Friday, June 30, 2006

Mr Lee's Special Reason



Holly Valance - Down Boy


...also playing with other peoples' teeth is asking for trouble, even in a town as Killjoyless and brokenbacked as Samantha Shaw, Nebraska.

Kode 9 & Daddi G - Babylon


When the bullets came she was always halfway to nodding and back. Later, with the optical illusion of time (and the healing halfdone) she started to concoct bogus PhD titles:

After Eight Mints and the Worthlessness of Desire

Cw Pucking

Shooto! The Grapes Of Wrath

Hormones And Sutures: an underestimation of Decency

What do we do with the Drunken Sailor?

READwriteARTmusic: denver syntax issue 8

READwriteARTmusic: denver syntax issue 8

The Rag-Picker's Motley

Cacciaguida and
Scipio Africanus the Younger
are part of the tailored omen

the association of wills
the wells where wills swell
for is to sever
what mention of
games we find

gap gappily
gappy days are hear
a gain

q-

gate valve
gate voltage

read switch
to i/o

card

house of
royal N2 pressure

Niccolò Leoniceno
dicing wits
into a stein of genes

Bakhtin begat Wittgenstein
begat Frankfurtherstein

All Tomorrow's Ron Sillimans
are Friar John Ashbery
and Charles Olson Gargantua
combined in a war
against King Anarchus who
as
Aloysius Betrand DeBorne
is Scarpo Marx Diogenes
the Vampire Midget Philosophart

states flatly

Li Po still remembered chaos
and gave it a genetoole toast:

May we long share our odd, inanimate feast,
And meet at last on the Cloudy River of the sky

[,]zato, Papapipipopipapupapo

"The Prophetic Riddle"
was both parody

[thisparity is the Mer,
the limping linfin flinter
was a tennis game of sophism]

and actual prophecy

as the "Tennis Court Oath"

quasimodo'd

these "unqiet men"
loosed upon eternity

Gay Monstiers of Eschatological Time

the volting re: the middle
ages
us slightly

the grey

the gray cerebral banquet
spread like an umbrella
to keep out the piss

of Revisiost Textor

funning the geometric animation
on the forehead viewing screens
all
meat is murder
sang the smiths of hyperbo Lee

in the dimly lit suburbs
of the jaws of hell
and everything tends towards nona
for the biscuit in the bobbin

honestly i think this is shit







Two girls wearing silver overalls and Monty Cantsin-look alike masks visited Monty Cantsin. The first girl said: "I bet this is an allegory." The second said: "You have won." The first said: "But only allegorically." The second said: "No, in reality. In allegory, you have lost."

Alejandro Jodorowsky's Cinema

(Fando Y Lis - 1967)
"I think that if you want a picture to change the world, you must first change the actors in the picture. And before doing that you must change yourself. Right? This must be done. With every new picture, I must change myself, I must kill myself, and I must be born. I must kill the actors and they must be born. And the audiences, the audiences who go to the movies, must be assassinated, killed, destroyed, and they must leave the theatre as new people. This is a good picture."
(The Holy Mountain - 1973)
"I believe that the only end of all human activity -- whether it be politics, art, science, etc. -- is to find enlightment, to reach the state of enlightenment. I ask of film what most North Americans ask of psychedelic drugs. The difference being that when one creates a psychedelic film, he need not create a film that shows the visions of a person who has taken a pill; rather, he needs to manufacture the pill. I think that the journey of Alexander the Great is a psychedelic trip. Many say that Alexander the Great was an idiot because his conquest was so great, so complete, that he was actually progressing toward his ultimate failure. I think that Alexander the Great was journeying into the depths of his being. I think that Odysseus was another great traveler. I want to travel the route of the Odyssey, I want to travel the route of Alexander the Great. I want to travel into the deepest areas of my being in order to reach enlightenment."
(Santa Sangre - 1989)
"Sometimes I feel myself absolutely mad. I say what am I doing here? Because I feel reality so unreal and myself so strange. I have a mind, a liver, a heart. Everything I look and I feel is inside myself. It's not reality. What I am is enormous reaction. It is not the thing. I am not the feeling. I am what is felt. The man who feels. Everything is so subjective. If someone says to me, I am mad, I say yes, I am absolutely mad like all the civilization and like all the persons in this planet. I think all the humanity now is absolutely crazy and mad. And some day when my essence sees myself, how my ego is crazy and mad, I laugh -- with love and compassion. And in the moment when you have the enlightenment you start to laugh. Because you see yourself, how crazy and mad you are. Then you feel compassion. I have great pity on myself because I am so mad and crazy."

