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


Indeed we trust disable petit prince. functions of the author desire machines
To a feldglin' (fledgling!)  authOr

Dear Fellow Scrivener! 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 Jane 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!
Verlaine for now



the hound of heaven

Poetry is a quantum as well. a way of becoming, that is what I mean by a way, it's a way of becoming inthe world, a way of life as Tzara put it in the essay so long ago. Why does that seem so strange to some people?

Is not day and night, night and day?


A fragment of thought. The Hound of Heaven,a great but now forgotten poem. Or seems to beforgotten. The Highwayman Alfred Noyes, Sir. Another forgotten text, but not inmy head. there it stays remembered as a rhythm a presence a strength of statement and sound. A defiant lathe in the night. God, how I despise and hate the theoreticans of literature and their academic machines.

Were I the minister of education, in the ideal fantasy world of learning and love, and sex and rock and roll,the cities of silence would roll. The books'd be evacuated to a new locale, a dream palace of suds and soaps. Clean the books, bring back the celerity of their choice, not the nauseau of learning, especially american theoretical critical learning erudition to the point of nauseau. They make me ill, the whole bloody lot of them. Teaching me how to write, to think to breath with their 'order words' and every little pillboxed professor wanking off the stage of them. Take them in real life and they are nothing, people incapable of doing anything for themselves. The ruiners and theives of poetry. The keepers of the prison where those with genuine literary ambitions are chained with the deadlie sin of class and gender, colour and preference, body and stink, as if bodies were not part of the capitalist whoring system. Poetry, what is poetry, if not freedom from all of that shite. Why should not poets, and those who love it, not be bitter. There is no room for all the poets and readers there is no space for the audience, the readers, the lovers, the pomes, the world is over pilloried with the desires of death. One feels one has to justify what is obvious. A doctor of literature in poetry is a contradiction . A diction going out of both sides of its mouth. Double-speak Janus-head. SapphoOrpheus.

I would give my life for poetry, and indeed I have . Do you hear that?

It is death making a bargain with Poetry, with Orpheus. With


If all this is not for life and death, then what is it?
It justifies us, it justifies our existence. I remember having this conversation with David Rattray once about this. In my kitchen, in my old place, Gilford street. It was a poem. Gilford rhymes with Clifford, and Clifford rhymes with Fulford. Where my father died.

My father who art in heaven


The hound of heaven is poetry, and the highwayman is death.



Hound Dog Bay

chew My heart

Eat My HanDs

itS the EndOf YerBodyBawDy

Not to JerkS someElse's MP3


if't is an unbroken flow of words and tears... tears...

if it's an unbroken flow of tears and words, the territory of immanence in American poetry

is it not Protestant secular visions of language that seems, at least in a lot of American poetry a need to 'justify' itself as it were, the secular protestant unconscious is still religious , and in the US , that unconscious is packed with the range of American religious experience and ways of being in the world

I suspect it is a form of transcendence at least these days

but this is a just, a , just a moment, one cannot totalize about 'American' poetry anymore than I can 'totalize' or generalize about Canadian immanence

but there are movements of all persuasions in the big potlatch of AMeRIca and Canada

But since there are no coincidences, and Canada the word is close to the word Canadada

we are a sort of Immanence culture a patchwork, a here and there a here and thereness of it

a culture of 'limits and lots'

spades and pieces, morsel cracks

stutter bots, and bits, if , no Wait I am groping here

poetry poetry poetry and more poetry and where the wolves cry

where the wolves bend their dig and song

I can't get this page to lay out the way I'd like it

explication exposition expository

nights of desire and machine

Shall then Canada be the site of the great big ImmaNence Flows???

Yes I think so.

Take the Québécois thing for instance, for a moment it was a flow of immanence then it, or rather for decades now it's been a reactive reterritorialization

of forces of flow

the lines of flight spin spin they flight and flow everywhere





a milk tree

Now you're wonderingoff into vagueness. But 'Canadian' poets have been doingthings some understand for years and that others don't

where is the voice then that is one's own

can one speak of one's own when you are a part of something that is not owned, that doesn't have the usual trappings of ownership as its definition

