Printsessa Nagoroshine

following a truck along an old road

I happened to glance a paper shrine held up by needles as tall as a waist.

And there I expressed my blank consurgency to an empty "meta-room"..

Is there any reason to anything?

Perhaps we should connect the dots to the frame?

-for shame, my deep imperosnal khumera, locket of see snimpt in a hijazz of volmm..

Looking past the fact that its whole costume is a game board, for if spherical magnetic chess were aboard, the ship would role much flatus. Dogs are dirges in Tibet.

It was many months before the PCP ring was caught.

There is an ode in a haunted salad.

A bright circle laid on the hill.

There is a sequence, and consequence, to all this dumb romance.

"the sun is just an orange balloon"

"and the earth a scarred old head" 

Description:
 'Lien Chi Altangi, visiting the man in black, who is under the influence of the Spleen', a man in oriental dress playing flute at a table at left, looking towards a man standing at right with grave expression, his hand resting on the back of his chair; in circular frame with architectural border, surrounded by garlands and with instruments and books below; after Richard Corbould, illustration to 'Citizen of the World', from 'Cooke's Pocket Edition of Select Novels'. 1799 Etching and engraving

Found Poem: Sun and Moon, The Tulips.

A Note To Those Who Would Diminish The Hermeneutic Possibilities of First Person Anything.

There is no first person, only first person.
-Hay Investment and Hay Speculation, 1931.

Some people say it is ridiculous to pen
first person narratives. What is a first
person narrative? Did not Bodhidharma
come out of Persia to install his legs
and arms on poles in the Mountains?
I am Stuart Hall writing something
called Notes on Deconstructing
"The Popular" (1981).

I got my first yukata in a mountain
hot-spring hotel, or onsen / ryokan,
in the Hakone' region of Japan, maybe
15 years ago. I looked for the name, or
link on google, but it escapes me. It
wasn't that far from Lake Ashi, a
lonely place near a haunted shrine.
William Howard Taft had stayed there.
It gave good service until recently
when its thin cheap cotton fabric
gave way, so I put it up in the closet.

Today, or rather these last few months,
I've enjoyed a new yukata, bought
by my wife from Japan on my
birthday, the 29th of August, and
the same dark blue indigo color which is
my favorite in clothing, and covered
in laughing Oni masks. It has
two different kinds of belting.

My conundrum is that, in
the morning when I clean my
French press, and fill my boiling
kettle, my sleeve tips often get wet,
as this, more traditional, and finer
silk patterned yukata, has longer
sleeves. There is a cord, traditionally,
that Samurai used to tie up their sleeves
when entering into battle. I feel sure
it has no formal name, but if it does,
I choose to believe it nameless.
A nameless instrument of contingency,
whose function is self-evident.

On this world, there is only first person.
There is only one person, but let its name
be Nameless G. Contingency, for I
feel that its gender is far too complex
to notate properly, for it is the mother-
father of all gender properties and gen-
derlessness, its tenderness being expressed
as complexity itself, and so that every
word's definition is in doubt, and every
thought a move to get out by which
a line is exuded through. All epiphen-
omenality is empty, for fullness lives
within it. Imagine a great gong
removing a force-field from a frozen
tsunami. Any image can be any thought,
any word can be a door to any dream,
any wordless, thoughtless form can elicit
infinite essays of tiny splattering raindrops
becoming ink, or panda-pandora, or candle
owl droppings aborted, the Horla.
Abolition has already been installed here.

My name is Ben Kafka, minister of
spitwads becoming Seafood.

Notice the blurred meander pattern strip passing behind his head. Freud says in his journals, neither the psychic, nor the somatic, evince complete uninterrupted sovereignty. And doesn't Taft seem bewildered. It looks as if he's thinking this phrase: "What the fuck is this, really?"

This Career. (Electric Snake Fag.)

discurrere / Latin / Pronunciation
(Classical) IPA: /disˈkur.re.re/, X-SAMPA: /dis"kur.re.re/
Verb / discurrere / present active infinitive of discurrō.

Formally, I have no interest in nondiscursive forms of expression,
except as portends the creation of discursive elements, whether
"internally", or "in the field".