Thursday, June 29, 2006

you

Summer Comes



Fauna - Summer Comes

time in incremental movements

the machine of time is as slick as slime and as heavy as a period,
whenever it ticks or strangely clicks the gears shift it ever forward.
not to be outdone as the moon by sun the passing of time is monotonous,
it passes away like the drying of clay in away that is strictly laborious.

words by cocaine jesus

just add a pinch of salt

The Hole In The Wall


"The Hole In The Wall. Even the name makes me. Whenever I'm alone and my eyes are all-mist closing. The shadows that come, unravelling at the edges form monstrous eyes and gnarling wheals of bone and terrible blue flesh..."

From Augy Reym Breglights In the Sick Moon CarverSpoyle 1976

Coil - Are You Shivering?

The Mongols and their closeness to Nature

The Mongols and their closeness to Nature

An Autumn Rush

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

north east, pa - nikon D50 SLR
[commitment]

connect  unknowing                           dis-
         connect a june hesitation
a slow turning inept         lazily it sits
       on the swing
    in the mouth    an inclination      a bandage
on the tongue    a clause
in the eloquent          a choke in the valve   
                     
                       [forgive me]

a cease of the lung – summers on the edge of silk,
  a cheek to molest in the sun  ( I say yes
             yes
                      yes
love  an ax   what I mean is kiss me   kiss me

day slows along the lines of hands / you me /
      along the miles
                  of distance          too much
and fragments of clouds  bur st

in the spine       a speck of lavender crouched
beside the gate  / you me /  it felt
         like feathers  (to describe more  would be
   heartbreak     it was our day

I still taste the rain in your throat   & this is
my secret   my blossom
                            my chestcave in winter
         days when I knew wakefulness
           with the coming of you
    a silver two-door    a boy  with green eyes
                  arms stretched  timid

yes  I say   kiss me  [kiss me]   Christ
          your scent in  my hair          of course
    what else was there to

do   because this is connect  or  dis  
connect  orreconnect      &   all
         the things you said    a bit of madness
within a softened sweater
                             you fell to slumber

that day in the square         after photographs
       we must have felt the wild
horses the pulse  
                              an aching in the grass   
it ran free from fingertips  smoothing
your belly  scratching your tender back   
awkward  and unsure
          as the departure that came
    to us
               in our dreams
& I love
           & I love                 we(deeply)love   

    not needing anything but this

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

nits 2

Taxonomically,
the genus Staphylococcus is in the Bacterial family Staphylococcaceae, which
includes three lesser known genera, Gamella, Macrococcus and Salinicoccus.
The best-known of its nearby phylogenetic relatives are
the members of the genus Bacillus in the family Bacillaceae, which
is on the same level as the family Staphylococcaceae.
The
Listeriaceae
are
also
a
nearby
family.

for further reference information please consult the encyclopedia Ritual Acts With Penguins


Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Instrumental


Arthur Russell - Instrumentals : A
frozen music
revealed in the quotation
of Order: language
has a shard of
some intimate connection
some bizarre way?
only one.

chanting about the kids
he describes what happens
having been broken ,
in color or tone
there are patterns.

a few days ago,
in the heart of America
does not guarantee the third .
These triads fit somehow into
the whacked out thing that
moves through our day.

I am proposing only
such connections as
really occur in
isolation, but to clusters of tone.
they don't interest me at all.

this is where it gets funny.
color, saturation
would have to lie
one could say glaring
to say that I think
the dominant (gnostic)
way, very lovely).

