each circumstantial word

dropped off

a hair on the loss which speaks you

speak us

canto of effulgence


the stare of love


is how it works

the night passes for day

pads over the floor
my fear as I face the world

each day afraid to look away

into this prefabricated world of ignore
and bliss

the high tides of tigers this

not the brave shoot of the anonymous


... november 22|poets musicans... birth deaths....Our Daily Bleed... events ..be worthy of your Wound...

2 selections below

From the

Our Daily Bleed Website

ST. CECELIA'S DAY: as patroness of musicians her day is observed with a variety of music festivals.


1936 -- Spain: Over 500,000 attend the funeral of the anarchist Buenaventura Durruti in Barcelona.

1950 -- Premiere of Jean Cocteau's film ORPHEUS in New York.
Some Selections from Daily Bleed

Make yer Own Daily Bleed

Praying for world Peace


freedom from the bondage

of self ...

"We sometimes behave as though people can't express themselves. In fact, though, theyr're always expressing themselves....

... the problem is no longer getting people to express themselves, but providing little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say. Repressive forces don't stop people from expressing themselves, but rather, force them to express themselves. What a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, or even the rarer, the thing that might be worth saying.
Deleuze - Mediators

there's always more deaths than
you can count
or recall

recalling counts

deaths untold
births never known

which Saint hung her head
crying in the places
not far from where you live
love and die,
in your birth of death and love...
and these strangers passes to your life

life and death
who deaded of oxygen shortage
in which hospital be ce soir
what death was that they bolded out tonight
tonight when you are so alone?

November 22 who died and who did not die, who
was born,
hit by a car
was loved not loved
caressed not caress scared and not scared and ran
what species of man did this to scare a child, a world
being born
in its awkward night

what dramaturgy ended the world?

Old Jack London alcoholic writer.... Reading White Fang in High School I finished the book way ahead of other pupils ... problem was we read aloud so whenever my turn came I had to flip back and find where the rest of the class...

How many thousands of unknowns died today
or will have love this night
in their bodies and arms,
how many guns and bombs fired
off by Armies Armie and Armie
endless never ending armies...
jets jets jets
jet cruise missile

Who counts those tortured and strangled today?
Who cares of dead presidents in the past
How about that kid kidnapped abandonded
the lover unwanted....

how many deaths in how many places...

t 7:45 on Wednesday morning, November 22, 1916, ...At 6:30 p.m., November 21, 1916, Jack London partook of his dinner. He was taken during the night with what was supposed to be an acute attack of indigestion. This, however
, proved to be a gastro-intestinal type of uremia. He lapsed into coma and died at 7:45 p.m., November 22.

make this
your secret hall of
fame and acclaim and
aclaim not worked for but given
to your loves

your breaths
a wreath around your neck
a heart around your heart

She said I was so downhearted then
announcing now the fact of her birth
and years gone by was 15

she was sweeter than hay
cuter than honey


le poet (add accent!) Marianne Moore

There is nothing to be said for you. Guard / your secret. -- Marianne Moore


The knight

"We, conscious of the justness of that confusion of tongues [at Babel], recognize the fragmentary as a characteristic of all human striving in its truth and realize that it is precisely this that distinguishes it from the infinite coherence of Nature, that an individual's wealth consists precisely in his power of fragmentary extravagance, and that the producer's enjoyment is also that of the receiver, not the laborious and meticulous execution, nor the protracted apprehension of this execution, but rather the production and enjoyment of that gleaming transience for which the producer contains something more than the completed effort, since it is the appearance of the Idea, and which for the recipient too, contains a surplus, seeing that its fulguration awakens his own productivity--since all this, I say, is contrary to our Society's penchant (and since, indeed, even the period just read could well be regarded as a disquiting attack upon the interjectory style in which the idea breaks out but without breaking through, a style which in our Society is accorded official status), then, having called attention to the fact hat my conduct still cannot be called rebellious, seeing that the bond holding this period together is so loose that the intermediary clauses stand out in a sufficiently aphoristic and arbitrary manner, I shall merely call to mind that my style has made an attempt to appear what it is not--revolutionary."

--Soren Kierkegaard, Either Or: A Fragment of Life. trans. Alistair Hannay. New York: Penguin, 1992.

