thoughts to ...

read this out there on blogosphere ~ Blogospherium?
'some words i have heard uttered not too long ago in these merry streets:

'language poetry is american imperialism'

Now that's an interesting notion. what to make of it? how so
can a poetry be imperialistic? in the time of Empire imperial poetries. but the group referred to predates the notion of Empire. in any case. how can aesthetics act as a representational force? but they

like bodies do


a tribune

Those who stay and
those who go

against heart and night
what strangers are they?
to spooky lands of felt
away to the awry territories of

Umberto Boccioni, States of Mind: Those who stay, 1911
Oil on canvas - 70.8 x 95.9 cm
Museum of Modern Art, New York

" ... nobody will know who I am, nobody will say who I was ..." (Fernando Pessoa; died 70 years ago December 4)

of ghosts which've not passsed
hunchbacks and gnarled parts things

a debt of forever further back
in the cave


pseudonyms and Oedipus mother
my lover whose mouth I cry

but then

the symphony the dance


Is it not something to laugh at your goat, yer self
a play and not a paltry wig laughing at selves


which multiply always multiply
gaining strength along a route
touting the old and new
a forest tangle of lover's vows



It will and will

If you hold the mouth of Truth, It will burst out its rib-cage. Somali proverb

O mouth truth beauty my dove
it is you
you I the
body its cross
across the carry

You its carry cross
mouth truth of its cage
you its bird sun
rib of my Eve
Eve of rib
the Lillith sigh
over wood of city

I've submitted to you
its narrow paysage
the country of its chink
and it's only with you
I'll find repose on the bus
the coralled crowded bus
with you he thought
there'd be repose

languishes body
you its proverbial
verb water of mouth

unlatching the cage
Thisbe says this is it
why not
see the page
where her love
over the water
hell spent
in the spout of her desire

of fires and animals
beast and near the flame of feast
end-rhyme to desire eye
her eye seeing running
in its dedication
its devotion to her by the Me I

but what I
is that who
says memory's
no place

in my long arm willow
that along the walking avenue
memory h'as all packages
picking slips
receipt of mouth lip
taken O breath forsaken
foreword the body of her breast
to my chest
in the skinny instance of its alarm

Can I
whatever I is
harm that
hinder it

what book erudite recalled
of the weight on sentences
weighs this breast of hers to my mouth ?


quelle you

yes quelle? you
says that
its proper quantum

dance little rider
dance your part
in the liliputianna breath

what me says you
or rendered by far and trull


mot not there

split cleave

mouth eddy

not here



on the end of a glance_ Bach

old & young

on the edge of an Ear

sow sleepers

sow sleepers in my veins
veins of love

"even sleepers are workers and collaborators on what goes on in the universe."
found statement attributed tribute to heraclitus

what terror haunts
Van Gogh's head caught in a sun-flower becoming?

the horror the horror!

the little light people

you gotta see the way it says
the bimble does the grimble

There are sudden, apparently inexplicable suicides that must
be understood as the dawn of a hope so horrible
and harrowing that is is unendurable.

Words in a poem, sounds in movement, rhythm in space,
... bridgeheads into alien territory. They are acts
of insurrection.

Creation ex nihilo has been pronounced impossible even for God.
But we are concerned with miracles. We must hear the music
of those Braque guitars (Lorca) .

You cannot step in the same river once.

I don't even want to know there were men before me.

He tried to scream and woke up.

my father moved through dooms of love.

I was so downhearted .

It is because consciousness conceals in its being
a permanent risk of bad faith .

My original fall is the existence of the Other.

Satan (le Multiple) before God's opacity __ the many before the self-claimed One.

Immanence in the face Ass of transcendence.


PunCtuAtion Marsh

[From ‘Punctuation Marks’ in Notes to Literature, Volume 1. ed. Rolf Tiedemann and trans. Shierry Weber Nicholson. Columbia University Press. 1958. pp. 96-7. ]

The writer is in a permanent predicament when it comes to punctuation marks; if one were fully aware while writing, one would sense the impossibility of ever using a mark of punctuation correctly and would give up writing altogether. For the requirements of the rules of punctuation and those of the subjective need for logic and expression
are not compatible: in punctuation marks the check the writer draws on language is refused payment. The writer cannot trust in the rules which are often rigid and crude; nor can he ignore them without indulging in a kind of eccentricity and doing harm to their nature by calling attention to what is inconspicuous – and inconspicuousness is what punctuation lives by. But if, on the other hand, he is serious, he may not sacrifice any part of his aim to a universal, for no writer today can
completely identify with anything universal; he does so only at the price of affecting the archaic. The conflict must be endured each time, and one needs either a lot of strength or a lot of stupidity not to lose heart. At best one can advise that punctuation marks be handled the way musicians handle forbidden chord progressions and incorrect voice leading. With every act of punctuation, like every musical cadence, one can tell whether there is an intention or whether it is pure sloppiness

All this i s very Nice and very established to admit the ividiousness of choice. bu t pray tell what is archaic when choice operates? where is the question mark when it is not spelled out where is imagination and invention left. this author speaks as if there were a struggle that is resolved by the writer each time she put to paper. ahhaha what paper. paper has dissolved .

What use are these Ideas for writers like Artaud. whose gramar is beyonD these matters

Or others many others.

and in the Future Past
the external linkage to the dying of a philosopher



each circumstantial word

dropped off

a hair on the loss which speaks you

speak us

canto of effulgence


the stare of love


is how it works

the night passes for day

pads over the floor
my fear as I face the world

each day afraid to look away

into this prefabricated world of ignore
and bliss

the high tides of tigers this

not the brave shoot of the anonymous


... november 22|poets musicans... birth deaths....Our Daily Bleed... events ..be worthy of your Wound...

2 selections below

From the

Our Daily Bleed Website

ST. CECELIA'S DAY: as patroness of musicians her day is observed with a variety of music festivals.


1936 -- Spain: Over 500,000 attend the funeral of the anarchist Buenaventura Durruti in Barcelona.

1950 -- Premiere of Jean Cocteau's film ORPHEUS in New York.
Some Selections from Daily Bleed

Make yer Own Daily Bleed

Praying for world Peace


freedom from the bondage

of self ...

"We sometimes behave as though people can't express themselves. In fact, though, theyr're always expressing themselves....

... the problem is no longer getting people to express themselves, but providing little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say. Repressive forces don't stop people from expressing themselves, but rather, force them to express themselves. What a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, or even the rarer, the thing that might be worth saying.
Deleuze - Mediators

there's always more deaths than
you can count
or recall

recalling counts

deaths untold
births never known

which Saint hung her head
crying in the places
not far from where you live
love and die,
in your birth of death and love...
and these strangers passes to your life

life and death
who deaded of oxygen shortage
in which hospital be ce soir
what death was that they bolded out tonight
tonight when you are so alone?

November 22 who died and who did not die, who
was born,
hit by a car
was loved not loved
caressed not caress scared and not scared and ran
what species of man did this to scare a child, a world
being born
in its awkward night

what dramaturgy ended the world?

Old Jack London alcoholic writer.... Reading White Fang in High School I finished the book way ahead of other pupils ... problem was we read aloud so whenever my turn came I had to flip back and find where the rest of the class...

How many thousands of unknowns died today
or will have love this night
in their bodies and arms,
how many guns and bombs fired
off by Armies Armie and Armie
endless never ending armies...
jets jets jets
jet cruise missile

Who counts those tortured and strangled today?
Who cares of dead presidents in the past
How about that kid kidnapped abandonded
the lover unwanted....

how many deaths in how many places...

t 7:45 on Wednesday morning, November 22, 1916, ...At 6:30 p.m., November 21, 1916, Jack London partook of his dinner. He was taken during the night with what was supposed to be an acute attack of indigestion. This, however
, proved to be a gastro-intestinal type of uremia. He lapsed into coma and died at 7:45 p.m., November 22.

make this
your secret hall of
fame and acclaim and
aclaim not worked for but given
to your loves

your breaths
a wreath around your neck
a heart around your heart

She said I was so downhearted then
announcing now the fact of her birth
and years gone by was 15

she was sweeter than hay
cuter than honey


le poet (add accent!) Marianne Moore

There is nothing to be said for you. Guard / your secret. -- Marianne Moore


The knight

"We, conscious of the justness of that confusion of tongues [at Babel], recognize the fragmentary as a characteristic of all human striving in its truth and realize that it is precisely this that distinguishes it from the infinite coherence of Nature, that an individual's wealth consists precisely in his power of fragmentary extravagance, and that the producer's enjoyment is also that of the receiver, not the laborious and meticulous execution, nor the protracted apprehension of this execution, but rather the production and enjoyment of that gleaming transience for which the producer contains something more than the completed effort, since it is the appearance of the Idea, and which for the recipient too, contains a surplus, seeing that its fulguration awakens his own productivity--since all this, I say, is contrary to our Society's penchant (and since, indeed, even the period just read could well be regarded as a disquiting attack upon the interjectory style in which the idea breaks out but without breaking through, a style which in our Society is accorded official status), then, having called attention to the fact hat my conduct still cannot be called rebellious, seeing that the bond holding this period together is so loose that the intermediary clauses stand out in a sufficiently aphoristic and arbitrary manner, I shall merely call to mind that my style has made an attempt to appear what it is not--revolutionary."

