something to discuss:
revolutions per

of shared
point of focus

this is how
we lose

our very
faculties, our minds

routinely fastened on
departure process

loses meaning
held hands relax

apart from one
another until

with recollection
unequal to reverie

at which point
self resists

taking borrows
from the fact

of being planted
here on

we knmow
each other well

or so we
once thought

replaces intuition
seamlessly perceived together

this is how
fast we

the wind
drying our eyes


The questions cease
once he realigns

landing plumb
on her narrators
quotitian plain

where an inverted plotless

tale of return
points to

departures they've
taken before

when her highly polished heart broke into his mind, intent
on a burgling spree and unpicking the thread binding
principle of his universal poetic, completely pocketing

the cumulitive gross of his philosophy whole, including the
flaws of technique she did not account for. His esteem
regime fell a few notes and collapsed out of faith in the

end, repairing to the depth of her absent fine tuned
unconscious order of knowable tune engaging in musical
duels with an instrument bought with the proceeds

they stroked from each other's page. On the way back to
nowhere they chose to reveal gifts from the king and
queen of infinite thought they pray will not harm but gift

blue blooded luck. "It can be said we are beginning
to figure true and untrue together as one" she told
him in a scholastic hair splitting code non but they

could crack. "Between us we could conquer fifty
oollamhs in a composition competition on the topic of
Connla's well and how we meet there on data

expeditions, fishing for fuel to fill buckets of
wisdom with when we awake from our rendevous dreams"
he returned, just before the stars broke down at

the first recognition of a continuous dream
mutually occuring in gaps between departure
and return.


The Aorist Imperative has no augment because

The Aorist Imperativehas no augment because
it is not to be regarded asa
past tense. The difference in meaning between it and the PresentImperative denotes a command or entreaty to CONTINIUE to do
an action, to do it HABITUALLY, the Aortist Imperative denotes
a command or entreaty simply to do an action
frequency. However
weare not
to be regardedas mere
formularians. Perhaps one may be so
but the truth to becoming a
are a kisson a cold pursed cheek
offered not as a precursor to bread but
realised as a token of an end, a regular irregularity with augments, many, many,

shitThrough(ThePipe) - visual comment on ad spam


it felt quiet now it's loud

no fun in other words
to rest here, speak
no longer tingling to the body
not a generative moment
or pale patch of space

merely the usual invasive blot of these
unwanted springboards pointing this way,
testing boundaries

a clothesline where a plucked string
would resonate
instead of the dull resultant thud
when there is nothing wanted
coming near


(ing) falling
left hip down
not that
easy anymore" compass
detecting bus
pole walked spurred
(ing) "I
stayed inside" question
opening) hips
back are you
alive?" walk
away again doubt
known trace
dragged (along) "not
a clean
descent today C
D's hand
sleeping aware some
pile cigarette
butts semi-circled and
worn "you,
self distance'd" worn
fragile out
(bear down)" drag
letter by
letter to letter
(strapped down)
what version figures
"locked, the
door closed" it's
chains shoulders
necklace tracing around
of each
"but not saying,
stuck then
like (ly) version
hip to
knee hanging version
"that's a
clarinet" locked finally


Until I tell you tulip petals hold their pose, this facsimile of eternity won't wash, and won't accept the status of a boundary, and anything I say that might have mattered won't begin to matter anymore. We're all occasions of the harvest. If I liked him I would be asleep by now. Our merger won't advance. The children are still drying. Suit yourself.

Opinion is an accusation, usually. And drowning pilgrims did not make it here. This is how the rodeo was accepted in the minds of readers too young to behold what might have been. I hear the padre pose the question, "Is it moral to be a national?" and that feels rich, somehow, more than other things I've just heard said. Now thirty years have swallowed what I thought was now.

The shoulders of the sun mix tentatives. I carve on stone initials that attest to how I hear myself. Think of spores that fill the air. Indicative repair eludes our greed for new phenomena. Why bold words you do not speak? Endowment is a noun forged into substance. Quiet time should cure what one cannot imagine.

