some people

Some people are worried, I suppose, about poetry. I'm not. Sometimes I
dot my eyes at others not. I'm not 'worried' about mastery
about being a master ~ not so as it sings to your tinctured

Really, life is short.

Contracting Verbs

Contracting verbs is not hard
you see it's like that one or its
slippery sliding slope
i cant she wont
he's hesitating the silence of her bakery bread
her silenus

it's easy she did as her hands came circled
around my waist stripping me 'naked' ass bare
to wind and it's fair weather to stripping and
besides we 're adam even Even adam's got a place to
live as I do in yer thighs these nights that carry on
like weirs do out to water

is that right? yes naked one its not so bad
to say I'm goin right there or Im shifting tears
along the pillow of yer hair
see your naked self
and those fantasies!

what wild bodes we are

As for voice who gives a shit ? eh a gothic Quasimodo like me's got no
choice in fair ones moths bees cherry tender winding
ships that'd brace around yer head

and hearing


Now you tell me.

I ask

I ask


do you remember anything
as the flit of light dies
on yer lashes
these hands around your waist
crying to be dying in your
certain loves?

these lives and days he
saunters off a cross musters a weight
intelligence of the human variety knackers
repetition its variable theme
and waited for some word
saying yes here am I am yours appearance gone
body present to your hands and tongue
O lover O Son

this was yours a sweet caterpillar designed
reborn as wolf and lion caters down her bended knees
to love her loving

Do you recall this air
between the rare stream or is yer compulsion to live
behind science silence the game of retreat
these are not your folding names
but love

Merit them and this heat
between my legs heating up for your fox
a bush where I'd be imprinted
like a tatoo forever

yes our love body
our body a mouth to maze

its stunning sweep


Tears for your alibi
unlever yer hopes
come here
its an address you've known in yer dying heart
is it dying? we're not sure.....

Come land on my mouth as we do that unspeakable sex, that unspeakable lovemaking rounding our bodies clocked into yours as you've always wanted

Yes I touch it it curls up for your name yer heated imagined voice

O what is my fantasy she asked
we spun into the death of night
she was pregnant with my blisses for how long?

Was it sexual ?
Bardesque to my lover

your bra ripped off
yer pajamas or something you wear to bed
the book s of poetry lining the bedspread like
camping fucks or lovers

we are camped lovers

camping on your thighs your knees

Svelte one

Always always

miller links thing s over at ubu


My good old Henry Miller

Telegram _ received from Maurice Chayet _1980
"Henry Miller is dying come to Paris


your friend Amadeus

Ama_ deus
Ama _ deus

its there I am a god
divine miracualting machine
immanent immaculate conception
over its hillhigh top of the Inexpressive as

saY finger points the Air of its viola
a chamber of symphony
an impossible prejudice


two of

Say its razzle dazzle afternoon sways the milk where you stoodand the banging fray marks the pace of things switching in their heatthe way you stood there talking the dark of afternoon or the

lazythings you suggest with your hips flanked that way just sono other way really to say this except with someone like thisby your side where do you expect to go off,stop trying. One day bending by her pillow she'd head off for the suncarrying a knapsack on her back. Or a halo of his nameworried he'd forget her. Or something other strongish story line,you know what I mean, why be causual when your named after a flowerwhose word we won't say_ a unique history of spacetelegraphed your name to the table. That was a flower,not a cheap mint. Purchased as they say, at a dollar store.Some clammy alcoholic holding onto your name.Saying, oh it's mine , it's mine.When we knew it was only his.Pairs go like that, don't they, pears. Pears.

Catched up

catching up on all them fictions and stuff _ other stuff burned my little pea brain out Mister Picasso, you know what I mean?

Yes. So. then I wrote them other things. Yea. You dig. Its an amazing thing , eh, poetry? an amazing grace after meals and before dinners.


why be sad when you can only be happy
I know this from somewhere _ where did you hear it?
Not sure, baby, i know it's a light in your face
brighter than ten thousand cars
or say the star bangled lanyard your tooting civilian
the hek with that. drip drip. drag.
No way Im not sure of the way abacus working
is the saltpeter of yer pepper or her bad poetry.
Bad poetry? what 'on earth' are you speaking about?
Yer butt, how people take themselves so seriously.
Yes, you'd think they were all seropositive.
Or like cancer ridden something spontaneous.
Life, you gotta do the thing. Yep, yep. I dig.
Fake sonnets you've know make merry a candid lent!

Honey! I'm home.


this machine CALLed Named PoinTed At _over there fingering

This machine called Blog called Poetry call Prose its changes . change.
post updated redated and redacted. As will and seen. To go. Add note, take away.
Recording surface reordering as seen. To fit its. will. of Change pattern.
of Glas to work its bell. Eh? Sign and form. All my poems are on parole
said the Italian poet. Whose name forgot again, was WHo? So pen, hen, then it's
patrol post bloggette, change it face. On the nomad move. AS in nomad metamorphoses
of texting . Its word made electronic fresh. Flesh_ or body am virtual. Or code.
Coding in_text. In_texted we've frayed the dais.


this name calling of thing
she 's not seen hepp'dto contract
its bliss

is this syncope


another step varies




more older

Deterritory" Add to Address Book
Tue, 17 Aug 2004 12:54:52 -0700 (PDT)
Re: [textdesiremachinesonlyworkwhentheybreakdown] I'll tell ya 'bout textmachinesbreakin' down!

#message63160334252393164501863138231959046469oSObkYn4Ur5HQVvr2mDutFFRdbyyVk0nxnBjUJf8pdWYmDKXA2r0XEZuu33SresW4JEiLXQcYXp9IyGK08M199OR overflow:auto; visibility:hidden }

apocohipsterhashshashin wrote:I as usual apoCo is deLighFul a dancer ofthe magIc Beat of words. as for ages well some members of this grOup are way olde R than u daddIO .

Love Verlaine the 




Each is a consciousness .

velcro sack details theform. what arabesque of tonnage is this? signals
the time of day.

yer coming home.