--Soren Kierkegaard, Either Or: A Fragment of Life. trans. Alistair Hannay. New York: Penguin, 1992.

This is Kierkegaard speaking under the aesthete pseudonym "A" in "Ancient Tragedy's Reflection in The Modern;"


as for the

as for the true pelican he said,
a comma peers across his side-burns
She is flash-back
Artaud and me my double selved
the slave
of desire bust

She shadow the avenue a word
crisps her front teeth
she is turned to that ornament
which stares there
in this gray day
is a long city
long in the tooth
with its misteries and masteries
loathing beyond choice
dominate s the view
statues, pigeons, old predaters
the clattering of heels
the Celtic Tiger
's economic heal
th's for others
as for its mothers sisters,
brothers, other exiles,
expatriates, emigrants,
refuge questers
the shamble of potato,
pause and famine .

what sense in this Archbishop?
have you brought the bread
merely to break it,
not give it,
question mark
hangs between the shades
of pilgrims' palates.

The stars trim down the Dublin night
over the Irish sea &
the Channel
in-land route s are blocked to Paris

we got out they said in
time the burning cars
wheeling in the air
like death-threats
another rage
thrusting forward a fist in our face

We Celts were not misty-eyed
favours asking for space
but marauders hacking the sty
of the dearth of love and the face

of countries burned in their hate gripped
in the final illness.

But let's not play that game of pretend lament and song we neither know where or what we go the itch blasted by our asses and pants the bloodstain where these men fell fighting Empire _ a mail box a plaque to mark
arms and mouths smoked in the calvacade of bullets. Do you know know really how to get it across a mental case like I _me could not do it, Artaud leaning in to me queries. I say without her body I am cost cost of death and less. Sans mouth to her salt taste I am the ant that mangles the pavement, a small shit to her heaven.

Not tarnished as the balcony
which over hangs the deaths
polished as the Black Irish
the humming dead ringers of baleens

the ruptured afternoon
motors the static light
guides the chair to room


Din of dunces
ovum egg
in the mask past
staggers your thought
wakens your bone
cherishes your wake .


return ing Dublin

race across wharves the hell-hound night burns
states the career of revolt
the crowd hurries high-grade
'round the Eiffel Tower
where the swat teams work down the
sewer sweat of bodies
death mobs the entrance

of subway gathers the
wreath of hell-hounds
look at this body crack

head splits open blood
not a pus image but the stark
flesh beaten
the twisted open wound of heart

by shots and not camer a shots not cinema scope but meddling war and its thudding brigades

thud of head on cement
squish of bladder
squash of liver

loud (frightening) sound of running shoes

whack across the face
see that blood
you can't explain that
the Minister says they are scum

how scum spits
back up to the face
forward face power
total hard gas of death

head smacks
hand hurts
cuts bruises
no consumer holiday in this France
outside the tour bureau
1440 cars
l'automobile O Paris


the Nose

Poetry and the Sinus.
Death and the Nose.
Assemblage and Poesy
Exotic territory of gnosis
your nose
tip of the edge
chip off the old nose
the nose that blows
dont be nosy
stick yer nose in my affairs
dont pick your nose
what are you doing

i cant
wipe it
so many things
steroid things
deviated septum

none of it gets you
past the starting gate
you're weeping all the time
it s a form of weeping
not punishment


This text's from another time   ~ but blogger wrongly reblogged as today  ~ .

clasp self-portrait

Self image __ staring at the desiring-machine. The pome is a desire space like your ____.

Name it a Pyhrric kind of lyre between eyes that peek
what she whispered over the hull of the ship
was that?

a dart plucked your heart your eyes children aloft
the middles of her embraces braces
she holds the middle card something like that first lover of day dog and night bodies wrapped around it's versing and prosing says
she of being broke as hold you hail comedy up

up see daisys__

goes mending

close to the forest




this is yer death

you've become

this character

too much

death's your dying day

like some long lost movie

soda pop drink in all the Americas of your soul

you are American and white and

bending down near the river boat

Oh come on now it's not that hard

to find

language squeezed between the pins

she says holding my arm

faraway she holds it

touches it

from the distance of


I say a Princess?

not some squeezed down

boat in your soul

of America

which is what you anywhere

what you were

what you are






What is Canada?

but the forests' blur

it's America's other brother

in her damp down ways


doesn't matter Rimbaud

no one' ll read this

ghost of the cold

snapped back by the pages of cold and intent

the internaut of love

the nautical of image trying

burst the broken pane of window

be a sinner

you are American


It's a radio space ship calling you back

calling you back

darling you know

these words

are your lips

eyes speaking across time

some pediment of flesh?

is that it darling dagger of

your feisted off body that

marks off a trail

then radios in

come take me now

you foolish boy

all these waxes yes or no

make the thimble weak

radio stereo car of

that abomindable word

the love clap

the love clasp

you know it

and I know it too

see it doesn't break

the secret that is your name



the days

when none are here

what moon is this ? is it the flow of bright?

or nays a sense of english grammars
their garbled crabbed days
beauty of a woman
travels she home

across scent of time

space and its gathers
some garden that touches its spoiled pasture a t the type writer the echo of Siren the mast

seen ebb forever the right
arm swaying when the dancer lifts the coffin
the column
kenosis of air shape and desire the sparrow

inside of every station your smile

p rose poems

Prose poems rose poems the only way t o break the 'that' pe rsonal vo ice introdu ce the fr ee flowing turre t the machiner y of language to let it walk on its own feet s macking the night hippin' the waves of balled feet not so poetic as to ma ke life death and death li fe but to mak e the two meetthe great prose poems o f the p a st R the present not athEory but a doingsimulataneity im manence and movement in it-selfCe n'est pas, ce n'est pas l'ecriture. C'est par la repression que je lutte contre l'oppression. La psychanalyse a inventer une police, une inquisition: l'auto-analyse. Il faut substituer a tout cet litterature de la nevrose une ecriture de la pyschose. Pierre Guyoat.And I add the psychoselarose"We shall never ask what a book, signifier or signified means, we shall not look for anything to understand in a book; instead we shall wonder with what it functions, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit intensities.... A book exists only through the outside and on the outside. A book itself is a little machine;( rhizome p.4dg)"A book has neither object nor subject; it is made of variously formed matters, and very different dates and speeds....(rhizome. 1)"there is no language in itself, nor are there any linguis tic universals, only a throng of dialects, patois, slangs (argots and brogues, accents and idioms)and specialized languages.... (what I call my narrator - my idiot patois-self) Language is a community, a broken and spare parts community - There is no ideal auditor-speaker, anymore than there is a homo-geneous linguistic community...." (Rhizome .7, massumi&johnson)"We shall never ask what a book, signifier or signified means, we s hall not look for anything to understand in a book; instead we shall wonder with what it functions, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit intensities.... A book exists only through the outside and on the outside. A book itself is a little machine;( rhizome p.4dg)a confession that does not confessbut digresses to avoid the punishments inflicted on its various narrators"The trinity Hoderlin-Kleist-Nietzsche already conceived writing, art an even a new politics in this way: no longer as a harmonious development of form and a well-ordered formation of the 'subject', as Goethe, Schiller or Hegel wanted,but successions of catatonic states and periods of extreme haste, of suspensions and shootings, coexistences of variable speeds, blocs of becoming, leaps across voids, displacements of a centre of gravity on an abstract line,conjunctions of lines on a plane of immanence, a 'stationary' process at a dizzying speed which sets free particles and affects." Dialogues Deleuze 95One can add others to this trilogy, ____, especially the bits and businesses about speeds and states of haste and so on; this is celerity itself with modern writing; this text -- Leibnitz’s Fairytale.Artaud is of course implied in all of this; He is, Artaud the plane of consistency in all these writers - the very mud of their creation.the Fictons by CD. and his Orpheus Quartet________________No.[2]is it a sonnet modern lover or the other way round a round around rondelay roundelay the other way the way others are lisping the way others are listening their chins to the ground terra firma terra sancta but is it a sonnet makes me so digress when I'm in pain and you in the bath the long eyes of history are on us informed by pain long history rolls by there is no cell to step out of there is no cell to escape out of or into for that matter and [for that matter] bit particle that is upon me I have a little less than 15 years to complete this chronicle this bout de ma journee then you will be there you will be here you will be her you will be tearing at the dirty musty sail I can't stand dreaming about you all the time thinking about you all the time armoured in pain I wander weary bones pray on the sands of time delicate dears delicate ears is it love if so what of it do you love me do you pray for me in my sleep do you know how unhappy I am I am delirious with pain I can't speak to Sappho it hurts too much what did you expect firm rolls the boat in the wind you knew I was vulnerable you gave me no prediction coordinates for my map how's that you couldn't do that didn't do that after I payed you out to supper that night night that night that night of clouds and canes in my eyes when I walked home alone agony as I had not seen in a long time alone in the street my back my bag and books gripped piled underneath under rather my arms how lonely it's been without you terrible just about you and my ex-terrible love for you fearing all losing all perhaps pride and shame play a dirty a game you didn't understand my strength my weakness my wound bleeding all over the place you would appear to have taken advantage of this knowing or unknowingly I can't tell don’t know I don't can't a cry caught in the throat my mine hanging up in the air the scream you screamed stole mine didn't allow mine I don't know you won't see won't know ever it's gone now you'll just be ugly as before when I rescued you with Love his cupid's bow an arrow in hand now you'll just cancel and not have been at all really not have been at all isn't that terrible and the pain I suffered learning not to love foolishly [revised draft of the first -not complete] ------------------ present heroesHow to read this; with yer breath, between your teeth whistling the desire machines of capitalism and paranoiathe breath hanging on your lIps

