Wednesday, December 30, 2015

white turnip heads
in the floodwater—
the dead of winter


Monday, December 28, 2015

slanting fields
pour through wet drystone—
new waterfalls

the river rises—
nearly to our doors
we breathe


Wednesday, December 16, 2015

three and a half seconds of pure light (a poem for the Time Being)
unlike the whip-pan, which is used to rip the viewer
into a tangential reality, the dead-pan uses a melting rack-focus
to engage the death-posture of the character onscreen
—Madeleine Shine

1. (he sees himself laying onward
in the rain stone 

after stone
into the mist towards a horizon
which will not be known

this the Zen-pan or stone-pan)

2. the boy the silhouette only of the boy
the long-dead seen from behind
hobbles along the alleyway
leaving his merest forensics barely

stroked into silver emulsion

3. another who reaches the vanishing point
who leaves nothing

—undiscoverable archaeology
of light
a creature of soft parts only
who dances but will not keep
who leaves no fossil for the reliquary

4. where at the table the hands work in shards

—of flint, itself fossil, compression,
the metamorphic dead—

knappings, rebuild in three dimensions
the stone jigsaws—each when finished
yet incomplete—brooding an inner hollow

where something was once eased forth

now only a void, a lost core felt
as disturbance
of the night air but nothing

when we stir
only nothing

lost there
in all our rolling fingers of dream



Tuesday, December 15, 2015

le dormeur du val: an inflected cyborg translation of Rimbaud for Remembrance Sunday 2008

it is a hole of greenery where a river sings
hanging madly to grasses
................................tatters of money
......................where sun of the proud mountain shone
it is a small valley which foams of rays a young soldier
stops open, naked head, and the nape
bathes in cool blue cresses
....................sleep it is wide in grass, under the naked one
pale in its green bed where the light rains the feet the gladeoli, it sleeps smiling
as would smile a sick child, it makes a nap Nature it warmly: it is cold
the perfumes do not make any more shiver
..........................its nostril; It sleeps in the sun
.......................the hand on its tranquille chest

two red holes on the right

(Translated by Steve Parker 2008)


Saturday, December 12, 2015

'The' Tao that loves is or is not ...

 loving  causes  ability  brave


Wednesday, December 09, 2015

found language poem with


(th ey tht lks
out frm yr ope



diminishing returns

a lifetime's supply
of cigarettes


Wednesday, November 25, 2015

payment protocol (lacuna)

make a hole in the self-text
into which (which?) fluid
a lake to fill the lack

which yourself luna-like
from below-above one
(second of the all-poem)—you



Tuesday, November 10, 2015

if so how (Cézanne of Green Fables) ]now you're for it/

Don't throw the dog—Tibetan Buddhist monk
from Drepung monastery (speaking to Tashi Tsering,
alleged four year-old reincarnation
of the deceased high lama, Khensur Rinpoche. 1991)
... rich oil and wine into the earth slap—Aeschylus
For the love of God, have pity on yourself—Bob Dylan

(in sacrifice: S-A-C-C-A-D-E—3: Callas the elf,
2: Cézanne the woodcutter ... 1:
(add fool to the fire) fairies parallel in the offing the day
the music died 23/10 the day on which

there are fairies/fairies in the offing look how
if ever so how then not so how the distance
closes in light in light's rush (inlight he names the third
brush with the law names he the second in outlight
fury of love, his father-(died harmony)-in the off and only—what
I want to use by you says (he) died of harmony only for it

for it is a spirit smell not given

eighty-four days in the outwrites all over
its assay on Cézanne, paracelebrant
and vocative I, O, think that—may have been the south pole
or dipole but this your face it is now at moments after
it (what) is spring either that May not floruits its rill-
-its koanica not its the first he names
(the conscience of the town ... the ditch of truth
Victor Hugo)

and then he knew ...
......................that was [not] where he was going


Saturday, October 17, 2015


the sky, look
for an instant
they hold



put to
the question
snakes the way and long


older by an idiot (Immaterial Culture) (unfinished otherwise overfinished)(high, heeled posture and bearing)

In September 2006, the U.S. government announced 
it had moved Mohammed—Wikipedia 

[seemingly its entire being in lordus though its vocal response so monomoraic as to appear pulse or spike of the silence which surrounded it than any genuine phonology merely a swell or gathering in of the tacit a rousing almost but not quite a wakening into true utterance]

—the second sunday in june 1144 the first dedication of the arch gothic

(2015, 9/11: 111 people killed when a crawler crane collapses in Mecca during preparations for the Hajj
an inquiry is ordered, presumably into the mysteries of predestiny and the mind of Allah.urgent also numerology)

