is for the love is was
Is for the love waist not had in its trickle added to sun
she cannot say how sweet the svelte hipped one wandered
moments ago past a windowed casement her kerchief like an
old hippy bandana and her jeans reminiscent for a moment of then
not now these days this informatique computer technological
gene rat ion rationed on rationalism and crap of
I can't write you these words which make yourself conscious and cowardice rise toward me a dull boring blamed and you have no bravery and no stance but your tightass words as always is this how you greet a friend whose traveled the high seas and continues to travel you fool not knowing the real itch of friend,
but my women know, and my alcoholics and I know their know,
but what you know is the dead that's all so stand
there reiterated and retreated like your salt bowl
reterritorialized by every lie each one of you trespasses and follows her deadline hookline and stinker!!
where as saltedbrined in my moustache look for the mountain.
you will always be the worst kind of minor player, and when
I say minor, I don't mean minoritarian and stutter,
but peweled self-pity and botched,
but now let that be, she moves on.
O the grass that I want to have under, is yours and mine,
and in China we shudder all the time like mountains do in the night
'as a saint
like a saint with a ny twisted thumb your mouth's grimace is grimoire to
the overbearing pulse ofa god burning thieves with fire and humdinger
to one single truth ~ the forfeit fire burning at your feet
tinder, timber, a clasping ash creates passage to your lent spent through
your trusted servant the little devil with his eye in a poke
or say a cheap tale of four rooms one with the dead Indian, the other crammed
with imitation Shakespeares, rough ditties, nudes boxing shadow upon shadow,
shared windpipes, invasions, and evasions beyond repairing, a city absent of
dead angels
like any saint witha twisted tonsure you thrust the needle through your thumb or
this bastard with his boat in London living the bigshot life while fellows in the college
starve or half starve while he gets the best capitalism has to offer a hidalgo of
shit, you know, diamonds, furs, chrome plated sideboards, gleaming dishes,
and babe after babe of whatever gender a particular lust and moment requires
the last thing anyone wants to see is a man riding an ibis!
riding a bicycle in his bed!
Visagéité
Visagéité
Sabine
Alors un œil qui regard lui qui regard cette image... et quelle tristesse dans ce visage.. mais c'est un visage O i can't find the french... so retour a l'anglais... its a face dissolving into the structure of its composition its bones and my eye goes down fast... O its red Lips BlooD! ? les levres rouges.. sang blood mais sang par un jeu de mot en anglais is Sing... mais quelle chanson ici...? i think of the idea of visagéité in Mille Plateau de Guattari .. oui > oui yes, the face they say is a monstrosity mais quelle monstruosité de beauté et de tristesses j'aime mieux le mot tristesse en français quelle que celle de l'anglais sad...
and then I back up I stand back... yes, the picture grows larger.. its christ... dans son agonie... ah! c'est un peu la saison en enfer! the mad eye rimbaud saw! _______________ O this picture like the others comme les autres c'est tout une histoire... chaque peinture un petit ou grand histoire reliée a toutes les autres... sont comme mes écrites... celle que je ne met pas a myspace...
this face is a transparency..another eye lurks there.. deeper and the colours are they oil pastel? but they seem like water.. the floating water of the colour in this painting... the colour washs... flows gurgles... around water like.. it rubs on the bones of the face dissolving them... if it's a christ face! O my he looks like he suffers...? non peut-etre c''est pas la souffrance peut etre c'est une autre modalitie de devenirs atomique et peut-etre les devenirs astral sous terrestielle..
Non c'est pas un christ merde a christ.. on crie comme rimbaud dans sa saison .. c'est un visage de quelque que 'un ... its the face dissolving at its edges.. contours and colors.. moving to other edges... and a realm ..
