I calm my insides with fruit scuttling down back channels alley ways hidden routes to a place where words click together and bond into pictures explaining dry grassy empty lots and concrete drains, city works and social workers with lipstick on their teeth, all the things I grew up with. Without jazz, without a place for poetry.
we have witness'd the oceanic surges of joe millerism
within the all too faithful reproductory masses, and now
propose a marranoism to 'oppisode sirfruit'. within the
essential mechanoporphism of the 'metachron', there exists a
'mutagenoia' of 'self-oppisoding' mutazilisms which mutilates
all grandeur for fear of its nanistic partialism in the face
of euphuismic 'muta-evangelismus,' whose gongoristic
(bwaaang) hyperchromatism elicits a true suffusion
not unlike the radiant voice of a
~Madame Pompadour~
(that's door not dour)
:
or can you not recall the words of the
Fanfan la Tulipe..
LEt's JUst SEe THe FIrst TWo LIines:
To-morrow the grim battle smoke will curl:
To-day, in spite of it, we'll feast, my gir!
==
this altogether implies an antarchism where the jeweled
verbosity of the former realms are made to sit
arachnotubbistically on whatever slippery slope they might
perchance happen to find, and so render themselves the much
heralded progeny of a traducianism of obscurantic
monopsychic hemimetabolism.
what a state this catering-pillar of anthropos is in,
not quite civil, not quite mad, certainly not on the brink
of some golden age!
Introducing TRASHPO: A TRANSLITERARY ASSEMBLAGE VOL.1.
Introducing TRASHPO: A TRANSLITERARY ASSEMBLAGE VOL.1.
by Lanny Quarles
What it is?
Culled from the vast and frightening onychophagic archives
of Lanny "Great Skull Zero" Quarles, this free PDF format
publication is nearly forty pages of sheer TRASHPO. Download
at your own peril! For many years, Lanny kept, what could best
be described as, depraved, and obviously bad collage habits,
now being brought into the light of day in an ongoing PDFification
for your edification. It's a challenging, Situationist-inspired man-i(n)festo
of post-punk, post-pop, pseudo-intellectual GARBAGE!
Hot off the PDF maker thingie and Word and Canoscan, fresh
from the musty moldy tape encrusted binders. And remember, this
first one will NOT be the best.. Just a test run really! Distribute far
and wide, if you think its a good idea, which it may not be..
yours,
head Garbageman and poet-artist thing,
Lanny "Great Skull Zero" Quarles
gawd i love it, japanese truck stops, a nice bowl of tempura udon, some fish cake.. yeah, watching an old sonny chiba movie, doberman cop or something, yeaah..
that circular hammer image really set me off. most of the trip though was recalling Patchen's classic prose from the beginning of Albion Moonlight, "The evening slowly turns to black stone and the hammer of God chips at the sky, making stars.." thanks, harry!
pruuu pruuuuU fudded lingoistrics persophone nothingnes nothingness card journeyt the serialisation of insects division of pertacularspec corning a perticular something
theat could be originating in apes and the others
preceise momrent she see other the hlump blu hue of glass greenning homeward hone bag o' bones
what to do earn bread.
that's why I'm going in the morning.
having to call security for now and at the hour.
mercy wears a fragranced yellow.
perhaps a little green.
surnames promise crisp inbound aggression in absentia.
by rote each rest with song.
imports all mistuned young cameo appearances.
along the tapeworm avenues, secreting, although taking in.
appointed time thus openly serene without.
supplanted vault, mishandled.
no one wants this job contented and oblivious.
these several rays these severed walls.
most globes, inequivalent.
remainder of twin fuel to reap net youth.
appealingly played single reed.
sequester the equivalent of mandrake.
ponder weightlift's quaking runoff.
steam cement repair's litmus encumbrance.
indomitable shelves of excuses now left blank.
Le Yacht Club vu depuis
les fenêtres du salon
les interactions sont nombreuses
dans la baie de l'Aiguillon
Le glaive, le sabre
et le goupillon
Le moine dit alors
au moinillon:
[Monte sur l'arbre,
agrippe-toi à une branche à l'aide
de tes mains, laisse-toi pendre
au-dessus du précipice
et mords cette branche
avec tes dents.]
Le Yacht Club vu depuis
les fenêtres du salon
les interactions sont nombreuses
dans la baie de l'Aiguillon
==
Glaive \Glaive\, n. [F. glaive, L. gladius; prob. akin to E.
claymore. Cf. Gladiator.]
