2005/11/29
each_______________
dropped off
a hair on the loss which speaks you
speak us
canto of effulgence
and
the stare of love
II
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
2005/11/22
... 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
and
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
uncountable
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,
or
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
neglected
the lover unwanted....
how many deaths in how many places...
A
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
2005/11/18
2005/11/16
The knight
--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;"
2005/11/15
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
Dublin
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
after
room
.
Din of dunces
ovum egg
in the mask past
staggers your thought
wakens your bone
cherishes your wake .
2005/11/14
return ing Dublin
states the career of revolt
the crowd hurries high-grade
'round the Eiffel Tower
here
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
smackety-smackety
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
2005/11/13
the Nose
Death and the Nose.
Assemblage and Poesy
Exotic territory of gnosis
deterritorialize 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
homeopathic herbal
steroid things
deviated septum
polyps
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
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
between
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
You
write
Orpheus
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
dashing
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
trembling
veils
sacks
forests
Canada?
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
2005/11/11
when
the days
nights
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
So Jill then ....
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
then
"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?
------------------
2005/11/10
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)
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
song
2005/11/09
tomorrow
(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
again
In gare de Nord the sounds of gunfire and running
In le gard du Nord there is no poetry
2005/11/04
theSe Streets of Dublin of PariS
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
2005/11/03
at four
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
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
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
matins
cold
as freight
her shoulders
as free
(obeying aortas fronting
the temple
fog)
as what?
willows
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
feeling
_____
SomE TiME ToMoRrOw
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
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
and
the Unending I
unediting the desire machine
her machines deux hums the recondite
aleatory
factory label of subs
aqueous asses
is that it?
_
I don`t remember
second blues
the tintintinabulation
of lust
my secondary bites