>

2005/06/30

just | know

Just know I say yes to you utterly with all of me to all of youam with as I can be at this timea thought is a prayer
this is yours utterly utter ly


Some other day we knew these were lies deception distance the dance of song lust and other miserable miracles chalices of pleasure mouthfuls of hope, and fun! wasn`t? fun fun fun till your heart turns upside round.
indeed, the greatest secret of the late 90's of the last century were the
six , the 6 secret essays of Clifford Duffy about Pierre Klossowski~

Pierre Klossowski a painting of_ a painter, translator, author, self-described monomaniac dead in Paris at the age of 95 in 2001
Look at this woman
who
voted
in
the
recent
elections
in
Iran
see the beauty behind above
and
the
one
she is
and what
permeates her
________
life's a great desire machine of beings becomings and lovers....

the way beauty fall

and this is
the way beauty falls
its nose across the face
a thousand eyes and nights
our fear beats us to the punch

two nights
she my name in the song
her heart was a wounded deer
I said dear yer sex is sweet
svelte as the pouted lips
of your other mouth



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

one day beauty
was her your song
yer sex
selfish
as
beauty
stung
desire
in
this
body
of
ails
O
O
O
shall sailors weave?
museum of bodies
'll be sex
sweet sex
void if love
ill be
a song
for
her
sweet









her other self was Queen beauty a ship muster
the nights
shhhh
sssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
knave of the song said

beauty of









beauty of stars & night


it escapes les espaces.. along the profile's limination
illumination


Rimbaud eyes the forlorn

lorn what cannot be had

cannot be seen

what simple tales of eyes


escapes the esplanade

rhetor of fine


and

standing agora
the love of



god vision beauty woman to woman woman to god to child to seize the desitute hour hour glass of your shape



this thing you love fibrillation of

bawd

body

as was

as was the ship that tatatata stank and saned froth on the swart silk the hammered manikin keen onthe helped night of yore lips my dry your chore dry lips I want to take you out of that hell andthe the city burning burial faked pace
the ball of sun yellow lankerd over her lipped buttocks spoke
spoken for in the prose of its impossibility its heaved hunger my knight on a cark the crank dam day its Ajaz like peel non makes the high as you do culled in the parse of its
fortune and the jack self bound mate the nightmoon mad Rilke by the shores and Michael coming home in his tumbrel worn suit the shy of march the wheel
of trepid verb dangered by the felled wood war cone of hearing inside her mother done won she returned to England her sun face round wrapped inthe carnival of her fisher her buttocks` face speaking
back
and forth a dot on the sun faired loud


hitchhiking for thirst over the phase ofher egyptian feature her lip scented hunt
once more time one more time in our crime of lifted off rhyme and sediment the close word sought the haught word organ slung in the padre sun pour



close the tonnage space wrap by quantity and lap her bell wether steer the slaughter campaign rose the

noun satryed



but Ireland the heavy weight was the mouth of the its link past paste

her body loud long the voice crippled song heard the tiny teared

2005/06/29

this is


this is just
a

love song

2005/06/27

bousquet1


La page d'accueil

Ecritures du Sud

joë bousquet

A Vailly, près le Chemin des Dames, le 27 mai 1918 : "Enfin, nous avons débouché sous le feu. Quelques fuyards, des blessés, venaient à notre rencontre. (...) Des avions allemands tournaient dans le ciel, un village brûlait. Sur les crêtes fermant l'horizon on voyait les colonnes allemandes, réserves des troupes que j'allais heurter dans la vallée. Un chasseur à cheval est venu au galop sous les premières balles me porter pour la deuxième fois, de la division, une exhortation à tenir coûte que coûte. (...) Les Allemands avançaient de trois côtés à la fois, quarante fois plus nombreux que nous, couverts par un feu très violent qui commençait à me blesser et me tuer des hommes. (...) Et alors, j'ai compris que c'était fini et je suis resté debout". Une balle, à ce moment-là, a "proprement pincé la colonne vertébrale" de Joë Bousquet qui demeurera paralysé à vie. Une autre vie commençait...
Joë Bousquet



photo collection particulière

Rencontres Denise Bellon et Joë Bousquet : d'une autre vie, mais quelle ? par Alain Freixe

Les pages que Bousquet va écrire pour Denise Bellon vont le surprendre lui-même. Le 15 octobre, il lui avouera qu'alors qu'il envisageait de n'écrire pour elle qu'un "reportage", qu'il s'est rendu compte chemin faisant qu'il était en train de rédiger "une sorte de testament dont l'aubaine ne reviendra sans doute jamais"

