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2005/03/30

how it enters_from a series

Is that how it works

&


goes madness eyes in the sun
makes the man right in his wandered body
over hill and coiled city step


hurt by rage youth strung-out
knowing their minds no fun
this death that’s theirs
daily in the capital hopeless cope
against hope consumer vacuumed in
by cocks and crows images
television the visor of death
its dead beat ways
the dead beat in
hearts no hearing what is said
but
machine
manners no matter
back-pack idiots shove through
back of the bus portable walkmans're the tool
which breaks the working class
no class for the worked class
the class of common dumbest thing and
hatred delirium
of others



toward black white and dead


but something persists in the death of others their lips their eyes
moving across towards the sun a cartoon of
bells drift in the night a task of errors kings and amends
Resends the resent of hurt bodies
capitalist days the rays of commonwealth
balm to salve our cuts
I backpacker
pirate
of vile
pirate
of
penance




It is me
It is I

who packed these things

2005/03/29



The cover of
Young Adam Posted by Hello by Alexander Trocchi as published by the
Olympia Press of Maurice Girodias, son of Jack Kahane, first French publisher of Henry Miller and a host of others....

"His father Jack Kahane had published such luminaries as Henry Miller, Anais Nin, James Joyce, Frank Harris and Lawrence Durrell under his own Obelisk imprint in the 1930's. After World War II, Girodias began to accumulate a crew of American and British writers living in Paris to produce what became know as "dirty books" under his Traveller's Companion series. These small green paperbacks were written in English and sold mainly to American servicemen and tourists who helped to "distribute" them throughout the world. But mixed in with the erotic titles were works which were to become some of the most important literature in the poat-war era. J.P. Donleavy's The Ginger Man, Pauline Reage's Story of O, William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch, Terry Southern's Candy, works by Samuel Beckett, Henry Miller, Raymond Queneau, Jean Genet and Georges Bataille rounded out the Olympia list. Girodias was also the first to publish Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. The twp had a long running feud over the book, some of which was played out in the pages of Evergreen. Girodias' article, Lolita, Nabokov and I was first published in Evergreen in September of 1965 (#37). Nabokov replied in Evergreen #45 (1967) in his article Lolita and Mr. Girodias. Girodias had the last word in his Letter to the Editor, June 1967 (#47). After the censorship barriers were broken in the U.S. and in Europe, Griodias moved Olympia to New York City where it remained until its demise in 1973. Maurice Girodias died in 1990. "

2005/03/26

and

thinkin about work done years back, older
and newer styles .


Pat Lane's _ A Linen Crow and A Caftan Magpie.

the ghazal .


a smooth stone in the mouth.

chopped up and rigged to new beats.

__________Imagine his book and my own first, Blue Dog , came out the same year. then the seminar with him, the relatonship with Bess begining. Love, Love's sweet old
tale, not so old as that, after all, I mean. Love. is not old.

A Linen Crow, a Caftan Magpie. Saskatoon: Thistledown Press, 1984.

2005/03/24

who remembers

Alexander Trocchi (1925 -1984)

Who remembers Alexander Trocchi and sigma,
who recalls the story of Cain and
the one legged woman he made love with
on that boat docked at the New York
city harbour
I will make my own Dada
Cain's brother
HisBiography

And when he quotes the Unnameable
who was quoting the Unnameable back then?

Who recalls Trocchi's prose
flooded with doubt and his beauty
who's read his poetry
'when young cunts go cocking'
and 'birds' and Young Adam

these connections and links over
four seas that Nuttall talks about
in Bomb culture and the variety
of achievement
now Young Adam's a movie soon or already
there...themaking of the Monster

it's cool that everyone is now
remembering Trocchi


Trocchi the English Situationist
notbored

Has anyon read Man at Leisure?
these English poems, with their english vocabulary
english rhythm

guardianontrocchi
Addled, you Say?

mickfarrendoesaputdown

It's easy to put down a junky who had been an idealist and inspired thousands in that bygone period __ Now that we live in reactionary times day and night
and Experiment is not Encouraged
Nothing is Encourage

But his words are better

No doubt I shall go on writing, stumbling across tundras of unmeaning, planting words like bloody flags in my wake. —Cain's Book

