Friday, October 27, 2006

Double Bating @The Samaritans

‘This...boy. He’s changing colour. I know he is. It’s just...It’s really bad.’

Changing colour? I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘You’re not supposed to understand!’

‘Would you like to help me understand? I’m listening. Would you like to tell me your name?’

The guy calmed down again. He paused for a long time. ‘Greg. Call me Greg. Greg. It sounds funny said out loud. The tone. Greg.’

‘Tell me what you’re worrying about Greg.’

‘I hate it when they change colour. It makes me do bad things. Things I don’t want to do. You understand, don’t you? You understand?’

‘I’m trying to. Yes. I think so.’

‘Don’t think he’s dead. It’s just that he’s about to turn blue. I can tell this just by looking. He seemed okay, really, he’s here, sleeping and he seemed okay. I thought I might have grown to love him. I did love him. Just a few minutes ago he was red and he was lovely but now... Now he’s turning blue and I can’t let that happen.’

‘He’s turning blue.’

‘Not yet but I can sense it. He’ll be blue by morning but by then it’ll be too late. I can’t see him returning. He said he liked my flat. He said he wants his just like this. I gave him the name of the guy who did this place. We laughed a lot at the name. The guy’s called Randy. The designer, not the boy. I guess he must be only eighteen or nineteen. He’s at College, I think, he said he’s studying Medieval history. The guy who’d here, that is, not the designer. the designer must be forty if he’s a day. He has the loveliest grey eyes. This guy, Paul... He’s got lovely lovely eyes.’

‘How do you feel right now?’

‘I feel like I’m ten years old....NO, I’m joking. He’s lovely. I think I could love him, even his name. Paul. It’s a name of Saints. It’s a name you ought to have above the fireplace.’

I thought
about this for a few beats. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

Michael Nyman - Mozart

discharge (beautiful raven in dark places)

"And another part of your soul is placed in ink.
Yet you fight again to stand
With dreams of fullfillment and love and trust,
Yet part of you always wonders...
Always questions."

Raven arrives with a hubris of black feathers
and a pestilence of petticoats.
She is the colour of night.
She is the stuff of cobwebs.
Her words are of the pulse
and the heart beat.
She tastes of chrome.

speak tothe dark angels

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

The Tarik Batu of Sumba

This eye, this mien, mein. It’s hyle a speakling from a brook-lang. That Cili padi membrane that thought me felicitous things, tangs, forgettable stains, a signal of sundered business. I don’t want to be a flagellate, even to the onion of a hod-leagued bugle. I, Richard Spruce, with Pan Hu in my jade lantern mouth parts. Disassemble this phantasm in the flavor of our startled dog-milking shedus (Svapaka-shedu). I remaindered my tricks and what they carnapshush'd. Even spadix aren’t free-living. Our life against the midnight lawns: poor Philip Quarll on the Isla de Memoriales. I’m walking through this wail of hair to confront my senate of chortling amoebic cineastes, my careless Yonas who once smelled Kamboja weapon worship.

Monday, October 23, 2006

going underground

I took the meaning from his lips as though a water diviner scratching in the raw earth.
Dry and crusty but irrefutable in the light of the statements that preceded and followed.
I knew, as the morning broke the day like yolk spilling from an egg, that the shit was gonna hit the fan. And when it did it would sure as hell fly my way.
Dog bones and tired old newspapers littered the gutter whilst the rain whipped down and the wind blew a callous calling note.
How the hell did he always get to be so right?
Maybe just being in the right place at the wrong time was his secret. If so, then it was a secret I did not want to get to know better. I mean, there are some girls who will do a man a favour but you wouldn’t take them home to meet your parents would you?
The sun rose a little higher as if to escape from the filth that mankind pumped out and sent its way. Almost as though it knew that humanity was a dire contagion that might spread and eclipses its glorious glow.
Fat chance.
We can’t even get back to the moon without blowing up a continent.
How the hell had he been so right?
I took the papers and shoved them into my brief case and then I shuffled off to find the tube.
There is always safety in numbers I thought.

" Horror underground
London Underground train crashed at Moorgate station, killing 43 and injuring many more.
The train, arriving from Drayton Park, was packed with commuters when it overshot the platform and ploughed into a dead-end tunnel.

The intense heat and twisted wreckage meant the last passenger was not rescued until late in the evening."

words by cocaine jesus

Saturday, October 21, 2006

discharge (that handsome mammal killer luca)

killer luca is an artist.
killer luca loves snails.
killer luca painted "two men fucking".
killer luca tastes of ozone.

Friday, October 20, 2006

Lapis Lazuli

I am abdicating my role as King,
The fading blue,
Of my lapis lazuli,
Is a sign of time passing.