Hurlements en faveur de Sade - Guy Debord - 1952

1952 the year I was born! wave roll of time unfurled the great dada deborderS

the Great HAUsMann


the only question is the hunchback of notre-dame_qAUsIModo

Outodoor lInk to Mister Wood's Lot
where I found this quote
William Blake 28 November 1757 - 12 August 1827
The William Blake Archive

Around the pillars of Urthona, and round thy dark limbs, On the Canadian wilds I fold, feeble my spirit folds.
- William Blake, America A Prophecy
The Complete Poetry and Prose of William Blake edited David Erdman ________________ bLake is like the British
Whitman except to my knowings W.W.
didnt know visual workings ____________________________________________

THE silent film by Wallace Worsley, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923)__ first film version of Victor Hugo’s novel stars Lon Chaney as the tortured hunchback Quasimodo.

more about le grande chaney here lonchaney



I remember a certain day ...

cinema calender of abstract heart ~ make a creative machine combines of other arts
other p'l'ace , l'ace , s .

"le Bruit du temps'

tim'e's noise box ~


brim shift



wordsworth cartoons . wasnt aware of this scEne befre. wandered loudly as a clod of earthheaped gruel. boring the fate of chamber. what sprocket boxed yer cow herd? William. my love.

Medbh McGuckian

“I don’t think anyone can really be Irish in Ireland. It is such a dreadful place. It’s blood-sucked, you feel like you’re walking in blood.” – from a 1988 interview.

Medbh McGuckian- Irish Poet.

Of which comment a welcome relief to the usual sentimental drivel
about Ireland, especially since its rising economic star has made
it a destination for the worst sort of conservative reterritorializations.

Found by way of Zoe Brigley at warwick



fouist marry fluxist birthing becoming comings comminglings of what is flow/cut bitecome of britching o'er well and hill mazed by men its double triple triumphs clear the saddle of care-wills. call a name a thing move it over. what is that thinging bike worked to ache out hair? is that one of will o'the wisp? curl hair round locket eye enter the end page its index to plug machining cut to other.


somedays then

someday then hold to fort its issmo play pen off
the wall and it working workd' the cut bound pen
its shadow caught its saturn fey faY? meritorious to the breath

et ici brim


Set Free

set free they sang. hands around. them. around her body. i mean and she was weeping sobbing, stopping the pretence of being alive. of being alive. of being and not becoming what she wanted. as it was cropped and crippled. not near the end but dead. but not waiting . anymore


Open the envelope and see the story of a death warrant.
or a calcium deposit on her skull.or cranium. cortex.
lotto 500, kotex.

send a mystical letter chain of repliers. she was galivanting to the automated fay of his desire.

hejabed, __ her face ducky looking, diurnal.
ash of tray, altar of infinite.


did you say
she_ what?
grabbed her he_gabble?
on the round gable of the gothic CaP?



glenn gould could afford to not like mozart, I cannot afford it. without the divine mozart, what life would it be, but one of poverty. how not to hear him, his _ yes yes bach bach bach _ wonderful wonderful even some madness there in the brandeburg concertos , but Mozart, everything, the life, the music, the letters. the disappearance. he is us.
and we are him _ his music speaks across to us, continuously. this is almost a haphazard cliche to say it. say he speak across to you continuous coronet.

i cant even name the symphonies, K this and K that , but I , they are in my bones. N o one plays enough of his work_ oh some do,yes, and turn him into an institution_ he is not an institution & never was _ his work is not constructed and fired this way, its a path against a path __ , a nymore than Stravinsky. who plays Stravinsky on the boring cbc and when playing Mozart they talk too much they ought to introduce play and shut up but they like the sound of their saccharine voices. And he was nobody's fool, eh. notso, not to be bandied around by jackasses_ jackanapes, now there is a nice word, jackass, I'm notsure jackanape is a nice word, it might very well be a stupid word. ___ but they, how sickening they are_ I would clamp their mealy mouths shut and not permit them to talk about him ___, and what nausea they must cause his spirit, as he turns away in degoutant disgust. forget . get cd's , tapes, recordings, listen listen and listen and memorize.

[the outdoor link is to a weblog I just found dedicated to mozart with a dozen or more others_

It has this quote from a letter

"Pray Papa does not mind my wishing him the best and happiest of birthdays in Swabian; it is my native tongue after all, although you much prefer I use Hoch Deustch. Oh, very well then. You shall have it your way on this, your special day: Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, am besten von allen V�tern!

Tell Mama to have Thresl prepare your favorite supper tonight and to pour plenty of wine as my toast to you.

Your devoted son,

I quote this excerpt revealing more than daddy's boy, not that he was ever that:

"But who will be able to describe the desiring-machines of each subject, what analysis will be exacting enough for this? Mozart's desiring-machine? "Raise your ass to your mouth, ... ah, my ass burns like fire, but what can be the meaning of that? Perhaps a turd wants to come out... Yes, yes, turd, I know you, I see you, I feel you. What is this--is such a thing possible?" From a letter by Mozart, cited by Marcel More, Le Dieu Mozart et le monde des oiseaux (Paris Gallimard, 1971), p. 124 "Having come of age, he found the means of concealing his divine essence, by indulging in scatological amusements." More shows convincingly how the scatalogical machine works underneath and against the Oediipal "cage."" Antioedipus 325 Eng trans.

Mozart is like the other wanderers. Kleist etc... the dotted line of getaway on the lam.




glory exist

glory exists we 're tired of wolves, we prefer banannas,
and charlie-horses, racoons, live animals
not dead feathers in yer cap ,yer switching heat,
yer candykorn lady back fuck no good to anyone.

Yer thinking Mona does nt' t fit it?
What Mona fit its and dont aint yer affair when you cant
get yer ass off a plane ona train to collect the kiss
yer longed foR all yer life. get a life.
get a trip.

Jill, and Mona are here to stay. Kiss me coffee cornfields.