{In 1912 a group of women calling itself the Heterodoxy begins to convene a Feminist luncheon symposium (one supposes) this association for unorthodox women includes prominent lesbians and will meet regularly in Greenwich Village until the 1940s]

—oh this antipodean retroussé of the language oh it I will not have?¿albeits pointing up of the question innate to every word—'for'

(Every animal is sad after coitus except the human female and the rooster—Galen)

instance the Nazi side-co-opting of astika and nastika

(oh god I want to hidemy side issuesin the useful penumbra of yours ...)
(my side issues forth(in and of itself)In and Of

there are messages come through at long the needle
flickering (ectogasm)

forms around the mouth of the silent --------- between us now declared

older by an idiot
gentlemen, a mystery has been committed—The Goons
in bowls of unspoiled human juice

is that you whose presence so frightful
vague in the evenings in the autumn is that you (who does he mean-
spirited are they both and full of sire

who does he?

who does he imagine how that turns
her vocalization her rhotacism her R-marinaded vowels
revealing a febrile eek tenuous wheel upon the air as one
mid-splutter after a breathing (a wreathing) of smokewater
boarded 183 times (gave up not the goods)

put to T h e Q u e s t i o n

..........................and long)


Tuesday, October 06, 2015

Walter Sickert on late Monet:

‘I feel no need to pass out before a pond.’


Sunday, October 04, 2015

Act boldly, and unseen forces will come to your aid—Dorothea Brande


Saturday, October 03, 2015

225,386 people 
were killed 
with firearms 
in the US 
between 2007 and 2013

(keep it quiet
and act
like it didn't happen)


Friday, October 02, 2015


a mother makes up
songs for her baby—
cradling her thoughts


/ˈmæs.ə.kə(ɹ)/ of the lullababy (work in digress)

this dyad is found deep—Wikipedia
so I says says I—Ireland
that even those who assert that everything
is predestined ... look both ways
before they cross the street—Stephen Hawking

from the pictures it looks

—animals in other language [a look of]
animate of dysnumber
dogs in/of the farflung
frequentative of barbarossa .......................babararian
such ack specialist ack Greek Heterodox ach diet so axo saxo
Fama romance-god of rumour thereby war and the war-floor
and of and unto and the saline

with the SER and HIS residues required to form—

of the hedgegrows and hedgegogs then
are we—rossa.rosa.eschscholzia
rooted deep through viral floors
of Tom All Alone's 
in its very rooking of us we stand parled (parled)

linebroken as dyads.]states the interstitiate]

also “the head of a newly killed stag
the promiscuous slaughter of many who can
/ˈmæs.ə.kə(ɹ)/ O schwaaaaa
(obsolete) Murder—Gothic-vocative 𐌼𐌰𐌹𐍄𐌰𐌽

(the unidentified in all space exerted
by the unreadable cumulative
of the unbigenough for measure 

-O lullababa no

what now do we not know


Saturday, August 22, 2015

Virginia Woolf speaking of words ...

... feeling herself carried along in the swirl of many things
—Virginia Woolf: Night and Day, 1919.

A recording of Adeline Virginia sounding rather High Victorian unmodified by Modernism, and her word-thinking evidently in like stasis. One would like to have asked what of structures then? What of houses or churches? Why are they not all caves or at most fashioned of sticks and turves? How unprogressive these Blooms! But one may hear the deep discarnadining sadness in the sea-caverns of her voice, may sense the urge already to retreat therein: her soul pockets filled with ponderous words, with the multitudinous Cs to which her voice ever sinks ... Her love grown heavy now: only four more years of life to be endured...

The only known extant recording of Virginia Woolf, 1937.


Thursday, August 20, 2015

full text of Pliny the Elder's natural history

et in arcadia ego

-;*> ; 

le berger traces his own shadow in the script not that of his companion
not that of his componionette

s*> :. 
this is not the birth of death or art 
clambering hegemony


c'est l'occupante Poussin et il dit que l'autre vie est aussi l'Arcadie

see XXXV 5, 15 "mais qui est elle?" La Justesse, pluk!

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

"I have attempted the penny whistle, 
and have discovered it to be damnably devoid of strings."
—Madeleine Shine. 1969.