But I defer.
a kind of inherent structure
I've been working on for
a really boring
occult connectivity
with just about everything
I read

that these concepts are
coding. This tends to
sound like any other
mask for
limpid confusion
That is not there—

no empathy.
interested in sound
of raw nature to
Bloom in such a way

Or do I?

A Losing Streak



The psychiatrist looked at our son
And Henry looked back and smiled.
'I don't know how to say this,' they both said together,
'But that guy's fucking mental.'

Own The Eyes



7 tracks to sew old lady's eyes up and turn them into superheroes via ducts and ramparts.

Rykarda Parasol - Heroin


Reptile Palace Orcherstra - Tin Agape


Hawkwind - 7 by 7


Ari Up - True Warrior


AR Kane - Baby Milk Snatcher


Joan As Police Woman - Real Life


The Mae-Shi - Power To The People


A solid a stew as you'll get, these days. What with all the cuts.

RocknRoll Slider circa 1987


dig those hot pink wheels..

right now

i'd like a font that looks like this screen-grab

Monday, June 26, 2006

Headstart At The Wrecking Yard



Mikey kept a record of every time he ate a living thing, not including all those things he didn't like or those things that kept him awake at night with their dull snooting or badly timed dances. He made little stamps with the head of a Minotaur on them, to remind him of his travails. Put a stamp and a name on every page. Soon, his book was half-full which meant he needed to buy a new one.

Calf-skin, he thought.

Disco Inferno - The Last Dance


SPK - In Flagrante Delicto

Doll Story with Two Endings

In one life
you left my

little brain
on a coat hanger

In another
you hung it up



-------------
blog

"Bird on YOUR head"

Mistake, Mistake

(Boniama Yayama)

"For Sail" is a life-sentence:

to man err choir
by mouth of sand
in hurling wind gray eye
by losing
heads of states
unknown

to man err choir
by lumens of house
in fugues by thunder's light
by seeping
the secret limbs
paused in the blue

to man err choir
by concrete floating haze
that naked boat of
frozen blood
whose trailing and useless
hair
is the sentiment
compressed into
a galaxy

and shorn
it makes an apex
of recycling dances
wherefore the fevered pucker
gleams
fibers
that are once again
animation's nuptial visage

this part doesn't make sense
as the piece
and where it came from
a gray foam of lint
was forced through the open window

empty white porcelain bowl
whose intestines
are drowned
in blue oil

Trinidad Karie
Land of the humming bird
taking the organs out
and washing them
in the blindness

(Dama dama dama)

As early as 1640, settlers in Antigua
cultivated the Black Pineapple
near English Harbour, and they have been
cultivated ever since on the south side
of Antigua, particularly near Cades Bay
and at Claremont.

plagalis
plagios
plagos
plaga
pelagos

"archi-pelogos"

What is really on this housewife's mind...

does it show how much i love you?

An impression becomes obsession

Sunday, June 25, 2006

corporeal

Bright Lights...


The French-Italian-Polish poet Guillaume Apollinaire wasn't quite sure of his identity. Right in the middle of a hectic life of pleasure in early 20th century Paris, he halted for one moment - and asked himself "who am I", in a stanza without punctuation.

Spacemen 3 - Big City (Everyone I know Can Be Found There)


sp1

ketamine




the penis on the waxen skull
reminded me of jethro tull
and other music oh so dull
and the listless dust of time.

the cunt upon the open door
was a little drama to explore
a gift too good to ignore
so forgive me for the crime.

the candle and the magazine
that she greased with vaseline
and placed them firmly in between
her pudding and her pie.

the nun dressed in sombre frock
who likes to lift the priests cassock
and firmly grip his manly cock
with lust in her godly eye.

the young boy paper vendor
now dressed in lace and suspender
pops some E's for a bender
then dribbles down his chin.

whilst in the street a dog fucks a cat
an old lady cleans her pus filled pratt
and laws prevent the use of that
said CJ with a grin.