Sabine
Alors un œil qui regard lui qui regard cette image... et quelle tristesse dans ce visage.. mais c'est un visage O i can't find the french... so retour a l'anglais... its a face dissolving into the structure of its composition its bones and my eye goes down fast... O its red Lips BlooD! ? les levres rouges.. sang blood mais sang par un jeu de mot en anglais is Sing... mais quelle chanson ici...? i think of the idea of visagéité in Mille Plateau de Guattari .. oui > oui yes, the face they say is a monstrosity mais quelle monstruosité de beauté et de tristesses j'aime mieux le mot tristesse en français quelle que celle de l'anglais sad...
and then I back up I stand back... yes, the picture grows larger.. its christ... dans son agonie... ah! c'est un peu la saison en enfer! the mad eye rimbaud saw! _______________ O this picture like the others comme les autres c'est tout une histoire... chaque peinture un petit ou grand histoire reliée a toutes les autres... sont comme mes écrites... celle que je ne met pas a myspace...
this face is a transparency..another eye lurks there.. deeper and the colours are they oil pastel? but they seem like water.. the floating water of the colour in this painting... the colour washs... flows gurgles... around water like.. it rubs on the bones of the face dissolving them... if it's a christ face! O my he looks like he suffers...? non peut-etre c''est pas la souffrance peut etre c'est une autre modalitie de devenirs atomique et peut-etre les devenirs astral sous terrestielle..
Non c'est pas un christ merde a christ.. on crie comme rimbaud dans sa saison .. c'est un visage de quelque que 'un ... its the face dissolving at its edges.. contours and colors.. moving to other edges... and a realm ..
crystal
my crystal ball
But who knows?
What I’m doing with
my life
my life
I' m counting on you honey. You're a lover wanting the big thing, the unruly moment.
Something
strange that brings you together with me inevitably. Like a lover does,
with her mouth and charms, and those paradoxial belles jours longing
between both.
Okay,
you're a writer like me and you've lived, or live, near abysses,
precipices, and you've come round. Here, like anywhere else. A friend
who's called a lover. A sack of gold between the sheets, a ribbon for
your cake.
Looking around in an open fashion some days, and at other times I am more clandestine.
between entre.. les devenirs... becomings
Having travelled half way round the world and seen a lot of cities
I 'd like to find a perch?
hang off a tree
peer out of your window
"I’m really good at"
'writing
'eading
'loving
'dancing
'O
O
O
voila
"The first things people usually notice about me"
"My favorite books, movies, music, and food"
for now:
...
authors:Shakespeare, Tristan Tzara, James Joyce Deleuze and Guattari/
Mozart Stravinsky now the list could go on. We both know that. You're
eclectic.
The six things I could never do without
You
poetry
Okie dokie: adding things
the secret of your beauty
I’m looking for
"Located anywhere"
Who are single"
".... message me if"
say you are rich and I am Henry Miller,
or say you are wealthy and Im not Miller, or combinations of any number rather bohemian luxuries of that sort.
if you're bold,
and lean left while looking right
you are made of spiders and fibrillating weaves
Or if you are poor
or middle class
and outside of the box
If you're moved to~
you have a telephone
a radio
a shoe
a terrace
a
book of poems
something else
singular
if you like
"I wonder how you are and how we'd connect." That each delicate step between us is a charm of love, a play of desire.
"Message me" or rather I'll rather I'll message you between the lines.
Did you come here to live in a box, a strata?
Here's a story:
start again hold the page
come the rage
be my friend
my only
between this place and yours
of you and me
of you and I
style again
hold your horses
there's a man underneath these pages
who never left you
a l w a y s
life went on
it w a s h a r d
hard as my me for you
your
your
tongue
holding you
_______
Why I don't care much for politics but still read the .... post.
'...
people keep lying.' '... I know if you lie it's for a cause that
remains mysterious to me, and perhaps obscures a superficial fact.
"I wonder how you are and how we'd connect." That each delicate step between us is a charm of love, a play of desire.
"Message me" or rather I'll rather I'll message you between the lines.
Did you come here to live in a box, a strata?
Here's a story:
start again hold the page
come the rage
be my friend
my only
between this place and yours
of you and me
of you and I
Dig this thou eunuchs of /thou-eunuch-of-language.html
In 1791, riled by a recent review that criticised a supposed abundance of "obscure language" and "imperfect grammar" in his poetry, celebrated Scottish poet Robert Burns ' wrote the following magnificent letter to the critic responsible.
It really is a thing of beauty.
(Source: The Works of Robert Burns, Volume 4; I
Ellisland, 1791.