"I have attempted the strings,
and have discovered them to be damnably devoid of whistle!"
—Aliceaforethought 2015


our savage gentle forthright astronomy (work in regress)

and the item is life whirling
and the auctioneer leans back
says this says this

will not be our future
no this will
expresses most clearly
as extended
that such a thing

pataphor in unfact-

o look

an eye-blue tarquin takes off
all its sails set

still set upon this I cannot

[whats, though, whats?]

destination Mars,
a whole genre novel
with alacrity to be hedgehogged
of all its drear love

what he said
what the thunder said
the dunder [the caboche?]

don't play retroracist games for now
is the winter
rip't from the belly of christ's American
hegeMony Mony here she comes

then suddenly she doesn't come
at all
—and without a gasp

oh phrike and great snakes
the way and long


End of Career

the cruellest thing
Tony Blair did
was not the Iraq War

it was buying Gordon Brown
an ice cream
in public

then watching
it kill him


Monday, July 27, 2015

if you had it in your hands

if you had it in your hands
it would be all purple light
too many voices has the world
and rather too much fight

O I have been rejected
rejecting have I done
those silly distant struggles
have all been lost and won

but love's the real hearted thing
so always keep it near
and be as brave as possible
for all is fucked by fear

and if you had it in your hands
what difference there would be
we'd slide down flumes and ski down flanks
then crash into a tree


Wednesday, July 15, 2015

of love and dark ways in fragment and phrase

this the cold air of a summer
in which of anyway there was no certainty
even afterwards long after
when he held his head in death
cradling those thoughts
as if they had happened then
as if that had been some point

of gnosis but no it cannot he will think back there
into the garden whose bench was now
or then a gap or space or absence

no he would think in those last times no

it could not be for imagine the unimaginable faery
transport of such a thing and who anyway
could sit upon it there in the air such
an air of hiatus or hubris or harking

anyway to the meek in rows for the showers
of midsummer with a dug-up of poppies
that were anyway fell anyway of light
and anyway of war and rivers undug and
now yes and yes and yes

to what motor or engine or brain
does one prostrate is all after and no
before so yes and come hither
for one has words painted there upon

the sky, look
for an instant
they hold

and all the world shudders
pricked as an anxious pet
but perceiving nothing yet
like so many whirled Buddhas

lapses or relapses or collapses

in all such ways: your absence

upon the killing. turnips etc

silence in the lounge
where once as if

some explosion

everyone bated

look at their idiotic

think now, think hard
what comes next


Wednesday, July 01, 2015

all the grooming politesse of night

O men dreary rolling their armpits
through the steam
oh look he says to the mirror oh look
that's all
this is what it is to live
to have to cater for secretions and stench
to work with to manage
he lights a cigarette and blows a faceful
of smirking smoke
stuffs it in the plug with hisses
there now, block up, he whispers
you are nothing but a trap

full of hair and death
of most unfortunate breath

suddenly startled at himself
he goes straight back to bed
to perform last vile acts before work

in th bathrm a elephant as if
forms itself
but does not shave

three women of ages without hair appear dead
in the bath

without grace or meaning
the beat and industry

trumpet and jazz
jazz and strumpet

gone to work far-off
in mists of southern slick





Sunday, June 28, 2015


the enclosing lushness of the path
to the Pooh Sticks bridge

Herb Robert is everywhere
reaching, with its tiny pink starlight

offset by the blue walls
with their mossed-up faces
hanging over the beck

where one cannot help but stop (along)
and ask for reassurance

with such miracles
we sleep at riversides


Wednesday, June 24, 2015

schlock and schlock again

all that it ever was A major bouncing like
me and uh you in a bouncy castle by a uh river
no minors no sevenths no augmented
nothing but front out gutloose oh fuck

all of it swirled in smerk

dried up now in petrie dishes
like dead squirrels
in rude postcards from the Front

both dead in the mud
not even not even

don't fool yourself

time is what we don't have

sit back anyway
you may as well die comfortable


delight ain't just 
the giver 
of sight—Madeleine Shine

machine sea

ugh a dread from over

            the far morbay that blackback fells stark
                         into spluts of early birdscold

a monster inching inthing .              that ingrew
[airturtles in lifts of silent drubdead] a waiting grew in-again
and ingrew
until over all.the cock and cocklefield was a mainshout pulked

all-ending the lowscrats
in their long-hauled ruggers lugged hard.
the gutwives widing the redroll to belift
                                        in now the men the drymen in, in

acres now to the barrel-beaches with the uncut catch inwarped.
fishimps and ghosts sidelaying low as lie-low for Jamaico

on the eastlandic scottles .............of west herringbane
and chinee soup schlocked in-out in octofathoms
of hemp drabingers, haulers, menwomen
from the near-sea teeters.a washup iglooed him up in rubs
on a southbeach known by no one.his/her face disglued

the songs of how they wore their sea-sucks unscrewed
now from his beachheart and heave-head for the far Cathay tubs