So Jill then ....

So Jill then found many things texted in the base of her brain's silly woof and warp the woods of her jouissance and renaissance. The night worked like timber, it shivered,
matting the preso Om and the Instanter deist worship
of goods and words. And their solider.

S ubject: Ce qui est reste d'un "texte"... apres..

From: CD

to eyebeam-list@list.thing.netSender: eyebeam-list@list.thing.net

When it came to the Punch Mona preferred fiction. But some times the author rambling around with his view point."There is Nothing to Paint, and nothing to paint with..."Beckett speaking of the Dutch painter whose name escapes me.

On Sun, 29 Feb 1998, m@ wrote:"There is no longer any p-l-a-i-n E-n-g-l-i-s-h. m@This comment prompted joy[s]. Therefore. I thank you andoffer: - [remerciements] with many tongued word retours. Word built bitswhichthat patter speak the many varitied Englishs of eloquence, viscera,plain song, lyric love and metaphor machine drive desire .several others"quotes" et texte to supplement and augment this statement.The first is a line from the American poet, Wallace Stevens." French and English constitute a single language."

Next is Tristan Tzara:fromPROCLAMATION SANS PRETENTIONL'art s'endort pour la naissance due monde nouveau"ART" - mot perroquet- remplace par DADA,PLESIAUSAURE, ou mouchoirand more of more immediate relevance to the question oflanguageet La Poesie;Le talent QU'ON PEUT APPRENDRE fait du

poete un droguiste AUDJOURD'HUItHE pOet is a druggist sampling various word forms in diverse

idiolects and patois; she tastes the words made fleshy flesh;

the verbskiss the sex as they speak twist in the tongue body of the Noun which is like the anatomy of the hand;
the poet, she is a desire. She is SpokenThought; she is

Spoken for, she is the body Mouth.This was not a Quote:
Or Rather it is an Invented Quote, a subtextual allusion sidestepping manner and intellect; She speaks the
quote of her song and her mouth sideways moves the tongue sprach-song ofebbulience. The milieu of liens and contact."Erotic Antenna" that buzz bee like in the web tissue whichmakesthe body extend/intend in Movement space. Oh Stationary Travellos.Now another "quote"In an discussion-interview given for the 1977 issue ofBoundary, Phillipe Sollers said that since Finnegans Wake "The English language no longerexists." Is it not true?How Many Englishs are there in a city like NewYork, in a city called London? The richness and abundance ofcontemporary English writing is proof enough for that. So many tongues in onelanguage; English as langua franca, english as the Latin of the 20thcentury. English as multiplicity as Deleuze and Guattari discuss this inMille Plateaux;why because English is constantly deterritorialized by thehundreds of Languages which flow through it, cutting and trans-versingit [versing it, un-versing it, per-versing it] as the desire machinesscoop and slice, releasing incredible schizo-phrenic charges of language.English no longer exists. As stable uniform and cannot ever really vebeen said to exist. English can do this because English is not ENglishbut French-English, Quebec Franglais, Irish English, and YiddishEnglish and Indian English and Chinese English, and Woman english and AnimalEnglish and Lover English and City English and Country English and Sex Englishand Cyber English and Body English.And all this is so poor poor poor poor toconvey to indicate to hint to enrich how rich and diverse and infiniteitall is a tissue of Language.P O E M AAnd no deconstruction of tongued syllable can lead but to morereterritorializedand reconstructed beauty of expression desire body lovelanguage. it is Notsomuch that there is no plain english as there neverwas but some thought there was;Some thought Magic was Dead too but that isNot so either; some called themselves philos but that was not soEitherand Or to say there is More as the Metamorphosis of Body Languagetakesplace and placing in the desire-bodies.Another quote: "I will give them back their English languagewhenI am done" James Joyce [Shem the penman]:writing to a friend aboutFinnegans Wake.We are all polyglots even if we "only" speak one language.Speaking one language is already an immense achievement. Think of themillions who cannot speak. I speak their muteness in the explosions ofeveryday violence..... Quotes from Edmond Jabes...."Silence, where the word abdicates....""will you accuse me of being a writer of death?....""To be alive at the bosom of death. To stand where air andwater are the same horizontal rhythm, said Reb Akri.""We lack creation. We lack resistance to the present. Thecreation of concepts in itself calls for a future form, for a new earthand people that do not yet exist. Europeanization does not constitute abecoming but merely the history of capitalism, which prevents thebecoming of subjected peoples. Art and philosophy converge at thispoint: the constitution of an earth and a people are lacking as thecorrelate of creation.It is not populist writers but the most Aristocratic who layclaim to this future. The people and the earth will not be found in ourdemocracies. Democracies are majorities, but a Becoming is by itsnature that which always eludes the majority. The position of manywriters with regards to democracy is ambiguous and complex...."(Deleuze and Guattari, What is Philosophy, p 108. trans. Hugh Tomlinsonand Graham Burcell, 1994)Of course we can all think of many poets and writers asexamples of this complex relation. Interestingly enough in theinter-view mentioned above wherein Sollers speaks of James Joyce he also calls him the OnlyNon ((( Shall we Not Call Him Saint Joyce Writer & Martyr asSartre said of Jean Genet, Saint Genet Actor and Martyr)))-fascist Writer of the 20th century. At least compared to hiscontemporaries Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot and Wyndham Lewis. If I maysuggest what Sollers wasreferring to is that there cannot be found, either in the life of Joyceor in his writings, any trace of fascism. Joyce multiplies the languagesand sexes and this eliminates any violence and fascisms. Joyce was herwife, as Nora was her husband."Tell me tale of shem or shaun. Whowere Shem and Shaun the living sons and daughters of." (Finnegans Wake)No easy feat. Feat and defeat the molar dominators within/out.Or Nietzsche's Daughter, for instance. At the pass atTurin, or Basle.Quote: "Everyone wants to be a fascist" F. Guattari said thatin an essay and that wrote about how this desire is an example of howdesire desires its own repression. How terrible we are so bounden by theuniform desire to be the "same" to merge identity into an mass-molar fascism ofbodymind. Now cannnot language act as the tensor (Lyotard) to minoritizeand thereby slew the flows that break the molar constructions whichblocks us? YEs, yes, I said Yes, Yes, I will I will, Yes. Yes. Say Yes, Ohplease say yes. She said, Yes.
Make English flow like your fingers Beckett said he gave up writing in English because for him, it was too easy.
Too fluid."The artist ....to fail, to dare to fail as no other has.

To venture into that domain of non-being that has been neglected by all Western artists...."S. Beckett, 1958 in Three Dialogues.Ah! Les beaux jours! Ah give me the old questions. The old questions. S. B. encore. Une autre fois. Le language which we speak is theone we speak against

the speaking which we are. Speak that I may touch

you.Last but last Quote, yet one more: " Borderline, frontier which is transformed into threshhold; threshold which is transformed into frontier...redistributing forces. Po[e]tential life realized.

And a limit case of that paradox: resistance which is alsoopening;closure which is also gift; failure which is measure ofbeuaty;insurmountable distance which is Encounter." (p.77 BrachaLichtenberg Ettinger Matrix Halal[a]-Lapsus - notes on paintingMuseumof Modern Art Oxford 1993)Eurydice speaks from the border space, wander the notes of herpages as you seek silence.

