DYSTOPE #19

Ideas

2012-02-06T12:17:00.000-08:00

Some ideas hit with the force of a cannon ball
smashing in to your chest,
and pulverising your sternum
as your ribs bend in perforating
your organs
and break,
and you have had a great idea

An idea can strike in the way of an axe,
slicing cleanly through your forearm
on the diagonal, through nerves bone
and vein,
lopping off a part of you
that seemed permanent.
Really what sort of future
well what did you expect they are
called “extremities” after all
so get rid of them,
you ought to calm yourself

Ideas will strike as a javelin does,
dropping upon you
suddenly slamming
and sliding cleanly
through your shoulder
derailed by your collar bone
grazing it and grazing your lungs
a spear which penetrates through your core in
to the pit of your stomach
because it has destroyed
the pit of your stomach,
what an idea

many ideas will tear at your flesh
and pepper at you like buck shot,
a million tiny thoughts together altogether
with the force of a hammerblow
all points and wounds of impact
all about you.
suddenly from around
a corner
this may drive you mad

The Jackhammer of Proust

2012-01-27T10:20:00.001-08:00

Henry Xavier Proust was stricken by a jack hammer virus
the consequence of which was that he slammed upside the wall
and fell back to earth beaten,
beaten of the life of him and stolen of his vitality
which leaked out the crawl of him,
pooling on the floor, and fell apart.

Hammering his chest apart,
torn by his jack hammer virus,
the convulsions of his unprepared organs over took him,
and he quivered up against the wall
in a pool of lost vitality,
his heart palpitating irregular, but at least still beating.

Of course in his head, Henry X knew the beat
of this mad and discordant song that played apart
from the reality of the world, and its maddening vitality.
It struck directly at the heart, this jack hammer virus,
the echoes of it beating off the walls,
reverberating back into the depth of him.

He thought of what it meant to him,
as he lost control and juddered beneath the beat
and again slid down the wall.
He could see it was shaking him apart.
The jack hammer chantey in his head gone straight viral
was sapping young Proust of his vitality

He turned pale as he thought of his vitality
and the thought of what fell out of him,
of what he lost to the virus,
of what he lost as it beat him.
He immediately took this idea apart
and threw the pieces at the wall.

As they slammed and shattered haphazard against the wall
the shards released shocks of vitality
shooting out of each part.
The shocks of light washed over him
and the crack of their release struck a beat
down the walls, and he had beaten the virus.

Still Never Weakens

2012-01-25T07:47:00.000-08:00

Still never weakens
and always balks
and shivers slightly
awakens in confusion
while sliding quietly
down the stairs.

Twenty seven steers
stand obviously weakened
shaking so quietly
But I balk
Fallen with confusion
angry, just slightly

these shambolic slightly
unstable quivering steers.
Maddened and confused,
core soon weakened.
“Cower and balk”
cries come quietly

and echo quietly
and shiver slightly
down the balk
round my stares.
Cries not weakened
nor ever confused.

Lambasted in confusion
and by quietude
spluttering out weakened
spluttering out slightly
on these stairs
Still never balk

Caught again balking
caught again confused
at the stairs
again creaking quiet
again creaking slightly
though not weakened.

Still never quietly or ever weakened,
coloured so slightly I always balk,
so damn confused by her stares

Plunge

2012-01-23T03:51:00.000-08:00

You I would have over me flow,
and the warmth
of you
my spine
and You I would have flow through me
and through me
and through me
and the line of you
the every inch of you
the pale of you
your surface .

15/11/2010

Laid On Earth

2012-01-20T07:10:00.000-08:00

slack and lay down against the pit of the earth
up against the edges of it
alongside its side
the depth of the hollow
the greenery about it and under you
and the sky above you

Let us look at the clouds together
and look at each other
and
my god,
you look just like a cloud.

Caught!

2012-01-19T09:27:00.000-08:00

I was caught!
caught in a net
caught in the headlights,
Oh shit I set off a trap

You caught me!
caught me unexpected!
Caught me suspicious
unawares, you goddamned sneak-thief

Caught in a net!
Entrapped like a fool,
tangled in the webs of it
oh for shits sake somebody better help me

I got caught up!

Sestina for Marie-Claire

2012-01-18T18:07:00.000-08:00

Lord help you if you ever get Marie-Claire Lacey started on hermeneutics
cause that fucking girl will not shut up about the semantics
of the concept. It gives her such joy
to blather endlessly about hermeneutical minutiae that she nearly sprays water
and starts steaming like a broken radiator
or a light bulb of blown tungsten.

Another thing you should never do is mention tungsten,
because it’s even worse than hermeneutics
in getting her hotter than a top of the line radiator.
Of course with metals she is less concerned with semantics
than with their effects while submerged in water,
which apparently, when observed from a specific distance, inspire joy.

I suppose I cannot begrudge her the joy
she can derive from mining drills and other devices of tungsten,
but when she rants, words and crass views flowing from her like river water
It turns me off any passing interest in hermeneutics
or my engagement with its definition or semantics
and I tend to smash my head off of the nearest radiator.

Sometimes I can’t find a radiator
and you have never known such a dearth of joy
as when you are without a head smashing device as she waxes semantic
on the variegated uses of tungsten
or the fundamentals of hermeneutics
and other ontology, as practiced underwater.

In fact I sometimes nearly just empty my bowel water
all over the radiator
whenever she mentions hermeneutics,
and it gives me such great joy
to challenge her opinions of tungsten
and argue with her about semantics.

I just clearly do not understand the semantics
and the explanations tend to flow over me like water
because, I mean, what is the meaning of tungsten?
Is it possibly used to make radiators?
Can it give me joy?
As much as hermeneutics?

Sestina by Committee

2012-01-18T11:14:00.001-08:00

It began in a hut somewhat ramshackle,
infested by unruly and impudent pigeons.
A young man, thoughtful and beardless, although Amish
sat upon a chair infested by woodworm,
who chewed their way through the mahogany, not famished
but still angry, beneath a wall mounted crocodile.

On the wall this disembodied head of a crocodile
seemed out of place in a hut so ramshackle;
this crocodile was killed by our beardless hero while famished
(though not so hungry as to have eaten one of his pigeons,
which were helpful as they controlled the woodworm;
which is an age old trick of the Amish).

Our young man was thinking of the Amish,
of his people and his family (and his crocodile
which was also Amish) but he was constantly distracted by the woodworm
who were eating their way through his ramshackle
abode, rendering it more derelict, despite the abundance of pigeons
who were, with such a superfluity of larvae, far from famished.

In fact the only one in the whole shack who was famished
Was our hero, the young beardless Amish
who refused to dine on woodworm or pigeon
and who had eaten his familys only crocodile
and mounted its head upon the wall of the ramshackle
hut, on a base of pine and woodworm.

But hunger was growing for the man on the chair full of woodworm
with each passing moment he grew more and more famished
and his shack grew ever more ramshackle
while he grew ever less Amish.
Because our man had an epiphany while he chowed down on crocodile
those many weeks ago, under the lazy eyes of his grub-munching pigeons;

Our man was watching those fat slack pigeons
chewing on those sleazy little woodworms
while he himself ate his own pet crocodile
because he was starving mad famished.
He thought, “Jesus it’s no good being Amish,
in this tiny scummy lean-to, growing so ramshackle,

with these scummy god damn pigeons, and these horrible little wood worm,
because I could eat Heinz if I wasn’t Amish and I wouldn’t have been so famished
in this miserable ramshackle shack, eating my pet crocodile!”

Brick

2012-01-14T12:53:00.001-08:00

Embrace and consider the solidity of brick
it is a sign of a grand edifice
some find a certain finality in steel,
but I prefer to consider the clay.
Because the idea of earth, strung up along a rafter,
gives a sure sign of the quality of a structure.

There have been made, many structures
of many materials, those such as brick.
Those old buildings of long rafter
those sturdy of edifice
those steady of clay
those of steel.

It rests in a certain way, does steel,
as it roots itself into the bone of a structure,
and becomes the thing of it. But clay
finds a way, along edge and wall, as brick.
Clay can mark the entrances to an edifice.
Steel is ever important, too, as rafter,

as nothing of the building is captured without a rafter.
Some desire windows out of steel.
Some would make thought into an edifice,
but it is not. Thought can no more make a structure
than it can manifest mortar on to a page. Bricks
of thought are able to smash windows however, as is clay.

It does pay to remember the sensuality of clay,
that certain method of coaxing out meanings. Rafters
of meaning are similarly useful, but bricks
lose a lot of the sensuality; are more experimental, like steel.
I am not full sure of how to build the strongest structure
but I an often consoled by a thought of an edifice.

Those wise among us know the real strength of an edifice
has little to do with the windows or the clay
or the walls of the structure
at all. It relates not to the rafters,
whether built of wood or steel,
or the foundations, or the brick.