Soon we'll detail yer sexual fantasies, my dear . One
a dog for yer height. Kneeling for your pain.







really a book is a book i s a book. why people use that word 'chap' book is beyond me.

why not chapel book
or chaplet book

or ch

oR a book?

chaplet bk be thy pal
over hook and nail
ill be yer gal
yer girdle in a tizzy!

me oh my
my chapel perilous
& my swanky wanky pank

pankins! to you!!!


it appears someone took over taking the brim!


wreck beacj saddhu

I have come to Wreck Beach Vancouver

I have come to naked


Photos never say the Story of Stink Smell Rank Odour. Edith, remember that word, Rank I said. Papers. nt computers.

not here there in the body's butoh
of this & those others
waking bodies limb thoughts

pas pas not not trapped not trapped
but the mud s free ing glances
not to hear the explaining
voice of death
its shitty diggers
whose arted he real

no clothes

leave clothes too

water s clean face

mud water

near where I live Saddhu Sihkh all seek divine

i dont live in India, I live near India
in the ganges here in the neighborhood of strange travels

of a higher power of many we speak of one but many is actual

"A saddhu - an Indian holy man/priest
These are men who give up the constraints of life to become religious holy men often associated with a particular temple. Unfortunately, far too often they become beggars encouraging tourists to take their picture for money and many are not true priests but men playing dress-up to earn a living." this comment from atravel blog does not surprise. me. but then, since when has the divine and its orients, its travellers surprised anyone? has no the master always show in his changing shape in the man wanting to make a buck? is the Shaman not a Sham? Sham of shambles the god of literature is a Crook with
his crooked Staff

Mercury the fucky
Plucky god
of forge
& forgery


the worries of poetry
dont worry me
with their fights
& chains
of doubts
& dearth

silly boy speaks to Picasso to Basho

had Pound read Basho
he might not have got into so
much trouble
[not just old Poundy (gods rest his souling)

. flinging song around
the unI-Verse which is a Big
not a severe
not a server one
but a manymany one


I have cometo the holy city of Benares
mountains in China


You have come to the holy city
of Montreal


'what does that old spook want anyways?'

'Passons vite sur Puget, dont nous avons déjà touché deux mots, passons Watteau sur lequel nous nous sommes déjà attardés à l’occasion d’autres textes, et dont Baudelaire cherche plus à traduire le climat si particulier que d’évoquer tel ou tel tableau. Arrêtons-nous plutôt sur l’évocation de Goya, Goya dont l’influence sur Baudelaire a été déterminante, comme a pu le montrer, notamment, Jean Prévost (op. cit. p. 118-132).

Le quatrain que lui consacre Baudelaire est tout entier inspiré par des images extraites des Caprichos (Caprices). On se reportera utilement à l’article consacré aux Quelques caricaturistes étrangers par Baudelaire (O.C. p. 1017-1020). Le "cauchemar plein de choses inconnues" c'est sans doute le Caprice n° 43 ("Le Sommeil de la Raison produit des monstres"), où l'artiste s'est représenté endormi, affalé sur une table, tandis que volent, au-dessus de sa tête, de monstrueux oiseaux de nuit. Les "fœtus qu'on fait cuire au milieu des sabbats" sont ceux des planches 45, 69, 20 ou 19 (où trois sorcières font rôtir un avorton à la broche). La planche 55 ("Jusqu'à la mort"), montre une caricature probable de la duchesse de Benavente sous les traits d'une "vieille au miroir", horrible créature se parant sous le regard ironique d'une jeune suivante. Enfin, les "enfants" qui ajustent leurs bas font songer à la jeune fille de la planche 17 ("Il le faut bien ajusté"), qui tire un de ses bas sous l'œil d'une possible entremetteuse. '

En ce qui concerne les Caprices de Goya, 




fragmentation analogue


fragmentation analogue is not poetry

is not schizologue
or the orient desktop despot

or the rainment on yer shoulders as wings to barren men


tired tired tired she was tired
she was tired was tied up was the
excuse of her death while the
war rolled on

chips of the old block stuck in her death.

in the body yesterday, death and life.


Why do you putta period there, when there is no sentence, ask Mister David Antin

Or James Ulysses Finnegans wake as it cutters over page about paris and the front desk of hemingway and others. over the anxiety she felt about his work why? why others out of memory and time kept off the page, out of the versus canon , canon cannnon



rimbaud as drawn by verlaine not too long before his departure ...

Ô saisons, ô châteaux

Ô saisons, ô châteaux,
Quelle âme est sans défauts ?

Ô saisons, ô châteaux,

J'ai fait la magique étude
Du Bonheur, que nul n'élude.

Ô vive lui, chaque fois
Que chante son coq gaulois.

Mais ! je n'aurai plus d'envie,
Il s'est chargé de ma vie.

Ce Charme ! il prit âme et corps,
Et dispersa tous efforts.

Que comprendre à ma parole ?
Il fait qu'elle fuie et vole !

Ô saisons, ô châteaux !

[Et, si le malheur m'entraîne,
Sa disgrâce m'est certaine.

Il faut que son dédain, las !
Me livre au plus prompt trépas !

- Ô Saisons, ô Châteaux !
Quelle âme est sans défauts ?]



seeks close to god: saddhu

what happens to the anxiety of influnce ? the poet must answer
ina dog day night, not the talking chops
what is this but the denial of the possibility of immanence?

but not the one god and its gangster ways.

over th crows of fathering
close to divine


listen what sort of

listen what sort of non-sense is this? semiosis? schizOury and mothers welcome!quitt prenteding u are eldorra mitchell! cause I cause I am not from territory I am from deterritory.... imagine being mad at Old Sartre but too much a of a good thing is good! enuff shes ayes! ayes my ass!! Octaviour OPaz and Skins change my dear!! So listen, dont gimm e no shite about the BWO!!!sincere as Hart Crane's poetry? as Old El Paso!?? howsincere is that?Listen when she called, and you stopped your bloody schizo dialogue, what do you think Bingo says about all this, that she boughtt the bog which brought the ring and caged the force of captured Plane Heart waits for the End to Start? and he went and spoke to them en personne!!yea, we heard, al L about it, tell you all abouT it!HOMOSEXUAL TO THE BOOTS!

let me ask you about Professors, Professor Challenger SEE~!!!!!!!!