Dear Sir:
Thou eunuch of language; thou Englishman, who never was south the Tweed; thou servile echo of fashionable barbarisms; thou quack, vending the nostrums of empirical elocution; thou marriage-maker between vowels and consonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice; thou cobler, botching the flimsy socks of bombast oratory; thou blacksmith, hammering the rivets of absurdity; thou butcher, embruing thy hands in the bowels of orthography; thou arch-heretic in pronunciation; thou pitch-pipe of affected emphasis; thou carpenter, mortising the awkward joints of jarring sentences; thou squeaking dissonance of cadence; thou pimp of gender; thou Lyon Herald to silly etymology; thou antipode of grammar; thou executioner of construction; thou brood of the speech-distracting builders of the Tower of Babel; thou lingual confusion worse confounded; thou scape-gallows from the land of syntax; thou scavenger of mood and tense; thou murderous accoucheur of infant learning; thou ignis fatuus, misleading the steps of benighted ignorance; thou pickle-herring in the puppet-show of nonsense; thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom; thou persecutor of syllabication; thou baleful meteor, foretelling and facilitating the rapid approach of Nox and Erebus.
R.B.
http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/01/thou-eunuch-of-language.html
crystal
my crystal ball
But who knows?
What I’m doing with
my life
my life
I' m counting on you honey. You're a lover wanting the big thing, the unruly moment.
Something strange that brings you together with me inevitably. Like a lover does, with her mouth and charms, and those paradoxial belles jours longing between both.
Okay, you're a writer like me and you've lived, or live, near abysses, precipices, and you've come round. Here, like anywhere else. A friend who's called a lover. A sack of gold between the sheets, a ribbon for your cake.
Looking around in an open fashion some days, and at other times I am more clandestine.
between entre.. les devenirs... becomings
Having travelled half way round the world and seen a lot of cities
I 'd like to find a perch?
hang off a tree
peer out of your window
"I’m really good at"
'writing
'eading
'loving
'dancing
'O
O
O
voila
"The first things people usually notice about me"
"My favorite books, movies, music, and food"
for now:
... authors:Shakespeare, Tristan Tzara, James Joyce Deleuze and Guattari/ Mozart Stravinsky now the list could go on. We both know that. You're eclectic.
The six things I could never do without
You
poetry
Okie dokie: adding things
the secret of your beauty
I’m looking for
"Located anywhere"
Who are single"
".... message me if"
say you are rich and I am Henry Miller,
or say you are wealthy and Im not Miller, or combinations of any number rather bohemian luxuries of that sort.
if you're bold,
and lean left while looking right
you are made of spiders and fibrillating weaves
Or if you are poor
or middle class
and outside of the box
If you're moved to~
you have a telephone
a radio
a shoe
a terrace
a
book of poems
something else
singular
if you like
"I wonder how you are and how we'd connect." That each delicate step between us is a charm of love, a play of desire.
"Message me" or rather I'll rather I'll message you between the lines.
Did you come here to live in a box, a strata?
Here's a story:
start again hold the page
come the rage
be my friend
my only
between this place and yours
of you and me
of you and I
style again
hold your horses
there's a man underneath these pages
who never left you
a l w a y s
life went on
it w a s h a r d
hard as my me for you
your
your
tongue
holding you
_______
Why I don't care much for politics but still read the .... post.
'... people keep lying.' '... I know if you lie it's for a cause that remains mysterious to me, and perhaps obscures a superficial fact.
"I wonder how you are and how we'd connect." That each delicate step between us is a charm of love, a play of desire.
"Message me" or rather I'll rather I'll message you between the lines.
Did you come here to live in a box, a strata?
Here's a story:
start again hold the page
come the rage
be my friend
my only
between this place and yours
of you and me
of you and I
'what
what is happening with your body is what is happening to your finger is how it's happening to/ your
soul as (like they used to say ) in the thunderstorm you were naked as any raw onion loving you
was like loving a forward deck passenger that had eaten the eels creating the snake that 's past
sand to your wholesome meal. O god she wonders what the hell he's creating as a witch holds
any broom making statements like a true lover
bundled up with socks simile after simile after a smile awkward as a Jane's guide to the paintings
of the old new expressionists and the darling dears
it's often like that running out of breath at the steeple holding your foot aloft for John the Baptist
or Quasimodo a n ugly saint if ever there was
a saint between the pages of a clipping tree
.
