« Qu’est-ce que le Christ a nié ? Tout ce qui aujourd’hui s’appelle chrétien. [...] Il n’y a jamais eu qu’un seul chrétien, et celui-là est mort sur la Croix. » (Nietzsche)

Jesus in a poem by Novalis _ weeping on a hill surrounded by his friends. I, too have no father.

There never was but one christian, and he died on the cross.

The metre of the crucifixion, the rosy crucifixion. A day's nightmare.

Who did Jesus see when he looked in the mirror?

Spontaneous, fragmentary . Whitman


Welcome to the Walt Whitman Hypertext Archive

"I sing...the body electric, a song of myself, a song of joys, a song of occupations, a song of prudence, a song of the answerer, a song of the broad-axe, a song of the rolling earth, a song of the universal..."

An Introduction to The Whitman Project

It's funny that I've not blogged about Whitman, well,it goeesssssssssss without sayingNo Whitman no poetry would be quite the same, now would it???????

THis link is to the wonderful whitman Project provided at the external links to this here posting.

This link is a good starting spot.

An Introduction to The Whitman Project:

One's-Self I sing,a simple separate person, Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse....... Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.
-Walt Whitman, from ONE'S SELF I SING


some how in the night there is nothing

left but the let a flat

pieces of you and

some how it appear s off track

a language perished perhaps


add the night

add the light


the lashing rain as

before there was no wind


we reach


Poets and Poetry in the Enderby Cycle

_It is interesting to think about a fictional poet like Enderby and a poet like Artaud. Both spend time in the madhouses of their time and both are revolting against tyranny of one kind or another ____ Artaud and Endery the poet __

_ Excerpts from an online essay by
Enderby's profession, while he lived, and even at the time of his temporary or illusory death, was poetry. He was a professional poet and could do nothing that did not fit in with his vocation: write poetry, read, be interviewed, at a pinch do a little teaching and/or collaborate in the production of a play, or a film, or a television programme, or a musical, as long as the work was to be based on a poetical achievement of some kind.

Poets and Poetry in the Enderby Cycle
by Sylvère Monod

In 1980 I had published a study of Mr Enderby, one of Anthony Burgess's favourite characters. As Mr Enderby was both impressive and mean, I had called my article, in French, "Enderby, le minable magnifique". This appeared in the fifth issue of TREMA, a short-lived and obscure scholarly journal published by the English Department of my own University, Paris-III Sorbonne Nouvelle Note 1. Our N° 5, though not so heady and successful as Chanel's, had its own glamour, since it was entirely devoted to one unquestionably brilliant and entertaining writer. It was an Anthony Burgess special issue. I based my study on what I took to be the complete Enderby cycle of three shortish novels, Inside Mr Enderby, Enderby Outside, and The Clockwork Testament, or, Enderby's End. I still regard myself as having been at the time justified in thinking the cycle was complete, since the word End appeared in the title of its third part, in which poor Mr Enderby was actually seen to die. I therefore expressed my convicton that there would be, that indeed there could be no more Enderby stories. Dead men, even fictitious ones, notoriously tell no tales. Nor do they lend themselves to being told new tales about. I could not have been more wrong. A fourth Enderby novel, Enderby's Dark Lady, annihilated the hero's death at the end of the third, the author blandly explaining that his Clockwork Testament had been only one branch of a "forked ending", the unreal term of the alternative, of which he now gave us the other and truer one. Enderby's survival in the Dark Lady volume was so vigorous that Burgess left himself plenty of room for adding a fifth, then a sixth part, and so on, in fact, any number of sequels, had he lived long enough to write them. We can trust his fertile inventiveness: had he lived, he would never have fallen short of adventures for Enderby. But talented writers are not like fictional figures,; they cannot, alas, be resurrected at will. Burgess has died, and taken Enderby with him to a final grave this time.

etcetera etctera _ do follow the links for remainder of this essay.