1. A weapon formerly used, consisting of a large blade fixed
on the end of a pole, whose edge was on the outside curve;
also, a light lance with a long sharp-pointed head.
--Wilhelm.
Very fresh new blog just finished - Word. The old Babelicious Sonatas page is very much defunct, and this is still in what the IT folks call 'beta.' I hope to push things a little further here.
while wanton
syllables leave home without
the least
idea of what
home is
to (come) carry
the regret be-
longing to a father
in tears deeply felt
then carried by a girl of five
inhibition's such
a boundary
as maleness is
the point
to some degree
of keepaway
the sadness of being
constantly apart from
and since then all one
does is capture
gunpowder green tea
calling its potency freehand
a synonym for
Liberace playing jewels
revealing the simplicity
along roadways
meantime here
the desert uses little
paint
a minimum of deco-
ration one lives within
both ends and means
one milepost to a next
in the 70s they called it 'bush.'
I learned this from the Joy of Sex furtively pulled from my parent's bookshelf,
musty stiff thing, the way I imagined sex to be - secret - not
so much any more now 'quim' seems more appropriate,
the maquis was before his time the word is slippery sweaty naked
stubbly if you leave it a few days. Now I spend so much time contemplating
the eradication of the pretty chestnut hairs on my cunt I didn't care
before when 'bush' was still fresh in my mind. The first time I reached down a girl's
pants and found plucked chicken skin I was terrified no one told me
we were supposed to do that.
Now I perform these shower gymnastics as a sacrifice
for the mythical next hand to come between
my clean practical underwear and my cropped quim. An offering,
so that there might be another hand, and another, and so on.
The body of this text works for me. The title doesn't though. I think that the long, self-conscious parenthetical undercuts the poem. I don't think your title should apologize for, or be self-effacing about, what you're doing down below (so to speak). Gutsy work. Nice to see you posting so much lately. Best wishes, Tom
Intraocular memo re: darkness (i.e.: what the freckle on the retina of my left eye would say to another, similar, retina freckle)
We are anomalous, blobs of irregular
pigment disrupting the fall
of light onto retina
crackling beneath us
like milk-wet Coco Pops.
I don't imagine we're noticed by the brain
clever, it finds ways around
our constant shadow,
our peripheral shadow,
on the seen world.
We should take comfort, then,
in each other.
We're not alone but together, in a way,
in the dim kaleidoscope of eyeball
where we cling to an organ as substantial
as wet tissue paper.
We are inert and constant in a place
where
nothing stays the same it's the nature
of eyes to jerk from
one
visual field to the
next hungry for
light shadow colour
movement drinking it in where everything is a manic
carnival with sparking nerves synapses passages to a churning brain we
see nothing.
Only the steady universe of vitreous humour,
clear jellybean lens,
cornea.
There is comfort in that, our universe of darkness, I'm sure of it.
I know how to organize a flower. Ten intentions weather me. Even the selected chromosome. One's metronome evades intact reclusion. What are windows for? Cohere: glass against each scenery. Refraction. Taunt apart from hapless thinning. First: to loosen each to hold a number. Third: to wait as in religion. Spotless and pre-thought. Copasetic incline. Fourth: to have suppressed while holding an alphabet. Fifth: to list. And second: old news to some to wheel. My land laced with potential portents. To absorb. Tenth: to amaze. Ninth: to garden as erasure. Eighth: to leverage cement as the precursive. So far taxed to stead. And seventh: to quiz a self of many. In a neighborhood. To repeat. The adage once. Sixth: to fever, cool as pure or nothing to advantage.
ideology doesn't
have time to talk
counts rubrics in
between Camels
and has a late
lunch with Barbra
at Chez Co Cola
calls you cola eh
makes calls all
day long. Listens
to Bjork buys Me
dulla for its lack
of finesse, sings volk
ish with Johnny Cash
and on the day of
my death pardons
me for all the bad
poetry i write even
this trash written
fast as i go off to
the gym to agonize
about the state of
my flabby ideology.
You are right. That was an evil ideology poem. Let me try this again employing some healthy trash:
Elvis doesn't have time to croon counts rubbers in between Camels and has a late lunch with Reagan at Chez Co Cola calls you buddy eh makes calls all day long. Listens to Piaf buys Me Morricone for its profundity, sings volk ish with Johnny Cash and on the day of my death pardons me for all the chic poetry i write even this trash written fast as i go off to the gym to agonize about the state of my flabby Elvis.