You wanna climb this tree with me Eve
Eve got a mystery for this tabernacle of random artificat, collecting, host, ciborium, paten, surplice,monstrance,
cloth, host, bell, cupla,maxima, culpa, a mouth gazing upward open a range of about 4 octaves
she's angelus mary the dear, god, a woof to a tornado, riffing down her 'sudden' god welcome to
the angel busting her skirt with News like , like big new a guy's inside of her already kicking
she was born to the future
it started as Mary and the three virgins
but when I play trumpet I play saxophone
not trombone
then you got you have that is, in Latin, the sanctuary , the red lighted candle always aglow
in the d a r k
after hours
before hours
between nones and matins
its a kick ass
o n e
that means god's always there
or jesus i can't remember i forget which one god or jesus?
over to the left it's the communist soap bar and Marx' slack
further afield is the once former Soviet Empire and a crowd of pewter worshippers
ringing the bell of contempoaray technology
.
how wow
.
how ...many
... times .... the type... set .... battery ... cluded. it was luding
round.... her fire
multiplied by tripping .... did it... this was... round-eyed doe was yclept her song.... not sin's daughter. her.... LOBmobster....
_____________ flipping back the lying suns
her breast like flatpans tasted better than gold
she sold/saying I want to be your slave /slut
your whore!i Am her boy/ her slave
too a dog watch at her feet
s hes saying I want to be your dog
ok so yr here at this place
its a dead end half suburb wann a be in acity that's crumbledumbdowncrumbling
.
multiplied by tripping .... did it... this was... round-eyed doe was yclept her song.... not sin's daughter. her.... LOB
ing .... did it... this was... round-eyed doe was yclept her song.... not sin's daughter. her.... mobster
times .... the type... set .... battery ... cluded. it was luding round.... her fire multiplied by trippin
_____________ flipping back the lying suns
her breast like flatpans tasted better than gold
she sold/saying I want to be your slave /slut
your whore!i Am her boy/ her slave
too a dog watch at her feet
s hes saying I want to be your dog
I say let me be your gazelle, your elephant, your carry-on case , dog is too obvious
I mean woofwoof! who wants a dog/ stupid dumbarse things
ok so yr here at this place
its a dead end half suburb wann a be in acity that's crumbledumbdowncrumbling
.
'charmin'g
you've been very charming and dashboard.
yer a new 'centurion' as I am heteronym to your piggishlatin.
batting yer buttin. patting yer eyebrows . curl'em up. girl. yer arse.
is glory tongue. iv'e .yer nightclerk. handy-andy. second saying
yer asking ?
_____________________
indeedingweisverybecomedwddispleasureofthetextings.
yer a new 'centurion' as I am heteronym to your piggishlatin.
batting yer buttin. patting yer eyebrows . curl'em up. girl. yer arse.
is glory tongue. iv'e .yer nightclerk. handy-andy. second saying
yer asking ?
_____________________
indeedingweisverybecomedwddispleasureofthetextings.
we are very cddisarming. Rmultitudespulcritudes. Oooh. datsavy. lovebubelectrobiblub
p.S.
P.S.
might/ be the important part, or rather that other part saying as much
in the way endnotes or footnotes as they're dubbed do.
i am not realy a poet anylonger
i am a put together
i am a put together
or a combinatory
______________________
i say artist
as that sort of speaks more to my state of mind
but this poet
but this poet
idea is so OverInflated
how does one describe with those old words
all of the work one does, or that two do?
all of the work one does, or that two do?