No, the real strength of an edifice, whether of wood or clay,
is which of your friends reside within the structure, beneath the rafters,
and share your time between the steel and amongst the brick.

To Speak a Species

2012-01-13T12:02:00.001-08:00

To speak a species into life:

There are drummers beyond the edge of thought.
They are green, and calm, and they look to the sky.
They drum out your songs.

Occasionally one turns to the other and asks “Do we really live here?”
And the other nods, and they smile at each other, and continue to drum, and turn back to the sky.

To speak a species into life:

Once I dreamed of the peak of a mountain, covered in snow

I realise now that it was not snow
but rather a whole web of a mind
and each of the mountains in that mountain range was another web, and another mind.

Each of the snowflakes that fell on each of those mountains was the seed of a new thought for each of those minds.

Those minds dreamed and imagined and each of them lived an incredible life in the warps of their own imagination

none of those minds knew of the others,
none of those minds knew that that they were not alone,
none of those mountains realised they were in a range.

once every epoch the plates would crush together and another mountain would be thrown up into that mountain range
and slowly snow would accumulate upon the top of it
and a new imagination would fire up in the void of this range

and she would learn her world through her snowflakes

To speak a species into life:

Each second that passes mark another creature joining the mire of creatures in time
It is a species that never dies,
each second lingers beyond its moment of creation,
which is marked somewhere by the tick of a clock or the inch of progress of a shadow over a hill, or by an electron which flies away from its brothers to make its own way in the world

The argon brothers stick together though

To speak a species into life:

I walked one day in a land of newsprint and met its people

they were diverse and yet lively,
some were vulgar

some spoke solely in numbers
and stuck together and spoke together of numbers

and some were vulgar and jeering

On days where things nothing had happened,
the printfolk born were inventive and had to make their own fun
in stark contrast to the news folk of days where things had fallen down.
who only spoke of certain things

Some were old, yet angry in the way of the young,
and others spoke only to their own while eyeing the others suspiciously

Some were furtive and forced their sisters from the edge of cliffs.
I left that place when I saw the cliffs and the corpses at the bottom of them

To speak a species into life:

A ticking terrible sound, a staggering short echo
This is a life that you have never yet met

I found one day as I sat in quiet reflection (never the Bitters) that each of the quiet shuffling sounds I made was in fact a new life, a short life, a fleeting fire of an idea of a life but nonetheless an existence

since then I clap my hands together more

To speak a species into life:

There once was one member of a species of one
he was an idea
and he ate all around him into ideas

To Speak a species into life:

no not this time, this time I'll sing it

Threepartflying Daze

2012-01-11T11:20:00.000-08:00

I woke this morning in a three part flying DAZE
the east lit and shine boring a miserable through
so I awoke this morning to a burn and went back to sleep.

IT WAS AFTERNOON YET before the next operatic section of discontent
how fortuitous, how handouts, how withered….
So the discontent, how dire was it? did it wallow?

as it clumsily traversed its medium
but oh goodnessss did it have a medium?
how was its bothwell street?

We walked to Pollok Park.
“PARKPARKPARK” I said, and
“Pass me the whisky”

Three hours earlier I recite “A Letter
to Sam Hunt” in the green outside our
flat; “SAMHUNTSAMHUNTSAMHUNT” I said.

“pass me the whisky” said Adam, and
I passed him the whisky, and he also
said “did you, do you have the papers?”

“I think I’ve approached a thing.” I
said, and now it’s written down, again.
(I approach things all the time, like a Plains
hunter)

I have cut from the cloth. it is removed its
fromits and finally but quietly (“NEVERNVERNEVER” cries
its bothwell street but it cries quietly in its sleep)

You Of

2012-01-10T08:41:00.000-08:00

Brashly and never of spirit
you of the blue eyes wander
farther and farther afield
and i would listen as you sing

BRASHLY AND NEVER OF SPIRIT
YOU OF THE BLUE EYES WANDER
FARTHER AND FARTHER AFIELD
AND I WOULD LISTEN AS YOU SING.

brashly and never of spirit you of the blue eyes wander farther and farther afield and i would listen
as you sing

and sing and sing & sing you of,
you of the bowsprit and string
you of the shock and scarlet
you of the smile and storm.

i would sing of you and sing you ever
you of
you of the smile and the shock and the bow
you of the shoulders and the cradled
you of the fingers and the stylised
you of the calluses and the bow
you of the
you i want to know

i simply want you, you of, i simply want you
so
you of the blue eyes wander
farther & farther afield
farther andfartherafield
you of

you of the wander and the smile
you of the wee jig and smile
you of the smile
you of the blue green eyes i find
i find
you of the shock and shiver
you of the makes me shiver
you make me shiver, you of.

you of the blue grey and smile
you of the scarlet and smile
come back here you of
come back here come in this room

you of the
YOU OF THE DAFFODILS
YES DAFFODILS
As it is almost april
and the daffodils stick from the ground
and I have been here a year!
and I have known you ten months!
But excuse me while i speak of daffodils
because it was april
one year ago
i arrived
in Edinburgh
and the daffodils stuck out of the ground
and it snowed!

So the daffodils stick from the
ground and you
stick in my mind
and i have been here a year!

the simple matter
the simple thing to remember
is you
you stick in my mind
and i have been here one year!

I remember the daffodils
and I remember you most.

One Hundred Years

2012-01-09T18:38:00.000-08:00

One hundred years are wet,

and thick and pallid

and sinking and bullish and

crisp.

One hundred years are full

of shit, and parsimonious,

and difficult, and

rearing.

One hundred years are

creative, and insincere

and typically rampant

and destitute

and bored.

One hundred years are

sly, and steam pours out from them

and things fall out of them

and they leave things behind

on the

carpet

One hundred years are messing up

all of your plans

and are messy,

and are sitting in the front room

demandingly

and waiting

and leaving big wet crisp pallid stains

upon your furniture

One hundred thousand years are coming to

an end

and ticking over

and here comes another

One Hundred Thousand Years

One hundred years are

infinite in space you see

and they are continuous and

they loop

but everybody

has the same hundred years

and they sneer

One hundred years are bastards

and do not look after

their children,

who are discontinuous

and rowdy rowdy

children.

One hundred years are sneaky

and take pictures

from behind bushes

and for sure they

are depressed

and worry about what they

are doing for their lives

One hundred years are passing

but they have passed everybody

so don’t worry

One hundred years will do you

especially if you do not eat your beans or exercise

every day

or drink a lot of whisky

or chew gum

or avoid all these things

with an equal fervour

because gum and exercise can kill a man

One hundred years are simple

and easy and they fit well

One hundred years are arousing

so arousing

in a cosmological sense

One hundred years is all you are going to get

if you are lucky

or not

because One Hundred Years

are particularly ambiguous

One hundred years are tiring

especially if you try

and maintain a

high pitched whistle for the length

of them well do not

emit a high

pitched whistle

is what my father always told me

one hundred years ago

Blackouts

2011-10-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

As it turns out year long communications black outs are trendy in Scotland right now.

Moment

2010-07-24T19:28:00.000-07:00

the moment that I bathed in Strangeness

the moment that I caught you there

that moment the point I watched as you brought the rains to drive over me and around me

that moment I caught you in red and white

that moment that you drove me breathless

that moment where I hide

that moment I fall among the bushes

that moment

that moment that I saw you and

that moment which continues as long as you linger

that moment which I might have seen you

that moment I spot you through the flowers

though I can see you from afar

that moment in my dream and you appeared in my dream

then when you caught me helpless, that moment

then when you were astonishing

so astonishing

you astonished me

Those moments where I watch you

That moment when your smile

Your smile knocked me down

Then when I spot you through the haze

The black and white vaguery

That moment when I saw you

I could not find a thing to say

But I could watch you

The ways in which you and the line upon which you

Then when you sustain me

Forever She Will Have Me Struggling Against Impermanence

2010-07-21T04:10:00.000-07:00

Alakanak Breakup Essay/poem

2010-07-21T03:54:00.000-07:00

A short essay on Mei Mei Berssenbrugge's Alakanak Breakup written in the mode (exact transcription of word count and punctuation) of an extract from Lyn Hejinian's My Life. Written at the behest of Lisa Samuels for one of my Undergrad papers back in 2007. Just found it the other day. Quite liked it.