anthony burgess

and now for a taste of Burgess' writing itself__

the clockwork testament, or: enderby's end

"'But,' she said, 'we'll make sure, won't we? Go over there and turn on the TV. Turn it on loud. Keep going round the dial till I tell you to stop.' Enderby moved with nonchalance, but only to sit down on a pouffe. Much much better. He said, with nonchalance:
'You do it. Play Russian roulette with it. That's Nabokov,' he said in haste, 'not me. Pale Fire,' he clarified.
'Bastard,' she said. But she got up and walked towards him, pointing her little gun. It was a nice little weapon from the look of it. She had delightful legs, Enderby saw regretfully, and seemed to be wearing stockings, not those panty-hose abominations. Suspenders, what they called garters here, and there knickers. He was surprised to find himself, under the thick hot Edwardian trousers, responding solidly to the very terms. Camiknicks. Beyond his pouffe, she moved sidelong to the television set. She then switched on and turned the dial click click click with her left hand, looking towards Enderby and pointing her weapon."

outside mr. enderby

"Tonight she was not going to have greasy stew and pickled onions and stepmother´s tea. She read the menu intently, as though it contained a Nabokovian cryptogram, and ordered a young hare of the kind called a capuchin, marinated in marc..."

 and    last but not least
 * Burgess was dismissed as literary critic for the Yorkshire Post after he wrote a review of his own Inside Mr. Enderby and it appeared in the newspaper. The novel had been published under the pseudonym Joseph Kell, and the newspaper’s editor did not know that Kell was Burgess. Burgess protested, to no avail, that Walter Scott had also once reviewed one of his own novels. The offending review, which was not exactly commendatory, read in part: “This is, in many ways, a dirty book. It is full of bowel-blasts and flatulent borborygms, emetic meals…and halitosis. It may well make some people sick….It turns sex, religion, the State into a series of laughing-stocks. The book itself is a laughing-stock.”

as  quoted by Geoffrey Grigson at the blog, In Search of Anthony Burgess.

let me add this statement : thank god for Anthony Burgess having lived on this earth  ~>




I cannot pray without you
I cannot say without you

Staying I cannot stay
I cannot not
Staying to say I cannot without you
Staying the night
walking the light wharves
there’s nothing left

Speaking I cannot speak without you
words deaf mutes
Speak dead boots
without you
with out you

Out you you out
with and without you
you out without
saying has no sense
remorse’s just a taste

No cents and dollars
Buy this a penny prayer
To weave your body
Into mine across the air

Simple as yes
Complex as no
Let us not pray
Let us meander

End the dead gods


first saw

"The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done."

Ulysses __

Oh ho ho and a bottle of heigh . Heigh ho the ninny
pushed by water and so it goes when she first saw my lips
wangled she reckoned by the flay of their stoppage I a
recondite deer twittered against the window of winterage and husbanding my land I awful I was the Irish accent of the voice reading Finnegans Wake when a young lad, a young ladding, and spinny as she was there was no choice between theory and practice and the boat we rowed was like this against the territoried God against the deterritorialized Satan sinner chained in his shackled husks by the sea, the sea of alcoholism which made the books of the sea and this what made what we are. Throttled by night and height we sang the song of rushed trout of boy scouts not cubs hammering down motorcycle hill and I missed my youth and missed yours as well the skinny boy I was spent too many years alone friendless homeless sexless no wonder she was crazed crazy when founded out to the foraged field.

Now be my lip O lover of memory


Socrates Pharmacy Part 3

This is part three of an essay, a textual collage, that I was working 2 years ago. To read it in sequence scroll back to Socrates Pharmacy Part 1 and follow back up to Part 3.
ossify and become boring, but their very cyclic nature testifies to their vitality and energy, their creativeness.

An economy, a new one, of desire.
A new economy of energy and form begins to take shape before our eyes (look at Bill Bisset and others, daring heroes of poetry in Canada which was a virtual Wasteland back in the early 60’s), as we become the thing upon which we write. We are becomers (in the DeleuzoGuattarian sense of le devenir), not makers, we are becomed by a god (what is a god but an energy of ourselves the makers – Blake’s, All gods reside in the human breast), and not craftsmen on a ship (called language: this does preclude being makers or assemblers as Perloff and others have pointed out); rather we are shippers (of words, word smugglers, merchants of language, harbingers of thought) and sailors, fleet on the edge of language, and making it our own. What language is this? not the language of rational philosophy nor the language of Plato’s Republican Guard. The cavern is the place …Plato…wants to get us out that dead zone (a little Steven King please) that houses the cavern dwellers, the troglodytes of realism. Oh Simulacrum and the poet’s fine frenzy rolling over sward and city hail makes the mind its own place a misery. So yes, Ion, the dear boy, (were his balls nice Socrates, was this little rhetor one of the seduced Socratic pile; one of those youths of whom Plato said: it was the beauty of the youth of Athens that made him a philo. That was one of Father Nietzsche’s quips as stated in Twilight of the Idols.) thou art not a master of neither prose, nor day and night, but to speak and shout these Homeric rants and raves, yes, Ion thou art a mastered thing of the God, as it were. You,

