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2010/01/31

U think









this way youd take off your clothers. you dont wear a bra do you ? is that why? O and your underthings, unhinged to make the sighing desire of your body. Cry. Leap. Bare. It's true you remind of someone else. her delicate nape , bones, her bare admission of body. desire. the want to will to want to you know, how do you say, the big bad bad big Big Do it the thing the wild thing. the fucking thing . between the bodice and bawdies. mIspelled you think ?



[its clear some dont work enough. but their enuff might not. Knot cut the energy quantum they put out.| the difference between the gain in languages?] (Kiss me Kate)

the phonetic grasp of her ass. that's real that's reality . the verse. the verses training along like a something and another simile. i dont want a voice. no way how.
_______________________________________________The real pome. The 'real' poem is like a floor that has water spilled over it, spattering the dust kicking out the molecules like a woman's hand,, or in your case, a Man's. an Angel? perhaps she wants anges up her arse, shaggin it. negative positive postilion pluriel?_____________________ there are not cutbargrains here. the wheat is the gain the cumbersome hoof of the mouth.








Prisonniers des gouttes d'eau

Prisonniers des gouttes d'eau, nous ne sommes que des animaux perpétuels. Nous courons dans les villes sans bruits et les affiches enchantées ne nous touchent plus. À quoi bon ces grands enthousiasmes fragiles, ces sauts de joie desséchés ? Nous ne savons plus rien que les astres morts ; nous regardons les visages ; et nous soupirons de plaisirs. Notre bouche est plus sèche que les pages perdues ; nos yeux tournent sans but, sans espoir. Il n'y a plus que ces cafés où nous nous réunissons pour boire ces boissons fraîches, ces alcools délayés et les tables sont plus poisseuses que ces trottoirs où sont tombées nos ombres mortes de la veille.Quelquefois, le vent nous entoure de ses grandes mains froides et nous attache aux arbres découpés par le soleil. Tous, nous rions, nous chantons, mais personne ne sent plus son coeur battre. La fièvre nous abandonne. Les gares merveilleuses ne nous abritent plus jamais : les longs couloirs nous effraient. Il faut donc étouffer encore pour vivre ces minutes plates, ces siècles en lambeaux.


Nous aimions autrefois les soleils de fin d'année, les plaines étroites où nos regards coulaient comme ces fleuves impétueux de notre enfance. Il n'y a plus que des reflets dans ces bois repeuplés d'animaux absurdes, de plantes connues.
Les villes que nous ne voulons plus aimer sont mortes. Regardez autour de vous : il n'y a plus que le ciel et ces grands terrains vagues que nous finirons bien par détester. Nous touchons du doigt ces étoiles tendres qui peuplaient nos rêves. Là-bas, on nous a dit qu'il y avait des vallées prodigieuses : chevauchées perdues pour toujours dans ce Far West aussi ennuyeux qu'un musée




Les champs magnétiques. André Breton et Philippe Soupault


2010/01/28

winter's joy

 Mister winter came back. we thought he wld. wild winter does as he shld.    cupping the world
    his white plains to make them fill. in summer with the fat green of love's pull-ed up  &
      pulling up wheat


 ______________ now where does it go O Canadian in your canoe and  the rest of the northern bluff  iS IT  the ___ job to think ? finding the large spaces of the word and the beauty that's pitted men against nature? these are huge questions 'huge' questions questions huge to brille burn in the lunar landscape. | is it lunar then? Mister D __ After Paris where did you land say 1978 ?




CD_ it was a transitional period I was on me own again. I headed to Ireland ona  delusional of escape thinking I'd be finding meself around the fen and bog militating on the nature's behalf half trusting a Wordsworthian recollection of the moment. What I found was a tinker's arse, and a nation, at war. Each spying and hating on each other. The richdoing what they do everywhere getting more and the rest  doing as we do. its perhaps the jo b


Cp there are no transitional periods Mister Duffy _ it's a one disrupted phase. On the plane of consistency, if you don't mind me saying so, -- periods are merely spots . If not in time, then markers on the field.




CD that's the sort of thing Mona or Franny Fanny and Jill roust about by the lord living jaysus christ you're mooning the full hawk of dawn's cock and its minnymoo moo!