words by cocaine jesus

clinaminis

eyelash
alar
lobe
between frenulum linguae
clavicle
bicep flex
tricep rest
brachialis
adductor pollicis
palm
eye pull
chest breadth
must, linguinal
molecular scalp tension
dorsal interosseous
arch
achilles’ tendon
long, long, calf
thigh shadow
sigh swadhistana
hara mouth full
mons, periwinkle prana
slam float ride
this
perineum
anus
sacrificial sternum
bartholin’s gland(s)
ain’t too proud to plead baby baby
psycho-fasciae
prayer
ruach waves
fingernail split cres
cent moon broken
sum total
cervical lick
slick sines
taste
cum
probe crease
pore
shit! inferior calliculus
arrector pili
1 papilla
delta slip
and another
and
dream drip
sheet

crease

Fleshpanning w/ Julian Cope


When Julian Cope heard he spun around and drifted apart, limbs separating in all directions, fleshpanning.

The children stopped, unable to see much beyond the lights.

"He's....he's...decomissioning himself...I can't-"

It rained Krautrock, that day, skewering one unfortunate indie fan to the side of the crater throw the hood of his anorak.

As Cope flew about, eyes wavering unsettlingly in the air, Michael sensed a small victory and began to unpeel his own skin in tiny strips, throwing each piece to the vibrating air like released doves...

Julian Cope - No Hard Shoulder To Cry On

There is a man...




There is a man at the docks beneath me. Tall and gaunt, he stalks along the planks towards me like a shade, shrouded in dark robes of the finest quality. I realize with a start what he is carrying; he bears upon his shoulder a child’s casket of polished, dusky polymer, not three feet from end to end.

In the distance I hear the wails of those mourning the loss of this poor unfortunate, but I see no-one. The pallbearer’s sharp, sallow face remains expressionless as the casket begins to shake, its lid slowly parting opposite the hinges. A tiny crystalline hand emerges, coruscating in the sun’s dying light as the child pushes its casket completely open and sits up. It is a tiny young boy, little more than an infant. And he is made of glass.

As he opens his mouth to cry I hear not the sound of a baby, but the slow, haunting cry of a sandcat at dusk. And then the lips move, fluidly forming words as if they are no longer crystalline, but made of flesh. And yet I hear no words – only the cries of some tortured animal.

Meaning and Misplacement

"love on me - this love,
love on me, this love, love
..."


Oh, Godhead,
what can I possibly say?

Sit down close to me,
I know—
it is so beautiful,
so severe.
Mi scusi, il mio tesoro,
I cavalli
selvaggi
non potrebbero
trascinarme lontano.

It begins in the light of
a high-winded chiesa, stirs
in the grasses beyond
the plain— I cavalli
selvaggi
non potrebbero
trascinarme lontano.

A moment, a moment, a
winter
explosion:
we feel it beneath
the creases of
our shirts that cling
like
there
has never been
so much at stake.

And it is marvel
that smoothes the lines
on our
palms— it fastens
them together like
seed to soil.

Stand amid these defenses
and you will see it: the fire
that rises
from my breath.

Four hours or so
from
the storm: a coupé,
secure, mind race,
and l'umore
vigore terrestre.

Italian— the only
suitable
'sure thing'.
Oh, oh,
and intention...
how in the hell are you
supposed to leave?

Building on
The invention of self
The fear of the unknown
The linearity of narrative
The linearity of history
The position of both these things in the construction of identity
Both are forms of idealisation.
The compulsion for closure ie. resolution, neatness
Museological presentation as a way of distancing ourselves culturally from what is being presented

These thoughts were abruptly quelled by a sound which I shall not forget for the duration of my life, and possibly beyond. Superficially, the sound was like to a hundred crumhorns playing a low G, but through the middle of it was something savage, something which struck me as an ancient sadness and anger. It gave one the feeling that one’s soul was being plunged into the bottom-most depths of a murky, stagnant pool.