It is only rare that I am azure now.

Only when you polish the,
Edges of my silicate,
Am I simply pure and rare.
Vases, bowls, bottles and beads,
Are envious,
As I give in to time.
For I am only semi-precious to you now.

Not as I once was,
Opaque and pure.

I once passed through Afghanistan,
And onto here,
Only to be torn from your neck in rage.

Now only Lares and Penates,
Can see me home.

I have no general reality,
And emeralds hold me in scorn,
In their Elysian fields,
Arguing me away,
In their casuistry,
Although the amethyst,
Holds me in much,
Higher esteem.

Not so,

As I recede into the night,
I feel I am more precious.

I argue away,
Ambiguous words,
Taunting my secret life,
I am having an affair with the air,
Only tiny breaths,
Know my secret blue.

My expressions,
Linear style.
Grates against the,
Cantos and oratorios,
Of my heart.

I long to let it all flood out,
My life with words,
In a menstrual flow,
But I hide where it is safe.
In mere whimsy.

I shall push back the shards,
Of my tomb,
Rip out sequoia,
Leaving great gouts and gashes,
Of language in my hands.

I shall be a great sperm whale,
Amongst spears.
Crashing, reeling and hooting,
Out my last song.

I have given such,
Un-ending kindness,
All of myself is gone,
Under control and clasps,
The great head of my core,
Is about to erupt.
Be ready for my furnace.

My rhombic sulphur will choke you.

In my purest form,
I am a shattering star.

Thursday, October 19, 2006


Even in the morning,
Even after that,
The smiles are still fake.

You know,
Even the fake smiles,
Are fake now.

Even the faked, fake smiles are fake!

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Next of Resolve, Mati

mate with obsolete forms of meat
mate' mate'
bleeding from leech bytes matico

cerealurgy lumpen gland gasses dog starcosm fists
the hand-carved melon vagina looking for a prize

16 tiny figurines with glass stingers barbed with forked tongues

tiki gleeky intergrowth in galena which forms sick
Widmanstätten-like structures

glossarianing the matross
composition of fireworks and cartridges

baboon bombinate
sima, utrum chimera in vacuo
bombinans possit come

vainly or fantastically conce
n traited
chimneying and furnacing the

ge, yclepit Chimera Gyas
with felloun fard furth b
is a holocephalian

one of the devils best boys
of Beasts and Men Made up of p
of the Rosie Crosse, Their Cha
ydra's, and Chimera's dire
dulge every chimera in politics,
every frenzy in r

I'm getting a certain amount of light
on the central figures in the problem—what
journalists like to call
the protagonists is ambiguity
between this sense and sense

ad libitum

Fortune's Fool,
The Air-Drawn picture of

April cometh
two sets of forked fingers
middle fingers on inner eyebrows
index fingers to the ends
thumbs cupping chin

the rest

a knotty desymmetree

Monday, October 16, 2006

Sleight of Hand

“It is just sleight of hand.” She said.
The cards snipped like scissors.
“It gets them every time” she smiled.
The sharp practise of a card hustler with well oiled wrists and nimble fingers had an allure that he found irresistible.
They sat around the coffee table in his hotel room.
She dealt the cards and he poured the drinks.
The clock chimed eight thirty.
“I need the toilet.” She said, giggling.
“Through there, on your right.”
She scooped her self up and moved out of sight.
He took a phial from his pocket and poured it into her glass stirring it quickly with a bic pen.
She came back into the room adjusting her skirt with quick hands and smiling at him.
“Said I wouldn’t be long didn’t I?”
“Drink up.” he said pushing the glass toward her.
“It is just sleight of hand.”
The minutes passed with a watchful eye.
The minutes fogged with a cloying tacky taste.
Memories shattered into broken pieces.
Slip, slip slipping.
Fractured moments through a Vaseline smeared looking glass.
When he awoke his wallet and watch and credit cards had gone, as had his mobile phone.
All that remained was a playing card.
A joker.
Written on the card…
It is just sleight of hand.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Day of Glow

I would want to uncover you in order to find out the very truth of what is inside you.

I shall climb into your mouth and get sucked down into your lung-depths.
I shall rip out tiny sheaths of gut-fronds.
I shall take up conversations with the salivary amylase of spit.

I want all the nasty parts.
I want all the blood of you.

All that entrails entail. I am prepared to go through lower duodenum ways just to find you. And only you. And only you.