This is Kierkegaard speaking under the aesthete pseudonym "A" in "Ancient Tragedy's Reflection in The Modern;"


as for the

as for the true pelican he said,
a comma peers across his side-burns
She is flash-back
Artaud and me my double selved
the slave
of desire bust

She shadow the avenue a word
crisps her front teeth
she is turned to that ornament
which stares there
in this gray day
is a long city
long in the tooth
with its misteries and masteries
loathing beyond choice
dominate s the view
statues, pigeons, old predaters
the clattering of heels
the Celtic Tiger
's economic heal
th's for others
as for its mothers sisters,
brothers, other exiles,
expatriates, emigrants,
refuge questers
the shamble of potato,
pause and famine .

what sense in this Archbishop?
have you brought the bread
merely to break it,
not give it,
question mark
hangs between the shades
of pilgrims' palates.

The stars trim down the Dublin night
over the Irish sea &
the Channel
in-land route s are blocked to Paris

we got out they said in
time the burning cars
wheeling in the air
like death-threats
another rage
thrusting forward a fist in our face

We Celts were not misty-eyed
favours asking for space
but marauders hacking the sty
of the dearth of love and the face

of countries burned in their hate gripped
in the final illness.

But let's not play that game of pretend lament and song we neither know where or what we go the itch blasted by our asses and pants the bloodstain where these men fell fighting Empire _ a mail box a plaque to mark
arms and mouths smoked in the calvacade of bullets. Do you know know really how to get it across a mental case like I _me could not do it, Artaud leaning in to me queries. I say without her body I am cost cost of death and less. Sans mouth to her salt taste I am the ant that mangles the pavement, a small shit to her heaven.

Not tarnished as the balcony
which over hangs the deaths
polished as the Black Irish
the humming dead ringers of baleens

the ruptured afternoon
motors the static light
guides the chair to room


Din of dunces
ovum egg
in the mask past
staggers your thought
wakens your bone
cherishes your wake .


return ing Dublin

race across wharves the hell-hound night burns
states the career of revolt
the crowd hurries high-grade
'round the Eiffel Tower
where the swat teams work down the
sewer sweat of bodies
death mobs the entrance

of subway gathers the
wreath of hell-hounds
look at this body crack

head splits open blood
not a pus image but the stark
flesh beaten
the twisted open wound of heart

by shots and not camer a shots not cinema scope but meddling war and its thudding brigades

thud of head on cement
squish of bladder
squash of liver

loud (frightening) sound of running shoes

whack across the face
see that blood
you can't explain that
the Minister says they are scum

how scum spits
back up to the face
forward face power
total hard gas of death

head smacks
hand hurts
cuts bruises
no consumer holiday in this France
outside the tour bureau
1440 cars
l'automobile O Paris


the Nose

Poetry and the Sinus.
Death and the Nose.
Assemblage and Poesy
Exotic territory of gnosis
your nose
tip of the edge
chip off the old nose
the nose that blows
dont be nosy
stick yer nose in my affairs
dont pick your nose
what are you doing

i cant
wipe it
so many things
steroid things
deviated septum

none of it gets you
past the starting gate
you're weeping all the time
it s a form of weeping
not punishment


This text's from another time   ~ but blogger wrongly reblogged as today  ~ .

clasp self-portrait

Self image __ staring at the desiring-machine. The pome is a desire space like your ____.

Name it a Pyhrric kind of lyre between eyes that peek
what she whispered over the hull of the ship
was that?

a dart plucked your heart your eyes children aloft
the middles of her embraces braces
she holds the middle card something like that first lover of day dog and night bodies wrapped around it's versing and prosing says
she of being broke as hold you hail comedy up

up see daisys__

goes mending

close to the forest




this is yer death

you've become

this character

too much

death's your dying day

like some long lost movie

soda pop drink in all the Americas of your soul

you are American and white and

bending down near the river boat

Oh come on now it's not that hard

to find

language squeezed between the pins

she says holding my arm

faraway she holds it

touches it

from the distance of


I say a Princess?

not some squeezed down

boat in your soul

of America

which is what you anywhere

what you were

what you are






What is Canada?