Ticklish conundrums such as this would be wonderful graffiti on the walls of Paris in May 68. Beautiful that a thot can say everything with so few words. ~mIEKAL
she stiffens /
she brittles / her face
lines sharpen / speech
shrills / even her pillow
turns crisp / her eyes now
close un-
gently / if and
when she sleeps /
her breathing becomes
punctuation / endpoints
rather than breaths /
appear / the house
contains measure
after measure of
staccato / point
by point with no
connection / no
legato
indifference breeds oh
i don't know not in- difference more like
dyslexia dyscalculia dys
topia where in the distal
spatter nothing touches
you and you are land
locked in your own ex
cipient jelly quivering
for an exchange of flavors
lime, very berry, choco-
latte in time the metaphor
fades you remember where
it is and where you are
on the conveyor your nose
twitches "It's all good."
morning eases monody. one is in
the throes of a division problem.
ample textures soft as now
the empty baggage of the dream
retrieve from decades passed.
the curtains sift collation of
a tincture as oases seeming
to be dry. an invocation
fallen from leftover
anno domini,
each moment cohering in absentia.
yet with layers real as blue
is fused with something
touchable.
we talk and then
we listen to the ample stories
of response. as repositioning
one's mind is an accompaniment
to body, and the body
its own constant episode
I said to you that I dreamt of saving
kittens from a downpour last night
silence
I repeated, uncertain
if you had heard me
or if I'd even spoken
at all
you found my behavior perplexing
stating that I haven't a single kind
bone in my body
but perhaps, you said,
it is a sign of improvement
your shoulders dropped,
at ease
I don't think you noticed
you were tense
you've always been wary
of our physical closeness
this is the first time in memory
where you actually relaxed
maybe I shouldn't mention that I
killed those helpless kittens
not long after saving them
that the rain dripping from the ceiling
ran thick with their blood
maybe I should let you think
I might not be a complete
monster after all
I like the thought of you
sleeping under a false sense
of security
ooooh, you're bad! bad girl! so tough, so bold! so... what's the word I'm looking for? DANGEROUS! Yeah dangerous! When I see girls like you walking down the street I dive into the bushes.
Ok, here goes....ooooooh, you're bad! bad girl! so tough, so bold, so....what's the word I'm looking for? DANGEROUS! dangerous...when I see girls like you walking down the street in my direction I dive into the bushes cowering in fear. Help meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
in the work, an anguish in blue water, what is lacking, so-called endpoint
expression tramples prior form.
one need not so many things.
the only luxury,
a tube of orange paint.
the wood here, silver.
plant after plant.
nothing indelible.
an autobio-.
stet.
for once reprieved.
cuts with a brush.
shifting the map.
inclusive of an underwater.
violet this mute cone.
coffers questioned caliber.
the setting here not one way.
pray why. which. clear cut.
how one and not another.
has comprised.
being composed.
on instrument that's used
against. two. edges of.
this one.
not the.
unless can have been understood.
put up.
and with.
chapeau.
the eyes of.
with consideration.
finished looking.
yet.
a pond illumines.
practicing.
hear piano open, then eschew benevolence, a way to mourn, apart from the acknowledgement
between towns the faces
are my guides between
the highway and bridge
between cities a clock
and a pink yahoo reminds
me where this is that is
the city between the town
and the other town passing
Inner City Home between
where i was yesterday
and where i am today on
the way, the vodka girls
at 2:43 pm almost smile
a gin and tonic pours
itself the city bubbles
the streets ooze by-
products and the faces
wear them or in silhouette
flail against the backdrop
I like this poem very much, Jean. I don't understand the word "yahoo" in context though. Anyway, "vodka girls" is memorable and entirely visceral, picturable, indelible,lubricious and sexy. Or something. I just like the languagescape, I guess. I know it. And yet.
Thanks, Tom. If you were to drive on Hwy 101 towards the Bay Bridge, you would understand what I mean about the yahoo. Personally I think the clock and the pink yahoo is sexier than the vodka girls, but then we all have our preferences.