(published in The Triggerfish Critical Review,  2011)

Cronos eat (jelly) babies (to the Gala)

what we call watch they call un show
we look it from different sides
somewhere between this thumb or toe
time and tongue for no—elides

[—this to 'veal the camembert drool
pinched with pincers from anabapt
munsters calumnous to some fool
hung to dry on Omaha—rapt—]

gagging for Kiplings who states his cakes
that eau est le fuel of the kill
is that which jelly babies makes
in Time if it's coiffured its fill


Thursday, June 18, 2015

(a hypnagogue for JM)

... that slepen al the nighte with open ye—Chaucer
... delight ain't just the giver of sight—Madeleine Shine
... because he is absolutely evil amounts—Camus
... the best method of accomplishing 
an accidental result—Ambrose Bierce
... whose evil consequences will extend—
Currer Bell

(it is a dawn it is a purple drift and yaw
in which the like and light and fore)

it is water underground
it is dapple on the dead
it is sunlight bent around
beneath the bed

The Deer

—it went by in a clatter, panic
you didn't see or hear
yet both of us gets franic 
abouts the outcomes here—

waking to all of the other: so far
(there to spread) the waning paling night

dawning-disaster, and delight

what asters, dear
what fright


radicalization is the resigned resort of the desperate and lonely
anyone can find friends and fervour
in that foolish firelight


Monday, June 08, 2015

jump or roll the dice

The people we write for
are always already gone
and will never read us again
we write only for ghosts
—Madeleine Shine

once it becomes clear
that you are falling asleep
at the wheel
and that some other driver
takes over
seemingly with every intent
to drive the bus off the road
it really becomes immaterial
how beautiful the destination
how well you describe it
how it is just around the next bend

at this point your passengers
are advised to cut their losses
and jump
before the next lapse

they can grieve later
for the garden they never reached
for the dreams they lost along the way
but they will live

as they watch
the mad bus
the driver
and his dark brother
disappear into the mountains



last night I walked with a zombie

inconceivable now as the pathway
its soft-looking venoms
where once

the bell the bell the clang
that rang for us zombies
at the river's edge

blood in cups we drank
so slow and soft
slicking each other's bloodlips
never really asking

it's not me
it's not my family
in your head

we the walking dead

eating at each other's brains
lack of brains
wasting unrepeatable miracles

muscle, fat, fibre
connective tissue
brain most of all, this head offal—

all these we devour and desire
our species
yes we desire most of all
our own species
and we are rare

what's in your head tonight
zombie? oh oh oh

bury me under a heavy stone
let it be inscribed
with warnings
not to unearth monsters
lest one has time to talk
and the fortitude to wait

for all of it to become true



Sunday, June 07, 2015

It's not a smile; it's the lid on a scream—Julie Goodyear

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose--Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr.The most revealing features here are the murmurations of the audience: when they *dare* to laugh.

or maybe stoats lofted, Biggles?

what are you like with heat?
there is a tide in the heat and beat
which if taken at the flood, would

what do you call a man with no head
no arms no legs no body?
it is a sort of rude joke and like seagulls
not to be trusted or rusted or thrusted
though no doubt the years have it
crusted. once I sat in a café in Cairo
watching a gang guy twist his moustache

the divvil, he said, they think I am afraid
from the divvil I am afraid from no divvil
which point he produce his flick knife
breathe hard. the divvil, he says

the divvil. by this point I study
indifference and his display falls flat
but is quickly redeemed by weasels
which jump over our tables

in a late-night kahwa. will, one thinks,
one, ever, find, ones, way, home

through these midnight weasels?
wreathed as they are in hashish smoke?

twenty five years on, the weasels?

wind in the arch?

we hoot and feel the resonance of masonry?
at least my parenting does this?

dick was the answer, didn't you know?

just like bob was the other answer

now there is the Theory of Everything

it's more complex than you thought
this weasel thing of love

first you have to answer your own joke
then twirl your own stupid moustache
then recognise your flick knife

most of all
see the weasels, the weasels

then find your way home
to find all the furniture gone

no one ever lived there anyway
what you thinking huh?

brevity is lost to me now
and you also, whoever


Just because it's that time on Saturday night, or should be...

