the two-edged sword            Orpheus


   whirl in the lance


  no renting garments 




 not weeps more anon
   the head


                                   bring me  a  towel         a               a   baby

                                   the bullrushes



-- every


every poem's a    creation,    every creation's a n experiment, dont let anyone tell you otherwise

 otherwise the catatonia          

              r  a        i                   n                         

             n                                             o                         

                    t                         l                   i                                                                       e                    



italics again


__________ Dear . Remember these notes before sending cash: lots too, lots of it, with thick thighed frizzy haired beasts

blow off the italic and speak your poems

the breath carries the word not the other way

so in visual poetry the eye becomes the breath

  and the word

well we get back

forget what anyone who does not     says

every poem is an aphorism

a power circuit

------------------ sign here----------------------

.   And remember this Europe is the graveyard . france especially. even when I live there, which is from time to time, i know its a lark. whores dont comprehend this grave thought.

           i am the master-magician


           the masturbators of  ________

             fill in the flank!




Milton is greater than Shakespeare. There's nothing secret and clandestine between them. Milton wrote more, and added more to the 'body of knowledge' Milton added to the quantum of freedome creating thereby more space for the immanance of the future. Man's becoming is served by Milton more than shakespeare the great nihilist. The only way to get past the latter's nihilism is through those that came after. Shakespeare iscrazy. His poems are nuts, the whole sonnet machinery of legal jargon, and mirror me, mirror you, he's worse than the King James bible and Dylan combined.

Milton and Blake after him led us from the shackles of literary expression to liberty. Liberty is now a dirty word in political and literary circles. But literary circles, which really means the critics in their universities, means nothing. They are nothing, secondary , nonthing. Barely existing. Above a whisper. 1 and two. Telling you? us what to do. Milton spits in their face.

Grammar fuck

Grammar shit

Writing with a pen, means outside of the university.

Blake knew that as did some 20th century philosophers. Not many, just 2 prob.

More later.

I am in the trenches writing fast. I am Walter Benjamin's son.


  i suspect Joyce, an itinerant half blind  Irishman spoke of WS more because he knew he was the enemy more than poor blinded Milton the epic poet closer by far to Joyce than the former. Ireland is closer to Greenland than England. Anglosaxon Shake was not a friend of Ireland and nor was Milton buthis work is. His work reaches ove r the sea. Shakespeare is the empire drama queen  a bourgeeois courty pusssy wanting his nails polished.    'becoming a genital man!' Pun Intended.

whoever the british were and are, with their utterly revolting disgusting ongoing  stupid

  'monarchy'  and that appaling family of parasites. shame on them. and let them rot in hell.

 And hell exists. for sure it's there.

  flames already lit.    the atheists that want to take away your faith  , how vodka becomes them!

   they don't believe because they are well off. simply as that. women, and men, of Power never believe until  and unless it suits them.

the shit pouring out of their asses at the last minute they Scream Mommy! Mommy ! Im scared! where is god

not like the philosopher of balcaonies and bridges and Etna jumping inthe dragon's mouth voluntarily fearless unafraid to take the risks creation requires

 and the after Life that Milton loved and Blake saw and foresaw?

    why deny it you creators of class and money, you capitalist and catholic whipping boys

the flames are roaring already

the gates open

 the pits of hell packed with Popes, Prime Ministers, omnipotent death  , the enemy  ,

   the coward  ,  

crackles ,    sulphur, Lords of Automative Businesses, Microsoft Billionaires, Oil Emirs

     Presidents, past and present, Kings,  


this is hell. Welcome hell  home. Relax take your chairs. Electrify your balls.  the shows just getting going and guess what? there's no ending

it goes on forever.

Hell for you never ends

. Do you think Blake would hear? or the dead children  the wounded world wide hear you as you scream from the gas burns, the infinite  punch, and whack of doctor death and the Mean Lady?

---- I don't think the dead refugees hear.

 God dont hear hes blowing clouds

  G_ D  

   D&G. Immanance as heaven is heaven is future becoming.....

Good to see you . Here. Shall we take the elevator?

Forgive everything? Bowing . Blowing.  forgive the rain. the reign  

    forgive the river   .                  and blow




at times the abyss throws rocks
   at god's craggy face
but god knows better
working a line here, a touch there gabbing the old feast and space

works for love's da but fortresses know better to keep
  the heat in clambering on the roof gazing at the stone hurlers
god's a big fat wussy


Ah, you just made that up? right? like a woman tenderly kissing her toes.
another lover making mirrors look backwards.
not a forward glance. but hey and ho it's evening trace 
tinkers with a penny's worth at dawn

yesterday I saw a pagan walk up to a vapid virgin statue
her ass glowed glowed up hilted 
i looked her stole a look as 'they' say in the notorious hypothesis
of the immanculinary  ass-fuck

 she peered back we peered and an hour later,
she's telling me her dreams of hindu gropings and many armed goddesses
piling Eve on Eve 
in the fantastic orgy of sleeveless gowns
clad on the oversized statues of that petty country of  Brahma and Gita
& a heavy hipped Kali was it?

 anyhow after the rain it was pouting . ringed by a solid window sore writs and stiff wrists
& the wind banged buckets. up her dress . underneath its holly hell and ho me ha.

just another idol worshipper hoping to get divine favors pulled.
she held me close to her basket we tripped on togas tonsils and tongues

. no stop. come back. call. wait. o. hold your death. there's no one as this like.

