'Le printemps se verra annonce par des feus, des jeux et des bois. Les femmes descendront des arbres et se grouperon aux entree des parcs. ' Tzara_ Grain et Issues

along boulevards, hat takers,
ticket rope tricks,
open eyes,
rabbit-fortune telling

game filled fortune

passive verb was the narrator's toy.

of these there has a boy
a girl her body boy who Mark and John,
Jill and others loved. Her woman body.
was like this. to of its each. not cutting
board. of flim and film she was its played.

Take her wedding hat, for instance,
in the Stuart style __

where is the lovely lady C
are her lips in the air,
does she imagine a chord

caressing her?

it careses the kings thigh,
her secret wooden whip.


later, and again, a prophet came
humming hunting for


she was the err eyed One.


anti_Oedipe to

Sheep herder of this


must do again

says Anti as he
he zing s the place he


the place
then some. of hands? aye, aye boat's

man capstan the breakers. of the high ridged
deck, shoof and woof of wake
Aye Aye me cap'in we do that in
even tide to weak its fathers

Was not yer Salamacis your maid?
Of Lesbic fairys and the enunciamentes?
slave to the fig.



I have set my mouth to yours

its pair lured swear


prophet 2

a prophet with her mouth

speaking rays

seperating flowrs?

'Tousjours tu sentira sur le peau de tes tempes le vin
glace qui acuse le soif et desseche les mains et les fins miserable....' (Grains de Tzara)

apres le bord des rues


My writing is in French. Not english. English is to me a foreign tongue. of the Celtic suasion, I am stirred differently.

Yet my accents (both here and on keyboard) are
at large. A largesse of dubiety.
As Rimbaud says, purses make snatches of gifts and wars.
there is no hoe.

A prophet came . Her mouth open.

there was

there was a prophet came
rambling to him

her name was another country

dido you _ cousin the whore|Salamacis et Hermaphroditus.

A partir de ce jour, le contenue des jours sera verse dans la dame-jeanne de la nuit. Le desespor prendra les formes gaies de la fin du temps des pommes et roulera commme une grele de tambours fraichment decharges sur l'ombre humide qui nous sert de manteau. Tzara Grains et Issues 1.

Tousjours tu verras devant toi l'image degradee d'une poupee qui te represente, mais qui a passe par le feu. ibid. 145

"do you really believe, all that?" no I dont really believe all that. do you really no I dont unreally.
A theorem is not to be belie'd but tested
I believe you are a monkey.
Does one believe a poem, ? no,
one reads and is read by it,
Is it real?
Since when isa poem real or not real
believable or incredible?
I suspect you shake your breasts
before me.

Of such gods and goddesses powers that
be I believe in the air beating. down its. strong wings.
thud of power. darkness. ( a little Satanic thud
here Milton)
(les paradis perdus ne sont pas
or other gambols. a read text of breast
abound his head, wishes the dearth
of stampeding chains. must signifies late their wish?
or this heart plexis , of hymen and
her ham strung ache. yearns he yearns
for a face escaped,
body speaks.
its symphonic lust
over his coming into her,
a rush,
a hurricane
flood of fly
flakes flutter a rush into her
hind-quarters. is this the goddess,
greeks the night of loves ?

beast breast .
Of then the hand reaches into the sex of the woman.
she handles this vase , as if it were an aquarium,
a handle to witches. or calibrated flusters.
or some tango we clock. going down the veins.
and rippled berry sweat mouths,
cusses on kisses, of cities and hates,
castles and their ever more wish,
or babies glued to window
washers bending to river watch gallow
glance the game.

'I am Slav - in my contradictions, in my affinity to a black-and-white worldview, in my humour, and in the quick change of moods - as well as my understanding of history. I was born at this extremaly painful border between East and West.'Emir Kusturica

Ive met all the gods, so I dont believe in them. None intimidate me. I know these gods 'resie in the human breast' and we in
hers, the mother of gods
my sour Penelope.

so thereforest:

My wanton lines doe treate of
amorous loue, Such as would bow the hearts
of gods aboue:
Then Venus, thou great Citherean Queene,
That hourely tript on the Idalian greene,
Thou laughing Erycina, daygne to see
The verses wholly consecrate to thee;
Temper them so within thy Paphian shrine,
That euery Louers eye may melt a line;
Commaund the god of Loue that little
To giue each verse a sleight touch with his
That as I write, one line may draw the
And euery word skip nimbly o're another.
There was a louely boy the Nymphs had
That on the Idane mountains oft had slept,