but the forests' blur

it's America's other brother

in her damp down ways


doesn't matter Rimbaud

no one' ll read this

ghost of the cold

snapped back by the pages of cold and intent

the internaut of love

the nautical of image trying

burst the broken pane of window

be a sinner

you are American


It's a radio space ship calling you back

calling you back

darling you know

these words

are your lips

eyes speaking across time

some pediment of flesh?

is that it darling dagger of

your feisted off body that

marks off a trail

then radios in

come take me now

you foolish boy

all these waxes yes or no

make the thimble weak

radio stereo car of

that abomindable word

the love clap

the love clasp

you know it

and I know it too

see it doesn't break

the secret that is your name



the days

when none are here

what moon is this ? is it the flow of bright?

or nays a sense of english grammars
their garbled crabbed days
beauty of a woman
travels she home

across scent of time

space and its gathers
some garden that touches its spoiled pasture a t the type writer the echo of Siren the mast

seen ebb forever the right
arm swaying when the dancer lifts the coffin
the column
kenosis of air shape and desire the sparrow

inside of every station your smile

p rose poems

Prose poems rose poems the only way t o break the 'that' pe rsonal vo ice introdu ce the fr ee flowing turre t the machiner y of language to let it walk on its own feet s macking the night hippin' the waves of balled feet not so poetic as to ma ke life death and death li fe but to mak e the two meetthe great prose poems o f the p a st R the present not athEory but a doingsimulataneity im manence and movement in it-selfCe n'est pas, ce n'est pas l'ecriture. C'est par la repression que je lutte contre l'oppression. La psychanalyse a inventer une police, une inquisition: l'auto-analyse. Il faut substituer a tout cet litterature de la nevrose une ecriture de la pyschose. Pierre Guyoat.And I add the psychoselarose"We shall never ask what a book, signifier or signified means, we shall not look for anything to understand in a book; instead we shall wonder with what it functions, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit intensities.... A book exists only through the outside and on the outside. A book itself is a little machine;( rhizome p.4dg)"A book has neither object nor subject; it is made of variously formed matters, and very different dates and speeds....(rhizome. 1)"there is no language in itself, nor are there any linguis tic universals, only a throng of dialects, patois, slangs (argots and brogues, accents and idioms)and specialized languages.... (what I call my narrator - my idiot patois-self) Language is a community, a broken and spare parts community - There is no ideal auditor-speaker, anymore than there is a homo-geneous linguistic community...." (Rhizome .7, massumi&johnson)"We shall never ask what a book, signifier or signified means, we s hall not look for anything to understand in a book; instead we shall wonder with what it functions, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit intensities.... A book exists only through the outside and on the outside. A book itself is a little machine;( rhizome p.4dg)a confession that does not confessbut digresses to avoid the punishments inflicted on its various narrators"The trinity Hoderlin-Kleist-Nietzsche already conceived writing, art an even a new politics in this way: no longer as a harmonious development of form and a well-ordered formation of the 'subject', as Goethe, Schiller or Hegel wanted,but successions of catatonic states and periods of extreme haste, of suspensions and shootings, coexistences of variable speeds, blocs of becoming, leaps across voids, displacements of a centre of gravity on an abstract line,conjunctions of lines on a plane of immanence, a 'stationary' process at a dizzying speed which sets free particles and affects." Dialogues Deleuze 95One can add others to this trilogy, ____, especially the bits and businesses about speeds and states of haste and so on; this is celerity itself with modern writing; this text -- Leibnitz’s Fairytale.Artaud is of course implied in all of this; He is, Artaud the plane of consistency in all these writers - the very mud of their creation.the Fictons by CD. and his Orpheus Quartet________________No.[2]is it a sonnet modern lover or the other way round a round around rondelay roundelay the other way the way others are lisping the way others are listening their chins to the ground terra firma terra sancta but is it a sonnet makes me so digress when I'm in pain and you in the bath the long eyes of history are on us informed by pain long history rolls by there is no cell to step out of there is no cell to escape out of or into for that matter and [for that matter] bit particle that is upon me I have a little less than 15 years to complete this chronicle this bout de ma journee then you will be there you will be here you will be her you will be tearing at the dirty musty sail I can't stand dreaming about you all the time thinking about you all the time armoured in pain I wander weary bones pray on the sands of time delicate dears delicate ears is it love if so what of it do you love me do you pray for me in my sleep do you know how unhappy I am I am delirious with pain I can't speak to Sappho it hurts too much what did you expect firm rolls the boat in the wind you knew I was vulnerable you gave me no prediction coordinates for my map how's that you couldn't do that didn't do that after I payed you out to supper that night night that night that night of clouds and canes in my eyes when I walked home alone agony as I had not seen in a long time alone in the street my back my bag and books gripped piled underneath under rather my arms how lonely it's been without you terrible just about you and my ex-terrible love for you fearing all losing all perhaps pride and shame play a dirty a game you didn't understand my strength my weakness my wound bleeding all over the place you would appear to have taken advantage of this knowing or unknowingly I can't tell don’t know I don't can't a cry caught in the throat my mine hanging up in the air the scream you screamed stole mine didn't allow mine I don't know you won't see won't know ever it's gone now you'll just be ugly as before when I rescued you with Love his cupid's bow an arrow in hand now you'll just cancel and not have been at all really not have been at all isn't that terrible and the pain I suffered learning not to love foolishly [revised draft of the first -not complete] ------------------ present heroesHow to read this; with yer breath, between your teeth whistling the desire machines of capitalism and paranoiathe breath hanging on your lIps