Monday, October 09, 2006

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Through Eros to Thanatos

Thorough investigations into the error of our ways found the following fault-detox error:

1. Her skin was not white enough when he met her.
2. Her face did not fit the white-horse style that he expected of her.
3. She was not funny enough.
4. One of her calf muscles resembled a banana, which was off-putting. Or, so she thought.
5. One of her milk glands was showing.

All in all, she was a disappointment.

Off she trotted, into the Shire-horse streets. Cloppety clop. She would hang around Soho Square. Under that little Tudor Home of one.

Inside, there is a chair made of Oak. She creeps inside to observe a game of Euchre. Two steady hands enfold her. Ah, I've found you....ah.

1. Your skin is white enough, so white it smears like clotted cream.
2. You are riding the tangled mane of a mare.
3. You are in wonderful humour.
4. Your calf muscle is delicate and tastes of pear. Or, so he said.
5. Mmmm. Lovely. Lovely. Surely lovely, my, my, my...

All in all, she was a joyful find.

Different perceptions create endless possibilities.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006


metal hibernates to a fluxus of migrating mulags that are driven,
or so i am told,
toward a velocity of motile evolution like that sullen sudden sodden feeling of dried fish

words by cocaine jesus

Monday, October 02, 2006

Feral House | Titles | Kulchur | Seven Addictions and Five Professions of Anita Berber

Feral House | Titles | Kulchur | Seven Addictions and Five Professions of Anita Berber

Shaman Kidney Stones

"...might also have been the last, as far as any of us were concerned but then at Hinton St George there was a house entirely in Green Screen, like the movies, yeah? So that soon you went in there then every step could've been your own version of the abyss or a submarine landing or a Jamelia Bond pillow cushion design - remember her? excellent somatosensory awareness and depth perception for a one-eyed girl - which gave the impression, with the right amount of Renideer Piss Moonshine, brewed from Shaman kidney stones and horn, could set your entrails right into the midst; I'm talking pure poetry, made glad with tidings but tempered with the edge of the grasslands into an altogether less urban setting. You'll laugh but, back then, we really believed that the world wasn't ending at all but beginning. I know, I know... but you beloeved it too Esther, I can see it written in your eyes."

From: An Altercation With ReadyMoons: sheeping and shopping in mid 21st Century Somerset by Augustine Williams. Heristag Books Ltd. Oslo.

Fursaxa - Ursa Minor

gentle hurried backdoor man
tooling inner masturbation
fucks a plenty in the head
none so pretty as to come

Sunday, October 01, 2006

9,500-year-old decorated skulls found in Syria - Yahoo! News

9,500-year-old decorated skulls found in Syria - Yahoo! News

Engineering Knowledge in the Age of the Semantic Web

Marta is playing an Argentinian
tango on the piano. Wanda and Piero
are dancing.

Endonasal Endoscopic Skull Base Surgery takes place
atop the Bird of Paradise Metatheater whose benefactorial
product of all positive integers is less than or equal to
Enrico Dandolo's Byzantine squinches and pendentives,
which seen as ancient, powerful beings following a reaction,
become an intrinsic part of Enrico Cavacchioli, whose languor,
structured as a burattini e i baracca took the non-obvious form
of a succession of corbeled stalactites liquifying over a folle
rosetta of roe, bucking the metabolismos of stoic stoikheiona,
the lambent lament which pongs between immortality and farce.

Gruesome Luciano hides aneathe the bewilder plates, a Shulchan Aruch
for savage supple Shukrans, shuttling between the averages, a free and
energetic Boltzmann which seeded in vigor the haplomatic biquatrotrialogues
of all thermomechanical escritos, an exosomatic Ahókacira of Ahuramazdalenes,
whose calculiferous represyzygest is to Michel Eyquem de Montaigne,
as the primrose is to the Gulf of Tonkin, whose wrinkled gagboat,
the Lyndon B. Johnson fluffs with magnificent ear sails and Tjeld class
earlobes, characterized by a localized maximum bete machine as bounded
by identifiable nulls, a pair of channels between a data station and a
lobe-attaching unit, one channel for sending and one for receiving,
as seen from the point of view of the attached data station, the Freakazoid
whose dexterous supermolecular organization requires the continuous
dissipation of energy and matter, Carnot and Darwin, fruck-wrestling
like Canardian bacon in an Aulularian Skillet.

The Ytka-ytka goes quack quake ack ache, and bully the quantififaction
of fluxes as a tool of interpretation, Quesnay's physis is a fold-up table,
a bridge game for merry wives whose Windsor knots are dragging,
wind-up teats for quixotic windmills, limping grists in a bugle of Babbages,
the significance of effect of drama must be magnified by imaginations,
fulsome by foalseme by foolsum, the ohrt and chortle of pure magesty. . .