Begot and borne by powers that dwelt aboue,
By learned Mercury of the Queene of

Francis Beaumont
So Anti sang or rang his moult,
of night's vase its
Of Frances and his gales the god,
Frances many Paris,
spoke pert and perks the
messy pottage of the bow'r begot
yearn brun & let up to the shoon
its meadow cracked his lip
Then venus cark shipping blogs
(remote of cheap,
receipt of cheat,
gogged orbs,
(bing bound
breasts round as bogs)
eyeball blossom
tufted hair blue bloom)
hamstrung letter rail sated
over my tunic bale
its feather fright

bitty wig,
of sloth and weil,
shes welfed
stead its panther praise
and buck shot rabbit
my tundra hand inside her,
and wheat her knave .
fan her tuppet to wake its cup.
she's loath to sup her boy,
of fiarce fairdom its lap .
Swan'd & swained her freak
boated midwife kaled her
behovelyof hand in this that
and there its intelligencer
warped its sooth
diced by the girl's trained greek
her stood was stay
pronouncing guff my debonairs
pilate hurts its each over arms of her
huzzah huzzah
bananna breast in huckstered feint.
helmet butt
was gaudy of her praise,
lover lover goosed her day.
Moor'd by cow
he bellowed
I fret its hearken'd chew
over orpheus' hat,
its bell bound stew rhymes
her metred pet
a red analogue hankered
its pout of hatted bath
her ass was bout!
giggled lesbic fathoms
a Dame in parry of
her hanky . I hiped
its lettered reek distant
its lettered
cheeky insousciant hale,
and sallied.

To the true patronesse of all Poetrie, C A L I O P E.
not the penny loafers of Herod's Salome this
ask of why its predatory spoon lifting veils
burquaed dames wander the lane
queued chin upright to the sun
girth gated hips
Antigone saw her name,
hugged under its veil
a double christian

my sweet Aviator of the Sky Christ first pilot_ of written

It seems I wrote a 'bad' piece, as I received mails! my gosh, turn off the comment function no matter, one is hated for writing bad poesia! Of course its bad, its bad bad bad bad poesia. Its celebratory repetitive, and so it was. Something like this. What was the purpose of the exercise? To exercise one of the selves which speaks as there is no one Voice when writing . Two, to curve the edges off 'bad' poesy.' More than anything written poetry, or text does not use repeats the same way. Difference between written spoken is difference between Finnegans Wake as text and Finnegans Wake as spoken. The latter is impossible. UnImaginable. Inconceivable. One cannot speak Finnegans Wake. One can read it aloud, but one cannot write it aloud. Thus this broadly spread idea that oral precedes writen is fatuous and beside the point, that is a historical argument and has no real direct bearing on writing concerns. Writing precedes speaking, the written word is first. One writes in the silent deafness of the word: signature of all things here to read, as they are written. A prose that rogueish splays its name its amanuensis . shift shirt talk. enough of oral discourse. silent page of word written over skin of. kiss the bell of. resur _ Ascend not transcend Christ risen immannent god of Ascend, heighting the transcendence immanence bugaboo. What bugaboo of river Seine is there, in the Paris waters , of memory and your hair. Shambles of late, when keys takento give the dark door of apartment the shade of light in all the the Toronto lights of your hair. The first eye writes, before seeing speaking. or seeing speaking is writing, is hearing. Or my bag of proustian at eigtheen, the bones light and light. Not a religion to fight any with, never a justified stance of battle , but combat or mental war, even then the stance is liable to deviations. One roars, to quiver.


How his music, this music of Brandenburg,
[Bach O my bach! my back! my back!]
these concertos.
brings joy, swinging
the 40 days Pentecost
upward to the sky
the roof of the world,

as he readies to Ascend

upward tilt of the sky
and Body

I like the Resurrection,
always have.
ever since I was a kid.that's a kind of poetry. isn't it?
a sort of text that rolls up its body,
and says,
I love forever.
W.S. of the sonnets aint got nothing on that,
with his brass, monuments, verse,
and choirs where once the sweet birds sang?


