.. should you ..


Re: should you .. 
                 tatters of paper


 why cut the most original punctuation of an author,

or the author machinery
forcing its
to a radical



comparisons false as Mona heard the tent ping cross her electronic horse  ~


should you ..


  if you're reading this with your phone you're not seeing it nor reading it at all
           neither alt all reading nor reading at all all at the end scope of its tender
 turning of its speaking phone nor reading bliss

 & continuing to persist in the error of your way your you've heard a bar branch peter on the falling water of its ommission

 now that fake sentence




Re: Iceland ..

                     is cold,   it's  no wonder
                       they left

                                     playing chess with the ghost of bobby fischer,

Re: Iceland ..

tell me ,


   tell me what happens when  you're going blind  ,

        the glare on the glare is harder, esp when you're tired,

                                and your girlfriend's ass

                                                     feels better,

                                                       your hand grabs more

                                                                   feels more,   because it's less distracted

                                                      how it looks,

                                                                                so your hand gets to 'see' how it feels
                                                                                          like never before

                   a full hand,


so conducting,


 so conducting between  the various acts of speech, freed, of its imprecise function as language,

   we create theatre, crossing the street,


you mean?


 you mean the theatre of action ?  you mean the theatre of action baaaby

              you mean the two step
                                                                   the three step



   the immigrant gets his passport stolen

                 hapless, helpless, flounderin' the street,

                              dog down on the road,




the theatre


   working with the theatre will change things

                      the theatre, performance,


i just want ...| HiS Face

his face I dont walk and talk about Jesus

I just wanna see his face
.... al right

you dont wanna walk and talk abou Jesus
you just wanna see his face

which might be a world mystery

An artist's impression of the face of Jesus
based on the Shroud of Turin and corrected
to match Dr. Stephen Marquardt's mask.
for the mouse
trick go to
link below
Move your mouse pointer inside
and outside the image to the left
to view the mask overlay.
Click on the image to return to
the previous page.

JesuS where you Been
I been hiding Out here Hiding behind this

Copyright 2003 by World-Mysteries.com

and the water


    the water speeding past     you  looking at speeding past over the tilt of the boat
                                                  speed at this tilt
                            how many knots   pushed the capstan past the   whirling reefs?
                     this being the place the spot in the moving tide
                             the sea rid by both islands between the giant chalks of land
                                    t his land and that      one to t he west                          

                                                                    the wild scraggy water  colder
                                                                     waking the long dead dreams
                                                                              Ah but does cold waken?

                                                                                this time it does
                                                                                    her curse falls away
                                                            only love is good
                                                                 only love remembers
                                                            no not hate doesn't remember



.. where ..


     you were walking  the  road   Barna  to Galway then back (back back to Canada

                                                  like a real immigrant) that you were
                 that  you are  a prisoner of roads and   train,  roadblock and  visa,
                        a  mere speck in the dust of   power
               not a trembling anger in the calm town
                  backing down over the sweet pea
                                          and her hips

                           swaying calling you home



types of eternity and infinity, notes to ,


   literature is a type of eternity, as it's becoming virtual in it's distinction across the speeding universe
of death catching up with itself,

surpassing the death it's been given by the breath of life,
  passes from body to body until the 'last recorded ' syllable of eternity, was that the night knocking on

          the knees of the play,

                                   and the determination of the page, set by the 'stage' of the book eye's
                                                         'frame' of reference  always  a set of eyes

                   but the breath bound by  nothing a comma rotating in space a woman's smile
                   her kiss travels  the distance of death,
                             and eternity's long buckle  ,

                                whatever that means,

               and what is the page of print compared to the air,

                        the evacuation continued  a mighty force thousands
                                                  removed from harm's way as the big dam

                                          appeared to be in danger of  cracking, flooding,

                                   the world flood, Enkidu Gilgamesh,

                       the big wigs and big shots can build war machinery, but not bridges and dams

                        lasting eternity                  long a s a  a  sonnet, or a brazen plaque of word
                                                      the word hurts fallen form the heart mouth,

