gone NoW

gone now arrived at a new endroit and the droit
is a right of space, to be where you are,
the place here, things are, you are, the you
which moves
tilted against the side of things, they speak,
moving over the territory of lamp and space,

now what does that stand for if standing for
can be said to be something and something,
nothing for whatever nothing is
whatever it is

__In any case, here I am, the moon, in any event,
with the soberest of means to follow the moon and
drag the moon as it four corners itself into
the package of night and all its symettries
places and pairs O do not wander too far
in the bliss of the karmic moment
so now we have arrived here and that's coming far enough
ladders its page inside the twist of its belonging
makes matters more definite yielded by day and summer
as masters and quakes moved forward have lent
their nights to the works so now it's peace


I have no desire to become known. I am already famous, it is merely my audience who fall asleep sometimes becoming unconscious. U sir misread my text if that is what you think this is about or what my work is about or what the work of anyone is. Remember De Sade saying he wished to become oblivious and forgotten? Think of Rimbaud. Vanity and poetry do not become each other. Some of the best who became vain felll on their arses. Think of P., G., or others
who gazed in the Mirror too long at their own dull
self-made images. To write serious poesy you must be an enemy to yourself. not a self flattering vanity seeker, and the 'praise of fools' hurts.


the Rite of SpRing

the rite of spring

high steppin'
dance of faun an' freak the peak of mouth
to air the animals prance an' circus

__En Montreal entre deux le......

night's paraded the padded body out pasts its stretchin'


LittlE PoEm

Little poem who made thee,

did he who make the Aeneid make thee?

now shld


Now you were not really happy with 'that' or at least the lay out and its dots and signs

not understanding how the page works, but thinking of the scroll that infinitely rolls downward, the eye




let us then, try again

shld. we chide one another for not writing poetic things? and poetic things, and another word so close to it, it looks like, piety poetry, pietic poetic, le petit poetic des armes et des abres, piety it looks like it, what are they, but the ritual of self-defeating things

that dream and see , and see of beauty what is there

if then the space changes the thing

the pace

of territory and reterritory and earth terra firma basta!

enough of the earth? never! how can there be ? such a translation

not remnants of the past, remembering the past


shld we

shld we chide one another for not writing poetic things? and poetic things, and a word so close to piety it looks like it, what are they, but the ritual of self-defeating things

that dream and see , and see of beauty what is there


cockle bone

He sets out to write in prose with regular ragged columns
but because of the limits of the medium it becomes
a straggled verse. Correct reader, read it as prose.
It becomes thee, becomes me.

ragged textile edges an upside down room
of the walk
not interested in the 'professional look'this Elizabethan __ crooked sign posts hanging boards
the washerwoman’s image sticks in the corner
other things every which way dont fit fickle 'somewhat' funky
the streets tackle wandering navigating eateries death
mud in the eyes of the scarves of the roadwayas they call it some
shit space of wayfarer
I am a painter so it's my studio
my studio not an exhibition.

but what of the characters in it? they are in the
other ones, the blogs offiction some other
place I could put 'myself' 'my self-rempli'is it the plague
sniffing over there? the hurricane,a bastinado for your death.
basta basta sirrah there's hurriancoes
snow blowing wind whistle siren masts crackling
in the city walls the whoring lanes are plenty.

something like this studio gripping its ages
crooked lanes, filthy pedlars, jewel cunning thieves

Writhing writhin’ moment. Not a breath to say. Always.
all the way to heaven and back the heave
knot of the sent. the pixel something sonnet of the Easter pate.
Knock your pate out lad! Lassie get thy hurly burlies over here,
thy buttocks for a lover's knock!Have with you!
Heave the say, a spent rabble roused night.
A heave night. It is I, Thomas Nashe spreading his dubious wings,
to spicken and span the sky.
An angel covets my wings a flower
to raise a gracious lady laden with
the bucket of her love for me.
A leman lady pucked to the fill to the Filling of her I.

