'c a u s e

because she called his name in her sleep. because he called hers. it was the telephone
between them acting like a kissing between a switchboard caught connecting
their desire to cry

one another's name

not an intelligence

but a love



Sometimes she was very bad. her heart broked in a million splint. not heart attacked but heart tacked in its tiny vein. splintered to its goon doom blow. ___Then disappointment came . Cameo to its self-appointed registrar .


pardon me?| 2|re-set


it's curtain call for you, buddy
belfry birds or birds in the bell-tower
a shaking stone to entwine
your finger of speech

what finger of figure of speech?

Mister Winter come to the front gate
Mister Tzara report to the reproduction
department right away
we've got dealers on the front door
babies in the batting

Finger of Europe
resting yer claws in the wind

pardon me? what the hell did that mean? mean? it means something we're not sure if the head was talking backwards or the recording got mushed up in playback Playback? now yer going on again Ann this one that one the other one Jesus what metaphorical garbage is that? excuse me? you see what I mean, you know what I mean, what on earth is this about, is that some excuse of pretty boy writing? pretty boy writing? you mean Pretty Boy Floyd right? sometime before you got it? right? maybe I doubt it though, it has to be something else, some true thing she was working on the wrought cells of her curtain, her curtain call you mean.

something like that she grumbled
changing the font


it's yer face needs help
slipping past the keyboard

motel of gypsy and wood
she hardens the bake of the cake
widening the faucet of her love

bearing fear and ferries
across the 'infinite' rue



fold favouring

is someone concealing anything? something
where bodies were concerned, there was
plenty to conceal. drapes revealing nights..
of gathering folds. addresses wit h names
tucked away in'em cowardice of . of prac.
praxis. quite funny, really.

fold favouring was a 'new'
mirror. sort of like the prince's saw
of holding the world captive to its glance
if you can remember . that.

space is not|turns out


space is not the final frontier, it's the first one.
the one. keeps. back. the ride. bord. gate. verb
noun clash. of stepping in. ston.e. against. lak.e. o.
f. not some pl. face. of repeate of. replete.
space is not t. not . a .

knot space . around yer throat. a. hidden works.
of cl. d. and so it. was wasing.

if you. find. way. to get.
pay me . paid for this.
let _e. know.
of hands that trace.
of the preposition which

turns out I am detective.


not if some reader bleeing in
her cushions sublimes this literarly
but becoming the egotiscally sublime

over turned its symbolic crater

It turns out she is a novel

ist. raking her rocks. its funny when you
think about it, imagining these things in space
floating around. a head of crowns and thorns


pretenders pretend otherwise Not I



how to see

Okay how do you see upside down? Imagine a mirror and me kissing you after all this time ....




some say they re[a]d in blood.

i read in black. across the universe. the city of capital. the crush of others.


buy the universe is a long place.
with far narrow corridors.
for spies to lurk in.

lovers lurk as well.

herded in the camel guard.

where songs shutter.
as wings to wary gods.
men to flies.


her eyes
are a smile of depth and time ~

She licks them upward to the sky ~



each heart

Shut the bloody radio Doctor Duffy!

its a pretend beyond relief!

each heart


Montaigne – says: "Don't worry about getting ready for your death, don't prepare – when the moment comes for you to die, you will know how to do it well enough."

but tell me what did he know
about it, eh?

what really di d he know
about us

our loves

your lips
as I've not ever



Go ~

go blog
bring good news
of charming defeats
and their rare harms

go blog
bring thy books

hurry on the day



but who|re-takes

Let's consider a text as something like a social experiment, a way to speak to one-self. even to remainder what is self. remand the self to distant shores of command, the surrender of all things yesterday and the walking machine today. characters in poems, including the I persona ought to be read as fiction unless otherwise stated. the old practice of dedications would clear up some of the confusion that surrounds "romantic" interpretations of texts. a text is what, a poem a machine a desire line, fleeing its dead co-ordinates of voice and self "I don't know who I am" , and other such fancies, commas etc. the detail of grammar that lets us slide past self selving body and other. All my blogs are on parole.