Some images, some
Deixis, And watery
musings

In “Alakanak Breakup”, Mei Mei Berssenbrugge mixes wildly and blurs deictic terms and their contextual images, causing earnest readers moderate confusion, including disparate images of a black diamond remotely manipulated, transfigured, and enlarged from a distant location, undermining deixis – using oddly amorphous states of dihydrogen monoxide. Prophetically, in section one, reader orientation by deictic terms is subverted. Berssenbrugge opens with a she. With this opening, Berssenbrugge introduces us to the meandering consciousness stream which forms the remainder. No one knows who this unintroduced she is. It heightens the reader’s bewilderment to find this elusive figure lobbing liquids. Consider the contextless unintroduced protagonist, now engaged in contextless activity. Berssenbrugge, cunningly, endeavours to jar readers. The fourth strophe is an example, well executed, well composed. It features ice covering the ground. However this is merely what is easily imagined about the activity of the ice which encloses light. The ice is described seemingly transcending physical existence. But perhaps it does not. This is the deictic blur, smudging, hazing, obstructing any easily followed reading. For it is impossible for any reader to follow this mysterious ice, and maintain a reasonable grip on the realm of the physical, as the ice begins to glow through various holes and then forms a bed photonic whilst a human shines through gaps and hovers, molecularly. Deixis undermined. Curious then, the subjective 'it'. Instantly perplexing, particularly when incorporeal. Images are revealed then subverted including rocks, string, clouds, humans, diamonds, and water. At different points, images of water appear. Ice, and fog. These various watery images, most frequently of ice, could be attributed somewhat reasonably to the ostensible setting of the poem in Alakanak Alaska, and reoccur often in the second section. Ice or fog rarely behaves normally there. Not only is ice able to physically enclose light, fog hides those who aren't right, and rivers occasionally branch into mirrors. Images of water are often warping into mental states, or equally as often, into light. The mental encroaches, aligns with the physical. This confusion of the mental I, is another of the omnipresent deictic blurrings. I is usually contextually mental. Here it is brought to the physical. But it is not only as a physical representation of the self, nor is it as limited as normal to one self and frequently becomes another. Berssenbrugge's she is interchangeable with the readers I and often they do. “She is still unable to distinguish” enjambs Berssenbrugge, distinguish both herself from you, or from me. Deixis is relative. So when, in her own studied fashion, Berssenbrugge refers to she, it is fluid whether she means herself or someone else entirely. There is never defining context for deixis. So what is being talked about remains relatively open. This is where the slippage occurs between the realms. Images of light and water represent the fluidity that is gained with the loss of deixis, and the I. The black diamond inhabits this space, ignoring the boundaries between the mental realm and the physical, the physical act of it collapsing having the effect of condensing the mental. There is correspondence between the realms. Collapsing and condensing are as easily imagined and enacted mentally as anything physical. The “event horizon” occurs here. The physical becomes mental. The mental becomes physical and you can coax targets from afar. Without a context to give purpose deictic terms lose that which makes them different, which means I becomes she, she becomes you, and anything can only be represented without any deixis as “The human shines through from behind and below seams and holes”

Now to reference a
“Wavering but
recognisable image”

Images lose reference and their concreteness during break up. But because of the aforementioned relaxed relation between deictic terms and the "real world”, and the slippage that is occurring in the poem already, reference also is fluid. Consider for a moment. We attribute meaning through reference. When referents are fluid or difficult then meaning is elusive and loses relevance. The reason that referents are difficult to pin down in the breakup is because they move, water can become light then a thought, what is referred to is not one thing. Therefore all later images are subtly framed. Ice before the breakup is just normal frozen water. Before the breakup ice the word refers only to the referent of frozen water. But by the end, ice is thought. And by the end ice as a word, as referrer, references not only ice, but also impossible images of tangible thought and obedient light, and thought and light as words reference ice. As mental and physical overlap the nature of reference begins imploding. Reference collapses in, not only on itself, but on the “event horizon” losing meaning. Reference involves physical objects referring to mental concepts and when the physical and mental align, and the distinction between realms becomes more difficult then distinction between concepts and objects, usually as simple as any distinction, becomes stuck in an ontological mire ultimately confounding meaning. Physical referents which elicit mental responses are also able to gain physical responses. So the collapsing black diamond has a physical effect on a mental state, as it condenses mentally the I who sees the physical reference. Conversely, the mental affects the physical realm. The first section features rock telekinetics, and so too the second, as the I manipulates another rock at a range continuing it's coaxing of distant targets. The fundamentals of reference are thusly undermined, reevaluated and reconstituted into something else completely and utterly. Unavoidable thereafter, a question of whether the mental reflection of the diamond, given the fluid nature of reference here, can be a referrer, or if it remains a referee or a response. Language is intrinsically mental and it naturally requires interpretation, mentally. The mental is necessary to decipher the complex system of codes and rhythms which make up the references of human language. These references may be physical. However they mean nothing until they are decoded and Berssenbrugge shows this as difficult. Her diction can be deceptively accessible. The breakup is described with eloquent prose. However the images it describes are jarringly flexuous. Decoding processes are weakened. The process that takes place when you read a word that leads to a mental image, is unable to occur when the words begin to appear in the oddly glacial settings here. That forces the reader to forge ahead with new links and references. The other effect of this diction, composed with flow and certain fluency, is to command the attention of readers, whilst simultaneously coaxing them into reverie. Reading, one must focus their entire attention an image, but attention is drawn away imagining. Immediately the reader's attention becomes discontinuous. But like the protaganistic I you are not inattentive. This is requisite in order to progress, to get through. This way some of the actions of the protaganistic you or Berssenbrugges she become analogous to the readers actual I. The reference become more than language or words, and becomes a reference to oneself as a reader, the conscious of the poem meandering - discontinuously as it were. The poem itself is an allusion. There are many mentions of natural workings. The breakup could refer to a mammoth floating iceberg. It could be a slowly disintegrating glacier. The language references natural events of magnitude. This suits the setting of Alakanak Alaska. It is a subtle reference. Any reference seems "covered with fog". That is the function of the breakup and it works perfectly as it should.

Grace

2010-07-01T09:12:00.000-07:00

The way you sit within your cloak! Upon the floor drawn around you as a tent.

The jubilations it causes within me! When of course you dance and of course you move and you do so with grace and it would cause me to writhe and to drop to the floor and I contort myself with delight as I watch you as you do so and as you do so!

And the birds would flutter around you! And they would swing and wheel about you, in wide loops and deep dives, clouds of them, for they know, and you send them too into convulsions of delight! They watch you with delight and shower you with song.

Your Smile! Grace, oh grace me again! Your lithe leg and your arm of svelte, but your smile, it warps me! My organs fail and my body collapses! The crispness of your presence in a room, the songs around your edges.

I would speak of you for days. Stake myself a point on a dusty road and regale the passersby with tales of the time I saw you from across a room, the smoothness of your apparition, your face amongst the crowd. I would sing to them the ballads of the smile I saw in that crowd, the shutter blur that my eyes took on, my blindness that lasted for days. And they would hear the ode of your geometry, and the passages of your line and your eye. And to them I would tell the tale of our conversation, of how you speak the word and walk the way.

And you in red! Grace me! The crimson light around you, the reflections.

Or in blue! The lines which wrap themselves about your figure, O grace me!

Or in black, Grace, your presence again, and this time as you sit above the darkness.

The scarlet touch of your lips...

I would caress you for days! Til my arms gave out!

And were you here, I would write upon you. Words of power, or your name. Again and again. In deep black ink I would make a poem of you, Grace.

a cautious slide to the side

2009-12-07T16:20:00.001-08:00

a cautious slide to the side
i was consumed by
but is made whole again
all the while.

was i consumed by?
the approach of a shine
all the while
making quiet caustic differences to me?

the approach of a shine
she caught me and flung
making quiet caustic differences
was he doing it now?

she caught me and flung
across the wide discernment
was he doing it?
as many others have done it?

across a wide discernment
i collected lost time
as many others have done it
but cast it off again

i collected lost time
and fashioned of it a future
but cast if off again
and walked

fashioned of me a future
she did
but walked
a batter and a wallop and a slow grind

she did
cut short the spark and the fire
a batter and a wallop and a grind
but onwards to see

cut short the spark and the fire
but maintain my inertia
and onwards to see
my momentum carries me

to maintain my inertia
a calm and a slide which is
my momentum carrying me
away from her.

a calm and a slide by
a swing and a shudder
away from her
and towards her

a swing and a shudder

and a swing and a shudder

i was caught by

a slow grind

so i was caught by

that dissembles and disintegrates

so i was caught by
a raucous slide to the side
that dissembles and disintegrates
but is made whole again

Rondeau 24-10-09

2009-11-22T15:15:00.001-08:00

i saw my muse last night and fell
i watched her move with grace in the crowd
and carry herself about the room with grace
and move herself in dance with grace,
and yes i think she was the picture of grace.