Squirrels wear them or in silhouette flail against the blacktop
Thanks for yr response. It's been over ten years since I've been on the Bay Bridge. Hope I get to experience it one more time at least. Most excellent squirrel stanza, Jean. My VP, Crag Hill, and I are looking for more corporate officers at Squirlthongco. Interested? There may be a squirrel-based group blog in the future. Treehouses for everyone, I say. Nutcases are the future. Tom
there is only infinity of jealous passion
tireless devotion walled in blindness
the multiple poverty of substance
a poverty of property
a discourse of laughter
an action cutting across the self
stripped of fiction
nothing but the fiction of the fiction of an absolute
timeless external organ on things least compromised
a thought between a thought and the sun
between gladly becoming
and words with proper management
always a message missing the moment
a touching passing moment of touching
a moment missing the moment of touching
a passing touch missing the moment
missing the touch
missing the moment
missing the missing
fait accompli "There are fanatics without ability, and then they are
really dangerous people."
[Notebook F- 1776-1779]
"You should never look for genuine Christian
convictions in a man who makes a parade of
his piety."
Notebook J-1789-1793
"You can make a good living from
soothsaying, but not from truth saying."
Notebook J
"I can never see anything wrong with
theorizing; it is an impulse of the soul
that can prove useful to us as soon as
we have accumulated sufficient experience.
Thus all the follies of theorizing we at
present commit could be impulses that find
their application only in the future."
Notebook K 1793-1796
"Man loves company, even if it is that
of a smouldering candle."
Notebook K
"Whisper, immortal muse, of the insanity
of the great."
lets start again
when I am acting as a single being
being a single body
becoming that of another body
or becoming another body
being the heart
and ending in a dichotomy
ending the self in oppression
neither mending the break
nor healing the form
rather a tuning for splicing a sentence
a rip in the mind
organized as architecture exposing itself
the trauma of transcendence
the far side of inexhaustibility
senseless impassioned permanence
beginning a beginning that is always beginning
ending at each step
each fall
each morning a creature appears
its the same answer
we miss the question
the same wager
stepping out of the body
in syncopation
with another other broken open
apart at the seamless visible
a self in penetration
a whirlwind brought on by the sun
by the arms of
a tremendous neither
simple names and words
in a phrases
nakedness amassing in the corridor of harmony
crossing a singular
one then another
in the other as the one
testing the limits
exposing the self to the present
to the traffic
of foolish wanting more
in a seamless maneuver
of the self repeating the self
missing the other wanting more
missing the self missing the other
wanting more
When they said take of his body I read it differently I took all I could carry ran with it limbs and blood and floppy sheets of disintegrating skin dropping behind me, rolling on the path and getting covered with dirt. He doesn't need it, anyway. Give it to me. I need substance.
Listen to my reedy voice whispering straight into your ear it's not sound you hear only my breath vibrating the little hairs contained within your head I'm praying something Pagan for a different age, day, hour, year, one with all action, I'm praying to you for something wild.
When you're not looking I bury my face in my cat's soft fur I'm trying to climb into her leave my shoes and clothes behind become a good mouse crunching cat sleeping on an unmade bed dreaming of fenceposts, rabbits with soft, still-living muscle giving way under my teeth.
No one has asked me for the details of my days but I'm giving them to you anyway - today is raining and I spent most of it leaning against my window watching raindrops join other raindrops and flood our disintegrating yard. The camellias are lovely this year and I get dizzy, think I'll kill myself tomorrow if I don't think of anything better.
(nevermind I'm suffering priapism of the brain sentences atrophy as they form fractured by the force of my everpounding cunt growling for flesh in the face of the army of heterosexuality I shower for far too long the pigment of my skin leaching out running down the drain I'm bleached bone white vampire pure let me suck you clean)
don't be grim you're
responsible to a nameless
electricity giving
your flesh
purpose, found
in the universe contained
within the wet
surfaces of your mouth, hope to
feel it without speaking.
skin swells
shiny and tight
pulsing
pushing
flesh rips wetly
emergence of bone
sinew
quickly covered by new hide
hair, eyes, nails, lips
any and all protrusions
extremities
dimples
innies and outies
touch and taste
expulsion of old body
through new canal
bears little resemblance
to what came before:
naming continues to blue-balloon across central coastlines, a category 5
meta prophylactic repo
& a package of the art/icle the
de- & re- branding (of the U.S. Ranch Herd)
to create is to
who
as what
how as who
who as where
when as who
whose as 1996 memory?
scent of earth in slits
of lines
a coyote stealth
is a dawn of tax columns
over mown timothy grass,
the cows always
lowing in
decimals
of the silent winds
of romance
over the certain
dollars
lost prairie
& actuary
*
it is found in grocery aisle 6 Madam:
the whetstone, which is a sharpening
in its turn
for tools of (an)
exclusionary
noun/verb exi/
stance
in the store-story,
consumers did not ask,
why are the Beatles singing "I Wanna Hold Your...
