strain (ing) falling left hip down "it's not that easy anymore" compass sense detecting bus pole walked spurred fall (ing) "I stayed inside" question (eyes opening) hips back are you "how alive?" walk away again doubt not known trace dragged (along) "not about" a clean descent today C pulls D's hand sleeping aware some remnant pile cigarette butts semi-circled and around worn "you, self distance'd" worn up fragile out (bear down)" drag it letter by letter to letter trace (strapped down) what version figures all "locked, the door closed" it's final chains shoulders necklace tracing around one of each "but not saying, it!" stuck then like (ly) version from hip to knee hanging version negotiated "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.
McMulligan is in love with Mandy O'Sullivan a dark haired word enchantress undressing language to its nut core syntax of sound... ....   ..to sound jarred jagged 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.
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.
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 Alan 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 Brian a sports buff holds no more knowledge on the topic than I.....
THE FOLLOWING DAY
...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 symbols 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...
TBC...here ...click hello and wave goodbye until the next time we meet...
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
[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. [/B][/QUOTE]
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"
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........
..........in 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?..........
............is 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,
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,"
"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 Sincerely
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.