And speaking of slaves, what 'christian' ever knew the meaning of the word? and flesh its canal and Canaan always produced figures of roughage.

-------------- Mona gathered the river on her head spitting in god's old hoary face. his prima facie worse than any State as who after all, notwithstanding the russian Dostoyevsky' s fantasy, ever held god closer than Fydor.  'If Christ be not god, I want none of him, I will hack my way through existence alone' ! what malarkey that was!
Good for melodramas of the crucified sort.

___________Mona kissed her festoon ass.




burning lakes  are getting                 bigger  .

  how does hell which is eternal get 'larger' to accomodate the eternal scum heading there from earth?

   those that attacked Earth for decades, days, the  decententials , the whores of cripples,   life haters,

 the ones that supported the earthquake in Haiti,     those who supported the bombing of villages

 the President sending his drones to kill familes of marriages

 the former presidents made of oil and beef

      and the  then , Dante    reassures me it's gotten bigger, and other messengers and voices of the dead  ,

  speak   to             me  ,           with their wishes and hope   s                        the single and plural   ,

  There!  his heavy finger pointing downward    

                   its the lake,   pretty big              boiling over ,  gurgling,,,  hot

 churning round       noisy ,,, i mean turning ,   like  spinning , sor t of or,  chugging
       like a  cement mixer  anyhow, its shitty, terrifying     the stink coming up is beyond telling  , i mean  its like the stink o f   say    a  dead street of corpses in   ___ say after an  -----  air-force jet has bombed a civilian district   leaving mothers and babies bloody behind crying
or a village in Africa, the Congo say    where the guerrilas from a so called liberation force have killed everyone
or Laos where millons of tons of bombs were dropped murdering millions
or the   fields of Cambodia
   youc an  name any number of murders and massacres they're all here

  lined up in living color

  down they go



   escalator to hell

ISp hell

Upstairs the saints are flying around cloud clovers and over and high sky and cloud cover is  love     .

  how can hell reach heaven?






Sometimes one can barely speak ~ to

days and night s

Call it poetry, writing _ it was a hard time lately, hardship days and week(s)... somewhere one sees a light, hears the sound of hope, and love fine refine. A rain pouring to quench thirst.

Problem with the balcony of black holes is to get out.

Mozart's desiring-machine?
'Raise your ass to your mouth... ah, my ass burns like fire, but what can be the meaning of that? Perhaps a turd wants to come out... Yes, yes, turd, I know you, I see you, I feel you.. What is this _is such a thing possible? ..." (Mozart letter.. to 'someone' ....)

peace and potatoes
you go
where ever you go
go go
potatoes potatoes

blessed are the meek
the meek the meek the potatoes

blessed r the tatoes
the toes
blesse'd are the tomatoes
the tay n tay
the po

the peace potatoe
the fakirs
fakirs fakirs

blessed are th e y

building bridges

potatoes in crevasses of ridges
tomatoes &


r the feet
the feet that grow potatoes potatoes
not Illyium and the "glory" of gore

bless'd the corn
blessed their kids feet
blown by this war


the little guys
cant ever
yer love
the way
the way
they do




heathens is a nice word

   it's made of he and hen and then

  & prayer is rare

it rhymes

someway or another

 'maybe'  'perhaps,'      'was it your  hips?'

  & the way you  read down a t the beach place

prayer's simple dial tone
an after-life to god and all

 eafers and dumbers as the maiden



Implausible italic


  it's so much finer to read

' Small
white mouths of flower

drink light.'

   without the italic    ~

  words like those are kind
  without   the 'so' or adjective knocking the shit,or hell out of plane sense,

yes plane, not plain  plain song
  nothing sweeter than a woman in plane song

planular as  a bee stocking honey

between her legs 

 between her knees
 like bites of flesh
 the honey 






italics have their place _ it'
s not dissimilar to the stress between the I st person pronoun and the 3rd person fictional . but person is persona as the vase is to the glass.

or pass. as rhyme is to 

    a culinary unicorn.

what shimmers  there   (thank you)

  in 'a cloud of dust'

    ----------------------________________as for the comedian in 'me' that's bent around  a pole
between aprodisiac and amnesiac                        'we'  which in french is   'oui'  

   so we is yes as in yea-saying the great inclusive cloud of sky

  a poem filled with a mouth

  So the fictions work in that .

and blogs

are numbered now.

the spymasters and spurners of the world . have our number.

  as place andstation.

krrp ktttpp  krrrp keep the text evasive and longing

mad e to the marriage of what cant be gotten away with on a page.

a page?

what's age?

between ea ch rhyming boot
between    each rhyming bot

  each rhymed 'bottin'

as the cursive moves forward.

                          Jill shaking the dust from her feet. a hypertexting Mama with googoo and gaga down her lime lips.

                     Like you lover. and the frizzy haired women.

                                  Mona never wants pretence to buckle down her writing. so keep going keep going in spite of fright. at the edge always of the what of. and the where of.

 And .