Denise Bellon, Marie-Josephe Rustan, Joë Bousquet : "Regarder, voir" par Kathy Barasc

Il s'agit bien, ici, d'une rencontre singulière : celle du " grand œil froid " d'une femme photographe, et d'un écrivain pour lequel voir fut toujours source de questionnement privilégié. Qu'en est-il de l'événement photographique, de ce qui fixe en une posture définitive, un état du vivant qui fut ? Cette question est nécessairement posée par toute photographie non anecdotique, non informative. Et elle ne saurait ici manquer d'être reliée à une interrogation propre à Bousquet : celle de l'identité, ou plus exactement, du vacillement ontologique de toute identité.

Paul Eluard et Joë Bousquet par Alain Freixe

(...) ces mots d'Eluard à Bousquet du 6 décembre 1934 : "J'aime ce livre parce qu'il m'assure que nous ne sommes pas seuls, parce qu'il me rassure, parce qu'il est juste et bon. Nous ne sommes pas seuls et nous sommes peu nombreux et c'est pour cela que jamais nous ne nous oublions. La conscience que j'ai de moi, c'est celle que j'ai de vous. Et réciproquement, n'est-ce pas?"

Joë Bousquet et René Char par Alain Freixe

Bousquet lisait Char à cœur ouvert. À cœur battant. On le dit si souvent, sans songer aux Parques : "la vie ne tient qu'à un fil". Eh bien ! Lire de la poésie retend ce fil. Fait sonner la corde de notre vie. Donne à nouveau le la. Rend le cœur à la vie. "On ne remonte pas au jour sans passer par la poésie", aimait à dire Bousquet. En ces années-là, la poésie de René Char rendait plus solide la trame du tissu de l'existence de Bousquet. Elle accroissait sa vitalité.

Char-Bousquet, une correspondance (note par Serge Bonnery)

Joë Bousquet et Louis Aragon, Lire comme on s'endort par Alain Freixe

Un triptyque d'Alain Freixe avec, en annexe, une lettre de Joë Bousquet à Jean Ballard.

Dans la nuit du 29 au 30 mars 1942, Simone Weil et Joë Bousquet se rencontrent dans la chambre que le poète habite en sa demeure de Carcassonne, 43 rue de Verdun. S'ensuit une correspondance qui atteste d'un échange intense entre le poète et la philosophie. Le contenu de cette rencontre et ses étoilements, dans les œuvres respectives de Joë Bousquet et Simone Weil, sont au centre des deux textes que nous donnons ici.

Du côté des Cahiers du Sud par Alain Freixe.

"Devenant chance pour l'homme, les Cahiers du Sud seraient alors beaucoup plus qu'une simple revue de littérature, ils seraient poésie. Poésie qui se reconnaît à ce qu'elle est seule capable de dicter de la vie".

Le dialogue Simone Weil - Joë Bousquet, par Jean-Marie Barnaud.

"Le point de vue d'où je regarde, et lis les œuvres de Bousquet et de Weil ; celui à partir duquel je les rapproche, et mêle leurs " irisations ", pour reprendre un mot de Bousquet qualifiant la manière dont, en poésie, se communique le sens. Ce point de vue est, prétend être, celui d'un poète".

Lectures "Notre existence est ailleurs", par Michela Landi.

Une lecture de Iris et Petite-Fumée : "Les hommes, croyant en la toute-puissance de l'amour sur terre mesurent, en réalité, dans la distance physique entre les corps, l'étendue métaphysique de l'espace qui les sépare de l'idée de l'Amour; par la plénitude illusoire et la gratification narcissique apparente qu'un sentiment partagé lui procure, chaque individu croit être un roi sur terre mais il n'est, par cela même, qu'un roi de la surface. "Roi du sel", ou bien "Basile Sur-eau" sans le savoir, l'homme ne prendra jamais conscience de sa négativité ontologique, de sa maladie métaphysique qui, à travers la douleur, expierait le mal original et lui redonnerait la Vie."

Le retour au Midi noir par Alain Freixe.

"Reste, aujourd'hui, à tenter de rendre raison de ces mots, moins pour présenter une analyse de ce "midi noir" et de cette "première renaissance" que pour clarifier et justifier ce qu'il en est de l'importance que Bousquet accorde encore en 1946 à ce "retour" qu'il présente comme "un fait" de la plus grande importance, mot qui brille donc plus intensément que les autres". Ce texte d'Alain Freixe est paru dans la revue Possible imaginaire.