There goes the word which she seeks...Ages later palimpsests of what is written appears in the dustedoffword of language. In her painting, dusted jar of memory amnesiac."There is nothing to paint, nothing to paint with." Beckett asperabove.English is not the only language I am speaking even when I amspeaking it. It speaks me and what speaks me is the mullioned terracedtongues of the tome of its words. "We" do not speak, as much as we arespoken. There is never more than that, and that is everything.Orpheus wore the day down like a sun. She, Orpheus, metEurydicein the one thousand spaces of words between the threshold which crossesinits walking.je pense a la chaleur que tisse la paroleautour de son noyau le reve qu'on appelle nous... au-dessus de la nocturne pais odeur forte nocturne paixet tant d'autres et tant d'autresClifford Duffy et tant d'autres


-----------------                                                                                             ------------------

"The true hero, the true subject, the center of the Iliad, is force.
Force as man's instrument, force as man's master, force beforewhich> human flesh shrinks back. The human soul, in this poem, is shown always in its relation to force; swept away, blinded by the force it..." (So wrote Simone Weil)

But we had written, long after,
before, we had, or read, or fogwinded
forged a mind manacle to split.

Ulysses one fifty I saw you I saw you in two in strange distorted voices sawing zzzz zzzz then rings around the rosy the
rosary beads and the roasting beads and roasting head of the virgincannibal heart skewed on a stake faggots piled up at thefeet Joan ofArc her sweet lips eyes eyed by my desire my cock lipped by hermouth I saintly Jesus sucked out byher I saw I saw you I saw I saw Isaw and saw I see-sawWill Jill and her stochastic Spinoza have approved and Frannyand her entelechies have danced the ineluctable modalities of boatsand seas with the yes of mermaid and murrmurrs of mothers in theroll me round the earth belly dada come rumm rumm made me home WOuldanything had been so kind in the D of Libido and rodeo Rodeo notvideo around the sarcastic liver of grooved moved and tubed coastingunder the side of the feminine rhyme and rhymster hipped by morphemeand deranged comfort O my feet my fet my feet! inside my blood andneedles and pins is not the thing its wherewithal of zero and zany .O zero and Zerro! of chevaliered childerhoods. I have reported thee to the sun things like those must be heard to be relieved, and I amsoft rift of cannibal waits. I am the heard one which peeled andpeeped back his face, and she is the learned by the abyssm mysteriumtremendum tremendyumdyum! Reeled by rivers and water wagons Not thesummer long when Satan -- poor soul sod! -- deterritorialized thefree moving energy of capitialism to make space for his evil soul --porting his sad Protestan hat agains the catholic god of monotheisma disease like Mono Mono and Mono is high fideity you could sayagainst sisysters and mothers. O Ulysses be ny shadow in thiswfallow rounding land of huggers and muggerrs!_______

"... thinks it can direct, bent under the pressure of the force to which> it is subjected. Those who had dreamed that force, thanks to progress, now belonged to the past, have seen the poem as ahistoric document; those who can see that force, today as in the past, is at the center of all human history, find in the Iliad its most beautiful, its purest mirror force is what makes the person subjected to it into a thing." (Simone contin.)

Force:I prefer the force that through the green fuse drives,

right beloved of the curly curls?



dear dashing


Indeed we trust disable petit prince. functions of the author desire machines
Indeed we trust disable petit prince. functions of the author desire machines

How goes it in the desert lands of novel writing, and gaze piercing and trouble with the weirdoIsms of publishers and pirates, pimps and puddles, one can never have enuff of these things. How does one spell author.? One cannot spell idealism and text, and Mister Dereader is a tad baffling if not a balooner. AS for us we are happy collected plateau selving and ididentity. I am most glad for yer that yer own is progressing, as for
us well our Author, if it is indeed a thing one can refer to in these dictatorial theory ridden days and nights,
our author,
my authority
our writer
has taken a day r two to
contemplate her belly button,
Or dare I say her??
is her him? or him her?
Know that Mona shall reveal all when the time 'comes' and comes back. When it shall it be. However modal we may be our auxilaries of have and may, present and presenting past tenses of shew and do.

For us , dear __ Main our poetryis a flowriver of life une expressiond dans une vie, et and a way of life. As you may guess you live with such singular purpose fighting the great dragon of publishers and other monstrosities!! Ah the dragons of publickers! to us weak whores of words, they are, manys a time and space, mere Pimps to our Pimpled faces of desire!!!

So for now we have tea and move our oblique and hidden ways a the transom of desire.
SHall we say
it was machines that marked the belt that held the time that ran the piff puff that smoked the day??
O Public O private!!
It is a brave one who publishes!
for now

Blue Dog (PluS)

When I wrote Blue Dog

I was a man
walking wolves
howl the roam of wolf
lion's paw
wreath of wind & cars
in dirty winter
a breath in the sky

something a dialect I was imitating raging for
tagged by words
a young body in ancient rage
waiting for you
but you never came

except for that walk over the mouth
a surrealistic pillow for your love talk

my body and yours
were lovers
for a time

A man out for a saunter with his dog
A saint or two standing for the rain

Is this a perception of past
or future where
dares carry freight

timing the weight of its





(these safe streets are dead) we termintate return to Paris, Montmartre our heads alert the riots in the distance and the disarming

the emergency act first time since 68

but what hope for

still the night of tourists has ceased.

in Paris hours later fear crackles the air
the hungry are a hunting
I read of a rat at a woman`s nipple
can this be true
the great disgust it arouses

what scene of destruction and waste, carnage of human effort and lies, the greed the machine invents and makes each moment each day. burning burning cars, wheels, buildings . why kill your own selves but what rage rage causes them I know and cannot know I am the dead one among them I am nothing I am the white expiry hopes of their death(s)

and birth .

god protect them in the crazed pandemonium of violence

the children of greed and empire Multitude as death
and the long lines of escape and upward moving Mankind maybe lost
maybe lost maybe maybe forever

or like a lost lover
found and refound

In gare de Nord the sounds of gunfire and running

In le gard du Nord there is no poetry


theSe Streets of Dublin of PariS

Here, in these streets, Dublin, Paris, where their footsteps clattered, the bells ringing, the sweeping suite of the Liffey, the Seine, and the bakeries close then open, and today Deleuze died, flung himself, over the last dharma, the breathing machine halted, in midbreath, the mind machine clicked off to the On switch, marvelling at its mechanism for deterritorialization and recrimination but the words of pavements are not that of war, not song, not war, and in the streets of Dublin, the pubs their lights glow in this dark, I am wending of a day across the back and street of bloody history, its body suggestive always of death and its hep burning cross its leftward and rightward swings, no joke to them that pays the price, or One who lost the run of himself, Or many that lost the run of themselves... some night where prayer has stalked, indeed dear Daddy Deleuze, and Daddy Joyce and Daddy Villon and Mama Anna Livia Plurabella in the bella of the morning of the not power is the song and the chiming of their oats and the ray of this belong and the chapel of their hill and the bells of Montmartre and the hill of praise and the matter of ruin, and the lips of preach, and the , the moment of cafe in the middle of the heave, the heaven sentward glance

and Brother Beckett and sideways glance Villon and little brother Robert and his madcap zanies and my death by these Paris buses not many in their between few

at four of the morning a hansom rattles
her soft feet of the lady
furs clad in her harms
the bouncing cheeks of her flesh
the light lie of payment waiting
the light lie weaning and there is no way to find him
there is no god
you are god when` re good you`re god when you`re bad
and then
there`s that light they keep talking about

the unvineyarded self
sips the wine the sober wine of the god`s bloody self
reaching reaching the passport the passport the yard
the passport of the yard

In Dublin by the bride`s bridge
in Paris on the quay

an old storm passed me by
in the reckoning of death
and our doctor

Shaman of our health
heard my name for
the hungering of its praise

saying you too have got to come with us we`re walking across the worry the sky

the last woman`s glance passes me by

there are storms in the pillows


at four

at four o clock living on the street
means gone to Goa

your eyes have left me

without a voice

not that I ever had one

but there`s even less now

a friend has breathed

A friend OF _ Orpheus close to the lane, close to the wool, le wool like they say in patio patois Francais?
why fight for a dead oppressor`s tongue?

each super Quote d Text provides an InterioR Text that subsides cuts across the other ones.

young stew pod day
like night a caramels
"carceral continuum"

poetry in action ... like the interview with Deleuze where he says he and Guattari have abandoned the term schizo-analysis.
its like milton abandoning god for Satan, the greatest schizo herO of all time.

