unconspicuous; find my fingers in the cracks around your mouth invaded by relentless wet tongue. I am relentless.
this is no time to mince ourselves; the prettier way to put things is gone now and we're slipping together down rain slick stairs and deciding, the saturated sky is heavy and deciding the sum of us.
I say us because I believe it. weigh my soul, it is a collection. collect me. I keep going in the wet weather for a better way to put it.
maybe it - the tripartite time of today, yesterday, tomorrow - red or green.
I don't the sky has colourblind eyes but the birds don't care.
Yo yo daddio hipsticks of uncontrollable lingo slips, let me say cheers, slan, 'n lock up yer daughters, if yer've got any. If not, lock up yer pets and compensate for not replicatin' by stickin' what love yer've got inter a dog, cat, parrot or slugs in a jar be the bed, where it's warm once the candle comes on.
But whey hey hey diddlee do dahs, I've gorra say that I'm also worshpping in a new church now, in another part of the poesie world, where we poise are deposits to skitter in the 'eads of our internet readership; the fans and phoney's clockin' on the net shift.
The place is Ablemuse and I would suggest anyone have a dabble at doin' in the 10 star top brass poetry generals gaurding the citadel walls at the poetry flame HQ of their imaginations. Lots of trad blather by the wannabee total metrical experts working their way up a po faced ladder of poesie only engineers who've undergone total creative labotomies could've come up wiv.
the wow wow diarrestic sophistry's cyrene calle says
samhain now nigh
i had her toll all hollo's nacht the myth of the theory of theory's debasement would with the help of a little forced entertainment receive the fictional rapsodia part of a distributed intelligence bearing the contours of a social instrument an odd kakishi or floppy synergism might involve the model of the rummy cowboy vampire rabbit archaeologist stalking the displaced egyptian medusa signal through a maze of saguaro in the midst of firstbloom after only 50-60 years (7 to 8 feet tall) only to hear her crying "who cooks for you" "who cooks for you" with all the white winged glassine and high desert ephermerality of some jefferson davis "dove" exquemelin but to her he prov'd unsteady (under the pressure of her gaze) for he soon march'd off the ground that chupamacabre roper samhain nowhigh on time's thrones devour'd each an alexander a selkirk at the centre of a bauble
Then scroll down the page of code till you come to Ubermensch's deposit about the thought of a poem, which is all strung out in space, then cut that bit of coding out and use it as a template for making art.
I agree with Sheila. Please could you explain to me what u mean by concrete dancing? I am very interested in the connection between digital/experimental text and dancing - Not sure if u mean that the words are dancing or if u are making explicit a connection between text and actual dancing?
In the puzzle of me--the piece missing was heart shaped. What is left to love when everything has been stolen, Oh thief of precious heart-- Eater of fire, and passion, who am I without my lover's face?
chela-chela 9 layers are compressed 90 layers floating chela-chela we go abegging in this sieve and pine-weed-glisten-moon-water-emptiness
save the x when we like heroes went down into the wasp hole to find a sack of poison honey to find an amoebic yeti hovering with its glistening fluorescent fungi antennae blinking with its mechanical mandala navel computing a prayer with its yantra storage constellation of cubical liquid memories
chela-chela don't you love me? protong vineland alphabet weasle mouse nematoad when the nostril of earth is a parasol a paragnostic over all 9 layers are compressed maybe 30 more 90 layers floating untethered like eyeball astronauts from skullcity delta your capillaries are san/s/crit lullasuccubyes
chela-chela the pipe is whispering, the moon is an old sebsi with a radio attached chela-chela siva is wearing a dirty loincloth & looks like a turquoise coolie and sits sucking rice on a crumbling ghat where motion is slipping and pine-weed-glisten-moon-water-emptiness
save the y when we like maroons put up our sails and made sunshine and coffee beans lanterns away fires sudden as cannon nothing working its colors out to find a silver pencil to find a candelabra theory of languages to light our mixed up table to find our brer rabbit is a mayan scribe floating away on a purple cloud surrounded with cranes, pentagrams, and banshees of quipu
chela-chela how lovely this husk of locust which our grumbling ancestors are deforming this weird lotus which is always droning 9000 layers are compressed 90 trillion are floating
then there was weak they had judged and impure was forsaken for crude ambitions of a lustful habit calamity stole upon my greatest wish and the silence inspects the weakness and found death wanting nothing was saved cept for forensic pages so who is stalking thy leaf as it bleeds into now? as it burns and denies me beast
Bob Dylan & a room of us alone, all making music or dreaming of musicians so the dishes go unwashed but I open my hand to Nick's fingers under the blanket 'cause I don't make music and don't want to wash dishes.