And she wore a dress of blue,
held her dark hair back with a band of blue
and indeed her beautiful eyes were blue,
when i saw my muse last night and fell

and her eyes shined in the light
and her hair shimmered in the light
and yes her face, the smooth line of her nose
and her perfect cheeks and smooth skin all glowed in the light,
yes i saw my muse last night and fell over on to the floor

A Fine Young Cannibal of the Vanguard

2009-08-08T07:55:00.000-07:00

THE FORTY-FIFTH DOCTRINE IS A CONTINOUS ENGINE DESIGNED TO SOLVE PROBLEMS.

It Stung #14

2009-03-19T16:01:00.000-07:00

It burnt now. My arm, my cheek, my eye. They all…burnt. So I decided to go back to sleep. It seemed to work.

The lull in proceedings

2009-03-19T15:59:00.000-07:00

February and most of March sux anyway.

Smooth/Form/Moment

2009-01-29T21:17:00.000-08:00

You opened me, café, sweet sinner
Lithe type, cabaret, blood thinner
Slide all home, smooth form, moment
And sprawl, burnt radiant, or foment

From on high peaks you threw me open
From on high peaks you threw me open

Golden, snow blind, milk white, enlighten
Folded, new find, black light, inform

Shattered shotgun slide sprung open.
Altered axis, accent absolute.

It Stung #13

2009-01-25T15:55:00.001-08:00

With the long string of losses that took up the autumn of the third year, the Northumbrian Corps found themselves thrown unexpectedly onto the back foot, unable to capitalise on the massive advantage afforded to them by the success of Operation Excess, and so began a long and depressing period that lasted until the following summer. During this time it was all the army and the corps could do to remain dug in where they could, although in many places along their various fronts they lost some small amount of ground to Alsace. It was, by all accounts, a devastating winter all round, although the Alsatians on this northern front often had the small relief of knowing they were slightly ahead, here, and absolutely dominating, elsewhere, particularly in the Maputo theatre. The ulterior motive of Operation Excess – to cause Alsace to retract their armies rapidly to protect their heartland, and particularly, to reveal the locations of their Register Corrupters and other secret weapons – failed somewhat spectacularly, leaving Brown struggling to maintain his already precarious cover in the Alsatian capital of Roulet in the south.

It Stung #12

2009-01-25T15:52:00.000-08:00

GOOD GOD & GOSH, GALWAY!

GREAT GAD!

AND DAMN!

TARNATION!

WHAT IN THE BLAZES IS GOING ON?!?!

EH?!?!?!?! GAD. GAD!

OH.

HAH!

INDEED I DID.

DOWN BY TELFORD MOORS, COVERED IN BLOOD AND GLASS AND MUD.

NO, HE DISAPPEARED SHORTLY AFTER.

IT MAY INDEED HAVE BEEN BROWN, BUT I COULDN’T TELL FROM THE RATHER EXTENSIVE DISTANCE. BESIDES, HE SEEMED TO HAVE BEEN REZURKED.

INDEED.

POST HASTE.

THE OCCIDENTAL THEATRE SUMMER PROGRAMME

2009-01-25T15:49:00.000-08:00

1) Firmament Panther

2) How To become a Disassociative Fruitbat

3) If I had a Yukon

4) Alfred P. Buxworth Presents “The Burning End”

5) Auto-modification suite

6) The Tactics of Iridescence Jones

7) Burk and Andrus and Their Trained Mule.

The Manifesto of the Poet-Economist

2009-01-19T02:47:00.000-08:00

The Manifesto of the Poet-Economist

The Poetic Economy of the Word.

Poets are, traditionally at least, bewildered and slightly intimidated by the world of business. Aside from the necessary, and for some, wholly abhorrent, contacts with publishers and such, most poets avoid the business world like the palsy. As a demographic category, poets and businesspersons remain almost entirely separate amongst the population. Poets, on the whole, behave totally unlike businesspeople in almost every regard, and businesspersons do their utmost to avoid poets and the circles in which they drudge. Businesspeople, for example, might be seen to be cavorting around in a pinstripe suit with a preoccupied manner, appearing to run some sort of business, whereas a poet is often seen moping around in a cardigan and corduroy pants, crying and appearing to do very little.

I digress, the point I am trying to make is this: Poetry and business need not be as alien as they once seemed. Lessons learnt in the world of business might easily be applied to the realm of poetics. If my meaning escapes me, I need only put my poetic mind through the eye of an accountant, an eye that is, by and large, refreshingly economical and unmuddied by the vagaries of centuries of inbred art-wank. The incisive eye of an accountant can be used to easily cut to the quick through the self-referential and pretentious wankery of a poet like Abraham to discover and nurture that much lauded ‘economy of meaning’ by demolishing the diminutive hillocks of obscure literary allusion, the rolling foothills of overblown, unnecessary, and heinously prolix verbosity, the crag-tipped mountains of bizarre and counter-intuitive syntactical expansions and glacial alpine heights of random semantic forking – in other words, whole formidable poetic mountain ranges can be quickly and easily earth-worked and bulldozed down into imminently manageable and family(and customer) friendly plains and grasslands. This is easily and rewardingly achieved through the application of the most basic of economic concepts.

The First Step:

It is paramount for the poet-economist to reconsider their entire way of looking at poetry. The first step in the process is to look at your poem not as an emotional baring of the soul, or a raging manifesto against stagnant status quos, or any other such naïve hallucination, but as a product. The first step, in other words, is to rationally discard the ideas that a poem might have an intellectual value, an emotional resonance, a political angle – as all such ideas are inherently false – and in fact abandon any idea that a poem has any value other than monetary value. The poet-economist is a poet that has realised that a poem is naught but another commodity, and has awoken to the money-making potential of the word. Once this crucial first step is taken, the rest of the steps to the ‘economy of meaning’ fall easily into place, and the path to effective sale of poetic-product is laid.

Tips for the intermediate Poet-Economist:

Following the awakening of the poet-economist in you, you will begin to look at the aspects of poetry differently. Poetry, after all, is equally about the redistribution of wealth and the exchange of goods and services as any other commodity; in fact poetry inhabits a highly profitable position as both a good and a service – see below.

- The Privatisation Of Meaning: One of the main steps from a more conventional poetic position to that of a poet-economist is the involved in gaining control over the three pillars of poetry: Meaning, Form, and Content. This process is a difficult one to follow through, but once mastered is known to unlock as yet unheard of heights of profit and creativity. It is not best described prosaically; rather, it is more effectively portrayed in the form of a 9 step program. Each step is of increasing importance, ranging from infinitely important to astronomically important. The steps must be completed in order, particularly steps one to nine. The order is easily deciphered but not numerical. Paradoxically, it becomes obvious how best to complete the list only once it has been completed, however, once the programme is completed, this won’t seem nearly as paradoxical.

1) Poems are a profitable commodity.

2) Meaning is what enriches poems and makes them profitable.

3) Meaning, like any other resource, is in limited supply, and thus, like any other resource, must be marshaled with extreme care.

4) Meaning, like any other resource, has different values for different demographics, and must be marketed correctly in order to most appeal to those demographics.

5) Meaning in poetry is composed of an almost countless variety of aspects, but first and foremost by form and content.

6) Form must be controlled and considered with the utmost care as it is form that most consumers identify as the first aspect considered of a new poem.

7) Form is also content and thus produces meaning, and thus is a resource, and thus, like any other resource, shall only be released for the right price.

8) Content produces meaning, as well as being the second aspect considered of a poem by a potential consumer, thus content is both a resource and a marketing tool for meaning.

9) Form is the first method of marketing meaning, content is second. However, as both also are, effectively, meaning, both must be marketed and delivered themselves with extreme care.

Once the program has been completed, the poet-economist will be free to move on and master his own ledgers and profit margins. Keep in mind that these instructions must be adhered to strictly, or they will cease to properly function as instructions.

- Service-Oriented Poetry: The change from a mere poet to a poet-economist is a change in priorities. From the self-centred, elitist priorities of a ‘classical’ poet, a poet-economist will turn to a new set of priorities and answer to a new master: the customer. Poems you write will no longer inhabit a selfish ‘universe of you’ around which all other readers orbit, rather, you, and many other poets, will orbit the bountiful ‘sun of the consumer’ competing to drop into lower orbits and scoop out profitable rays of consumer interest. The main characteristic of this change is in the way the poetry is written: you are no longer writing to fulfil whatever egocentric desire previously motivated your writing, rather, you are writing to fulfil whatever egocentric desire motivates your audience to read your poetry. Every time you sit down to write a poem, foremost in your mind must be the requirements of your customers. What do they want to read about? What do they want to hear? How do they want to hear it? This is difficult step to take, and requires quite a jump in writing method and in terms of research. You must be constantly alert and aware of the ebbs and flows of consumer taste, ready to strike on a particular front at the first vague sign of customer interest. This is one of the trickiest aspects of the poetic economy lifestyle to master – as whilst one must at all times stay one step ahead of competing poets by capitalising on the popularity of a particular theme or style, one must avoid, at all costs, any kind of avant-garde or new wave experimentation as such ventures are risky and may not pay the requisite dividends.