Now let us 'stumble across tundras of unmeaning planting words like bloody flags in my wake' how that works

and it works Lettrist Situationist

Trocchinpsyche wiki

Or in net-time

TrocchiswordsTacticalBluePrintSigma

2005/03/22

like memory from Even I

like memory you think of it
the sanded wordless checker in the petulant sun
maker and mocker as it rattles your cage fit
for a road and royal pardon the only one
weakened by bets and rallies the false flask
of pairs and like this you always turn by the crest
a word in your hand man with a toothcomb switch
guessrope of hangar
desire her back limbering
sent by battalions and momentary slips elapsed in the meal
hovering between the beats of your life mortal and immortal you stare
other days you are goaded by the wax metaphysical shade of dowries
conflated by a wheel held by a lair stuttering along the sidewalk
ringing in your notes not classic in its disappointment but
rueful in its borderline a perfect nose causing craniums to think
fright to flee disappointment to break not laced by the additives
your fortune bares to the sky its firmament a local lust
trapped in place standing stepped in that repeated pace

guerdon and the kettle open their heart mamba man makes his peace
a drug store bottle composed of light
look there he goes the guerite able at her post
switched the swathe of pronoun
little sockets hod hold the train
your emotives win the moment
run into your nick foul as the storm at her shelter

2005/03/18

the grave's


the grave's a fine and private place ...

some pain at the end almost ten years Deleuze dead __

Guattari goin to 11 __ Anthony not a year ,


Father of Fathers more than 40



more than twenty since Sartre __ Miller ___ Genet 86 __

Foucault 84 and the others



so many
Tzara 64


the oxygen tent ...
so many others
et tant d'autres et

and God's been dead, for how many now?
Has it been over a hundred, dear Father Nietzsche?





your lips have gone




the cold tom the grave's a fine and .... but none do there, embrace, embrace
em
brace
me
my love


over the strutted


re
de





over the deterritorialized detotalized the land sped past the rubbing thighs of your lover boy


and I miss ya , already

not havin' met ya

lonely as the fog

foglonely
is our wreath

2005/03/17

lovers





Lovers Posted by Hello

a thousand tiny kisses ... the lovers ... across fictions



Lovers Word __________ the Lover's word is the only word



What rapture is it that makes you sing
your song again the rain pour soaks the earth the pavement
the trees the walking pedestrian searching here
and there wonders what he is what she is
where she came
along the line of enjambment as the logs push
against it -- One man takes advantage of his voice another breaths the circus of his desires
each night I switch and
play from radio to tool
to phone and back there is suspending and spending in the process
So this goes like your smile goes
the beauty of the earth does
What voice calls as you hurl
to leap out of the hole
the radio voice from France summons
No you are not wrong
but near and far makes sense not to resent
is new knowing the scope of a limit
like a hand turned the sails flow back to see
what it means when beauty looks that directly
what choice do you make approaching the unafraid one
step out of the bog little Oedipus who jerked off
into his mother's mouth
making pretence the show making failure
the gambit

And you believe in you believed in freedom a seven letter word against which you plyed your trade
accepting break and interruption as part of
the show your show and
something a set of eyes
an arm leaning on a post
hands dangled like set in place captivated your capricious souling the criminal compliment of its tenderness
left you high on the ground way up
there what choice
but to go with it emerge from it
work your way in light
what shows were there waiting
waiting for you to single your way in there
where other women suffered
longing to know the face its penetrating mystery
Like this you were like other men and their heros
bells sang and tolled your liberty
skipped at its boots there were men
other speaking voices speaking
`go forth and multiply' trying to be true
you had to turn it against you
against him
like the strong waves do the strongest ones curl
you believed the curl foam pushed over the back
a stranger coming to give you news
deeper than what was true
the isolated ones
spoke pulled up
against the commodities

2005/03/16

209 - from the series



If you were like her lips
the thought pressed against
skies that stayed all night
endured its sky
concentrating
hooked before mirrors and thought

then
we could meet half way in the median line
as good and evil look alike



I could see the mind tree mend make the moment
free of its cowardice my cowardice before men
and their way not

like the bodiced-moon
its stockings or like a lover does
long-legged to the moon
the unspoken word aired sounded
beneath the phrase of its catching what meets us
at the end of time

191 ~~ from the series




Something once upon a time was a poem that defensive itself to the desire laughslaughtits, its hearts and swords,




a cardgame with no real players, cut up over the cutsTanza of VerSifications fortifications of somber solitudes and other numbers.


'Something like her' face gazing at me that
makes me want to sex herpleasure her with me pleasured
her beaming smile holding me holding meI fantasize
what L. said -
"Find ...a... a"
thinking, no, yes, she's the one, but no,but yes, this irony is so filled
with Lust, capital L
for Love and desire; she:"I'm a compulsive smoker..."
looking at me with that big broad beaming smile,
standing over, speaking of suffocating her lungs,
and "can you give me fire..."
me correcting her. these're the fantasies of your
carrying her home, carrying them home


2



And Jill laughedhoarse laugh at this abrasive manner of the aching bed of salt and the quasar moons knowing a poet could mock at himself. The greees and sleeves of olden times.