So Jill then ....

So Jill then found many things texted in the base of her brain's silly woof and warp the woods of her jouissance and renaissance. The night worked like timber, it shivered,
matting the preso Om and the Instanter deist worship
of goods and words. And their solider.

S ubject: Ce qui est reste d'un "texte"... apres..

From: CD

to eyebeam-list@list.thing.netSender: eyebeam-list@list.thing.net

When it came to the Punch Mona preferred fiction. But some times the author rambling around with his view point."There is Nothing to Paint, and nothing to paint with..."Beckett speaking of the Dutch painter whose name escapes me.

On Sun, 29 Feb 1998, m@ wrote:"There is no longer any p-l-a-i-n E-n-g-l-i-s-h. m@This comment prompted joy[s]. Therefore. I thank you andoffer: - [remerciements] with many tongued word retours. Word built bitswhichthat patter speak the many varitied Englishs of eloquence, viscera,plain song, lyric love and metaphor machine drive desire .several others"quotes" et texte to supplement and augment this statement.The first is a line from the American poet, Wallace Stevens." French and English constitute a single language."

Next is Tristan Tzara:fromPROCLAMATION SANS PRETENTIONL'art s'endort pour la naissance due monde nouveau"ART" - mot perroquet- remplace par DADA,PLESIAUSAURE, ou mouchoirand more of more immediate relevance to the question oflanguageet La Poesie;Le talent QU'ON PEUT APPRENDRE fait du

poete un droguiste AUDJOURD'HUItHE pOet is a druggist sampling various word forms in diverse

idiolects and patois; she tastes the words made fleshy flesh;

the verbskiss the sex as they speak twist in the tongue body of the Noun which is like the anatomy of the hand;
the poet, she is a desire. She is SpokenThought; she is