Deterritory:verlainelefou asks?
Does anyone know if Pierre-Felix Guattari was homosexual. it seems that he was, orr if not when he was livin' with Tony Negri. He was once at a party called LesFouFounes Electrique and asked S.Lotringer, and this guy Lot-ringer said it was all true. But that being French he was not truly hip to what the alcoholism was. She decided to say Pierre-Felix cause it sounds niceR than Felix which means faith. G.G enosko wrote a book which we read sort of and it says in it that this girl Guattari was not married Only to Deleuze. I am not even sure she knows who Deleuze was. I mean, ask that French phony Guydeborder, he was in this list, but left, cause she was a fake and a phony worse than You kno who , but I won't say. Why does Gdeleuze say he was assfucked.Pretending he didn't believe in god!

Ther E aint nothing wrong with God. Or transcendence but that Algerian guy Dereader thinks there is, soe veryone kissed his arse!When we students in Paris, not for long, cause she got us kicked out, something about sluts, and Italians, she went for some months to those long and crowded Tuesday afternoons!!One thing she said, that you Can say for sure about G Deleuze was that he was sincere!!

at this point everyoE rose Up applauding in unison
shouting I am Chinese
I am Chinese
I am Chinese

I am Eldora Mitchell
Its me Its me
Its me Its me
Its me


p_L -Ac---------------Esssssssssssssssssfa

Hommage a Joseph Beuys
Mieczyslaw Górowski
pick'd from

and this from outdoor line link

Ausstellungen 2001
Hommage à Joseph Beuys
Ein bibliothekarischer Streifzug zum 80. Geburtstag
17. August bis 10. Oktober 2001



this is from an other incompleate

series of verse
this was writ. some months
back: back!

I cant remember guff in the truck when you
can you see it, the red weir. O my ruche O
my fuck in fiddle fawn, O how can he ride
thus? a backing break ridge to my cut purse
sally. Whither is the castle cow? against spur
support your hair? my braid is thence a tease
to rake your solemn oath. Oak and breast

She dinneth me in green leisure. Sodometries
of tom-tom boy and her hand slam down of
ward to his thinker into his upback. Shall
pray this mouth to arm yuletide to measure

He finds her mirror ormomlu in double
mouthed bowsprit to mouth in young arm man
robin to mouth jug jug it hankering. Ringlet



I know flew from green and arm rest
I know the catch you into bed and the off
town blue
I know the great Countesse from the pen
I know the avenue from the chair
I know fording when it's all done
I know Latin and Greek if I remember
I am your feet and hands leman & lung

I know collide eye to strong wit and
I know cast choir is far from fair desman
I know eyed water is sealed repent by heart
I know garment and detail garb and grow

eric satie

eric satie piano master happy hat
poor as a church mouse
but music leaked from him
like what? like clouds do over a sky way
or clubs springing

round or around their


One thinks of Ubu roi as well.

Gnossienne No. 4
The four music sheets below are the original manuscripts of Gnossienne No. 4, composed on January 22, 1891. As you will notice, this piano piece is untitled.
Robert Caby arranged it in 1967 as the fourth Gnossienne, published by Ed. Salabert, Paris, the year after.
Original location: Biblioteque National, Paris, Ms 10051 (2).


note on over that

re do 'Over That'

re do?



well, then a desiring machine is not a washing machine

precisely. so keep your cords up, and yer washing out.

ghosts afore breaky are , what shall we see,
wanting "le multiple" ends the subjective.

do you love me?
always, tousjours,
like un linge.

like a clothesline



tiny collage of 'swept away' the film of lina wertmuller

of this and other blue navies
let me see the heart of death and its bread
was telling "Dino" a friend of mine about this
not too long ago.

way back in the 70's 78, to be precise
movies like this gave
an electric charge
like your arms


because you are ill _ O Moth

still doing onthis one.
because you are sick I pray
because of bones because of your bones
because bones bones matter Bones, Doctor Bones,
because Bones you wanted on the front deck,
because bones of bones, can these bones live?
can these sticks and stones
hurt your

because you are ill
because because you are will
power embodied your heart will fare through
this impasses of life &
death because the heart is a jimmy shaker

because Moth you are delicate as the swoon
because of this


this lover

this lover
this lover
this lover lover

this lover does walk
this lover does walk
does walk
she walks to the store
she walks to the store
she walks to the sortie
she walk to the sortie
she walk to the sortie
she walk to the store
she walk to the store
the store the sortie
to the store
she walk the story
she walk
she want the story
she do she do she
she walk


of the[e] night later


r you reading?

yes, that?

hhm yeah, arms encas'd aroun d red

like kathy acker


you|this is outdated dig

you did this, yes, you did you split the world up like that, over
there the ones dying

you made it that way.

you wanted it this way. you chose, its what you wanted, what you always wanted,it was easier that way, that way,
you could play martyr

you could play hidden one.

its your world that does that, each electirc element's a liar.

this is your war your poverty
your rule

and banner

dont silence| and after

dont silence your

dont as you know its twined hair 's grown death.
along Beaumont the night was a ragged weed. not a meander
of youth. you could have seen this before.

now its dashed in dirt durst notthe gallant stead of steed
he rode for hell its night lash

stop.here. go . again. breath air in. move negative powers out.
Calls inthe goddess
stops airplanes of death.

not its walk across bodies forlorn.

your mouth wide open

've broken him.

perhaps the words written on the pages were you,
were they you?? yelling at me like that as you took someone else,
never wanting to be there, to be nothing more than a washing machine
automated death
which stoppered up with
your body

you had no power over it.so betrayed me. a me y ou created
with your killing heart.

go away

go away

dont come here
rid yerself

of this apocalypse you betrayed


after the motorcycle accident

my head spinning

I couldnt talk about it

chalking death


automatic words on the page
on the screen

writing me in this

the road stopped cambering


haunted ghosts before breakfast Hans richter's SiLent Movie

haunted ghosts before breakfast,

yes yes yes
but what about after breakfast?

whence gratification?


how can it be call silent if there is music?
what is silent bout music its the noisy thing in town

this winter when doing the studio recordings with
the new Nietzsche's Daughter I did discover silence

between pages of books
and Angela 's voice
some rapture in the style of her voice

hard to come

but haunted ghost voice


parole peurparler

all my poems

all my work's on parole

on parlant



no, over this

no, not that, this,

this flat space .

