from a series __ No. 172

so continue in the continuing of the progressive wave flow over furl and back time to see this time to hear then it inched inches in the mortality of its speed knave that has no home alone in the river flood

pieced of thought and memoried of image settlered of cape honed in the hand out held by the immortaled crag

she held that thing that ember which burned prepared to see the cape and night


221 from the series

Night speeds its way past her dream reverie it speaks sudden sodden with wetness from masturbations which dont work empty images drain the body dry making nowhere no one.

And you are expecting me to tell you the truth about my life so you can abandon me is that the way its supposed to be. And she couldn't even offer to help him do his laundry on days like that.

What was the point then of calling herself mother when she was with him, calling him on the telephone to say nothing. Which is why he chased the Greek goddess. No, and no. Not the oedipal framework of your bullshit. Bullshit vase and night of clay. Get rid of that article, definite and otherwise.

So I went to look for the world.


Is ThiS SOmething UBuROI????????????

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Zeuxis and Parrhasius|death of Alcibiades


"Im the Quite-Quite ... behold the Quite-Fluff-Fluff..." Our lady of the Flowers... Jean Genet who art

                    in heaven...



So it goes you go lover

So it goes you go lover you escape escaped escapade
a spade like this archaeology to dig into the earth
for your subconscious and the fate we share is what
we see before tears its heart the world is apocalypse
stretching its neck for the ax the ax coming down and
sawing its head off -- "what head?" you might ask, and

I say Lover, lover, we speak this way turn that and
sense the girth of things their height width and depth
a woman's smile months ago

flood me in the heart vessel a trickle of love down the veins
at this time with her measure at the move and rate
of things we might just find it taped to the narrow end
of the strait of gulfs and don't give me no guff about
it see . I m ringing the hotel up right now the phone dangles
detective arrives a true arriviste is your smile
waits for him to acknowledge it lending the moment
its year of tenderness. Ask him for love, she says,
with her smile over yeared and yarn of look,
like this the living reach
round the cattled boat and trestle moment
whirligiged at a piece of memory _ Yes, this
is what we say in apartments across the big city
throbbing in its seasonal joy.

Round and round we go with your smile
past pew and prayer mocker a mockery of laughs
borrowed wit its satiated instant
she is narrow with brass if the cantor is right
while stealing a look at my neck throat
white with a glow of libidinous look.

Gruff lover I am for your mildew stone,
Pity she isn't the only one who wants my name.
Over the boat and past the Keystone cops we keep clopping
horses dust making hazy by our boat, and don't give me
no malarky. Make up my mind, will you. She covered the veil
of her look deep in a lie, and turned away from glances
I was sending off the wall of the sky, and the glance
of the sky riding the bus roared down the road, hefted
up our body shared in the weak notice of our fantasy.

Not a record but a truth of our night, and day, riding.


the excluse

the paranoia of exclusion like your body is my
last stand.
this is the how f thing


SeE ForWard | Poets

See Fro'ward bodies poet __ desire kissed

her leaning forward foreword fetish of

legs to desire

the nylons of leaning And __




ladies and gentlemen


ladies and gentlemen once again

Doctor Almost Dada Duffy has found an-/Other In-Te-Rest in`g site for yer pleasures and jouissanceszzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Dont let the capital get ya. Grundrisse is bad beat. Check it .


Love and Glu

E to All.

--- Part 2. When she ... was a Renaissance scholar studying under a certain Doc. P. she learned many a thing, and of the things I learnt were these and those and many of them were thosethese, and one of these was fast fast fast to be fast becomings fast. Or thinking of Wordsworth remembering the days he was at Cambridge and the studious gowns of academia. And we became aquainted then with the Duchess of Malfi. Not for the first time, but a time it was....

Mona I admire it--- indeed she does seek to
She Monaone dances aroundthe high courts and low dives of justice, so-called petty penury of knaves.

--- and so threads of themes walk through her head each day head to head walking inthe sky of your books and eyes, and She am the Eye to the sudden sun screaming with Plath's voice in head, Daddy Daddy. You bastard. Or Mister Anxiety's copulas.