Spoken for, she is the body Mouth.This was not a Quote:
Or Rather it is an Invented Quote, a subtextual allusion sidestepping manner and intellect; She speaks the
quote of her song and her mouth sideways moves the tongue sprach-song ofebbulience. The milieu of liens and contact."Erotic Antenna" that buzz bee like in the web tissue whichmakesthe body extend/intend in Movement space. Oh Stationary Travellos.Now another "quote"In an discussion-interview given for the 1977 issue ofBoundary, Phillipe Sollers said that since Finnegans Wake "The English language no longerexists." Is it not true?How Many Englishs are there in a city like NewYork, in a city called London? The richness and abundance ofcontemporary English writing is proof enough for that. So many tongues in onelanguage; English as langua franca, english as the Latin of the 20thcentury. English as multiplicity as Deleuze and Guattari discuss this inMille Plateaux;why because English is constantly deterritorialized by thehundreds of Languages which flow through it, cutting and trans-versingit [versing it, un-versing it, per-versing it] as the desire machinesscoop and slice, releasing incredible schizo-phrenic charges of language.English no longer exists. As stable uniform and cannot ever really vebeen said to exist. English can do this because English is not ENglishbut French-English, Quebec Franglais, Irish English, and YiddishEnglish and Indian English and Chinese English, and Woman english and AnimalEnglish and Lover English and City English and Country English and Sex Englishand Cyber English and Body English.And all this is so poor poor poor poor toconvey to indicate to hint to enrich how rich and diverse and infiniteitall is a tissue of Language.P O E M AAnd no deconstruction of tongued syllable can lead but to morereterritorializedand reconstructed beauty of expression desire body lovelanguage. it is Notsomuch that there is no plain english as there neverwas but some thought there was;Some thought Magic was Dead too but that isNot so either; some called themselves philos but that was not soEitherand Or to say there is More as the Metamorphosis of Body Languagetakesplace and placing in the desire-bodies.Another quote: "I will give them back their English languagewhenI am done" James Joyce [Shem the penman]:writing to a friend aboutFinnegans Wake.We are all polyglots even if we "only" speak one language.Speaking one language is already an immense achievement. Think of themillions who cannot speak. I speak their muteness in the explosions ofeveryday violence..... Quotes from Edmond Jabes...."Silence, where the word abdicates....""will you accuse me of being a writer of death?....""To be alive at the bosom of death. To stand where air andwater are the same horizontal rhythm, said Reb Akri.""We lack creation. We lack resistance to the present. Thecreation of concepts in itself calls for a future form, for a new earthand people that do not yet exist. Europeanization does not constitute abecoming but merely the history of capitalism, which prevents thebecoming of subjected peoples. Art and philosophy converge at thispoint: the constitution of an earth and a people are lacking as thecorrelate of creation.It is not populist writers but the most Aristocratic who layclaim to this future. The people and the earth will not be found in ourdemocracies. Democracies are majorities, but a Becoming is by itsnature that which always eludes the majority. The position of manywriters with regards to democracy is ambiguous and complex...."(Deleuze and Guattari, What is Philosophy, p 108. trans. Hugh Tomlinsonand Graham Burcell, 1994)Of course we can all think of many poets and writers asexamples of this complex relation. Interestingly enough in theinter-view mentioned above wherein Sollers speaks of James Joyce he also calls him the OnlyNon ((( Shall we Not Call Him Saint Joyce Writer & Martyr asSartre said of Jean Genet, Saint Genet Actor and Martyr)))-fascist Writer of the 20th century. At least compared to hiscontemporaries Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot and Wyndham Lewis. If I maysuggest what Sollers wasreferring to is that there cannot be found, either in the life of Joyceor in his writings, any trace of fascism. Joyce multiplies the languagesand sexes and this eliminates any violence and fascisms. Joyce was herwife, as Nora was her husband."Tell me tale of shem or shaun. Whowere Shem and Shaun the living sons and daughters of." (Finnegans Wake)No easy feat. Feat and defeat the molar dominators within/out.Or Nietzsche's Daughter, for instance. At the pass atTurin, or Basle.Quote: "Everyone wants to be a fascist" F. Guattari said thatin an essay and that wrote about how this desire is an example of howdesire desires its own repression. How terrible we are so bounden by theuniform desire to be the "same" to merge identity into an mass-molar fascism ofbodymind. Now cannnot language act as the tensor (Lyotard) to minoritizeand thereby slew the flows that break the molar constructions whichblocks us? YEs, yes, I said Yes, Yes, I will I will, Yes. Yes. Say Yes, Ohplease say yes. She said, Yes.
Make English flow like your fingers Beckett said he gave up writing in English because for him, it was too easy.
Too fluid."The artist ....to fail, to dare to fail as no other has.

To venture into that domain of non-being that has been neglected by all Western artists...."S. Beckett, 1958 in Three Dialogues.Ah! Les beaux jours! Ah give me the old questions. The old questions. S. B. encore. Une autre fois. Le language which we speak is theone we speak against

the speaking which we are. Speak that I may touch

you.Last but last Quote, yet one more: " Borderline, frontier which is transformed into threshhold; threshold which is transformed into frontier...redistributing forces. Po[e]tential life realized.