Ion, the god uses you like a plucked instrument to get his message across. But wait that word message, it means another thing completely to Mchulan, it means that you Ion are the message, wait, what happens to Homer’s tales then, his tales of the tribes and other things, like wheelbarrows in the rain, or Omeros reading Ulysses by Joyce S. Grant, what happens if our message is the form of a previous meaning, what becomes then of our idealistic mediumistic message? Is there no form in this content? and what is content, anyhow, Ion? Is it Sublime, dear one,drear one? Does Socrates bat your butt with the sublime of the ancient love of Paris? and yes, god is dead, and his scattered remnants are our ruin, our allegory of desire – no more unified Jesus, but a scattered resurrecting multiplying Jesus of manyness . Magic is alive. The Crow has passed. It is all myth. Brown (Norman O.) and the passage of schizophrenia and the monkeys, the beat line the line of flight. It is not either or but neither nor, a many that is a passage. A passage across the transversal – a versal of reversal as in Barthes Nietzsche and poetics combined. We need a poetics of combination recognising both the anxiousness of reality, and its generosity; there is no unity but a scattered joyous disunity a dissension.

So Socrates has a little drug store with the word as unmastered father of the dialectic. And later, Milton and others will make a dozen tripes of it and go their own mad merry way.
Now sweet Socrates my gay dialectician of ultimate ugliness we are going to yak about your Son’s Son’s brilliant Idea that perfect form somewhere in the heavens – Rhetoric de Aristote. The botanist who wrote about Poetics, but now we speak of rhetorics: the arts of persuading and truth telling by argument and polemic. But no, let us not confuse those con artists the (there is no unity but a scattered joyous disunity a dissension) PreSocrats with yer grandson in philosophy Aristotle: (a little fake Greek by way of imitation of unheard sounds:Logoi Pon Polloi e Logoi: son of the Father, the Father. )We are almosting it, as they say along the edge of rhetoric and poetic; And what sister daughter of the muse will say it? Cogitations of death and theory.
In the practice, praxis and theoria are one.
This is like love, by Mona and Franny. (Who are, reader, two of the main characters in my book, the Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari, or the Fictions of Mona Jill and Franny).
--" rather manly"
  • The Fictions of Deleuze and Guattari

  • Fictions D&G 2

  • Dear David (Hume Mister subjectivity, empiricism and delirium), in the West there is this big trip called P.C. or correct politics. It is a monstrosity induced by an obligation sensed by a certain class of people who feel the need to censor and entrap their own speech not letting themselves express what is obvious to the majority of men and women in the earth, to wit, that manliness exists and is no crime; to these p.c. readers when a person says manly as you did, they "interpret" in some paranoid way what a text might allude to; note that I say allude, not refer; that my dear Mona, is the beauty of text, it is allusive and not collusive in paranoid readers' consciousness. Of course, I being your only believer believe and know this because I am something that no longer exists, at least according to certain French theoretical authors; I am indeed an author. No matter how bad or good, I am an author. For instance, I write these heavy laden sentences knowing full well some will be angered and or indifferent to them.

    Last winter while walking in a grand march against this war against Iraq I believed for a moment that something would come of it ... Some thing perhaps has come of it/the despair of nations/the despair of the movement of the People on the earth. Not the Multitude so called of Negri and Hardt, whose conceptions seem a little naive to me (Idealism is another word for this; but that is philosophical) not to say I do not think them lovely and wonderful and hopeful, and even perhaps right - but still naive, say, in a way that Kathy Acker's characters are not naive. One thing is for sure, it is true that life is not naive, but just cruel, like love and everything else about it. The sad thing about life is that there are no inborn rights to it, we are born and the rest is it seems a bonus, a grab-you all, some semiconscious failure to seize the moment... Now I do believe in love, but not the world of things. Perhaps that is what writing is, believing in words and not things. What it must be to be there, in that terrible city of Baghdad where all this injury, death and injustice happens is a nightmare beyond any of the rest of the world, and especially the Western world.