- Homogenisation of Discourse: It is in the interest of the poet-economist to join, find, or form a movement to apply to their poetry. If one thing is to be learned from the world of business it is that the more homogenous the product the greater its appeal for a consumer. Consumers don’t like big changes. They don’t like big decisions. If your poetry is too alien to the prevailing poetic climate, then your poetry will not be profitable. This may not seem obvious, but if your poetry requires customers to move too far away from what they are comfortable with then they will become uncomfortable. Uncomfortable consumers are like uncomfortable sheep: Irritable, volatile, fickle, and moments away from death. The poet economist is like a dutiful shepherd, care fully tending to the every needs of his conformist herd, and ensuring they do not stray from the larger flock on the green pastures of the ‘plain of profits’ towards the deadly ‘cliffs of the new’. Thusly, you must strive for a poetics that is easily pigeon-holed, easily genred, easily lumped with other poets. A shepherds job is made infinitely easier by the assistance of poetically like-minded shepherds, and with more shepherds, the size of the flock will grow! Conversely, goatherds are universally despised on the ‘plains of profit’ – so don’t be a goatherd! This particular step is not a hard one for many poets, as for countless millennia – from Homer to Chaucer, through Byron to Bernstein, via Bukowski – poets have regularly been wedged voluntarily or otherwise into easily marketable groups. See the Romantics, the beats, the imagists, L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E or the Black Mountains or any number of countless others for valuable examples of this technique.

- Poetry for the people: The remake is a profitable exercise for the poet-economist. Just like in film, rewriting an established and popular text is a quick way to easy money. In poetry this can be achieved in one of two ways. Either through the blatant plagiarism of other authors, who are likely to be dead and thusly, unable to sue, or through the more obtuse and lazy reuse of ancient poetic forms. Here then an example of a Poet-Economists post modern Villanelle:

I don’t have an idea for a subject

When it comes to this villanelle

So I’ll wing it without regard for aspect.

One might think to stop and object

Shout discrepancies, or better still: yell,

Because I don’t have an idea for a subject.

I thought I might try and reflect

On nature or poetics or else

I’ll wing it with scant regard for aspect.

And these lines some might reject,

Because if you look real hard you can tell:

I don’t have an idea for subject.

From the shoulders of giants I genuflect

And piss down their shirt-backs as well

And wing it with no regard for aspect.

So its virtues are select and circumspect

And its rhythm is shot for a spell,

As I have no idea for subject

And I winged it with little regard for aspect.

This is a perfect example of a poet economist rehash. Note how it sticks loosely to the age-old form of the villanelle whilst simultaneously re-imagining it in a more modern environment. The retro feel of the form is perfectly executed and well suited to carrying the post modern and ironic content. Of which there is none: this is what makes it ironic and post modern. Remember the 5 point program star: content is no longer of interest to consumers.

Alternatively, for an example of a direct remake, take this modern reimagining of the classic William Carlos Williams number, XXII:

So much depends

upon

a red dress

discarded

glazed with do-

llars

beside the white

powder

This revisiting of the famous imagist work is an exemplary example of the poet-economist remake. Taking the basic form and idea of the original poem, the remake relentlessly modernises it. The tranquil pastoral scene is urbanised and switched for a decadent scene of eighties excess, however the fundamental ideas behind the piece remain the same: that is to say, it takes a normal, everyday, scene and elevates it to the level of art. This is a particularly well executed remake poem as it successfully ‘sexes it up’, through the addition of drugs, sex and money, and adds a layer of intrigue to the piece: Who owns the red dress? Why have they discarded it? Whose money is that? What’s it doing glazing the red dress? And finally: What is the mysterious white powder? By mastering plagiarism of this kind, a whole new world of exciting and lucrative new forms, themes, discourses dialogues and such becomes available to the poet-economist, allowing the discerning business poet to begin expanding their empire in earnest.

Thus, by merely following these steps and more steps which are not yet describable and pivotal to your success, the poet-economist can easily develop a profitable springboard from the foothills of obscurity into his or her own lucrative flock of consumer sheep, and begin orbiting them and scooping out rewarding scoops of consumer interest. Fame, fortune, money and success await you, as a group of attractive sisters might, once let out from the watchful eye of their oppressive matron: Sense. In other words, as you grow stronger by alienating meaning, rejecting content, and degrading form (Remember the 17 point system chart!), the fields of triumph are open for you to plough with vigour and vivacity, and open for you to throw tremendous parties and possibly a picnic, should the urge take you.

SESTINA CUBED: ALTAFORTE REVISITED

2009-01-14T16:47:00.000-08:00

I

THE INTOLERABLE BASTARD PROCLAIMED HIS PACIFICISM!
HIS FREQUENT CRIES FOR POETIC MUSIC
DID LITTLE TO AVOID THE CLASH
THAT AROSE WHEN HE FOUND OPPOSING
A LAND OF BLUE WHITE RED
WHO OPINED: DESPICABLE IS HIS REJOICING.

II

BUT HE CONTINUED TO MAKE MERRY,
AND CRY FROM THE ROOFTOPS: “PEACE!”
THOUGH HIS EYES BECAME SHOT CRIMSON
TIL MALADY WAS INDISTINCT FROM MELODY.
HIS CRIES BECAME VILE AND CONTRADICTING
AND BEGAN TO AGGRAVATE THE CONFLICTS.

III

AND AROUND HIM DESCENDED A FIGHT.
HE WAS NEVER CAUGHT OUTRIGHT CHEERING;
JUST COMMENTING, FREQUENTLY, AND ARGUING AGAINST
US, AND PROPOSING HIS OWN AMITY.
DELUDED THAT HE HAD ONE SYMPHONY
WHICH COULD END THE SPILLING SCARLET.

IV

SO WHILE FIELDS GLOBAL STAINED CLARET
HE NAMED BANKERS “SHYLOCK” – A QUARREL
THOUGH HIS CURRENT ALLIES WERE CELEBRATING
OLD ONES WERE HATING HIS SONG
WHILE HE YELLED FROM RELATIVE CALM
OLD FRIENDS OF HIS WERE RESISTING

V

WHILE HIS OLD ALLIES WERE COUNTERACTING,
HIS NEW FRIENDS, BLACK AND BURGUNDY
WERE CRYING FOR A RACIAL UNITY
THROUGH VIOLENCE AND DEATH: A COLLISION
WHICH DROVE THE FILTH TO EXULTING
THEIR LEADER UNVEILING A DEADLY OPUS

VI

THEY SUNG ALL THEIR ODIOUS REFRAINS,
BUT FOUND MORE THAN OBVIOUS CONTESTING,
AND WERE DEFEATED, WITH MUCH REVELLING.
HE WAS CAPTURED UNDER SUNSET CERISE.
FOUND IT UNAVOIDABLE: A BRUTAL CRASH
WAS DRIVEN MAD IN PISAN CONCORD.

On Dream: Then Dream; Or Dream; Last Dream. Dream again.

2009-01-13T00:04:00.000-08:00

DREAM

If you will: of a time.
Alternatively, I’ve heard that dreaming of a place is good this time of year.

LUCID DREAM

Some what of an epiphany, characterised by the co-operation of various mental detritus: a clearing away for the clutter, and yet, bringer of Buxworth and the boiling end.

AMERICAN DREAM

Take as many small firearms as can be liberated from the Germans as possible, then sell them to the Italians. Use the money from that sale to hire a Gaelic football team – for added challenge, hire them from France. Use this football team to build a house out of small firearms and copious amounts of laughing. Make sure you do not invite Samuel Beckett: he will drag the proceedings down slightly and taint the mood, being that he is dead and thusly smells a bit funny.

TELL HIM HE’S DREAMING

Although they are fine jousting sticks.

FEVER DREAM

Light…light….white light….light….darkness.
Tactile, substance. Washing….washing over me.
Someone hidden in the darkness, then:
Who brought their pet weasel?

PIPE DREAM

Indeed, these happen a lot in the summer. On fields or paddocks, sometimes in the bush or at the top of a skyscraper or in a plane. Many times in the graveyard for an oddly tranquil experience. Oh dream! I thought you said “Piedrian”. We can come back to this.

DREAMSCAPE

Mainly angular.
Gets and nonsensical through at different times,
A place of many abbeys.

DREAMTIME

Where the aborigines hide their nukes. Once I saw them, and they were watching me although I thought you might hide underneath.

DREAM

Like an elephant in a dark room. Like a cult in a dark room. Like Christ during an eclipse.

DREAMLIKE

And yet not a dream; an impostor. Foolishly like a dream but with substance: thusly, imposting.

DAYDREAM

The past 7 years for me. See also, the past 10 weeks.
Who put this stupid daydream here?