And a limit case of that paradox: resistance which is alsoopening;closure which is also gift; failure which is measure ofbeuaty;insurmountable distance which is Encounter." (p.77 BrachaLichtenberg Ettinger Matrix Halal[a]-Lapsus - notes on paintingMuseumof Modern Art Oxford 1993)Eurydice speaks from the border space, wander the notes of herpages as you seek silence.

There goes the word which she seeks...Ages later palimpsests of what is written appears in the dustedoffword of language. In her painting, dusted jar of memory amnesiac."There is nothing to paint, nothing to paint with." Beckett asperabove.English is not the only language I am speaking even when I amspeaking it. It speaks me and what speaks me is the mullioned terracedtongues of the tome of its words. "We" do not speak, as much as we arespoken. There is never more than that, and that is everything.Orpheus wore the day down like a sun. She, Orpheus, metEurydicein the one thousand spaces of words between the threshold which crossesinits walking.je pense a la chaleur que tisse la paroleautour de son noyau le reve qu'on appelle nous... au-dessus de la nocturne pais odeur forte nocturne paixet tant d'autres et tant d'autresClifford Duffy et tant d'autres


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

"The true hero, the true subject, the center of the Iliad, is force.
Force as man's instrument, force as man's master, force beforewhich> human flesh shrinks back. The human soul, in this poem, is shown always in its relation to force; swept away, blinded by the force it..." (So wrote Simone Weil)

But we had written, long after,
before, we had, or read, or fogwinded
forged a mind manacle to split.

Ulysses one fifty I saw you I saw you in two in strange distorted voices sawing zzzz zzzz then rings around the rosy the
rosary beads and the roasting beads and roasting head of the virgincannibal heart skewed on a stake faggots piled up at thefeet Joan ofArc her sweet lips eyes eyed by my desire my cock lipped by hermouth I saintly Jesus sucked out byher I saw I saw you I saw I saw Isaw and saw I see-sawWill Jill and her stochastic Spinoza have approved and Frannyand her entelechies have danced the ineluctable modalities of boatsand seas with the yes of mermaid and murrmurrs of mothers in theroll me round the earth belly dada come rumm rumm made me home WOuldanything had been so kind in the D of Libido and rodeo Rodeo notvideo around the sarcastic liver of grooved moved and tubed coastingunder the side of the feminine rhyme and rhymster hipped by morphemeand deranged comfort O my feet my fet my feet! inside my blood andneedles and pins is not the thing its wherewithal of zero and zany .O zero and Zerro! of chevaliered childerhoods. I have reported thee to the sun things like those must be heard to be relieved, and I amsoft rift of cannibal waits. I am the heard one which peeled andpeeped back his face, and she is the learned by the abyssm mysteriumtremendum tremendyumdyum! Reeled by rivers and water wagons Not thesummer long when Satan -- poor soul sod! -- deterritorialized thefree moving energy of capitialism to make space for his evil soul --porting his sad Protestan hat agains the catholic god of monotheisma disease like Mono Mono and Mono is high fideity you could sayagainst sisysters and mothers. O Ulysses be ny shadow in thiswfallow rounding land of huggers and muggerrs!_______

"... thinks it can direct, bent under the pressure of the force to which> it is subjected. Those who had dreamed that force, thanks to progress, now belonged to the past, have seen the poem as ahistoric document; those who can see that force, today as in the past, is at the center of all human history, find in the Iliad its most beautiful, its purest mirror force is what makes the person subjected to it into a thing." (Simone contin.)

Force:I prefer the force that through the green fuse drives,

right beloved of the curly curls?



dear dashing


Indeed we trust disable petit prince. functions of the author desire machines
Indeed we trust disable petit prince. functions of the author desire machines

How goes it in the desert lands of novel writing, and gaze piercing and trouble with the weirdoIsms of publishers and pirates, pimps and puddles, one can never have enuff of these things. How does one spell author.? One cannot spell idealism and text, and Mister Dereader is a tad baffling if not a balooner. AS for us we are happy collected plateau selving and ididentity. I am most glad for yer that yer own is progressing, as for
us well our Author, if it is indeed a thing one can refer to in these dictatorial theory ridden days and nights,
our author,
my authority
our writer
has taken a day r two to
contemplate her belly button,
Or dare I say her??
is her him? or him her?
Know that Mona shall reveal all when the time 'comes' and comes back. When it shall it be. However modal we may be our auxilaries of have and may, present and presenting past tenses of shew and do.