Thing for someone that not only rejected me,
but hardly
saw me breath ___
"He" laughed, __ he being what? being I, being an I,
becoming an I persona, published (read Blogged)
it anyhow,
knowing damn well she him saw breath

but he was too proud [read scared: being scared means his feelings were not strong enough to overcome his fear]
to Hello her:

which means he could not be
more than polite, and that was only when
she stopped, what?
who knows, who gives a hoot?

it's here some
thing he
wrote anyhow


But who are are these?

who are these golden ones [this is a terrible line]
your beauty like a distant stage set
to make all[?] the fire works
go off

[and] running down the ages
I see you standing there
the lorries of time reciting their prayer

As night goes by your fading smile
melting into mine
night hovers like hunger

but who are these greater ones
their bodies distant skies
their distant bodies cross the blue skies
disguised curves carving around
my body

desire and the lake
roundness of buttocks thighs
the churning muscle of hip against
unknown pants and you’re walking the street
look up and down against the sky
for the farther sun

who was that walking into that store
her son’s hand swinging by hers
the speechless endowed with speech and green onions
leaving at the “wrong” cash
(casbah of desire and consumpt) like her nerves
speaking the “wrong” language
she speaks into
his bi-cultural milieu

surprise of joy and mist soi-distant mister of parabola
and sweater her haunches ring the delight of

never like others her name clambering
round the end of fortune her voice littering the sandbeams of time

and you say, “They don’t say sand-beams, but sun beams”
as if any joyous sailor didn’t know that

already and
by your sorrow and sin

Sin! She shouts! Dharma desire my Lover

He says, what started out as someone
became desire, anyone,
love ties ribbons and rocks
the flood and pale of language ribbons
tricking its rock not pretending
any longer
longer to be the underlined self and
its magic woos’

it goes on like your name
a simile of alphabets
(he said grateful becomes great literal
becoming metaphor)
phonemes ruddering the page clapping
applauding the love that knows its name
clattering the tick-tock of clock
and what's more a memory of wanting
to this body in time
that reaches emptiness
and fortitude



was for you like the wind that cried over the babies
over the sea in spite of the nights

which hammered in their hell noise

and your plastered saint made sense



why not

1 ~

why not push the limits ? in space blog aNd poetry

like love, love's threshing
bodies fleshing

the absurd winter of our pellet lips


across summers


yet summer is a tear

without your voice
your arms
even when i've never held you ~

Comment: 1 was written earlier
and part 2 was done recently!
A poet's comments are funny, even when he's hurting ~


Now they are for you ~ pour toi/vous ~ vous` toi ~ .

cover of Ulysses _ Joycean

Ulysses as seen on the Oxford edition of the book.

James Joyce's Ulysses: One Page Every Day _ Follow the link to the One page a day version __the greatest book ever writ!

It is the epic of two races (Israel-Ireland) and at the same time the cycle of the human body as well as a little story of a day (life)... It is also a kind of encyclopaedia. My intention is not only to render the myth sub specie temporis nostri but also to allow each adventure (that is, every hour, every organ, every art being interconnected and interrelated in the somatic scheme of the whole) to condition and even to create its own technique.
(James Joyce, Letters, 21st September 1920)

And this wondrous book ends in a great Big Yes as said by Molly Bloom.


James Joyce wrote about another town as bad and good in its way ~ but he was a great novelist

Read along with the book

this town

this town was not summer in june . july. august became. heat. unfun. this
two-timin'town steals its own best weight in gold trading it for dross.
idiots & politics and the shit o.f. the crap. same again.

this town. hides its best. beating them to obscurity . wondering why
its cream's gone sourshit. so it has . and shall. and less. its more is
disaster. this town's 300 festivals . beggars. homeless. this town's crap.

_________________________________ this town's fragment
of two nations is no nation. but a ration of division spelled by false prides
and capital's perversion of human vision. this town's government is
the code of the capitalists shit box.

i have nothing to say about this, nothing good to say
, abou this town.it disgusts me ~


what was


a fire shore


its always a question of back to basics. as line of departure and arrival. and not the zero point of

a so called genesis ~ but births are harmonies to songs.


the older gods


The older gods kicked a shovel, holding back nothing, especially an intent,

to be wise. O these verses kick arse the sun, but a grave digger without
a kingwise as a hammer wont open a door that's closed shut on its bearings.