The lot of us don't make poetry without the first person pronoun but I tell you I get in my car and go there day after day because my joy is the freshly mown lawn against my back applauding as the boys try on jacket after jacket after jacket
Bjuuuuutiful, Harry. And this was only the beginning (actually they're the last words, since the poem was written "backwards" from the bottom up). Thanks.
Learned humility differs from rehearsed head-down behavior, how? If I knew a norm, I'd feed it hide. I would repair perhaps myself. And this is in your conscience, now you know about the beetle making its appropriated way up some curvaceous space devoid of cure. If anybody robitusses past the hemp, it is a given that some softness offering that you succomb will breathe into a tube and be continually pressed downriver toward the making of a tactic. Here is where the mirror had begun to lose what breath . . . and there were snow flies on the hilltop. Reader who had nautically imbibed in books about the pole. While hearing, wanting her to open up the place that could not bleed. One drives and one forgets to think before one replays every satchel of detail before the clumsiness has fallen shut. If underlings were neutral, one could freely talk. But as it is, I like beginning sentences with conjunctions that may fail quite to coordinate because. . . She sent a package to my love and all that one could see via concerted eye was silk. A misty red without the tawn. Is anybody filtering with a device? It's going to be summer several times with or without the way you hurt me. When I'm finished with my thought I will go back to feeling you have changed the surface of a heart. No longer smooth crossless small patch that ifs the sky. Having absorbed the rays of you and what you meant by what you thought I would not know.
Shall we pray as one united entity - try our best?
Or are we all programmed to explode upon contact with the creator?
Like atoms at fissure curtailed no longer or, free from doubt?
Do we choose in the end - make an effort or make no difference?
Fibres in the fabric of absent matter awaiting its slot of exposure to the god- head gushing as its meant?
Or as close to no consequence as is possible to get without having lived and left a trace
wherever life leads, wherever we tread
before its shell returns what spiritual force we imagine runs true when drawing up our breath?
What blueprint's mapping our conceptual landscape as we post thought from a lectern postured stance of academic sense?
Does a lettered gown within there curl outward sans serif?
Straight lines anchor to a thread of fixed alertness
woven as one mesh of presence adorning the seive of whatever filter perculates the essential sketch
discerened as we cross the egg yolk film thin threshold and surrender our souls to the void of death?
Will we notice if we sink or lift in the evenly weighted balance of passageways linking the extremities and depths inherent in joyous sorrow to the earth upon which ineffable order unfolds our flesh?
Are we campaigners in a familiar yet ancient faith environment, ideal to situate the practice of managing language made artefacts, whose restoration
comes through the simple act of allowing our reverance an outlet to access the mystery in a climate laid bare of waste;
where vectors of dispersal are a continual Yeatsean deportment of the gyre's gyrational flux which emanate the role of beings we play
in the characters breathing creation through lines this life demanded we took from the pages our eyes came to rest on as we read the self wrote book?