Naissance de Joë Bousquet par Serge Bonnery.

En parcourant les lettres à Marthe.

Bousquet et la guerre de 14-18 par Serge Bonnery.

Quelques pistes sur son engagement, les circonstances de la blessure et les conséquences de cet événement sur la vie et l'oeuvre du poète

Approches La lettre au corps (entretien de Francine Beddock avec Alain Freixe)

"En poète, Joë Bousquet n'acceptait pas que le langage vienne soit de la vie toute faite, soit du langage lui-même. Il entendait qu'il vienne de la vie, de la vie qui se fait, lumière close qui sera la vie de demain"...

Suite pour Joë Bousquet par Jean-Paul Charlut.

"La parole au bord du silence restitue le lieu des origines"...

Joe Bousquet__ Posted by Hello



Le cheval volant par Serge Bonnery (notes sur Bousquet et le surréalisme).

Joë Bousquet et les peintres Une issue vers la vie par Alain Freixe

Ce texte a été écrit pour les rencontres de décembre 2001 organisées par le centre Joë Bousquet et son temps dans le cadre de l'exposition "Michel Butor, rencontre trajectoire" présentée à la Maison Bousquet de Carcassonne.

Ces Toiles, texte de Joë Bousquet pour l'exposition surréaliste de 1946 à Toulouse.

Le centre Joë Bousquet Les activités de la Maison Joë Bousquet de Carcassonne.
Expo Merfeld
KMedford Posted by Hello

2005/06/26

Plot of CoMmUnIoNIsM

thee


weet






t



he CommUnIst Plot of






DeSire












Sire


wheat?

ph_d Baby

phd baby
phd baby
pdh babu
ph d baba
bhd baba
dhp baba
phd. bababa
bababbababab
babababababbababa
baba
baby baby baby



phd. Posted by Hello

Follow external link to find the Origins of this work

hugO Ball and Emmy Jennings grave stone


hugo ball and emmy jennings Posted by Hello

2005/06/24


jeffnuttallreading Posted by Hello

the lonely cock Society Coming Soon

The Lonely Cock Societry of Poets is coming soon....

Re This and that

Dialogue centre is where they used to go, we lived in the street otherwise and the church provided space and coffee and white powdered milk and there was a Minister, John Lee and I met Bob Williams. and he was my friend, and Lo, he is yet my friend inthe years of travelling and death






Dialogue:


He: that freedom of the mind, I call poetry...'my darling never having had you....'



She I can see, and am already,noticing that the ... scene has its own links of status. O dear, how sorrowing!.... How boring! yet how exhilarating,how all too human, how comic all too human ,t ur n ing a rhizome into a carrot, a turn- no a Potatoe! Peace and love and potatoes.... Miss Gulliver, and her lilyputtians! are you linked to this and that ? Does that not take away half the fun, all these voices... back and white ..from the ... sowelnected to their own institutions....

and so on
toujours le meme problemes avec l'etre humaine - the circle, the

but this is against the real rhizome portal of voids, trancendences, lines of kookoo, quick hats of love why bother with all that shit?


I:I'm too tired to think of this now,
and know why we moved away from the I poetry.
that consciousness poesy.


I've been too long in France to think that way .

__________________________________________________
this is from the dada performance of le coeur a barbe. This is what I grew up on. Posted by Hello______________
re: the kerouac thought


I kinda like that , and I can see , as always I do, some things in
it that I want to change, doctor them up .
'first thought is best thought' said Kerouac, so how to make the
Jazz work first time is the goal, to make it happen
the first time round.
So think of the poem as a recording , a performance,
where you say, Ah, yea, that that ,
that is good,
I'll keep that, and do that again,
and that little mistake we made when we played, I'll have to
correct that.

Frank O'Hara says that the meter of a pome ought to fir it like a
good pair of jeans fits someone. So then the pome is like a jazz
band tooting its wares, and the show's the thing, right? Not
revision for death, but revision for Vision.

Let's face it boys and girls there are revivsions that kill the
poem , that business becomes a sickness.
Anyhow, have a good day."

_________________________________________


I danced too long for that and did shows too long for that crap at least some ofthat crap that emanates from a certain scene of poetry.


Man, you gotta dance,

and happen the knocks and rocks of roll.


