Tuesday, February 24, 2015

WTF, Blogger? Am I therefore a pornographer?

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slut (work in progress)

...nearer to the sun and air—Wind in the Willows
I am the son and the heir—The Smiths
Yeah, man, the elements—anon

I want to be in the sunny place
[she says points]
points across the valley
(like John County Clare
magicking a far-off sheep)

even to use that word is abuse
yes, the s-word (or its many toxic siblings 
for it cannot be—is itself
an act of self-negative life-negative
sexual colonization
—Alice Aforethought

oh oh how elemental oh how mythic
she cries out above, 'cross the valley
but now /(she feels silly.and. her voice
is weak and unconvincing

(Librivox audiobooks:
the American woman reading Herodotus
pronounces Herakles to rhyme
with some plural of hysterical)

although one cannot quibble
at such democratizat or ask this of the lulz

—how much is left to go, Eli?
is it so very hard to die?

(ells left to go, many ells: strange, almost
Dada Nells from Imbros)

" 'We think,' they say, " 'that it is unjust
to carry women off, but to be anxious
to avenge rape is foolish—wise men
take no notice of such things' "
attrib' 'The Persians'—Herodotus.

[the legal heirs to 'treasure L'
from the Calvert mound-side
of Hisarlik in dispute with
the Pushkin—Sophie Schliemann
arrayed in gold—who now
can say what when

— for thereof the arcsin of width/length
.4 indicates a 24 degree angle of *spatter*

this will apply equally: archaeology/geology
..........................as murder
the trajectory the rainbow the drift the erratics the spatter
extrusion and intrusion/the rapid cooling or the slow
—rate of insect attack post mortem

and after all this it was not after all
the black rats but infacto the gerbils
proliferate [adj] one malbenign sommer
in northern Chine in Mongolia
what spread the buboes of after all blackdeath
to Europus—

on the backs of the Mongol hordes—Simon Schama

go easy, go slow, Schliemann
says Calvert, alarmed at the sight
of a million spades. axes, steam hammers, explosives
most of all the robot tank-moles
such industry, such heedless illustry
he will cry
..........................so shall we all, breathless child of the hill
.........................(thief of future past)—Madeleine Shine. 2008.

it merely means 'work,' says Heinrich
read Kapek when I hear the word
I reach for my Hanns Johst
when I hear the heart says Reich
I reach for my Brownian Motion
to rouse us, Waring, who's alive?

for the time has come the walrus said
to live of many things—Madeleine Shine. 2008.

*lustration (come back to this point?)*

"I don't know what to do"
—Anon 2015

these words uttered listlessly:
give me a look like a hostage crisis
(a culebra cut in Trojan prophylactic gold)

is this enough, Eli?
is it so very hard to die?

is bucket a compound noun?
is mama a compound noun-well
a clerkenwell     (Oh well—John Winston Smith the Resignation-Lennon)

"I will try my best for that not to happen
if I feel suspicious I will
throw THROW it out of my head"

for we are holding a drug bee a writing bee
a sex bee a cookery bee a future bee a bee to be
—unknown; possibly from ben, a prayer or prayer meeting—
it is only formally and foolishly fortunate that we are not apiarists

(for what do you call it when a bunch of apiarists
gather to tend and discuss their livestock?

for though Anglo-Saxon, it rhymes
with the Arabic word for darling)

[shibari kinbaku lingchi -- come back to this?]

the kessel envisaged as a giant hedgehog

From Middle English frithien, from Old English friþian (to give frith to, make peace with, be at peace with, cherish, protect, guard, defend, keep, observe), from Proto-Germanic*friþōną (to make peace, secure, protect), from Proto-Indo-European *prēy-*prāy- (to like, love). Cognate with Scots frethefreith (to set free, liberate), Danish frede (to have peace, protect, inclose, fence in), Swedish freda (to cover, protect, quiet, inclose, fence in), Icelandic friða (to make peace, preserve).

when you were gestating birthing fixing 

what dreams were begat of the world?

Margaret Shakespeare died age 1 year 1563
400 years before one's birth, before the deaths of Huxley
Kennedy [Jelly Fish Kiss] Robert Frost, Sylvia
Plath, Edith Piaf, Patsy Cline, a bullet from
the back of a bush Medgar Evers, William
Carlos Williams, Tristan Tzara, Tough Tony,
Jean Cocteau, Georges
Braque, Theodore Roethke, Elmore
James I gather unto myself such magic harvest
in sustenance for the late survival of birth
such dreams for a year for which also
the invention of sex and the Beatles-also-born
in vinyl and Bond-born in celluloid—Profumo,
well one need not mention

[that Ulster-rendered 'now' is a clusterfuck

of /ah/aw/ee/ phonemes (visibility moderate
to good, becoming schwa later)
and high-rising/falling terminal becoming cyclonic
quite unlike the monotone English a-oo
(Utsire an island around which herring swim
far, a long-long...)]

evidence of an immortal typist-monkey

unearthed near Stratford where ever ...

(Miss Fay Wray, come down come down—

ever too high in the widening gyre and gimble
in the Dædalus of thine own inner hast borne 
thee too lofted in the Empire inner statehood
whose freudian grillers now will tak thee back ...)

... to that sweep of sunlit snow across the valley
—but something had gone out in her
and would not come again)

and then he knew
that was not where
he was going


another time-things: ice


O dark traveller, click the hyper-link 'the Weshesh'
on the 'Sea-Peoples' page of Wikipedia
find out, at last
where we have been all along
bouncing along the corridor
we did not take
to the hall of mirrors
for humankind cannot bear
very much bouncing bloody reflection


"Do you know Carl Garner, Brandon Garner

or Fast Eddie?" 