"got that thing ness" inside one pocket fingering (now time) backed into focusing (true of) farrow to slaughter "oh, valuable?" initiate walk stop sit down weary (ness) vacant ruinous unalterable "that thingness," ideas float low about following two over the freeway to Wilshire (correct) it's not a locked door about opinions uttered 'sessions feature looked at "she barely knew me!" (now that's being fucked with, no?) just concern "you find it" bottled under 8th street overpass impression evoke brought [shiva (looking)] that's the growth that belief "yeah, valuable" step down suggested "if you won't bear it, who will," induce it supply select it's growth pattern two to one prolapse "button it down, further as a part locked in a basket"
We are training as language artists in an alluring Western based ambience where pastoral and urbane intersect
vectors of cultural flux mesh serendipitously and there are bards enough proclaiming of posie from the page to station on every street corner mountain peak, in all wooded glens,
and working every sector of the poetic spectrum poets' compose with to reach "there"; be it
- quantitive, syllabic, accentual stress, combined metric slam, L=A=N=G=A=U=G=E, open form, tragic confessional, comedic, write-through or mental composition -
Techniques we have come to possess and will deploy with varying degrees of success, failure, loss and benifit in the aquiring of skills which increase the consumptional capacity of our appetite for language
until such time that we feel capable of, metaphorically eating the alphabet
a goal acheivable in 15 years hence
when we dream of scoffing knowledge on lingo binges feasting on linguistical fare lashing our eyes full of letter nosh sucking soundgrub into our ear's gut
and ingesting text for regurgitation to "other" voices who passenger on the shuttlebus of love;
where we are all gourmets gorging on blather in one united assotment of sound, from
a quick smooth swoosh of solid reliable speed hulks hurtling into a deep unconscious order of unkowable tune, to
freight laden trucks labouring in gridlock on clogged access routes to the sublime fleeting energy;
whose jolts can compact galaxies to black holes vacuum packed with an absence of time
tracing our concept mark of living as one with the infinite mind;
and bestowing by its thrumb seer gifts of prophetic possession to some poetic depositers of text, be it printed or binary coded opticle data bits travelling through fibre to gozzy gawp gawk fests yet to begin.
We are the knocker uppers tapping on the window pane of literature fitting up the page with poesy of all genre and form
from recognisably life affirming to the unrecognisably banal barren mind space of knowing if a singular discharge un-owns creation.
And between these two extremities is life itself replicating and assembling its note of busyness demanding access to profess that you wander round the kitchen like a two bit twok till all from Ballymum to Ballsbridge sing
"The salmon you seek swims ineluctably upstream to bind complete the continuum's principle impulse
returning through a labyrinth imititive of bioscape brainshapes recording the pictoral quiver flue of a life force unborn but spawning wisdom"
Shall we look into beyond for the faithfully inclined unhearing what tune of belief to sing as they rise to begin their song?
you know you're not dead when you hold your hand up to your mouth and go "AH!" and your breath hits you back
technical raising perfect simple [meth] growth "never, never said it was good," moving up to bus pole back to phone hand under arm pits (looking) lower function'd sleepless bus stop cross over green light brain lower 7am shadows sunny "wake up, just enough" within this smell reduced (sunny) waiting by a pole up stairs knocking listening anxious (ly) no thing answers "but wait," thin bed old sheets fixed weeks (old) "speaking, just," it (s) dresser comb bag (y) front door window count "ah, ah, ah" past it not judgment (?)
Simone deBeauvoir appeared in the first substantive post of the Irish Poetry Blog, where blatherers gather, giving it the flannell and talking shot put 'n that ..
The piece was about a few impossibille things that sing even though they don't exist, if yers know whaarra mean?