The loud music of freedom and the tribal liberation








I got the pretty vacant in mind and we don't care. Old pUnk thou art myself from myself to myself rempli


angry and love

anger can be an EneRgy if you Know How to use it

this crap

"What is this crap according to which there are professional philosophers, professional artists? Does not philosophy belong to everyone ? Does not art


belong to everyone? What does living means then, simply living, when one is a man and one is a prey to language



We are writing this as a rhizome. It is composed of plateaus...we watched lines leave one plateau and proceed to another like columns of tiny ants. We made circles of convergence. Each plateau can be read starting anywhere and can be related


to any other plateau. To attain the multiple, one must have a method that effectively constructs it; no typographical cleverness, no lexical agility, no
blending or creation of words, no



syntactical boldness, can substitute for it. In fact, these are more often than not merely mimetic procedures used to disseminate or disperse a unity that is retained in a different dimension for an image book.

Tree Logic
Tree “All tree logic is a logic of tracing and reproduction.” (p. 12) Thousand Plateaus, [...]

Deleuze and Guattari’s Rhizomatic Versus Arbolic

Rhizomatic Arbolic
Non-linear Linear
Anarchic Hierarchic
Nomadic Sedentary


Smooth Striated
Deterritorialized Territorialized
Multiplicitous Unitary and binary
Minor science Major science
Heterogeneity Homogeneity
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



"Que les incultes s'emparent de la culture et ce faisant la transforment. Tout le monde devrait avoir le droit d'écrire, se sentir le droit décrire.
Qu'est-ce que c'est que cette ânerie, qu'il y a des philosophes professionnels, des artistes professionnels ? Est-ce que la philosophie n'est pas a tout le monde ? Est-ce que l'art n'est pas à tout le monde ? Qu'est-ce que c'est que vivre alors, simplement vivre, quand on est un homme et qu'on est en proie au langage, si on n'est pas son propre philosophe, son propre artiste ?
Je réclame pour tout un chacun, et aussi bien pour le dernier des peigne-cul, le droit entier de parler le monde, de parler les races et les continents, de faire l'art et la philosophie et de produire aussi le discours culturel.

J'appelle quelque chose comme un mouvement de libération de la culture - un M.L.Q."

"May the wild ones get hold of culture and doing so, transform it. Everybody should have the right to write, recognize to himself the right to write.
What is this crap according to which there are professional philosophers, profesional artists ? Does not philosophy belong to everyone ? Does not art belong to everyone ? What does living means then, simply living, when one is a man and one is a prey to language, if one is not one's own philosopher, one's own artist ?
I call for everybody, and for the worse yobbo, the whole right to speak about the world, to speak about the races and continents, to make art and philosophy and to produce the cultural speach as well.

I am calling for something like a mouvement of liberation of culture. - a M.L.Q."




2005/06/23

welcome to nondevolpment

U dig? there is no change, it's all undergroun d radio, and the body
the body needing love and stuff and the lonesome dogs on the metro the skytrain rattles across the around the road side. remember my torn up papers? my collages that Christopher stole? that foolish man living in the repeat of his past.
so there the night goes, and what is the difference between this and your blog about Paradise Lost? Is there a Paradise Lost? Was Milton really a poet, so called? we question everything as it should be, cause we are the questioners, and they don't own our culture , our culture is outside,

you dig?

U love to dig


and dig the digging of the one line pome that crackles in the Viconian not Ciceronian summer of lovers flappers and crappers!
No lyric here ladies and gents just the butt of Satyr and

U dug

U dug my prose poem foresting sitting across the gerund of packages and bellies students with an A grade spreading her tauty cheeks for me with a telephone number to temptation O she wanted her to fall me, that is , to call.


and my prose pome was left waiting for your desire to bald the player and blandish the moment when the sonnets stilled stayed gathered around their bodies her desire her breast full in my mouth with a hump down room a loom of loving



but so poem was a half-volume vowel formations of the same are


to get past

2005/06/21

re : call: the Library not the...

