two december

Okay bucky, try some idiom. Excuse me, they were trainedto war, like dancing peels,

something tattered like seals on bends.Oh brother can you take a break. Fake verselets are as unto a bakethat is not attended of a Saturday afternoon, the air as air'll be clean as a saloon. Bay to light bay to bye when you turnyour head this way, the waves flock around the room.O dear, very intense. Now can you please take your pants off?Its been a while since rain pipe quandry or yer naked genitalshere have parted the bend in my thighs. She's wearing pearls and earings.Or dear the love clap clasp saying she cant make! it! c ant come! without her lover man to carry it! two, as well as one wont dowiLl it wont do, wont do it will wont do.Listen sister your hair is like something from a classical similewe wont pretend you're less than beautiful when you are .Okay? Kisses, your loving lover one.Kissssssss_ again.


homag to tt


the Je

he I in the texts which are posted here is not necessarily autobiographical or authorial. It's a common place among readers to confuse the I of a text ( poem, song, a novel) with a real person. I'm not suggesting that there are not autobiographical elements in the texts that I post, but am suggesting that there are other lines of which move through them. As a writer, indeed, I am interested in how writing is a trace which vanishes, leaving nothing behind.
Alors Le "je" dans les textes ici n'est pas necessairement autobiographique, mais le texte a tousjour un autre vie. Deleuze et Guattari parles sur les intensities qui nous traverse dans toutes domaines. Alors, c'est evident que ce passe aussi dans les textes d'un poet.

If that sounds unfeeling, I'd say the contrary is true, and that the art of self-portraiture is emotional in the extreme. Je pense que l'emotion existe meme dans le texte ou l'auteur a essayer d'eliminer une fausse sentimentalitie. C'est tout le notion de texte descrivez par Roland Barthes dans le celebre essai "From Work to Text". Je me rappelle pas le titre en Francais. En tout cas, in any case, "anyhow" commes les dames de Montreal dit, "anyhow" oui, yes, anyWAY, as the ladies, and the men say O yea, O yes, lets go dancing . Writing is a dancing. A fiction, a jeu de mots, les mots fait l'amour the word dance between bed and lover panting. So if I is fictional Si le je "est un autre" comme Rimbaud avait dit, le Moi est aussi fiction, lover of fiction. beds of desire. My kiss to you. Is preposition. Dariling Je. Qui whisper . In my alors. Kiss. diamond grow. Silver rues de Montreal.
Comme le caractere dit dans le film de Atom Egoyan

Bienvenue a Montreal....

Like that character in the Atom Egoyan film says

Welcome to Montreal.

The schizo bilingual tongue en transition.

--- Nota: any errors in grammar remain the fault of both languages split down their sexual selves. Not deconstructed enough. Alors. So then,

chrsyler buildin new york sky poem

the way the nose of the bulding goes up uP Up UPPPPPPPPPPPPP

you hid

some other thing
you hid tu cache un mot

autres oedipe
solo of les levres au lune
et avec une chanson

madame tes
ton corps-sans-organe

excuse me ?

before the body
avant que le corps parle

quelque chose

when i lived in paris, i was the spirit Henri Miller. Non, c'etait Jean Genet, non c'etait Tristan Tzara,
c'etati toi .
et toi l'autre
on faisait l'amout






Open yer cage darlin
Someone Loves you ~~~



What is Bad Poetry ?

What is Bad Poetry? what is sick? what is Love? Say they are models of desire. I have to make this fast. I m headin g off to catch a train...

Night Night has come and its depths represent a haze that never ends, where your body is absent. Say if your heart is a mouth that 's swallowed whole its lovers. Paris is like this, and so are its fleeting love affairs


you came to lover leaving
off and broken
not broke
but busted by your leaving behind
this trail this train of my loss.

This must be night. Yer eyes, escape me. I am solitude. Its fiery path. Nowhere . Nothing. Abandonded. Abbaddon. To wish to escape. the line of flight.Yes, and how to move along with out losing one's mind and dying. Dying too soon is a disaster, as you dont get to finsih your work



fictions of waterLoo

A bit of war Napoleonic style, for your delectation.
And his Dictat_ion



is that love staring at your clock? or is it dare me to spoon the river hearing your sighs where walkers
walk pretenders gape
not this time on the subway when I heard your name gathering the links of war or your hips swaying as any lover would
any lover might

tripping the words
past the peeling point of night

. Lifted by hangars and sudden jests we are burial grounds to your love majesty and carnivorous lust barks up the wrong tree its what dharma is the master maker's repeating word the suffix of intent. No comment required. But action is the comment on this text. Of your eyes and sorrow my virgin. ---------------------------------------- walking the road, dusty and otherwise around kilarney. the castle. dust. eyes. long dawn. doom. of gaelic melancholy. -----------------



If politics knew its name|love wld. be sane
lovers tear their wax ears out
if Love was sober
it'd saunter to the store
like any metaphor
bound for glory
the topmost mast of its work...

now yer lover speaks

Now yer lover speaks
Returns she does
after hiding for a time
in the arms of jealousy
of another man,
or is it Sally dont ya go
Sally dont ya downtown

Returns she does
after hiding for a time
in the arms of jealousy,

of another man,
or was it,
Sally dont ya go
Ah! Sally doncha' go downtown


The last two lines are a sliding reference Sally Go round the Roses,
by Tim Buckley. I've tried three times to add the link to a page
where this song (and others) of his can be found, but it won't take,
or I am doing it wrong.




artaud 2/3