    Not to be an essentialist in the face of the onslaught of slaughter and history is tricky. How does one become an historian or remain a poet in the face of hell? One does not, one flees and becomes something else. What one becomes I am not so sure.
    I like prosopopoeia.
    Rhyme is still a beautiful thing, though many deny it.
    Call this Kant’s beauty beside Rimbaud’s desire to be a saint. being a poet. I know whereof they speak, and that desire is a machine that fires its wheels each day. Thanks to the desire machine we can speak. - the text tastethe mortal taste __
    So then. Mr. Longinus. and Mister Hume and Mr.whoever has taste in the budding prayers of night and day. Hume is a delire called his period. Kant builds conceptual machines so lovely they are cantatas by Bach and Thomas Aquinas. Is Hume a subjectivity that has killed its own death, is that how one can explain the delire about Mahomet and Rome? Has does one explain a racial and religious delire? But then, what is the bastard wisdom of the lines of break and flow, the line which runs or banters the death of sages and wisdom... the great bastards of history.? How do we make and one what basis do we make a distinction between legitimate and non-legitimate? think of offspring, what is a legitimate offspring? Jesus Christ was a bastard, Marx calls Judaism and its deity, the huckster god. A swindling manufacturer of doubts and murder, a slaughter of lands and peoples. A mono gangster of adoration that Lucifer the polytheist rebelled against. As it were. Hume calls on the universal so-called to invoke and legitimate his rules for taste… they say Hume was a good writer. And I would suppose he is, what do we know about good writing, when Paragrams dominate. Where and when does meaning slip off?

    And poetry fits in there, or really does not fit in there in the great conformist machines, it does not fit as it is bastard wisdom.. heretical and wild.. even the great formalist poetry is fraught with the hidden codes of wildness....

    Ah, but if Mister Borges could see for us, it would all be clear. Blind eyed seeing man.

    the Father and Son in Christianity __

    The problem of the “Son” and “Father” in Christian theology,in Western consciousness And the mother and son union and reunion? "Mother I am about my Father's business"
    Think of the infinite proliferation of Pieta ikons, images,
    The multiplication of image and body, makes for a real virtual sense of becoming that is world wide and scatter'd , dispersed spread across the glober, the archetypes of the old ways of being... Can we escape the archetypes, at least those triangulations that keep us locked in?
    The a famous (and now dead) Palestinian said “The Virgin Mary was Palestinian.” A powerful ontological statement under any circumstances;a statement that swallos everything up__Palestine, Jesus, Mary . Is it land, or heavenly land, dear Milton, we have deterritorialized the whole, and are letting it be reterritorialized? America (one part of America) calls on fundamentalist Jesus, someone you can call a friend, someone you can rely on.
    The end of the world, the apocalypse. Fundamentalists' boats atop the water as it floats down and drains the world, dirty little families of the apocalypse gangstering up. A filth quagmire swine, gaderene swine, the sow, the fallow the sow that eats its own farrow, Chronos depicted by Goya, what does old spook want anyway, gangsters of religion and god, and god himself a gangester a reterritorializing machine working to take over the world. But none of this is the “real” god or anything to do with the God of Immanence and his disappearance. The Middle East is the dangerous atomic bomb of the future .... who knows who knows what the plans of maniacs are? Theory is concerned with war, as texts make war in their little boxes, and tools make sheds, and machines make cuts “coupures.”
    Poetry and war, the war of thought and language, of body and spears, of lovers and their fears.
    fragments of faces, bodies, memories, collective recollections ...

    spears, of lovers and their fears.

    ThE Primacy of Criticism – re:Wilde.
    Of course, Wilde is having us on – for him criticism is high camp. He mocks the very act of artistic activity while readying himself for his own ‘fall’ and prison. This event, his eventual imprisonment is an artistic event, and not a critical one. Like Milton, Wilde makes ‘prose’ ‘criticism’ whatever is not ‘creative’ with his left hand. The left hand in writing is not the right hand of god, and the god is where poetry is written. Plato knew this which is why he banished us. I write first foremost and always as a creative artist, a poet – but this word, Poet, is now forbidden by the academies of elite higher learning. They have told us there is no essence, no thing in-itself and no artist. Naturally Wilde would scoff. Why Wilde not scoff? Joyce scoffs also from the heights of his eternity. George Steiner, not a popular critic these days, speaks of the secondary tertiary parasitic nature of 90% of criticism and theory