A tunnel, nay__ its an open night, a road wide than the swathe, Open yer heart to the hingeless hangin second creates the verse travels in night.

_______________________________________its been a long time since Whitman ran down that road and America's lagged
far behind
its ruthless ruffles
far caught in its
revolutionary struggle
and amnesia a simple

of cash flow

and even though

its been spared a few high points,

its lowness is never lacking immanence
nor the desire to rework

and recombine

its loves

forget the back
let yer ass shine
the dark

of its multitude

over the rim

of a thousand years

Whitman's king of the poets

roll past his eyes

dogging us down

his humdrum
gather multiplying

our squeeze



ten ten ton trucks ~


More than a century since the 'old' gods are gone. And good, good for them, and good
for us. We have our experience in its place.



is that then

Is this text a final version? What version is “the” version, when the moment of publication urges its sending? When does cut-up and fold in become the drapery of self and other, becomings the name of trees and lakes, and fatigue takes your body for a rest, the text no longer its mating, and meeting, between the t’s of teeth and naked bodies cheek-to-cheek and memory’s wild lake, and your lover like a song, urging always, something futher, pushing a comma, a dot, or pudding where red weddings take place, the taste buds between the sheets, or wearing bells and cape, or bells and boots, what was that memory , Hamlet? Hamlet? will your shining become all the nights of your ward and award, and it’s your first book and second, and the pain in your ribs, the club of night and day, den and thief before the always twisting place name of elm and willow, weeping into the river, that glows, as usual, a night, an alphabet, a seizure, a king of sizes and days.


First Saw

Oh ho ho and a bottle of heigh Heigh ho the ninny pushed by water and so it goes when she first saw my lips wangled she reckoned by the flay of their stoppage I a recondite deer twittered against the window of winterage and husbanding my land I awful I was the Irish accent of the voice reading Finnegans Wake when a young lad a young ladding and spinny as she was there was no choice between theory and practice and the boat we rowed was like this against the territoried god against the deterritorialized sinner chained in his shackled husks by the sea the sea of alcoholism which made the books of the sea and this what made what we are throttled by night and height we sang the song of rushed trout of boy scouts not cubs hammering down motorcycle hill and I missed my youth and missed yours as well the skinny boy I was spent too many years alone friendless homeless sexless no wonder she was crazed crazy when founded out to the foraged field

Now be my lip O lover of memory


So the envelope speaks



for the time being

Due to cosmic departures Yr blog is temporarily off the air.

Adjust yer sets.

mythmachine becomes

O georgics and Virgils and vigils ~ waiting ~ w aiting ~ I hold your breath between my lips ~

L'ove wrong

speaks sideways to mouth
side of the mouth
lover song
love wrong

sear it night owl
seed broken next to it
your womb match stick
stipple grace
your tummy tong

your tummy tongue

that how they do the outside?
is that it
sweet tooth

come now dear your fear is a temple
a tremendous amount of loss
it' s the way Americans do
hidden behind
every humorous quip
of what's best and bourgeois
borrowed thought
borrowed you
barrowed your way in

then beat it
it got hot
hiding behind yer lavender counter
then spit

a n absence of truth

my lavender calender
is just as bad
just as bed

it's best and blue of you
of you

tangled hand across face__ space






not some mythogram

but the memory of a real person

hurting me


though evasive


treezz cutting cuttings in the grass
rhinestone death of


on the subway traffic flicker cuts names Mouths

you will hear a certain voice Manhatta, Paris, London, Montreal, Rome

under the cope of suns and cities the carrying on

of things
which wear their names

across the silver of the sky
and its pediments

no pretense


Folds of previous verse strata. the persona of the 'poet' and the persona
of the man ~


morse code of fracture'
slave driver'f cache
she waits for his body
wait between
the schizzing waves
a'bove the lips
of ap
like a simile
writ by Nietzsche


Be to the left ~



Today is another day in the big city. It's hot then cool then rain then thunder~ like the human heart. It's movable, it changes shape, recedes like feelings do. From time to time . We think love rings the bell! It does,it does. You're right, you were brave to take a risk responding. As far as I can tell we've never met. But I admire you taking a risk, as you wrote sometimes the most concrete things come out of the most abstract. And if what I write moved you enough to reply, then I wrote well enough to touch a stranger. It makes me happy, it's a form of joy, it's quite rewarding.
They say you are full of worldly charm you wrote, and it took more than that, to write as you have. You're as open as a clear sky ~.
And now?