take the word Call, for instance, the way it snaps back against itself, and you reader , how you make it your own, by a fabricated self, not certain a spiritual becoming that holds against your intensity, your company , love, your lips, slipping between the image and its metaphor, its darling night against your sense of the poetic odd and its nodal power, the way margins completely baffle your self, forged by the nano seconds, the seconding of a self in language, and it is not even that complex, any more than object is fake bird Bell



or I submit this to your will


by the feelings

all over the place forcing the prose moment of our happiness


then thinking of an evasive time and place


you huddle down the tracks
happier than a dog in heat

escaped by the bodies and who cares then, what it is?
it is Rimbaud in the light

keeping the speed
by Abyssinia

and not these other rude awakenings to language and other crap. So then, what is happening, what is going on , when you waltz the street hoping for the rainbow prayer of the moment to unfold, unfolding in your fears, the anxious navy of your hope and the unheld bodies of motor oils,


not so avid
to make breaches
you promise primroses of summer


then again that turns out to be a lie
trundles around the corner of your self
a trombone of repeating season's
where sankee sink a coffee

relieves your selves and the girl you loved


those are the pieces of a boy in an unfinished french city

yes like when you stayed over there, in Paris, and all the live long day was Shakespeare, not ruined Being and Nothingness





the Voice reaching withinward





not another didact reassuring her place in history and the history wait there is the Library and that is not the Same






not the same at all





not even similar there's no thesa...

2005/06/17

cuts of my tribute to jeff nuttall

as we was prosing our verse and made the turn to author we came handy-andy to the authorfinding her most proportionate to our desires. there was no dead author,there was no author, there was no text. it was fastened on the door of thedead Jeff's trim/ as for us, they owned a copy , in f a c t and place oftwo of that booke B Culture. some original ragged edged underlined one and anothernewer lover of abooke. we said booke. and commenced to write her booke.in hades eurydice we cld. see Jeff and his 'oral anal grunts of jazz' andthe burial of the rites could not have been better. at the grave, whalesroared at his old days. aye, it was us Jeffy and our mogs and togs/ so itgoes yes death was about to be mingled with your bodies of . and love andhalf-inch print, the time we read Fanon together, them was a long timeago, or ego it was in 73 with the others as we printed and played. sometime in the marches against the atomic war build up.yes and these authors were our namesnot drinking so much in those linkages
were we?all night in the corner store the teenage light we had? going back toAlex ad the others wandering about the globe 'give me your filthiestsonnets' you said but that was an American named Allan and there was theothers and so many others the river has not washed its bed forphonetics and near the sound of the letter yes Jeff Jeffy boyyou were like the Keats of a madcap moment and the CND marches and Bertiecrowing high above the gathering and Ronnie blathering with the boozewell Jeff those days and century is gone we are some almost blind in ourparanoid reactionary selves but we know the author is not dead or alive ortheory butand we know she is not theory or theoria or polar molar and shoulder toshoulder we heave the text O JeffAdonais I love youwhen you trope your hornand manic yer metaphors and beeps/Spifflicate water-buffalo drunk on rainbow fish will snore beside theoval father where he basks/No one does that the way you do Blues man. Jazz man. jazz man and collage man. For the
rest of us, as longso like this we are prayed togethersome nightbefore waterswanbefore afterfabricates what I recall that old time when you sauntered to the door forAlex's bird and bolted when he arrived out of destination and nowhere. themimeograph and xerox Opal splitting to Canada and then some.oh before was nice before death came along with scrogging'constant fear of denunciation and blackmail, because the consequences ofbeing found out are punishment, remand pending deportation 'Alex was being a junky and reading Beckett's first gleaming books Malloy/"When the spatial word first sang Ave Maria it plummeted against night."It was your words I hard heard then and picked me from youth bringing mehere to the space of its moment. Some now unfolding always in the becoming.Your death of the author was the sameness not heard by the big publishersbut some comedy of errors and the soul.Then there was Sigma and the bird was walking, Debord taking Alex's partto defend him Hands Offyour
poemsSo brightly blisters the great regurgitating ribbon of the Thames .Sculls skim through like springtime swallows.Keels kiss tidal scum, lancing the stolen sun - boilsor bops to a stop, as inThe bee on wheels has laments on a stickWags weepy banners with gypsy ribbons ...The tiny wheeled bee has the sky on a stickIdly waves as she buzzes through the afternoonKicking the tears around like bean tins.your jazzI make a line out of a rhythmic figure. The previous figure suggests thesubsequent one. The rhythmic figures owe much to Charlie Parker'ssaxophone phrasing. then the changesa shift between 1966 and 1967 from poetry and art and jazz and anti-nuclear politics to just sex and drugs, the arrival of capitalism. Themarket saw that these revolutionaries could be put in a safe pen and giventheir consumer goods. What we misjudged was the power and complexity ofthe media, which dismantled the whole thing. It bought it up. And thishappened in 67, just as it seemed that we'd won. Or this
Some mumble so dim they say more palping the bread of grey thighs. So delayed is all saying on theirfumbling lips their dun stuff of stung and pore-pockedflesh Decays before a self's declared. They dwell in strange cells, suchsouls, Huddled in drums that smell of stalecake Inadequately locked in rooms wherefilth is metaphysical. Should we help them speak? I don'tthink so. For what if that final wrenchedepithet by which their coupling worms found sense Should form instructions, germinatereaction, Infecting speech and mind withspecial lisped loathing
Of things attempting stridency allround?You were the Faust of the generation Man!None like it was you cool blower and hooter broke the rules again andagain, and one can only imitate ya , if 'one ' is gonna playthe 'one'bullinggame but you taught us better, better than Johnny Rottencould have ever done for his crowd.Love of the woman's body her husk and spunk,She walks the carpet quick to door.Swings open. HallAll oddly empty of their heat.Says “Out, boy, out.”He pads out panting healthy healthy.When he’s goneHer face tilts, soul singsPrayers.That first time I read you, and read the word spunk and knew how you meant.At least you got something published and many times over. Oh, man. Iadmire that, and so you Author are not dead, not dead, not dead at all.when you wrote 'the noblest images of Bacchus' cut and juxtaposed withhorror of war images and your thing about DeSade was still in my head twoweeks a week or so ago. Some things never go and we don't understand
themtill we do.So it goes.Good to have known you to have read those books and the rest, to have beenaround while you've done it far and near distant close closeby and goingon an inspiration to hep cats and hipandgood to be your younger contemporary but led by you and others like youyour chums but you shine manstill shinethanksNo dead Author hereNo death of the AuthorNo dead wanted dead and alive wanted dead alive in the dread of theinstant escape moment of its hydrogen bomb putting yer shoulder to itas all loves go and escapeNone. None dead or alive live man wanted live writer poet walking walkinglike so many others like so many like

