literature, a morsel which used as a lens could elucidate the relationship of Continental philosophy to centuries of debate and discussion on the theory of the grotesque, and he throws it down on the card table like the golden ear of a statue for a four dollar bet in a poker game, and yet in that act itself, he recalls, among other things, a discussion like Ptolemy Tompkins has in _This Tree Grows out of Hell_, but here is the morsel from Deleuze’s  “On the Superiority of Anglo-American Literature":


The minimum real unit is not the word, the idea, the concept or the signifier, but the assemblage. It is always an assemblage that produces utterances. Utterances do not have at their cause a subject, which would act as a subject of enunciation, any more than they are related to subjects as subjects of utterances. The utterance is a product of an assemblage – which is always collective, which brings into play within us and outside us populations, multiplicities, territories, becomings, affects, events. The proper name does not designate a subject, but something which happens, at least between two terms which are not subjects, but agents, elements. Proper names are not names of persons, but of peoples and tribes, flora and fauna, military operations or typhoons, collectives, limited companies and production studios. The author is a subject of enunciation but the writer—who is not an author—is not. The writer invents assemblages starting from assemblages which have invented him, he makes one multiplicity pass into another.


Which makes me think, What does literature gain from forcibly ending, or rather by performing some kind of interruptus upon opacity's flow? And by that I mean, what is the meaning of the virtual rolelessness for the writer that Deleuze portrays? I think of those Aztec priests in the Springtime cutting with obsidian knives the sternum bones of male and female youth and drawing out the still beating heart, that assemblage par excellence, and that unashamed urge to reveal as image the actual enigma of a thing which cannot be named but only honored, or rather, shown. Indra Kagis McEwen interprets the ancient usage of the term techne as  'a letting appear', so then, like a hunting dog and mad bull, sniffed right to the reeking crack only to paw with head down at the import of its narrow way, Aztec (as techne_/ us/ it..


So I guess, in my country rat sort of way, "The minimum real unit is not the word, the idea, the concept or the signifier, but the assemblage." is the beating heart of a new theory of the grotesque, or the still-beating
heart of the old theory..


But so as not to cloud the subject with anything resembling a belief in objectivity, let's re-ruminate in the continental way, so as to make a kind of Aztec prayer for continuity. 


What kind of explanatory filler would I need to use to connect


The minimum real unit is not the word, the idea, the concept or the signifier, but the assemblage.It is always an assemblage that produces utterances. Utterances do not have at their cause a subject, which would act as a subject of enunciation, any more than they are related to subjects as subjects of utterances. The utterance is a product of an assemblage – which is always collective, which brings into play within us and outside us populations, multiplicities, territories, becomings, affects, events. 


to the Pythagorean claim that


"everything is intelligent"


which in my own weird sense of things points to a discussion of structuralism and the vicissitudes of aconceptuality ala deterritorialization, or rather displacement..


and as always dialectic. (Intelligence itself is a stupid idea.)


As we farm the plants, so are we being farmed by them


The structural and the conceptual, like two views of a single event frame.


The Grotesque then, as a minor literature in the Deleuzian sense, would be
the merging of those views, but that merging was accomplished long ago
as poetry, or is it art?


what part?


Oh tree
witch gross
f-rom h-ell