Have you asked yourself why your visceral gut reaction, --- I know ---I know it is not cool to react anymore, we are supposed to respond like fine schizos to the wine of dissent, but dissent is by its very nature, reactive and nonconjuncting, turning around away. A trespass and trope of refusal, a murdering of intent, but that does not mean dictatorship. But it does mean a real discipleship of the proletariat. A dictatorship of the mind, a real dictatorship of the mind.

Ah! my duchess!!

DUCHESS: Now she pays it.
The misery of us that are born great!
We are forc'd to woo, because none dare woo us;
And as a tyrant doubles with his words,
And fearfully equivocates, so we
Are forc'd to express our violent passions
In riddles, and in dreams, and leave the path
Of simple virtue, which was never made
To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag
You have left me heartless; mine is in your bosom:
I hope 'twill multiply love there. You do tremble:
Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh,
To fear, more than to love me. Sir, be confident:
What is't distracts you? This is flesh and blood, sir;
'Tis not the figure cut in alabaster,
Kneels at my husbands tomb. Awake, awake, man!
I do here put off all vain ceremony,
And only do appear to you a young widow
That claims you for her husband, and like a widow,
I use but half a blush in't.

The Duchess is forced, forced forced. She is like me, and Culafroy, forced forced forced to be rough hewn to veil and cover, protec the inner hue, the fine delicacy not sheltered by the economies of love and capital. Death, is our ultimate protection. Death or the becomings that result from a death before death, the death of love and the love of livings that surround the leaf in the fall. In the islands of sense let the wise man speak. He has no shelter but his mouth. This is something I do not detect in voices cried from a far pedagogic dryness, a verse dead to its knowing. Absent from joy, a manque with love and vitality, a crippled vanity at work supporting a neurosis of introspection and over justification, a need to over explain.

Poets of the new station don't do that, they walk to the store, bringing the news with them not in common with anyone else. Groups of poets rarely produce anything but chaos. Groups in France are normal, here they are rivalries. From what I have read the same goes for America.

--I sounded Brownian there , for a second with that Ah! but Browning is a great poet thriving in the darkness of the human soul.

Let us turn to the Duchess andher ponderings.

DUCHESS: I think she did. Come hither, mend my ruff,
Here; when? thou art such a tedious lady; and
Thy breath smells of lemon peels: would thou hadst done!
Shall I sound under thy fingers? I am
So troubled with the mother.
------------------------------ Troubled with the mother, like Jesus she goes to her crucifixion. A tedious lady thou art? Smelling of lemons in a time of stink and rank odours of the pestiforous streets of London and its raggy multitudes. O Please, London is not Malf, yes yes, but the stink of bad breath is . Leman leman let sound your finger for the prey of / Never for a second do I believe in the world of worlds we are not punished. We are only freed of our scourge between the moments. And between is what we have , all we have


ted hughes jeff nuttall

Ted Hughes Jeff NuttallIs a Performance piece dedicated to the two dead poets. Nothing is better than a dead poet, as poetics energetics is an impossible economy of ego and sharing and so it limits the desire to encounter, in its place there is power etc. ie. ie.Whereas Ted Hughes Jeff Nuttall a Performance Piece will demonstrate the future of poetry and the democracy of poets. Now henceforth, a no longer royal road to the conscious displaces the old haggard shaggy dog stories of production out of context, and whored to sell its ass.More news as it comes..

Genet once said

and art is Living. around the circles of its
creation, its creation which is indeed its credentials.

Genet once said he wanted his plays performed in a cemetery . So the dead would see them. And a community of the living and the dead is made and structured and what happens in art. It is a form of travel and emotion magically investing its images and identities in and with the dead. Art speaks to the dead and the living enter and exist the strange passages where shamans come and go. Among the dead and living the dialogue makes room for the unborn, and the future is a desire machine which hums with its song. On the net the dead and the living might just have a chance to get close - the net as seance space, as ouija board.