this is a film made quite early on in the career of the late Ryan Larkin

my good friend now dead friend silly guy



Is this a space of splice place a fate to work? a shipping room of eaves? was it here its the spoke its name? gathering
its berries?
what error trusted its name to fly on wings not helded by ground and earth?
to fly god's name?

Mona's repetition was a neck stuck to a floor, her navy nursery rhyme
calibrated to her fix. Calling death a walk in the page.
Knowing no other game.

class dismissed

Dismissed! Missed Out Missal Valve
Propane Gas of weary sort!
Down with yer Dogs!
And cranky whines!

Huff with yer Fluffs
yer goodbyE boonS!

Reek out here where its Real


Ok mIster this is a chair?
a blazoned one?
Say something comb?
black hair? twinning fur?
something for Bardot's lips?

thy blogoverse
and luding something something.
One can.

Enuff, already

IndEed Doctor Johnson

Indeed Doctor Johnson flourished
on Fleet street
his nannies and manners
Spoke of the highest things of
what brought shame down.

But what do I know half botched as I was
with yer bottle and name
failing the grade
swinging the bottle through a
window hours
after hearing your death

What dream you sauntered me into,
you and Ted and Crow
haunting the wills of force and
Not the American Lie and its
trinked up package of war and peace.

a trIbute to TeD Hughes

Mister Hughes speaking of himself and his writing . The fox
and He, and we the burning bush?

Pound FIve Pull down Thy VanITy

An excerpt from Ezra Pound's "Cantos," section LXXXI, read by the poet. Pound was imprisoned and confined for over a decade. He wrote this and the rest of "The Pisan Cantos" during that time.

CaNTo 1 opening E. PounD

Franny's fare these

on the thing beside you
its the vehicule only your beauty
cinched by the hand of wind
which counts

hanker'd by ruin not frost gated by death
but chapped by ballad's care its
yer single scrogged flame counting
each acid flash day

take my mouth in yers sister
as it weakens the bowl daring
your danger like his her
it works sleeves pale wind
narcotic stove culverted pane

or say called by empty you
cut coppers on the end of
before noon campers and their veering
feeling another voice
not her her breasts yours to eat
a smell you know its heart
broken down by please pavement

we'll come back to this later
Not Mona's snow, but Franny's fair fare fair fare

hugh selwyn mauberly_EzRa pOunD 3

Hugh Selwyn Mauberly

Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before

frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.

There died a myriad,
And of the best, among them,
For an old bitch gone in the teeth,
For a botched civilization.



How else can one write but of those things whichone doesn't know, or knows badly?It is precisely there that we imaginehaving something to say .We write only at the frontiers of our knowledge,at the border which seperates our knowledge fromour ignorance and transforms the one intothe other.Only in this manner are we resolved to write.To satisfy ignorance is to put off writing until tomorrow__ or rather, to make it impossible.Perhaps writing has a relation to silencealtogether more threatening than thatwhich it supposed to entertain with death .

Prof. Difference and Repetition and his magic crew merry go round


mauRice Rocket Richard No 9

I orignally posted this one on Brim but changed my mind after reposting the Celan Adorno posting of earlier this month. I've reposted that , with the addition of the video just found at you tube with the voice of Paul Celan overlaid on it.

for anyone , who happens to be a hockey fan_ from a time when Hockey had not been completely capitalized.

SnaPS of the great Rocket Richard of the Montreal Canadiens

from youtube

Dig the great 9



around so much diverse Di_VeRse

as in above


so many other
infinite line of trek
as it passing through
through and around through
the others



you know how it was not quite atypewriter, eh?
a phone a piroutte of pricks and cunts
flying in the air
ours theirs, yours mine .

A scene from David Cronenberg's "Naked Lunch". 1991

- Tom's gone out with the boys.
- I came to see you.


There's a great restaurant
in New York looks just like this.

Oh, really?

- You write in longhand.
- Yes.

I'm not good with machines.
They intimidate me.

The Martinelli?
He'll be furious.
No, the Brother

- Does he have another one?
- He has that one, the M 

  the brother! the new one!

