-- every


every poem's a    creation,    every creation's a n experiment, dont let anyone tell you otherwise

 otherwise the catatonia          

              r  a        i                   n                         

             n                                             o                         

                    t                         l                   i                                                                       e                    



italics again


__________ Dear . Remember these notes before sending cash: lots too, lots of it, with thick thighed frizzy haired beasts

blow off the italic and speak your poems

the breath carries the word not the other way

so in visual poetry the eye becomes the breath

  and the word

well we get back

forget what anyone who does not     says

every poem is an aphorism

a power circuit

------------------ sign here----------------------

.   And remember this Europe is the graveyard . france especially. even when I live there, which is from time to time, i know its a lark. whores dont comprehend this grave thought.

           i am the master-magician


           the masturbaters of  ________

             fill in the flank!





at times the abyss throws rocks
   at god's craggy face
but god knows better
working a line here, a touch there gabbing the old feast and space

works for love's da but fortresses know better to keep
  the heat in clambering on the roof gazing at the stone hurlers
god's a big fat wussy


Ah, you just made that up? right? like a woman tenderly kissing her toes.
another lover making mirrors look backwards.
not a forward glance. but hey and ho it's evening trace 
tinkers with a penny's worth at dawn

yesterday I saw a pagan walk up to a vapid virgin statue
her ass glowed glowed up hilted 
i looked her stole a look as 'they' say in the notorious hypothesis
of the immanculinary  ass-fuck

 she peered back we peered and an hour later,
she's telling me her dreams of hindu gropings and many armed goddesses
piling Eve on Eve 
in the fantastic orgy of sleeveless gowns
clad on the oversized statues of that petty country of  Brahma and Gita
& a heavy hipped Kali was it?

 anyhow after the rain it was pouting . ringed by a solid window sore writs and stiff wrists
& the wind banged buckets. up her dress . underneath its holly hell and ho me ha.

just another idol worshipper hoping to get divine favors pulled.
she held me close to her basket we tripped on togas tonsils and tongues

. no stop. come back. call. wait. o. hold your death. there's no one as this like.

And speaking of slaves, what 'christian' ever knew the meaning of the word? and flesh its canal and Canaan always produced figures of roughage.

-------------- Mona gathered the river on her head spitting in god's old hoary face. his prima facie worse than any State as who after all, notwithstanding the russian Dostoyevsky' s fantasy, ever held god closer than Fydor.  'If Christ be not god, I want none of him, I will hack my way through existence alone' ! what malarkey that was!
Good for melodramas of the crucified sort.

___________Mona kissed her festoon ass.







Sometimes one can barely speak ~ to

days and night s

Call it poetry, writing _ it was a hard time lately, hardship days and week(s)... somewhere one sees a light, hears the sound of hope, and love fine refine. A rain pouring to quench thirst.

Problem with the balcony of black holes is to get out.

Mozart's desiring-machine?
'Raise your ass to your mouth... ah, my ass burns like fire, but what can be the meaning of that? Perhaps a turd wants to come out... Yes, yes, turd, I know you, I see you, I feel you.. What is this _is such a thing possible? ..." (Mozart letter.. to 'someone' ....)

peace and potatoes
you go
where ever you go
go go
potatoes potatoes

blessed are the meek
the meek the meek the potatoes

blessed r the tatoes
the toes
blesse'd are the tomatoes
the tay n tay
the po

the peace potatoe
the fakirs
fakirs fakirs

blessed are th e y

building bridges

potatoes in crevasses of ridges
tomatoes &


r the feet
the feet that grow potatoes potatoes
not Illyium and the "glory" of gore

bless'd the corn
blessed their kids feet
blown by this war


the little guys
cant ever
yer love
the way
the way
they do


Implausible italic


  it's so much finer to read

' Small
white mouths of flower

drink light.'

   without the italic    ~

  words like those are kind
  without   the 'so' or adjective knocking the shit,or hell out of plane sense,

yes plane, not plain  plain song
  nothing sweeter than a woman in plane song

planular as  a bee stocking honey

between her legs 

 between her knees
 like bites of flesh
 the honey 






the karamazov brothers 2008 english subtitles. 1 Episode 






She used to say 'I am the prophet'

 'you are the prophecy'
  she was dressed in black head to toe


    jumping me on McGill campus a  day
we were walking back to Dialogue Centre 

 it was May or late May




italics have their place _ it'
s not dissimilar to the stress between the I st person pronoun and the 3rd person fictional . but person is persona as the vase is to the glass.