Discursivity in expression elicits the closect exumple of positive capacity
in art, ie bye-O-mi-mi-cry:

Hermeneutics
Herd
Hear
Hirn
Near Herm
Good Morning, David Divizio.

Let KG be the group ring of a group G
over a commutative ring K with unity.
The rings KG are described for which
xx(sigma)=x(sigma)x for all x=∑(g∈G)alfa(g)g∈KG, where x↦x(sigma)=∑(g∈G)alfa(g)f(g)sigma(g) is an involution of KG;
here f:G→U(K) is a homomorphism and σ is an
antiautomorphism of order two of G.

Non-Discursivity fascistically and phantasmatically bolsters
the belief in the Hegelian unfolding of a Nondiscursive reality,
which just

AINT THE CASE.
Furthermore.

Bacon.
By Example.
gives DEMOCRACY
its purest form:

What sour mouth attentions

stilleth

the NATURALL AND DISCURSEWE
motion of the spirits.

cheers. this career.

Set just before April Fools Day.

La Scala was originally illuminated 

with 84 oil lamps mounted on the palcoscenico 

and another thousand in the rest of the theatre. 

To prevent the risks of fire, several 

rooms were filled with hundreds of 

water buckets. Scoliosis. Scoliosiris.

It's so easy to be right. Fuck you.

A big lamp, lamb mop, or mulit-light can be toggled, switched, or scaled.

Such is the stage we seek, curtains, cad, deep recemptor, ebb, or verdant exchange,

desky or pesky (purvey), or oy.

The Sky's the limit. Illuminated words.

Epignomy.

WORLD WAR Z (coming soon!)

to say its feast were the first in lakes, first water, new wood,

long nose, yellow canvas. get it?

oooo. no. oooo.

Did you never consider microtonalism's dream translated by the Isle of Man's coin?

What if Venus, still nude, but in a nun's habit, stood up in her shell counting:

TRAUMSTEIN.

George Sand fucking Mary Shelley

with a red Tengu rose.

Nose.

No.

Exactly how do think I found these pictures?

Did you search for the word "fool"

in a private experience?

Does this look like a fucking grave?

I've put cancer oil on a dark black banana!

Rhode Island. 16 year old strippers.

Chlorine. It's dangerous in certain forms.

Windex,

and Aubrey Beardsley.

My hat!

Microsoft. The early years.

I only get one thing from tubs.

George Satan Manana.

Lenin as Jesus

playing Lady Bathory

with the history

of advanced plastics.

I am Yayoi Kusama, Larry,

Here me roar.

"They had a dancin' bone."

I'll see you next.

How it feels in 4/5's of the world.

Timothy Leary's head, now restored, in a prison

in Lichtenstein.

do not cross

the cult

of lalala.

See Mitchell, at very least, and just imagine
an unknown application, otherwise, I supposed, well,
You're fired.
Which means nothing whatsoever.

Hi! So you're a conceptual poet?
Wow! Hey! Well, I am a Cadillac customer!

By the Works of a Know-Nothing Lardiner Shall You Come To Lexicon's Loco-Foco...

http://stsanders.com/www/pages/videos/band-shreds/sts-beatles.php

http://stsanders.com/www/pages/videos/band-shreds/sts-the-who.php

Whig Fyuss (Indecent Explosure)

And modernism 
has gotten less dogmatic
in the last 10 years. 

NY Times via Times Haiku 
April 1, 2013 from The Battleground on the Bedside Table
via Drew Gardner





abbot abhorrer aerogram
affixes appellative
adamite

awkward

if barf beaux yeux
for bench mark
or bigot share the coine
to bilingualism

brummagem
boy bonfire's
bleu blindside
a browbeat

Cain in the Buff
buffoonize
bury
caper
cast

clone clubbists
as asp
for breast
of anything
Moriarty-Cleopatra

unio
as m(l)arc(k)

mock arc
low mark
unio
or erigible

eris being clap
or clamp

catting charismatic
beneath its skull
or school cap's
claim

high claim
moving sarcastically
both "hands down"
like rain

I see Indian Chief
on high escarpment
flat

he clone clubbist
too
now

come complexly
to this comprehensive conception
to offer condolences
to our confederacy of conniving
consequentialty

be conservative
and cool

you are of a great whig family

counterblasting coon
coping with
cutting edge
crawfishing

oh damn all cream
define!
(creditiste)
"notice the sound"

doggerel doments
the deke democrat
dispute dissent
do
do
Doctrinarian event!