NIGHT DREAM

A dystopian vision, though hilarious, and it felt right. Nice work on finding your tail.

THE AMERICAN DREAM

Involves other people, mainly, and angular jaws. Mastered by an Austrian.

DREAMS

Less comforting in their plural: like a shotgun with anthrax.
Shothrax, or “The Thrax-gun”.
Released by the Armalite Company in the winter of 2037,
I later sold the blueprints to Steyhr, who mass produced it, and used it to obliterate the tiny island nations surrounding their factory with discomforting and oedipal recurring dreams. Sophocles is as when it of island nations.

VISCOUS DREAMS

Sometimes sticky, sometimes just plain semi-solid. Like cornflower and water, which is astoundingly messy. Will you have a viscous dream with me?

DREAMS OF A BETTER TIME

Reserved for the discontents of cheaper worlds. There is of course no such thing as a better time, only different times with differing levels of cheese production. Present global output of cheese: approximately 250 million tonnes. This approximates to one cheese related dream amongst every ten people globally every night, except for Switzerland, where statistics are unobtainable but approximately astronomical.

DRAIN.

What happens to you in a dream.

True fact, a dream is just a slight mental corruption of the physical draining of every human every single night. Who is draining us? We do not yet know.

DREAM

Did you dream again last night? You cried out softly and inaudibly.

HALF-DREAM

Are you trying hard enough? There is only half a dream in this bucket!
Or do you mean, there is only half a bucket in this dream?

THE SANDMANS MUD

Is where I killed a man. He cried out to stop me, but I took him out to the Bayou where the Sandman was waiting. There we clubbed him to death, used a barnacle covered rock. What were barnacles doing on the Bayou? The Sandman didn’t know, and neither did I. After we had clubbed him sufficient, maybe even too much, he tried to get up. We clubbed him some more and then I pushed his face into the sand with my foot. The tide was coming in, but we still had to wait hours. In all that time he never stopped struggling, and so we gave up and the three of us went and had a drink back at mine. The mans name was Rasputin. He and the Sandman eventually ended up having a fist fight on my porch.

LUCID DREAM

Form seems to be drop it down undermining the follow through and yet it still shines through.
Through and through and through. Every Single Time. Through and through and through and then the end or; the END. Finito, kaput, pakaru. The end the end the end the end the end.

MORPHEUS’ DREAM

You think your dreams are mad and feverish? Try being the god of dreams! I have to put up with all this crap, even when I’m awake! Its arse, I’m going to have a word to Zeus about getting someone else to do it. Maybe that weasel Hermes. Can’t stand him.

SWEET DREAMS

Are whenever he dreams of her. She wears that dress, and smiles at him, which is all he ever needs, then he wakes up. He never can get back to sleep. He has never dreamt this. This only happens when he meets her. He has never met her, consequently he lives only in a dream, and it is not sweet. This is not sleep, but it is the way he cheats himself..

WET DREAM

One thousand, five hundred and seventy five days and counting.
I do miss her, but she really was vulgar.
Vulgar like a fox.

LUCIDITY IN DREAMS

Franco’s only surviving lie was that he invented the wooden crutch.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM

Shall I compare you to a summers dream?
You don’t look like a bed, or a day, or a dream.
A midsummer nights dream is much more coherent than yours, but then a midsummer night has a lot more space in which to dream.
However, they do tend to get stuck on the bacchanalian, which can become quite banal until winter.
Have I told you how lovely you look in a midsummer nights dream?
You drape it about your form like you were born with it, and you both confound me.
Have I told you how lovely? My god, that’s what you are.

RAINY DAY, DREAM AWAY

And it under does go far, each and go wide over every time.

PIPE DREAM

A dream in a pipe, as a hobo on a building site would have. Or, a dream ABOUT a pipe, as a building site on a hobo would have.

DREAM

You, you are a dream. Come back, and foul up my discourse again.

It Stung #11

2009-01-12T23:46:00.000-08:00

“And then what happened?” he asked, whilst absentmindedly perusing the enormous bookshelf behind him. The man sat across from him and started to speak.

Grim, grim, grim. Woe!!! Peril. Much of it dangerous. Dangerous peril. But where will he be struck in the next instance of dystopianism?

“Gosh. That’s…odd. Just odd, really” He said, when the other man finished talking.
“Well. Yes. Indeed.”
“Indeed.”
“…”
“So what to do from here?” Both men looked at each other for a long while.

Pillar #3

2009-01-11T02:37:00.000-08:00

Galileo
looked

out of the
window.

It was
a
cold day
outside,
and
the children out
on the
street
were
turning blue.

Galileo
turned

then into his
contiguous

performativity.
“This
is nice”

thought Galileo.

Galileo
walked

in the garden
amongst

the vines,
partly understanding

a great deal
about
the lost thought
that
he had
had,
but
obviously,
not enough.

Galileo
swore

upon his beard
that it was more

than that

Gracious
Joan de Lisle
was watching

them
as they
progressed
downward
from
the
mind
to
the page,
those words,
burnt
as they were
and
uninteresting
when intact.

Joan de Lisle,
Gracious,
was
singing

Joan de Lisle
was

graciously imperilled

but could not see

the blind
bell
barrel
wrote a poem.

Joan
‘Gracious’
de Lisle

cut
a superfluous blind
from
the mass
outside

but it
did not affect the structure
nor
provide
a satisfying
enough vector.

Lady
Ozymandias
was sweet enough

but didn’t think

she could
handle
it;
yet:

Galileo

looked upon her

works
and knew

then and there

but up
and
I’m serious

-ly taking this
to a place

sometime.

Lady
Ozymandias
(gracious)
was unsympathetic

to her
marketing
assistant
but the poor
girl

kept coming
(back)
despite the intense

intergenerational contempt

that she was
(otherwise)
stricken by
– this is a true story.

Lady
Ozymandias
swore
upon Galileo’s
beard

Revelatress

2009-01-07T14:53:00.000-08:00

I daresay she is the revelatress.
The rapturous caress
And so on.

A fine foment of a goddess
A fine foment, the
foment
caught me
yes indeed
she caught
me
I was falling?
indeed,
You were,
you always are.
You certainly did fall and she
she
shook you free.

~

49 Times
To start

I
did

Per-
sist

But she

she

she saw.

~

The ecstatic open course
of the

I did

A line

Onwards

The burn

pre

She shakes me.

~

there is a requisite correction that is yet to take place and damned if I will be the one to execute it,

A parallel barnstorm maelstrom hail works its way amongst the onwards pale quality.

~

There is a permanent
a certain quality
a duality
this escapes me

thus called is to elude but onwards is but a discourse frail ally-oop
and then all is
prevails
no

~

Precisely what is the central medium of the artefact?
it is what gives us the contiguous lines which makes
us manifest
moderately so in any case
but makes us manifest amongst that which we have seen and comprehend.

The ability to grasp and caress
the loss of the firmament the claw
and its subsequent reappearance
that’s right. subsequent.
helps this helps that helps.
Look it just helps
I tell you this and it behoves me to do so.

Stillwater Suprascopic

2009-01-04T05:08:00.000-08:00

THE HILL

The seal follows a curve cut down swathe shelter through the greenery out into and around the creek. One side free but style storm onwards, marked out dotted and marcrocarpa. Inside and between around there are livestock, mainly sheep and they are seen from across sport wide the valley. To the bare, remains still forth open, but shepherded edgewise, as it were, and surrounded though free. On the direct, left down, a frame hut skeleton shed used to stand and may still.

To be forthright, on the fourth corner, on the right, upwards bush shrub burnt path cut down and regrown and I never had the interest or the fortitude. This point lies on 5 minutes depart perimeter, or 10 minutes or less depart the centre and by extension 25 minutes or more going out before the bridge on foot. I expect it was a shell wise.

At a point precisely 347.356 metres from the bend know as “Turkey” there is a warping in the air that contains a number of various invisible fractals and emotions that percolate and permeate there. I passed this point once along a line and several thousands of times in cars, buses, trucks and other vehicles. If you look into the eye of the vortex you can open barium forestop callus but you neglect fortnight barter cause.

To progress edgewise left or right do so, consider bush. There are great wide shirks of bush and they make it up the hill. Like many others. I did around but never through the shirks. In amongst said shirks there are several huts, homes, and many many plants bushes and trees. And shrubs. And insects, likely. To look at the shirks you might find hawk forth bind, or you might not, it totally depends on the scale form foolscap and the colour of the dart.

Truth told it is the home straight if ever there was and will ever remind me of home, wherever that is.

THE CREEK

The creek itself is a burn of a mud swallow and is smelt covered fallen branch and leaf decay on through the dappled but whose fault it is I don’t know. There is a shattered cull of a boulderscape that litters the length of the creek to the river and into the river and elsewhere, but to think of the creek brings a slither spotted by rocks.