Saturday, June 24, 2006

DEATH OF ONE HUNDRED CUTS

Soaring now,
despising pain,
received into glory,
received into love,
my executioner has become my friend.

Normalizing



In an absolute but accidental encounter with ethics he nevertheless tore the bitch's head clean off, dragging it down to the Post Office and underpaying on the postage.

With a smile painted across his face using only her lips (keeping his pursed and lemon) he started to speak in fundamental concepts.

Material - End Of Words

Loki. God of dance.



Lula Cortes-Zé Ramalho - Nas Paredes de Pedra Encantada

Sucker Punch—I Got’cha!!!
Right in the kidney
Don’t you…don’t you fuckin start dancing. It ain’t time for that here
Ok here.
Time for me to help you make time for dancing
Time for time to let me help you with your step
One-two a one-two
Shit man, you’ve got it now!
Feel it here, and here…and ohhh yeaaaaah here.... uhhh

Where are you going?

You’re not ready yet.

If you leave here I’ll never help you again.

Tesla's Tower



Unnnnnderneath The Arch-es...

We dream our dreamssssssss away...

Reality is marginal. It seemed a little wasted on him but he shrugged it off anyhow, deciding that now was the time to let the air thin.

Ideas stopped coming and he realised that, at 704 and three months, his brain was finally full.

While sleeping, he bent over Michel and whispered in his ear something he'd heard at College: "You don't believe that God is dead; he is just unconscious"

Psychic Ills - January Rain

Excerpt from Calling Dr. Love

Thanks for the invitation ;-)
===================



.....I’m not dead yet. I’m not. I’m not existing in God’s ethereal dimensions. I have read the options June places before me, and I frown:

1) Knock on the door three times, enter slowly, proceed up the gilded staircase
2) Go to the last shared library, read The Birds aloud in Greek
3) Claim you have the virus
4) Choose between fire or ice

.....Outside an original fire I see ice in cinder block formations. An interruptive timer. I will build a bizarre world out of penne and zitis. Life will be tangible once more. June? You’re growing red again--is it the fire? No. Your mouth is an afterbirth lunch I try to eat with both hands. And you speak in meat-sliding-off-the-bone riddles. I cannot decode you, June. You’re randomly fucking me in the eye with wishbones, garbage tins, my last spontaneous thing lurking underneath a fixed rock. I’m open, show me the way back to Lesbos. Tell me I’m running on gasoline and biodegradable trash.
.....And fire? Ah, June, I see you’ve been reading Wilde’s plays. Who is it? A Woman of No Importance? I believe it’s the scene Caroline and I fumble over--what’s that of fire? We play, we play because we can. And men? They play and get burned, don’t they? So I’m safe with option four. Safe to not singe or balloon into a heavy martyr. Write me on the walls in your calligraphy bathroom stall. Write me next to can-can and 1-800-blowme. Think of wind, June. Think of the letters I will write to you in the heat of the moment, the pressure of samisen blasts from Sahara mouths.
.....Why do you still walk around naked reciting his plays? I am afraid I’m not like you, June. I would leave my nakedness up to the imagination. I’ll wear socks, maybe a petticoat, a cinched hourglass corset--be fashionably out of style. We're not kids anymore. I'm not going to show you mine if you show me yours.
.....But you'll always try to slip me into your flesh odysseys, and I'm sure if you keep trying I'll finally break.

dog fish

dog fish dog fish
rapture
rapture

twelve principles
princes
prince

Hedonist

pleasure
pleasure
pleasure
pleasure

pleasure
pleasure
pleasure
pleasure

pleasure
pleasure
pleasure
pleasure

pleasure
pleasure
pleasure
pleasure

Travels With Karagiozis...

notes

vase collects dust
wine ferments
children play
glass breaks


kerry james evans

Miss-tea longs steak


After the mind has travelled varied ethereal planes,
grounding is but a retrospective moment
of other-worldy visions and thoughts..
the doors are open now...
what next?!?

Flesh-notes


O lover,
O sweet boy -
I sit beside myself for hours, tremulous,
words or breath, moist, palms open as if
to say "I am yours."