Tuesday, June 02, 2015

Littlebigbang Theory

cold dark matter, some of it bright and hot
some of it not matter
on such a scale that it might appear
arrested, frozen, fixed
in crystal spheres
but in reality flying
outwards from a single point of origin

Play that film backwards—Brian Cox

tracing the reverse trajectory
of all that is or has ever been

brings us at last, second by second
gasping on the shores of cosmic time

to a garden shed near Banbury

there a mild goddess sits
the un-ancient of days
her finger on the button
what done it all

her name the horn of becoming
the park-keeper at the gates of dawn

the shot that was heard around the shed



we are the eggmen

as with Burroughs's ugly spirit what killed
his wife one awakes to find one's existence
compromised by forces that appear alien
beyond one's control astonishing how a moment
will unravel everything gasping at the sudden
intervention at how it can never be undone
can never be put back never made whole again
one can of course fret and complain can pine
or preferably one can awake to find one's mouth
and eyes sealed with ectoplasm half-buried
in a ditch in some urban woods waiting to be
kicked to pieces by feral children in the closing
pages of someone else's story in which ultimately
one was only a minor character forgotten
once the book slips from the fingers onto
the bedroom floor where once or twice only


Friday, May 29, 2015

is remembering your girlfriend
when the lights blow out

are the breaths
within kisses


Quick poem for Duncan's sculptures

swollen their hard-soft bellies
that are not bellies beyond mathematics
their beaks that are not beaks
this sculptor of the infinite
will confound us with his Grecian tricks
as a sky will fool us with its love


riverghosts aside

the grass in the glint
the hand of your hand
the river's brush
the sun's cackles as the low
small things
away they won't

go the infested the path
now always never


Worlde's Blis: The Jaye Consort.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

her drums pound
all the night
soft pigeons at dawn



there is not one moment in/for which
the clockface of dandelions blown
out as basements will not tell
its facial tells at the table in the tension

of rigging ropes in the niceness tarred
as ancient kings of Natron salt
of all kinds and hues they all taste

with deep ceramic spoons they call it
that now that lying together in sleep or else
now world and children ere the moon the spoon
clock that has no face that has no rise

upon it at dawn and withafter dawn
and at nightsfall in the holy sex
of six and six and nine and hereafter

where the deadfolks the deadfux
as we now lay/lie with our feet updown
on the slow-rafted yet again to flux
what we have love what we have

death in all of it like fossil vampires
what sucks up fires eek phires
eek oupyres eek

so let loose
the fucking goose
eek lend-lease
the freaking geese


view blog

it means like the shifting the wheeling
of Patton's army to Bastogne in an instant
this miracle that cannot happen
like that it will not be trusted
for we have no priests with weather prayers
such forces as will have to be arrayed

Oh look, a delight of confluence
of water of flowers of light
and all down the road to the shakes
our hearts delighted

until we reck we rode with skeletons
such liches and fetches
all of it gone now
like unto little lights
underwater snuffing our futures
past and unpast we will not learn or unlearn

our stories of our lost children

pale early morning
all quiet


Orange into black in the Yorkshire sinks.

always though they follow

all our secrets it is as though
we had convened perhaps
at the riverside
had been alerted to the coming
of the river monster and had fled
never to be seen again

our lives are safer now
though so much lessened
by this dearth of monsters


Eithe Genoimen (reversal)

I would that I were littered stars
cast up upon the tide
that all my eyes might gaze aloft
to where you hence reside


Thursday, May 21, 2015

fuck you he would say
with his dripping schticks—
I am Nature


Wednesday, May 20, 2015

ghosts by the river

the glint in the grass
the brush of your hand
the river
the sun low as the cackles
the small things
they won't go away

the path is always infested now

full of monkeys
the car slips softly
into the river

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Peter Ackroyd, whom I generally regard as exhaustive in his research, and thereby reliable, reports in his biography of Blake that the average aperture of an 18th century English chimney, climbed by sweeper boys, was seven inches square. Can this possibly be true?

"The only difference between myself and a madman is that I am not mad"—Salvador Dali
"The difference between faith and insanity is that faith is the ability to hold firmly to a conclusion that is incompatible with the evidence, while insanity is the ability to hold firmly to a conclusion that is incompatible with the evidence"—William Harwood.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Ooh so got to learn to catch a ukulele now ...


there's nothing left of this but hairclips
perhaps some DNA
which even post-apocalypse
takes time to wash away