I send you this gift. Putting it in public, and knowing you know it's for you.



Just for fun ~this ribbon


night is

night is a talent i n

bridges gaps

knackered by storm heaps
silken trees
sullen wear me downs ~

it's sacrosanct the way Jill
bustles about cape
in her hand
me over dress
second telling
the saying
has it'

a t
the back of the shed
like any other trooper

worn by pillows
she's stretched her nape
over his head
a thing

worried by
teased by lilting

your bears


hunkered by the hour
she's dressed
to fill

not as the saying has it
to kill
her lover's bed

or singularly
holding the apocalypse
in her hands
she's palmed his glove
past every sailor


Jill has a body to

Mona's body is presage to fill
hours of plenty



Share and Share alike has always been her mottoe. Not near a sore lent tingling. She' s worn high hoops to her lace. This lazy lover insouciant to her friends.


Comment: reframing and refragmenting text ~

little verse

little verses commend your name

typhoon & spill word
commanded by whoopsie bars and unknown place

a tense of space wishes you back home
in the wood out of the wood
when the tiger stalked taking his time
eating your name

not any sugar
but Dada's time
Jill's a frock headed girl with time on her side ~ .

Afterward seconded by love's barrier
they came home when they belonged ~

Or say iambic pentameter was parliament to their bond ~





between each knee a frightful phrase! gothic thriller
language itself the tease, the story
caught verb
lambasted the tree trunk

the latin! the latin! I love the latin Sigourney to see the english of this latter day 21st. cent UrI O the silver lati n



on the paten patin?


" where is the hyssop, bring it to me."

at the e br'im we find

with In

the text that construtivizes itselves

over the waysides and narratives of its accusers the readers, the believer myselves the believer to remember Dylan Thomas' phrase__

and "But he knows, really, he knows,
From his very own mouth,
-It was the anniversary of my birthday."

That thought is made in the mouth

that each poem is always a walk on the limb

a dance of the blage

a blage being a coinage to describe these fleeting pages of the

blog space


Wings of Desire subway scene

the angel becoming man listens and listens for you too ~
l'ange devenir homme écoute pour toi/vous

this angel becoming
man 's

never stopped listening for you /pour toi/pour vous ma chère docteur


O my wing
of desire

I never forget you
Je t'oublie jamais ~


Don't hold

ont hold back hold yer hands against hamadryad
as week to strength its night breathing lightening over
the cambric dawn's come over this
your speaking verse
mellow mountain of coffee
rails against the hardship
thousand lairs of her alone
body wilts in the cowardice

but broke
out of



down the nothing

to everything

clothing the dead
feeding the fish

this narrator's got the long gone block on her head

hear the trombone
those flattening heels
clickin in the subway

what's that language you speaking
as yer death wish come true

breath to mate every song

(now that note of death's not true. it's a case of love's detective,
finding out she is where, and how ~

the clue

the trail


lov'e's promissory note ~


Now Mister D , is this old and new?
whats hold hand new is ?

its the lamp psssssssssssssss dawn ~

gathering its port and ear
waiting for the arch of love's meeting
the simple love said a prayer ~

___________________________ even for those who don't talk this is better than nothing ~ .



faux soleil


quelle errance mais belle quand meme, non? c'est tombeau de deleuze qu'il parlait. Mais Deleuze et Guattari c'est tres proche,
n'est-ce pas? the guattari complex: faux soleil


in space

In space a man keeps waiting for a woman he found. it was atime. she'd disappeare'd . no word in the air. found his still voice. his love ~ r ~ songed across the sky ~ hid ~ clouded ~ away ~ obscure ~ the space grew long short long long long long. each heartbeat. his breath tightening.

----------------- in her city in that other his mouth heart longed ~



all It take s is a little democracy for the common wealth to spread as owning shifts so does the bread if thiefs become brief kings of love it rifts the hulling night of ownership then all is well spreading its undefined non-scarcity round the square world is all it takes

housing the freedom of world is a word. a sign. concept. resting its hinges on the old idea ~ .

turning touring each corner of a sentence. that's where love's eyes are ~.