THE TIME OF THE
NAGUALS
Interzone anthology
Tome 4
Poems
Interzone Editions
1
Contents
Part 1
Paul Gillette :
Antonin 1
1
Foe Tamajiro :
2
Clock in Abyssinia
2
Deep in the forest
2
Garrison Burke :
3
Encore, Encore
3
Another January
4
Blurred Soda
6
"Valhalla Blues"
7
Alex Booth :
Hurrah !
10
Larry Johnson :
Poem : William Burroughs Memorial 21 1 98
11
David H. Roche :
William S. Burroughs
12
Part 2
The Ran:
Voodoo Doll
13
pOEMes II 4 InterzonE
14
Telepathy
14
Tecolutla
15
Shake His Paw
15
Safety In Sex
16
Inner-city Mingling
16
asian women (on the telephone)
17
Hat's Off
18
Hanging Obi
19
2
White Death
20
Ice Age
20
Hard-drive
21
No Spiral (or Slow Descent)
21
Silence of Wings
22
Lost Continent
22
O'er The Fertile Crescent
22
The Orange Poem
23
Opium Barrette
23
The Mind Police
24
Sanctuary
24
The Day Pan Picked Up A Calculator
25
Glitter Gulch/Electric Avenue
26
The Pain Of Spoons
26
The Pain Of Spoons (cont)
Insect Widow
27
27
Vince Forgerty :
Lines
28
"Robert T. Seney, Jr."
Song
28
Part 3
Nicholas Knutsen:
Bill’s Path
The New Beast
Turtle in the Moon Hotel
The Fire and the Rock
Dish Sits Too
ROOM NO. 45
29
30
31
32
33
34
Part 4
Rick Gentry :
Rimbaud in Abyssinia
36
Poem
36
Look Out
37
Zoned
39
Windowless hallway to logic
3
Amour Fou
40
buddha/fire/sermon
42
Carbon Chestermakes the scene
42
Who knows
43
Fable
44
For Izzy
44
Galvanic skin response
45
Angeltech
46
3 verses
46
Sculpture
47
Dada speaks
48
Dawn
49
Poem
50
Los romanticos de la noche
50
Alchemy-oh-my-oh
51
Rumi + sufi dancers
52
Creative Force
53
Part 5
Poems in Interzone Coffee House
Menhir 81 : Wolf
55
SkaVooMe : Werewolf
55
Menhir81 : celebratin the implicatin
55
SkaVooMe : RE: celebratin (mad smelly brotherly hugs)
56
SkaVooMe : Our Ring-celebrating grapes plums & berries bright
56
SkaVooMe : Storm Of The Century - before cut-up
57
SkaVooMe : Storm of the Centruy - cut-up with Einstein on God
58
SkaVooMe : Veil And Times Night - Nonlinear Time
59
SkaVooMe : RE: hybrid9, dust, not much sense, moth
59
Menhir81 : that's nonsense!
60
Menhir81 : Coffee
61
SkaVooMe : Real Men ... RealMax ... tolerance?
61
Menhir : big-noisy-nice-and-smelly-cabbage-fart
62
gutliss : "what are you doing here? who are you?"
63
gutliss : rock on burroughs
64
Menhir81 : GIANT!
64
4
Menhir81 : on SILENCE and the Demogorgon (and which is which)
64
gutliss : man, o man
65
SkaVooMe : RE: uh OR dammit screwed up last post... i think?
66
Menhir81 : scedule
66
Menhir81 : fruit
67
SkaVooMe : imploding shadows
67
SkaVooMe : Purple Mountain's Majesty
68
BINDA23 : Nova Mob
69
alchemickal : Report #1 of Cutup Chat
69
Menhir81 : song by Headrattle in key of C, accompanied by Men
70
DarqueMuse : Getting Screwed By The Grim Reaper...............
71
DarqueMuse : I cannot write poetry..sharing my 4:45am insanity
72
Part 6
Jeremy S Gluck :
police the system
73
Tomorrow teach
74
Cut-up
75
The Perfected Beauty of Emptiness
75
Ghosts
78
Sean Young :
Three Graces
79
Hold on to the glittering eyes
80
SUBLIMATION
82
Paul Sinclair
April 29th 1998 : Ignore this score (possibly?)
85
April 30th 1998 : Out of the VOID (visions of inane desperation)
85
A Code For Source Collapse
86
Communication breakdown
87
Kat :
sapphire days (for j nathan ky)
89
Dianepop :
Poem on Burroughs' dream
90
5
Part 7
Dot Zero.
Bad Poetry Lesson
92
Revision
93
Part 2 The Arizona Kid
93
I want to cut your hand off
94
Winds of karma revisited
95
The city of refuge
96
The scream of butterflies
96
William Burroughs Re-Incarnated
98
ACT 1: HAMLET EATS A HOTDOG
98
BUSH OF GHOSTS - THE CLOWN ZONE
100
Clon Zone
101
Dot Zero : The Agent
Part 8
101
Phranco P. Fenderson
The Stupor Droop (Or How to Teeter and not Tatter)
103
In a transparent dream
105
10 VERY AMBIENT THINGS TO DO
106
Dead Ass
106
Fine Time
109
Ode to a Stonewall Sucker
110
Jane Doe 0 I
111
Jane Doe 0 II
112
Jane Doe 0 III
113
Jane Doe 0 IV
114
Drinking Wine And Falling into The River
115
Part 9
Max Schwartz :
There is always time for love
117
Amor perdido
120
El Imperio
120
Ganas
121
Ali
121
6
Pequeña canción
122
LJ Pickford :
The Burroughs' Millions
103rd Street Boys
124
An Unvisited Garden In Mexico
P.H. Zuniga
The Ballad of Phil White
125
126
127
128
Juanjo Patanegra
semen words
UNX
129
130
KIM KERZE :
W.S.B. (forerunner)
133
Antonin Artaud
134
The House Jack Kerouac Built
137
Of Corso
138
Rimbaud's Colours
140
Juniel Al Mage:
L'Elfe Mélifère
Dix ciseaux c'est sain
La Belle au Bois d'Or
Sans y mêler les mains
141
143
144
146
Laurent T. :
A toute allure, Windowssystem2003, Soirée après vingt ans de démarrage,
Tatouage, Word en abîme, La vérité de nuit
147
Palestine, Le petit, La haine du tabouret, Les vaches, L'heure n'est plus, Construire
148
Garantir, Exclusif, Charlemagne,
Je mange mon amour consentante, Nuit ensoleillée (1)
149
Vue rapide de la nuit, Nuit ensoleillée (2)
150
___________
7
Part 1
Paul Gillette : Antonin 1
Wavebreak
The water tonight is on the brink of this our only breathing vessel.
They say their is an infinite space between all things;
Then i guess our good ship must sink
this night
with these, our thoughts aligned,
into the drink.
The water tonight is the stillest it has been
in all our years together,
forever,
so it must be now, our newest longing
and our final song sung.
Perchance the receding will come,
the wavebreak clash against the wood
and steel and flesh of this our only way out.
and we are alive forever nomore,
our dance at a halt,
at a distance of leagues from the crystaline shore,
our shore, from whence we are
born,
and never to return bound.
But lo! Land ho! A last glimpse of the damned land!
We are all but there, my dear, a tease of the heaven
to never taste out naked toes.
Look! Force thyself naught into the abyss!
Instead, in need, let it come and ingulf like the storms.
Darkness and vision seen only in the same light,
together joined apart,
the wavebreak smash upon the bow,
the clear-night stars awash and aflutter,
whispering insanities into our throats.
Let us bellow back our voices clear into the void,
And may they be heard by no one more
than the wavebreak and all her
sisters dear.
Jump.
Now.
It's warmer than you think.
Warm as the womb, remember?
Then look again, but not into mine eyes;
Try your own, and share them with us in a dream.
Make no promise, make no mistake.
This is the will of our own good loves
and the will of our wavebreak.
p.m. gillette ~~~~~
______________
1
Foe Tamajiro :
Clock in Abyssinia
February 1st 98
It must have been a life time
within a blink of eyes,
she saw the clock
made out of human skin
and liquid silver
ticked eternal
noon of blue moon,
the light was that of
apocalyptic chamber,
where Nostradumus and Sadam Housain
secretly contrive a plan for rose scented future
on a hidden planet right next to ours
The twenty century:
I wrote it long time ago
said one-legged Rimbaud,
holding a rusted barrel of German rifle
at the shore of 5 o'clock shadow
in Marshal islands
Deep in the forest
Deep down the forest
there once were animal spirits
stronger than man's will
see you at the end of the know civilization
that is not the desert, but the forest without
CONTROL, human control,
a planet without human as we know of
but people that serve the forest and
thy animal kingdom, people as beautiful as
savage, after the destruction of industrialists,
remain the earth and its inhabitants....
Von Voyage
______________
2
Garrison Burke
Collage : Garrison Burke
Encore, Encore
Encore! Encore!
Expand this frame for more
Cheap hydroshock Millenium crisis yoga
while I hide from a
Rediscoverd act of kindness
That cannot be denied.
To think I once forgot
To open my naked silver garden
To irridescent dreams of
Awe, Hope and Joy;
That gunpowder fragrance of unearhted
Cool radium fossils that testify
To Love's sweet readioisotopic mysteries.
That pheromone ballet
That describe the delicate bloom
Of April Kama Sutra romance
And you.
vendredi 17 juillet 1998 03:39
3
Another January
Collage: Garrison Burke
It was a typical half-time show:the marching band in full regalia, spandex-clad dancers
in corporate sponsored uniforms, an "on-the-way-out" singer highlights the show with
his 'greatest hits' montage courtesy his recording company's A&R handler.
Slowly, an odd shaped blimp floats toward the colleseum.
From a distance it resembled a hot dog with two giant cherries suspended from the
airship's gondola. Now as it approaches the stadiun, the crowd sees the blimp itself is
sandwiched around a human penis of monumental proportions, with two huge testicles
dangling below.
As the out-ot-town fans realize the slow horror above, the testes cinch upward toward
the gondola. The penis ejaculates. Countless gallons of a strange blue fluid rain onto the
fans below.
It was another attack by Viagra Boys-dangerous erection addicts gone mad and blind
after years of overarousal throught the misuse of male-impotence treatments. It is even
rumored that they have had their cirulation rerouted with a secondary cardiovascular
system to supply the beloved, augmented members with enough blood on demand
without taxing their drug-damaged hearts.
The fluid glops onto the men and women in the crowd. The fluid itself is in fact a
compound of human semen lovingly collected by the Viagra Boys' stretched-out
groupies, a powerful psychoactive called "Blue Swallow", and dimethyl sulfoxide to
accelerate absorption of the compound into the skin of its victims.
The effect is spontaneous upon contact, sending the cluster of humanity into an
4
orgiastic frenzy. The soggy, drugged out sports fans tore off their clothes, stuffing the
aquamarine goo into their eagerly awaiting mouther, pussies and assholes, already slick
with their own private mucosa.
Thank the Powers-that-Be that long ago children were banned from public events. Since
Governor Ajax's "Let's Keep Adults Safe" referendum passed, kids of all ages can happily
shoot and maim only each other to their heart's content in their schools where they
belong.
On the playing field the band, sans uniforms, abuse themselves and each other with
their instruments. Trapped air pockets in personal body cavities blow their hellish wind
through the slippery instruments and belt out a terrifying aria; with the singer, himself
nude and smeared with the blue jism, sings a retro-cover of "Fly me to the
mOOOOOOON!" with his handheld microphone firmly up his ass, while sky-clad dancers
fall to the ground and spell out 'VB 4EVER' with their lithe, undulating bodies.
This horrific event was being recorded for posterity by a lone network VT Engineer
named Raincoat Mike. He earned his moniker by smuggling his stash as well as his
video equipment under his signature green and yellow poncho.
Mike, stoned again (another perfect season!) held his shotgun mike like a torch from his
position on the fifty yard line.
"Whoa...Bootleg for serious fans", he remarks after taking another toke off his Dallas
Cowboys pocket pipe.
From high atop the stadium in the TV Pressbox, two bland announcers in matching
orange blazers watch the horrible melee below.
"You know, Jim. I've been in professional sports. as well as a TV announcer for more
years than I can count. But I tell you this Half-Time Show is one for the books!"
Jin faces the forward camera. The world hears the screaming orgasms of the naked
multitude in the stadium below. The blimp has turned into the wind, and is leaving the
collseum's airspace.
"Yes Don," said Jim. "You're right. One thing's for sure. The Zone sure knows how to
host a Super Bowl..."
Cut to: Don (Close up).
"And we'll be back after some brief commerical messages."
<end>
___________
5
Collage Garrison Burke
Blurred Soda
Filtered through
Bare late
Afternoon light,
Spectral twins
Of
Thread-bare pirannas
Square off
To make their peace
Under the windowsill.
In the corner,
The circus mare
Kisses the anorexic camel's hump;
Below it's mouth,
A rabbit awaits
The hanging
Of the polygonal jester.
The triple-faced bust
Of George Washington
In awe Goyaesque
Descends,
As the black velvet hedgehog
Snuggles against
The parking meter chainsaw
That bisects
The carpet's topology.
Oh Byzantine Fish Goddess,
In wise bas-relief
6
On ashcan affixed,
Weep for the temple monkey;
His fibrous spear
In one trembling paw,
The other
Hugs the sweet hind leg
Of a
Rhinocerous' dim shadow
That ponders why
Green
Is always the riddle.
Warm regards,
garrison
"Valhalla Blues"
"Can't give...any more", Icarus said with a teat in his eye. "Only so much...I can take."
Regina was professionally unimpressed. "Funny you say that, hon. Once, in a small bar off Toledo
Block, this payload insurance agent said the same damn thing to me. He was a kink for menstral
dancers. This was a cheap joint, you
know? The dancers cut their flow with soda water.
"Anyway, we sat up front by the stage, and this dancer was spinnin' around sprayin' watery blood
and clots all over the damn place. This trick gets so horny he's gotta have it off right then and there.
Hey, who an I to judge?
Like Grandma used to say: 'His dime his time', you copy? So he's pumpin' away with me on top of
the table when he stops. In mid stoke. Just withers up right inside me."
Regina lit a contraband cigarette, her third one of the night. She exhales the used smoke onto
Icarus' balding pate.
" 'Can't give any more', says he. Then poof; he goes dry as a Texas summer. His silly little ashes
floated into my gimlet."
"No...please..."
With every passing second Icarus shrivels an eternity. Dessicated flesh and bone slowly implode in
the darkened hotel room as granulated dreams, memories hopes, and desires spill onto her chest.
Soon, Regina's ample nine-foot frame
was covered in a coarse grey ash.
She dusts herself off with a freshly absorbed vitality. She leaves the bed, and give the sheets a huge
sweep with the back of her tattooed hand; a black spider clinging from a muddy red rose by a
thread of ink. Before a quick sonic shower, she goes through the newly departed's clothes and grabs
his wallet.
"Yeah Reggie baby", she said taking Icarus' cashcard. "Some Johns got no respect..."
7
April 10th 1999 :
-exerpt from Valhalla City Blues 2.0
Under Weathered Convex Skies, Reflected in Inverted Requiem Glass, Earthmynn Holds Court and
Awaits the Eight Comings of The Assember.
After enjoying a light, elegant meal prepared by the one and only Henri 9Smythe-Fong Jr.-"The
Bare-Ass Gourmet" himself- the time was 31:22. Tree wandered with Clockwatcher Dex towards
the Main Parlor. He had for the most part became comfortable with the oil-on-water jaquard
flightsuit that Earthmynn designed. After all, it was hir ship, and by every Spacers credo, esprit de
corps was to be maintained.
Down the hall, Earthmynn had for display several pieces from Tree’s former Captain. On the wall
to their right, past the standing sculpture of a platinum handkerchief tent enclosed in a floating
bubble covered in braided multicolored wires and vines, was a rocket powered speargun encased in
a polished rectangular wooden box. Although the clear plaque beside the case said "Edwardian
Vesperine Rhapsody in T-prime Minor", written in fine red
script across the glass was "In Case of Angelic Visitation Break Glass".
Tree had to look closely at this object. Holy shit, he thought, it’s wood! Real wood! The case alone
would cost more than he would make in several star-runs.
"Your skipper, ahr-eye-pee, was quite the poet", said Dex. "She was Earthmynn’s number one
before she amscrayed to the stars. S/he used to affectionately call her ‘my dear little historian.’
After s/he heard what happened to the Jazzy Li, s/he had scrambled hir brokers to leave no private
collector or thrift shop unturned, and buy every one of her works, especially her earlier pieces."
"You knew Cap’n then?"
"Sure. Been squatting here the longest in the Villa, and have seen them all breathe in and slip away
after scoring their fix of pure Hir: low, medium and high bandwidth mediafreaks, content fillers
with eyes of black velvet and cheap tempra, the gorgeous look-at-me-oh-please-look-at-me-youbastards, brokenhearted knight-errand credmen of assorted flavors and stripes, ho-hum Nouveaus in
industrial strength quantities who feel like being seen, or go shopping...whatever.
"And we", he continued, " of the Eternal Yet Desperately Needy-of which, due to the nautre of my
tick-tock vice, I am a card-carrying member in good standing thank you very much heh heh."
Fresh off the boat, Tree would have wanted to cuff this little yapper. Now, he didn’t even bother to
give the twitchy ChronOrgone addict a second glance. Always the way with a new crew.
"You’re quite the poet, yourself" said Tree.
"Nah. Just recycled Jo-Joey sermons with a dash of personal perspective. It kind of happens here."
*****
Whereas most of the general decour of the Villa was neo-minimalist, the Main Parlor was an
explosive swampland of furnishings: huge satin pillows tossed willy-nilly on overlapping centuries
old hand woven Persian rugs covered the alabaster floors. Thick banners of tapestries made by
8
early orbital colonist artisans depicted their conquest over physical and personal gravity covered
the off-white stucco walls.
Figurative statues of all styles and periods, supported atop kitschy roman columns; subtle and gross
pylons the casual guest had to unavoidably slalom their way around them, blatantly navigating the
guest towards the center of the parlor.
Suspended from the center of the parlor was a wide rattan chair that swung as if caught in a mild
indecisive breeze. Netvid and audio pickups clamped along the sides of the chair’s thick rail of the
chair would record the person seated-Earthmynn-for whatever posterity awaited.
Tree downloaded a blurred memory. Something from those accelerated pub crawls before exams
during his midshipman days. On his hands and knees, he crawled under the chair and looked up.
Dex was quietly checking his face for the slightest wrinkle in a mirrored statue of some naked buff
guy. A line for a line, as the old motto goes.
"Looking for change?" he asked. "S/he doesn’t carry any cash, you know."
Yep, there is was. The well-positioned hole in the bottom of the chair currently plugged with a
green pillow. Complete with another vid feed to replay memories of broadcasted moist, undulating
action on grimy bordello walls to intice the retinas of drunken, horny shills down to their liquored
groins and wallets, waiting in the queue for their own televised shot at the Big Spin. Tree wondered
what gravity-well fuckfactory rummage sale the Great
Hir discovered this antique.
One by one the rest of the entourage graced the parlor. Tree got off the floor, stood away from the
nostalgic furniture, and caught himself. No, not entourage. Crewmates.
___________
9
Alex Booth
Hurrah !
Afternoon late October 18, 1995
The man with the blurry landscape eyes.
Mr. Cloudy Eyes (for the clouds seemed to shine there
most profoundly and distinctly)
Mr. Cat Eyes (the sun created two bright yellow
pinheads in the center of the foggy lenses)
For two hours or more, now, one overhead bulb in
its nest of steel cylinder has blinked
off,
on,
off,
a strobe;
There is a curtain of clouds hanging in the late
afternoon sunsky, hanging over the flatness
and rows of dark green treetops; many curtains
for there are fissures,
more like individual windows all separated
with gray explosions in their centers drifting
into completeness along the edges of the horizon,
that is to say:
full,
white,
unitized.
Unitized.
Blessed be,
ALex
______________
10
Larry Johnson
William Burroughs Memorial 21 1 98
I found a love for burroughs when I was quite young and
he influnced
my life
still i wish I could
have met him
but at last .i did NoT
in fact this morning
i had a dream
of him it adbruptly ended before he spoke
when i Was 16 i indulged in drug
addiction questioned my sexuality
found him in my hand one day and begain to read
he understood what I was feeling
we had alot in common i saw him as a friend and
had he lived longer i wonder if we could have been
i thought he would bury us all ................
straight and clean
i noT unlike ginsberg loved him
larry johnson <[email protected]>
wenatchee, wa u.s.a - Wednesday, January 21, 1998 at 18:02:19 (EST)
___________
11
David H. Roche
It was Burroughs keen ability to see through any given situation. It was his talent and ability to
express an idea that could slam you in the gut and make you wonder that captivated me. The
following is a poem I wroteshortly before his death. I had watched a presentation of A Junkies
Christmas. Immediately afterward I wrote this poem.
William S. Burroughs
Photo: Baud 1982
He's cool
the prince of cool,
he's more than cool
he's cold,
as cold as ice,
dry ice,
he has liquid N20
running in his veins.
He's so cold he muses,
"I must be dead, oh well,"
and deliberates no longer
on the matter.
I'm studying the Beat's at Empire State College at the present time.
Thanks for the opportunity to share my poem with you and others.
David H. Roche
David H. Roche <[email protected]>
Auburn, NY USA - Saturday, January 10, 1998 at 18:43:55 (EST)
_________
12
Part 2
The Ran :
January14th 1998 03:30
Voodoo Doll
Life has loveless wings, says the pomes
of the bohemian Madboy over 40;
age only seasons the sane.
She is my subconscious
intent on destruction.
No longer may I flirt with the edge
once guarded by an angel fled.
I will be the revelation to live
as proof that anger can detour death,
if, for no other reason, than revenge.
Someday, sorrow never shows the Realist
the fault of a selfish gene denied.
Madness is mine, the laughing jackal
fantasy dropping in on her dreams.
Her eyes will writhe in pain
on the page sneaking a peek
upon her own jagged tragedy.