A précis of a spark is nicknamed an idea. Spawn this, spawn that. Fire off one safe threat. Admire a pyro- in your yard and learn to like the bold idea of a tapestry. When anything is bud young it is glorious. That means you when I had crafted in my mind a gentler photograph than you have flattened out by layers.

This sum of quadrants comes to mean the whole. So how are you at margins? Cloak me in your will, and I shall butter your bread back. How many integers have slowly come to sleep with your infinity? Is it time to gesture back, and if not, why drag anyone through status of a slab of toast.

Practice makes plain. Affordance in the guise of whiffle takes the breeze for lift.
Sizes headway still demonstrable. Dries somehow overtones. So here.


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Mama D


home to
black New Orleans

D says
come on home!


Saturday (Ernestine)

Abandon the computer.
I just want to sit there,
look at web sites.
    It's too attractive.

In the garden now,
rare, clear fall day.
Raven cawing in
    the distance.
Vowel less little birdies up close
    twitter, and occasionally,
        (sound) noted call.

Butterflies together,
other insects (even) close(r).
    A buzzard glides.
The ocean sounds.
Sea of green,
    purple and pink flowers.
Blue of ocean low down
    (the horizon).

Protest out there. Back to
    studying, my reason to stay home.

A sixth-grader from San Jose held a handmade sign that said "No war ever more" on one side and "No war anymore" on the other.

"I am going to be a conscientious objector,'' said Dominic Dello Buono, 11, who was there with his father and younger sister. "I vote for peace not war."





McMulligan is in love with Mandy O'Sullivan
a dark haired word enchantress
undressing language to its nut core syntax of sound...
.... sound
and rounded round the edges
by sweet melodious puffball voices
ploughing weightless in the mind
then out through her gob
and into the air

hitting the fold of ammonite skin
deep within the skulls
of all those heads around her

forming an audience of eager
listeners at table in W1 Covent Garden

or slapping down the tarmac
as they're stiching up the grandma's

whilst him indoors flicks the pages of Rousseau
wondering if the wallet stretch'll wipe him out
of shopping down the Waitrose.

He subscribes to a view which pulls wisdom from a

hat constructed in the classic meter
of right graspers fixing quantity to
stress; coz stressin's in the lingo we the
mongrel English speakers talk. Although few

possess the protocols of bygone times
the rules of thumb stirring human truth
once motioned the lip tipped cauldrons of rhyme
advancing language to perfection by
uninterupted evolution. Huge
swathes of generations adhered then to
a poetic process of frenzied grind,
gathered knowledge revealed through sorrow
and joy, star brought to thier slanted vessels
by unbroken song. Their cauldron's poem
fermented brews of art by eight settled
precepts of division, agreed on in
conscious realms elsewhere than this awareness
which still reflects how the creator
expresses what connections of fairness
exist in the relationships we the
author make as life writes itself out on
the slate we cannot wipe our mistakes from.


a message to the leaders of this blog

is there a procedure for eliminating spam in the comments section? on another blog that I frequent, there's the character recognition piece that keeps away automatically-generated spamlets. if that is available, it would be a fine thing for us, too.

thanks in advance for your considering.

yours in as/is,

sheila e



among the more held

are the less brought to end

to live in what assigns to keep to crowd

and rely on

between these and those

what's under

feels right in walking

always presses on

in this hold

New at e-x-c-h-a-n-g-e-v-a-l-u-e-s


Monday 19/9/05 9'ish

The Everton FC keeper has just made a goal line save
in the position of a female doll

whose arms are fixed in a pose
of 160 degrees
torso to tip

as if she is a Baal worshipper
raising her palms to the sun
at 11am on an early June day

Coimha has one called Edith
which is much like a rubber
backed actor who can fold in
half like a door's hinge

compensating for the rigidity
of her immoveable arms.


the narrator
know this
because I employed Edith
during a story telling episode
last Saturday evening when Coimha's
folks were watching Pride and Prejudice.

Also involved was
a three inch plastic figure

the liliputian character to Edith's
Gulliver of Swift's novel.