For us , dear __ Main our poetryis a flowriver of life une expressiond dans une vie, et and a way of life. As you may guess you live with such singular purpose fighting the great dragon of publishers and other monstrosities!! Ah the dragons of publickers! to us weak whores of words, they are, manys a time and space, mere Pimps to our Pimpled faces of desire!!!

So for now we have tea and move our oblique and hidden ways a the transom of desire.
SHall we say
it was machines that marked the belt that held the time that ran the piff puff that smoked the day??
O Public O private!!
It is a brave one who publishes!
for now

Blue Dog (PluS)

When I wrote Blue Dog

I was a man
walking wolves
howl the roam of wolf
lion's paw
wreath of wind & cars
in dirty winter
a breath in the sky

something a dialect I was imitating raging for
tagged by words
a young body in ancient rage
waiting for you
but you never came

except for that walk over the mouth
a surrealistic pillow for your love talk

my body and yours
were lovers
for a time

A man out for a saunter with his dog
A saint or two standing for the rain

Is this a perception of past
or future where
dares carry freight

timing the weight of its





(these safe streets are dead) we termintate return to Paris, Montmartre our heads alert the riots in the distance and the disarming

the emergency act first time since 68

but what hope for

still the night of tourists has ceased.

in Paris hours later fear crackles the air
the hungry are a hunting
I read of a rat at a woman`s nipple
can this be true
the great disgust it arouses

what scene of destruction and waste, carnage of human effort and lies, the greed the machine invents and makes each moment each day. burning burning cars, wheels, buildings . why kill your own selves but what rage rage causes them I know and cannot know I am the dead one among them I am nothing I am the white expiry hopes of their death(s)

and birth .

god protect them in the crazed pandemonium of violence

the children of greed and empire Multitude as death
and the long lines of escape and upward moving Mankind maybe lost
maybe lost maybe maybe forever

or like a lost lover
found and refound

In gare de Nord the sounds of gunfire and running

In le gard du Nord there is no poetry


theSe Streets of Dublin of PariS

Here, in these streets, Dublin, Paris, where their footsteps clattered, the bells ringing, the sweeping suite of the Liffey, the Seine, and the bakeries close then open, and today Deleuze died, flung himself, over the last dharma, the breathing machine halted, in midbreath, the mind machine clicked off to the On switch, marvelling at its mechanism for deterritorialization and recrimination but the words of pavements are not that of war, not song, not war, and in the streets of Dublin, the pubs their lights glow in this dark, I am wending of a day across the back and street of bloody history, its body suggestive always of death and its hep burning cross its leftward and rightward swings, no joke to them that pays the price, or One who lost the run of himself, Or many that lost the run of themselves... some night where prayer has stalked, indeed dear Daddy Deleuze, and Daddy Joyce and Daddy Villon and Mama Anna Livia Plurabella in the bella of the morning of the not power is the song and the chiming of their oats and the ray of this belong and the chapel of their hill and the bells of Montmartre and the hill of praise and the matter of ruin, and the lips of preach, and the , the moment of cafe in the middle of the heave, the heaven sentward glance

and Brother Beckett and sideways glance Villon and little brother Robert and his madcap zanies and my death by these Paris buses not many in their between few

at four of the morning a hansom rattles
her soft feet of the lady
furs clad in her harms
the bouncing cheeks of her flesh
the light lie of payment waiting
the light lie weaning and there is no way to find him
there is no god
you are god when` re good you`re god when you`re bad
and then
there`s that light they keep talking about

the unvineyarded self
sips the wine the sober wine of the god`s bloody self
reaching reaching the passport the passport the yard
the passport of the yard