And I think of you when I see
Khan 's painting — a woman, a man,
her hair twisted in his hand, lilies strewn
skillfully across
a marble floor.

'The Kiss' either beneath the window
or against the wall—
it does not
matter:
your tongue slips and I col lapse,
taste confection on the wire.

The flat of my belly, dark hair, poised lip,
and finger— ex posed,
for you.

Seated now, along the rail, I shift, bend,
open, like a river to sea and I oh, oh,
the look in your eyes,
the ache of your hand—
I am seamless, sweetened with
each new touch.

Nails shape your back in red, map out where
we have been -
a fetish — dramatic pierce,
a maddened
kiss,
swept in a moment, like O'Hara or perhaps
the way Neruda might after a night of
poetry—
how a woman taught him devotion in spring,
left his hand
ashen against paper.

For you, my dress on the chair,
shadowed in the night, movements, soft,
unrehearsed
beneath the crest of your body.
I am brilliant, a silhouette on the backdrop of
Italy, where your storm sweeps me to reverie,
where I am stret ched,

like winter snow.

You brush a curl from my
cheek— your fingers tremble. I could lose
myself now,

become adrift in your thoughts.
I could escape the heated air, the scent of flesh,
the bloom
of beauty before me,

to run toward the open sea, where I would
sink transparent on the sand, where my will is no
longer my own.

And as dawn arrives, night slips out
—left are two lovers inside a painting, quiet on
canvas, exhausted and in love.

A Piece from Tom O'Bedlam




While I do sing, any food
Feeding drink or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing..

No gypsy, slut or doxy
Shall win my mad Tom from me
I'll weep all night, with stars I'll fight
The fray shall well become me.

From the hag and hungry goblin
That into rags would rend ye,
All the sprites that stand by the naked man
In the book of moons, defend ye.

With a thought I took for Maudlin,
And a cruse of cockle pottage,
With a thing thus tall, Sky bless you all,
I befell into this dotage.

I slept not since the Conquest,
Till then I never waked,
Till the naked boy of love where I lay
Me found and stript me naked.

I know more than Apollo,
For oft when he lies sleeping
I see the stars at mortal wars
In the wounded welkin weeping.

The moon embrace her shepherd,
And the queen of love her warrior,
While the first doth horn the star of morn,
And the next the heavenly farrier.

Of thirty years have I
Twice twenty been enragéd
And of forty been three times fifteen
In durance soundly cagéd

On the lordly lofts of Bedlam
With stubble soft and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips, ding-dong,
With wholesome hunger plenty.

When I short have shorn my sour-face
And swigged my horny barrel
In an oaken inn, I pound my skin
As a suit of gilt apparel.

The moon's my constant mistress,
And the lonely owl my marrow;
The flaming drake and the night crow make
Me music to my sorrow.

With a host of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander.

By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summoned am to tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end-
Methinks it is no journey.

The palsy plagues my pulses
When I prig your pigs or pullen
Your culvers take, or matchless make
Your Chanticleer or sullen.

When I want provant, with Humphry
I sup, an when benighted
I repose in Paul's with waking souls,
Yet never am affrighted.

The Gipsy Snap an Pedro
Are none of Tom's comradoes,
The punk I scorn, and the cutpurse sworn
And the roaring boy's bravadoes.

The meek, the white, the gentle,
Me handle not nor spare not;
But those that cross Tom Rhinoceros
Do what the panther dare not

That of your five sound senses
You never be forsaken,
Nor wander from your selves with Tom
Abroad to beg your bacon.

I now reprent that ever
Poor Tom was so disdain-ed
My wits are lost since him I crossed
Which makes me thus go chained

So drink to Tom of Bedlam
Go fill the seas in barrels
I'll drink it all, well brewed with gall
And maudlin drunk I'll quarrel

Earli & Autumnal Morn-ing



Impediment, failure split.

In a spoken sentence something stumbles.

As my Granny used to say: "Nothing good ever came of anything wrought."