A patois of schiilingual becomings
lOve
'break that text
___________________________________________________________________
hav is so, at least if one he thinks in these
sort of tidy economic pastiches. However, however, one goes on, and
works and does and does. And then, o well, I think my thought just ran
out of steam. But perhaps a comment in a blog has a kinship to a gloss
in an old manuscript and from there who knows what pursuits will come of
it?at I term
fiction blogs. You can see them in my blogger profile. It’s not word
press. I have especially enjoyed your comabout Paradise Lost and The Waste Land and joined the
two of them together in a disjunctive brit here and there, from time to time
for about a month. You are a very graceful writer and it’s a pleasure
read what you say. I am a poet from Canada with oodles of whabout Paradise Lost and The Waste Land and joined the
two of them together in a disjunctive bridge persuading my readers that
a schizoanalytic approach would yield a different and better
understanding of those poems. What I wrote was very small compared the
gigantic area of study both of those works encompass.If I learned
anything about this business of writing and creating over the last years
of time it was that expression is always more and less (and not or), at
the same time than one thinks. It escapes us, and we don’t know what
our work is, nor where it lies, nor its use . One often hears it said
the creator or writer cannot be the ‘purser’ or the decider of the value
of a work. I believe this is so, at least if one he thinks in these
sort of tidy economic pastiches. However, however, one goes on, and
works and does and does. And then, o well, I think my thought just ran
out of steam. But perhaps a comment in a blog has a kinship to a gloss
in an old manuscript and from there who knows what pursuits will come of
it?at I term
fiction blogs. You can see them in my blogger profile. It’s not word
press. I have especially enjoyed your comments about Felix Guattari and
old professor Deleuze. As for writing books, it’s a strange business,
and I have not written the sort of book you are thinking about. I have
written poetry books, and been a performance artist. However, we are in
the midst of a great change over of forms of publishing at this time,
and perhaps one cannot ‘translate’ the one to the other. I find that I
write quite differently on blogs than I do ehizoanalytic approach would yield a different and better
understanding of those poems. What I wrote was very small compared the
gigantic area of study both of those works encompass.If I learned
anything about this business of writing and creating over the last years
of time it was that expression is always more and less (and not or), at
the same time than one thinks. It escapes us, and we don’t know what
our work is, nor where it lies, nor its uslsewhere. It stands to
reason doesn’t it? And one can ask, and should, what is writing anyhow? I
did a ph.d thesis about Paradise Lost and The Waste Land and joined the
two of them together in a disjunctive bridge persuading my readers that
a schizoanalytic approach would yield a different and better
understanding of those poems. What I wrote was very small compared the
gigantic area of study both of those works ehange over of forms of publishing at this time,
and perhaps one cannot ‘translate’ the one to the other. I find that I
write quite differently on blogs than I do elsewhere. It stands to
reason doesn’t it? And one can ask, and should, what is writing anyhow? I
did a ph.d thesis about Paradise Lost and The Waste Land and joined the
two of them together in a disjunctive bridge persuading my readers that
a schizoanalytic approach would yield a different and better
understanding of those poems. What I wrote was very small compared the
gigantic area of study both of those works encompass.If I learned
anything about this business of writing and creating ohose works encompass.If I learned
anything about this business of writing and creating over the last years
of time it was that expression is always more and less (and not or), at
the same time than one thinks. It escapes us, and we don’t know what
our work is, nor where it lies, nor its use . One often hears it said
the creator or writer cannot be the ‘purser’ or the decider of the value
of a work. I believe this is so, at least if od yield a different and better
understanding of those poems. What I wrote was very small compared the
gigantic area of study both of those works encompass.If I learned
anything about this business of writing and creating over the last years
of time it was that expression is always more and less (and not or), at
the same time than one thinks. It escapes us, and we don’t know what
our work is, nor where it lies, nor its use . O
break that 't'ext _1
Close'r to
Close'r to
Clifford's ____/AsSemBlaGe/a Put together/___
It’s not easy to see things in the middle, rather than looking down on them from above or up at them from below, or from left to right or right to left: try it, you’ll see that everything changes. A.tP/Guattari&Deleuze
------------------------------------------It’s not easy to see things in the middle, rather than looking down on them from above or up at them from below, or from left to right or right to left: try it, you’ll see that everything changes. A.tP/Guattari&Deleuze
“
people like the word ‘seamless’
ReCall To Poetry: i feel
i feel that I am writing even when I am not writing. It’s as if I am in a state of writing at all times, and so when I sit down to actually compose, it’s a question of readiness.
Do you know what I mean? I am in a state of writing all the time, I am writing al the time, or if things are really cooking and I am tuned in, asif I was in a state of poetry at all times,
so I when I sit down to compose, and for me, it’s a fairly intensive
state, and I write quite fast, at least at first, then re-working or
doctoring as I see fit..
So that writing, and poetry is a state of mind too. And I think that’s why some poets come across more or less interestingly to me. Others, the more so called professional types don’t interest me. It’s a culture, poetry is a culture too, you know, each poet bringing a culture and sensibility to it….
i feel that I am writing even when I am not writing. It’s as if I am in a state of writing at all times, and so when I sit down to actually compose, it’s a question of readiness.
Do you know what I mean? I am in a state of writing all the time, I am writing al the time, or if things are really cooking and I am tuned in, as
So that writing, and poetry is a state of mind too. And I think that’s why some poets come across more or less interestingly to me. Others, the more so called professional types don’t interest me. It’s a culture, poetry is a culture too, you know, each poet bringing a culture and sensibility to it….
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