Above the creek are fronds of the shirks aforementioned, they interlink to form something of a forward out barrier reconfiguration, as it were. Deterioration of the colt base has provided nothing but a firm perilous onslaught to deliver, split and develop that which consorts the firm.

The barrier/boulder/reconfiguration shows only the half of it and the rest of the develop envelope is carved “from the living rock”, though bare, dead and not rock on some if not most occasions. There are number of tremulous and belated quarters that compose the pellet, yes, or, to be sure, indeed. In another notable case, below the main significant curve/swathe of the cut/seal there is an opening or some say a closing or some say tunnel or I will say a “Cylinder”. It buries the forestop.

This is for the device, the creek, and the future something of an open path, and furthermore a bind of a creationist foolscap. There is and there are and do not forget what I told you. It is a trickle but was once clear a fire burn a. Or not. There is a precise. I saw a fealty.

Fine of the creek and spelt brown, steal the chicanery and pile algae. Sigh of the water and a thick film develops on the waters edge. The fauna find a pelt of dystope there. So to consider or find but bare the earth and furrow through the slate.

It Stung #10

2009-01-04T05:04:00.000-08:00

I eventually gave up trying to work out where I was and decided to walk off in the opposite direction from the infuriating man from earlier. I couldn’t rightly remember which direction he had walked, so I just walked straight ahead. All I could remember of my earlier acquaintance was that he had walked down one of the lengthening glass tunnels that seemed to be proliferating in a most irritating way in almost every direction I looked. I decided that I had better try and find my friend, and fast, before he fell down into one of these deep glass holes that I kept nearly falling down. It seemed every time I looked down at my feet I was just about to blunder into another of these mad deep glass pits. In any case, finding myself on the edge of another pit I looked up, chose the tunnel that it looked most likely my friend had fled down (Where was he going, then, anyway? What was his name? ) and leapt over the pit, hitting a run on the other side (did the other side seem slightly closer than when I jumped?), fully primed to track down my lost associate. “I’m coming to get you…uh…” Hmmm, who was it again? “….ah…..hmmm…. Oh well. I’m coming to get you!” I cried. To no one in particular.

It struck me that I was setting quite a good pace down this tunnel. I mean, I was running, perhaps not at my top ever speed, but I was cantering along up there with the best of them. But to my immense confusion, the tunnel only seemed to be getting longer. I wasn’t sure why. Also puzzling was the fact that every time I stopped I found myself at another crossroads that I hadn’t seen coming. And every fork in the cross roads appeared to be exactly the same as all the others. So I would usually just pick the one in front of me and sprint off down that one. Something was stinging. I wonder who? Oh well. I kept running. It kept stinging. It stung a bit more. Something was in the tunnel ahead of me. I slowed down to a jog. I approached the…whatever it was. It smiled. I kept jogging. It was a woman. She smiled. I smiled, and kept jogging by. I waved as I passed, and she seemed to frown. It stung like nothing. Nothing before. Great gad it hurt. I wonder who? I kept smiling, and jogging. This confused the woman but by then I was past her. “Wait, where do you think you’re going?!” She yelled over my shoulder. I spun around and kept jogging away from her backwards. It struck me then that this was perhaps foolhardy, given all these mad pits everywhere.

“Just jogging!” I shrugged.

“What-” she began to yell but I waved again, smiled, and turned around. Then I sprinted as fast as I could away from her. What a nice girl.

It stung. I tasted something. Hold on. It stung. I stopped running, and then I nearly fell over. I paused, gasping, knee grabbing, for a moment, then I thought “What the hell”, and fell over. It stung a bit…My arm! It was my arm! It was what stung! It didn’t just sting, it hurt like the blazes! My forearm. I was overcome by a feeling of such immense satisfaction that I had worked out what was up that I almost stopped stinging. But it didn’t. Then I hurt more. I tasted something. I wonder who? I stared at the offending forearm, accusatory. How long had that been glass? I tasted something….no, something was in my mouth. Thick…bitter. I rolled over and spat on the ground. I looked for a long time at the gooey red globule as it sank into the sand and was just a red mark. No wonder I was in pain. My blood was filled with glass. I looked around at the distance. I seemed to have got to the end of the glass tunnel, that infernal set of warrens. But some how I had ended up in some sort of glass container. Trapped, perhaps? Tricked. Whatever. I couldn’t see any way out, and even if I could, doubted I could bring myself to break through in this state, what with all this glass in my blood weighing me down. It must add at least 20 kilos to my weight. No wonder my arm stung. Hmmm. It stung. I swallowed. Was that saliva?? Great gad. “Oh well”, I thought. “What the hell” and fell asleep.

There is a Moment ripe for the Picking

2008-12-29T03:44:00.000-08:00

Although I am discontinuous and incoherent, I still may be a defender of the Faith.
To select a precise moment of organisational cohesion, I do not, I will, and for multiple precise reasons and why. I have seen the formative crises of the nine and none of them interested me in the main, influential and deterministic though they are. A spend of. Forced dialogue leads to an unfinished pelt, but not many and exactly and I hope for one more lunge. A crisis in blonde approaches and she does little to decide. Another fine sting you’ve gotten me into, but I recognise it for what it is. It is exactly these moments that creative eminence takes precedence and produces luminescence. This is but another approach for a lazy stroll, another approach for a love poem, and another approach for a selective manifesto. I mean to say that this is a motion forward. I mean to say that with ignorance I hope to produce movement. I mean to squawk that with ignominy I hope to produce moment. And this is true. So in the steam momentum, she shocks through brunette and is otherwise nondescript to align, appropriately perhaps, with the lowest common denominator. This is the same vein as the dreg soup of “Eat” and the poor girl who spawned the calculatory format of the vestigial ca

Although I am a Defender of the faith, I may still be incoherent and discontinuous. And this is true. The faith, easily, and mainly through song, is defended by a heretic such as myself.

Although there is a moment ripe for the picking

Although I can see you I put it to you that there is no future for us here. This is never but a note to the riled and wily consumption bombardier. He is waiting for you to take action. This is an action.

Although you might think otherwise, the faith is on form and open, waiting for you to take action. It is at this point that it will begin to exist. Until that point it can only exist as a potential – hence, you must have faith.

Although they appear to have followed you it is you who is following them.

Although you are here it is clear that you are not paying attention.

C.V. conversation without M.M, Circa 17-Dec-2007

2008-12-14T14:21:00.000-08:00

Him: “You’re cute when you explain things rationally.”

“its going to be cool we can go to the movies all sorts of things…..or we could just stay at home and watch the little mermaid….”

“is that sign being put back up?”

“its not a PDA free zone anymore?”

“I think it only applies when the sign is up…”

“what sort of stuff?”

“…oh cool”

“hah”

“heh”

“hehehe”

“Funny….yeah we’re pretty scandalous”

“(snickers)…oh well”

“(aside)…which of these pens work?”

Me: “ all of them.”

Him: “oh cool.”

“great I took the second from the left”

“….what else?....you are bed monster?”

“I don’t really have anything to say so I’ll let you get back to bed…”

“talk better tomorrow…”

“no you’re going to try”

“just try extra hard”

“whats that?”

“I’ll try…when I get to yours”

“yeah but…I’m still giving the love”

“Yeah, I’m still emanating it.”

“whats that?

“I will. Have a good sleep ok?

“yeah I will.”

“ok, bye baby”

It Stung #9

2008-12-14T13:44:00.000-08:00

A number of different factors converged at this point to bring about the declaration of war. The most obvious to observers at the time was the seemingly aggressive yet thoroughly reticent diplomacy of the Alsatian empire, as practiced the aging Alsatian Diplomat Hans Schindler. Such diplomacy was ridiculed in the popular press at the time, with such headlines as “Blustering Hun in the Blistering Sun” (referring to a diplomatic crisis in the Maraccha Desert involving the capture of Northumbrian troops within the territorial bounds of Alsace’s holdings in that area – dealt with in characteristic style by Schindler, who made a lot of noise but eventually allowed the crisis to wind down) or “Hot air blowing in Moustiers” (site of an ultimately ineffectual diplomatic conference, in which the Alsatian contingent was headed by none other than Herr Schindler). With the benefit of hindsight however, it becomes obvious that the surreptitious machinations of the Blessed Iberian Realm had a far greater effect upon the rise of the conflict – with the worlds eyes misdirected at the pompous bluster of Schindler, the Cid was able to set the world to the brink of war whilst remaining completely neutral himself. Arguably all of this diplomatic tension had as it root cause the Great Recession that had gripped the world 16 years prior, and which still held sway in many of the poorer ends of empires. The Great Recession was caused in no small part by the unscrupulous economic policies of the United Cities of Verspuggi, which had led, almost inexorably over the course of the proceeding decade, to the complete collapse of their stock market, and through a unique ‘domino effect’ to the collapse of all affiliated markets. In any case, all of these various factors amounted to, in late summer of that fateful year, to the declaration of war between Northumbria and Alsace. And it was this war that saw the development of Barnabas Brown into the elusive and resourceful individual he eventually became.