                                              and solitude and loneliness are long , waste
                                              is worse the ,

                                      yet we don't end on this note of paltry self regret, nor self pity
              because creation's always happening

                              whether you know it or not

            fruit's being born
                                 harvest coming in
                         gathering of grapes and horns,




'is infinite is eternal'


   grief  ends replaced  by eternal life
      the soul and body returned reunited





'hiatus'  it' s  a point of view

    say  like this bridge over the Thames or the one in Shannon,
                        the one in the   falling water stretches over the yarn
                  on the boat, and your     sailing self reaching

                         hanging by the

                                               this water plunging unlike  the plough over the farms
                                                             back of Cork county
                                                        the time hitchhiking



_ g for giref


                                           grief is endless,
                                                      before , after and after before,


re: now hang 'hic sunt'

__its always interesting to frame a text giving a new context opening out new molecules the arms of the molecules write the page of your health writers the page of your health __________


or example take this old text which like many others covers its covers its ... with ....


nd other means of ..... .., ,,, you mean comma? right? Not sure, CP, not sure,


s takea look,

setting the virtual again


the actual


of the real



now hang 'hic sunt'

 her body's tired
leaves against rain
hankying the snow
on bus and delta
ringing of forest
and the traveller hears
Now hang on a minute , please
really, shrug shoulder, rustle of hair weather
pardon him his sins
in the almighty god's face of rat's ass
and toiled twins

can you bring her something to eat , please?
she is dying
your lips''ll do

tonic for sale in the warped maze
 hugging terrors for thoughts
or she's wishing wishes were togs
or her feet are down by her underwear
and the gladiolas getting a face lift
and your enemy is waking her burden a
soft face in the morning sun
my couples've broken their legs

snails by the swollen feet of angels
mud in the kicked out frames of sun
repeats sun but not amusing for the death
wish heaving the barrels overboard
hic sunt rampant lions and cool cougars
won't hold the bay back from war
"kafka's girl" says, 'People are stupid,
they're stupid, stupid'
sparrow-hawks comin cutting down
stink on the air brought its bad weather to remind us
fabulous discipline to your news of

at the sea she and I earlier spring or mid
between motorcycles and accidents the day to day dazed
wore wrapped hearts in our velvet hair
she was a homosexual and i was her lover boy

some tom-tom like that or tom-boy hidalgo
is this war trading love for sex labour for whoring
she weareth clippers in her song
you think you hear berets lips, war, breasts,
and yer heart skips twenty beats remembering what the hell do kids know

the bike hit the ground ankle twisting
cartwheel sort of, air rush
bang boom
not quite a Merkava tank rolling over me

or a rocket in the face of a Russian immigrant
land of Mayakovsky and others


quelle défi, mon amour
et son des chansons des pleins nuits
aux vieillards

gulps it her cognition
base open to a merriment
predicated by throng

beats the dada busher
come all yerfaithful
have fiat will travel

taverna on the Greek isle
her thighs wrapped in the warm water

the warm water



darling get rid of warm

pray for me


the tea leaves are burning


the cities of the mouth  were
wrapped in flames



we can play the recording later.

see how it feels

 its pretty bad isnt it?



__yr heart's face______________________

Just fell across this profoundly stupid remark about a great film which deserves better than this bland vague

Perhaps this is overstating the case; but as a view of cinema as well as a view of life, LA MAMAN ET LA PUTAIN seems to me profoundly reactionary. This is already hinted at in the jokey treatment of Alexandre’s idle friend, whose cluttered room with stolen wheelchair and Nazi memorabilia suggests a fascist playpen; or in the nostalgic use throughout of old records, reflections of yearnings for the presumed certainties and absolutes of the past. And yet, like Long Day’s Journey Into Night, like the better parts of ICE or FACES, the film’s compulsive picking at wounds reveals a genuine impasse, a tragic lack in ourselves that cinema seldom admits, much less describes — a cry of animal defeat lending Eustache’s essentially destructive masterpiece a scarred authenticity that sears the mind and persistently haunts the emotions.

