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