I do not.

You don't have junk here (hooray!) 

—Microsoft SmartScreen is working
to keep it out of your inbox too.


in the 1980s I worked as a recreation assistant
in Meanwood Park Hospital in Leeds, running a 'music
and movement workshop' for the 'mentally
disabled' residents. once while exploring
in this incapacity I found a dried-out brain in a dish
in a sunny (unused) upstairs room. whose abandoned brain,
I wondered, was that, left there to dry
like so much cast-off-offal, uneaten?


Dear Maria, before arrival in Umbria must we pass through Penumbria?


Ladies and Gentlemen we are floating in space—Spiritualized


Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, 
we are going through hell—William Carlos Williams


Please expect a little turbulence, ladies and gentlemen;
there are monsters in our midst—Alice Aforethought 1988


to join the Mile High Club
you really have to give a flying fuck 

"Ach, ja"—Der Rosenkavalier, Richard Strauss


Monday, February 09, 2015

one by one, your lights...

oh there is such a thing to be said now but who can say it?

can't be any condition
so dire
that 100 straight hours
of binge-viewing
can't fix it

scatter of dead crows
on the snowy field—
eyes in the hedges

clamouring quiet
the vast black hole
of 3 am


One is getting spiritualized...

Goodbye Joe, CLICK me got to go me oh my oh...


a celebrity chef from Bombay
wished his rivals would all go away
he cried I'll fry the lot
stuff them all in a pot
where the bastards can bloody flambé!



Yorvik's the site of coprolites
with petrified gut parasites
black and tan and rich in bran
are these historic Viking shites


winding sheets to the wind (a riff of demusing)

one awakes to the awful reality that the dream was not a dream, 
that there is no way out—Madeleine Shine, The Dreamers' Cookbook
denial ain't just a river in Africa—Mark Twain
By the mark twain...—Trad: Mississippi piloting call

in the dream the chemical turns his face yellow removes his hair and teeth it gives him the ability to fly, though weakly—even in the dream he remembers that he cannot fly when waking—
the creature clings close about me like some irritating over-affectionate pet wanting always to 

watching always for a chance
to bite

old friends are everywhere all of them grown malevolent, suspect—our hair is long, dark red, matted we do not know our reflections over it all a sense of dulled panic the dream figure represents sickness he wakes with its sweet slick like poison all down his throat his face stuck to the sheet with some syrup leached from his pores as though the night the bed were a poultice to draw out

evil spirits and allow passage
but something is unfinished

and this dream, like the other where he recalls the murders the concealment of corpses will come again, again by the mark twain, the mark pain, the creak down the lane behind the wall the call
behind behind the counterpane we remember this from when we were ill as children.stop

ill as children.stop


Sunday, February 08, 2015

lost child

in what creeps and rills
unknown at dawn

in what shrills at night
what calls what hoots of dream

in what marsh lanterns
what ghost fires arousal

only rainbows in the spray
drifting outward, growing less

in other, crueller language
nearing nothing
your lights sinking

one by one
your lights



no excuses or tears
death comes too soon
whatever needs to happen
is already trying to happen
move out of the way
for you are blocking
your own sunlight


being the bad man

you are discovered in the searchlights
crouched leering over a body
revealed suddenly for what you are

no one will harbour you now
there will be no peace, no rest
no shelter for you now

that you are seen
that you are known

run, accursed one
to the badlands the darkness
thou who hast defiled our hearts

embrace filth itself
and die alone

why are we not also all
Moaz al-Kasasbeh?


Friday, February 06, 2015

try to breathe

only the move ahead
no up nor down

crying of the wind
loss of all future

all that is gone
shades in an empty house
a door banging somewhere
through the mist

sadness of oceans at dusk
offering up forms
that will wake no more

to their bright swell

all you ever have
this one move ahead
let it be enough
to rouse your spirit
again to its dance

look, a creature came to our fire
as we slept
for here
are its tracks in the snow

but we slept
and it would not linger
in our broken house

not with us ghosts
who cannot find in the looking
up and down any future

for now the snow covers all tracks
in its deep quiet

look no further



Monday, February 02, 2015

this is your moment
little shaky bird
all your life watches


singing in the well

even if anyway
and how they must have laughed
in their souls or reasons or cans otherwise
think of them there
challenging und awkward yes
lefthanded and frisky as awks
in the drowned kingdoms of the Sea
shoving yes shoving the shale
white and black

with a frequency as voice
that hollers yes hollers up
of the hollers

say that differently
flash, creep, stark at night
resound etc
but this is not night

and huge now the plash
and all of time the difference
look at this, though,
the differential in the coo the evil coo
on the rooftop
and why there is no space
Freude freude

[full stop/Falstaff]

Faust be thy name
I intend and do not intend
any ode to joy
only sheer unutterable starkness

naked as wailing
die now, just die

(for all Time has come

dead wells in the gourd
and laughs lifted bumpy as
outer swell — clocks adrift
everywhere we look & do not



Sunday, February 01, 2015

I can't ever say
what I mean
how can this be?

you are not
half as bad as you think
pink start to the day

the sudden shock
at dawn, of a gun
in your neighbour's house

remnants of snow

how would you
approximate the dawn sound


get this
that tomorrow didn't start
until later

early morning
drums all quiet now