Thursday, May 14, 2015

look harder

look at each other
across the vast gulf
and try to read
what is in your hearts and heads
most of all try
to read yourself
in the eyes of the other

life is so short
so capable of beauty and disaster

it's too late now to look
for anything but truth

as we fly out of the room
on wings of cold silk

love is all we have
that keeps us airborne

gazing down as vibrant birds aloft
into what we know is coming soon
borne upwards in that sudden great heat
and cold that last swoon
to meet us and catch us forever
in its last known slap sideways
into nothing

take your chances and love real hard
little bird


Tuesday, May 12, 2015

rag-rug rag

if you can make it here
there's still no guarantee
that you could make it in the Gaza Strip
or the frozen methane
of somewhere else entirely so these fond statements
are very probably false
I recommend you do not trust them

all existence is suffering, sayeth
he sort of as dukkha
O the unsatisfactoriness
of what changes and cannot be relied upon
others of course make of this a virtue: Forever Changes;
Change is Stability and so on
but this too is falsehood, for all those people
died and liked it not much

it's not said to be a great thing
this withering and dying
best not to start it too early

one has nothing to report.
the changes are the same
as they ever were

the same rug from under the same stupid feet

life goes on so thick and fast
so in a whirl of things
stop it, freeze it and examine
the psychical genome
write it here
figure the real options
then and only then
proceed to alight upon the Earth
all the while conscious
that it is spinning and will spin you

one has nothing to report.
the changes are the same
as they ever were

I intend to be married to a stranger
by the end of the day


Thursday, May 07, 2015

patachresis draught

The raw, which contain bark shavings and bugs during scraping, is placed in canvas tubes (much like long socks) and heated over a feu. This cause the raw to liquify, and it seeps out of the canvas, leaving the bark and bugs behinds. The thick, sticky pasture is then dried into a flat sheete and broken into flakes, or dried into "bouttons" (pucks/cakes), then debagged and sold. The end-user then crushes it into a fine powder and mixes it with ethyl alcohol prior to use. If all is performed aright the bug god will quickly appear.


Wednesday, May 06, 2015

F1E1Crikey, what a new (ancient) box of toys one have unearthed here:

(& every other punctuation & character event of which one could wish)

Sunday, April 26, 2015

in the ruins of lost civilisations

imagine you wake
to find yourself at the wheel
of a miraculous vehicle
smoking down the highway
to some destination you suddenly forgot

well wouldn't you even ask anything about it?


Saturday, April 25, 2015

de quidditas et bedknobs

It's not a smile, it's the lid on a scream
—Julie Goodyear
I'm going to be a star

(Oh the shock has pretty teeth, dear)

who anyway, not Lotte, the male, sang that opera?

//Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in mini-series

the magician in armani the guru

stands there looking like that
i'm going to be a star he says
with deep sheepish ignored
or (try got better( therapy from my future
think of him there that day all flowery
and embarrassing with his trying

(as they don't say in whales, Keep your Aberaeron

keep your bloody Abertmesisaeron!)

imagine what they will think of us

in 200 years, how cruel they will think
how cloddish and stupid, how unborn
how dead to technology and sophistication

/where is this line of the god flew up

what Hebroo scrip what desert codec
rcds this friv?/

¿but is anyway unborn dead

or only that sunlit moment each morning
before you remember she is gone¿ 

[singular they for instants 

when i tell some a joke they laughs haha]

hoho you see like unto a god that flies up 

it is as a heron what lifts water at dawn 
rises into silhouettes
of maddened saccade beatwingxz
over perhaps Dresden or othermother
flaccid with potatoes

O those mericans and their exorcised lingua

shorn of antecedent at all opportunity
down to mere function
for why should one waste time 

with the waxing god when one can just ask straight 

out robot I fuck you now—if denied

move quickly on it is best for all
¿why flourish and perform why¿
get it out of your mouth quick
so it is over efficiently, without superfluity

without Greek or French

and with as little Latin 
as may be contrived
for language cleansed of excess
to clinic sex-negative utility is all atavism
of the expressive, sharp, decisive
nostratic and primal grunt such a height
such an idyll from which we fell and fall
thankful at last to the elbow in the teeth

of a pre-PIE Webster—little wonder they elasticize

& plasticize each into triphthongs
of unknowing, delighted, savoured necromancy

the reanimation of the banished the instinct empathy

for/with the slain or bootstamped facial zones.maybe 
then nothing is dead but still
from crevices
where the lost invisible god jumps up

(do you hear me when you sleep i have died?)

wordy, well word up

fuck you, he says with his dripping schticks, I am Nature

watch this car.keep watching

80 miles per hour face first into a tree he attempts

to become one again with Nature
but only succeeds in dying drunk
on a bright day dripping his most ambitious inevitable

no you ain't phoney no more, J


youse all murder in sunlight new york fuck


as they don't say in whales, there is a taid
in the affairs of men

and a god flies up


Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Socrates just annoys me with warnings of anachronism.