(everyone knows what appendage of body will come
as sung in the chorus next, eh?)"
*
they are a series of cuts,
Irigaray says it best at length
(how: paper money causes paper cuts)
these namings the mind is not the heart
is not the kidney filtering (more naming)
are we responsible to what? for the limits of space, the darkness that expands in the senses, for indeterminate graphs and organs of our lonely circumstances? are we responsible to the sadness that comes in comparing accumulation with a lack of water in a soughing silence? are we responsible for the face of one and a self as a face responsible for the destiny of destiny?
or is it the ever expanding errancy, measureless in the word, born of the word, along for the ride in the word, with the question, can we have a question? can we be responsible for the limts of space, those vainly tired sounds of solitude, a lack of brimming life boiled over at the smell of emptiness, in an over determined definition of responsible?
is this the choirs that sings to us in the dim sadness of numbers in the state of naming for the sake of the state of naming, in a state of numbers? are we nothing more than a state of numbers naming a name in our dim state of numbness?
does it repeat ad infinitum? are we responsible for who what and when, plumes if smoke in the distance, helicopter gun ships, and army of heterosexually in the name of god and country?
can I have a brick back, pass the peas standing for the security if one in the burden of one in a universe of compromise?
if the body is undermined, animals turned to san serif figurines, what will counter balance the absences of sun? what will be responsible for words without meaning in an obscure world expanding in a ever expanding wound repeating itself in words?
what is beyond the formless figure between the the ice and eyes of fear? what is between the formless substance and non-substance of luminous flesh, making it radiant in the glory and grace in an instant?
where is the present beyond the self in an instance of being the face of the other out side the self in the heart dialogue of what more can I do? what is necessary for nothing to exist in everything? what more can I do? what are the limits of space?
can I speak of myself if there is nothing to say, exposed to another without a substitute, without a make believe promise of intoxication, with nothing other then my flesh next to yours with nothing to say, esposed to the present exposed to you?
thank you.. its near the end of my long poem, obedience, I have been working on since the begining of the year...I am trying to explore the ocnjuction of the absolute and the realtive.. how do we work with utopian ideals in a realitive world... kari
For some time now I've been fiddling around with the cultural problematics of consolidated corporate power, consumerism and naming--really one root of many of our political problems, I believe. I wrote a found poem along those lines. I'll post it here as an expansion on the general theme of naming. I find the conjunctures very interesting.
as if this were not hinge enough, I punted where he'd only panted and the thought ran dimbulb on blue navy blue soir overtones to have indulged in freeform at the very . . .
porch appeared relief intoned by equinoxious glass peut-etre madrigal without the other three
enlisted men enlisted men
there are suspicions that infect the blood while blood is being made, and sentences relive themselves in theory while streetcleaners raze indelicate attention as a matter of routine
about now would come some inadmissible allusion to legitimize this whole adage but surprise ought to prevail over that scoundrel expectation
allow yourself to overdose on wings not mud
my very own menagerie includes just you yes you
inflections butter up the sequel just before we learn there is one
notify the master so you feel you can [forgive yourself]
it's spring in someone's mind and on another continent
exceptions are themselves the rule including within memoranda where we suffocate and sleep-deprive our neighbors based upon the choice of pet
let's walk awhile together as unleavened as though singular
the laundry doesn't dries) the points above hung had oxidated [points] the white folds
paper makes assumptions and raised above foot between (s) "what opposing if you
codifying could, yakking in one voice?" the time 'ast 'lienated of twothreefour voice'd
where'n pair upped the opinion that working dialogue (s)(ized) to trace stumbled place
not existen 'chal'
d - they are mem (ory) chronometer (s) the square thought pi E's is "anxiety connected
to projection of alienation" desire death no metaphor shit traced it "see explosive loving
local a'cide" 'ante shot of 'tened 'un there you know "well, when clear'r" not limit above
expression(s) social 'no none not none not this'
jailed (more less) touching in the wall for back" pale call reply of "she won't search
bedroom (it assumes it)... not overcast (if to find) in suntan of Broadway onramp ivy
(chrono) some tires that pierce (tape adhesive ribbon) "where substituted 'ic practical
healthy meets with the branch "the arched road you reach here above
subject and 'lessness 'n confined
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