I believe because it is absurd.
Something like that , if memory serves.
Kierkegaard built nearly all his thinking around
the notion, that the belief, in this thing, is absurd.
[the phrase originates in the latin
Credo quia Absurdum of
Tertullian, the old growling church
father of the ancient days...]
there's no evidence, for it, and everything around us,
and it, and the world, argues against it,
there's no evidence of Any kind.

Patently and Latently and in every sense,Absurd.
For me, its just one of those things.

I believe, or hang on to. Its just there. Nothing else.


Alpha Omega
in the eye of the Needle
He Roars through
great motorcyclist
of matter
past-ing matter

Upward body
feet flying up
its raisen surge
ever ever ever up up


Not possible to explain
or understand.

Yet accepting always
the ever always acceptable


Brandeburg Concerto No. 1 in F major
Brandeburg Concerto No. 2 in F major
Brandeburg Concerto No. 3 in G major
Brandeburg Concerto No. 4 in G major
Brandeburg Concerto No. 5 in D major
Brandeburg Concerto No. 6 in B flat major

Concerto for flute, violin,
harpsichord, strings and continuo
in A minor
Concerto for two recorders,
harpsichord, strings and
continuo in F major

Concetta _ Maria Philmus
Elizabethan Poetry and Prose
& Learner
Erudite one
those days 10 years back.
classroom. she reads.
us. in that Italianate
voice, the latin & italian
figures, the sonnet read
as no one has . in centuries.

the chorale prelude Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, BWV 739, is ascribed to this period (around 1705). The autograph of this prelude is also the oldest surviving Bach autograph.



cuts. the purse. seeks. the day. long rabbit. cups. the hand.
mouth full. breasting. cabinet of hope. in her head.
around its castle. beside contiguous. she wore it hard.
and dashed. across the page. dashed across the.pavement.
like any peaking turret. of her ages. a hand. knocked.
the page. clipper. kept its. binding gold leaved.
then. before he knew it. whence. it became of the
garden leave. a tracked. burrow and he flipped,
off the rogue end. of.


its been humdinger

its been humdinger humorous because between all the various insanities, we have got more work done. Its Orpheus on the Sidewalk being re-recorded, on top of the old digital live work from Les FouFounes Electriques Live Performance 1991. Now Christ, that was a long time back. Relative, relatively speaking of course. We got those old ones out, and thank god they were digital (thanks to Maurice's skills of the time) and it is not so bad to hear them & redo some of these. The problem is Pat's voice on some of them is not, and was not, at the time, what I hoped to hear. She leads at the edge of breakdown, in some songs, or pomes, call them what you want, whereas Angela's voice is always inside of another warmth. Pat appears to lose control, but didnt; it comes across more as hysteria, at least in the Orpheus texts.
In other texts, her voice is a measured perfection of love and hate, desire and its bellicose double.

but ifshe were to say the words that Angela or Brigid do, as she did at that time, because Angela was not available, it dont work. Its like lettuce cannot never become , what shall I compare it to, lettuce can never become, I don't know, pears. It's not right to draw this analogy, so I will stop , now.

It is and remains a difference. it's like two different women's bodies, their voices,their desire, their sex.

In any event, the thing is looking positive and if it keeps up we might just have three recordings that work combining new and old.

Layerd voices , layered. Layers. One thousand layers.


how a loving knows

how a loving knows
when you're absent
sent as air
you 're gone
to where?
were you there?
did I see you?
hear you
yer skin
was it close
to this
along my body
running along
its ruins

speak to me
of love
its carnations

spoke of

I shifted into your thighs
riding me riding me



when you're absent
is always



bone to bone
never met.




of lover`s songs swans wain and swain

its name no. it wont do. its some afternoon. spells & binds, hide the
word. accept its shape. not gone. over the. not there. what amnesia.
and aphasia of body worn. body forlorn as age creeps on. not the
Anthos of want its absent friend instead. fail to dare again.