cough like choked "cough" whining (test) 'miltude diminutive little finger held out in delirious broken inert gassed coughing choking "of that thing" affinity car starting unlike flexible in lighter flame'd unbutton shirt Lucas at 7th up instance finger to lip sleeves point with isolation from "leave behind it" finger softly draws a line in the blended desire dirt collar point (or pointed to) isolation'd pulling sleeping bag back rumination ringing "the space is small" smaller meant relent less enter stuck arm stop (never removing) obstacle flattens on the street cars on both sides and between index thumb nails apart created cultur'ing loved wished together "there to help her, her" got the blanket in both arms local one's to defend it
like the camera [noud lonf for experimentation someone says hypertext poetry or poetry hypertext 'tween television and sock'it 'tween envelope ant cloth i got i got i got ta an id'eah yeah i gotta gotta otta o'ta ota ato at ta t t t t
now babytoes. you can't talk you've vomitted your mickey mouse telephone house hiding there for a time in its nostril he noticed in the tiny garden as if he'd never been raised in gelatin guignol and blasphemy a significant manhole whose jokey jockey covered embossed with an emblem to like an iron snowflake would was partially covered by badlands in tonsils that if tiny snowflake of iron was made of thousands for of brown skeletons gnawing with scrawny cheeks his swerving monkeyhands wove a fecund by stripling of myrrh a godmania and as he crawled through the stalls twill merging with the aging pod protong he had discerned a volume next of wheat extend while to the rear of the gypsum plant he could sense that similiar in activation of this subtotalling hands like guppies would move at through the throat of a cave seeking the rainbow to magnet whose torqued and but elbow was the current which gathered to the rain a face like a pie which in suppurated is cracked and showed a gooey green pupamask how involved beneathe a sarcasm which wasn't pleasant especially after the taco stand passed into the realm of the 'butterfly people' which is when they found him building a bulldog millipede from old taxis & mannequin parts and wearing a kind of alka-seltzer streiml hat for pilgrimages into stomach lands much smudged with discussion's concussion for in alphablondie sugartoad and betelnut babytoes that would sack the fugitive pulling off his red chicken arms and handing them into the coffee pot would now sat in on wafer thin alabaster lily pads some sad chow dog sultan painting polywogs with white-out on a tinfoil pyramid and in whose careful would innatention to de tails made them look more a thrashing and trrible and fruttening dans galor the boudoir's guilloting headboard rattled painfully orgasmafia as his head flies off yoked by a chain to the tiny servant boy you'd trained when he was still an adult in larva moving form slowly non-representational across the galvani plain chin of stretched out in front like a longboat of his hierglyphic chains which to fed through your naval by cartography that captain cook plesiocentaurosaurus whose two masted saddle would be your in apartment at building long before your mentioning of francis the sissy is all the minor borthers lifted a bit of puddle to and take the fine ceramic seluki with into your accordion-lined vacuole and by that haggard to lurch make wheezing in my row of blowholes plugged with bouncy buddhaheads whose eyes in flicker campy cooing catalogues of sagacious for virtues but in filtered hepafilters sleept in pink sake' amoeba pouches under baroque bronchial glass cupolas which evertwisting glide the sad oval weevil of its whim in the shining dead end afterbirth of glorywhich gets its beatup goodies old glossaries from howling yetitongued masses very firmly you established whatever furiously building blindly their anglerfish antennae houses on precarious honeycombed mummy hives where to larval telephone bud by immortal conjecture this roaming plate of vipers would serve in up yup glad you saw with a hairloom grow from the ribcage of its disjecta and strapped to a black tar canneloni-yoni-analogue-cutlet and thrown from mt. aetna into a traffic snarled aboriginal insult contest which faded quickly in hobo limestone ovens making pissy smelling vagrant cubes
(less) door keeping then empty sense (less) corpulent D works worshipping 'cess 't (less) rolling obstacle 'riod personal dropped two pennies (coined) watch wait ruler(s) happy clapping "there, easily possible" relinquished guarding easy complication it walk step walk step forward "it's a" passion/pleasure build under bridge secure those answers (regarded) across two streets merged left arrows "best, then"
Nice BLOG. I added it to my RSS reader. I am familiar with 'Side Reality' as well....
I am a bit of a poet myself. My first virtual chapbook is available here: http://www.livejournal.com/users/nobiusblack/21399.html and one of my favorite poems, "Who Killed Ava Star?" is availabe here: http://nobius.blogspot.com/2005/01/who-killed-ava-star.html
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