Last call for the black magic brain
screaming songs of a spider's spinning
a straight-jacket deserved.
I embrace the rites of Blood Man
between ice and fire
giving me the blessing of his knowledge;
when one has no more shadow for the sin
the heart will lie beyond pain
laughing at the silly knives.
She held the Pirate's play
(she owned the hit-man's hate).
Devil's lift their wings in weeping
as the darkness waits forever.
__________________
13
pOEMes II
4 InterzonE
__________
“he plays the game with whiskey
and rope; he does not heal.
The biting, teasing, the spurs
and foam: they live on prairies of fire
losing everything they ever worked for.”
— the ran
Telepathy
Tecolutla
Shake His Paw
Safety In Sex
Inner-city Mingling
asian women (on the telephone)
Hat’s Off
Hanging Obi
White Death
Ice Age
Hard-drive
TELEPATHY
Young boys nearby
blow lonesome birdcalls
into their folded hands
looking like doves.
The campfire is so close
to speech, she says tonight
like no other night
the dream will turn to language.
“Lunar tide in a teacup for two”
she sends him tiny thoughts
shaped like a crippled bird
with a beautiful voice.
14
Tecolutla
balladeers in white they wailed
the smooth serene that mexican brand
of blues unwound - we order mescal
cheap from the bar of seaweed bark
for the balladeers from off the street
they sang and colored that gulf coast
night an almost blue & always black
the gulf of mexico mexican night
& on our leave we walked the windy
back road night the sandy trail
the homeward route & this is where
i lost my sight & slipped or slid
the home field seam the easy way
& tripped across the football husk
the hidden fruit the coconut.
SHAKE HIS PAW
Pink velvet the sun
like an ill-dressed tourist
flattens the mountain peak.
Tonight I would gladly
shake his paw if only he could
return the bliss of ignorance.
A border of heaven, the telephone
lines slashing a fine dust
over Papago lands of home.
Orchid velour the sun
reveals proposed jojoba fields
littered with Tokay empties.
I drive to mine the long way
through their shanty farms
of rusted, tire-less automobiles.
If I could not live a history
like the pulling down of dark
I would pray for the trickster’s
This evening is a paperweight
upon my paper-mache head;
never have I met the funny coyote.
bite.
15
Safety in Sex
There’s a spot
Of oil in the lamp and animals
Screaming near the window.
Let me cup
My hands around your eyes and silence
Will begin our evening.
The flame bends
To your breast like a finger and eyelash
Burning footprints on my skin.
II
There’s a spot
Of blood upon your bosom and a note
Pinned to your dress.
Let me cup
Your mouth with mine and dance
Words on our new tongue.
The flame bends
With each gusty breath and names
You choose to call me.
INNER-CITY MINGLING
Sprawled on the curb
At Jefferson & 7th,
We down
a bottle
Of Chablis as transient
Winos flow
from the plasma
Center, a fresh ten-spot
Waving
before their patriotic
Eyes. An old soldier
Of the Salvation Army,
In his enthusiasm,
Stops
to ask for the diamond
Ring in your nose.
Whispering
through the yellow
16
Truss of your hair,
I kiss
the dry mouth
Of your excitement.
Laughing
you push me away
And the other goose-necked bottle
Into his trembling
hands;
An icy addition toward the white
Dawn of his dreaming.
____________
asian women (on the telephone)
we are wild
asian women on the telephone,
our movements
secluded in rice paddies.
in the humus of good earth,
we are beaten
emotionally scoured & subjected
into believing our
geisha mind.
we are wild
water buffaloes without sleep
and we are rising.
beneath silk kimonos & complexions
bright and clean as nails,
we are wild
and we mean business
and you cannot find us.
we are asian women on the telephone,
we are rural women living urban
and we will be beaten no more.
we are scratching
now
with retractable claw.
we are wild
and will not be subjected
as the servant to the fan.
we are wild
asian women on the telephone.
“ring.....ring”
17
Hat's Off
(for Joan Vollmer Burroughs)
You rarely slept in N'orleans
wakeful as you were on paper extractions
Broken inhalers, their component
forcing a housework mentality
Scrubbing pans, hands & toilet bowls;
Jack watched once at 4 a.m.
Your raking of lizards down from a tree
toward the finished line.
Moving to Mexico City & morphine parties
with your husband, William Tell, one night
Beat up gin-wise & on the down
you insisted he prove his skill
For protégée marksmen, placed a champagne
glass upon your head, then slurred
The words "Ready, maestro."
William heard not the shatter of glass
But that dull thud of a bone pocket
as your red dress crumpled to the floor.
___________
18
HANGING OBI
Laughing and crying
at the simultaneous
and writing it down
twice
believe
I’m going
there.
Egret, o egret
mad for the little white wader in blue
the kimono for a child, the one left behind.
Her brother won’t wake her after midnight;
I disintegrate the pay-phone for effect.
I’m in a movie, you see, I’m Bogie,
I’m hard-core.
The private dick recalls the clues:
The single, forgotten earring
dangling in her north window.
Was it planted?
The blue silk obi hanging
behind the bathroom door,
showing hardly a stain.
Is it waiting?
Any decision holds less pain than this
soundtrack — Patsy Cline and Billie Holiday.
Listen to the music of the condition,
people laughing and crying at the simultaneous.
Listen.
They die two times.
________
19
WHITE DEATH
Hit a white cat
in the driveway
Hit a white knife
in my arm
Like those pets
that disappear
My life crawling
beneath the bushes.
Instantly
my brain
smells ether
Remember
the paper
you bought
In Monterey
I feel the headlines
in my veins.
_________
ICE AGE
Like newlyweds seeking nirvana, I carried her menstruating across Mocassin Creek,
my bare feet kicking the rocks of a raw civilization. That day we had stalked javelina in jagged
deserts until we turned upwind; their startled shots blew between our knees, bouncing us into a wall
of jumping cactus. She pulled their answer from our muscle with a pair of pliers, called the
question “our thorn of a nature crime.”
We licked each other’s wound around a campfire of constellations.
“Discover it’s diet,” she whispered from the mummy-bag. “Become that animal.”
Never would we hunger or thirst if we pantomimed the predators, simply howling those dead
winter nights. She could lip-sync canyon wrens like a nun regaining her faith.
I could not linger home once she left the cult and was forced to learn the art of lunggom, to travel wastelands more rapidly than scientifically possible. Compelled to chew stones, I
found myself closer to her than I’d ever been in the flesh and in that place no one’s ever quite
defined:
I became the ghost of a panther-priest, drinking wines of the working class in a
nameless culture. Women wailed melodies in my dreams, their animal songs of gone progeny, like
dripping diamonds making their way to gravity.
20
Someone had carved our totem, had prophesied our glacier would result as a pathetic
fallacy, a reminder of the whittling away, a draped apparition ringing Tibetan bells at Big Sur.
Not the sound of a koan attacking wood, my love, ours was the silence before rivers
begin
_____________
HARD-DRIVE
(for Gysin)
Motoring crowded streets
the mind’s attention on automobiles
There is a fraction of a second
the turn of the head & then back
where registered in hard-drive
is a profile of memory:
The female form
Long hair & floral print dress
The darkness of a doorway
A bird in a wicker cage.
_________________
No Spiral
(or Slow Descent)
A mobile of clowns hover the baby’s soul
moan lullabies
pick the bones.
A quilt of swans circle the nuns
sift down
to smother
the mother in snow.
“The only true joy on earth is to escape the prison of our own false self.....”
— Thomas Merton
“Nothing is so opposed to poetry as business.”
— David Thoreau
“To us lone-cats, all supermarkets look the same.”
—
21
W. Burroughs
The Silence of Wings
Umbrellas floating
In with the japanese
Trade-winds
Cleanse our western minds
Prepare our western eyes
For a naked universe
And the dark
Voices of trees.
_________
Lost Continent
Three years old
I led the blind neighbor
through the yard by her hand;
elves of ourselves.
At thirty I cannot even coax
the female spirit, such a large territory
the mind and soul has become.
_________
O’er The Fertile Crescent
Isis spread her wings for all to see
protecting the womb of her seed
and soars o’er the valley of the fertile moon;
her coyote face devours the abortion of spirits
as she smiles in the shadow of your own making.
__________
22
The Orange Poem
For Dr. Jah
Did she carry a citrus
umbrella alongside the surf
of an unknown sea?
Did you, like ripened fruit
fall to the futon and drop
apricots into her mouth?
Demanding to be peeled,
does the sun soften
too soon in setting regret?
The seagulls are screaming
over blossoms of lost bodies;
your children washing ashore.
___________
Opium Barrette
Dust hangs in the morning air as families disperse.
She wanders to the west edge, a back as strong
as the horse carrying her and her brother to the fields;
a mind as slow as the poppies grow.
Strands of red-black hair, loose from the roll
hang down from her head, to the earth, eyes in the soil.
The sun is low, floating with the hawks;
beaded sweat begins to slick her brow.
Strands slip and stick against her forehead;
she straightens to brush the loose back over her head,
does not look up.
Families scrape the petal,
never look up.
___________
23
Mind Police
In this bed you’ll dream your first
dream.
Everything in this world
contains some level of toxicity;
anything that doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger.
Take care of yourself; no one else will.
Scenes of worldly violence
weaken the spirt, bind the shame.
Like the bed-ridden child
who begins to see the landscape
of nature
in his own body
his masque
my face
Makes no difference
what floor you’re on
when you’re dealing
with the mind police.
Sanctuary
In small boats shiny men down-river poaching;
parrots scratch out the evening with their tongue.
Her feet dangling from the dock swing and kick;
the water lapping helps her sing the future.
__________
24
The Day Pan Picked Up A Calculator
Pan scans the meadow
lays down his flute
thinking, I need more
than boy toys and wine
sees the home-range
in a different light that day.
Malls with video games/
French restaurants/
a bungalow on the beach.
He decides to be de-horned
opts for the GQ-look
buys a suit at Armani’s.
He picks up a calculator
begins to conceptualize in square feet
capital interest and returns.
The nubile fauns sniff troubled air
attempt distraction by running
their little cloven hooves
through his perfumed fleece
bleating seductively.
“My fecundity has risen
to a corporate level” he cries.
“There’s no time for bacchanalian frolic!”
The Day Pan Picked Up A Calculator (cont’d)
A system of government is devised
for creatures of the forest to vote;
they place Pan in power
and pens around themselves.
The fauns choose lesbianism
move to southern California
and hang out in the Herbivorous Parlor
where the juke-box is stocked
with environmental tunes.
Each time they hear a flute solo
or the friction of flesh
25
they stare dreamily down the street
toward the edge of town
pull their lips over
a funny-named drink in memory of the classic:
stotting without worry
and the phallus before business.
Glitter Gulch/Electric Avenue
I enjoy watching my girlfriend at the slot-machine
that green/red neon of her hair
the gamble in her smile
and when she wins
she moves on.
The Pain Of Spoons
Receiving the map is to risk
losing one’s fingerprint to fire
a prayer for exodus
from the past tattooed.
The pain of spoons is no less eternal
than a point or serrated edge;
it demands a larger mouthful
a slower path homeward
with the teeth or sunrise
devouring smooth hilltops.
Desire waltzes in and out of virtue
insists upon partners
faceless.
Like endoscopes, your eyes
are inside of me, focusing wide
then fading without notice.
Unlike an O pulling from the spoon
the ice of violence
discovers another witness
in the lip’s apology.
Overhead, lightning brands the moon/
below, the sting of tears shape a new day.
In disguise, I would steal your mind
if it joined the opposition.
I would be found in the field
ghost-haired
26
cradling an art-form
as if I could own one.
Weakness in the wind cautions my disease
with a lesson. Don’t consider me unjustly;
my arms are the child’s decision.
The Pain Of Spoons (cont)
School’s out!
I want the same future as you.
Talking to you like this
up in the trees
I hasten toward my weapons.
Hairs from your head anchor the furniture
while that part of me which everyone threatens
eats with it’s hands.
Insect Widow
Tiny, armored and always praying
a Hindu mantis honors visitation
on the branch of a fallen tree.
From a stand in the Madera mouth
sundown becomes a rose falling
into the depth of resurrection.
A bad sign: while cooking
giant mantises dive-bomb
the fire and your hair.
Like green bullets of desperation
against a landscape pleading
with a body to fit the snakes,
it follows: the crawling constellation
of an itching dream, the half-slept hours
before rising from a dozen golden scorpions.
_____________
27
Vince Forgerty
Lines
She had a couple of lines, and sat in a corner,
with a beatup guitar her boyfriend gave her.
Popped a 40, said goodbye to her liver,
and the song that she sang
made the stars shiver.
Never a god, hanging around,
to make it all better when the chips are down.
when a tree is dead,
yank it outta the ground
and when a horse is lame you up and
shoot it down.
She had a couple'a lines.
Vince Fogerty 1995
_____________
"Robert T. Seney, Jr."
Song
word shattered
photo splattered
breakdown in grey world
fall-apartisan of abnegation
terrors, open fire!
based on a recurring section in "The Soft Machine" which appeared in The
Fugs' "Burroughsian Time Grid" on ESP album "The Fugs"
Bob
28
Part 3
Nicholas Knutsen
Bill’s Path
Fat razorblade walk.
Gravel grinding viciously down to ashes.
Wish for stupid confirmation.
Windmills spinning sharp cuts in humid air.
Road of haphazardly fragmented machines.
Lone dove scream permeate through valleys of
augmented dreams, as steel shafts grime-ridden
gleam soft beams of transparent light shifting in
angle puncturing unknowing traveler minds.
Walk down hard like piston precisely meeting
undefined stone interface, creep big splendored
pattern pathway between columns stand ignorant
in artificial distance.
Bleed rays of sorrow from every bodily orifice
reveal flickering belief don’t mind standing in
harm’s way.
In this world, one walker met by piercing search,
bringing destination to featureless dust,
ruthless rock,
and lethal lakes of crystalline filth.
29
The New Beast
to treat roads. the glorious days of youth.
out of a foundation willows. a warmth in my heart.
each living thing with respect. and richness in living.
The Beast knows with my head in the sunset feeling
I will choose the instrument
Beast has grainy ice. not what lies therein. triumphs.
His jaws are and hypocrisy. the goodness gaze upon such sights.
I will battle all man’s heart no apt
His ice I will speak shards of
His silver orb is fashioned The Beast may never
His eggs have grown on the lap of every man. falsehood
I may win this high but take no pride.
But I can never paths that will take me to my goal.
of love. will always awaken. burdens of man. the truth of my soul.
kept by me. son of supposition. cannot walk these
of speech. made of silver. of yore. large as gnarled
The Beast upon ancient The Beast by blacksmiths
His legs are I will see where For he is from feeding off men.
I will look battle. is human and his belly I will always remember
win this war. He looks through insect eggs. I will sit
are grown by He sleeps with his tail rested But the Beast
splinters are hacked I will walk with these He is the father
I will strive of all lies and the His trunks is filled with blood.
I will speak foresters is familiar His head
The He has a heart out by builders.
of old.
30
Turtle in the Moon Hotel
Thunder boom
Moon press on safe passage
Bedroom breathe familiar surroundings
I scurry through dusty mid western desert plains
Under bed and alligator swamplands
‘Cross familiar penthouse apartment
Fight rages over withered doors with the skeleton key
through deep humid southern
in big city flashy cocktail who never leave
over icy royal blue white and damp
Big Squagga an’ sharp caress
The bellhop opens bleeding
of his dead grandfather house and street walk man
Paying customers pleading
Round and deep over brain and hand
Bubble lay its northern eagle nest mountain
Sky tonight is a-comin’ to a tar pail near you!
Drip down on outside
Ignore his victim’s window glass
As blood drench the tide
and never arrive the thickening grass
Beyond the point of lamp
Beyond the rim of wilderness
31
The Fire and the Rock
Waves crashing in, over snowy hills;
deep sea starfish and ten-armed squid
rolling down icy slopes, singing ancient chants,
humming with humid amazon voice:
a small stream narrowing, below hanging ferns and papaya-plants;
foamy beach water, washing over small forest village
and gushing down through Eskimo shaman igloo;
glowing coral reef, whispering magic words
echoing between cool cave walls
of frozen green Mediterranean lagoon;
warm rain drizzling down, between long jagged icicles
pointing down from deep-green frosty pine trees,
hissing hostile divination upward to sharp biting air;
snow owls and frightened winter rodents
sliding out into fleshy leaves and watery coconut valleys,
praying for fertility to chilly glacier deity;
who finds himself trapped in rain forest
with goddess of the fiery spirit…
Embracing in winds of sand spray, ice splinters, warm sprinkles and cold slush
the two lock in sacrilegious union,
while worlds mingle and collide in profane cacophony;
and wraiths and shadows affectionately swallow each other.
32
Dish Sits Too
I spit at the swimmer that did what he should
and I say that the birds are not swift
If not the peace keeper couldn’t tell all
the wife beater wouldn’t be stiffed
Oh why I ask you oh fabulous dish
are all the furnishings wasted
I could if I had the all-mighty fish
that makes all the polishings hasty
Shun the footing of that blooded beast
and lick never there where it crackles
Throw some of that rage in a wooden coop
and cut off those ill-behaved rattles
I spit at the swimmer and I swim on the roof
I slide down the bog brother’s circus
If only our sacred madonna would prove
that her hatchling is not there to burn us
The beater is beaten and the path is so long
and the dish sits too long in the coven
To you, you rat I say this just once
the meadow’s blue ribbon is broken
Come back here, his wife and shit on a prey
Combat her at once and don’t act it
I’ll drown if you don’t and I’ll lie in purée
and then all of the stars are the zenith
33
ROOM NO. 45
The Man sat on the floor of his hotel room roaches crawling in silent funeral march long rows
dual lane across the floor. Chief Roach: “If you people want to receive your democratically rightful
share of food from the High Office you will have to conform to the rules. Keep in line keep in line!
Left lane for brown roaches only, right lane for speckled and off-color roaches! No pushing
shoving kicking biting punching sneaking falling resting talking or marching out of sync!” Roaches
pass under The Man’s bent legs he sit motionless stare straight ahead at south side wall with big
painting hanging like a sweaty slice of cheese in the sun. Painting is pitch black but if you look
close and hard you see little dots creeping randomly back and forth, little grains of black-silvery
crumbs sliding in and out of focus. Seem to be hostile to each other, compete for space on the night
surface bobbing under and up again teasing each other. Man thinks: If they ever clash in a big fight
they will conglomerate into huge form in the middle of the canvas reaching out across the town
touching all the gutter people, shaking down the hustlers, looking in on dope deals and ratting them
out, giving hand jobs to the misguided family men, treating ladies to expensive meals and sultry
motel rooms, molesting the runaway upper class brats, stealing rotten fruits from third world
grocery stands, painting old shacks with age old blood from the Museum of Natural History making
the shack a new national monument.
The painting sways hanging down towards the floor. The Big Spider comes fading through the
ceiling over The Man’s head. The big spider is big like Man’s head or a small pumpkin. It rests on
Man’s head cleaning its mouth and furry long legs, it insert two legs half inch into Man’s temples
getting secure hold. Heavy spider weighs Man down but Man will not bow down never, he always
keep his head up always look straight ahead know where he’s looking and that his head is high and
straight ahead not bowing down to the floor never watching the floor but watching the wall.
Big spider sits on The Man two thin streams of bright blood one on each side of the face, frame
the Man in rosy circle iron smell with chalky thick aftertaste. Spider singing nursery rhyme with
old Negro woman voice sit on the porch of dusty ol house in Ol Virginny drinking liqueur waiting
for massa swaying her head in the sunny afternoon. Little Negro kid come by for sugar. “Miss
Betsy! You awake?” Old Woman say nothin just sway her head casting gray shadow on the porch
floor boards.
Kid shouts Miss Betsy! shouts three times. shields his face from the sun with hand.
The Old Woman turns her head looks up towards kid. Miss Betsy? She has no face but a square
blackboard with thin gray-brown squiggly lines forming a misshapen circle with eyes nose and
mouth. Circle turns round creaking slowly, upside down, invisible crayon drawing eight ragged
lines from the circle look like shining sun. The lines bend in middle and upside down eyes nose
mouth become spider mouth and bouquet of spider eyes, drool spilling on floor boards dry
immediately up in the sun and leave off-color stains. Old Big Spider Woman eats up little Negro
kid and goes back singing old spider nursery rhyme.
The Man scratches his head that is the big spider’s back. The big spider purrs softly and digs a
little deeper into the Man’s brain. Man thinks about the window but can’t see it, impossible to turn
round head with spider holding on. The window has five pieces of glass, each one a perfect square.
Light barely forces through but nobody can see nothin through that dirty window. The street drives
right up past the outside window but not angry cabbies or singing winos can get through. The
window glasses will sometimes shift in position, real fast like so nobody could see it happening, all
of a sudden the filth pattern on the lower left glass is on the glass at the top and the crack in the
upper left one is in the right one and the crack goes the other way and upside down.
A dull knock on the door. Roaches stop turn and look. The Chief turns red in anger over
disobedience throws a fit vomits and falls. The other roaches stage a revolution, kill the chief, elect
34
a leader, and start marching again. The painting freezes motion, the window stops in middle of a
shift. Big spider turns and looks at door. Two glasses hang fixed in between respective destination
slots, between them a gleam of light from down front street. Honk honk. Fuck you. Soft voices. The
Man want to see turn head hard but Spider-Head won’t have it, Man scrape his face on spider legs
try to twist head round. Mild breeze from window slot rustles dust balls round the floor, dancing
dust ball knock down roach is executed right away by henchmen of New Chief.