Oh a bath full of blood or a cup
of hemlock either should suffice
to stop the travel of self-reflexive idiocy
I am not surprised really I am not surprised
O but just the other day my friend a butcher
as it happens and a worthy man questioned
the firmness of meat and how it is to be
evaluated for surely it might be like rock
or iron or even clay so how then are we to know
the true firmness. There in the marketplace
O out they knocked his teeth with stones
and clay and bars of iron and all was known.

What now can we say of the firmness
the iron-hard resilience
of marriage
in such dazzling sunlight
when all the world leaks in
and says it not?


Some strange claims have been made for the Greeks.

What nonsense that the Ancient Greeks created our ideas of physical beauty. We got that from when we were pre-human, and a strong, healthy body aided survival, just like we got 90% of our awareness of poisons and foodstuffs and danger from when we were pre-human.

Allow us the bigger time, you idiot specialists in the Greeks, who think all things are Greek things. To human consciousness human evolution is almost on the scale of geological time. You don't think of this, you people who look for beginnings rather than continuums and evolutionary arcs.

I promise you that ten thousand years before Mycenae the same forms attracted the same attention and evaluation in all cultures. When we see this today and like it today, we are not referencing the Kore or Kouros, but the far more ancient issues of health and survival. This is our wiring, and we did not acquire it as recently as three thousand years ago.

Almost all of human existence was spent as hunter-gatherers. Would anyone care to tell me what body-shapes were preferred, or even compatible with survival, for all of that time, if they were not the same as those which the Greeks (admittedly) venerated, but did not invent?

This is, after all, as always, the Sacred Way, the Hierá Hodóswhatever we think of it as we hike and bike through its blinding, now banal, chaos, now outlined with its adipose moped-mephitic kouroi. This is not at the end of the day; it is the onset of night. It ends as always at the tiny temple of Demeter, She who dwells in the seed. And don't forget she is and always has been a bee.


Tuesday, April 14, 2015

discus etc Myron

one leg weight-bearing and the other not ...
this is an untruth
one is weighted and the other braced
also weight-bearing, carrying all the potential
the other merely a fulcrum for the explosion

which will propel this UFO down the centuries
through our smoking eyes from the Severity
to the Abandonment

of all beauty. O it is a moment of shattering, it is an act
of terror, it is not to be contemplated

in its window-breaking vagabound and vagary

leave it to fly and its shards to fix
its immanence

too damn late now


Monday, March 30, 2015

we love icy noctiluca

some girls are bigger than other girls' smothers
you mustn't dream your eyes your violet cruelty
oh what nonsense as we jump
shut that up yes.there she lay like an oaf
with nothing to offer
Buddhism, she said, meaning hatred and cloud
all things are gravity, everything falling
into itself.
therefore this is nothing
we get the dreams we deserve
some girls are smalling than the imaginary eye of a camel-needle
done by a Dali
falling falling
downstairs like his sister off a bridge

now, really really
what you sighing?


Wednesday, March 25, 2015

If you don't do what you believe in, 
you end up believing in what you do
—Xavier Rubert de Ventos

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

For balance and measure, here is Wikipedia's etymology about the word 'hallow:'


Further information: Weoh
The noun is from the Old English adjective hālig, nominalised as se hālga "the holy man". The Gothic word for "holy" is either hailags or weihabaweihs. "To hold as holy" or "to become holy" is weihnan, "to make holy, to sanctify" is weihan. Holiness or sanctification is weihiþa. Old English, like Gothic, had a second term of similar meaning, wēoh "holy", with a substantive wīh or wīgOld High Germanwīh or wīhi (Middle High German wîheModern German Weihe). The Nordendorf fibula has wigiþonar, interpreted as wīgi-þonar "holy Donar" or "sacred to Donar". Old Norse  is a type of shrine. Theweihs group is cognate to Latin victima, an animal dedicated to the gods and destined to be sacrificed.

In current usage[edit]

Hallow, as a noun, is a synonym of the word saint.[3][4] In modern English usage, the noun "hallow" appears mostly in the compound Hallowtide, a liturgical season which includes the days of Halloweenand Hallowmas.[5] Halloween (or Hallowe'en) is a shortened form of "All Hallow Even," meaning "All Hallows' Eve" or "All Saints' Eve."[6] Hallowmas, the day after Halloween, is shortened from "Hallows'Mass," and is also known as "All Hallows' Day" or "All Saints' Day."[7]

In legend[edit]