I am unable to supply a full expansion
on Swift's work
as I am currently watching the soccer
game here in the kip
and my only companion
a sports buff
holds no more knowledge on the topic
than I.....


...Swift has completely disappeared from the
narrator's mind, as she was called away from the Arsenal 2
Everton 0 soccer game last night
decanting her person to the Spigeltent
canvas cabaret venue and attending a semi-formal
conference of administration artists

whose practices cover a range of activity
from telephone answering art
right through to co-ordinating the implementation
of festival event schedules.

The meeting was convened as a result of text received
pertaining to several poetry shows
whose personell in the poet sections of certain
companies have been having a love in of late, which
the previous narrator will now not relate
in a composition created
as she was cycling along the canal. I, Dick, will return at
the conclusion of the piece

.......Swans on Guard like assembly plant
robots of the ornothological world
are not the ones imagined on the banks at Kew
because we are adjacent to the low rise strips
of housing

where tricolours hanging from windows
and murals
inform us of a heritage beneath the surface cranes
nesting concrete and UPVC into the buildings fit
for bringing home the soul's bacon
the seed of which

came here
last year
looking to connect with what went before.

On this ground
found behind the mist
are images
fixed to a spiritual scent
impregnated in the cloth of
invisible theologies

the smell of perception
in signs
colour and code
scattered through the skies

a blend of messages written
in the language of existence....

And so now the scene is set
let the narrator continue and deliver her take on the continuum.
Over to "you" comedy wannabee with poetic pretensions who will continue
to interpolate throughout this text

humour bunched with depth
dredged from the well of Knowing
and presented for the reader
here at the cutting edge of clicheless writing

a combination of spectrums
tastefully tossed into being by your good self

who may need naming if and when this
long poem goes wobbly and requires
a bit of tinkering with.

Until then
she who shall remain a nameless narrator
will take over the entertainment detail
and relieve me of my post
when she turns up

after completing an experiment
into the existence of telepathy
with McMulligan
the worlds foremost charlaton exposer
and professional hyponotist to the beacon
transmiting the plot... hello and wave goodbye
until the next time we meet...


The Warmth of Aaron Copland

in strings from which one
tries to recollect recovery
and cannot perhaps because of
those low registers with legato
naturally the spaces come to blend
as years do and flute also tastes
above the safety of a minor coalition
in which present tense is anything
but a thatch of drying flowers where
rest each highlight as selected tone


Todd's whiffed a poet's coming response

[QUOTE]Originally posted by Gilligans Butt Bitch:[B]

The three principal commodities of Korea are:
1. Heated Floors
2. Sliding Doors
3. Slanted eye, come guzzling w..res!!
F..K THAT PLACE AND EVERYING IN IT!! Especialy them c..k gobbling ho's.

Wohah, wharra yers sayin' is slash dint is

"It's geniuses like you wot wheeze need in the world today coz yers've not got that nasty side to yers that spells love 'n peace 'n all that bad karma 'n sinful stuff devil worshippers don't need"

innit matesy?

Can I cum round your patch 'n engage in a mutual hate-in fest of nastiness and nuke level naughtiness of physical interaction which'll 'ave us getting Steve Austin sixy fixed 'n dropped dead as time escaping the continuum to another realm of forgotten forever remeberance, where only the unlicked annointed few contributing to the list connecting the two by keeping a trace in co-ordinates of sight and sound formulae which transcend either side of those specific identificational spaces

and between routes;

yer could cum round my hole and we can both get in a new microwave pain pleaser of total annihilation I've acquired from online sources at the Wall Street Journal, MI569, the CIA, NY Times Intelligence desks, the Washington Post, Private Eye, National Enquirer, and the lie conversion factory of synthetic conversation posing as the axiomatic certainty at the centre of all phenomenons


Dear Vanity Fair

My name is Desmond Swords and I would very much care contributing wow to an audience with dazzling climbs beyond Hegelian heights of semiotic rationale, so they can attend with me there in your hermetric and strange temple of contemporary exchange, to the uninitiated looking bewildered at and on the screen of trafficked ideas where the combination of sound, picture and text is often all too baffling to contemplate in the depths of understanding language artists possess once they have lettered up and availed of the boot of knowing, emptying its secret into their brains like Ode to a Nightingale opiates, dissolving into micro solid drips of opinion pegging out the grounds of belief offered to ones gazing upon the words their inherent hope of humnity translates as the contributing documentary evidence of its own world peace agenda.