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 along

the 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

prosing

prosing the existential territories our names was sudden dust the first time you heard denise was the night quirks, odd roses, stolen champagne glasses and other mistakes was the narrow bend of her mind,y our heart was glued to the forest, and a trenchant nowhere was where you found, that was what you found on the punk ballet existential pretences of your substantial tense smile and the horse back rides and I recall the collected recollected anxieties of your self, and the nonreading you had done, and meeting Mister D. was not the path she chose. turned the page, nowhere to go, the street homeless like a dog. as prosed our verse in the converse of the perverse O sons of loyal days and rights and Lyotard with her stockings and earings, and the girl's ass shows always a hole of Sodom


and Gomorrah? or gladmydia the disease of the century that hid its gloves behind a/i.ds and other bare bastards ruined health and humanity of emphyseamict breath empheeseematic breath not automatic not autoseematic in the matic of your uptown prepare downtime speech

2005/06/16

are

are the days
nights



when none is there

what shite is dat?


is dat thee shite of bright? or

nays a sense of englishs grammars
their garbled crabbed days

beauty of a woman
travels she home

across scent of time
space and its gathers

2005/06/13

for the being sage


for you the being safe
the becomings of ebb
flow

the night whispers your prayer


the afternoon is a thought that carries your name


or the juniper jumpers
or jumpers in summer
Or
other bandy legged lumbers


revised for the clinging of trees?
of seas that maketh the weird
blasts of
somethingor other
as poems do

Out Landish_ABC __ blogs

`


"A deliberately poetic vocabulary, a record of
ideas incompatible with common speech, would be a
different matter, however. The world of appearances
is complicated, and language has only verbalized a
miniscule part of its potential, indefatigable
combinations. Why not create a word, only one, for
the converging perception of the cow bells announcing
day's end and the sunset in the distance? Why not
invent another for the dilapidated and threatening
face of the streets at dawn? And another for the
well-meaning though pitifully ineffectual, first
streetlamp to go on at dusk while it is still light
out? And another for our lack of trust in ourselves
after we have done wrong?" (JLB, 1926)





There is no whole self. Any of life's
present situations is seamless and sufficient.
Are you, as you ponder these disquietudes, anything
more than an indifference gliding over the argument
I make, or an appraisal of the opinions I expound?"
(Jorges Louis Borges, 1922)


Deleuze from the film made with Claire Parnet _L' ABCdaire __ summarized by Professor Charles Stivale.
The section I have excerpted is near the end of the Letter A_ Deleuze expanads expounds on barbaric words, words coined from other words... the secret sources of philosophical terms...