all downfall drug aside
elapse
enigmatist
errant
yes
enigmatist bad
or bland
oh facile princeps
fall
from good family
far

such dwindle
off lab
[then]

as if from [paris, texas]
or MORNGOON RANBO

FAREWELL FAVOUR!

the fence afire
and hung with fish besides
fists flash
from their fold-dikes
into the fribble
then measure us
with a

gag
rule.

OPPEN!

o garland gay as gerrymander
graveyard great as groundhog
this

gyro-habit rockmorthpadding-habitant
half-breed
half-bread
half-head
full-breech

hew the high nob.
it is not hearse
but pandible.

It is my every respect
and tucked by
in a scotsman's sporran

now texty,
is that Incendiarism?
or incoherence?

Indisputably,
it is.

nomen as puncta
reigns highest,
and high EST
is easily replaced with
high JEST

the highest HIGH
a

J
or hubble-bubble
"cordial"
for low-spirits
or kit-kats
or ignarr-aimless ezzz

there are odd bones in the mummy of language lore:

kern and kirn
for shore

all of space is 'churning'

but see the germin'

hirn
it's
chirning

(too)

whigh fyuss
baby too

(do you have dimple somewhere
about to glow? eh?)

Earth's Sentence Wig

Early this morning before coffee I watched a BBC4 documentary called Edwardian Insects on Film, the story of Edwardian naturalist and pioneering filmmaker Percy Smith. Finally woken up, I made my first coffee and went off to read the internet with visions of dumb-bell juggling flies fresh in my mind, and a wonderful quote:

 Any fly will juggle. 

He has claws and pads 

on his feet and if you 

hold him on his back, 

he will catch anything 

you give him.

Which of course I've formatted as poetry here, because it is as good as any poetry I've seen anywhere, but then maybe the line breaks aren't necessary, or especially good, but the shape of
the poem echoes something I saw in another film, the second I watched this morning, which was a visit to the library / apartment of writer Thomas McEvilley posted by Ron Silliman as part of his usual dirge-like drum-beat postings of souls passing from the mortal coil. I can't say I was completely unaware of McEvilley, but I think I was completely unaware, and so the poem does echo a bit the 'poem' McEvilley shows which James Lee Byars produced by asking a Japanese calligrapher to draw a boulder falling through space.

Then after I watched that film I hit upon the idea, that if the internal dialogue was a string, how long would it be, given that its uniformity and so forth were slightly prescribed so as to make it universal, and that that prescription would take the form of a person reading, or perhaps just talking. I chose the figure 150 words per minute. Then came averaging the global lifespan which was perhaps a bit of a tiresome exercise, but if you use the WLE website, you might come up with the value of 60. I make no claims for this figure, except that it provides a draft level scaffold on which to hang a nominal string length. There are 525,949 minutes in a year. 525,949 X 60 = 31,556,940 which means that there is a possible 4,733,541,000 words which as a string, if the average word length is 5 letters which gives you roughly two words per inch with a courier new 12 point font so that a 60 yr long string would be roughly 2,366,770,500 inches, or 37,354 miles and 585.00 yards. This means that a life string of words, roughly, on average, might wrap around the earth some four times with a bit left over.

Not sure what the thread was this morning, but my two cups of coffee are done, and I can go on about my reading, thinking I guess about a sort of beautifully wordy wig of collective strings whooshing around in space, Earth's Sentence Wig, ESW, for short. It is a fairly long-haired planet, I'd say, as planets go.

pretty static

in
concentrickly
spreading
trellises
violent the way
the individual
transparent
needles
spin then dive
to arc then spin
and dive to arc
never turning
the same way
and the arcs
are only visible
through the great
fictional lens
of language
or is it
frictional
if frisson's
schism, scission,
hissed precision,
its mission vision
vis a vis ion vistas
to noise sieve
view sore
every is
as ion
or note
pretty static
flowers on
the twisting bone

Pure Pierre, Pearl of the Sun.