In Dublin by the bride`s bridge
in Paris on the quay

an old storm passed me by
in the reckoning of death
and our doctor

Shaman of our health
heard my name for
the hungering of its praise

saying you too have got to come with us we`re walking across the worry the sky

the last woman`s glance passes me by

there are storms in the pillows


at four

at four o clock living on the street
means gone to Goa

your eyes have left me

without a voice

not that I ever had one

but there`s even less now

a friend has breathed

A friend OF _ Orpheus close to the lane, close to the wool, le wool like they say in patio patois Francais?
why fight for a dead oppressor`s tongue?

each super Quote d Text provides an InterioR Text that subsides cuts across the other ones.

young stew pod day
like night a caramels
"carceral continuum"

poetry in action ... like the interview with Deleuze where he says he and Guattari have abandoned the term schizo-analysis.
its like milton abandoning god for Satan, the greatest schizo herO of all time.

__ goals of grunting (horses in the night __ slander of desire's bed)

the reel question

is not to be or not to be but how become a flow/cut across arrow lines leaving trails... the actual quest

zippings in the void

What is poetry,and what does it do? an
that is

an exciting question: says Jill Opening Her Mouth Wide

As gaggles of geese flay the night weed, the free bear of hope,
taste, lines, zizags, trail of partner and ask of why
over a tent a cope

fine tires

waking for nirvana
connect affinity toward, becomings of lips, concave apartments
stones weary at night
an already crowded self
is asking a lot of questions to the crown of
if not thorns
then step sisters
in tropical harvests
as I wander walk an avenue Avernus and the
even Trojan hiss
debate the marking dash
of humming birds
sparrows in the dark

where love the lion found
his name

delIrEs From the Bog

: L'Abecedaire de Papa Gilles Deleuze

So Mona recollects Jill and her worstawowool suit and her armchair blues

Actually it would give him that "far-away" look. A turn of thecentury like appearance, which would be interesting, don't you think? He speaks to us from the distance of the past. Or the past that was his future, I mean virtually his future.

That is his past past future as thesepia tones twinkle across to us the viewers....and the magic moment of the stone.Ah yer blues, with the armchair sepia and a view on the night of random chosen bodies

letters to the rhizomers
to lovers

...Once upon a spring it was Jill was weaving her burnous and her disjunctive synthesis to the Latin of Amerique. it was a tall and noble place....Stravinsky wanted to say enjoyed yer symphony , the bird of fire

and Jill's
rhizomatic soldiers More please!
Oh Rhizome

be my home my home
without a homemy home with out a poemmy poem sans pomesans l'homme in them days
Mona had many sympathizers when she was forming her 'formation' breaks and starts,
schizo skills and stars...

So then, Mona, enter the burrow, the barrage, the mirage of tables, indexes, times, dates,pale stars, wings, riddle raddles, marriages of knocks, closing shades, miracle whip weaves, melancholy fakirs, diamond sluice meltdowns, sloughed desire storms, caged sundowns, deconstructed passages,h--lines which cut, forlorn stacks of adjectives forcing the weepdown rakefrom --hyaline hampers.

But of all the words
she has offered
nones if has none
the matin
as freight
her shoulders

as free

(obeying aortas fronting
the temple


as what?


incomplete hurry to stutter
beans and nothing
boulders beneath her eyes

Ask why this has your name
if my hands are seized are broken
will you see them?
is it not time
to matter

away the stairs fall from memory
our walk into the city

our walk
the children

our fostered selves



SomE TiME ToMoRrOw

Some wet time

tomorrow in the needle point

across metrics and suds Dublin is very fine
as needle point work is

nO THAT dodders like the ancient mules does
oR a cigarette and the night with your eyes
memory`s voice slumber of fragment
in my own bed
now the training night is quiet
an ostrich peekin`down a dance
pounded body

Sure wet day tomarraw raw

as spurred horses
the automated author
antlers of some geezer melting his suds in the hope
your eyes your eyes in the mirror
looked always it`s what pulled
me pulled



said without

said without a word
her kiss was the denial of the future

diamond furniture of the sutra
trailing the expendable present

hush of rainbows
gray to green
creel to cone


the Unending I
unediting the desire machine
her machines deux hums the recondite

factory label of subs
aqueous asses

is that it?


I don`t remember
second blues

the tintintinabulation
of lust

my secondary bites