or pass. as rhyme is to 

    a culinary unicorn.

what shimmers  there   (thank you)

  in 'a cloud of dust'

    ----------------------________________as for the comedian in 'me' that's bent around  a pole
between aphrodisiac and amnesiac                        'we'  which in french is   'oui'  

   so we is yes as in yea-saying the great inclusive cloud of sky

  a poem filled with a mouth

  So the fictions work in that .

and blogs

are numbered now.

the spymasters and spurners of the world . have our number.

  as place and  station.

krrp ktttpp  krrrp keep the text evasive and longing

mad e to the marriage of what cant be gotten away with on a page.

a page?

what's age?

between ea ch rhyming boot
between    each rhyming bot

  each rhymed 'bottin'

as the cursive moves forward.

                          Jill shaking the dust from her feet. a hypertexting Mama with googoo and gaga down her lime lips.

                     Like you lover. and the frizzy haired women.

                                  Mona never wants pretence to buckle down her writing. so keep going keep going in spite of fright. at the edge always of the what of. and the where of.

 And .





But there's no way poetry can be written this way. it's false. the persona, the eperson, it's not personafictation and its liberating name he she Mona, Jill, Franny chewing at the sun stoked words breaking the triboo the tribook! of old
returns we must turn I .

Mona pairs her hands handsome to the dog patch. it's not a security batch but a byte of bye and by. Mr Google doesn't understand hyper-linsk, or denotation connotation  pressing its text to forcome limits. Nor words

machined against spam and wants to control persona,

Mr Google doesn't like Mr and Mrs Schizoanalysis.

Missa Google wants I I  I and  $$$. Three times for each word. Controlling its empire of glass and server. Not the service of art's aesthetics.

who challengers google loses incoming links and out going extra connectings of words and their naughty million meaings their naughtly million night.

------------------ Words must be dumb on the internet. which is not a visual medium. a slave to faces. and spies.

 Poetry? fictions? personafictative epistemes? experimental fartexting and hyperlinking?

O Jill's connotative bliss is bouncing!




I am thinking of this story by G  ~ schizophrenics hear better than other people

'          they say they  hear voices   '

   her voice put me in mind of Erin Monahan 





Stop italicizing moth. It's not necessary
  the weight of the words

    will do 

the trick
 for cell-mates gathering  arcs over glittering places 
   you don't need an intaglio nor italic 
 your mouthed words do
it better

hiding the prisoner your hips
 always swayed to a music
we couldn't clench could we?
 between your buttocks
the round song of the seer

it's there bettered by rocks
  and throngs
breath-taking hours
  a voice was it yours darkening 
in night over long hair distance

a puttee marking the place a sailor plunged his woes
  your ass was greener
held by candles later night desperate calling cards

O it's me it s you wanting to

wings caved on carved walls
 belief held strong your call

not an only but better than that
 unlocking fingers  between this speedy prayer

as you called it but it was you me 
 bugger all made nothing from something

up to your lips and you I'm moving my hips
  starting to

 if it was shooting 
   was it was a stream coming 
    firing into the void
   but your womb
   was better

  where a  wolf heard 
   it was right
   daring by plunder each
mouth's teeth gnawing at the lust

that was a  two hour event
but wombed by its cage 
 your hands
picking at the air


Document these seeds Mona, hair-pin to the delight of non-I.


jane robert poetry and its possibLES

the poetics of audition . her voice, a prophet _______________ --------------------------------------------

_______________________________________________________ this woman's voice is like something i n my head thethetheaahhahah voioioicie of aaa prropfet ~ 

_________________ what makes writing poetry in blogs is precisely what some people complain about/ that it does not answer to the idea of the printed page with its surely defined border

--------/media like g'eros
/over the electronic page
-------------------------------------------   'god said to me are you 
                                             /homosexual? text answered
                                            / a-text-without-pages
                                            /is what i am /



'Mundane Blonde'


  How about some of the poems in Blue Dog?


Question : What about Mundane Blonde?  That's the  name of a poem in my first printed  book Blue Dog Plus.

         that book was published by Fortner Anderson who's a very good spoken word performer. We had some differences of opinion about art eventually ... but that's pretty normal, as things go, artists always have differences of opinion  ....


the poem was written in 1976. It was written in a sort of dadaist style,  there's some invented words in there... and I guess I was

                             thinking about some people who  worked across the street from where I worked at the time. In a shipping company. 