Some important and powerful objects in legends could be referred to as "hallows" because of their function and symbolism.[8] The Tuatha de Danaan in Ireland possessed the Four Treasures of Ireland which could be interpreted as "hallows": the Spear of LughStone of Fal, the Sword of Light of Nuada, and The Dagda's Cauldron.
In the modern period, some neo-pagans believe that the four suits in the Rider-Waite Tarot cards deck (swords, wands, pentacles and cups), which are also a representation of the four classical elementsof air, fire, earth and water, are also hallows.
Coronation ceremonies for monarchs still invokes four ritual objects, now represented as the sceptreswordampulla of oil, and crown. Similar objects also appear in Arthurian legends, where the Fisher King is the guardian of four "hallows" representing the four elements: a dish (earth), Arthur's sword Excalibur (air), the Holy Lance or spear, baton, or a magic wand (fire), and the Holy Grail (water).[9]
Earlier Welsh tradition, as recorded in Trioedd Ynys Prydain, also refers to Thirteen Treasures of the Island of Britain. Symbolically, these could also be interpreted as "hallows", although they are not actually described as such in the medieval Welsh texts.
The Irish may or may not be impervious to psychoanalysis, but fuck all that I'm from Liverpool and as cooked down concentrated mythological psychoanalysed and wild as it gets.You just can't handle wild. Go find your own clover you small thing that is incapable of joy and expression. We are of the Hollow Hills and we will kill you with our love—Madeleine Shine. 2005.
The ideal mystery [story] was one you would read if the end was missing.
—Raymond Chandler.


Personally, I am inclined to believe that the derivation of the word 'hello' is linked to the word 'hallow,' and that the word is in fact a blessing. Here is Wikipedia's etymology, though some of it is transparently functional, superficial, and late:

According to the Oxford English Dictionaryhello is an alteration of hallohollo,[5] which came from Old High German "halâholâ, emphatic imperative of halônholôn to fetch, used especially in hailing a ferryman."[6] It also connects the development of hello to the influence of an earlier form, holla, whose origin is in the French holà (roughly, 'whoa there!', from French  'there').[7] As in addition to hello,halloo,[8] hallohollohullo and (rarely) hillo also exist as variants or related words, the word can be spelt using any of all five vowels.[citation needed]


The use of hello as a telephone greeting has been credited to Thomas Edison; according to one source, he expressed his surprise with a misheard Hullo.[9] Alexander Graham Bell initially used Ahoy (as used on ships) as a telephone greeting.[10][11] However, in 1877, Edison wrote to T.B.A. David, the president of the Central District and Printing Telegraph Company of Pittsburgh:
Friend David, I do not think we shall need a call bell as Hello! can be heard 10 to 20 feet away.
What you think? Edison - P.S. first cost of sender & receiver to manufacture is only $7.00.[12]
By 1889, central telephone exchange operators were known as 'hello-girls' due to the association between the greeting and the telephone.[11]


Hello may be derived from hullo, which the American Merriam-Webster dictionary describes as a "chiefly British variant of hello,"[13] and which was originally used as an exclamation to call attention, an expression of surprise, or a greeting. Hullo is found in publications as early as 1803.[14] The word hullo is still in use, with the meaning hello.[15][16][17][18][19]

Hallo and hollo

Hello is alternatively thought to come from the word hallo (1840) via hollo (also hollaholloahalloohalloa).[13] The definition of hollo is to shout or an exclamation originally shouted in a hunt when the quarry was spotted:[13]
If I fly, Marcius,/Halloo me like a hare.
Fowler's has it that "hallo" is first recorded "as a shout to call attention" in 1864.[20] It is used by Samuel Taylor Coleridge's famous poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner written in 1798:
And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners' hollo!
Hallo is also GermanDanishNorwegianDutch and Afrikaans for Hello. It is used in the Dutch language as early as 1797 in a letter from Willem Bilderdijk to his sister in law as a remark of astonishment.[21]
Webster's dictionary from 1913 traces the etymology of holloa to the Old English halow and suggests: "Perhaps from ah + lo; compare Anglo Saxon ealā."
According to the American Heritage Dictionaryhallo is a modification of the obsolete holla (stop!), perhaps from Old French hola (ho, ho! + la, there, from Latin illac, that way).[22]
The Old English verb, hǽlan (1. wv/t1b 1 to heal, cure, save; greet, salute; gehǽl! Hosanna!), may be the ultimate origin of the word.[23] Hǽlan is likely a cognate of German Heil (meaning complete for things and healthy for beings) and other similar words of Germanic origin. Bill Bryson asserts in his book Mother Tongue that "hello" comes from Old English hál béo þu ("Hale be thou", or "whole be thou", meaning a wish for good health) (see also "goodbye" which is a contraction of "God be with you".