So take little notice beyond the wish to connect dear literary high quality reader, as once the powers have kicked in we both may soar through mirrors to an emptiness of replicating spiritual frames beloved of Muse groupies pecking away like beaks hacking their way and pasting onto canvas their own patch of creational oblivion in cumulative deposits of personal myth hoped to draw the "rational pattern" and return its swing at a point of balance poised to tip weights outside of reality and impact as a positive change envisaged for the universal good of art.

Yes, friend, if I may call you that, time is short and talk is cheap so let me begin, (in my next communication) with a few words inspired by a woman long forgotten, but whose beacon of wisdom was once revered throughout a land where her language evolved uninterrupted to such an extent that sound could be measured with an accuracy never knowingly surpassed, in the most truly scientific of terms and provable textual measures, which the unknowing would find exoterically correct, but only after a long period of study and serious introspection on the received, of what is sometimes a very sadly misplaced, notion of poetic concept........ its most trusty state of identifiable sound units whose relevancies are mathematically based, and which by the time of her demise had gone sensibly along their course for 2000 years with only a fraction of the traumas which shaped the ever changing and interdependable lexicons of other cultures continually crossing in war and peace at the heart of what was and is still, to the complete bemusement of many, commonly described as the early "civilisations" from which our contemporary Western mindset hatched into its full "wonderful" bloom of "superb"ly knowable tracks to righteousness, the dominance of which is now wrestled out in the English lingo.

But what "English," as well as whose?.......... a pertinent point to raise,

as the instant bettering of problematic world issues is dominantly supplied in formulae that word is responsible for, and it is my belief that once readers cop on to my column then we may locate a way to make things work out for our mutual benefit.

Until then, let us log in to what we can only imagine to be the original ethos of liberty,

although the freedom to express this in any way which doesn't cause physical suffering may well be impossible now (03.01 Sunday 18/9/05)

as there are so few people alive who remember the near mid-twentieth century horror to keep a full planetary awareness of certain truths balanced alive in the minds of those who came a score and more years after the cessation of hostilities between certain factions of carnage involved in total war.

A conflict suspended by weapons of devastation; their full gravity hidden behind painted on names bestowed to salve and disguise an unthinkable truth, and whose originating heir of naked annihilation at sub-molecular level is far removed from her, past, ongoing territorial solution talk all those years ago in times when poets were the weapon inspector scientists of their day;

badged and tagged up bosses of kings akin to us all, whose practical science, "natural" and "misunderstood," was incapable of producing powerful laboratories of destruction unfound in Iraq, but known to be places adjacent where UN talks return a much more resistant dividend;

where the main few geezers jarring on the world stage now fear to tread, as their checkmate endgame of two big sticks is the only envisaged closure should any of them start waving the magic bash wand of heated physical pain by microwaves in the guise of pursuing peace in a planet wide democracy for all scale of engaged response to whatever goes on which necessitates sticking in further replies.

I imagine it goes without saying that we all have stories of a closeness to a flame of imperial nihilism and how we brushed by and hoovered up whatever banality was present in the historical vibes of any given time,

but three generations down the line of sociological-centric evolution and living at the fastest first post modern moments' edge ever; which it is tempting to imagine as a solidly tempered plain supporting our age of vacuous sophistication,

many misconceive,

it is my current position,

that events unrolling at the UN are being worked in tenors construed to suggest language and communication is a scientific pursuit of enhancing truth with computer aided levels of cleverality only the next generation of artificially assisted robotic human minds will be able to fully comply with in order to safegaurd a total disengagement contingency;

as though certain formulae of words alone can sway all literate peoples reading in native "English" text, should they choose to adopt them as arbiters of recourse, or some incontrovertible holy grails of justification for acts subsequent to the creation of wordic spells released by sages in current times.