__ goals of grunting (horses in the night __ slander of desire's bed)

the reel question

is not to be or not to be but how become a flow/cut across arrow lines leaving trails... the actual quest

zippings in the void

What is poetry,and what does it do? an
that is

an exciting question: says Jill Opening Her Mouth Wide

As gaggles of geese flay the night weed, the free bear of hope,
taste, lines, zizags, trail of partner and ask of why
over a tent a cope

fine tires

waking for nirvana
connect affinity toward, becomings of lips, concave apartments
stones weary at night
an already crowded self
is asking a lot of questions to the crown of
if not thorns
then step sisters
in tropical harvests
as I wander walk an avenue Avernus and the
even Trojan hiss
debate the marking dash
of humming birds
sparrows in the dark

where love the lion found
his name

delIrEs From the Bog

: L'Abecedaire de Papa Gilles Deleuze

So Mona recollects Jill and her worstawowool suit and her armchair blues

Actually it would give him that "far-away" look. A turn of thecentury like appearance, which would be interesting, don't you think? He speaks to us from the distance of the past. Or the past that was his future, I mean virtually his future.

That is his past past future as thesepia tones twinkle across to us the viewers....and the magic moment of the stone.Ah yer blues, with the armchair sepia and a view on the night of random chosen bodies

letters to the rhizomers
to lovers

...Once upon a spring it was Jill was weaving her burnous and her disjunctive synthesis to the Latin of Amerique. it was a tall and noble place....Stravinsky wanted to say enjoyed yer symphony , the bird of fire

and Jill's
rhizomatic soldiers More please!
Oh Rhizome

be my home my home
without a homemy home with out a poemmy poem sans pomesans l'homme in them days
Mona had many sympathizers when she was forming her 'formation' breaks and starts,
schizo skills and stars...

So then, Mona, enter the burrow, the barrage, the mirage of tables, indexes, times, dates,pale stars, wings, riddle raddles, marriages of knocks, closing shades, miracle whip weaves, melancholy fakirs, diamond sluice meltdowns, sloughed desire storms, caged sundowns, deconstructed passages,h--lines which cut, forlorn stacks of adjectives forcing the weepdown rakefrom --hyaline hampers.

But of all the words
she has offered
nones if has none
the matin
as freight
her shoulders

as free

(obeying aortas fronting
the temple


as what?


incomplete hurry to stutter
beans and nothing
boulders beneath her eyes

Ask why this has your name
if my hands are seized are broken
will you see them?
is it not time
to matter

away the stairs fall from memory
our walk into the city

our walk
the children

our fostered selves



SomE TiME ToMoRrOw

Some wet time

tomorrow in the needle point

across metrics and suds Dublin is very fine
as needle point work is

nO THAT dodders like the ancient mules does
oR a cigarette and the night with your eyes
memory`s voice slumber of fragment
in my own bed
now the training night is quiet
an ostrich peekin`down a dance
pounded body

Sure wet day tomarraw raw

as spurred horses
the automated author
antlers of some geezer melting his suds in the hope
your eyes your eyes in the mirror
looked always it`s what pulled
me pulled



said without

said without a word
her kiss was the denial of the future

diamond furniture of the sutra
trailing the expendable present

hush of rainbows
gray to green
creel to cone


the Unending I
unediting the desire machine
her machines deux hums the recondite

factory label of subs
aqueous asses

is that it?


I don`t remember
second blues

the tintintinabulation
of lust

my secondary bites


Little poem who made

Envelope mouth /aPe Lip of

Little poem who made thee, did he who make the world
deconstruct me, deterritorialize my fate then? was the
night my Iam Bic Cylinder, I am limp and shrimp on the highdays
of alonesome, guttered, filled with need, wanting, hungerin'
hand lip ass legs to caress in the cry of my body, cause
if I don't, I die, I do die, in the sight of their escape.
Pearl before swine in the sonnet, like socks without holes flood
the nape and neck of yer stiff-necked beckon. How shall we sing,
with our onions?

Were Franny and Mona, the true ones, blue and
tried like my ointment skin? O kith of kin, and in your santcum, shall we and Elizabeth rattle the melody. Are the days barren
nights only these loneliness, that I try on like strange grammars
Is that what you meant to say, Mister hypothesis? with your
transubstantiated consubstantiaed ends and means, your Kantian
quill and knock against the repeated stress. What is against?
What is it, that it so recurs repeatedly late and again against its tie of awareness and literature down the done and dome and
dime and ten cent stores?
Should we rattle and then move as her body does
who was the anorexic one eyes so intelligent, roving everywhere
like the haiku of your itr and intent as her soul must
I am every simple rhyme which pulls out and back
back to truth and beauty and beauty's storm its torment,
and the lost thought sings back, back the river before the angel who sits waylaying at the door when the father's pronounce,
and there is no sun like this gust that blows puffed and huffed
by near and night, beats it does, beat and beat the element air
clement as the night and her pardon hat which sits so


So and sew
sow thy mouth

parched of eat


of folie

yes Folly and her name was the nighwhistle of the whole Breeze naught upon the beach

One cannot speed down the history of verses!

and as I blog about she black the targent space argent nude knock


linking into the future,
after the fact.




Were you happy then
knowing I was gone the phone of breath

in its steady held intent across years of pain the scholarship
of desire

its rent and ready made wheels, axis of the deals and death

Was she the ointment of her angoisse the cylindrical of
her offing

a perfect beat kept in time

Was that the pad , Jesus
when death by rounding
was yer closest choice
O lover of fine pens
narcotic figures gaping for "eternity"

his body dead everywhere
about like some cheap magician's soil

that was closer to the cafes and
the all night doors to your heart
(sandals sandals )

a broken cigarette across the bane of your death
breath leaking at the faucet of time
and her hungry down love
me in those

all night

drives of god


other persons ...

other persons starting the mean The Wall hell is other persons starting the finish line after you begin not the Beginning of finish line after you begin not the Beginning of Pierre Lefou and her verliffy ways gathering at second Pierre Lefou and her verliffy ways gathering at second hand apartments and. Breath was making the modern way. that, That, hand apartments and. Breath was making the modern way. that, That, is how you versify. crucify, - is how you versify. crucify, -And And then the night And And then the night was wrapped like an echo in the first plane and the wrapped like an echo in the first plane and the second partition was the last light and the wings second partition was the last light and the wings were floating and hunger like a storm was re-wed pain were floating and hunger like a storm was re-wed pain in the design of her eyes and the broken horn in the design of her eyes and the broken horn made the gypsy man and the ragged cloud against made the gypsy ma
n and
the ragged cloud against the church bell steeple and the child woke in the the church bell steeple and the child woke in the book like day. But there was no help in book like day. But there was no help in what end a bicycle horn the fragment novelistic. To what end a bicycle horn recording purpose an antebellum procedure before the bitter glow recording purpose an antebellum procedure before the bitter glow of His right side and her never want to of His right side and her never want to know she was there before. The shiver that cleans know she was there before. The shiver that cleans twice ladles the verb and clears the page. Not twice ladles the verb and clears the page. Not like desiring production popping your eyes in one more like desiring production popping your eyes in one more torture cell a year. Not may like that. So torture cell a year. Not may like that. So it went now it does. Again, ripped inside the it went now it does. Again, ripped inside the piece of waiting
in the
fear by the bus piece of waiting in the fear by the bus stop where you go the name waits head of stop where you go the name waits head of forgetfulness . Only way there out. Desire cop coughs forgetfulness . Only way there out. Desire cop coughs wrinkles the stele of pointed out cats and signs wrinkles the stele of pointed out cats and signs it’s your hole in the wall and I don’t it’s your hole in the wall and I don’t mean The Wall hell is virtue and young men, treachery and virtue, speak of virtue and young men, treachery and the body comes naturally forgetting the voice that speaks the body comes naturally forgetting the voice that speaks its shadow awake. Ought her heart to break first, the its shadow awake. Ought her heart to break first, the big bible, the bibliography? Scrawled or otherwise, it is big bible, the bibliography? Scrawled or otherwise, it is not the one and others you read that counted not the one and others you read that counted across your pigeon scrawle
d eyes
or the memorized eyes across your pigeon scrawled eyes or the memorized eyes and globes you recalled. It is not, it is and globes you recalled. It is not, it is not radio or speakers, or letters between the vowels, not radio or speakers, or letters between the vowels, consonants before the silences. It is the critique of consonants before the silences. It is the critique of desiring-silences that count and recount the page stuttering its desiring-silences that count and recount the page stuttering its way along Aye Aye capstan and bollard fakering the way along Aye Aye capstan and bollard fakering the height that unbridles the image of her latest creation height that unbridles the image of her latest creation the cetacean nun the vermillion cage, the yellowed eyeballs the cetacean nun the vermillion cage, the yellowed eyeballs the fragment novelistic. To mean we are tying nature to a does not mean we are tying nature to a pole of schizophrenia but we’re making a pleasure boa
t pole
of schizophrenia but we’re making a pleasure boat that turns over the capital vehicle. Is that possible that turns over the capital vehicle. Is that possible Jill’s daughter shouted as the check spun in the Jill’s daughter shouted as the check spun in the air fluttering to the ground. What is a stone air fluttering to the ground. What is a stone sucking candy mouth but the motor of its intent, sucking candy mouth but the motor of its intent, even if that is spurn, and not day says even if that is spurn, and not day says done. The social industry machine is not rhizomatics the we done. The social industry machine is not rhizomatics the we wish the misplaced finger the imagined finger, the letter wish the misplaced finger the imagined finger, the letter missing, it’s not all the same thing, and the missing, it’s not all the same thing, and the matheme is the death, the lapse of them all. matheme is the death, the lapse of them all. The rest is absence not the other named dead
The rest
is absence not the other named dead once your over it over it virtue. Speak of once your over it over it virtue. Speak of virtue, speak of place steered and the high down dead feeling optic place steered and the high down dead feeling a finely tuned machine by Sheila’s roses we walked. a finely tuned machine by Sheila’s roses we walked. A fantastic tattoo a repression silence drunk deeper than A fantastic tattoo a repression silence drunk deeper than night and Hilda’s highs. Over the ship overboard and night and Hilda’s highs. Over the ship overboard and starboard the buckets of sheep were crying. Murky caves starboard the buckets of sheep were crying. Murky caves spade of hand shuffling the deck a tape made spade of hand shuffling the deck a tape made in the tee black copper and a candlestick stretching in the tee black copper and a candlestick stretching the stellar canvas of her posh her pish posh the stellar canvas of her posh her pish posh look gem as in the gleaming no
swirled in look gem as in the gleaming not swirled in the lyricism another cynicism in the cunningness of things. the lyricism another cynicism in the cunningness of things. Not the unread letters returned the absence of warmth Not the unread letters returned the absence of warmth cordiality and near courtesy of day stepped to night. cordiality and near courtesy of day stepped to night. A glass a glass my hand Franny says it A glass a glass my hand Franny says it does not Desiring-Production page 2- 3 on the A schizophrenic out for Desiring-Production page 2- 3 on the A schizophrenic out for a stroke is more excited than a morning file a stroke is more excited than a morning file with teeth. It’s death on the night undone unsaying with teeth. It’s death on the night undone unsaying the coeternal beat of the light faded by edifying the coeternal beat of the light faded by edifying glances down the strange of time. Knot some saying glances down the strange of time. Knot some s
along her back playing the girl of night and along her back playing the girl of night and her hummer back… not lived as nature or walnuts her hummer back… not lived as nature or walnuts between the tasting teeth of L. the dark lore between the tasting teeth of L. the dark lore of her huddle eyed picasso elf eye So much of her huddle eyed picasso elf eye So much apple in the nut is pleasing. Various gaits not apple in the nut is pleasing. Various gaits not the gate to the door that opened to Song the gate to the door that opened to Song see and its partial place of knock and wood. see and its partial place of knock and wood. Then the mist appeared. It was vase and the Then the mist appeared. It was vase and the optic