"Moreover, one must consider behavior in the territory as the domain of property and ownership, territory as "my properties" in the manner of Beckett or Michaux. Deleuze here digresses slightly to discuss the occasional need in philosophy to create "mots barbares", barbaric words, even if the word might exist in other languages, some terms that he and Guattari created together. In order to reflect on territory, he and Guattari created "deterritorialization" (Deleuze says that he has found an English equivalent of "the deterritorialized" in Melville, with "outlandish"). (Interestingly enough Pound attacks the notion ofthe Outlandish in poetry, and that is another level or consideration of  a plateau playing against another__ agencies asemblances , frames of reference __ and Frame of deference ) In philosophy, he says, the invention of a barbaric word is sometimes necessary to take account of a new notion: so there would be no territorialization without a vector of leaving the territory, deterritorialization, and there's no leaving the territory, no deterritorialization, without a vector of reterritorialization elsewhere. In animals, these territories are expressed and delimited by an endless emission of signs, reacting to signs (e.g. a spider and its web) and producing signs (e.g. a wolf track or something else), recognized by hunters and trackers in a kind of animal relationship.Here Parnet wonders if there is a connection between this emission of signs, territory, and writing. Deleuze says that they are connected by living an existence "aux aguets", "être aux aguets," always being on the lookout, like an animal, like a writer, a philosopher, never tranquil, always looking back over one's shoulder. One writes for readers, "for" meaning "à l'attention de," toward them, to their attention. But also, one writes for non-readers, that is, "for" meaning "in the place of," as did Artaud in saying he wrote for the illiterate, for idiots, in their place. Deleuze argues that thinking that writing is some tiny little private affair is shameful; rather, writing means throwing oneself into a universal affair, be it a novel or philosophy. Parnet refers parenthetically to Deleuze and Guattari's discussion of Lord Chandos by Hoffmanstahl in A Thousand Plateaus. Deleuze says that writing means pushing the language, the syntax, all the way to a particular limit, a limit that can be a language of silence, or a language of music, or a language that's, for example, a painful wailing (cf. Kafka's Metamorphosis). Deleuze argues that it's not men, but animals, who know how to die, and he returns to cats, how a cat seeks a corner to die in, a territory for death. Thus, the writer pushes language to the limit of the cry, of the chant, and a writer is responsible for writing "for", in the place of, animals who die, even by doing philosophy. Here, he says, one is on the border that separates thought from the non-thought."


___ Think of the territory of love, desire at a distance __ the language of blogs __ the space of a page blog ___one medium shaping over and twisting another.

bodies in a distance an insuperable one of mis_placed desire

these days aside or beside being an artist __ worker producer i am working on this 'document' __ about Satan and Milton's Paradise Lost

and the __ mostly the concept of territory and monotheism __

and I am also thinkin' a lot about the desire-machines __ how does one take a reactive machine and convert it into
a working part of one's productive faculties __?

think of Salvadore Dali and how he turned his own paranoia into the , what he called the paranoid-critical method __ or
other
semi-mad
artists shaping their folly into a method ___

Sour Orange becomes edible celery__

a little problem I have is __ I dont eat __ I have food in the fridge but leave it there __ I stay at the writing machine overtime __

Oranges 've gone bad in my fridge __ thinkin' of you__the writingmachine becomes a lover writing machine __ O Desire!
of ten strengths!

O lyre
O continent


__ it's easy to make lyric poems that have no context or float around in the air _ but what happens when you have
big earth pounders only say 200 yards from yer workroom and the shaking and pounding stops you from making sentences
about territory and Satan and monotheism and the stupid world never stops __ imagine doing this in a war zone?
impossible __ for some


these 'earthPounder things' are used to bash holes in the ground
so as to Build I suppose condominiums as they're called __
gulag buildings for the future __

'they bash us with gramophones'
I wrote once at the end of a poem __

artpoetry are always possible but may not always
be necessary

'every author creates from a true necessity' Tristan Tzara said this in the 1918 Dada manifesto__ almost 100 years ago gone.