Logic suggests the writer's "answers" are but expressions of faith being acted out beneath a weather ready broad umbrella stored in an appropriate recepticle at the humanities office of a latter day idea academy, where snap decisions and quick fix closures of opinion make no contributional difference to the final trajectory of mankind;

leading me to posit that many proffering ready made mends to ills of contemporary events perceive existence, primarily, through a pseudo-scientific precision lens state, technology inspired, created and shared by the main first world populace of human civilisation today, including myself.

A nonchalant state of ideas with a manufactured hope cored within its own Newtonian seed of central dialectic motoring to the settlement where an inherently ordered state of being, distorts in proportion to the exponential rate the science of communication advances a doctrine of Solution.

A definitive understanding;

the chimes of which set the mind to answer in modes resounding with clarity, much like masculine end-rhyme, full and finely tuned into pieces of poesy by creators keen to offer their universal set of apple pie answers, in subliminaly presentational at all times state, due to the high basting glaze wrap of argument which is, in realty, technology's "spiritual frame?"

"This is the solution" is what appears to be getting said, but what do you think reader?

How often and easy do we shout, like career high street charity collectors

"Lets save the planet,"

then cry

"What's happening with the rainforest/Iraq/Northern Ireland/Niger/ unrolling on the TV news, is as intense and coded as a true poets' druidic prediction of wave stopping wands purchased at the reiki crystal wharehouse in Stillorgan's spiritual industrial estate of pure commerce."

This, I would suggest is the main business of the hopefull open micer unfiring in the flesh on the night, but never the less, still striking wider, absent cores;

carping from the sidelines,

much like I am doing now, here as I sit in front of my screen, conquering wrongs I detect as I trawl through the information deluge, attempting to dodge and duck the torrential downpours of irrelevance dogging the days of poetic endeavour all us wannabe kids of Parnassus suffer on our separate roads to nowhere, as we await the arrival of a return which will whisk us to greater peaks of fancy in our quest to fly above our own personal


Word sonnet for NG







mute cone
palps nasality into

melody's lone string
stalked to

as if and

only if wheels
slowed themselves

time of
day work week

"say something don't
leave me

all the
talking as usual

I would rather
hear from

spawns moaning
on account of

plenitude's glutting the
whole pig

with thorns
and bracken and

and and and
issues coming

our fearing
very hearts stunned

by verb to
be taken

mean the
world to me"

trinkets like that
in words

to words
making themselves heard


Fractalis 3, Mirror


minds could
doppler shift the    


color of imagination
would be



9 Sept

saint you
memorize my spontaneity


gratuities left beside
cold shoulder


sum of
squares as overdose


sprinkling of seed
across gray


maybe figurative
maybe just literal


outcast effervesces thereby
offending secure


orioles in
park only listen


sprees of comfort
zone out


meme chose
equilibrium in patches


daylight so much
moss and



deep inside where you bleed
the tentacles choke your being
and you've lost the mystery
of unflinching belief

belief in love
came crumbling down
you will of faith eroded
the way it is
the lust of the day
keeping you satiated
so I scream with a whisper
my words mean heresy
I won't leave again in september
though I have nothing
just silence and madness

as I see
the tentacles
suffocates you
where you bleed
deep inside your being.

copyright(c)2000 Billy Jno Hope

A Place for Fire

to the against
that reflects
but the defense
to want it all

what lives
wasn’t more
but the forms
of access

as it comes
to look for
the moving of most
to understand

the waiting has
the particular use
when reached
to say endless

though under various
looks to years
to that other enough
to name

ha! key the word FAILURE into Google

and see what comes up


yo Clara!




Fractalis 2



in the other world
few have a complex
disposition and zoom
kaleidoscopic detail    


other entities are
near euclidian and
cogitate to invoke
cosmetic mathematicians