« Qu’est-ce que le Christ a nié ? Tout ce qui aujourd’hui s’appelle chrétien. [...] Il n’y a jamais eu qu’un seul chrétien, et celui-là est mort sur la Croix. » (Nietzsche)

Jesus in a poem by Novalis _ weeping on a hill surrounded by his friends. I, too have no father.

There never was but one christian, and he died on the cross.

The metre of the crucifixion, the rosy crucifixion. A day's nightmare.

Who did Jesus see when he looked in the mirror?

Spontaneous, fragmentary . Whitman


Welcome to the Walt Whitman Hypertext Archive

"I sing...the body electric, a song of myself, a song of joys, a song of occupations, a song of prudence, a song of the answerer, a song of the broad-axe, a song of the rolling earth, a song of the universal..."

An Introduction to The Whitman Project

It's funny that I've not blogged about Whitman, well,it goeesssssssssss without sayingNo Whitman no poetry would be quite the same, now would it???????

THis link is to the wonderful whitman Project provided at the external links to this here posting.

This link is a good starting spot.

An Introduction to The Whitman Project:

One's-Self I sing,a simple separate person, Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse....... Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.
-Walt Whitman, from ONE'S SELF I SING


some how in the night there is nothing

left but the let a flat

pieces of you and

some how it appear s off track

a language perished perhaps


add the night

add the light


the lashing rain as

before there was no wind


we reach


Poets and Poetry in the Enderby Cycle

_It is interesting to think about a fictional poet like Enderby and a poet like Artaud. Both spend time in the madhouses of their time and both are revolting against tyranny of one kind or another ____ Artaud and Endery the poet __

_ Excerpts from an online essay by
Enderby's profession, while he lived, and even at the time of his temporary or illusory death, was poetry. He was a professional poet and could do nothing that did not fit in with his vocation: write poetry, read, be interviewed, at a pinch do a little teaching and/or collaborate in the production of a play, or a film, or a television programme, or a musical, as long as the work was to be based on a poetical achievement of some kind.

Poets and Poetry in the Enderby Cycle
by Sylvère Monod

In 1980 I had published a study of Mr Enderby, one of Anthony Burgess's favourite characters. As Mr Enderby was both impressive and mean, I had called my article, in French, "Enderby, le minable magnifique". This appeared in the fifth issue of TREMA, a short-lived and obscure scholarly journal published by the English Department of my own University, Paris-III Sorbonne Nouvelle Note 1. Our N° 5, though not so heady and successful as Chanel's, had its own glamour, since it was entirely devoted to one unquestionably brilliant and entertaining writer. It was an Anthony Burgess special issue. I based my study on what I took to be the complete Enderby cycle of three shortish novels, Inside Mr Enderby, Enderby Outside, and The Clockwork Testament, or, Enderby's End. I still regard myself as having been at the time justified in thinking the cycle was complete, since the word End appeared in the title of its third part, in which poor Mr Enderby was actually seen to die. I therefore expressed my convicton that there would be, that indeed there could be no more Enderby stories. Dead men, even fictitious ones, notoriously tell no tales. Nor do they lend themselves to being told new tales about. I could not have been more wrong. A fourth Enderby novel, Enderby's Dark Lady, annihilated the hero's death at the end of the third, the author blandly explaining that his Clockwork Testament had been only one branch of a "forked ending", the unreal term of the alternative, of which he now gave us the other and truer one. Enderby's survival in the Dark Lady volume was so vigorous that Burgess left himself plenty of room for adding a fifth, then a sixth part, and so on, in fact, any number of sequels, had he lived long enough to write them. We can trust his fertile inventiveness: had he lived, he would never have fallen short of adventures for Enderby. But talented writers are not like fictional figures,; they cannot, alas, be resurrected at will. Burgess has died, and taken Enderby with him to a final grave this time.

etcetera etctera _ do follow the links for remainder of this essay.

anthony burgess

and now for a taste of Burgess' writing itself__

the clockwork testament, or: enderby's end

"'But,' she said, 'we'll make sure, won't we? Go over there and turn on the TV. Turn it on loud. Keep going round the dial till I tell you to stop.' Enderby moved with nonchalance, but only to sit down on a pouffe. Much much better. He said, with nonchalance:
'You do it. Play Russian roulette with it. That's Nabokov,' he said in haste, 'not me. Pale Fire,' he clarified.
'Bastard,' she said. But she got up and walked towards him, pointing her little gun. It was a nice little weapon from the look of it. She had delightful legs, Enderby saw regretfully, and seemed to be wearing stockings, not those panty-hose abominations. Suspenders, what they called garters here, and there knickers. He was surprised to find himself, under the thick hot Edwardian trousers, responding solidly to the very terms. Camiknicks. Beyond his pouffe, she moved sidelong to the television set. She then switched on and turned the dial click click click with her left hand, looking towards Enderby and pointing her weapon."

outside mr. enderby

"Tonight she was not going to have greasy stew and pickled onions and stepmother´s tea. She read the menu intently, as though it contained a Nabokovian cryptogram, and ordered a young hare of the kind called a capuchin, marinated in marc..."

 and    last but not least
 * Burgess was dismissed as literary critic for the Yorkshire Post after he wrote a review of his own Inside Mr. Enderby and it appeared in the newspaper. The novel had been published under the pseudonym Joseph Kell, and the newspaper’s editor did not know that Kell was Burgess. Burgess protested, to no avail, that Walter Scott had also once reviewed one of his own novels. The offending review, which was not exactly commendatory, read in part: “This is, in many ways, a dirty book. It is full of bowel-blasts and flatulent borborygms, emetic meals…and halitosis. It may well make some people sick….It turns sex, religion, the State into a series of laughing-stocks. The book itself is a laughing-stock.”

as  quoted by Geoffrey Grigson at the blog, In Search of Anthony Burgess.

let me add this statement : thank god for Anthony Burgess having lived on this earth  ~>




I cannot pray without you
I cannot say without you

Staying I cannot stay
I cannot not
Staying to say I cannot without you
Staying the night
walking the light wharves
there’s nothing left

Speaking I cannot speak without you
words deaf mutes
Speak dead boots
without you
with out you

Out you you out
with and without you
you out without
saying has no sense
remorse’s just a taste

No cents and dollars
Buy this a penny prayer
To weave your body
Into mine across the air

Simple as yes
Complex as no
Let us not pray
Let us meander

End the dead gods


first saw

"The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done."