always the same old question , Tweedledum and Tweedledee castor and pollux,

cain and able

iamblichus and his brother riamblichas


There's no suchthing I just made that up

Laughter the food of the gods the good of the gods

So now let's see what this looks like


different differnet ent as in entity' and it speaksto the sun like our smile like our ass hanging`in your hands' it bespeaks like the antiquitated"I was waiting there all night and pregnantas the pause I saw the bird standing wroughtstrong as the turf and " It was like the that herErotic spring in the `entity' I was the long songin between the mother's eyes and the drafted somethingslipped away in the shod' of thought' the gentlewomanof her country caravan and`and why nationalists make the countrya worse place' turning the screw Ulysses Odysseuss Eurydiceagain the silent mouth `her reverie and mine' like the similitude`like the simile I was the epic march of' a preposition missedmade me flung back me I cannot see the memory memorex pad ofmy disconnected dendrons `like the whirling cyclades Charybdisand Scylla it was peaked this way 'this ay' that aye that thing of iris cornea cone meek shall make pace `long gone song'her gentlewoman praise my cocks stand mast peacetired of the `bullfinches' in golden Palgreave pictogram"old books dead beat old beat dead book' I commenced to writea booke' was my other's aimknot not like ringinggg `that hand these picture'Oh cry and cairn where the loose rocks fellin the dell of her nose the swirl of her thighs sidewaysthunder terrifies thunders terrify me


artist as figure of ... UnFInIShed.. Genet

artist as figure of repentance

the word repentance suggesting change of heart

or meta-noia in contrast to para-noia

to go beyond
around under and over

in contrast with beside
so that they both have their place

Poetry has its own economy

it is utopia

the democracy to come

a people to come

like lovers in droves

or nights and slain lives

heights of lies and bitterness

as the figure of repentence then it is not a moral issue but an aesthetic o-moral one


so many others

none of this has anything to do with the betrayal that is known as psychoanalysis or its proponents. the desiring machines speak and move out the dead territories and Derrida 's death has made them sad one would not expect that but Tzara's death on Christmas Eve 1963


signifier of hats, hell and other passerons non passeron Norman Bethune Norman ebbthune

We the arbiters of pOetRee have just discovered another Space APace of living human flesh! a body language not some whore trap of a speakeasy rap!

how can we hold our snot high and speak?
pray tell as waves rut our knots the blather gane
of the toe whine pot on the pitter-patter
snacks and snoozes abOund the Pain of Reek

inta' the reck of your rook and the took of
all this shingledangle the rack of spook
and haunt of wank and about of root
shall slander the wank of thy pablum's

father and master thee recording of your rheme the rhyme of your meter a heart pacer 'breaking' down as a dissertation does its cousin in in the ass your tattler
of taste

shall fake her rook not so the sender
of ender
and the telegrammatical of pate
Have with you! Knave brain! thy foolscaps have no gown!
no rule to marry your t'rude!

Once upon a time in the blogging of the American dominations of poetry the language police enforced their signifier called Criticism and Theory it was not the snot of the onlie path to becomings but was the Hail Mary's of her Grace some death baby on the slaughter

as these abouts were twinning their hots they began the seat of 'judgment' . But the eaRth was not there.

it was ....

somewhere else between the ellipsis of double-jointed knees and


spoken worDah

there is no spoken word there never was in the begining and the end the clapped hand was amazed and therE was no word spoken not so it was spoken thought the hand writing the thought 'down' and she

there's only the word that is spoken broken spokeN

said unto him there was no spoken

Spoken Spoke


its nice to be a dictator in poesy, but no one

' a real dictatorship of the mind'
Tzara sur la poesie en 38.

it makes perfect

thus a real dictatorship....

here our radio


my god! it took a long time to learn to write crappy poetry!

when 'I' think of allthe bad poetry I've written! Jesus! how can I have driveled the way I did,

And other times such gems !

what a 'peculiar' paradox of becoming and seeming

songs and rock n' roll


ACall tO Poesie as a Way of Life Un Mode De Vie Une Etat d'esprit

ACall tO PPoetry is a Way of Life not just an expression of the Soi-Meme/trhis group now does exist yet and exists on a virtual plane and is a process of definitin and fiction . break boundaries as usualoesie as a Way of Life Un Mode De Vie Une Etat d'esprit

Poetry is a Way of Life not just an expression of the Soi-Meme/trhis group does not exist yet and exists on a virtual plane of the html and is a process of definitin and fiction . break boundaries as usual
Acallpoetryisawayof life and so many others et tant d'autres et tant d'autre

the date of deSire & Moment movement the Italian fresh desire fires of text life face... a programme not a festo... not a call but a Recall

Recall as in Memory call

Call back to memory to come
the figures forth of desire
daughter of the Muse
the seven figures

the epic comic laughter tragic dragic
goat smoke of the boor on stage

this magic

aural instanteous electric tronic