I always dreamed of a vampire story that ends
in a marriage between Baroness Corvu and her
sheer bloody victim: it seems that there is some
injustice to perpetually condemning vice in what
must be its most attractive abode. This is the desire,
among others, which gave birth to Midnight Noon.

A desire to paint an isolated world, at once autonomous,
mythological, or is it less surprising, perhaps, to see me
thrive on secret manure, the radiant hypocrisy of triumph.
And this summer, it is also the desire to translate
the traditional vampire story's data.

At night, in fog, anxiety, and Northern pale colors, I
substituted the sun, drought, joy's bright white South, Algier.
The carriage of the doctor and his wife is the 2CV of
two young lovers' naïveté. The transpositions all but
stop there.

I hope they like to admit that today "monsters"
are not necessarily best for the job, and I hope
you will accept the idea that normal love
being normal may cross the line and match "monsters."
After all, Midnight Noon is a little like the story
of Beauty and the Beast... Here, simply enough,
Prince Charming has neglected his operation
and remained a charming Hyde, like newspaper.

In fact, it is as much or less than blurred boards
as it is torn cards, or different games, and their
only setback is the same color: yellow.
A laugh, a white some night, some red blood,
I mix and I cut Snow White's ringlets from
the face of Gilles de Rais, while Tom Thumb,
"a criminal", sows pebbles in the scrub-land
where any visitors might encounter an evening
with Jack the Ripper, the divine Marquis, or
Hans Christian Andersen looking for a
"symbol of sharp fairy teardrops".

If I can make them smile trapped between
two chicken meats, I would say that I hit my goal.

Amities to Be'Be', please...

I said I always preferred the literal meaning of a description to the symbol behind it.

Remaking it. The Nabataeans.

For these are the rogue of our soil, 

emerald topped where Spring's 

even pilgrims glide about 

handy heating focal desertly.

a wrinkle in time, or in clime,

combined

make 'classical dagger'

a puncta

if no Damocletian wink

Rarely do we conform to much of what is stated, nor

fail to conform, such is the nature

of its flat genitality

Hello Walter. I found this little office here at Pompeii, so I thought I'd call you.

Don't cut the turkeys with razors anymore, or sew gems in the soiled

of our scabbard head.

For I am Ramses, lone tit of the top of a gingerbread swirly.

Green shoes spat. Communist coveralls. Sick royal yellow mandarin journalist shirt

patterned with young banana. Hairbrush! Knotted tail. Tetraskeezic emblem of the magnitude of Syntaxis, and the basic 4-string blowhole of speech. blue dandy bow-tie. BINGO!

The engineer of no democracy's design! And all of space to go.

It is a plain sphere of beer saved from bonds and bones stiffened by a stupid imprisonment!

Nature can never be distorted since it has no original unchanging form except change. Nature itself is distortion, and our notions of order or chaos are but renderings of an impossibly slow largeness, and an impossibly small velocity. I shan't go to cafe's or go hunting.

ornery prunes, librettist:

Plato.

Piers Sellers' Ecosystem Temperatures Dream

runkasterix
rune castor itch
Rn/K* today
you pulled off the road
to our village
chad amphuk laha ho

through the dark tunnel and wood
to meet with the village guardian
and his poor degraded son
who tends the pickled
cartoon legs
turning them over and over
in their tub
their skin so tawny and wrinkled
like aubergines bleached out by the sun

now take the escalator down to the village
with three-color-haired professor
and his wife
they wear the veiny mango chicken nimbus
of our people
sow wrek sogstam
make hot astroknot dolls
leave the confines
of our cool leaf village

feed the mouth
leaves come up to cover our feelings
my cool water roll, joey flute flowing
erect green violins surround the round
banana hobbit tongues

tiny monkeys may burrow into your chicken nimbus
watch the village guardian's son tumble
the cartoon pickle legs
when you enter or leave our village