Ulysses __

Oh ho ho and a bottle of heigh . Heigh ho the ninny
pushed by water and so it goes when she first saw my lips
wangled she reckoned by the flay of their stoppage I a
recondite deer twittered against the window of winterage and husbanding my land I awful I was the Irish accent of the voice reading Finnegans Wake when a young lad, a young ladding, and spinny as she was there was no choice between theory and practice and the boat we rowed was like this against the territoried God against the deterritorialized Satan sinner chained in his shackled husks by the sea, the sea of alcoholism which made the books of the sea and this what made what we are. Throttled by night and height we sang the song of rushed trout of boy scouts not cubs hammering down motorcycle hill and I missed my youth and missed yours as well the skinny boy I was spent too many years alone friendless homeless sexless no wonder she was crazed crazy when founded out to the foraged field.

Now be my lip O lover of memory


Socrates Pharmacy Part 3

This is part three of an essay, a textual collage, that I was working 2 years ago. To read it in sequence scroll back to Socrates Pharmacy Part 1 and follow back up to Part 3.
ossify and become boring, but their very cyclic nature testifies to their vitality and energy, their creativeness.

An economy, a new one, of desire.
A new economy of energy and form begins to take shape before our eyes (look at Bill Bisset and others, daring heroes of poetry in Canada which was a virtual Wasteland back in the early 60’s), as we become the thing upon which we write. We are becomers (in the DeleuzoGuattarian sense of le devenir), not makers, we are becomed by a god (what is a god but an energy of ourselves the makers – Blake’s, All gods reside in the human breast), and not craftsmen on a ship (called language: this does preclude being makers or assemblers as Perloff and others have pointed out); rather we are shippers (of words, word smugglers, merchants of language, harbingers of thought) and sailors, fleet on the edge of language, and making it our own. What language is this? not the language of rational philosophy nor the language of Plato’s Republican Guard. The cavern is the place …Plato…wants to get us out that dead zone (a little Steven King please) that houses the cavern dwellers, the troglodytes of realism. Oh Simulacrum and the poet’s fine frenzy rolling over sward and city hail makes the mind its own place a misery. So yes, Ion, the dear boy, (were his balls nice Socrates, was this little rhetor one of the seduced Socratic pile; one of those youths of whom Plato said: it was the beauty of the youth of Athens that made him a philo. That was one of Father Nietzsche’s quips as stated in Twilight of the Idols.) thou art not a master of neither prose, nor day and night, but to speak and shout these Homeric rants and raves, yes, Ion thou art a mastered thing of the God, as it were. You,

Ion, the god uses you like a plucked instrument to get his message across. But wait that word message, it means another thing completely to Mchulan, it means that you Ion are the message, wait, what happens to Homer’s tales then, his tales of the tribes and other things, like wheelbarrows in the rain, or Omeros reading Ulysses by Joyce S. Grant, what happens if our message is the form of a previous meaning, what becomes then of our idealistic mediumistic message? Is there no form in this content? and what is content, anyhow, Ion? Is it Sublime, dear one,drear one? Does Socrates bat your butt with the sublime of the ancient love of Paris? and yes, god is dead, and his scattered remnants are our ruin, our allegory of desire – no more unified Jesus, but a scattered resurrecting multiplying Jesus of manyness . Magic is alive. The Crow has passed. It is all myth. Brown (Norman O.) and the passage of schizophrenia and the monkeys, the beat line the line of flight. It is not either or but neither nor, a many that is a passage. A passage across the transversal – a versal of reversal as in Barthes Nietzsche and poetics combined. We need a poetics of combination recognising both the anxiousness of reality, and its generosity; there is no unity but a scattered joyous disunity a dissension.

So Socrates has a little drug store with the word as unmastered father of the dialectic. And later, Milton and others will make a dozen tripes of it and go their own mad merry way.
Now sweet Socrates my gay dialectician of ultimate ugliness we are going to yak about your Son’s Son’s brilliant Idea that perfect form somewhere in the heavens – Rhetoric de Aristote. The botanist who wrote about Poetics, but now we speak of rhetorics: the arts of persuading and truth telling by argument and polemic. But no, let us not confuse those con artists the (there is no unity but a scattered joyous disunity a dissension) PreSocrats with yer grandson in philosophy Aristotle: (a little fake Greek by way of imitation of unheard sounds:Logoi Pon Polloi e Logoi: son of the Father, the Father. )We are almosting it, as they say along the edge of rhetoric and poetic; And what sister daughter of the muse will say it? Cogitations of death and theory.
In the practice, praxis and theoria are one.
This is like love, by Mona and Franny. (Who are, reader, two of the main characters in my book, the Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari, or the Fictions of Mona Jill and Franny).
--" rather manly"
  • The Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari

  • Fictions D&G 2

  • Dear David (Hume Mister subjectivity, empiricism and delirium), in the West there is this big trip called P.C. or correct politics. It is a monstrosity induced by an obligation sensed by a certain class of people who feel the need to censor and entrap their own speech not letting themselves express what is obvious to the majority of men and women in the earth, to wit, that manliness exists and is no crime; to these p.c. readers when a person says manly as you did, they "interpret" in some paranoid way what a text might allude to; note that I say allude, not refer; that my dear Mona, is the beauty of text, it is allusive and not collusive in paranoid readers' consciousness. Of course, I being your only believer believe and know this because I am something that no longer exists, at least according to certain French theoretical authors; I am indeed an author. No matter how bad or good, I am an author. For instance, I write these heavy laden sentences knowing full well some will be angered and or indifferent to them.

    Last winter while walking in a grand march against this war against Iraq I believed for a moment that something would come of it ... Some thing perhaps has come of it/the despair of nations/the despair of the movement of the People on the earth. Not the Multitude so called of Negri and Hardt, whose conceptions seem a little naive to me (Idealism is another word for this; but that is philosophical) not to say I do not think them lovely and wonderful and hopeful, and even perhaps right - but still naive, say, in a way that Kathy Acker's characters are not naive. One thing is for sure, it is true that life is not naive, but just cruel, like love and everything else about it. The sad thing about life is that there are no inborn rights to it, we are born and the rest is it seems a bonus, a grab-you all, some semiconscious failure to seize the moment... Now I do believe in love, but not the world of things. Perhaps that is what writing is, believing in words and not things. What it must be to be there, in that terrible city of Baghdad where all this injury, death and injustice happens is a nightmare beyond any of the rest of the world, and especially the Western world.

    Not to be an essentialist in the face of the onslaught of slaughter and history is tricky. How does one become an historian or remain a poet in the face of hell? One does not, one flees and becomes something else. What one becomes I am not so sure.
    I like prosopopoeia.
    Rhyme is still a beautiful thing, though many deny it.
    Call this Kant’s beauty beside Rimbaud’s desire to be a saint. being a poet. I know whereof they speak, and that desire is a machine that fires its wheels each day. Thanks to the desire machine we can speak. - the text tastethe mortal taste __
    So then. Mr. Longinus. and Mister Hume and Mr.whoever has taste in the budding prayers of night and day. Hume is a delire called his period. Kant builds conceptual machines so lovely they are cantatas by Bach and Thomas Aquinas. Is Hume a subjectivity that has killed its own death, is that how one can explain the delire about Mahomet and Rome? Has does one explain a racial and religious delire? But then, what is the bastard wisdom of the lines of break and flow, the line which runs or banters the death of sages and wisdom... the great bastards of history.? How do we make and one what basis do we make a distinction between legitimate and non-legitimate? think of offspring, what is a legitimate offspring? Jesus Christ was a bastard, Marx calls Judaism and its deity, the huckster god. A swindling manufacturer of doubts and murder, a slaughter of lands and peoples. A mono gangster of adoration that Lucifer the polytheist rebelled against. As it were. Hume calls on the universal so-called to invoke and legitimate his rules for taste… they say Hume was a good writer. And I would suppose he is, what do we know about good writing, when Paragrams dominate. Where and when does meaning slip off?

    And poetry fits in there, or really does not fit in there in the great conformist machines, it does not fit as it is bastard wisdom.. heretical and wild.. even the great formalist poetry is fraught with the hidden codes of wildness....