maurice chayet my old buddy resides in france and the whole business of flat spaces emergin and dictionaires Diction-- of the Same.

this causes anxiety in the picture. angela noticed this.

angela being the set-designer painter who worked with Resnais. Deleuze discusses this problem of space in one of the two books on Cinema, except which one does not come to mind. Ive read so much, too much?
"the world is too much for us..."


all my work is on parole



over that?

the anxiety of and


no assemblages.
clickclack fottofeel


and war are not drums

drums of war

drums of war of war war war

'the drums' of war're not drums

but cannons

not saying the obvious
the drums of war
are not drums at all
i dont have to tell you
what they are
they're not drums


at modigliani's grave

at modigliani's grave again
english/castle ("An irresistible force draws him into the realm of the goddess, who receives him with open arms on a fragrant couch strewn with roses.")

his lover

recites Villon
Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Éternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.

which is ebb sand of floor

Portrait of Chaim Soutine..( Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart, Germany. Modigliani)

And Chaim never stopped seeing hookers
even after he made a bundle ...
brothel boy to the end
bitter bucking in the tune of death
used to eating potatoes he stuck to'em
and he wrangled the tooth of it
each canvas kick-ass
in the death's garbage bin
the din never wearing down...

or something like that....


Edifice Amnesia

And here.

she said abaddon or was it abandon
help O Gabriel yer gif is fifed &
trotted by the bare barren of the wood
she's like that when pleasures stalk her night

and other amazes that rankle her measure
like any other submarine she tilts title
tickling the pin sin of waking
hugging me like a lover

over the anger of similes and dada
twists a fin or two shunting down
oles and bullfights in Paris in San Francisco
dangling a pot or two before the I

that wishes it had a handle on beast
like formation cunning as UnHeimlich

Stop says the telegram I arrive at dawn
your bed a waking gleam where lovers lie
her breast heaved before the breathless taste of its air



fragments snip puddle piece verb twang hang

then some of knot weight gathering goon hyper tinkle
over wheat shog


or cat & mouse playing on the hind end of
funeral pomps
kisses in the

dark bus
of rave

Loves me, Loves me Not _Syncope

what does that old spook want?
Los Caprichos
To be matter! St. Anthony _Flaubert _ nose in the grass.
Dame Minne
Loves me Loves me not

Dial M for Murder Minerva

To a Captive Owl_
The Poems of Henry Timrod
by Henry Timrod

"I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage! And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe, But for a most audacious wish to gauge The hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw.
Art thou, grave bird! so wondrous wise indeed? Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe -- What is thy moral and religious creed? And what the metaphysics of thy tribe?
A Poet, curious in birds and brutes, I do not question thee in idle play; What is thy station? What are thy pursuits? Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures -- what are THEY?
Or is 't thy wont to muse and mouse at once, Entice thy prey with airs of meditation, And with the unvarying habits of a dunce, To dine in solemn depths of contemplation?
There may be much -- the world at least says so -- Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze; Yet such a great philosopher should know, It is by no means wise to think always.
And, Bird, despite thy meditative air, I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf -- Thou show'st that same grave aspect everywhere, And wouldst look thoughtful, stuffed, upon a shelf.
I grieve to be so plain, renown"ed Bird -- Thy fame 's a flam, and thou an empty fowl; And what is more, upon a Poet's word I'd say as much, wert thou Minerva's owl.
So doff th' imposture of those heavy brows; They do not serve to hide thy instincts base -- And if thou must be sometimes munching MOUSE, Munch it, O Owl! with less profound a face. "


Hegel taking a little bow here, eh
snickers the owl
earth heart dung in its dirt
lady bowing
tosses shite
high over
lands in the public bin
is that what's it's called?

Name and Name
Dream of Cope
& Syn
under canopy
body and bodies


Heart gold
rift trap
the mullingwine
sore after hour


gas chamber

Ah! this way for the gaz , ladies and gentlemen... yes these body parts in the organs without bodies, and their gaz skinns, those real to real one night night stands in the zyklon b Hotel A.
nothing more macabre than that kiss

iamfemalestoneangel SCRibEd

rolling over
from the leftside
of whats-his-names futon bed
barely escaping -- Indeed

the strange-black-hole
in the center -- all black holes are strange as the absence of flesh
sloping inward towards
a massgrave of 23 bodies
give-or-take-a-few -- a little trip thru Croatia, Bosnia, and let us recall those other death hotels...
I recognize particular
bodyparts resembles
his last-one-night-stand's
feminine wrist
his ex-wife's rotund-girl-belly - yes this echoes some of the descriptions I`ve read of Sabra and Chatilla, and other massacres and other strange

masses of the gravedead.
a cocktail waitress's love-triangle
powdered with white-sulfa-dust
to muffle-the-overwhelming-death-smell
a shallow-grave-bed
like his sleep still
beckoning sex-victims
to the gaschamber.

Yes, well when the gaz hit the mouths it was Belsen Belsen, what a gaz to Recall Johnny Rotten`s take on it.....

Who would not say a lively interAction of the text and its recomposing Reader is not a situation of the text that speaks for itself and Asks to be read and re-read in the misprision of its clinamen. A climax of death and spasm followed by the puling lie of reincarnation



randall's woman at the washington zoo

I don't know why this poem has come back to haunt me. If haunting is the right
way to describe this remembering. Of his voice and its poignant pain its
cut on the edgeness of feeling which few readers today are able, at least
in my experience, able or wanting to give to a poem. And its recital.
People confuse loud railing or anger with a demonstration
of feeling in a readout loud version of a poem.Or they confuse
the inarticulate unwritten sounds of emotion with poetry.
THe voice of the poem as spoken entity is always
different from the written one, and can be misleading.
There's a weird essay, by a long dead American poet critic,
a fellow who was considered by a lot of people at that time,
as being some sort of specially gifted, and whose name 'escapes' me as
I write. he wrote this criticism of T.S.Eliot's own reading of the
Wasteland claiming Eliot read it the the wrong way... I was fascinated by the idea ...and still am. AS it's a daring idea and provokes many thoughts,
about the idea of authenticity in reading pomes, and the whole idea
of the author being the authority. Pehraps this is the case, in a few
instances but not in all or even the majority of cases.