Sight and Sound, Winter 1974–1975

_____________s ound effects___________


sound effects from this blog don't appear to be working on mobile viewings of it,

           which presents another  challenge and or possible    area to work on,




Iceland ..


                 Iceland  Ireland  on the high seas

    all on a  brigantine




Re: love's like

Re love's like so 

   love's resembles banishment! ah i have rung four cities with the hope of uncovering a lover's hope


love's like

love like this / a punishment/ exile/ kicked out down those stairs
                                                      run that machine
    squawk box
lover loser
                                                       you still want it ? send by anon anon an anon a door backward taken
                                                            can i blame her?

                                                 but everything'sfiction including t he question mark crossed virtual sky
                                                                     victual victim of love's crucifix

 retake  take again ache  of t he offwall a crib from the wake and the again nothing of a life choosing words pulled from the air winding the right left wing of the halting diction of this searching self wondering at the Pom bakery  truck where you 'crashed' out 1 night hitchhiking back from Sussex New Brunswick   and hungry on the road not knowing not knowing what was down the road the trains were inexpensive it was fun going down the road that summer spring fall and discovering that great writer and happiness was a  something on  a w wing a hat in your head or something shadowing you something good and the world was coming with its hopeful

No more period

no more commas,

this piece of material cloth collage

a  fair of body

 a  warn of skill

love's horn

 your body wrapped around hers in the sun clothing of love's gift


and you add a comma
                                                                            ,                    and push the limit                       (s  ),



.. by coincidence



by coincidene i too was reading the stocky Stoics reviewing ancient Greek philosophers!

  how they muttered when speaking  gaping out of caves

                      in the dark                      in t he park with two lovers side to side

                     like  you in  S     yes with two side by side

                but that was mere   romantic years dont count besides nothing ever came of it

                             nothing really happened except a dance across the floor kissing on
           then th' other
                                    then the dead years came

                            exile the downward spiral

                       but the Stoics were mostly rickety and   the body grows old and saw

  rifting round its continual gape as Jill t he ruby and Mona the diamond, or was it green emerald? azure amethyst?
                   O how I missed her

     or some machine as this infinite turning back of page and page and stroke after stroke
                                                                                                                 the swimmer

           nobody makes poetry no one

                       and solitude is infinite


Now Jill says tell me that sounding it's plunging past the feet of the matter the Mater Dolorosa, the Ugliosa holding her own in the messy kitchen where G lived with     ~

_    a  nervous narcotic insistence


  bks 've disappeared

          the illusion of holding one it's in yr head
                     mostly holding it in your head
                        the illusion

_____________________________Around the crockery dish__________________________


Re: end of ,


Rey: end of ,

   january became febuary 2 yrs an counting,
                                         love's bind/ love's blind

                                                                              and stupid too

                                                            oh you noticed that eye rhyme
                                             rhyming on the cursor of dictionary

                                          thee hurt dictionary o f love's pitter-patter bitter-batter
                                                                   punishing  furnishing doubt and a day longer than  a hil

 a w ord hoard its spent energy nor barging against the stand up and pray
                  and a  lover's body not bought
                             saying to you
                                       to me

                               you said you loved me
                                                                           you said  you loved me

                                              ----------------- and she arrived & i didnt know
                                                                              not until later

as the last boat leaving had entered t he port/ clacking sail
              and ripping harpoon carrying nothing but the fluttering souls

                               it was late /i was tired
                                            my body was sore
                                              what happened
                                                    in that tornado
                                                                   a vortex
                                                      of humbling need
                                                                and rough worn windows
                                                                                 eyes of the soul