Cp _ and you think these fictions are 'the answer?'


Cd well they are on a given day or they are not. And if not then I do other things, then right? it's a question of what works for you at a time of day or year, or a part of your life.












2010/01/25

and

the world's round and square filled with disaster's. the geography of the
the thing is whats what. and then what? a fiction a theatre assemble for the geographies of outer space?

we'll come back to this

the poem of the world. its raining in this city. its sweet thunder is a lost sudden
















mild






mid winter thaw..s as spring's in the air.. most strange... the mildness at this time.
.





.

2010/01/24

a haunting

one finds love a haunting ... melody? love's crunch and melody is a (steam engine)


(incomplete)

2010/01/20

this .... wa .. y











...this way ... I disappears ... not love...


















































2010/01/17

these their continue:

the I verses dont work as well. in my view. "you" get caught with the ideas. the flow gets rounded up, almost like a bunch of wild animals who cant do their job.
who do these call swain and fox?( does this work?)___the parts _ well maybe they work better read aloud that way the flow of language is not caught up in its self reflection and consciousness.  (" L’âme (...) est sur la route "
Gilles Deleuze et Claire Parnet, Dialogues, p.77)


-----------------------send back ___ factory

Who do these recall? with their swains and fox? Life's short and its pungent
fuse burns. Then crawls a baked dog to its bed. Body arms legs and the rest
hounded out pounded up cruel gruel for the end game.


What fictions travel troubles this air?   [The You You and the I, I, I.]

Your punishment's a real illusion pain that's cut the gate and hammered
a door (let philosophers eulogize) . Not a close call but call . Would do if it's not too good,
too bad so fiction yourself its air of abuse. Not the final sinking thing which
stinks of its alibi and pressed . The ignorant frozen ones scream . Their gully
a pisspot of hope the shits






the shits, yea, that's what 'they' are mongering for bullets,
guns and wheat, keep half the starving world ? famished
buy its pain capital the decoration of frescoe and the manageeable
stock the investments spinning round at high speed stocks




& you ask if this collective sandwhich's death?
what voice speaks that an enunciation's not a nun
dear great friend weird words holding back the
and Mr M walks over the precipice leaning on
her prepuce her prepaid firmphone ringing telex switches in the next universe






Come around my Mona heave t he high hollies brain your figures
in the gigabytes of sound the tearing along traffic at the high speed internet
the jacketed man the bum along the avenue the bored Saturday and the auditorium and the glum slacks and Mona's bearing her furtive lens with fruit


And in this way the camera won't be fruit
punkc[o]utured by lungs and longing place she's pushed its geosophical vein to its art cambering ginmills and rasping fellows with finer paters than Rumainian monks


If you dont believe this thievery sending some your way might costeffective announce the Pyrrhic lyric thumb wrong


















2010/01/15

Once said



Nietzsche once said it's the strong who need protecting from the weak. Being strong
one's assailed by the gulies of resentment and hatred of the weak. The small-
mindedn

re These










is a sort of mode. A cap. Not a cup. Then we see which
way the emotives turn , cognizant to its blessed
escape. move on . turn the dial. fiction follows
all I.


















These




Who do these recall with their swains and fox? Life's short and its pungent
fuse burns. Then crawls a baked dog to its bed. Body arms legs and the rest
hounded out pounded up cruel gruel for the end game.

What fictions travel troubles this air?
Your punishment's a real illusion pain that's cut the gate and hammered
a door (let philosophers eulogize) . Not a close call but call . Would do if it's not too good,
too bad so fiction yourself its air of abuse. Not the final sinking thing which
stinks of its alibi and pressed . The ignorant frozen ones scream . Their gully
a pisspot of hope the shits





2010/01/14

sat

and love's a ringing bell calling
you you yes it's ringing call is
saying you you

2010/01/06

2 ou 3 choses que ...
