I had not used this blog for a week or so while I was changing things
and blogger is forcing me to use word verification in my own blog.
Pretty weird _ it's almost a metaphor in itself, forcing someone wriitng a
poetry blog to do word verification to make sure their own blog is not a spam
blog. It's also frustrating.

The opening lines of The Woman at the Washington Zoo

"The saris go by me from the embassies.

Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet.
They look back at the leopard like the leopard."

The almost feminization of the image of leopard. Who can say what makes
an image feline or feminine, or a masculine mask?


Coming Soon Grace O'Malley the Irish Pirate Queen|& Anne Bonny!

Grace O'Malley. her lover the bisexaul lesbian queens of the sea
met Mona and Oona Jill and Orpheus ANtioedipus

even some Eurydice
bt one has to beware of Eurydicii!
they're like little Oedipii!

tant pis!

and they live at rue loup 4

oh these and them fRictionS.

but a stationary meta comment

Yerlove verlainelefou
enuff to read

friends strangers

[PoetryisawayofLife] Friends Strangers Countrywomen and Other Genital Facts!!


"poetry isaway

Re: [PoetryisawayofLife] whatever happened to monkey, monkey?



Apostrophe wrote:

a city, by definition, is filled with strangers.
- Jane Jacobs

in the city you can wear a dress
gold lame miniskirts
platform shoes that teeter and moan.

some word of the ghost text

PoetryisawayofLife---------------------------------------------------------------------- Some words of the ghost TeXt

Ghost Guattari was haunting Mona, and Jill passed then by the window slowing snowed her bodies into the pavement, missing the Invention of God, and the belly button that unhooks to leave the arse falling away...v oids upon voids dripping its ooze and primal slosh.Here were the words Of Uncle Guattari`s :I am God most of the time when I dont have a headache, when Ithink of everything and nothing, when I'm not slipping down any Satanic slope... Then I understand quite well that one might settle oneself downin God or that one might settle him on a pedestal. I will not repr oach --- Jill was happier to read this than any day.anyone for that.On the other hand, I can conceive that artists may feel obliged to - Yes on the other hand, of Mona`s double delivery articulations, there was an arcane =--uproot that sort of comfort. Consider neuroleptic divinity; consider the vertigo of abolition; consider the extreme moment of creation.Is that to say that God might only be the privelige of thesimple-minded? An atheist like Pascal screams out God like a wild beast. And that is intelligence stripped bare.It would be advisable to distinguish God from belief. It is from the latter that all fool[folly]-ery stems. God is only a spell cast upon existence. He comes along like hail, sometimes dew or storm. Bel A leaf to dance --ief in turn, puts onairs -- give us an air then, me dear one! -- of freedom; ups the stakes; repose herselves imposes itself; stretches itself out over the socius O My Silly SoicIUS and Body without Disease My Lover of Belll...ee...y to ask on which conditions and at what price I could do without God. None!! None never!The answer is not speculative; it is a thorn in the flesh. All of that costs a great deal. It's inconceivable!Unbearable! Sauve qui peut! And God for all but for thee nOne but the goddess hurtling yerbed to spacedread upping againsthewalls of yer accentpied bay.
So Simber in the glimmer of yer opersonal subjective



return the lad to the front lines
with Villon and Modigliani
in the pere lachaise was it it?
la chaise de poesie
chairs of painting she sat on my lap
all the way from Liverpool her self
wriggling like the night's wet slap
jelly-roll it honey jelly roll helly rool hello roool
hellium rool roll

slumping down


back to the poetry drums
the dumps or what was the word?
head spining

is that it?
is that what you call word?

ok re-begin
continues where Blue Dog left over
at the thread unconscious or convisions
of St. Hubert street.. homeless
faces in wind

then walks
Parking lot

her face in the wind



Now how would it be any other way,
than beauty? of its bare buttocks song,
the rare one calibrated by the tune of death,
its rangers, or forest soft slipper ?
along the mouth of hunters and makers?
in shipping rooms where receivers
darken the hour with your thoughts?

chronicle of the schizo-organes

as the Knight was sad sick and sad, or was the Dulcinea read Knight's eyes cossetting the plain or was that dancing in the rest of the bucolic space which each river cried. but what was the gerundive of correct? sitting by his body shes holding he shore to each not wishing a loll distance to detach her cream coloured her lesbic make-up or the heavy lean to of doubt

The Knight has no Organes when saving is the treat the stinging self when it waiting.


says to me\is Void MooN?

Tanya says to me, is void moon , full?

straps tied to boots quilts over the cane field,
in Dominica, in Cuba, where doctors travel
far and wide,  to Venezeula, and 

Zeus peers down his mirror,

of enjambments and blandishments of this sort,
she has no part.
at the hour prior to electric chairs.
Standing sill, window heaped open
to chair in the wind.

No, she says, that's not it,
what would your first lover've said


Void moon
monkeys around the baseball plate
curvature and the solo sun in.

In Paris, and China, we have .
many father, and whoring was simple as the plate of blue.

Come smoke my cigarette
kiss my sexy sex sexy


We walked all night then
shedding the lies,
she 'd told in another of her lives,
mildew on the phosphate cap of her
cries no her cities where lies.

Bad writing's born everyday



Vallejo _

his work remains inside of me, coursing my veins
even hearing the Spanish, a language I love,
(andso much more than French _ ) for me its a language of liberty
and love, passion and heart.
Duende as Lorca

Señor de los Milagros process through Lima streets
Walter Silvera / Tafos,1990, Lima

Everywhere I go I find that a poet has been there before me.
-- Sigmund Freud




Hay golpes en la vida tan fuertes . . . ¡Yo no se!
Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos;
la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma¡
Yo no se!

Son pocos; pero son . . . abren zanjas oscuras
en el rostro mas fiero y en el lomo mas fuerte,
Serán talvez los potros de bárbaros atilas;
o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte

Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma,de alguna adorable que el Destino Blasfema,
Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones
de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema

Y el hombre....pobre...¡pobre!
Vuelve los ojos,
como cuando por sobre el hombro
nos llama una palmada;
vuelve los ojos locos,
y todo lo vivido
se empoza, como charco de culpa,
en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . ¡Yo no se!