Interesting __ anguish of contradiction __ Love at a body
at a distance __
permissive forbidden fruit
Adam A and Eve Byears later __


`

tell _ Mon dieu _anagrammatical





tell the only tale of our love
over the red night
your body lights _____near our climbing vine
yearns by day my lust
then yours
________

_________________



hungry over the years day and night
over the decals suck lips up smooching on mine
langour of your sigh be your body mine
listed in your breasts your hands hugger me
and before this treatise of desire distance
nicely you pull me breast to my mouth
decades of wanted me you a weak memory
emergency love it's yours it's ours now
ringing around the waist of your


bye and bye belong to you and me a secret to us
inside our needle spoon thread
after the flood of your lips and
mine _


_____________________

A Poem is not a Body

A Poem is not a body



NotEVeeen Yours


but its for you so still __




2005/06/08

Some other



Some other poem you carry across the page
her bodies in weight across the bus
a smile lights up the screaming
not so the fie and fo of
god’s punishing throughway
into this body of mine
ours across the sun
faded shield something like this
what? some lyric denizen of thought
was loyal fairs and night
dream pouch piffle shout
she fell against me on the bus
thrust slight of her youth
as I brushed past or moments before
when she’d come back
for tea we spoke
our fingers laced up
finally when I ‘d said stand up
seconds later I knew there was
no chemistry what could I do?
She flicked her horsewhip
against her thighs two
weeks later saying
or not saying
sigh sigh
stay stay and
I was worried about
a step
what step was that?
A step to her kisses
round about her bounding
of me
and the one I wanted .







2005/06/07

easy

jung thought it'd be easy taking on joyce,
with his eyepatch
his schizo daughter


and her florid flourishes
sayin' ya can read the bk
any way you like

and the cold calvinist doctor
against the hot Irish blade
but cooler than summer


took down the doctor
hoppin his spring down
arrogance

and so many others

what
spin of heart
was love's body
clacking on its Ulysean page


not so some
brokers of lingo
cld. raid its
secrets
its dictions

hid



.

2005/06/06

water

.
.


the dancer
saunterer
looks



space between lips
see


seize the day of your eyes
I am the dancer who eyes __ Picasso eyes







Modigliani night's pressing
curves
feminine rhymes
desire's cure
_____

2005/06/05

let's not Knot

Let s not lets knot over-estimate poetry at least in terms of of of lets not letsnot roll down yer



yes face cracked ass of old
daffodilEls

we all No the scames the games
the armless wrestle of statueeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyouzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

lets not over do it
recaLling its a Way A Way

and not a Being a Being
but a BEcoming that being fancy
translator of some midscene century poet
dont make you
a wild flower
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR


wHen U forget yer own

and goget the dead makin a livin'


hang on


O





______________

2005/06/02

my mouth






.


my mouth is your mouth

my house is yer house
sweet steppin'
one
tip
to
yer
Cinderella

pavement







lovers eyes speak
across ages




... take it cause it's all yours
anyway











wait







..




Wait Cinder


I meant

my mouth is your mouth









..

____________________

theE Maid !!



>>



Mermaid mechanic!
Mermaid thou were?
O dear Orpheus says a mere maid? not so,
but a better maid than mere is her maid.

What knave! have with you lassy!

Mechanic is a term describe the bricoleur and the

so perHaps the MaId shall sUrPrise me
before my ReTurN to the
Country of the brain
the body of the brain
the desire chains
with her eyes

with The mAnU script.

Dear Grade schoolers. of the Lower Plateaus!

I come to seek among a young maid from italy
whose pere was growed up in these PartS!

She is the daughter of Modigliani and
SOmeone else!
Who knows who!!

she knows she knows shes knows it snows!


I ask ye all have ye seen Her???
He looks about and
Spots
An American Mermaid!
Alone maid
the webbed creature of the deep
the lover of sleep
the sweet of the lower of the halfs
and the sweeter of the upper halfs





shouts for joy offering her the ecstatic poetic
tool for making poetic Joy


..

2005/06/01

jean harlowe





Jean Harlowe was someone you fancied you were like her except she is dead and yer not yer love's round blonde thing .
The Poetry of Jean Harlowe _American's answer to Beauty. When I was a childhoo, Jean was a lady who died from pneumonia!




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

2. Jean Harlow























tHE TROPHY SLUT


Paris Hilton, and before her, the late Anna Nicole Smith are but a few modern examples of a woman who all but created a genre of womanhood, all on her own -- the Blonde Bombshell, Jean Harlow.

To imagine that this wispy, but not untalented actress died in 1937, is to realise just how lasting her visual is in our minds:

The Trophy Slut is the gal who a man wants, whom he desires more than anything, not because it says something about her, but because it says something about HIM.

Hey, look at me! You think a hot bit of crumpet like this would marry just any Schmoe!

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

Sow your words sow your mouth

_______________


So you
say yer words
are tied trips
to hell
but back of hell
is yer body
and yer love
for space
and nothing doing
with the desire doors
love


.