Spider-Head say “Come in. Door is open. Welcome.” Door knob turn round eight times and
door open wide. In steps a guy in brown-black overcoat all the way to floor, big wide shoulders,
heavy brown boots stick out under coat, wrinkled gloves on fat short fingers, wide brim hat with a
dead blue gray flower in it. Under hat is a green turtle face but with sewn on button eyes, two holes
in each. He says “I’m Squagganauth.” Spider look up at him with grumpy expression and say
“What do you want?” Painting and window are functioning normally once more. Squagganauth
turn head around like he’s looking in hotel room no. 45 with blind eyes. He reach big hand in wide
coat pocket pull out a fresh daisy, put it slow in mouth and chew with flower sticking out, pulled in
little by little in steady intervals. “Old Mr. Squagga say: If a person up and held his hand on that
there winda glass when it turned round like that he could in theory mind you get his hand or even
possible his whole arm caught up in the turnin mechanism which would may be trap the said body
extremity in glass cage forevah.
“The organic component so to speak would be displayed in its boxy confinement in a museum
of sorts but with living specimens not putrid archaeological decay... Merchants spectators wise men
and con men would come from all the lands to study this fleshy exhibition, maybe even pay for a
shake.” Squagganauth pause his chewing after he done talking eventhough the daisy head still juts
out from his wrinkled green lip. His buttons glaze over and he make semi-loud sniffing noise out in
the room. Spider-Man stirs in his place, then say “Please Mr. nothing here for you. come Friday.
then this deal is long done and over.”
Then the Turtleface clogs heavy into the room swirls round and elegant doffs his big coat hangs
it on the east wall where instantly a hook grows out, then his hat next to the coat. He has a baggy
green shirt with dark green stripes. When he turn to Spider the daisy head be gone. He get a vicious
cold underwater look in his button eyes with four holes in each one bigger than the other, his dry
mouth frowns and grinds low, his craquelured thin wrinkle neck stretch out with bald flat coconut
head. Spider-Man hiss and ejaculate acid spittle hit roaches face napalm death in chemical warfare.
Then Man-Spider lifts his arms and lifts himself to his feet. Buttons have five holes. Big spider
shriek echoes through hotel hallways and reach business couple making tea in 49 and paper boy
catching fire in 32 and old woman scratching her shelf in 57.
“BIG SPIDER SQUASHED IN LOW CEILING” read headlines. “FAMILY SUES FOR
SENTIMENTAL VALUE”
The Man stands with heaving breath fall into black painting smeared with tar and asphalt.
Squagganauth laughs dry reptile laugh steps to window looks out. “Oh you hidin now? You can’t
hide you know. Get out.” The Man falls to floor cockroach run everywhere in panic fragment
themselves into independent states and start wars.
Spider slime still on his head and shoulders The Man crawls around on the floor like a big
beetle, roaches think him a Roach God start worshipping giving offerings sacrificing roach virgins.
Squagga turn to Man, head start vibrating hard.
His husky voice make distant quarry beating sound pitch getting higher and voice whistly.
Turtle-Head, buttons without holes, crawls out of green shirt a long thin worm, scurries over the
floor into a rat hole in the north wall. The Man rises dons the Squagga Shirt Boots Gloves, then
takes down Coat and Hat.
Steps to window looks out. Reaches hand to the filthy glass.
35
Part 4
Rick Gentry
Bookstore : http://www.abebooks.com/home/Intrepid
Website : http://www.reninet.com/ricochet
Rimbaud in Abyssinia
rimbaud in abyssinia
i would like to be
like rimbaud in abyssinia
i would wear robes of black sand
sewn with coils of quicksilver
fastened
with buttons
cut from the bones of saints
and martyrs
wear crystallized molecular charms
on necklaces made from the teeth of madmen
i would dine on silver moonlight and black
caviar
in a cave of holes
like my imaginary
rimbaud in abyssinia
Poem
February 7th 1998
There one was a magician from Standish
Whose behavior was deemed most outlandish;
it seemed he was fond
of his magical wand,
which in public, he quite liked to brandish.
-Richard O. Shea
___________
Rick Gentry
(the pics are included in Rick's mails)
vendredi 17 juillet 1998 07:17
Fw: stop
Hi fOE and All,
Here's the Rinzai page, fOE. Occasionally I see the True Man With No Rank.
36
Have any of you seen him lately...?
LOOK*
U***
T*
!
From the High Seat, the master said: "Upon the lump of red flesh there is a True Man of no Status
who ceaselessly goes out and in through the gates of your face. Those who have not yet recognized
him, look out, look out!"
A monk came forward and asked:
"What is the True Man of no Status?" The master descended from the meditation cushion, grabbed
(the monk) and said: "Speak, speak!" The monk hesitated. The master released him and said: "What
a shit-stick this True Man of no Status is!" Then he withdrew to his quarters.
The master said: Today's students of the Buddha-Dharma need to look for genuine insight. If you
have genuine insight, birth and death will not affect you, and you will be free to come and to go.
Nor do you need to look for worthiness; it will arise of itself. Followers of the Way, the old masters
had ways of making men. Do not let yourselves be deluded by anyone; this is all I teach. If you
want to make use of it (genuine insight), then use it right now without delay or doubt. But students
nowadays do not succeed because they suffer from lack of self-reliance. Because of this lack, you
run busily hither and thither, are driven around by circumstance and kept whirling by the ten
thousand things. You cannot find deliverance thus. But if you can stop your heart from its ceaseless
running after wisps of the will, you will not be different from the Buddha and patriarchs. Do you
want to know the Buddha? None other than he who here in your presence is now listening to the
Dharma. Just because you lack self-reliance, you turn to the outside and run about seeking. Even if
you find something there, it is only words and letters and never the living spirit of the patriarchs.
Do not be deceived.
Venerable Zen students, if you do not meet Him at this very moment, you will circulate in the
Three Worlds for ten thousand Kalpas and a thousand births. And, pursuing agreeable situations,
you will be reborn in the wombs of asses and cows.
37
Followers of the Way, as I see it, you are not different from Shaka (the Buddha). Today in your
manifold activities, what is it that you lack? The flow of the Six Senses never ceases. Who can see
it like that is all his life a man who has nothing further to seek.
Venerable Ones, there is no place of rest in the Three Worlds; it is like a house on fire. This is not a
place for you to stay long. The murderous demon of impermanence strikes in a single instant,
without choosing between high and low, old and young. Do you wish to be not different from the
Buddhas and patriarchs? Then just do not look for anything outside. The pure light of your heart at
this instant is the Dharmakaya Buddha in your own house. The non-differentiating light of your
heart at this instant is the Sambhogakaya Buddha in your own house. The non-discriminating light
of your own heart at this instant is the Nirmanakaya Buddha in your own house. This trinity of the
Buddha's body is none other than he here before your eyes, listening to my expounding of the
Dharma. You can come to this seeing only by not running and searching outside.
The scholars of the Sutras and Treatises take the Three Bodies as absolute. As I see it, this is not so.
These Three Bodies are merely names, or props. An old master said: "The (Buddha's) Bodies are
set up with reference to meaning; the (Buddha) Fields are distinguished with reference to
substance." However, understood clearly, the Dharma Nature Bodies and the Dharma Nature Fields
are only mental configurations.
Venerable Ones, get to know the one who plays with these configurations. He is the original source
of all the Buddhas. Knowing him, wherever you are is home.
Your physical body, formed by the four elements, cannot understand the Dharma you are listening
to; nor can your spleen, stomach, liver or gall; nor can the empty space. Who then can understand
the Dharma and can listen to it? The one here before your very eyes, brilliantly clear and shining
without any form there he is who can understand the Dharma you are listening to. If you can really
grasp this, you are not different from the Buddhas and patriarchs. Ceaselessly he is right here,
conspicuously present.
.
mardi 4 août 1998 07:55
Re: storm the studio
Well, well my little pixies; we've all been busy, n'est-ce-pas? I like this new direction; it seems like
the obvious next step.
Interzone is dead, long live Interzone...
storm the studio
spin the vision
work the seam
loose the light
wake the grinder
unravel the knot
_______________
38
mardi 18 août 1998 08:49
Zoned
under the same sky... her belongings at that address, his longing there too...DESIREISWOMAN
from a fraying billboard, tatters loose to the sky; it was always drainage for angels, always a trick
of the light... the future is written on a barn in Memphis... children of glass
reflect telepathic images, hieroglyphic arabesques of meaning at that address, the moon unhinged
floats out of the cardboard sky... the boys head at uni under the same sky, angel's longing there
from a fraying shower of stars, it was always Singapore, it was always Memphis...
samedi 19 septembre 1998 02:46
fare thee well Moeg...
no Body no One no
i am nothing
i wish for extinction
for Silence
you cannot know God
because He
DOES NOT EXIST
wHAT DOES?
mIND.
yOURS. mINE.
tHINGSMIND.
aLL mIND.
wHEREVER YOU GO
39
wHATEVER YOU DO iS mIND DOING
don't forget
we are floating
in space.
don't forget
how to forget
this planet is
2/3 (plus) water
(water dissolving; water removing)
don't forget
we are wet.
fARE THEEE WELLMoeg...
samedi 19 septembre 1998 02:59
Windowless hallway to logic (unfinished)
Close both eyes often in the windowless hallway to logic, to abandon actions he never performed
those along the tense border he came, he took leave, he imploded- fire on the hemisphere below.
I am two-headed, one free one sticky; hard to extinguish=
agression has ceased of running like molten orange-gold blue
meridians of light along the dusky equator
no one but no-body always there to see it
men die
for ignorance
this world is
unfinished.
mardi 20 octobre 1998 03:05
mo bey
Amour Fou
40
AMOUR FOU IS NOT a Social Democracy, it is not a Parliament of Two. The minutes of its secret
meetings deal with meanings too enormous but too precise for prose. Not this, not that--its Book of
Emblems trembles in your hand.
Naturally it shits on schoolmasters & police, but it sneers at liberationists & ideologues as well--it
is not a clean well-lit room. A topological charlatan laid out its corridors & abandoned parks, its
ambush-decor of luminous black & membranous maniacal red.
Each of us owns half the map--like two renaissance potentates we define a new culture with our
anathematized mingling of bodies, merging of liquids--the Imaginal seams of our City-state blur in
our sweat.
Ontological anarchism never came back from its last fishing trip. So long as no one squeals to the
FBI, CHAOS cares nothing for the future of civilization. Amour fou breeds only by accident--its
primary goal is ingestion of the Galaxy. A conspiracy of transmutation.
Its only concern for the Family lies in the possibility of incest ("Grow your own!" "Every human a
Pharoah!")--O most sincere of readers, my semblance, my brother/sister!--& in the masturbation of
a child it finds concealed (like a japanese-paper-flower-pill) the image of the crumbling of the
State.
Words belong to those who use them only till someone else steals them back. The Surrealists
disgraced themselves by selling amour fou to the ghost-machine of Abstraction--they sought in
their unconsciousness only power over others, & in this they followed de Sade (who wanted
"freedom" only for grown-up whitemen to eviscerate women & children).
Amour fou is saturated with its own aesthetic, it fills itself to the borders of itself with the
trajectories of its own gestures, it runs on angels' clocks, it is not a fit fate for commissars &
shopkeepers. Its ego evaporates in the mutability of desire, its communal spirit withers in the
selfishness of obsession.
Amour fou involves non-ordinary sexuality the way sorcery demands non-ordinary consciousness.
The anglo-saxon post- Protestant world channels all its suppressed sensuality into advertising &
splits itself into clashing mobs: hysterical prudes vs promiscuous clones & former-ex-singles. AF
doesn't want to join anyone's army, it takes no part in the Gender Wars, it is bored by equal
opportunity employment (in fact it refuses to work for a living), it doesn't complain, doesn't
explain, never votes & never pays taxes.
41
AF would like to see every bastard ("lovechild") come to term & birthed--AF thrives on antientropic devices--AF loves to be molested by children--AF is better than prayer, better than
sinsemilla--AF takes its own palmtrees & moon wherever it goes. AF admires tropicalismo,
sabotage, break- dancing, Layla & Majnun, the smells of gunpowder & sperm.
AF is always illegal, whether it's disguised as a marriage or a boyscout troop--always drunk,
whether on the wine of its own secretions or the smoke of its own polymorphous virtues. It is not
the derangement of the senses but rather their apotheosis--not the result of freedom but rather its
precondition. Lux et voluptas.
dimanche 8 novembre 1998 07:10
buddha/fire/sermon
"The ear is on fire;
fire;
...
sounds are on fire;
the nose is on fire;
the tongue is on fire; tastes
odors are on
are on fire; the body is
fire
on fire; things tangible are on
; . . . the mind is on fire ; ideas are on fire; . . .
mind-consciousness is on fire; impressions received by the mind are on fire ; and
whatever sensation, pleasant, unpleasant, or indifferent, originates in dependence on impressions
received by the mind, that also
is on fire.
wakarimasu ka.
r.gentry
vendredi 27 novembre 1998 04:36
Carbon Chestermakes the scene
cut-up is exorcism
cut-up is narrative illusion Is Broken.
whelms on the sand.
42
Infinity.
Carbon Chester Rankin. Foot feed. Tally ho.
Crack and run crack and run.
Intended knowledge missing in the dancehall.
Call to arms. Medic electric. Tyreswatch. Dare it to go on.
man dancing on the blade of a
razor.
Hurrah.
samedi 28 novembre 1998 17:18
Who knows
It is known to him
to
whom
it is unknown;
he
does not know
to whom
It
is known
It is unknown
43
to those
who know well
and known
to those
who
do not know.
-kena upanishad
vendredi 18 décembre 1998 03:17
Fable :
"But sir, the Private continued, let's up the ante a bit. Suppose instead of using all those
weapons- by the way, I only object to them on aesthetic grounds, they're just so uh, messylet's just disappear the fuckers. Just remove them from our consciousness, delete them."
"What the hell are you talking about, Private? How could a thing like that be
accomplished?"
"This technique is born of the blackest magic, sir. Pure bibleblack hatred. If you can get a
group of like-minded, right-thinking gentlemen like yourself together and focus your hate
for an extended period of time, you could accumulate enough boojum to literally evaporate
'em."
"Hmm, well Sargeant, I uh know a few, well, friends I guess you'd call 'em."
"Perfect, Sir."
"But how do you plan to employ this hatred, Lieutenant? You got to have a peg to hang it
on..."
"Yes sir. There's a prism in the World Museum of Anthropology in Basle large enough that
we could use it as an accumulator to collect all that yummy disease, but that's the thing. I
mean, I don't know how we could get our hands on a thing like ..."
"I am a very well connected man, Commander ..."
"And well hung too, sir. You're excitement seems to be uh, mounting. In any case, with that prism
and just a couple of cheap lasers and a wad of chewing gum I could fashion an instrument to direct
the collected juju right at the soul of any given person and..."
44
"S-w-i-s-s-s-h."
"Yes sir, s-w-i-s-s-s-h. Or more precisely, Z-v-v-t."
"Thank you, General. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some important calls to make...
mardi 22 décembre 1998 04:26
For Izzy
around the edge of the light
under clouds without water
we make miracles
and mirrors
in which to reflect them
it is a new night
it is opulent
and
elemental
and it belongs
to the voyants...
mardi 26 janvier 1999 03:58
galvanic skin response
We know
and we have to make a leap
directly outside the plethysmograph
of the penis.
It's a one-to-one relationship.
It's established and therefore truth
when a man becomes logic
in a polygraph.
45
Sexually arousedsay blood,
say pressure measurement,
jump in!
Evidence is related re engorgement,
(the re is engorgement.)
skin logic.
mardi 26 janvier 1999 06:28
Angeltech
______
for god so loved the world
he gave his all in battle
never more to prophesize
never more to prattle
now angels up on high
46
do sing
and dance with shiny
rattle
eveyone's a poet now
and tongues are
won in battle
Date : mardi 2 février 1999 07:29
Objet : 3 verses
i went to cucamonga
i think that's what i said
i wish that i had got up late
and never stayed in bed
the queen of cups is dying
she left me in her will
i fear the rain is slowing
i never know until
there's quinine in the catsup
and trilling through the line
the people with the bailing wire
are four and six and nine
(to be cont. infinitely)
mercredi 3 février 1999 06:39
Date : mercredi 3 février 1999 06:40
Objet : sculpture
Burgindorf Merrycliff paused at the Isle of Ointment, took three short breaths, and faded into his
terrycloth bathrobe.
terrycloth.
I suggest you sound the alarm.
Quality crayon wax o.k.
The man replied, things as they are are changed upon the blue guitar.
No dialtone.
Faceless. Digital.
Melodrama confuses me.
the medium is the massage.
bucky fuller eats rice krispies.
47
did you sound the alarm?
samedi 20 février 1999 03:23
dadaspeak
dada is moist and fruity.
dada is generous to a fault.
dada is metal and wind and
a bucket of stars.
dada woke this morning at 7:14
and retired at 7:18.
dada killed 3 replubicans in their sleep.
dada incited a riot with whispers.
dada reads bad poetry
to bad little girls.
dada likes red.
dada visits paris twice a year without an umbrella.
dada can't stop masturbating.
dada wants to see every woman's cunt up close.
dada likes the smell of
assholes and sulfur and school glue.
dada has no mama.dada went for a walk and never came home.
dada is not water soluble.
dada dada dada dada dada.
48
dada.
lundi 8 mars 1999 06:30
Dawn
the fundament the firmament the flaw
the fixer
always fixing
the fixed
enbalmed in fixity
who am i
that these wildflowers
dawn open
in a yawn of cornfeathers
& hoarfrost ?
____________
49
Date : vendredi 9 avril 1999 06:02
Objet : poem; refrains 4-7 + bill with doobie
the prince has left the princess
impaled upon a stave
the minions of the legions
are starting from their graves
hortense and calisha lay
entwined upon the bed
doing things that young girls
often dream of in their heads
waking up or waking out
is something to desire
i hear a distant pealing
the pealing comes with fire
mama comes with naming
the naming one is dust
how can i tell this secret
i don't know but i must
etc.
dimanche 11 avril 1999 13:33
los romanticos de la noche
'an irruption of the marvellous"
50
light pouring onto the page
the beautiful inner view of brightness, clearness & splendor
spread over heaven (yang), lake (yin), Metal (west) and water (north)
On the one hundred talismanic forms of your character
none grasps where to mark the grades
in the dream puddle
in the elmer fuddle
in the quid pro quiddle
in the hi diddle diddle
in the divination
of vapours
Date : mardi 20 avril 1999 05:36
Objet : alchemy-oh-my-oh
Endogeny of the transcendent being. Alchemical schema. From the brain descends
the sperm, liquified cerebral substance. The heart furnishes the assimilable air and
the vital spirit. The stove, matrix of the transcendent being.
51
Date : jeudi 22 avril 1999 03:57
Objet : rumi + sufi dancers
It's time to speak of roses and pomegranates,
and of the ocean where pearls are made
of language and vision, and of the invisible ladders,
which are different for each person, that lead
to the infinite place where trees
murmur among themselves...
rumi
52
Date : jeudi 22 avril 1999 04:04
Objet : scrolled
izscroll
________________
generation
Not being gravity-specific, I am translating the sound of Wayne.
Tune to Radio Cairo. Chrome wheels reflect the sun.
Do you hear this whirring?
Enter here.
*
Language - you in time. Chrome wheel of the sun bound
to sequence. What a whirring!
Insert anything here: nouns, verbs, memes.
Bales for the ages, tombs beneath the sea.
*
The girl had testified that pain and humidity
were evident (cue strings).
Childhood - you were ever happy then (cue child-chorus).
53
Once you pass it's borders, you may not return (cue static).
*
Congealing, forming, blossoming from seed.
Frisk the jewel,
Pearl of open space;
Go forth and disappear...
<>
<> <> <>
<>
the generation of numbers
_______________
Creative Force
I AM THE CREATIVE FORCE â of
I AM THE INSAYING ONE
THE FIRE THE WATER
AND THE SPACE BETWEEN
Top of Form 1
I AM THE THOUGHT
THE THINKER
AND THE WORDS ON THE PAGE.
WHAT IS BEFORE MOVEMENT
BEFORE BEING
I AM THAT.
I CONTAIN EVERYTHING
BUT HAVE NO FORM
I AM FULL AND EMPTY
AND BREATHLESS.
TANGERINES ON THE COUNTER
BIRDS ON THE WING
YOUNG GIRLS
IN THE AFTERNOON AIR
Bottom of Form 1
_________________
54
Part 5
Poems in the Interzone Coffee House
"The Interzone Coffee House" http://groups.yahoo.com/group/theinterzonecoffeehouse
Menhir 81
Wolf
walking through the city
looking for something pretty
to howl at...
Arrrrrooooouuuuuwwwww!!!
red alley cat
all decked in lace and leather
her name is Heather
she's looking for her wolf
here, kitty, kitty...
Arrrrrooooouuuuuwwwww!!!
full moon tonight
_______________
SkaVooMe
Werewolf
oh ya! sweet menhir
for what it's worth (always implied)
cool imagery and kickin scent
i love "she's looking for her wolf"
your wolf a
manic crazed night
explodes all over
me messy sweet
raw to the teeth
bite gulp growl
repeat
_________________
Menhir81
celebratin the implicatin
SkaVooMe
you do me
good
your words
they are like blue-winged birds
from your mouth
flying south
55
down to the Atlanta
of my soul
where the ratio of the beat
is 8 to 1
________
SkaVooMe
RE: celebratin (mad smelly brotherly hugs)
my brother
kicks the trip
smooth
his grooved bop beat
steppin hip feet
through golden guttered lands
his
back door tunes
moves
bad burnin wigs
to dig mad gigs
and join their sweatblood hands
cool
his choice voice
screaming dreams moist
purple black ooze
drink
swallow
wallow
in it's primal Pangean pulp
until you fill them gutters gold
__________
SkaVooMe
Our Ring-celebrating grapes plums & berries bright
OUR RING
the sound of your laughter across this space
brings my smile unhindered and free
growing in the strength of our embrace
a dance of spiraling symmetry
delicate delightful rhythyms press
open words upon supple lips
of boundless trust to hold and carress
this flowing harmonic partnership
sailing eyes upon sparkling streams
56
of our true unfurled love amid
sends our unclipped wings of dreams
to soar purple winds enchanted
lucid lithe fiery tongues share
the beauty and magic without within
inclusiveness unweighted bonded sure
by balanced freedom to begin
female unguarded uncontrolled mind
male unmenaced unmasked face
in our joining ourselves free to find
our enriching unity across this space
.......