Vallejo died in exile in Paris, in a rainy day on April 15, 1938. I am like the pigeon of a condor whose feathers were stripped by a Latin handgun; like humanity's flower, I fly over the Andes like the eternal light of Lazarus .. ..

In Spanish;

Yo soy el pichón de un condor desplumado por un arcabuz latino; a flor de humanidad, sobrevuelo los Andes como un eterno L'azaro de luz....


I He

I could not Smell &
(and now I see)
Guess what?
(amazing face)
Now I do

and the world Stinks

bea u tifully wonderf ully

even yer lemon scented breath

and the


and the



ode to


of nose


Indeed I am a snooker sharp


for ten years almost off step to his nose
(dear kill those commas they're ruin'in the ambiguities)
he sought to scent the stink of poesy

out of whack with his rhyme

marjoram & rosemary

flew to her coup


unlatch patty cakes
salt vinegars
apple pie scent in a cafe

sitting with C~

Indeed Italian revery is true
she hairs down her willies
no longer trying a lyric artist's part
she transfixed his fate
her lover
of smooths and sallows



a shallow fate waits her akimbo
mothering mumb[o]-jumbo

re metanoid

'bad' poetry gets around real fast

are you certain? oh yea, it's a given. its like shitty wine!

what? of course, you numbskull!

is this a formula of metanoid and privy?

indeed . seek and ya find it. its a cumbersome

grace of ego of belonger believers .

how it clunker the page of there and then.


bad poetry Im not even sure it exists. After all that language just sort
of disappears in a 'puff up their own fundaments' to quote an old friend
of mine.


"We trod the pavement in a dead patrol."
the Possum wrote that.

void moon

void moon coming

come vanish



over withering sails & breath

wreath her ~.



rifair profile of desire machines
hell bent
hell's bells
fair weather lover

lookit here
look it her

she shoots he scores
type one A

all bets off
best off


black hole|white wall


back black hole swirl
again a face rip up the funnel

of white wall
bouncing off

In italy we trawled the avenue
hipping for your walling taxi
attitude of feline like a lover whose body 's told
too much so much its secret is let out in doses
of delivery not death
but birth of thighs, tin whistles, weights,
overture to the clapping of audiences bound by death


and other objet petit and otherwise
riding riding roughing
up the body
snuggling the lane's

what a sorry excuse that was for rain
Tanya, says was is not is,
its treat becoming's like my skinny ever so falling body
guarding angel
loser takes all honey
loser takes

you must bet
see there is no end
to l and its fabrications
if it's hard the better
the better


It's a face you must end. end. face. off face. preface. preColumbian art. death of the hero, crusade of the carafe, end the kerchief, or some woman's high cheek bones.

close to it. the nave.

Image of white wall from



over there

open the glass and see you made
under cherry tree and flax
its roundelay merry clacked the tray
of its barky intent

___ a still born picture
taken old age an oleograph

your beautiful daughter is a golden in the sun
counting the day's fair unfair filament its rage
filigreed by pattern and age
its talented pedigree not a marker in your sunset crowd

was it really

was it really you betty blue
was it really really you you
the maniac sex the washing machine
is it true to you?

betty bleu betty bleu and a few
other charmers who went achoo
and choo choo the choo choo chatanooga
gaga chew and
was it like that you're a few
in one aren't you ?
a crew in one
and two
an shiny oxford shoe
an old brown shoe

dancing at the disco with her bones on fire

when betty blue....

when betty blue found out she got _____,

she stopped speakin'to him completely
it was his fault, of course, naturally,
all his

problem, she"c ared about him" "so much,"
he never understood, how much,

after all, she was the one with the ----,
and the -----,

and he was the one with poem


she shucked that, trying to steal it,
but no go.

it's too bad, you gotta go, when you gotta go,
by bone or moan,
by tone or crone,

harridan nights, and weepy cirrus belts around yer head,
sacking for the dead,
its the way it goes, it goes,
when you live in your clothes

and obssess with the dead,
obssess with the dead in your head,

but India and Pakistan walk away


connections where there're none
the prophet cast her feet in the vase
wailin for his praise
raise the dead
skilly their feet
over river and kale away my lovelies
its the sea sand scape in her face


Naturally we arent suppose to speak like this . however we gotta do. sometime. eh? what do you think elegant hardness was made for _Grief. and its docking bed.. Some essay this is not poetry or poetry's gift, the accident prone weakness of the writer.



we're not sure any mor eof the possible multiple plural of what is named by others their food and taste, as it wakens each hour, each second of death in your media empire hankerkin g after the blood of others. Simone deBeauvoir knew about that, and so did the doctors fighting the mullahs back then, and the poverty of sacking, and the weakening of veins. Shot rang out, in the middle, surgery, I thought she was there. Her breast had a cancer told me she has wayward feet and vein trouble. Life is trouble veined rooftop and split needle of plaster child.


sort of

sort of wagon wheel
to tent to river
blanket and

over the water
the deep

at modigliani's grave

at modigliani's grave again
roses strewn

his lover

recites Villon
Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Éternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.

which is ebb sand of floor

Portrait of Chaim Soutine.. Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart, Germany. by Modigliani, Itlian painter, 100% hand painted


star ____________--t

star ________________________-t

in the mid _________________dle


O has got to be redone or something

i dont think i like that one its not doing what id like but then someone might say well thats not someting u got control over the school
of revisionists poetics would say

doctor it ferlinghetti said once to an interviewer
other ones like thomas and numerous, like
well, anyhhow

BAD poetry
what is it?
grade 4 had to memorize the ryhme of the ancient mariner
write translations of latin, some of the greek classics

then had to write some stuff liek it in both langauges
english & the latin patin

But what about the French Canadian I was hearing every day?
Va't'en toi _ pronounced twee. mean sounding.

what is bad poetry that rhymes in sonnets, or
is it really some whorish thin g to write tercets?

when an article hangs like it did at the end of that stanza
i get someone else to hear, it, read it,
see what happens,

often a cool hanging 'll escape my ear
as e ven my own ear is trained with expectations....

tis the conditioning right? and not the air conditioning

yea. the water is everywher not a drop to drink

then the spokne prose poem is not the same.

got to practice more with angela.
angela was away for a time. where?
i dont remember.

and the bass player had a fit of consciousness.
adn the cello was sunk in straw,
straws of heat
and other deaths
and some poem i wrote for you

when back then i was 17
not 17 but whatever it was
it shaded around the edges of your consciouness
saying I love you. I love you.

little ships of consciousness.
well reading with Charlie Parker is not EASY!
hes real fast I mean that Jazz speeds up like something you never done.
we typed it onthe screen hung it by the sides of our monitors and heard
the blast.