Intense desire longing looking wanting





______each lover looks with hunger to the other who wants who wants


I want and she wants
she does too Wanting

(s'il y a des autres _ oui oui et vous

vous êtes la ___sous tous _même avant toute  __mais sous ne dire rien parce-ce que le sous n'est pas souterrain)




_______

et la machine ça marche comment? comment cette machine délire d'un amour comme le notre moi je ne sais pas et je ne suis pas une personne sentimentale



ca ne dites pas que je suis un personne sans sentiments




on est la dans le monde
un grande devenir
un devenir qui viens encore et encore
le puissance et la impuissance






in a day


love's not a dirty dog but a charming postman!
(when does it get there?)






and
it's a delicate lady? she's talking and you're dreaming
(some alliteration here vaguely shading )_________________its  daylight 




not a fancy word cut down on its love
No fantasm! she's roughed up by the wind !
changigapeomething I am writing.
______________________________________
-------------------------------


i ll learn the sweet eyes of your line perturbing
each
from the other
say its prayer
round the halo
its moment


the changed shape something written



-------------------------------













i ll learn the sweet eyes of your line perturbing




each




from the other




saying its prayer




around the halo



of a moment








_________________________add some repetition here:
Okay Move the square box of the play_____________> over there_____ where?offfscreen which does not work in blogger








Can


one write


crazy


desire's a kiss


long


gone to its


arriving














Alright alright


its imperfect


the hands


in


real furs






the


shady glance


first time










bed and not bed


these perfect eyes


are yours









Can
one write
crazy
desire's a kiss

long
gone to its
arriving



Alright alright
its imperfect
the hands
in
real furs


the
shady glance
first time


bed and not bed
these perfect eyes
are yours
_________________________

Changing these as they appear |


---------------------------




I don't know how to make art for you I might[?]

try here




see how and learning


is such a curve



like your hips weaving

coming along the avenue tear



me up and out a long sigh a pipe filled for love






and the air would be sweet


filled with your kiss


the song a fluent breath

across this painful world
















delicate between each papered membrane






__________























2010/01/02

you read spoke ~


u seperate head of body wearing the war night .~





children of the mire
the third mind ulysses arp on arp poems and essays poetics critical and literary terms dylan thomas mla hand for writers of research papers john donne war and peace theory and criticism difference and repetition kaddish selected poems antioedipus portrait oratoire de gilles deleuze aux yeux jaunes kissin' tellin postcard mail art multitudes


some books you have to care for everything
everything is sacr'd we look after bless everything care for everything answerable fore every thing there is another philo sophia grain against tell 1938 after small pox brink of 37 hundred tribes blankets thankful guns on shore mighty white of national monument diseases aboriginal people irish disear disappearia bear path six hundred years old talking anylonger grizzly bear land land land locked looking at seen them veils in the shutter wind respect those grizzly moose human extinction blame the Indian this time ~ when where and why what white says is green brown piece diamond in the mud resent ment rights right you has rugged right~

I~




you read spoke~


Un Deuil





spoke I spoke of veils and poverty. Or modesty. What is a veil, but a verily which conceals ___. Sur le point des amants __ what was the word, my love, what was the word, which I sound but do not know. Is it that which keeps the hidden secret? Is there a scent here of secret, and lover's maid? A "jeu de mots" commes des amants sur St. Denis. Sur? Perhaps in St. Denis, that faubourg I 


__ No I never went. J'ai jamais allez. Walk the street of Paris,
 


like a nightmare seeking its lover.
Who's cooled the bridges of hate.
You never called. When you did,
the telephone broke.
 


Someone was broke.
Words from your language. Sound.
Sounded. In the Night.
Why make capitals, when allegories do.
as wine cut the lip of your speak.

Speaking to him. Parlez a lui.
Oh well, you know, tu sais,
the world, the world,
is a big city. Un[e] grand ville pour les ponts, et les villes.


As lovers, I send you this lip, a hand.
Over yours to mine in the elbow of your thought.
A grimace. Or a leaping sheet.

No, something naked, then, my body
, yours, here, between these sheets,
electronic or cotton, soft as electricity
can only be.



Did I already say?



We are not interested in the Empire. the pool of Bethsheha will do for u s .








or say sent?

did you?



Not sure, is not I ~ .



___________________________________________

of not sure its I wrote I that he is _ he as he seeking . round its labyrinth. no pretense to the fortune of love or its kiss.
round to hyaline. her belly . her.
______________________________its possible you wrote this before. before you did. yes you write it before. that way its for    _____________.





_____________________________________________