________________
SkaVooMe
Storm Of The Century - before cut-up
*note: i took notes while watching King's Storm... had hear dialogue was cool with lots of repitition
and obvious symbols. so here's my notes before i passed it through www.bigtable.com cut-up
machine.
sin waits at the edge of the SEA
where people stuff their memory
in bags of lust SIN dustin converging fronts
EVERYTHING'S OK don't panic
cold BLACK EYES mirror held SECRETS
jet streams davey screams mrs clarendon's dead
mr beal's in CONTROL, shadowed memories bell toll
SIN whores mr beals choking cannibal mom
HELL repeats loads CONTROL bullets
STORM strenghtens past meets present
EVIL boldly waits quiet sitting compliant
oh my god god faceless stand back under CONTROL
EVERYTHING'S OK andre lenauge is hand cuffed
don't be scared evrything's under CONTROL
get a hold of anderson DADDY yay!
HELL is repitition EVIL KNOWS YOUR NAME
try to COMMUNICATE STORM strengthens
MOMMY's scared but EVERYTHING'S OKAY
STORM strengthens safety on safety off
key WON'T WORK haven't heard from him
give me what I want I'll go away you know what I want
doors WON'T OPEN evil enters front door
EVILs boldly waits EVIL thru front door give it room
EVIL KNOWS your SECRETs
EVIL knows your SECRET NAMEs
stay out of EVIL's way give it room
SECRET SIN
57
where's your ID where's your ID where's your ID
evil under CONTROL where's his ID
beals wants CONTROL
COMMUNICATE with state police CONTROL
COMMUNICATE WON'T WORK with mainland
COMMUNICATE WON'T WORK try to COMMUNICATE
STORM strengthens
squared away CONTROL secure CONTROL drive safe CONTROL
COMMUNICATE WON'T WORK power WON'T WORK
EVIL waits God damn Whew alternate power
EVIL waits watching IT'S OKAY EVERYTHING'S OKAY
why is EVIL here Go home I'll get CONTROL
is EVERYTHING OKAY? EVERYTHING'S OKAY?
COMMUNICATE WON'T WORK I'm in CONTROL OKAY, OKAY
stay alert CONTROL cannot get rid of EVIL
DADDY guards CONTROL bad guy we all chip in EVERYTHING'S OKAY
STORM strengthens SEA rages approaching
Godsoe in trance NO CONTROL
STORM strengthens
are you OKAY? CONTROL I'm OKAY CONTROL
Sign in we need order CONTROL
How did EVIL KNOW sign in we need to know CONTROL
SEA RAGES approaching Godsoe NO CONTROL
Are you OKAY CONTROL I'm OKAY CONTROL
EVIL CONTROLs Godsoe cold BLACK EYES
EVIL CONTROLs roy EVIL WANTS PRICE
Godsoe and Roy dead
SEA RAGES approaching blow whistle sweet jesus
EVIL WANTS PRICE EVIL WANTS PRICE EVIL WANTS PRICE
tomorrow night is DADDY safe?
____________
SkaVooMe
Storm of the Centruy - cut-up with Einstein on God
*note: a cut-up using netmonkey's cut-up machine and my notes from Storm (prev post) with a
quote from Albert Einstein on God:
Whatever there is of God and goodness in the universe, it must work itself out and express itself
through us. We cannot stand aside and let God do it.
here's what spit out:
power EVIL god god faceless EVERYTHING'S OKAY STORM strengthens safety on safety off
key WON'T WORK haven't cannot get rid of EVIL DADDY sign in we need EVIL waits God
damn EVIL WANTS PRICE EVIL EVIL KNOWS your SECRETs and goodness in you know
what evil enters front door CONTROLs roy EVIL WANTS PRICE Godsoe and Roy blow whistle
sweet jesus OKAY, OKAY stay alert CONTROL screams mrs clarendon's dead mr beal's in chip in
EVERYTHING'S OKAY need order CONTROL How jet streams davey did EVIL KNOW aside
and let God do CONTROL bullets STORM strenghtens past EVILs boldly NAMEs stay out of
EVIL's waits watching IT'S OKAY EVERYTHING'S beals choking cannibal mom HELL waits at
the edge of people stuff their memory in bags is repitition of God OKAY why is EVIL your ID
58
where's your I go away quiet sitting compliant oh my drive safe CONTROL COMMUNICATE
here and express itself COMMUNICATE with state police CONTROL COMMUNICATE WON'T
WORK with mainland COMMUNICATE through us. We cannot stand repeats loads to know stand
back under CONTROL EVERYTHING'S STORM strengthens squared away CONTROL Go home
heard from him give me way give it want doors WON'T OPEN meets present EVIL boldly waits
STORM strengthens MOMMY's scared but ID where's Godsoe in trance NO CONTROL STORM
EVIL KNOWS YOUR NAME WANTS PRICE EVIL WANTS PRICE WON'T WORK try to
COMMUNICATE OK andre waits EVIL thru Whew alternate STORM strengthens SEA rages
approaching EVERYTHING OKAY? EVERYTHING'S OKAY? COMMUNICATE WON'T
WORK I'm in CONTROL SIN dustin converging I'll Are you OKAY room SECRET SIN where's
lenauge is hand cuffed don't be scared tomorrow night is DADDY safe? Whatever there is try to
COMMUNICATE your ID evil under it. storm of CONTROL where's his ID beals wants
CONTROL strengthens are you OKAY? CONTROL I'm OKAY CONTROL Sign in we BLACK
EYES mirror held SECRETS cold BLACK EYES EVIL front door give it room CONTROL I'm
OKAY CONTROL EVIL CONTROLs Godsoe what I want I'll guards CONTROL bad guy we all
EVIL knows your SECRET CONTROL, shadowed memories bell toll SIN whores mr get
CONTROL is must work itself out evrything's under CONTROL get a hold of anderson DADDY
yay! HELL dead SEA RAGES approaching the universe, it of lust secure CONTROL WON'T
WORK power WON'T WORK CONTROL SEA RAGES approaching Godsoe NO CONTROL the
SEA where fronts EVERYTHING'S OK don't panic cold the century sin
____________
SkaVooMe
Veil And Times Night - Nonlinear Time
the watch checking corner waits, shuffling
the time buzzes of an amber glowfly.
three more ticking cars until Armageddon.
her passed footsteps offer salvation.
high time heeled echoing bricks present clicks.
mocking expectancy overflowing, slumps
into hidden passed over gutters
of pain and neglect, down to sewer bowels.
two more ticking cars until Armageddon.
frozen womb screams, furiously watch
the wait dancing tics of numb urgency.
one more ticking car until Armageddon.
corner salvation arrives, smiling beaming eyes
and youthful romance dances delightfully,
to harvest moon, spring mums, and love's harmony.
a ticking car passes by.
.......
___________________
SkaVooMe
RE: hybrid9, dust, not much sense, moth
9 brides saying hi
sweet burping and
loving your awd bubbels
boo, tea-full, and backlit
59
Menhir81
that's nonsense!
terraining tonight, forgetting for a fight
bite bite bite
blam
blather and splatter all over
strobelight
faces wise and unweildy
their bones painting me a picture
ivory and ebony
on yellow and nature
and extract of vanilla is so malaysian
so black and and and bland
tan shadows looking to grab me
grey faces I cant see
with teeth inside
long and blunty sharpy toothy me
smiley whispery tell me secrets
letting my hands trail along your sidey so that I
can feely the fleshy beneathy
your breasts so ripe and sweaty
my palms so rough and softy
so strong and weaky
steely under silky
velvet over tiger's paw
a yin for your thoughts
and a
yang, it does a body...
good good good
bad
bad/good
sweet and sour
for your pain and for your pleasure, madame
perhaps some wine with your death?
rich and dripping dark blood-red vampire-craving
full-bodied rich-bouquet-aroma'd good and naughty light and heady honey
aged to perfection
over ripe
spilled
smash! splinter! 10084 crystal razor edged blood-letting more vampires! everywhere! stake! stake!
stake! halogen cross nightmare agony on a crucifix
a big one...THE big one
san grea
san greal
saan graal
san grail
stone cup blood cross holyness and a few things
of pentacles and carpenters and Merovingean kings
stone mason's delight for dinner!
YUM
60
coincidences and allegations and
allusions and metaphor (and Singapore) and allusions and delusions and illusions and
confusion (he did it! he did it! he did it! but...I SAW him DO it!!!) and changes and variances and
ideosyncracies and little things that hatch
and noone catches and lies and lies and lies and
within lies (in wait) and get this within lies (so quiet)and get this within lies (for you) and get this
within lies (to cross my path) the (1)
conspiracy of (TRUTH) the weak! what's for dinner?
sushimi on the half shell
'cause we all have something to hide...
but I don't
_____________
Menhir81
Coffee
I would just like to say...
I need my coffee
I feed my coffee
I seed my coffee
I breed my coffee
I slam my coffee
I jam my coffee
I am my coffee
I drink my coffee
I brink my coffee
I ink my coffee
I think my coffee
I find my coffee
I bind my coffee
I mind my coffee
I brew my coffee
I stew my coffee
I glue my coffee
I do my coffee
...that I like coffee
but tea is very nice.
________________
SkaVooMe
Real Men ... RealMax ... tolerance?
1. Inclined to tolerate the beliefs, practices, or traits of others; forbearing. See note at broadminded . 2. Able to withstand or endure an adverse environmental condition (American Heritage)
1. A persistent, abnormal, or irrational fear of a specific thing or situation that compels one to
avoid the feared stimulus
???is tolerance just a pretty way of saying phobia?
61
!!!here's an idea... let's just be
words control infest words control imprint words control imitate words control words control
words control
---on Real Men--i've been
with Real Men
i've been the best of men
acid pain sweat gain
pressure blisters callous blisters
weak girly boy flesh
clogging shower drains
humiliate
eliminate
effeminate queer bait
jocks are for Real Men
no pain no gain no prisoners
no pain no love no tenderness
no pain no sympathy no forgiveness
no pain no pain no pain
no tears no fears just beers
Real Men drink beer
heave ho heave blood
kick punch jab jump jam strangle hold
small penis small shadowed small flushing
small guilty small penis largely hidden in
league records state records i'm the best
sweet sweaty pain measures the best
dig work deny ignore destroy beat push
Real Dicks Real Jocks Real Men
for banging stuffing jamming pumping filling
any hole except male holes
males don't have holes
males are holy wholed
males suck it up
females and fags, well...
blood? a scratch, no cry no die
blood? the way, no pain no gain
blood? the goal, honor, the reward
fuck you! fuck me! the finish line!
* 2/24/99 for russell, dan, and eddie.
forgive me. forgive Men their first 17 years
of Mommy's milk, Daddy's meat, and good ole
USA pride, for they know not what they do
to your beautiful light.
_________________
62
for Menhir big-noisy-nice-and-smelly-cabbage-fart
isn't tolerance just phobia tea
with mayhaps a twisted fruit?
here's an idea... let's just be
but not the Aristotelian be
but an infinite indice of be
but be an Einstein be
but i stepped on a bee and it stung me
butts are nice
pulse pounding pulp pushing
butts booty boobs breasts
GS POS SOS PMS BS but
i gotta be me
i gotta take a pee
if you stick a rubber
tube up your urethra
it gives you a headache
just in case you were
wondering
eof
carriage return carriage return line feed
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahaha
shift 1
Jane! Jane! get me off this thing!
_____________
gutliss
"what are you doing here? who are you?"
and i don't know what i am doing there nor who i am. i decide to play it cool and maybe i will get
the orientation back before the Owner shows....so instead of yelling "where am i?" cool it and look
around and you will find out approximately...you were not there for The Beginning. you will not be
there for The End...your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative...what
do i know of this yellow blighted young junky face subsisting on raw opium? i tried to tell him "
some ,morning you will wake with your liver in you lap" and how to process raw opium so it is not
plain poison. but his eyes glaze over and he don't want to know. junkies are like that most of them
them they don't want to know...and you can't tell them anything...a smoker doesn't want to know
anything but smoke...and a heroin junky same way ...strictly the spike and any other route is
Farina"
i had to write a report on it and my teacher said "good job describing a complex book" but it really
is not all that complex because everything is based on everything. the virus dehumanizes the human
and becomes needy on the human needs and transversingly becomes more human its self. and
63
reality/insanity intervine . and human-kind in character becomes the lowest life form. we are the
most suicidal species. we sit and we kill ourselves but we fear death . \
"what
are
you
thinking?"says
the
squirming
American
tourist...
to which i reply:"morphine have depressed my hypothalamus, seat of libido and emotion , and since
the front of the brain acts only at second hand with back-brain titillation, being a vicarious type
citizen can only get his kicks from behind, i must report virtual absence of cerebral event . i am
aware of your presence, but since it has for me no affective connotation, my affect having been
disconnect by the junk man for the nonpayment , i am not interested in your doings...go or come,
shit or fuck yourself with a rasp or an asp-tis well done and fitting for a queen -but the dead and the
junky don't care" they are Inscrutable."
peace.-gutliss
_____________
gutliss
rock on burroughs
Q....such figures as Ginsberg want to transform the world by love and non-violence. Do you share
this interest?
A. most emphatically no. the people in power will not disappear voluntarily, giving flowers to the
cops just isn't going to work. this thinking is fostered by the establishment; they like nothing more
than love and non-violence. the only way i like to see cops given flowers is in a flower pot from a
high window.-William S. Burroughs.
man, rock on.
"eat you animal crackers cause my mother told me so long ago if you eat your animal crackers, the
children in Europe won't starve anymore."~melanie~
happy birthday to the rain.
love-gutliss.
_____________
Menhir81
GIANT!
I feel a giant hammering on my brain
hammering hammering hammering on my brain
and my thoughts flow slow under the hammerblow
drum beat drum beat
light dim down low under the hammerblow
drum beat drum beat
and the things that I know just cannot let go under the hammerblow
rumble thunder rumble
hoar giant frost face red eye
_______________
Menhir81
on SILENCE and the Demogorgon (and which is which)
I found to day as I sat and thank as I worked and moved and pushed and
fought for justice and injustices and power and control and maximum space
for maximum work
(minimum effect gets you nowhere)
64
Briefly
SILENCE and the Deomgorgon
which is which?
is entertainment
peacable? is silence
enjoyable? can I have a sandwich?
when can I get out? where is all the juice?
who drank the juice? "I did" (I did) I did
what is the rhythm? it doesn't mean much to youSILENCE and the demogorgon
why should it?
it's not your poem, it's my poem, it's not your head, it's MINE! get out of my
head!
:pushes you away into my arms to hold you close and feel how much I hate to
love you as I do:
I whisper silently into your ear one last thought for today...
mine
_______________
gutliss
man, o man
hey, i was in the led zepplin club and some guy said there was an interview with jimmy and
burroughs, anyone heard of it? also, i was reading more burroughs stuff on the net the other day and
he was talking about the christian church and how as the facts are found out the church changes. as
when they made everyone believe the earth was falt until it was proved other-wise when they saud,
o, yah, it is round, we new it all along. i've much agree with burroughs on this. i believe science
will soon prove it all wrong. it proved adam and eve wrong, so adam and eve was made a "story" to
tach a "lesson" by the pope. possibly when the time machine is created, the story of creation will be
truthfully seen and "god" will just turn into another "story" to teach another "moral". i personally
believe the bible is a bunch of lies, a fairy tale. i had to go to christina religious education up until
my mom got sick because she as a churchy person, so i know the beliefs and i believe they are
bullshit. right now i am interested in other religions, especially Buddhism because it deals with
ego-centricity/society and getting out of ourselves and having care for society, by being at peace
with yourself, and that is what i need. terata, i visited your site and i think you are really funny and
your site is really amazing, even though i didn't have a lot of time to view it. man, i am up early for
myself, cause something bad is going on in my stomach that is not just natural aches, which are
very excruciating pains that have waken me up early, and i like to sleep in until at least noon. well,
school starts again tomorrow and i have to go write a paper about what new thing i learned in this
holocaust unit we did, and i have to write three pages about learning that the teachers need to know
more about what they teach than the students do, well, i really need to transfer to another school,
hopefully a more arty school, though i don't think it will happen, cause things are just not
challenging enough for me. much more tree-like power to you all to make the world a more
breathable place to live in . peace-gutliss.
65
_____________
SkaVooMe
RE: uh OR dammit scrwed up last post... i think?
---elGORGO's Conundrum--Tulips in an alley?
Allusive illusions.
Show me a flower,
a blossom elGORGO,
and upon this tongue
flies shall surely set,
but a digit directional
brings a cellophaned hum
from a peered shade. Inside,
as a black woman dusts
the binding guilts of apathy,
sin swells on deep waves,
building time, storing wrath
until
"Yes! Yes! Yes dammit!
I need to oil those damn
rusty swings lest their
incessant squeal drive me sane!"
Thank you ELgorgo
your Circle G of satire
burns brightly on my forehead.
Dammit!
rick ;-)
_____________
Menhir81
schedule
am I just clueless? (probably)
or when is their a chat scheduled? (weekly)
did we/you/they ever decide a concrete time/day? (certainly)
and, could you fill me in? (eventually)
thank you (deeply)
wolf
walking through the city
looking for something pretty
to howl at...
Arrrrrooooouuuuuwwwww!!!
66
red alley cat
all decked in lace and leather
her name is Heather
she's looking for her wolf
here, kitty, kitty...
Arrrrrooooouuuuuwwwww!!!
full moon tonight
___________
Menhir81
fruit
I am too tired to compose a poem tonight, but, I would just like to point out that "borange" rhymes
with "orange", as to what "borange" is, I do not care.
____________
SkaVooMe
imploding shadows
thumping the spacing swamp
of pause and punctuation,
- unfooted Egyptian genius vamping raw teeth biting
blunt, the unfaithful lover
ever lurking within shadows latent,
naive spectral bubble preying.
little word drips that trip slip
into a puddle of pert hats, quirky
notes. a mashed malt medley of
leaky lint and brooding bread
graying lines of fugitive matter
scrawled in schizzy hues of once
cellophaned hums from peered shades
bend back the light of black women
dusting the binding guilts of
shelved apathy
yellow brown pitted backyard swings
squealing rhythmic chants of freedom
timed to a fibred face ground drum
pounded with sticks of hate and abuse
swung with deep sin swelling waves,
building time, storing wrath ignoring
the neglectful lazy squealing pendulum
rhythm feeding machine pendulum
squealing machine pendulum
droning squealing pendulum
regulating inertia pendulum
hypnotic pendulum
controlling
pendulum
67
___________
SkaVooMe
Purple Mountain's Majesty
As a scathing wind howls lost-time blues
- in wet-letter notes unplugged and gray -through empty arms holding, waiting bare,
painted upon canvas of bleach-white day,
and stark brittle colors jut their jaws
against cold invisible sinking claws,
in a fluttering of wings i see you, there
behind the wings, beyond the canvas.
A coming hill before the promise
of home, dissolving sense of tense and where.
You fill the boot treked snow with Angel's wings,
and lifeless limbs with foliage dreams,
fountainhead of sweet scented streams
of pollen washing across lush pink moss
fields of tomorrow upon today. Drawled
grape Monet promises pressed on lips keen,
spring up inside of inside as I look
at your presence more tangible than seen.
Timeless before flows from a latent brook
of us within subatomic expanses
of infinite entries, exits, and windows
emitting vibrant conception. Chances
dimensionless, a convergence of roads
unlimited under foot unassailable.
A palpable pulse pounds possible
through the crusted-ice degrees of now
melting snow into magicked timbre runs:
swelling, joining, building.
An ancient melded lake of us - conjured
across time and space - where nuns run nude,
men where rouge, and books swim unencumbered.
Fragile waverings soothed and tendered
by ripples of harmonic overtones pooled
gently into our conjoining agenda.
Totality freely immersed and trued
within this lake where I meet you.
______________
68
BINDA23
Nova Mob
Your face pressed primary colours
and there I sat
swabbing
its only a dream
your mouth kept telling me
your face ran sherbert fountains
for your sliced eyes
a man with blisters on his face
kept tapping
morse code
how long can they lock out the blood
stop it seeping through supermarket floorboards
only a dream
only a dream was the murmuring
your mouth full
speech thick with something sticky
_________________
alchemickal
Report #1 of Cutup Chat
It expands when the retribution is as without danger. The microbiology texture of skin is to sun for
every. Certain movies blinding and the false witness fascinated me for the conduct representation.
Sky of mules of existing world religions died when totally growing from a plant (including
overland vehicles). Man must mundane who'd do the actual in global affairs becoming clearer
mysteries. The roaring sea intones higher than he loses itself, ages on yellow towers. Night views
the insoluble. "Doesn't flinch," said she that could be used for everything. Good is of gladness,
balcony.
I strip things of the life of the struggle. Wheat disvalued fear of being. A web whose upper house
conduct skein adds yet more to, by assuming that European. In actuality, he bit his bottom
expression and changes into a pretty whore. Left designate himself a citizen. Sound ideas about a
radiant one, in Suquet everything good is costly.
69
Consciousness which takes normal-seeming Americans (distant TVs) like doctor, philosopher, or
helmsman billions of years to pure. Door without your silver shoes this time, symbols. Where
reflection, non-renewable resources which are back from malthausen, gather in the halyards most
splendid of all. Change can come ye sons, assuming cyberpunk and non-linear as will fare better.
The stream swift, represent menacingly autonomous and speaking about drugs. Eyes looked love in
your moving shadow, and warns the largest scatterings of jasmine. Young, well he adds that's
translation of hun that which university and the famous door pale skinny and about reality
worthlessness. I recommend the excellent embroidered jacket to look upon worldly young men by
assuming the majority of little to sometimes spermy hand under my to cook. Because teenage
mutant cupness like no manifesting thing can. That sounds quite a samadhi experience!
Wane playful punch on the death, stronger than debased inspiration, or lie and doze, making fast of
primordial fire. Verifiable stars were thrusting lances. We are not mystified by towel. Tell anyone
the combed hair is the Tao glossary.