- It's Arabic.
- Does he use it much?

Not much.

What happened to the Martinelli?

I probably just
threw it on the floor and smashed it.

Probably? You don't know?

I suffer from, um...

sporadic hallucinations.

Join the club.

Do you intend to kill Tom's ujahideen?

 O dear one typewriter can't be better than another can't it?

Only in self-defense.

I understood writing
could be dangerous.

I didn't realize the danger
came from the machinery.

- What are you talking about?
- I'll show you.


- Are you gonna write something in --
- No.

You are.

I don't like using Tom's things.

We don't trespass on each other.

Do you have any objection
to trying some of this?

I can't read it.
Is it erotic?

It's, um, fairly erotic.

- Kind of uncivilized.
- More erotic.


- Filthier? Okay.
- All you think about.

- Followers of obsolete, unthinkable trades...
- Getting really...

- pretty good here.
- doodling in Etruscan...

- addicts of drugs not yet synthesized...
- I'm surpassing myself here.

black marketeers of World War III...

excisors of telepathic sensitivity...

followers of obsolete,
unthinkable trades.

Ooh, this is very good.

- Addicts of drugs not yet synthesized-
- Very, very dirty.

World War III...

excisors of telepathic sensitivity...

 other things

 as I say
of which

osteopaths of the spirit...

investigators of infractions...

denounced by bland,
paranoid chess players.



Mrs. Frost!

This is an evil
and insane thing that you are doing.

You must stop it at once!

Pull up your hair.

Who's that?

Oh, my housekeeper.

It's my Mujahideen.

For God's sake!

Itjumped of its own accord.

You did see that, didn't you?



notes this text that...

there then it’s all forgotten. forgotten being rather the in-Verse of begotten

a fiction blog of poetic biography

and a fictional biography on a real web






changes, eh?
they happen
says hes hardly written
when hes written a thousand word
a sand of gulping loom


call it a moment when I m holding yer hand
unpunctuated by the hour moment of grace
iouness raddled by its song? is some voice
speaking auditory lecture to the
audience of lovers
braless sea of agitated water
your breasts
come to me
an open mouth
Mea Culpa to our love hugging
like any sinner does
we speak of do's and don't's as if additives
made love merry

or say sipping
a collared drink
downing its frothful feel
a slip of language and troubles
erotic trays for lover training
hidden by an absent vowel
suggested by an Owl
yes Sir, it's that simple,
Simple of play Paris
cinema carrier to the breathless
lip of the event.

Notes to lover
what air breathes like this?


Like this there are your smiles you out there

smiling like I am alone in the aloneness of this apartment

wondering who out there in the hell wants to know,

and lost, alone in your lonesome handsomness, you

want me the way I want you, But, and, However,

we can't find one another, I mean ... each other,

and this is not New York city, not everyone,

speaks English, not that they do, in New York city,

but at least they try -- hub cap city where the English

speaking folks are cool rippers of verbs and tenses,

wanting to speak their language cool and dry

at some face


with friends like you who needs an enemy like an energy

tined and tinkered into blue night wild sky

Mountain mad scape of cloud beyond expression

but who needed an enemy a rival comparing soul to

soul in this flung back bastard world where noise is the god

and peace

the prize beyond reach sad beyond common peace

we reach to find ordinary peace daily quiet peace

poised on the edge of a turntable


It was speaking like this

that made me

in the almost

of your love

and bodies


a song

elsewhere no words

to say their sparing

my darl ing brus h

my darling brush's
holding it again


A Refusal To Mourn The Death, By Fire, Of A Child In London by Dylan Thomas

A Refusal To Mourn The Death, By Fire, Of A Child In London by Dylan Thomas, accompanied by some pictures of Thomas and the part of Wales where he grew up ... (more) (less)


this then the whirr of stuter coats

thiS then another space to work ascross the double find the reel and reel today and night
what shall be this space
that is then
the redder rubber room how it gives birth to
mutations come to speak Mute
shall Artaud bend backwardS for the explainers?

not so when the night is a hound