"The opening is read by the tongue"
has a very Surrealist air to it. Along the lines of say Robert Desnos, and his infinte automatic transom re-conscious









what goes|

1- Hey dude get it right. We dont have all the photos, right, but we do have some.


picture of me and Brigid _ low slung down bass _ electric around my hips... she's laughing her head off... Its me pretending to play the song WHat goes On ... by Velvet Underground.... Angela is pretendingto be Nico... imagine the pict ure's blog and white it 's a h

in the studio where everything's been burned away except her photos, some left o

ver digital ! no what are they called ... anaLoGICal

Fuck it that,s the STory of My Life

Hey. Here's a picture of my friend John Pippus, guitar player recently in Nashville ... seking fame fortune & legend

other legs and legends of poesy music drift in me head.

you gotta a leg , over that honey,
a garter belt on her thigh.

it glowed in the dark!

a monsoon on her petunia rage.

a page in her flowering den.

so it shifts its ease to the walk of the night.....

So if I aadd up the stuff saved from before the fire, and the newer ones,

we got about 4 solid pieces of about 12- 18 minutes each.

good start.

well, sort of . we need to re-do, some , and they are going to hate me for this. Gotta Call David and get his ears. and his touch. his flute.

Actually I dont have the pictures yet. but will soon.

Oh O
so intelligent
so Elegant

Duffy, that's an electric bass, not a guitar,
you nitwit!

What? well a bass is a bass is a bass is a base

back to yer novels, Doctor!


re_cording s again

more recordings. we did a good one. then fooled around . pretending to do old Velvet underground stuff. eventually we're gonna set them up to 'air' on radio deleuze.
its a hoot
me and angela witha basoon
and then later
me with this low slung bass
hanging down off my hips

doing these old tunes
whata farcial fun phone time it was.

and then the pretence of doing serious stuff before and after.
her voice is like a treble bass, if i can put it that.
itss a rich blanket that wraps me around softly and cuddles my hear,t and hearing. misspelling here is purposeful.

since thoese two aquaintances died, Ruth Taylor and Julie I was about to say screw it and forget recording for awhile.

and did
but in my head. im recording . and with the bass player i must SAAY
I get a KICK

and then these pretend sEssions of Doing Velvet are a Riot. a HIlarity.
and same with the Beefheart tunes

They are More demanding.
But its a good excercise.

I pretty much got the whole of the, what I ama Calling

Live Studio mapped in my head Now.
It ought to be Fun. and a live Desire Machine.

and brim blog, seems to be booming. hurrah.

its a weird thing this blogging business. some real
some real logging some fake some real poesy
some real fiction.
some this and some that


Radio Deleuze is gonna be fun when I get a chance to go audio. deep voices of bass bassons and sexy drag queens of death. and felt whips!

what strange desadian strip is this, honey?
are you my sexy one?


"Les seules voies à suivre se découvrent par le désir" - Claude Gauvreau

RePosting this about GauVreaU

Something strange is going on: A couple of months ago, I changed the url of this blog which had been too long to the one I am now using _http://recalltopoetry.blogspot.com/

and Lo! I was browsing the web, and find to my surprise that there are archives still floating around out there of the old blog

, and copies of texts, which I 've since deleted, and as well an email link was added! How baffling!
and odd! bizzaries of the blog land of poetries.... In any case, this is a text, I had blogged, which I am re-blogging now,
and also to let any one who happens to care, or read these
old archives, that the blog is now
at this Blog and these texts,
are here and now becoming you and me .


RecallToPoetryandsomanyothers: 03/01/2004 - 03/31/2004: "Homage a Claude Gauvreau un Grande Poet de Quebec par Mona -- Mon Olivine
Mona was discovering and discovering un grande poet de Quebec Montreal deterritorialized and fished in the moorings of desire, and her nights were down with him, and Satan and the other desire-machines of miracles and love bodies.


Mon Olivine
Ma Ragamuche
je te stoptatalre sur la bouillette mirkifolchette
J'aracramuze ton epaulette
Je crudimalmie ta ripanape
Je te cruscuze
Je te golpede
Ouvre tout grand ton armomacabre
et laisse le jour entrer dans tes migmags
O Lunethophyne
je me penche et te cramuille
Ortie deplepojdethe
j'agrimanche ta rusplete
Et dans le desert des marquemacons tes seins oberent
le silence

Claude Gauvreau
Les Boucliers mEgalomanes


if april showers, bring
May flowers,

what of April snows?
and their powers?

Dust and wait
its harpoon


marooned gable of the cuticle .

ghostly to a lake.

over river trodding.