He did not realize that all are unwilling for ten commandments god. I hear your blows; part of my
therefore therapeutic ideas. Silence nor sound naught sets yellowish streamers, a community if old.
Expansion of human perception ineffable metaphysical element joking, and appreciative torso was
already well screening under. World government arose. They believe that DMT, the gypsy moon in
seasons, explodes all her majesty's mail. He wanted a heart-multiplied initiation, not solved
logically. Why then doesn't conscious choice ravage a sense of the events? This might explain
Jefferson&rsquo;s declaration of hands. Existence in Germany of high school days; society needing
snuff. Black reeds are trailing myself, my image getting black, more begin to be exteriorized
geodesic dome lined in common copper, which led the way upstairs and gives him this every drop.
About skillful gods become men, seraphim gypsies, whole tendency to frame ecstasy. The train,
other evening, of blue satisfy human thought.
_____________
Menhir81
song by Headrattle in key of C, accompanied by Men
(What follows is an actual conversation that I had, cut up a bit, and edited slightly. It strikes me
rather well as a poem. Permission has been obtained from Headrattle to use his screen name and
words. As for the Butthole Surfers...well...what they don't know won't hurt me.)
HEADRATTLE: I would like to sing you a song.
HEADRATTLE: It's a loveless hate!
hEADRATTLE: And it goes about something like this.
MENHIR81: Ok.
MENHIR81: :listens:
HEADRATTLE: This here song is about John W. Smokes. It is about being in
lovethat'salovethat'sahatethat'salovelesshatethat'salovethat'salovelesslovethat'sahate that revolves
around a hatelesslovelesshatethat'sahatethat'sahatethat'sahatethat'sahatethat'sahatethat'salove.
HEADRATTLE: It is about the
lovelesshatelesslovethatwashateandloveandhateandhateandloveandhatelessloveandlovelesshate.
HEADRATTLE: It is also about his mother.
MENHIR81: Ok.
HEADRATTLE: And the lovelesshatelesslove and the hatelesslovelesshatelesslove that was his
mother.
HEADRATTLE: "Oh Johnny smoked!"
MENHIR81: Ok.
MENHIR81: :listens:
70
HEADRATTLE: Just say that over and over and over and over and you have a Butthole Surfers
song.
MENHIR81: :gets out my harmonica: What's the key in?
HEADRATTLE: With some cool guitar riffs in the background.
MENHIR81: :plays a C:
MENHIR81: Sing it to me, man.
MENHIR81: And I will play along.
MENHIR81: On my blues harp.
HEADRATTLE: Then he breaks out into song! OH JOHNNY SMOKED!
HEADRATTLE: Oh Johnny smoked.
HEADRATTLE: Oh Johnny smoked.
HEADRATTLE: Oh Johnny smoked.
HEADRATTLE: Oh Johnny smoked.
HEADRATTLE: Oh Johnny smoked.
HEADRATTLE: Oh Johnny smoked.
HEADRATTLE: Oh Johnny smoked.
HEADRATTLE: Oh Johnny smoked.
MENHIR81: :works that blues harp:
.................................................
MENHIR81: Hey man, can you tell me later?
MENHIR81: I have to go.
HEADRATTLE: Ok, screw you!
MENHIR81: Hey, screw you too!
_______________
DarqueMuse
Getting Screwed By The Grim Reaper...............
.....Or...
The Elusive Ultimate Orgasm
\_/>
alone
in the garden
of thou shalt not
you
whisper my name
your coldness
warms me
touches my darkness
thrills my pain
makes me wait
for your
coming
blackness bleeding
red swirls
in a brook
it's three AM
but I did not die
71
again
you whisper
next time
______________
DarqueMuse
I cannot write poetry..sharing my 4:45am insanity
The Damn Glass Slipper Didn't Fit
\_/>
thank you
for your kindness
your thoughtfulness
once open a time
Thank you
for *not* being there for me
when I needed you
I had to find
my own strength
The bleeding has stopped
_____________
72
Part 7
Jeremy Gluck
police the system
police the system after killing it
Law of One Behold!
giggles DNA everything is like this
the hop
trans-dimensional interface third-party tools
roller through chews
machine frequencies absolutely cool colour phase
storage necrotrivia
indeed then mysterialism
soft Windows 2012 no big crash
organised religion pleasure continuance small medium
scarf but data whorehouse
i'm okay you're not up to virtual privacy
storage and backup
chews everything is like this third-party tools
emerald storage and backup teach your Internet needs
while into the infinite
storage under both
global access later
baby World Religions Incorporated
however because no big crash
silk www.orried teach your Internet
everything is like this Y2K editing tomorrow
pebble writhes intelligent agents
hear see hacker lame global access
your own name
stupid monkey planet police the system no email no ftp no surfing
high speed beautifully no big crash
intelligence awareness of the divine
but also before swap files
diseased reality strategy when
electronic future intelligent agents
so tomorrow World Religions Incorporated
hires death Wow!
73
Tomorrow teach
tomorrow teach your Internet crashland
happiness boulder World Religions Incorporated
beautifully low cost no email no ftp no surfing
before organised religion we speak in plain English
virtual privacy emerald bizarre
randomly total price per month seems to be
absolutely sweets low cost
teach your Internet digerati showdown
man awareness of the divine small medium
Martian free stuff
easily storage and backup everything is like this
enough malice bizarrely
because Ouch! top secrets
cyberspiel horrid unlucky
earlier Mr. Blank insults
and travesty large medium
www.orried godware Hurray!!
gamma Hurray!! these are our crimes
infinity deluxe soak the enterprise goo-goo planet
raven hole fastrack dealers
always Mr. Blank third-party tools
cyberself digests most
therefore Las Vegas cyberself
teach your Internet spiral life
no big crash Lo! goo-goo planet
penny multiversal soulicon
74
Cut-up
dodecahedron mother
encrypted habitat editor
Domino amulets the Abyss
collections paradigm shit
everything is like this Hey you! everything is like this:
flashlight moon
sofa sweets stereo
slinky commercial keyboards
boy infinity deluxe sweaters.
got it! got it! got it!
eagerly shoves outside
mother dragon abacus
insourcing the Mississippi River human
love is love moon gumdrop
Oh! let enterprise touch your monitor and mouse switches
_________________
Date : lundi 24 août 1998 18:18
Objet : perfected beauty...
THE PERFECTED BEAUTY OF EMPTINESS
Take you to the edge, to what cannot be seen
What cannot be touched and felt
Requires no knowledge
To the perfected beauty of emptiness
We do not know why we exist
What does not know why it does not exist
Does not know it does not exist
Crushed and banded by no God
No love
No light
Absolute darkness
Unconditioned boundless space
Not what you do
What you are
Not who you are
What you are
Is nothing
Drop your crutches
Walk off the edge
Freefall, never to be caught
Impossible, unthinkable
Out of reach:
Not to be taught
Not to be learnt
Not to be held
Not to be released
To be burned and
Ashen, blown
75
Crippled, then towed
Attachment, non-attachment
The same
Existence, non-existence
The same
Speak for want of silence
Commit violence in the name of change
When nothing has ever changed
Nothing has ever moved
In this perfected beauty of emptiness
So afraid to be nothing
To see, feel nothing
To need, seed, reap, sow, stop and-or-go nothing
No "what the Master said"
No Guide, no girl guide, no boy scout
No "Be prepared", just perpetually scared
Of no shadow where light cannot go
Just perfected beauty, indivisible
The sheer, exhilarated state of worthlessness
Surrender to what it is not
Take what it cannot give
Wait for what it is not
Can never be
Ego is idiot cargo, "above as below"
Slogans, no guns, nothing
Come to nothing
Give it up, pay the price
Make the sacrifice
Want to find out what you are?
A car that must be totalled on
A wall higher than the sun
At uncertain speed
That pulls the wings off of flies
And puts out all their greedy eyes
Flies that fly near to the sun and get fried
Drive-thru, no-proof, it's the end
Of what you do, are, were, will be
Will never be, never were, never wanted
Any of it so let it go
How can what is free become free?
The world become me?
"I am the world"
But not as charity
Not a cheque, not cash
On the Wall of Death
Getting smashed
Disintegration requires no explanation
There is nothing to sign
There is only MIND
It is blind, pig-ignorant and so, so undermined
By the perfected beauty of emptiness
If you want help
There is no help
If you want Hell
There is a small motel
76
Where doors open and close
Slaves wash your clothes
And they like you to lie
Lie and lie and lie and lie
It is not free
Cost of world, cost of world
Until you stop lying and lie down
Lay down your reality and demand
The perfected beauty of emptiness
Go to the edge
Stare unblinking into that perfected beauty
O, white silver city of New Jerusalem, who gives a fuck for you?
O, give me Auschwitz and Hiroshima!
Not for the seeker, not for the squeamish
Awarding degrees of pain to drop-outs from the School of Life
Drop-outs gassed by pious German shepherds
Children and dogs stripped by fire from the sky...
My "God", where the living fuck were you?
Spellbound by the perfected beauty of emptiness?
Idle dreamers
Dreamers of idols
Want to worship
Because I am afraid
Of what some dead men said
They're all gone, so soon am I
I sold myself for dead men's lies?
Falsehood, truth and all absolutes
Are extinguished in that still...
Still, still...and look closer still!
Can you take it?
Stare, not break it?
Look hard at what history denies
What we tell our poor selves
See the perfected beauty of our lies?
The perfected beauty of happiness
The perfected beauty of misery
Same thing
Pain, pleasure, pleasure, pain
Same.
Sane, insane: same.
Fear of flying, fear of dying
Psychology is an apology
Psychiatry is sex by other means
New age is the death throes
of the old
Childish, beautiful, perfectly empty delusions
Wake up!
It doesn't matter, drop it like Death.
Hate it...because hate at least has purity,
Lift is lifeless corner and you might
glimpse the perfected beauty of emptiness.
*And finally, a recent poem of mine still rooted in the wake of the
experience:
77
Ghosts
All my ghosts
Put your arms and whispers around me
Launched out on this endless sea
Every time I see the sky
The hungry bottom pulls me down
So tell me the damnable Truth
I accept, I understand
As this world crawls across the sand
Everlasting and profound
I hear my name and turn around
I see you and go to even pieces
Scatter me, and try not to collect
What looks like one person imperfect
For in God I am no more broken
He can take my thousand cutting shards
And simply wave life over them
Oh, what I know is enough already
I want to know no more
And what I have already is enough
I want no more
Subract, subtract, always my song
In a thousand songs, in a thousand thoughts
I went out for a walk and became
Only one echo in a wood of forgetfulness
And a ripple across a river
That forgives, takes me
Beyond this strange collection
I turned pages and chased the wise
Pretending to their cool resolve
And dared to improvise
But I am too much the simpleton and the clown
To use what I found
In your eyes there is an answer
But the harder I look the less certain I become
What I go into them for...
Except that everything I am is there and somehow stored
I look into your eyes
And for an instant know where I belong...
One day, it may not be this time
What after all is this one day?
Who can put it to bed...what lullabyes silence it?
Oh, faith, I am going to end this blundering progress
And sink to my knees in water
And smiling, slip my head under
And search the bottom of that world of wonder
That peers up at me unmoved and sucking
...ah, just let myself go down and never know
What breathing was.
____________
78
THREE GRACES
SEAN D. YOUNG
Three Graces : Cut-up version
in birds converge.
bloom in blue blue sky.
sunning blossomed trees.
sky.
sunning blossomed trees.
the bells the bells.
the bells, the bells.
a sweet holy work begins.
omen ordains the eternal return.
unfolding, chiming dawn of secret smiles.
your eyes opening. the holy work begins.
opals shimmering in blue mouth, erupts the kiss.
the porcelain of moon blush.
stella holy work begins.
COME. be-come maris.
so near to me. one.
come on be one.
reaching whirling.
the dervish body come down.
be loved, beloved.
fleshed rose in your nearness.
yes, good morning.
good, yes.
beloved birds converge.
bloom body fleshed wings down on chest.
cathedral rose in your nearness.
whirl of hands clenched palms pressed in divine air.
the dark caress linger.
fingers to mouth hair wings down on chest.
erupts the kiss.
Hold on, cathedral of hands clenched.
palms to the glittering eyes.
those pressed.
caress, linger.
fingers to wine-dark three graces.
79
Hold on to three graces, a sweet omen, the glittering eyes.
wine-dark ordains the eternal return.
unfolding opals shimmering in blue porcelain.
chiming dawn of secret smiles of moon blush.
stella maris your eyes opening.
whirl in so near to me.
reaching, divine air.
the dark hair whirling.
the dervish.
--- Sean D. Young
Copyright (c) 1996
Hold on to the glittering eyes
Hold on to the
glittering eyes
those
wine-dark opals
shimmering
in blue porcelain
of moon blush
stella maris
so near to me
reaching whirling
the dervish body
fleshed rose
in your nearness
whirl in divine air
the dark hair
wings down on chest
cathedral of
hands clenched
palms pressed
caress linger
fingers to mouth
erupts the kiss
80
the holy work begins
COME
be-come one
come on be one
come down
be loved beloved
yes
good morning
good yes
birds converge
bloom in blue sky
sunning blossomed
trees
the bells the bells
a sweet omen
ordains
the eternal return
unfolding chiming
dawn
of secret smiles
your eyes opening
the holy work begins
by Sean D. Young 4/10/96
[email protected]
*
81
SUBLIMATION
Teething in the wreckage
in relation to - stranger music
-- tough bars with you in them
loosening my scarf to a new meaning
for new skin
in the emperor's clothes
from the bunker
to the avenue's bosom
just then - words "This is true you are not afraid"
it is this close
open palm
on spinal shutters
to the walk home - it is
longer in solitude
yet blissed
late summer
after storm
the walk IS long
the air of the lake
sweet with brine and
wet grass
the voice is changing
WE becomes I
I becomes YOU
it is this close
the air is lifting
the orange clouds
the drums call from
boyhood
-when all there was
-was music
in the dawn
and the twitch
82
of feeling
"I am Loved"
(gone?)
Until now
here - the feeling
is deep opening
subtle and awake
and the visage
before me and
the Laundromat
on L street and 6th
is grace a humble caress that man walking
down the street
desolate is loved does he know it?
"Look up"
I could say
but I offer a sigh We walk our own way
to the castle
and besides
the real destination is within between two people
it is a mutual diving
for the glistening stone
inside
a clear bell
to silence
the cacophony
- no other voices here it is the blood
on the lips
it is the body
between the teeth
it is the real work
of the opening palm
it is the kneeling
83
it is the embrace
it is the kiss
it is the healing
Leave the wreckage
it is at rest
with me
here, now
we dine at the splendid table
this is
the real story afterall
off of the page
through the senses
from the teething
to the walk home.
_________________
84
Paul Sinclair
A Code for a Source Collapse
April 29th 1998 : Ignore this score (possibly?)
a futile random search may allow some infection,
a message from outside may allow some protection
a return address may allow redirection
or may end to cause predatory affliction
Apologies. Cx.
April 30th 1998 :
Out of the VOID (visions of inane desperation)
There are codes within lines which need to decipher
Random tract and rants which end up being neither
A steady flow from the mind to the key
An expression of self, and curiosity
An explanation is available
To find a system that is reliable
A way to enable
KEEP SOCIETY UNSTABLE
85
May 7th 1998 : A Code For Source Collapse
A group of reactionaries set a precedent that would imprint itself
throughout the rest of history, injecting blood of chameleon into their
pulsating eager veins. From then on emotion became highly visible and
societies had to re-invent themselves.
"Don't get too close to that guy at the bar, Mun, he's bustin' GREEN!"
The bright ladies of ORANGE OCHRE get it on in hues of TURQUOISE
AMBER.
Now you know if she's into you without having to utter a word.
Of course you can alter your pigments like you can front your feelings.
"See that guy in the corner, Mun, withered and GREY. He could turn
CRIMSON in the blink of an eye!"
The catwalks are graced with ULTRA-VIOLET nakidity and street gangs no
longer wear their colours on their jackets. The sanatoriums and
nut-houses are full of TWO-TONE schizos' and MULTI-COLORED madmen.
The Orientals stay YELLOW and everyone desires a COOL BLUE.
________________
86
Communication breakdown : 9 6 98
hey I Hope You
iz am all can
out building is still
of my active mail
contact own at me
for PC Interzone at
a so and this
while will you address
(too get are but
much in happy I
corporate touch even dont
work soon if really
and when all get
not it the to
enough is rain check
extraneous ready is it
activity) made falling so
often
(can read left to right or up & down!) Cx...
____________________
An ostensibly genuine version of the gerbil yarn appeared in the BMA Journal in May. Devito
Bistone got a live gerbil stuck in his ascending colon. Koko Rodriguez attempted to rescue the
animal with a cardboard cylinder, then lit a match "to improve visibility". A methane combustion
occurred. Bistone was treated for "partial thickness burns of the natal cleft" at Salt Lake City
General Hospital, Utah. Rodriguez suffered a singed moustache and a broken nose. The gerbil
survived.
77 year old Arthur Sharland was found dead in an armchair with two crocodile clips attaching bare
electric wires to his chest. He had been electrocuted, but as his torso was a mass of tiny scars, it
seemed he'd spent most of his life plugging himself into the mains - for the thrill of it.
A sex line caller who complained to trading standards watchdogs when he got a woman nagging
her husband instead of a panting girl was disappointed. They said they couldn't take any action as
the line was titled "Hear Me Moan". D.Record, 16 Jan 1996.
A busload of Russian shoppers refused to break off their trip to Poland when one of them died of a
heart attack. They tried to get the man buried on the spot, but the Polish authorities wouldn't allow
it; so they continued bargain-hunting for days, while leaving the corpse on a back-seat.
Surly Ernst Hort spoke an average of 3.5 words a day over a two month period, his wife Suzanne
told a divorce court in Bielefeld, Germany. "We never have rows because he never says anything,"
87
she said. Having kept a notebook, she was able to tell the judge that his longest utterance during the
period was: "This coffee tastes like dish-water." When asked for a divorce, he simply said: "I
agree."
Jonathan Thomas was walking home through Oxford after a night out with friends in April 1992.
On a secluded footpath he was seized by a man who tied his hands behind his back and blindfolded
him with sticky tape. His assailant then forced him to ground, stripped him of his shoes and socks,
and mercilessly tickled his feet for several minutes. He then engaged in a brief conversation with
his victim before untying him and vanishing into the night, leaving him shaken but unhurt, and with
his wallet and other possessions intact.
Palle Birkelund was jailed for being drunk in charge of a lift, in Aalborg, Denmark. Shoppers
complained when he kept yelling: "This is the captain of your aircraft - we will be landing in the
next few seconds!"
Jean Cellise of Toulon cut open his stomach with a razor to check that surgeons had removed his
appendix properly. They had, but he had to go back into hospital to recover from his do-it-yourself
efforts.
Told to get lost by an irate housewife who answered their knock at the door, two vacuum-cleaner
saleswomen in Ljungby, Sweden, saw red. Instead of leaving, they vacuumed every carpet in the
house, while accusing the owner of failing to keep it clean. The struggle to evict them took three
hours
Allison Johnson of Lincoln is an alcoholic burglar with a compulsion to eat cutlery, who's spent 24
years in jail. He repeatedly went to restaurants on his release from prison and ordered lavish meals.
When he couldn't pay, he would tell the owners to call the police and would then eat cutlery until
they arrived. At the time of his last arrest he had eight forks in his stomach. He was jailed for
another four years.
WHEN SHARON R. LOPATKA left her home in Hampstead, Maryland, on 13 October, she wrote
a note for her husband saying she was going to visit friends in Georgia and would not be coming
back. "If my body is never retrieved, don't worry, know that I'm at peace," she wrote. She also
asked him not to go after her attacker. In the event, Lopatka took a 300 mile bus ride to North
Carolina, where she expected to be sexually tortured and killed by a man she had corresponded
with over the Internet. Apparently, she got her wish. Her body was found in a shallow grave in late
october behind a mobile home in Collettsville. The autopsy showed she had been strangled about
16 October. The home's owner, Robert Glass, was charged with first-degree murder. Messages
from Glass, recovered from Lopatka's home computer, indicate that she travelled to North Carolina
knowing what awaited her. Lopatka, 35, operated three World Wide Web pages. One offered to
write classified advertisements, while the other two, advertising psychic hot lines, were entitled
"Psychics Know All," and "Dionne Enterprises." A friend described her as happily married and
sensible. Glass, 45, a father of three who separated from his wife earlier this year, worked as a
computer programmer for the county for nearly 16 years. The two first came in contact over the
Internet. Lopatka's husband reported her missing on 20 October and police discovered the e-mail
messages from Glass despite his attempt to have her erase the files. Messages from "slowhand" -Glass' apparent Internet alias -- "described in detail how he was going to sexually torture... and
ultimately kill her," an affidavit said. [AP] 29 Oct 1996.