Some sent for me. A critter in the breeze,
a rumour of ships masting in the high sky.
angels and dust Aye, and the sevenbehold
travelers of the sea.Come my capping eye
and see me. A traveller begrimes thee,
a squadron in the moor the field milled with its loving
and yeare the translated you of yore.
Berhymes thee.Come to my Dublin mask
and Paris in the blogridden avenues the
bedecked streets of my death, a funeral in
good Paris, of the kings and Lord hear my wish.
O this is the dog's life. No? is it not
the live dog bark of the hammer I hear?
what is it then? if not that?
in this hushhush space of my
studio and the understudy of the perspective
I see hence in the crenellated towers,
beveled window of the outside volume.
Irish sun glitters in the jewel of its feat.
Not the ordinary of language.
Its feast a tripping sun.
as expected I go off in the tangent. a tempest.
Tangenitalman that I am betimes a courteous
sweet gallant goughing in the ring.

So, sirrah, lest we play, let us stay.
my gallant a pray for you. O sweet hussy.
of the kissing moors.



________ Everything is Desire Poem ________

to and all admiring readers. I cant say enuff about yer sudden surge of contributions. Yer genius at expression is to create wave after wave that pile and piles furiously adding detail to the vortex. But I see it as a vortex that is moving outward and Forward, a line of flight that has taken on Mass moving its ourward circumference into the shape of a new body-without-organs, and if this possible, and your writing is the proof of the pudding, the pudding of its proving, the disproof of its dance, and its deterritorialized shimmer of its scattered of desire Mouths, well then, well then let Milton and the dead poets of the past tense, die. we take a breath to uPsorb the New. AnD this wasthe Commandent we were given long ago by our Other Tzara who is in Dada, Novelty and Life. Life and Novelty and not to the putrid self-pity of shadow bakers and their academic counterparts. yes, along with our french brothers deleuze and guattari, I no longer believe in manifestos, so then;

and Now that US and Mona got rid of them whiners we are very happy in our Space aNd happiyerposting yer Episteams!


to be this

Long   poem in the works...

Long one  works...

long poem working s...



dogs and cats


dogs and cats meow in the hungry of earth
night and day sing a broken face over past present
(bowels turn place turn tail in the geologies of among
repeal is insouciant we are ornamented)
tormented like the sun by waste repeat ‘makes’ its day desert
the quick night its letters flowing back a dearth
of objects makes the petit objet ‘a’ less than its sign a hurt
never ending infinite refinite analysis in the machine of desire
cut cut cut I Cut Eye Cut
‘the rhyme’ an ‘eye’ starin’ back the alveolus of castration
its bent neck humbled over shoulder and head content
to demand space its sense between spoken and not spoken
spooken by the ghost of a highway song
highway man robed in his resent
the recent past of hatred and its civilization repent
before night and day speaks wrath its old giant
whore less than and more in the pleat of hysteria impelling space
no ghost in the prelude becomes you a millionaire phantom of happiness
dreary of discontent and murder


sonnet of play and death harbingers the cyclones of time the word
slipping (lapsing slippage)
its mouth twisted at the table roped ripped across the bodice
its fine lace thing undertints shape yesterday zero content
of its understanding narrowing the ampersand of the notion
one man was good and the other bad
making the flit waves back
bolder than it was
pliant as the share that stood Gabriel’s gun
dizzy with the alcohol of memory and gin
a food making its way through the vessels of the body

comment the unconscious machines of desire


maladroit Mona took a spill
a picket line of kinaesthesia
her solution and so many others many bottled medicine for the soul

savours makes dense the existential wound
death by one’s own is hand is deferred but preferred
a fancy space gives the seaside girl swivel sown swoon
one-half desire engines force plateaus work woof woof
wolf-man in the crowding
Orpheus muddled the Antioedipus
in its extended self


rhizome buckets
words like sin junked
nothing left but desire
paradise desire