3


she "Say there, buddy, I speak so well,
now that the moon is shining on your body,
under mine in this bed..." I have to laugh as I say it,
and say it, it's mine, lover, lover girl
minor girl. With your dress fingers and
high swinging fine swinging breasts ... Ah!
those breasts to suck! to knuckle so like a boysenberry along the tide of her selves and the spelling errors of plenty
and a laughter, the limitations of blogs and hunger,
not rhyming yer boring things
but loving them
not like a big name
but playing the game, a dame of a lover yer body
aLL a sore shoulder not pretending the words
make sense when summer is here in winter
recording the moment helding it
close to the paraplegic moment
kicking its metaphor lose and then
one more time fling yer ghostly text into mine
so we see the soldiers
their surrender is like a word skipping its place
He was between two places
one her imagined body of the now
& the other lovers unmet a gallant lover in space
the cyber tears rollin'
down
his
I's

2005/03/15

its?

desire is the fire that drives us
to encounter



no one else is talkin
yes poetry
desire and the stars
of love


pray to your body
i did
i
i prayed and whispered over its valleys
its secret places
the space of its tale of feeling
the place where no one else had gone
that was called love


before


yer love love was more dangerous
than others's a crazy thing pulling me pullin us down


the hole swirling away the bottle you drank
the death you lived



haunted us
haunted me



for months after wards a night mare in my head

a little voice of desire's burning


eating me out for months

almost a plath number but worse
cause i couldn't go that path
couldn't go that path

a knife in the gut

up and then down yer voice in the headpice


piece


yes something like that.
cutting and cutting again and again haunted



theres no real end..
its best to put silence to a death that does not end.
a disclosure that is ceaseless
a suicide in your head.

2005/03/14

what is a commercial non commercial

Re: Re: What's the meaning of "non-commercial"?

a commerce
ecommerce
a commerical for your words
a commerical break
a break commercial
word merchant
word smuggler
shipping words
shipped words
snipped parses
parse word ship
send time

2005/03/10

god blogged

between the floating of this body

god blogged

Bogart's voice

radio

radio


read my radio


F.M. ___ A.M. radio self .

2005/03/07

BeautTy AlterEd Image

.



I disagree with you

I think beauty is good enough, that surfaces and the superficial as surface,


do fine enough for poetry.


There is a poetry of the depths and that of the surfaces, the immanence perhaps is lent to one,

the innocence of the surface.


As it was done you see?



.













2005/03/04

bloggers and beggars

bloogers aNd beGArrs


Wednesday
bloogers and beggars
bloogers beggars and tigers


wherefore? the english accent and its somber fool!



I irish the plains of Abraham the sally go way alongthe path



come over to me here where the tympanum plays
not the middle clutter american song



shes put her gender free soldier to the wheel and the comon weal


zah! U've a blooger my son, my faather


Audio accent please


From Derry to Space

2005/03/03

digdag

dig the dada dead on the leaning tower, the learned tower, leaning,


like any thing a bleating lamb or dirty end of the world tee-shirt and its hip shitty little places
and the fake girls and dead places....


wait this is just to try


Every woman`s body escapes you --- there is no scapE

2005/03/02

the PrESiDenT of PoETrY

thee PreSIdEnt Dental of PoeE Tree and its FrUit RhYme a FlUte to TRUth`s rinGing side



as plaNEs Buzz away In America`s madness waves of protesters sweep the ground


the undergrouNd of Love and becomings Like a siGh aLL aCRoss the UnIted



StaTes

hey BlUe Dog

Hey BluE Dog
Hey BluE
Dog. Hey Bull Dog, Hey Sheep Dog Doing it again Som kind of Memory is meausured. Amnesiac jacknife in yer sweaty eyessomE InnoCence YokO You can Talk TO mEYou Can Talk To Me If youareIf you are lonely U canU CanBlue DogBull dogIn yer sweatYPaLmsSome Kind of Rock and RollNietzsche's DaughterYea WigWamBig ManSome kInd of Solitudeyesyou can talk to meI f yer lonely U can talk to meI gotta knife to my headA piStoLI mean A Sex PistOlRufff RufffBlue DogPlusBuldogyear yeayeayea what is this voicesyapyapyapdeath of needles and park Gangster Baudelairegot no zen friends

2005/03/01

dig

dig the dada dead on the leaning tower, the learned tower, leaning,


like any thing a bleating lamb or dirty end of the world tee-shirt and its hip shitty little places


and the fake girls and dead places....


wait this is just to try



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



Ok try this then:

The day, when,``One`` Day when Orpheus was broadcasting Lines of Escape looking for Deleuze she forgot her radio and her radio radio blared and blasted into nothing, the nothing. And there was noise there, and sounds, but other kinds of things crept close to the speaker and she stayed her ways, wearing underwear of the coveted sort, making crispy the long noises short. A short wave relay to the serials of desire.