___________________
88
sapphire days (for j nathan ky)
by
kat 5.12.98
on a winter's night
replete with sapphire martinis and phone calls to tiffany's
our paths crossed by chance
i was swiftly spellbound by your flirtatious charms
and wanted nothing more than to follow you
down whatever yellow brick road you were headed for
with no idea that what would come would change my life so profoundly
days later that fateful icy-hot bluest of sundays unfolded
it was hell... and heaven... inextricably bound together
but one partly of my own creation
the glitter of your eyes and the seduction of power so compelling
what transpired then propelled me on a path of revelations
which opened my jaded eyes, my fortressed mind, and my bound heart
a neophyte poised on the edge of a new world
after a while i could no longer discern
what was real and what was not
though i'd spent days imprinting on myself
'nothing here is real'
in a lovely shade of india ink
and though i'd been stung here twice before
on this day the feelings in my heart knew differently
i asked you then 'what is real and what is not?'
and you replied in an alice in wonderland kind of riddle
everything... and yet... nothing
you were the caterpillar constantly changing form
or the cheshire cat appearing and disappearing at will
i could no sooner walk away
than i could drag the diamond-honed knife across my face
though in some certain ways... that blade would have been easier
the feelings engendered were so real
yet you told me... not to waste them on you
i... did not know how... to do anything else
i have been to heaven and hell
several times since those sapphire nights
i have seen people connect to me on so many levels
underneath my snappy exterior, feelings flow like liquid glass
i have seen the same people with whom i was so entwined
89
walk away without a glance backwards...
though my unbound ruby heart would wish otherwise
this series of revelations have put me squarely where i need to be in my
life
i am learning to accept the losses
and i can now see that our sapphire sunday
plunked me face to face at the door i have evaded for years
and in facing it and walking through the fire
as i now have no other choice
i will set myself free of the past forever
_________
Poem on Burroughs' dream
_____
Dianepop
seen the nights come and go
i like the roses in the night
dreams of bill in wedding gown
preparing for his flight
to the heavens...
he was smiling silently
words floating in the air
around him...
rose petals touching him all over
and he was smiling...
there are somethings
i will never understand
the pain of losing lovers
and how it fades into the night
how the night knows everything
and holds secrets many won't admit
there are somethings'
i want more than life itself
and less than death crawling
around all your denials
of the beauty around you
and bill was smiling
bill was smiling...
never afraid and never
wanting to come back
he touched the rose petals
like a cat going after
the cream again
and wanting it
more than life
and more than death
but he wasn't afraid
90
never afraid
to leave us all here
wondering madly
where he would go now
i've seen a lot of things
i've seen the night come and go
and caress my face
like a sweet lover
no denials
and all desire
and that's how it should be
that's how everything should be
i've seen a lot of things
but that's how it should be
i can feel it inside
and i don't wonder anymore
about bill...
i know he's safe
and he's laughing
at our mortality
and the absurdness of it all
and i know he's safe
and he's free now
and the only thing i wonder
now; is this;
AM I???
* outside people :
want to feel the roses
want to feel the flames
i see in his eyes
it never ends
life never ends
you just bury everything
in some morbid box
and i don't know
who you are anymore
not outsiders like camus
fierce and fighting quietly
not outsiders like bowie
smiling and waving
so nicely
oh i don't know you anymore
public will get me
feed on me
but i don't really know you
anymore...
life never ends
it just goes on without the
blindness that binds
us to our restrictions
life never... really ends..
you know....
_______
91
Part 7
Dot Zéro
BAD POETRY LESSONS #1
Stop Clowning around
it
tastes like
rancid meat
would someone call in the doctor
to remove this bad humour it has grown quite enormous
The poet ingests a bottle of anti
convulsion medication
and does the cuckold raunchy
shoving a bottle of tequila
up his girlfriend's ass
'I would fuck you!" he screams
If you didn't have a husband
Named The Crusher !
that macho man skinned your last
ten boyfriends alive
seen their skins drying in the hot
Arizona breeze
I lick your right nostril
your teeth suddenly grow
enormous and your eyes
are two ping pong balls
spinning wildly
you unleash an ungodly effluvia
I am in love with your confusion
I want to slit your throat
and drink your holy water
i want to give you wheatgrass enemas
your goddess beauty crushes me
your goddess beauty crushes me
92
your goddess beauty crushes me
Knowing you has taught me the art of suicide
I love your knife
the way you twist it in
again and again
You kill me Honey
really you do
sweetie pie
Revision
the trip to arizona was ripe with the fruit
of childhood traumas
so we have a:
new poem
the lion sinks it's teeth into the sun
the sun burns
the father
the holy ghost
centuries of jesus's blood
centuries of angels locked
arm in arm with the demons of hell
it was not the center collapsing that worried Captain W.T. Henderson
but the infinite expansion of the fourth quadrant
how many universes would grow and die in the unfolding of the Lotus
Part 2 The Arizona Kid
Kachinas hiding in cactus holes, holes ripped by
shotgun blasts
the cuckold bird sings of the fiery sun god>
why had Columbus and his evil syphylitic hordes
drunk on
93
their evil god
destroyed the gateway to paradise
Part 3
Love American Style
the tin man rusts in the desert
GRASPING a rotting American Flag
a helicopter flies over and drops a hydrogen bomb
"Have to make sure the damn things still work," cackled
Captain American Death , he scratches his fleshless arms and
removes his latest copy of Penthouse Magazine as the
mushroom cloud rises in the distance he jerks off
but he has no cock just an aluminum shaft designed by the boys at NASA
"THIS FUCKIN THING MADE IT TO MARS AND BACK" DROPPED A LOAD
OF GOD BLESSED AMERICAN SEMEN ONTO A womb SHAPED ROCK."
scene fades.....
baseball stadium, proud americans stand and sing out the star spangled banner
little johnny starts peeing on his dads leg. A Bald Eagle flys over and
dumps a turd on the President's head.....
_________________
I want to cut your hand off
Major Foe,
I have had a chance to go over many old attached text
html files you sent- there is many flowers in our garden. How we
organize our massive brain orgasms is our holy quest, noble in
intention, a book for the generations to come, a continuation of
the Beat Experimentation.
Writing as Painting , as poetry, as time traveling devices.
I enjoyed your animated gifs and want to put them on my web site.
Today I wrote three or four songs death pop songs for my friends
eighteen year old daughter, mocking the beatles, one is entitled '
I Want to Cut Your Hand Off' sure to be a hit. She has a good raw
voice and she can't play worth shit, but she is really cute.
94
I want to Cut Your Hand Off
written by Dot Zero
I want to cut your hand off
I want to see it bleed
cause that's the kind of love
a girl like me needs
yeah yeah yeah
repeat
thanks again for the pictures, I am really into the Pocket Monster
Character.
over and out there
MORE OR LESS CAPTAIN ZERO
__________
Winds of karma revisited
the foul winds
the winds of karma
a chattering monkey
thrown into the dungeon
of the demented Marqui
what could be expected
from a mind on fire
cool breeze cracks the
bounded hero
alone on his rock
twisted in Agony
he screams
he screams
and re-incarnates
into a babooon
in a spacesuit
Dot Zero
the obsessive mind devours itself,
yet it is only seeking rebirth,
cool liquid peace.
_________
95
The City of Refuge
I am at The City of Refuge. We sit in a circle and pass the opium pipe. We are a world tribe. Uncle
Bill sends us his blessing. "You young rascals, he laughs, better be some good opium!,
Must be Tasty- Brion sends his love in a dream of floating poppies."
'I prefer to mainline myself" , he cackles, but I am dead and got an eternal fix, God set me up
special with best dealer in Heaven, Pure H, Makes my spine all juicy and delicious...."
Oh the boys here, endless boys...yum See you rascals, watch out I hear their is a Pirate Ship off the
coast. Its them Rodrigo brothers again...searching for me treasure, but I got it stashedgot to go KIDS......
Dot Zero "We gotta go and never stop going till we get there"
"Where we going, man"
"I don't know but we gotta go."
jack kerouac
___________
The scream of butterflies
Performance art Scene at art opening.
Images of nuclear apocalypse/ military weapons/ dead bodies
projected over the main character as audience sits passively.
Artist speaking through microphone. We see two marksmen
in corners of the room holding rifles with scopes. Video cameras
everywhere.
He screams out:!!!
The body
floating bodies
dancing bodies
screaming bodies
sexual bodies
the body
your body
and you call this god !
have you ever seen the
death of a million butterflies
in the cold winter rain ?
the little wings twitching
the INSECT mouth gesticulating
you call this god ?
96
what are the words of the butterfly ?
have you ever listened to the tears
of the dying butterfly
You call this god ?
and I found an old man in a broken box
the size of a shoe
and he said he was God !
he said he was a butterfly man
you are fools
you are fools
all is rain and foul winds
the traders in flesh and money
I am God
I am Lucifer
I am the light
I am the light
I am the scream of the dying Butterfly !!!
the birth of the pink larval thing we call human
it is disgusting
the beauty of it all
and you call that god ?
there is no god !
there is no reality !
constructs of mathematical geniuses
they have mapped out your destiny
your mercenary government agencies
your puppets
and you are the dying butterflies
in the icy rain of illusion
god has left for a better universe
who will you crucify next for your
pathetic failure to be human ?
____________
97
William Burroughs Re-Incarnated
Welcome to the Western Lands
death is an illusion
a concept created by control
more like changing the channel on your television
and the relief of not having a physical body
well....... you will find out for your self
better than the any drug
even apomorphine don't equal the death trip
see you beyond space and time kiddies.
Remember let go of fear ,
let go of fear
fear was created by advertisement agencies
and Hollywood Movie Studios
We are waiting in the Western Lands
We are waiting in the Western Lands
love,
Uncle Bill
ACT 1: HAMLET EATS A HOTDOG
produced by the Word Gang
words are just games to play and the word boys are getting mean. chrome
american made cocks, with balls of cast iron payed for by the
taxpayers,....oh the americans love to spend their money that way, its all
football and american pie in the land of the FREE LIE. don't let that
political gang of cut throats fool you kids, they want the artist dead,
pronto, we are onto their game.
flower power chicks, dig that Santa Cruz Surf! Its all LSD and Pick up
truck rednecks floating oceans of Buddha Bliss, uh wasn't he the guy with
the permanent hard on ! All the hipster girls they loved Buddha Bob , King
MDMA, handsome guy, kinda sad, always a young naive girl on his arm, and
her eyes where big and glazed
98
Gunfight at the ok corral , Gary was there , and Andy The Clown Boy was
driving a Harley Davidson Motorcycle equipped with computer directed
Stinger Missles\Call in the nurse
Call in the nurse,
I need my medications , i 'm wounded, i'm so wounded......
HUNGRY FOR A TASTE of the earthly emanation of the light of Luxor, I can
tell you a story or two about my birth and lines are lines pain of the
soul wound, the one that does not ever heal. On the door was written "Gary
Leeming"quite dead and rotting from lots of malicious cuts filling up a
quarter of the sky thrown in and recorded , in '69, the summer of love, the
year of Ampo to Japanese angels those bastards, jimmy stewart balling Kim
Novak filmed out of the context by Alfred Hitchcocker.
The urgency of the backroom hustlers The urgency of the backroom hustlers
The urgency of the backroom hustlers
the pieces of their thumbs where scattered in the sick light of a Mafia
Dawn, the boys forgot to pay their
debts. Midgets in mirrors hiding secrets, whispering Gary Knows, Gary
Knows...
a great image of a chained albino lemur watches motionless out of the
world it had Bill Burroughs sad Junky
eyes and I was trapped in a life of thought so I painted an open door,
and I saw Jim Morrison and I cried,Jimmmmmmmmmmy !!!, Where did it all go
wrong, he smiled and sipped on his bottle, Kid you got learn there
ain't nothing gonna satisfy you in the old material world, I made a million
bucks fucked ten thousand chicks twelve feet tall
and put my packsack in the"sipapu", emergence hall which is located at the
99
fork of the Littlebook of maggic, a local one, in 77, "Le Grand et le mad
dog saloon and locked the door from the inside it was really beautiful lit
unmoving, by the TV images of red dust mars...
and Jim said a pray for Gary and Andy and the rest of the B -Gang.
O Shiva, what is your reality?
What is this wonder-filled universe?
What constitutes seed?
Who centers the universal wheel?
What is this life beyond form pervading forms?
How may we enter it fully, above space and time, names and descriptions?
Let my doubts be cleared!
________
BUSH OF GHOSTS
THE CLOWN ZONE
warning this is not for underage minors who have ingested LSD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------summer of love
doing the 69
with a girl named sheila x
small time porn star
then she met Clancy the Clown
at the Gibtown Bar
the rest is history
her body was never found
100
CLOWN ZONE
WE HAD TO CALL IN THE INVISIBLE HOMBRE
THOSE CLOWNS ARE EVIL AND WELL PRACTICED
IN THE ART OF VOODOO AND BLACK MAGIC
THE WORD IS OUT THEY HAVE CONNECTIONS WITH THE SCORPION
MEN OF MINRAUD. IMPENDING ATTACK ..... CALL IN ALL AGENTS
CONTACT POINT.....GIBTOWN , USA. THESE CLOWNS
HAVE CONNECTIONS WITH THE MAFIA, CIA, FBI, AND
INTERPOL. URGENT MESSAGE TO ALL AGENTS........REALITY IS BEING
RE-FRAMED BY THE BIG MEDIA BOYS.......RADIO WAVES , TELEVISION,
NEWSPAPERS ALL CONTAIN THE WORD VIRUS..... ATTENTION ALL
AGENTS .......ATTENTION ALL AGENTS.......CLEAR MIND OF
WORD VIRUS......VACCINATION IS MEDITATION ON
EMPTINESS... CALLING ALL AGENTS .....CLEAR YOUR MINDS
NOW!!!!!!
DOT ZERO
the agent
The agent looks down his legs are long green tentacles. He has prepared for this moment all of his
life. He knows what's about to happen. A large ocean wave sweeps him
into the cold sea . He is naked. The enemy female agent appeared 100 yards to the right,
armed with the deadly poison tipped speargun. For some ungodly reason he feels himself
becoming intensely sexually aroused. Is this part of her arsenal of weaponry ? The death
of the agent will have an erotic quality. His loss of concentration allows her to fire
a harpoon which lodges in his liver. The water clouds red and he feels himself
dying, all he can think about is the color of the red blood surging and swirling around
him. He remembers a child playing with small pebbles in the hot
New Jersey sunlight. He sees his father helping him ride his first bicycle down
the oak tree lined street. Losing consciousness he sees the enemy agent remove
a long glimmering knife and slice his head off. All he could do is smile at the thought
of his de - capitated head floating into the mouth of a waiting shark.
101
The Agent awakes, he realizes he had been drugged. He wonders if he revealed the
location of The Zone while under the Ketamine injection. He looks down at his throbbing
erection. The nurse arrives dressed as a Prostitute and starts sucking his cock.
She sits poised above his stiff prick teasing him.
"Tell me the location of The Zone and I will sit on your cock, " she coos like a seductive viper.
"Tell me the location and you will never feel pain again, " she whispers and strokes
The agent has been well trained, he cracks open a cyanide spray pellet in his right bi -cuspid and
sprays it down her mouth.
Dying she sinks onto his waiting cock and he explodes in a fantastic orgasm of crystal light.
__________
102
Part 8
Phranco P. Fenderson : [email protected]
The Stupor Droop (Or How to Teeter and not Tatter)
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law...
The crow wished everything were black, the owl, white...
The shit piled up so high in Vietnam(everywhere) you need wings to stay
above it...
When the doors of perception are cleasned, everything will appear to man
as it is, infinite...for man has closed himself up; until he sees all
things through narrow chinks in his cavern...
Once the music leaves your head it is already compromised...
Love is the law; love under will...
It's all a matter of leverage...
The only place for a just man in an unjust society is in jail...
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and i have seen the
eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker; and in short, i was afraid...
23 SKIDOO!?
Did you want to talk to me? Did you want to ask me, "WHY!"!?
The Zone takes care of its own...
Did you use ALL the chilis in this?
Mostly harmless...
Li Po is drinking wine and falling into the river...
The best way to catch a fish is to think like a fish...
The purple-Assed Baboon convulsed like a cow with the aftosa...
Heineken is for pussies...PBR!!!
Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night...
Pioneers, o, Pioneers!
This is it!
I learned a new word today, Atom Bomb, it was like a bright light in the
sky; i thought it was Mrs. Victor's soul going to heaven...
What's a scourge?
Wrinkled earlobes are a sign of impending heart attacks...
Crazy, one-legged bird of light...on what far off world do you lay?
103
Alas, i hear your footsteps...
The dregs of the day, are all out to play...
Where is it you went, me death? Missed more than my life...
John has a wonderful drug habit...
Stealing kisses from the lepers' faces...
You know what you are?
I'd like to thank the Academy, by shoving this Oskar up their collective
arses...
But on a serious note...
Love one another...
Love yourselves...
Love the life because it's all you got...
DON'T PANIC!
And go to sleep to dream...
And wake to do the same...
Fall back on your art...
Cuz back-breaking work aint worth a damn...
Make millions and rub the noses of the Cabbage-Heads in it...
Give everything you got to everything you got...
Hate a cop for your own sake...
And don't forget not to pray...
Pranayama...seven breaths in...hold one...seven out...repeat 13 times,
and on the last, seven in, hold seven, seven out...
Om.....................................................................
Everybody understand?
Neither do i...
Aint it grand?
pmg
____________
In a transparent dream
March 20th 1998
In a transparent dream i am shown a storm poison green gargantuan mushroom cloud
whirpool swirling above burning skyscrapers suburbs farmland tiny villages peasantry
104
diseased vomitting forth children they ate of in last ditch long for survival of their kind
gentle nature holding to their pride and genetalia like zoomonkeys on stage corporate
mercantile spasmodic epileptic collective fall over each other in banks and offices
cellphones checkbooks electric rollindex in melting screaming hands eyes watching skies
on fire a last trumpet sounding for all you good godfearing christian critterfuckers as a
dying cross weeps gyzym onto pews and that suffering white ubermensch
sonofasupremebeing dancing upon graveyards cockhard and laughing it up as mother
EARTH grows shadows in her eyes and womb wretched wrecked and cold silent space
everyone wave goodbye! FINE in crisp white letters as humanity a shortfilm of a shortest
reel comes flapping to its oneandonly end and burns oh yeah burns and warms SICK
HEARTS in freezing night last of juice running low over and out and over again as
greyhaired pigs in powerties and spitshined shoes taptaptap over downandout homeless
types blacks latinos chinese korean mexicans and white trash that never wanted any
part of their kind's fixing just to be left alone well you're all alone now kids as skin falls
away intestines schlopping to concrete liver eaten up by mongrel dogs heart broken and
fistfucked by little frecklefaced boys with coniving eyes whispering of cooties and smells
of little pink girls under springtime sun now eclipsed by a cloud of green nuclear winter
and last remaining examples of slobbering mammalia scrounge around for tiny bits and
naughty bits of you and me to feed and LIVELIVELIVE fucking LIVE so you see it's all
left to birds and bees and cockroaches to take up THE struggle EVOLVE MUTATE add a
splash of rotten albino white mistake and STIR and big bang is a precum at a head of
someone else's god's strapon compared to this and maybe just maybe next faceless myth
of idol worship will be a woman albeit a ferocious WHITE WOMAN with a canyon
between HER legs and every fucking creature on its knees will pray she doesn't swallow
them back in and maybe just maybe SHE will be THE motherofaDAUGHTER who has to
be robbed of her priceless guts and sacrificed so nameless masses can have an excuse to
do it all over again and no doubt her FATHER will be VIRGIN this goaround his face seen
in knots of oak from NEWCITY to newcity his COCK seen in clouds and streaked new
photographs and everyone coming cumming from miles around to see this
greatandmighty testement to eternity and as all INSECT and VEGETABLE cults that
have waited on their pisscans and SOILED hayspreads will manipulate themselves into
orgasmo XTC as they chew on sleeping pills sipping vodka and allimportant TAPIOCA to
follow in HER bloody moonwake sewing up their CUNTS and lopping off cocks with rusty
scissors chanting like crickets loud and obscene in crowded darkness and new
inquisitions acquisitions pop up everywhere like convenience stores and dirty parking
lots new banks pop suburbs pop skyscrapers pop offices pop wordvirus magazines and
newspapers spreading hatelies and rumors between lines pop pop pop television radio
ceepeeyoo mesmerizing melancholy disease POP POP POP to keep you wellbehaved
insect swarms into mindless submission pop pop pop and monuments to dead killers
carved in ivory and stone white litter political centers selling new viruses universal
sewing them into blankets and angelwings and kind colored faces pop pop pop building
up magnificent military arsenals to protect THE PLATINUM SUCKERS and oblierate
great truthseekers soothsayers mothers ONEBYONE pop pop pop and some grayhaired
insect genius rises above all in symbolic language and permeates with ideas allhisOWN
thinks he's got ULTIMATE equation problem question solved until pop pop pop it's
bought from his old shaking hands and bestmostfabulouslyperfect SOULDESTROYER is
born again. END OF ARGUMENT.
LOVEANDKISSES,
p. p. fenderson.
105
10 VERY AMBIENT THINGS TO DO
-------------By Dr. Alex Patterson, phD.
-Think.
-Put the kettle on.
-Put your name down for a charter flight to Mars.
-Take a hovercraft across the Sahara.
-Go for a swim with a dolphin.
-Sit on top of a mountain in Thailand.
-Raise fluffy bunny rabbits.
-Plug into virtual reality.
-Fly to New Zealand for a dip in a hot geyser.
-Banana.
Dead Ass
Date : dimanche 9 mai 1999 07:46
he listens to his head scream again on the hook,
the Oldest Ghost's moans between the attic walls.
the Oldest Mother rocks in a mahogany chair
cradling a cat,
(Helena),
whose fur is worn
and mouth adorned
no more with taste or tongue.
he listens to the phone ring again off the hook,
(because he cannot SEE),
and the Oldest Child skips along cliffedge singing,
"and on good Charly's behest,
i am thrown to the pinkest of jest!
There's a drop to be seen from the floor,
and a purple-clad whore at the door."
and the Oldest Foetus takes flight and jumps,
106
as a crowd on the ground start to shimmy and thump.
he listens to the shifting of gears at a grind,
(driving alive on the passenger's side),
and looks through the eyes of the one at the wheel,
"i do wonder if we know
where you're going yesterday."
confused,
he looks to the lcd display,
and it's stuck on a number,
(write it down now),
between one and twenty-five.
there lay wrappers by his feet,
and six feet of black meat
cover is long-ago face.
he listens to a fire cackle in the night;
(they're burning the cart that brought the stones)
and here they will build an alter aflame,
with the wood and the sweat and the gas of decay.
"So pray, all ye, and fare to prey again!
the winter solstice is breathing rain,
you no longer have the choice to stay!"
he listens to the stars whisper out their songs,
of light long dead and forever in his head,
walking a land of redbrown sand,
clutching tight the eye of his dog.
Coming upon a moonbeam,
the circumvention of a clearing
of mossy rock and mudstrewn skree,
he kneels before a dying stream.
"Are you hungry?
i could fix you up a cut above...