                                           I was back in Canada for a spell ...

.                                               It was definitely not written about anyone I knew, personally.

  it was really written about a sort of ogre or gnome like person I saw, almost a monster,

in a ppearance who , i suppose even frightened me in her look ....

Then I mixed it up with these invented words and sounds, and there bang it was. it was funny.

My partner  a tthe time, Gail Modric, thought it was funny, and she laughed about it. She had a great laugh!

 It's a funny poem. it reads well/ after all these years. which im glad about albeit surprised.

As poems go.

  i was working at this place with a friend of mine, Maurice Chayet.

He's a mathematician and a dadaist  too. A math Dadaist.

he invented 16field geometry in Li groups.... fields baby I mean 16 dimensions. A zany guy.  Lives in France and has since the early 90's.

 Has a boatload of kids.

Comes froma  big family of a boat-load of kids.

He's a story in it-self.

_______Did you ever meet Sartre when you were there in the early 70's?

    No, my god! how would I have met such a notable person? he was getting pretty old around then, I don't think he hung out in the cafes or whatnot I was in

I never saw him at Vincennes .

How did you end up naming the book Blue Dog PLus?

  it was  ajoke really. but hey i'm hungry I gotta go. we can continue this after 


_____________ tape ends.



' Combien?


How many Prime Ministers  in Purgatory?

  Hmmm let's see the

    last time I counted it was pretty all of them

  burning     burning                    burning



i think one of 'em got off


the one now?

oh Him? his place's is marked out already

how you know

well you see Kid when you been there to eternity

   you know there's no time see? so you See what's happening before its happend

and the presidents of the us of A?

O those guys ?
they are bad bad

pretty much all of them are in purgatory yet,

a few in hell

with guys like    murdererds of humanity

   in the lake of shit

 the river of manure that swirls forever round and round
downstream a toilet bowl

chokin their guts
spitting them back up

president prime minister

 so many so many I had not thought

  hell'd be so crammed

but then it stands to reason doesn't it 'arry?

 they did bad caused sufffering that endured for others for centuries

now its their turn

to cook in the permanent urn


france is dead


  france is dead
  greece too in your head
mister IMf is that the name
 the brigand'
s game
cut cut


cut cut cut    cut cut cut them 

tearing its stock & bond
  a con

worse than dylan
  time s are not changin' never were  was a con
   there's no future for you

democracy did not come

pretty vacant

france is dead
england is worse
its in bed

 with its worst instead
reduced to this lime
of labor

geek and patrol club
royalty geek diana was  a chance
a cash cow for the seperation of church
an state now private rights

'perfidious britain'


   of course there's that above   Britain. the inventor of the great hotocracy. 12oo years of world wide bingoism._____________________ pray line of flight, come forth.

Mona's legs span the empire on which the 'son' never sits' Or was , that, a sun never sitting on fat fanny Victoria's ass, her wrinkled old pancake fanny, that germanic buck?

__________ and the french have their toupees and beaches in Biarritz
   that rhymes with Ritz

the topless witless swarm goo like captial gains on the mud swerved shores of this

  'continent' in thralldom to  oil pumps, crates, east west north south
in your mouth deadduck oIlgoo

  the reinvention of the 'human' 's yet to be
  has it Miss skincream Bardot?

( Nor does Dday reprieve  the unwanted
   does does not erase the  waste

     nor does shining capital

   erase its

        pretending  victory over victory nor over death)

and the willingness to create 94 camemberts and coffee up the bimbo bolts

  a s the panzers rolled over

but it was the Russians saved Europe and what's perfidious capital doing yet?

O you Pillionaires

   the trouble with billionaires the trouble

   with billionaires
   is they exist

that they exist
is an affront to human suffering

Jill kicks butt I am Mozart's daughter but can't be bought. I am neither fat nor slim. Nor am I skim milk.


they say, the capis, hell don't exist  no more

no 'after life' for the bad

 after all they are workin on cloning capital eternal
dna for their own

but here'sthe news Hell does exist and  so the after life

its mightY Maws waiting to scoop up the dead billionaires
 and the others trampling the human race to pieces

I figure Marx will open the gates of Hell to them

and Engels or others give them a tour

just for openers

 Marx , Hell , and God all working in co-operation to punish

the bad guys

them that gave suffering a dirty name




there's nothing worse than a russian bear and a ukrainian fiddler. who dances to that tune