    . Writing calms me down, when I started to smoke yesterday I wanted to write. but had no copybook with me. B., and the others, M and her suffering I want to comfort her, but don't know how, how many other hungry songs in the world?
    in the wood the dark wood of preposition and knife
    facing the south
    the strata wore down
    wore the tea gown
    of hibiscus and tamarind

    When Coleridge and Wordsworth write about poetry they write as practitioners as hunger artists. That is my simple point. It goes without saying that criticism has its place, but until the advent of heaven utopia or an egalitarian society where all are equally valued then artists are at the bottom of the capitalists heap and so must think themselves, must think of ourselves as better than and more primary than the critics, who feed off our bodies and blood. Remember the famous moment in Godot when who is it shouts “Crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiitttttttttttttiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicccccccccccc!” I think it’s Estragon who shouts this out, he who used to be a poet, now in tattered rags. It is not the poet who is unknown, but his audience. The practice of theory by those who make is not identical to those who do not make. I am not conservative, in fact, I am a democrat and so for this reason I believe what I say. True creativity is like what D&G say about desire,it is dangerous. The critic can never be equal to the poet, because most critics make more money and always will. Criticism and the academic international institutions have become one and the same body – the old wild days of Jonson’s time (Grub street) are long gone – in fact all of the ‘old days’ of any kind are long gone. We live in the time of mass murder and hate – what cld. criticism possibly mean beside the poems found in a Jew’s pocket’s who wrote while escaping the gas chambers. I think the critical act has its place but it has become inflated – a sort of capitalist over-inflation…. I cannot say more. Wilde is the joker in the pack playing his campy games which end him up in jail – where he needed to go to write his last works. The love that dare not speak its name – this poet helped to advance human knowledge. When a critic does that then he gets admitted to the Land of Literature. But the guards to the land of literature are more fierce than the land of criticism the guards of literature are not he Republican guards of Platon – they’re wild hyenas and Blakean tygers and lambs and Frostian fustians the joycean jokers of desire and love, the jugglers of Shakespeare, and the hyperboreans of Nietzsche. None are equal, and all are equal. Killers and lovers sit side by side. It is easy to get in and impossible. It is completely anonymous and filled with fame. Many last tempters to noble minds have cracked in their efforts to enter. If Wilde were in prison and had met Genet he would have had a different view. Derrida speaks of the fierce intuition of Genet – see Whites’ bio of the former. The great glorious space of criticism is not that of the children of the seven muses and counting.

    These notes and counting.
    Orthographic errors belie a secret subverting epistemology. Why do we need to write discursive expository prose as defined by the cult of professionalism? Who are we doing this for? Who defined it? Class war is also defined along the lines of prose and style. See Sartre on style – I would imagine Fredric Jameson knows this, I don’t know. I have read only the Political Unconscious and finally I agree with Bernstein (and Perloff’s) criticisms of his generalizations and lack of awareness of the present – the present being that thing that escapes from the institutions of criticism and the bureaucracies – where Art happens is always somewhere and not so much always already read, but A reading of what hasn’t been written. Look at Bill Bissett. What he has done – this immense energy of moving outside all of the norms and creating something new, this is the William Blake of our time.
    Saussure – are you so sure of your signifieds and signifiers the language that speaks in its name – Cow and phoneme, grapheme and Mouth. “La pensee c’est fait dans le bouche” Tzara.
    Back to Gilbert of Wilde – he puts me in mind of a combination of Steiner, New Historicism and Bloom . Art is personality, a sort of anti-Stephen Dedalus, a Dedalus in reverse who believes not in the omniscinet god artist paring his fingernails, but the obtruding pushy narrator of Celine in the late novels; like Castle to Castle and Nord or Rigadoon where we keep hearing about the narrator and his personality and how He becomes an element of the story, or narrative. This is a kind of Tristram Shandy two centuries later. But all of this obligation to ‘study’ literature systematically is hocus-pocus, because if it were true who would have written anything. If before writing Christopher Smart had had to read all of Literature, before and after (him), then none of the poems would have been writ. Shew me and discourse, read the tale of this theoretical critical madness. Gilbert is cute and grandstands on the side of a kind of Paterian “swoonerism” born of a vacuous snobbism and boredom and discontent against those less fortunate than him. Perhaps this was Wilde’s fault as well – that as a man he had no sympathy for the class which surrounded him and which he perceived as below him. Thus this whole business of Snobbery and the dandy pose struck. Wilde reminds me of the young Baudelaire before he went bust – a snob until poverty undid his middle class arrogance. One thinks of Sartre’s analysis in his Baudelaire. Wilde is a great artist no doubt, but he was greatest after prison after Reading gaol, and the after percepetion the backward glance to hislife and work which came as a result of prison. Wilde was a bad boy and ‘wild’ at heart, a rebel without a cause, without a class clause except his own selfish indivduality. It was pushing this to its limits that made him a hero by going beyond it – prison alters the class consciouneses the contents and makes him a more ravenous man than he was. Religion was the cheap easy internal exile, the temporary escape which sufficed , the one he used for the period of incarceration, but was abandoned later. Later the real unrepentant homosexual comes out and is here at the end that Wilde becomes a hero, becomes something other than what he had been previously.
    Having said all that there are interesting anticipations and confluences in Gilbert’s view related to ideas about criticism that go further , I am sure, than he intended. However, be careful writer, as you write, the intentional fallacy is forever lurking behind the corner of the next sentence, and the next thought.