SIGN Time!
the crowd laughed. we laughed today. the SHOW is a ReHearSal.....

Never leave the Studio.

Go to Dance instead
where Bodies are Live Dead.

ASnd so a bad poem?
a pretentious poem
a figure of speech poem
a analogy piece
an anthology string

goes on and on....


C an you PLease Stop Writing Bad Poetry
and sending it to asking for my Approval?




whats bad.


whos' good.


whats author authority.


question mark?
or symbological symBloglogical....

Oh well bodies
dance in the night
stuffed in the deaths of the ir night

Lew Welch was in that book.

Im not sure if I buy Spicer's (Jack) poetics as so much of it was informed by
active alcholism

it must have distoted his perceptions, no matter how smart he was.


Come to the Radio
Orpheus the microphone's off.
she's here.



' we have ceased fighting anything
or anyone __'

cease and desist the eyes
narrow for the page
its engagement
a rare stare
to fortune's eyes
a poodle waltzing in rain
in Paris

as greeted i was by Tristan
his lover stood by her
in the rain
it was the awkward achieve
of its farandola
and the near miss
of things
and winding about
or overing after
concluding since
not prating its shamble beneath
such beseech was not
fair gander for the two remained
mancled by hankering

or when
he said to us
its hoarse wind in the cold
heart of Ethics its pray
as J backed in the hole

it would play
its own up keep
a simple sailor to love her lips
something aside the belvedere
terracing down
its crowdy miss
of hither come happy
its hip mit bliss



is this, how your hand, works, like this?
like this, and over, again this that like,
over a tumbling weed, of summer, awkard
as the chair, rocking , rocked,

and tin to that over
self, of bodies in shame,
and love, or your face,so long ago,
seen, lends me a comma,
come to cover, your culvert,
like a punctuation mark,
and your



bod hi sat va

who own s the bodhi sattva

who is bodidharma

'No suffering, no origination,
no stopping, no path, no cognition,
also no attainment with nothing to attain.'

So proclaim the Prajna Paramita mantra,
proclaim the mantra which says:

gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha

gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha
gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha.


I ching says

I Ching sez no blamebalm for cutVishnu standMother matrix of giveno'er night's bad bandHere across the suburbthe country layer where foxesshut their heads accidents dont countI ching says cloud over mountainlake hanging on the thing that worksnot tired of the trip of the body yourstangles around my arms unhappy as deathschizophrenia the poetry of pustulenot the sacking of whirling I's or other shitwhats the thing that worksbetween peoples of bodieshearts hung like striated treesshouting inthe windnot the unfriendly powerof powerbut powerless's sweet tonguelike your love


Blog Desiremachine Links

Desire_ blogs connects, burrows, _ rhizome to other spaces. Tunnels, _ runnels loggin' other words, image, poem, text

hole 'n whole

not found
or made


of shoes , and lovers, there is no end.
of hoes, and hearts. no end.
nor start to finish.
glueing, gulping the page.

its heart stop lent to end .



over at


Human nodes
a reaL poeM proVokes the RIOT

Jazz t.v.

Poetry State

Cyber état poétique
L'état poétique au coeur du numérique- cyber art- liberté freedom-


got something thing
between yer teeth
Lady Lanyer,
hang yer lanyard on thee


verse it into porpoise, prose machine along the littles of edge. snap hedge shine it glitter o'er to a shaped metric. not so it peeled back its coign and come along bridge. this capers to the untimely of theE body. of what is that compose,d, you wish wish your molecule to fade.


lover sounds like your name's beenspoken too many timesover this night of hash and ruinsits star speckled banners 've hurtyou are a walk that doesn't beginbegging its ending isn't the placeof loads and freight choosing smileswhich don't fit shy a predatory workerwaitin for her shanks to startle inhoping the brigade'll keep back the enemyis this the word we were hopingforyou were so tired in the tentpassing in the sirocco biting its desert painspassing trucks and cars in the windhave you retired to nightas its spoken word ended its song?____________

_imagine each nickel & dime of time's needits shady deal stalking the aira cheap rain coat for furriers to carry onmothers who keep the kempt rainin pockets bulging out at the skirts or hipswhich lock in the night, children,the night children of a gangster's rapcheap solitude makes their mapand its hysterical jibeor jobbers booting on the far end of thug snarlsa finger ducked in the pairssomeone said this was its cadenzaa catch of mermaid & sea food or misty hambugers on the dog of townShit, is that how a rainbow works?Come over here, the stairs are lookingtake off this slip, these clothesthese hoofs, these hoops,yer narrator's balking his handsdo quiverat the popped seeds of elbowsyour elbows that quiver in the bedroomlike a darkened pillow narcoticin the high huff of its editionmarking things you can't hearnor see being upside down in your feet.This dog won't speak .Pardon me? was it up to the kitchen again,her young body smashing yours against the ruins.the other day she had the runs. compared to sparerhymes that's nothing its a creepy place to do thisin , you know that. right. I do, but don't say. I didntwarn you. What? is that french again, yer saying?Comment ca va mon ami, je suis the lover,le lover de tout le monde etandthe demimonde too. Monde Monde le mondequi plueur au bout de temps. and thats notFrench-Canadian, it's the evocative spelling ofthe world.Same small thing again.Your shyness hides a spell,casts a work on its hiddeness.__Queen Victoria knows what I mean.In her hem and gown and my guitarthat I sing.