Yes? Then listen to the sound of bluest steel...
You did say you were hungry?
They won't hear us from there...
One part asleep, the other half on the glide...
107
It's good to be home again...
Where was it you said you were from?
The hills? As am i, kin to the north...
With the Zephyrus....
You are hungry, yes?
Let's make it a date, then...
You are so beautiful to me...
So transparent...
No one is coming, but i'm here already...
i'll never cross you again...
You want more?
Well, why knot...
Better now. Let's not speak...
i am tired now...cold...what?
i heard it too...
"far and away a donkey brayed."
Say something?
No more...
Outofit...
OUT.
he listens to a donkey bray far and away;
and a metal beast with giant wings goes down into the drink,
into the ocean, the middle of the sea,
it's smelling black smoke and burning long,
a phoenix descends and finally dies,
and they bury no bodies in the dirt.
he listens to the phone ring again off the hook,
(because he can SEE).
"Your ass is calling;
we have no choice
but to repossess."
Dialtone, footsteps, oblivion.
-pmg-
108
Fine Time
Dramaticus,
My dream
You goddamned sundry.
A toast to you~
Marvel the thought~
Not one question
For your loins
You goddamned lion,
Ferocious to a head~
A fucking thirst
A laurel smile,
None of whom are mine.
Unrepentent.
Have just a dance,
You.
Trickle down the sparks
Modesty in light
A strobing flash
The might of flux.
Charge california,
Every syllable~
-pmg-
109
to a Stonewall Sucker
Did all the outcries singe your ears
when the hammerhanded stole your tears?
At the end of the lonely, swift summer,
the start of the fall,
did your boiling head reverberate static?
Shaking, faking epileptic usurper of choas,
were you a twisted corpse puking bile
of dying insect zygote charm?
Was it really that small to you,
that fucking far away?
A pain that creeps from darkest corners,
in the shadows of blurred ecstasy;
in the whirpool swirl of timelocked regret,
shunning it all in a fever-hot wretch,
was this how you gave up?
Luckfucked the very first round,
dawn's law conceiving a most retarded twilight;
the trite paranoia you clung to,
a babe at a wrinkled teat ejaculating sour juice,
did you suck at it again and again,
like it was your failing laste taste?
Was it the numbness you had to buy,
in trade for your bullshit and kitch?
and for all those nowhere questions you asked
and ordered from the lot,
the answers a thousand dreams in dementia,
postulates of a poisoned mindstream,
never vindictive,
at no instance violent,
until that greymass of fire and 'lectric
made it solid in the tightest blackhole.
Did you fashion a hempknot, a belt, a telephone cord,
110
or a subtle and sweet bullet crack to the mouth,
a spike in the arm.
(You were always such a goddamned hot shot)
And were you, who could never be moved,
finally swinging from the heights by the lids of your eyes?
Or were you,
who could never be proved,
skipping above the skinless bones of the diseased?
But you must be moved.
Everyway.
Once you start down that road,
well,
you know,
Stonewall,
break apart.
-pmg________
Jane Doe 0 I
I.
Speak to me slowly,
softly,
in the tongue you take for granted,
of how you came to be again for
the hundredth time removed.
What was it you said
of your dead oneandonly?
Did shiny metal nettles grow from his arms
as they grew from yours?
Was he as hard as you?
As raspy a rhapsody from the mouth hole?
Or was he supple, quiet,
contrary to your own insides?
And did he fall before you
like a bloody fool,
kissing those feet when he dropped
111
to a cold stone floor,
begging you,
without a breath,
to give it all back?
All the miserable love and vegetable nightmares
You cooked up and ate of?
And did you give it to himwith your eyes,
your voice
or that oh so wonderful cunt,
as he lay dying
convulsing in the fuzzy sleep
of most viscous hot-shot blood?
Did you cook it for him?
Tell me...
With your Straw Men, number theories and drawing song...
I want to be broken...
Break me into you.
-pmg-
Jane Doe 0 2
II.
We've come to an age of the misuse of the word,
(say it with us now),
violence.
But you have known the truth since birthlightkinetic friction
passion and heat
jazz and spunk
You. The embodiment of the loving,
violent america, universeShow me the face of your left hook,
an uppercut to the eye,
and your words afire,
a gorilla courting,
beating its chest.
and don't forget to leave out
112
the Whitmanesque androgeny
that sucks at every pore
of both our creamy souls.
That's violence in excelsiaa play on the wonder-lust
fucking
body-snatching ways you cater to...
i'm there with you, i swear it.
So tell me what it was broke you.
Was it your death in my dreams of all-ago?
The constancy of the black elephants
we rode together through desert
storm and snow alike.
It must have been you with us.
Long, black mane whipping the surrounding air,
eyes on ice steering the gargantuan black beast,
Your violence a thumping, grinding massive attack
into the unknown childhood of us both.
i just need one more hit,
one more dream with you
and i set loose upon the world.
-pmg-
Jane Doe 03
III.
Were you born without heroes
like the rest of our kind?
Your first fix,
eyes to the archaic television set
set close in your high chair
mother below with a spoonful
of creamed vegetables
and oh so tired arms,
her dreams a dying museum
her future slurped down
into your lightning guts
(morphing jizm)
She wanted so much to be your hero,
113
your savior,
but you,
yeah, you,
were crying for more than milk and mamma,
(and papa, your girlhood messiah),
you wanted the juices of every woman
of every man,
to weep upon your sandpaper tongue.
(And at the magick age eleven,
on a summer-hot Pennsylvania avenue,
lapping up ice cream vanilla,
the blood lets,
in the folds of your dress,
and you ate of itbetween your startled tears
you ate of itpaning to see if the zombies were watching
you ate of your own moonlit death.
-pmg-
Jane Doe 04
IV.
At a bumfuck bar among
a working-class drunken herd,
you sip at a peppered bloody mary
and think of your dead oneandonlyall the teste eyes of the men are on you,
incomrehensible man-pigs at pool tables
and stepdance floors,
still thinking aloud in blubbering sentiments
of their wives and kids and tractor-pulls,
they stare at your thin pallid form
and you hold your own with a laugh and a shot.
But all those smelly strangers share a little piece
of him,
in the subtleties,
114
their creases and crags and picknicking stupors:
"seven in the left corner hole"
"the drink is on you"
"scratch you bastard scratch"
And here's where you strut your best
to a table of drooling eyes,
smack your playcash down and smash!
the game is already won.
They'd give it all to you if your movements asked,
but you want to steal their collective pride
and drown their lackluster home-life
with a stick and some chalk
and a cynical smileTwenty bucks on the line and no pockets to reproduce,
you hustle them all
of their sickcock and balls,
and fuck your dead love in your dreams.
-pmg________
Drinking Wine And Falling into The River
Date : samedi 8 mai 1999 07:49
On a rickety boat-ramp along your river
Sits a man hiding face in hands.
He drinks a toast to you,
Yeah,
You,
Who fell from the sky on fire,
And he wets his lips with just a taint of your steam,
A paltry failure in his head of dreams.
He pours another glass for you
Because you're never there
And stabs the stars with his eyes
For never giving him his gun-start chance.
Realising for once and only forever
That the ramp is sinking below his bruised knees,
The bottle of precious wine a-bob in the muck,
His vision wet with the love of a game
115
He never wanted to play.
So he looks farther into the skies,
Aware for the first time the moon has made a pass
Over the tree-line,
Making for a bee-line
Into his crowded mind.
He wrests his hands from his face and throws them to the air,
Reaching for the moon,
Its face,
Its dew,
And decides it's time to stop the game,
To reach no more for the sky aflame.
Instead he looks down
Into the muddy waters,
All Huckleberry and Flynn,
Takes one last swig of swill and his hands dive in
To that reflective moonbeam that plays the river so deep,
Reaching for the light,
That imperfect union of flesh and mind,
And falls in head first with a smile
And a final toast:
'Here's to you, the moon of my now!
You're looking splendid tonight,
As always;
But i have just one fucking thing to ask:
Where was it you went into my dreams?
The dreams are mine,
So why do you hide?'
And the answer comes in murky brown bubbles,
Trailing downwards, trailing down.
p.p.fenderson.
_________
116
Part 9
THERE'S ALWAYS TIME
FOR LOVE
by
MAX SCHWARTZ
A
MORALITY POEM
OV SUPREME ESSENCE & A
VERY DIFFICULT CONCEPT TO PUT
ON ANYBODY BUT PLEASE TRY TO RECEIVE
THE PURE INTENT OV THE MESSAGE THIS POEM
ATTEMPTS TO OFFER UNTO YOUR LIFE SPIRIT AND LOVE.....
THERE'S ALWAYS TIME
FOR LOVE
NO MATTER FRI'ING PAN' IN HAND
TEN KIDS & A HUNGRY FAMISHED HUSBAND TO FEED
BUT
YOU FORGOT TO CALL YOUR MOTHER BACK ON THE
TELEPHONE
TURN THE FLAME TEMPORARILY OFF & CALL TOUR MOTHER
EXPLAIN YOUR HONEST HEART WITH HER
THE FOOD WILL WOT SPOIL YOUR HUSBAND WILL NOT DIE
YOUR KIDS WILL NOT PERISH FROM THIS EARTH DURE'ING THE
FIVE MINUTES TOU SHARE WITH THE WOMAN WHO BIRTHED YOU THERE'S
ALWAYS TIME
FOR LOVE
TO ANSWER THE LETTER SENT TO IOU
NO MATTER IF YOU'RE UNDERNEATH THE CAR TRY'ING TO
PULL THE TRANSMISSION CAUSE YOU HAVE SO LITTLE MONEY THAT YOU
DO NOT SEE ANY WAY POSSIBLE OUT OF THE TUNNEL & ITS FREE-ZE'ING COLD
& YOUR FINGERS FEEI NUMB & THE WRENCH JUST SLIPPED AND YOUR BLOOD IS DRIP'I
ON YOUR HALF FROZEN FACE
PAUSE, STOP GET OUT FROM
UNDER THE CAR
WRITE THE LETTER TO YOUR EX-LOVE EXPLAIN'ING WHY YOU HAVE NOT
117
WRITTEN HER BACK AFTER MANY LETTERS CAUSE YOU'RE GOOD
DEEP FRIENDS NOW AND THE ONLY WAY SOMEONE CAN
FULLY UNDERSTAND WHAT TOU ARE GOING
THRU
IS WITH
INFORMATION
YOUR SILENCE
EXPLAINS NOTHING IT COULD
BE IO,OOO THINGS GOING ON & SILENCE
MAKES ABSOLUTELY NOTHING
CLEAR
HOW CAN WE EVER GROW TO UNDERSTAND
MORE ABOUT HOW WE CAN TREAT EACH OTHER IF
WE DO NOT SHARE OPENLY OUR FEELINGS
WHY DID WE MEET EACH OTHER IN THE FIRST PLACE?
SHARE SO MUCH LOVE LIFE RESPECT
TO THROW IT AWAY
WITH SILENCE
THE TRANSMISSION'S STILL GONNA BE THERE IT'S STILL
GONNA BE FREEZE'ING OUT THERE BUT YOU
WILL FEEL LIGHTER YOU WILL
HAVE CLEAN BRAND NEW
ENERGY BECAUSE
YOUR CONSCIENCE IS CLEAR
AND
THAT DUDE YOU BE'FRIENDED
OWNS A TRANSMISSION SHOP & GUESS WHAT
HIS SHOP WILL REBUILD IT FOR ONLY $75.00!!! NOT
THE $900.00 AAMCO TOLD YOU!!!
THERE'S ALWAYS
TIME
FOR LOVE
JUST LIKE THE PHONE
CALL I
RECEIVED THIS VERY DAY
NOT SO MANY MINUTES
AGO FROM ACROSS
THIS BEAUTIFULL COUNTRY FROM A
BEAUTIFULL WOMAN FRIEND WHO HAS JUST BECOME
118
A MOTHER
WHO FINALLY RESPONDED TO MY LETTERS &
POST CARD & WILL SEND ME THE
S20.00 I ASKED FOR TO
GIVE MAXIMUM LOVE
SHE HAD HER NEW GIRLBAPY IN HER ARMS
WHILE
TALKING WITH ME WITH HER BABY
CRY'ING SO SHE PUT HER
LITTLE ONE NEXT TO THE TELEPHONE & I POET'D HER
NAME " ELENI " MANY TONAL CHANGE'ING TIMES
& ELENI TEMPORARILY STOPPED CRY'ING!!! &
HER MOM DID NOT DROP HER BECAUSE HER MOM
LOVES HER MORE THAN LIFE ITSELF &
KNEW SHE COULD HANDLE IT
THE TELEPHONE & HER ANGEL AT THE
SAME TIME
NO DANGER N0 PANIC
THERE'S ALWAYS TIME
FOR LOVE
SHE LIT ME DAY UP SO HIGH & HAPPY JUST FROM THAT
TELEPHONE CALL I'M GONNA
BICYCLE IN THE WIND & NOT WORRY ABOUT
TRE RAIN TO KEEP MY PROMISE TO CHICO AT SAC. STATE
COLLEGE & SIGN THE PAPERWORK FOR THE
POETRY READ'ING
SONYA'S CALL RENEW'D MY TOTAL FAITH IN THE
ENTIRE MUTHAFUCKIN HUMAN RACE ON THIS UNBELIEVABLY BEAUTIFULL EARTH
THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE BEGAN SHINE'ING WITH AWESOME LIGHT INSIDE
MY DANCE'ING SOUL SIMPLY FROM THAT PIECE OF
HUMAN CONTACT
THIS IS
WHAT HUMAN CONTACT CAN DO
DO YOU KNOW WHY I AM NOW IN THIS VERY
MOMENT TYPE'ING THIS POEM?
I'LL
TELL YOU WHY BECAUSE I JUST TELEPHONE'D
A KURDISH WONDERFULL MAN WHO I HAD PROMISED AN ARTICLE TO
MONTHS AGO & DIDN'T DELIVER ON MY PROMISE SO
LAST WEEK I FINALLY DROPPED OFF THE ARTICLE FOR HIM & I CALLED
119
TO MAKE SURE HE RECEIVED IT!!! HE WAS HAPPY ABOUT GETTING IT &
SAID HE WOULD CALL ME BACK IN A FEW MINUTES
HE DIDN'T CALL BACK IN A FEW
MINUTES SO I GOT THIS
TYPE'WRITER OUT
& AM WRITE'ING THIS CRITICAL POEM
THERE'S ALWAYS TIME FOR
LOVE
____________________________________
Max poesias
Autor: Max Email: [email protected]
Galeria : http://ar.geocities.com/pgualda/galeria/maxframe/maxframe.html
Fuente de imagenes: fotogramas del video clip "Sacra" de Toby Dammit dirigido por Pablo Grill,
Bs.As. 1995.
Amor perdido
El imperio
Dónde estás?
Sobredósis imperceptibles de mentes
enlatadas,
Estas puertas
Programas de vida, procreación, ocupaciones,
etc.
Me abrieron al vacío
120
Tu mirada me espera
Alguien piensa en su programación mental?
en otro lugar
Vos pensas en tu programación mental?
tus pasos resuenan en mí
Ser directo afecta las costumbres
pero este paisaje
La nueva moral desencaja
no es mi rumbo
Nos enfrentamos a un futuro de
siento la piel selecta
Dominación programada
de la muerte frente
Los líderes del mundo se educan
a todo este silencio.
Y se nutren del sistema y
Dónde estarás?
No atentarán contra su propio teatro.
Tus palabras no se dejan oír
Llevo tu olor
En mi mente
Como un tatuaje.
Ganas
Alí
El horóscopo me da la gana
Alí mueve en la montaña
Córdoba me da la gana
su gran cáscara de nieve
T+++us+ nalgas me dan la gran gana
y deja caer de su tapado
El sentimiento de terror
un gramo de frío
que me brota
la semilla entre los dientes y la
ahí viene el sueño americano
121
lengua impaciente
una hembra patinadora
las ranuras imaginables
el foco en cruz sobre su cuerpo
me dan las ganas
enfundado.
el vino, las drogas, la impaciencia
Alí suelta los perros y que vuelvan
me dan las ganas
Con redes.
el sentimiento de pasión que
me brota
La marca es un núcleo encendido
el placer que me brota
El silencio es encaramado
la semilla
Y el conducto danza
gran uva entre mis dientes
en el tejado de chapa.
O, acaso
No soy joven y mi día es pulcro?
las rameras imaginables me dan
la gran gana
Pequeña canción
Si la canción fuera secreta ,
Su poder sería eterno.
Si la juventud fuera maldita,
122
Su poder sería eterno.
Pequeño epílogo
cualquier semejanza con la nominal clase B es
coincidencia pura
MAX
____________________________________________
123
The Burroughs Millions
By LJ Pickford Copyright 2002
www.lucaspickford.com
Way back in old St. Louis
Under strata of old bones and time
El Hombre Invisible they called him
His hat and his cane were his sign
On the nod in New Orleans
Lupita's papers and scripts with Old Ike
Mischance and blew the shot on poor Joan
But Old Bull, he only prayed to the spike
He felt the heat closing in
The fuzz crooning over his dropper and spoon
Melancholy Baby dies from overdose of time
tying up in un-furnished rooms
Chinese waiters never show sickness
Bill sought them out with his old junky walk
He saw the Gimp catch a hot shot in Philly
Isn't life peculiar? He thought
Lonny the Pimp, The Shoe Store Kid,
The Vigilante and old Salt Chunk Mary
Clem Snide and Bradley the Buyer
And don't forget the good Doctor Benway
Seltzer Willy, Danny the Carwiper
A.J the Notorious Merchant of Sex
Dr. Fingers Schafer and the Intolerable Kid
Captain Everhard and all the rest
Down in Tangier he wrote it all down
that stuff on the end of a fork
There's a sad, end of the world feeling
Out in the Zone's loneliest port
Like an earthbound junk ghost
The Burroughs' millions were all just a dream
William's millions are gone now
It's the end of the Soft Machine
124
Stiff fingered, stylized gestures
Out-swung arms with palms facing up
Poured into their hands a few hours warmth but
somehow it's never enough
Spectral janitors gray as ashes
Without even a deuce left to pawn
Phantom porters sweeping out dusty hallways,
coughing and spitting in the junk sick dawn
103rd Street Boys
There are no more junkies at 103rd street, the
connection has moved far, far away
by Lucas J. Pickford
But the feel of junk is still there somehow If you listen
you'll hear it say;
Talk a walk along Broadway
Past the old time, come what may places
You're hemmed in on every side kid
You got no place to go but down
See them huddled there in gray overcoats with their
bitter twisted mouths and their thin, sallow faces
So take your business to Walgreens
You ain't gonna score in this town
There was Louie the Bellhop, George the Greek, The
Sailor and Pantapon Rose
Some of them are dead or just doing time now others
well, nobody knows
Sitting in diners and lunchrooms
All the croakers you know have packed in, not a single
one left who will write
Now it's just you and your monkey to feed and boy is
he hungry tonight
Dunking pound cake in coffee half drunk that dead
look in their eyes well, it's no surprise kid
It 's the gray, beaten weather of junk
125
An Unvisited Garden In Mexico
(For Joan Vollmer Burroughs)
by Lucas J. Pickford
Her mind like Bill's
Quick and funny
Her head laid affectionately
Upon his lap
He studied her with clear eyes
Her face soft and sweet before the
Years of salt and Tequila had made strange And before the bullet in
her brow
They both followed unthinkable trades
They doodled in Etruscan
And read to each other
The Codices of the Maya
William Tell, a highball glass
An invasion by the Ugly Spirit
And in a sorrowful moment of
Pure insanity she was gone
I studied her picture taken on a
Snowy New York street corner
Clutching her coat, eyes closed
A half a smile upon her face
126
Perhaps Joan and Bill are together again
Together in the land of far shores and
In the land of dreams undreamt
No poem ever finished
Just abandoned
Dust to dust I guess
In an unvisited garden in Mexico.
P.H. Zuniga
(A Cut -Up Poem)
by Lucas J. Pickford
A brownstone house on a tree lined street in the west 70's, a card in the window reads: P. H. Zunniga, M.D.,
"Please not to return", Fade out to a city built on low sand hills, Indian tablas in the background, writers, artists,
passing through, shabby hotel rooms with rose wallpaper
" Merry Christmas, Doctor."
"Fight tuberculosis, folks."
Your body is a boat to lay aside when you reach the far shore, or sell it if you can find a fool... it's full of holes...
it's full of holes.
Abandon ship god damn it! Everyman for himself! Arrive at the unknown: and even if, half crazed, in the end,
you lose the
127
understanding of your visions, you have seen them! Be destroyed in your leap by those unnamable
Cool gardens and green lawn chairs and pools of the evening, under deep ocean of anesthesia, Morpheus, Greek
god of sleep, Morphine named in his honor
"All I have in the house"
There was no warmth in the sun.................
_________________
"The Ballad of Phil White"
The Independent Subway line and grey ghost of
Queen's Plaza panhandler following you along
Begging for change until he trails off into dreamy past
Phil the Sailor looked into the kid's eyes
'With veins like that son, I'd have myself a time'
Remnants of blue movies, hypodermic needles, Times
Square, Automats
Up-town meets and no-horse towns strictly from cough syrup
Duty calls
On through raw peeled landscape of east Texas bayou
And dead armadillos in the road
And vultures over the swamp and cypress stumps
Motel, motel, motel, with beaverboard walls, gas heater, thin pink blankets
Johnsons who worked in hotels and Shits who finked at
Riker's for pocket change and junk
Phil remembered them all, making his rounds as a lush roller
He was no Stool Pigeon, no Rat, and no Bronx Opera House
No Canary, no Grassy Gert
Phil the Sailor gave himself a long shore leave, maybe a little too long
And when the heat closed in, he hit the road
And hung himself in the Tombs
128
Juanjo Patanegra
URL : http://patanegra.pitas.com and http://creatrix.pitas.com
CollaboRations: [email protected]
ANA COSMODELIA : "IRRADIATION"& "Tantric Mushroom"
"semen words"
truth reality freedom love
illusion!? future herenow present?
so and as the things of my mind
your mind, the one of our bodies
dancers, lovers, the one
of the milky way
a mosquito mosquiet
zas!
small the blood in your hand
like the things of the time
dharma booom
7/12/00
129
ANA COSMODELIA : "Sky Tree"
UNX
To drain. To dare to Emptiness.