    Yes, that old dead school of ‘new criticism’ hides behind the bushes of mental thoughts. We go from no intentional fallacy to no Author. But what a strange leap, and of lies too, because this is never what Foucault said, or even meant to say. One has to wonder at this distance between poet audience and critic. Foucault knew damn well that writers and poets exist, but what has happened is this conflation of the whole issue. As people hang on to a word, and cut their teeth on it…(it’s difficult to imagine we even bother to discuss this old history. It’s been near to a hundred years…the academy lags behind as usual) American poetry may have resisted change on the official level but on the ground American poetry was the line of flight, the movement forward – without knowing it Deleuze was right in saying that American and English literature were superior – I mean he was not familiar with the great surges ‘forward’ taking place in American poetry… but these things are molecular and ‘small’ so how could anyone be aware of ‘everything’? It’s in the nature of these things that they are not known, but fluid and escaping constantly…. Indeed the sooner they are known they become reterritorialized.


    poetry is a way

    Poetry as a Way of Life not just an expression of the Soi-Meme_this poetry of the future of what are becomings-to-be exists now and yet exists on a virtual plane and is a process of definit'in and fiction criss cross frontiers mix melodies perform verse machines magics boundaries as usual A Recalltopoetryisawayof life and so many others et tant d'autres et tant d'autre_

    --- image of poems from an online poetry club that
    which ran for about a year.

    The heart was

    The heart was a lonely hunter
    (Carson McCullers)
    but then Death stepped in

    with her whoopsy-doopsy shit
    begging the question
    for a night of fair and

    begging the night for
    a question of life and fare
    that ferry-ride over the other side
    where death and ground play
    ape and bear
    when the lion takes time from the lamb
    without a tab
    minding its own business


    with friends like you

    with friends like you who needs an enemy like an energy
    tined and tinkered into the blue night and wild sky
    Mountain mad scape of clouds beyond expression
    but who needed an enemy a rival comparing soul to
    soul in this flung back bastard world where noise is the god
    peace the prize beyond reach sad beyond common peace
    we reach to find ordinary peace daily quiet peace
    poised on the edge of a turntable


    Is for the love wais

    Is for the love waist not had in its trickle added to sun
    she cannot say how sweet the svelte hipped one wandered
    moments ago past a windowed casement her kerchef like an
    old hippy bandana and her jeans reminiscent for a moment of then
    not now these days this informatique computer technological
    gene rat ion rationed on rationalism and crap of

    I can't write you these words which make yourself conscious and cowardice rise toward me a dull boring blanet and you have no bravery and no stance but your tightass words as always is this how you greet a friend whose travelled the high seas and continues to travel you fool not knowing the real itch of friend,
    but my women know, and my alcoholics and I know their know,
    but what you know is the dead that's all so stand
    there reitterrated and retreated like your salt bowl

    reterritorialized by every lie each one of you trespasses and follows her deadline hookline and stinker!!
    where as saltedbrined in my moustache look for the mountain.
    you will always be the worst kind of minor player, and when
    I say minor, I don't mean minoritarian and stutter,
    but peweled self-pity and botched,
    . but now let that be, she moves on.

    O the grass that I want to have under, is yours and mine,
    and in China we shudder all the time like mountains do in the night