    Ah, but if Mister Borges could see for us, it would all be clear. Blind eyed seeing man.

    the Father and Son in Christianity __

    The problem of the “Son” and “Father” in Christian theology,in Western consciousness And the mother and son union and reunion? "Mother I am about my Father's business"
    Think of the infinite proliferation of Pieta ikons, images,
    The multiplication of image and body, makes for a real virtual sense of becoming that is world wide and scatter'd , dispersed spread across the glober, the archetypes of the old ways of being... Can we escape the archetypes, at least those triangulations that keep us locked in?
    The a famous (and now dead) Palestinian said “The Virgin Mary was Palestinian.” A powerful ontological statement under any circumstances;a statement that swallos everything up__Palestine, Jesus, Mary . Is it land, or heavenly land, dear Milton, we have deterritorialized the whole, and are letting it be reterritorialized? America (one part of America) calls on fundamentalist Jesus, someone you can call a friend, someone you can rely on.
    The end of the world, the apocalypse. Fundamentalists' boats atop the water as it floats down and drains the world, dirty little families of the apocalypse gangstering up. A filth quagmire swine, gaderene swine, the sow, the fallow the sow that eats its own farrow, Chronos depicted by Goya, what does old spook want anyway, gangsters of religion and god, and god himself a gangester a reterritorializing machine working to take over the world. But none of this is the “real” god or anything to do with the God of Immanence and his disappearance. The Middle East is the dangerous atomic bomb of the future .... who knows who knows what the plans of maniacs are? Theory is concerned with war, as texts make war in their little boxes, and tools make sheds, and machines make cuts “coupures.”
    Poetry and war, the war of thought and language, of body and spears, of lovers and their fears.
    fragments of faces, bodies, memories, collective recollections ...

    spears, of lovers and their fears.

    ThE Primacy of Criticism – re:Wilde.
    Of course, Wilde is having us on – for him criticism is high camp. He mocks the very act of artistic activity while readying himself for his own ‘fall’ and prison. This event, his eventual imprisonment is an artistic event, and not a critical one. Like Milton, Wilde makes ‘prose’ ‘criticism’ whatever is not ‘creative’ with his left hand. The left hand in writing is not the right hand of god, and the god is where poetry is written. Plato knew this which is why he banished us. I write first foremost and always as a creative artist, a poet – but this word, Poet, is now forbidden by the academies of elite higher learning. They have told us there is no essence, no thing in-itself and no artist. Naturally Wilde would scoff. Why Wilde not scoff? Joyce scoffs also from the heights of his eternity. George Steiner, not a popular critic these days, speaks of the secondary tertiary parasitic nature of 90% of criticism and theory

    . Writing calms me down, when I started to smoke yesterday I wanted to write. but had no copybook with me. B., and the others, M and her suffering I want to comfort her, but don't know how, how many other hungry songs in the world?
    in the wood the dark wood of preposition and knife
    facing the south
    the strata wore down
    wore the tea gown
    of hibiscus and tamarind

    When Coleridge and Wordsworth write about poetry they write as practitioners as hunger artists. That is my simple point. It goes without saying that criticism has its place, but until the advent of heaven utopia or an egalitarian society where all are equally valued then artists are at the bottom of the capitalists heap and so must think themselves, must think of ourselves as better than and more primary than the critics, who feed off our bodies and blood. Remember the famous moment in Godot when who is it shouts “Crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiitttttttttttttiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicccccccccccc!” I think it’s Estragon who shouts this out, he who used to be a poet, now in tattered rags. It is not the poet who is unknown, but his audience. The practice of theory by those who make is not identical to those who do not make. I am not conservative, in fact, I am a democrat and so for this reason I believe what I say. True creativity is like what D&G say about desire,it is dangerous. The critic can never be equal to the poet, because most critics make more money and always will. Criticism and the academic international institutions have become one and the same body – the old wild days of Jonson’s time (Grub street) are long gone – in fact all of the ‘old days’ of any kind are long gone. We live in the time of mass murder and hate – what cld. criticism possibly mean beside the poems found in a Jew’s pocket’s who wrote while escaping the gas chambers. I think the critical act has its place but it has become inflated – a sort of capitalist over-inflation…. I cannot say more. Wilde is the joker in the pack playing his campy games which end him up in jail – where he needed to go to write his last works. The love that dare not speak its name – this poet helped to advance human knowledge. When a critic does that then he gets admitted to the Land of Literature. But the guards to the land of literature are more fierce than the land of criticism the guards of literature are not he Republican guards of Platon – they’re wild hyenas and Blakean tygers and lambs and Frostian fustians the joycean jokers of desire and love, the jugglers of Shakespeare, and the hyperboreans of Nietzsche. None are equal, and all are equal. Killers and lovers sit side by side. It is easy to get in and impossible. It is completely anonymous and filled with fame. Many last tempters to noble minds have cracked in their efforts to enter. If Wilde were in prison and had met Genet he would have had a different view. Derrida speaks of the fierce intuition of Genet – see Whites’ bio of the former. The great glorious space of criticism is not that of the children of the seven muses and counting.

    These notes and counting.
    Orthographic errors belie a secret subverting epistemology. Why do we need to write discursive expository prose as defined by the cult of professionalism? Who are we doing this for? Who defined it? Class war is also defined along the lines of prose and style. See Sartre on style – I would imagine Fredric Jameson knows this, I don’t know. I have read only the Political Unconscious and finally I agree with Bernstein (and Perloff’s) criticisms of his generalizations and lack of awareness of the present – the present being that thing that escapes from the institutions of criticism and the bureaucracies – where Art happens is always somewhere and not so much always already read, but A reading of what hasn’t been written. Look at Bill Bissett. What he has done – this immense energy of moving outside all of the norms and creating something new, this is the William Blake of our time.
    Saussure – are you so sure of your signifieds and signifiers the language that speaks in its name – Cow and phoneme, grapheme and Mouth. “La pensee c’est fait dans le bouche” Tzara.
    Back to Gilbert of Wilde – he puts me in mind of a combination of Steiner, New Historicism and Bloom . Art is personality, a sort of anti-Stephen Dedalus, a Dedalus in reverse who believes not in the omniscinet god artist paring his fingernails, but the obtruding pushy narrator of Celine in the late novels; like Castle to Castle and Nord or Rigadoon where we keep hearing about the narrator and his personality and how He becomes an element of the story, or narrative. This is a kind of Tristram Shandy two centuries later. But all of this obligation to ‘study’ literature systematically is hocus-pocus, because if it were true who would have written anything. If before writing Christopher Smart had had to read all of Literature, before and after (him), then none of the poems would have been writ. Shew me and discourse, read the tale of this theoretical critical madness. Gilbert is cute and grandstands on the side of a kind of Paterian “swoonerism” born of a vacuous snobbism and boredom and discontent against those less fortunate than him. Perhaps this was Wilde’s fault as well – that as a man he had no sympathy for the class which surrounded him and which he perceived as below him. Thus this whole business of Snobbery and the dandy pose struck. Wilde reminds me of the young Baudelaire before he went bust – a snob until poverty undid his middle class arrogance. One thinks of Sartre’s analysis in his Baudelaire. Wilde is a great artist no doubt, but he was greatest after prison after Reading gaol, and the after percepetion the backward glance to hislife and work which came as a result of prison. Wilde was a bad boy and ‘wild’ at heart, a rebel without a cause, without a class clause except his own selfish indivduality. It was pushing this to its limits that made him a hero by going beyond it – prison alters the class consciouneses the contents and makes him a more ravenous man than he was. Religion was the cheap easy internal exile, the temporary escape which sufficed , the one he used for the period of incarceration, but was abandoned later. Later the real unrepentant homosexual comes out and is here at the end that Wilde becomes a hero, becomes something other than what he had been previously.
    Having said all that there are interesting anticipations and confluences in Gilbert’s view related to ideas about criticism that go further , I am sure, than he intended. However, be careful writer, as you write, the intentional fallacy is forever lurking behind the corner of the next sentence, and the next thought.

    Yes, that old dead school of ‘new criticism’ hides behind the bushes of mental thoughts. We go from no intentional fallacy to no Author. But what a strange leap, and of lies too, because this is never what Foucault said, or even meant to say. One has to wonder at this distance between poet audience and critic. Foucault knew damn well that writers and poets exist, but what has happened is this conflation of the whole issue. As people hang on to a word, and cut their teeth on it…(it’s difficult to imagine we even bother to discuss this old history. It’s been near to a hundred years…the academy lags behind as usual) American poetry may have resisted change on the official level but on the ground American poetry was the line of flight, the movement forward – without knowing it Deleuze was right in saying that American and English literature were superior – I mean he was not familiar with the great surges ‘forward’ taking place in American poetry… but these things are molecular and ‘small’ so how could anyone be aware of ‘everything’? It’s in the nature of these things that they are not known, but fluid and escaping constantly…. Indeed the sooner they are known they become reterritorialized.