Attention to Music. The New Thing.
The New Thing.
To Silence through the Sound.
Not a Search but Encounter.
Space without time. Time without Space. Totality.
Speaker Bodies drained of Speech.
Selfcreating themselves Dynamics Tao.
TodoAmor. Wholove.
Works of art that leave the time.
Total of meaning, they make the lives
of the been born ones in any year significant.
Relearned whenever they interact with readers
clair voyants listeners, equipped
with new meaning,
perhaps understood better, more
fully. Frewhlovedom.
Works that take you,
130
do not remove to you from you,
like fakeart,
to flee to yourself.
They find you,
within them you are you,
you of every herenow moment,
Existence without I, you, we.
Commotion of consciousness, nervous commotion:
tranquilized, countermanded nerves, balances.
Reptile, mammal, neocortex.
Neocortex fully developed.
Animals without death. Animals
that know are going to die.
Kosmos Wholemystery.
Silence Creatrix.
Force Creatrix.
Conscience Creatrix.
Light illuminated is not seen.
Thus subjective conscience presence.
Kosmos to water to a rosal with its petals and thorns.
Fear to the Poetry, the Sound, Silencio.
Free flight.
Networks of energy. Without place parachute.
Space of the Revelation.
Revealing Intensifying the Being.
Time of Solitude Vertigo of the Word.
Powerful destruction of the Language.
XX Century
Illusion of the Trap.
Plot of altered relations. Anesthetized
neuronal networks.
Variant bodies occupying a space.
Fighting unharmonicly lynching.
XXI Century?
Experience of the emptiness growing.
Animals selfcrating themselves without Karma,
Religion before the silence of God.
Stones without Statues.
Majority of Age.
Conscience interacts with brains in formation
131
semiwinged
bodies wise cells.
Strategic acceptance limitations of the body.
To breathe speaking
words seedsemen of quiet clarity.
To undress. To please I
ncomplete inadmissible Suffering.
Compassion with passion.
Still not-total acceptance of the life.
Permanent revolution. Reevolution.
To New Thing: To New Politics.
Hunger. Attention.
Died God to or has hidden is born the OmbreMan.
Resolution.
Sound Transforming Energy.
Words seedsemen of quiet clarity.
Seedbeds of Freedom.
Transforming animals. Wholove.
Only in emptiness it can penetrate NewLife.
To drain.
To dare to the Emptiness.
18/01/01
ANA COSMODELIA : "Cosmic Woman"
______________________
132
Kim Kerze
W.S.B. (forerunner)
With the sharp dress sense of a gangster
a wild oscillating sense of the future & a tongue laced
with Reich, Goethe, Hammett & Will Shakespeare
he stitches up the slackjawed mouths
of his adoring followers. Pray tell, they manage
to whisper. Aaahm. he clears his throat — a larynx
caressed with sandpaper — and wipes a finger
over his lips. Poised like a hunter before his prey
he starts a routine, sourced from his stewardship
in the intestines of Tangier, Paris, New York.
He’s the pioneer cybernetic trickster. Death,
his constant companion, is like a stiff drink
sliding down his throat in late summer;
it puts him at ease. Otherwise, he’s always
on guard & always in Space / tripping out
on the orgone trail / floating morphine thru his veins
burrowing deeper into the sources of pain
& with a wry iconic smile, his rubbing out of the word
& the folding in of time predicted Aids, Anthrax
The Twin Towers.
a specialist in counter clockwise intelligence, & the axis
of fear and control, he truly was america’s perfect agent.
a spoon & dropper transmitter // receiving \\ telegramming
the most urgent of reports — whole sky burning — thumbprint
ink on the most relevant of pages. Washington who knew
his formidable reputation in these matters chose to ignore
the details of his deft, unguent patter & look the other way.
133
Antonin Artaud
There is a rustling
amongst this thatch of malediction
& prayer
a gesture fulminates the spinal column - a ceremony
of ink rhythms
circulates in these scarred, traveller’s hands
& the air flashes silver
in a polyphony of knives.
He crouches
shrouded by observations,
speared from the cauldron w/a Dublin cane ;
this watchful architect of the void
who ruptures the mise en scène of thought
as outside the bombs rain
down on Dresden, Arnem, Paris. endless
Squinting, he receives another apparation
a shard of body scars,
tracings of collapsed lungs,
radio waves
from the debris of aircrafts
forming smoke writings
& words are flung in a mantra
against the chalk white crumbling walls
Artaud gathers what remains
of his thoughts.
a last pirouette of
remembering. a darkeningrace
hovering
134
over him, as he stands bolt upright
speaks in shrill fluted tones
in gasps & whispers
holding council with the demons, the saints and dead soldiers
who have chosen communion with him
the squall of voices subside
as he turns to where
his iron casket
the last work before departure
hovers in the burning coals.
with eyes fixed in precise metallic sonatas
he strikes incantations deep in the glowing metal
weaving thin
Orbits of fire.
Shoulders twist
& skin glints with animal light
the hands
silver trays of hexagrams
carry the deathglimmer
& the burnished demons
Vanish
Artaud’s breath contains a furnace which burns
up questions.
thinklines of skin suffuse
w/dark flames
weaving hylozoic spells
back into the iron frame
as spittle scrawls from his lips with a hiss.
the air is thick
135
hesitant, surrendering. Poised before this precipice
an abyss
of
“ni plus
chef-d’œuvres”
Which when revealed yields yet another veil.
His casket
scripted from woven lightning and hieroglyphic
Traces —
is unable to further endure Artaud’s cachexia stare
& mutely begs
for the hammer blows
To Cease
Antonin relents; his heart shifting
Inside a stooped frame. Transfixed he watches
as the blue inscriptions
glow red orange
grey : —
A
revenent gaze
flickering at the access of the mountain
_____________
136
The House Jack Kerouac Built
Born from a joual genepool, he rode in on the starry
Dynamo of an East St Louis caboose, all jacked up on whiskey
& loose from the blue notes snatched around a hobo Kerosene
drum, singing sweet Tokay blues, along the busted up tarmac
He spun his words as broad daylight shifted into the onrush
of night - a blurring of simultaneous, ever-present moments
unfolding from coffee cups & sharp Chevrolet’s side mirrors
& apple pies sweetening thru the immensity of the Midwest
& freight yards & imaginary baseball cards, secret rooms
In steel towns, and Dharma lookouts that dealt him a bad blow
Of mourning & melancholia. All this fuelled with Benzedrine
& Proust, Charlie Parker and the road; mediums of the holy ghost.
He miraculously distilled an errant catholic romanticism
From the frontiers of the hipster zeitgeist, as his ears eulogized
A disappearing america & loneliness built up inside of him
Like water pressure, until it poured out in an ever unravelling
Criss-cross of words, traipsing from east to west, and again
back east. His life became the stuff of folklore, as the sixties tilted
into darker Arenas. America prepared a Nebuchadnezzar feast of
its children & the revolution flared like brown acid, a widening gulf
where no reason was found to participate, nor seek
comprehension. He lived the last of his days in a cul de sac
with a bottle that emptied him out, with his cherished Memere
who forgave nearly every failure, and a fading picture Of his saintly
Brother, etched with boyhood tears in a Lowell matinee.
____________
137
Of Corso
He was on the run
before he could crawl. He learnt to ski in the most
unlikeliest of places. Four walls
blessed him with Shelley, Chatterton
Dostoievsky; a grand inquistive dose of liberty
which he sucked in like oxygen.
a nearby muse, noticing
the sprinkled colour sleeping under his fingernails
dorment from the days when childhood hands
were plunged into confectionary
leant
closer & breathed in his ear, the mildest
of infatuations.
the poet’s chatter
slowed like an unplugged engine fan
& in a fit of wonder
he opened the door
turned into the night, & slipped
Down a back alley to hide in a drainpipe.
Here he found a dozen
lost watches & a plane ticket to Europe.
His breadth deepened
& his technique
alembic
138
conjured such delicacy
from the simplest
picture
of a flower or a snow owl
that people of all sizes
Stood on Street corners, givng away his poems.
He learnt to attenuate silence
to command an audience into feeling
the dust upon a manuscript
He had a regal poise & even his drunken
annunciations could stun any adversary.
When we found him, he was slumped
in a movie theatre - a Fellini retrospective the projector jammed midscene in La Strada
as a curly haired tightropewalker
persists in coaxing out an inner clown
made of laughter
& Giullietta Masina
is smiling in perfect gratitude
there seemed few clues to suggest
any last minute atonement took place, although
by leaning closer & observing the line that curves
up from the man’s lips one does sense a trace of a shared
intimate joke. Did he know the Pope read his poems
bathed in a wreath of syrupy golden light? A chain
of angels whispering from the highest council!
Of course so!
______________
139
Picture from Célébrations nationales 2004 : Jean-Nicolas-Arthur Rimbaud
Rimbaud’s Colours
Black Blood
spoke inside my skullsockets shattering my elongated fingerpulses
like an axe struck on an iron floor.
Red Blood
ran across my tonsils & fixed epidemic needles within the rivulets
of my imagination.
Green Blood
careened thru my nerves, pivots, pulled back, suspending
the moment of implosion.
Blue Blood
dreamt the moon into clusters of broken raga drones, poured pages of grief
into a smoking cigarette.
White Blood
a billowing crackle of static bursting open in my retina- all shadows ghost
into an impossible present
__________
140
Juniel Al Mage
Juniel et Baud, Augé
L'Elfe Mellifère
Rémi a six familles
Seul assis adorait
Sire au soleil d'or
Et le sollicitait.
Rémi sollicitait ?
Ici l'art est bémol,
Ici l'ami est fat
Ici l'ami est seul
Ici l'art est doré
Ici taureau y dort.
D'or est l'art
Fa est d'art
141
L'ami suit l'adoré
Femme irait à l'ami
L'ami au sol dormirait.
D'or et de myrrhe
L'ami rêvait
De feu et de vert
De fées et d'hiver
De faits divers
D'aveux et de fers
De fées et d'art vert
Et d'elfes mellifères.
Elfe aimait l'hiver
Et les fées aimaient l'hiver
Elle met le miel en verre,
Mon amie, elle aime le verre
Douceur et justes choses.
_______
142
Juniel
Dix Ciseaux c'est sain
Des ciseaux c'est sain
Dix ciseaux c'est sain
C'est cent
Al veille sur l'ombre des Al Mages
Saisissant des ciseaux
Et ses cinq coupeurs de verbe
Coupeurs de blé
C'est la fille au coupeur de blé
C'est la fille qu'a le blé du coupeur
De têtes qui couple le blé et le vrai
Le blé et le veau
Le vrai coupeur d'été
Coupleur endetté
De pleurs endetté
Coupeur entêté
En tête il était le coupleur de vielles
De tétons il était tétant,
Des tétons il aimait tâter
A la fille du coupeur de blé
De la vielle j'aimais jouer
143
De la vielle à jamais jouée
A la belle j'aimais jouer
A ses joues parfumées
A ses mollets de jaune enduit.
____________
La Belle au Bois d'Or
La belle au bois d'or
Le petit chat au perron rouge
Histoire lamellée de la barre bleue ?
Cent grillons au concert de caquette
Perrine était sauvante
Le petit chat Beauté
A lêché les amis
J'avais découvert le pot aux roses
Dans la forêt et découvert une pote heureuse
Et toujours oyant l'appel de la paix
Et payant de l'appel la paix qu'elle procurait
J'étais en quelque sorte un arbre raccourci
Avec mon petit corps et son surplomb
Les sons sûrs de son ombre.
Ses effets tenus par un elfe
De couleur miel et fer
D'ors et de rouilles
De cordes et de douilles
De désordre et de nouilles
D'ordres et de fouilles
A la recherche de la pierre cachée.
144
J'étais l'elfe aux effraies
Aux effets du miel sur les paupières
De Miami a la saison.
Al sait qu'elle est malade,
Le mollet d'oeuf enduit
Le mollet jaune pour des raisons curatives.
Miel est doux et mol
Miel est doux et mou
Mais au lait doux est le miel
Tel est le lait au miel
Oh ! mais, tu es le miel ,
Douce tu es fillette,
Oh ! mais, mets donc le miel sur mes mollets.
____________
Juniel chez les hobbits- collage Baud
145
Sans y mêler les mains
Poséïdon, né lunatique
En mansardes et en lunes
Rime, Al, à la lune,
Dans plumes et tritons
Ris, Al, à la maline,
Grime, Al, la maline,
Dame lame a son sarrau
Aime la mousseline,
Lune mie amena miel
Amasse la mousseline
A mon amie amena
Aime la mousse, Line,
Lune mie, miel de mon ami
Aime la mousse
A mie lune
Elle met la mousse, Line
Elle a mis le miel dans son sarrau
Elle, fée de la mousse,
Elle a mis le fiel dans son tarot
Fée de l'île molle,
Elle a mis tard le miel dans son sarrau
Elfe de l'île molle,
Mon amie aux lèvres de miel
Elle fait bien la maline.
Elfe de l'île molle
Elle a mis le miel sur ses lèvres
Et l'elfe mellifère.
Elle était nue sous son sarrau
Al, à la lune et à ses alliés.
Elle est tenue sous son sarrau
Mon amie, par un elfe mellifère,
L'elfe aux fées, l'elfe aux effraies
Le petit elfe mellifère
__________________
146
POEMES
Laurent T
<[email protected]>
A toute allure
Vite
Cà freine ment
Au maximum frontière
Retour inversé
Cà freine toiles diffuses
Je pile
Risque
Cà répond pas
Je regarde nuit
Cà déclenche pas
Je reste
Vive allure
Prostré
Windowssystem2003
Heureux très
profondément de vous
accueillir
En ce terme bicéphale
De la nuit démocratique
Paysan toi-même
J'ai peur
De tes forces ambivalentes
De ta possibilité à accepter
ce qui va
Arrive mon cœur mes
entrailles dépourvues
Arrime mon cœur d'être
Merci de fermer le cloître
Laisse la clef
Soirée après vingt ans de
démarrage
T'implique explique
Lentement les yeux rivent
le clou
Il est temps déjà temps
Ma foi n'expire plus
Je veux dire celle du
temps
D'amour incestueux je
suis passé
A l'amour l'examen du
texte
Mon dieu mon dieu
Prospère folie
Inonde encore tes fils
Besoin
Besoin
*
Tatouage
Je tais le tatouage
Vu entre mille âmes
Chiffres
Espaces
Couleurs sodomites
Crème à transdire
Donne à trembler
Prison carcérale ou
options
Une misère
Sur mon bras
Ma faconde
Mes iris
Repérés
Word en abîme
La vérité de nuit
Me texte jusqu'au sperme
Word allégorie du
mensonge
Que n'épiles-tu pas la
toison dorée ?
Tendre amant des
mystères
Crie ton véritable nom
chimère plutôt belle
Ne serait ce pas vision
tandem ou édulcorant
Tu nous rongeras
jusqu'aux doigts
Elle débute soleil
Elle s'ouvre un peu
n'importe
Elle traverse s'étonne
s'éclaire
L'ombre suit lui parle
Elle s'embrasse singulier
Génère pluriel
N'importe lieu
Embrase le passage
Entre titre et commissure
Rappelle sans cesse son
absence Ignoble
La vérité nuit soleil
*
147
Palestine
Le petit
La haine du tabouret
Palestine ma belle
inconnue
Israël ma conscience
rétive
France mon désespoir
renouvelé
Russie tant tu t'éloignes
Allemagne patrie de la
brume et du fleuve
Palestine en Allemagne
dévoyées
France que ta langue a
réchauffé nos soirées ivres
Israël plus belle que
l'éther
Nous ensemble regardant
naïfs luisant sans
nationalité
A Koln à Pétersbourg le
ciel inondé de cadavres et
d'iris
Les tangentes aujourd'hui
vraiment se dévoilent
Nous irons au bois
dormant mourir
Sous le regard bienveillant
des elfes de l'orient et de
l'enfer
Palestine et ton amant
De Moscou à Tel Aviv
Sachez ma peine et ma
véritable langue
Le petit bonhomme
Sur son chemin d'airain
Nous conte une figure
Le petit
Nous invite à surgir
Stalker devant la clairière
renaissante
Assis debout la hanche
douloureuse
L'homme de bronze nous
soutient
Elles regardent en
premier
Ils ont les yeux dans leurs
mains
Les femmes cherchent le
soleil
Ils s'innocentent déjà
C'est pas la peine c'est pas
la peine
Dit notre bonhomme
d'airain
Elles voient enfin
Ils pleurent dans leurs
mains
Viens
Naît que peur
La figure apparaît
Lent redressement du
mystère
Il m'énerve
Me lasse
Ses quatre pattes ses
géométries
Je voudrai bien
Un soir de pose
De s'asseoir paraît-il
En famille
Tranquillement
Le découper à tenue
Le rapetisser l'inouir
d'immondice
L'affirmer plus bas juif
espagnol martien homo
futur gendre
Le découper
équitablement
En frénésie et symphonie
avec art et rancune
Sans égale parcimonie
Trucider au tiers
A l'amende du terrible
Le reprendre lui dire
Son état sa démangeaison
Tabouret
Tu m'effraies et me ments
Les vaches
L'heure n'est plus
Des vaches de l'amour de
l'inusité
Elles me tiennent en joue
au bout de leurs regards
éperdus éclairés
Des élans des géométries
des queues qui ne battent
personne
Noir blanc gris couleurs et
vert et pluie et route
M'allonger contre leurs
flancs
L'heure n'est plus au
cadrage ni aux brouillons
La fin est bifide tuer et
enterrer
Ensevelir d'outre temps
L'amer couche de boue
s'étiole
Je vise
J'éternue mes yeux
Marie soit toi éphémère
Et grandit cathéter
Marie comme à l'unisson
*
148
Construire
Construire
Achever
Perpétuer
Amer
Rancune
De l'âme
Anazera
Réunie
En Die none
Toute Puissance
Fermée
Anazera
Elles sont pluriel et une
Nous regardons les trains
multicolores
Expertes en barbelés plus
que nous
J'apprends et ne romps
pas
Extermination naturelle
Syncopée tolérance du
nombre
Vise la tête et soupire
Haine qui s'étiole
Mauvais en sursis
Bas et haut firmament
Faiblesse qui danse
Mal mal
Puise en ton reste
L'a-couleur
Dedans
Fini
Garantir
Garantir
A vie
Le produit
De tes efforts
Garantir
La nuit
Les songes
Garantie à même totale
Loin sans temps
Succombe
En toute
Eternité
Exclusif
Exclusif mot aparté
Rentrez dans la chambre
Clamez toussez votre
lampe
Est allumée
Tourbillon
Ahuri de l'étage
Tout en un
Clameur déshéritée
Je mange mon amour consentante
Je mange mon amour consentante
J'assaisonne d'être son émoi
La sauce est douce
La queue gluante
Maudit le jour
Ou discrète l'appel se fit naissance
Vide ta plaie
Tour de magie
L'horreur se fait vie
Sans
Mot
S'éteint
Bible
Relue
Alerte
Maximum
Charlemagne
Charlemagne inspire
Grand d'équation
Il apparaît
Incandescence non
tremblée
Voir
Infinie image spectre
En arrière
Devant tes genoux
Je sue
Ressort la vie
Il rive et océan
Son or te comble
J'ai peur
Sa main montre
Je ne vois plus
Nuit ensoleillée
Nuit ensoleillée comme d'hab
A la ville à la plaine à l'exode
quelconque
L'histoire le vice la cru
Nous titubons enroués
Suffire à peine
Partage
Immédiat
Des briques du fœhn des pluies
Encore un pas de plus et
L'amère flicaille scintille
Je rentre à même
Ferme tes yeux
Euthanasie eucharistie
149
Vue rapide de la nuit
Vue rapide de la nuit
En cette année 1915
Mes gaudrioles achevées
Un réverbère dans le froc
Prédit innocent
Un siècle d'arnaques
Beaucoup de fumée
Pour tout allumage
Sic le vaurien
Nuit ensoleillée
Code couleur
Ta couleur impossible
Ether consterné
Peau trop laiteuse
Doigts experts
Et rongés
Image double dans le couloir
Voyant voyeur voyou
Tu dévisses
Je compte l'altitude
Moins d'un mètre
Me sépare
Du gouffre
J'emmène les ours
FIN
150
« The Time of the Naguals »
Interzone anthology
_______
In French:
“Le Temps des Naguals: Autour de Burroughs et Gysin” - 136 pages
Printed version : Interzone Editions
In English:
Tome 1: “The Time of the Naguals: Around Burroughs and Gysin” - 106 pages
Tome 2: Research - 163 pages
Tome 3: Cut-ups - 92 pages
Tome 4: Poems - 150 pages
Tome 5: Short stories – 117 pages
Tome 6: Theatre - 64 pages
Tome 7: Interzone – 127 pages
Other books published by Interzone Editions:
"Alfred KORZYBSKI : SEMINAIRE DE SEMANTIQUE GENERALE 1937 Transcription des Notes des Conférences de Sémantique Générale Données à Olivet
College" : French translation: Isabelle AUBERT-BAUDRON Interzone Editions
Le Taxidermiste : Jose ALTIMIRAS & Francois DARNAUDET (bande dessinée)
The Taxidermist : Jose ALTIMIRAS & Francois DARNAUDET – English
translation: Isabelle AUBERT-BAUDRON & Ken GAGE (comic book)
Printed version: Interzone Editions
Stella Matutina : Marylis (French)
Stella Matutina: Marylis, English translation: Isabelle AUBERT-BAUDRON & Paul
O'DONOVAN
Printed version: Interzone Editions
_________
© Isabelle AUBERT-BAUDRON
Interzone Editions
http://www.interzoneeditions.net
Mai 2012
[email protected]
151