It Stung #8

2008-11-27T23:33:00.000-08:00

Piously rampant. Covetously undermined. Derivatively Vague. Certainly Dystopian. Critically considered. Colourfully pious. Rampantly certain. Critically coveted. Vaguely Derivative. Heinously discontent. Boldly indecisive. Locally finite. Perilously lodged. Gallantly secreted. Indifferently coloured. Dermatologically challenged. Criminally retroactive. Catastrophically scarred. Subliminally lit. Lavishly set. Tortuously highlighted. Delightfully pockmarked. Highly perilous. Garrulously inept. Elusively couched. Deliberately elusive. Triumphantly cruised. Baroquely open. Infinitely trialled. Woefully prepared. Indisputably witless. Charmingly indifferent. Surreptitiously surveiled. Radioactively reactive. Brashly pompous. Maliciously ignorant. Periodically euphoric. Euphorically periodic. Temporarily elusive. Frankly dilated. Hopefully not. Mysteriously underlined. I wouldn’t. Hopelessly circular. Logically invalid. Help me. Terribly predetermined. He did. Unabashedly fraudulent. Unpleasantly accoutred. Determinedly calciferous. Slowly established. Distantly indeterminate. Inexplicably bold. Decisively picked. Poignantly crowded. Quizzically hellish. Angrily pontificating. Grippingly open. Extensively apprehensive. Openly anxious. Egotistically feral. Reluctantly supernatural. Lyrically thoughtful. Socially tonic. Heatedly alien. Heatedly alien. Heatedly alien.

It Stung #7

2008-11-27T23:21:00.000-08:00

It was at the behest of these self-same media magnates that the NWWPC was first conceived of. It constituted the culmination of 4 and a half years of long and painful disruption to the regular schedule, and as such, was plagued by a number of timorous bureaucrats who stood in its way at every convenient juncture. In a way, it was this lack of commitment on the part of the bureaucratic hordes – only opposing the NWWPC at every convenient juncture – that was the primary reason for their failure to prevent its inception.

Pre-decise

2008-11-16T17:10:00.000-08:00

This pre-

sents for me so-

meth-

ing o-

f an error

passage.

I didn’t

wind down

qu-

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right.

It DID OP-

me.

Blazing.

By ALL Rights?

Bent

ove-

back-

wards

Err

to Err

an-

between tha-t

which w-

ere.

PREfer.

Persist-

erspex

anon

lon-

Anony-

mous

seful

And-

rog-

yn-ous

pre-

dila-

predic-ate

Hell’s on

wheels

briefly

ir-ate

Iña-

rrít-

PreciselywhatIwastalkingaboutthatfatefultuesday

Then: Fowarddd

for

vic-tory

grey-

tness

to GREY.

What the

BLAZING

Blazes. pending

Yours truly,

your approval.

Bilingual.

Tri-

lin-gu-

Multi-

ling-

ual

Super-

fluous.

multi-

fluous

it flew

horren-

dous-

open

right then.

did

but you

did-

n’t

til yesterday

when you broke

out

of where

gr-

and.

iose.

Deligh-

Sat-

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is avai-

able

to all

based en-tirely

on the

tran-

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ya-rds

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peril-o-u-s

grin

Grim

grim

Count-

en-

ance

Coun-sell

Vocational Guidance Counsellor

bile

style

wild,

Myles

Alight

on yonder window

bre-aks

Cra-cks

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Occupational Hazard Counsellor

Vocational

Ha-

zard

Inspect-

Hell’s

fury

briefly

ack to

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solution

It Stung #6

2008-11-12T14:48:00.000-08:00

It continued stinging. It stung. It stung but I wasn’t too concerned about it. In fact, it was only when some sort of psychic perspex glass started its inching convex progress over my reality, closing like the aperture of a camera, that I stopped to reflect on how pressing the matters at hand were. Where was I? Where am I? That man from earlier….had he gone? I was no longer in that corridor. I was outside. I thought the room looked a bit big. Outside of where? Inside and outside – how come there is no middle ground? In-centre. Out-middle. Outside of where – who cares, what was I inside of? Some sort of atmosphere it appears. Maybe. Maybe I was upriver of it. Incentre of it. It stung again, the glass slid another millimetre. It seemed it was locking into place. At least I now had a time limit. Measured in glass. How much time? Glass o’clock. I set off on my path again, with renewed determination. Really it wasn’t renewed at all. Really it wasn’t determination.
I amend: I set off on my path once again. Vigour perhaps? I just don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

I was almost angry when I came to my first obstacle. But not quite. Only fools get angry. I just get vapid. And only a little. It is a matter of philosophy. It’s not enough to laugh in the face of danger. You’ve got to face in the face of everything else too. Laugh in the face of misfortune. Of squalor. Laugh in the face of deception. This means you ought to consider every one thoroughly untrustworthy and laugh at their every attempt to form trust. Laugh in the face of trust. Laugh in the face of misappropriation. It’s not enough to laugh in the face of danger either; you’ve got to cackle at its very being til you almost reach the point of suffocation then laugh in the face of suffocation. This being the philosophical derivativaguery by which I arrived at the first obstacle, it found me not angry as hoped, but suffocating in the face of laughter. And laughing in suffocations face. And laughing at its offspring. Anyway, universal providence being as unanimously habitual and uniformly repetitive as it indeed is, it transpired that the first obstacle was my acquaintance from earlier. I think. We seemed to be in another corridor, which meant we were probably outside again. Was I still in his garden? Had I gone anywhere?
“Am I still in your garden? Have I gone anywhere?”
“Who are you?! What garden?”
“Brilliant, you don’t know me?”
“No! What are you doing here?”
“Fantastic. I’ve made progress again. Where am I?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Why do you think that answering my question with more questions removes the narrative imperative to tell me where I am?”
“What??”
“Hmm. You’re still doing it. Ok.”
“What?”
I knew at this point I would have to ascertain my location using my own general tactics for navigation. This involved looking around and cross-referencing visible landmarks with my recent memory. Incidentally the glass slid in another millimetre as I thought about this. My short term memory seemed patchy anyway – I didn’t, for example, remember any of these long glass tunnels that appeared to stretch off in every direction. He interrupted at this point, completely derailing my train of thought.
“When you refer to a ‘narrative imperative to tell you where you are’, is it a genuine attempt to achieve a meta-fictional flux or are these merely the ramblings of a mad man?”
I thought about it for a while.
“Well, by asking that very question you have, by merely re-iterating the potential for such a concept, forced us into said meta-fictional flux. We really only have a short amount of time left now before we ebb away into some sort of self-referential existential limbo wherein we only exist as questions of our own existence. Of course, with these collapsing glass reality-blinders I didn’t have much time anyway…” and at the mere mention of its existence, the glass slid another millimetre over my vision, “…however, it could be said that the answer is C, all of the above.”
“You mean to say, that in referring to the narrative imperative for spatial awareness, you are consciously attempting to achieve meta-fiction through the ramblings of a mad man?!”
“No, I am rather suggesting that in fact that ramblings of mad men are predisposed towards that creation of meta-fictional spaces… of super-literary bubbles – that is to say, bubbles of conception that transcend the bounds of traditional literary fiction in that they represent a conscious or unconscious attempt by an author to construct a sub-reality of the supposed base reality of the fictional universe – that the ramblings of fictional mad men exist in something of a post-fictional no-mans-land, if you will”
“Hmmm.” He paused a moment. “I shall have to reflect upon this.” he said, and turned to walk away.
“Wait!” I cried out after him, “You haven’t told me where I am!”
“Of course not! I wouldn’t be much of an obstacle if I did, would I?”
He had a very good point. I laughed at the back of his head defiantly.

Ruapehu Suprascopic

2008-11-10T04:43:00.000-08:00

up, in finite – as inside finite – to wit:
Up, in finite, azure a bend or – my favourite now – WHEN
or Before as it were.
To wit: Examine, significant, as it were, a SAW, he saw he had seen he saw.
Bend, not literally, BEND: Azure or a SAW.
The cull – a saw – the implement, the scene, that broken, the scene I SAW Before.
Be fore – as become fore – to wit:
BE fore I saw, to be sure – to be SHORE – the
landscape bent; bend; Bent/bend or a bend or.

To wit: To Re-examine, re-iterate
Ill iterate – as in, to wit: Ill iterate (Sick iterate) – Mine eyes have SAW
A bell, the bell, the toll and then – this will shape it beneath but and been when before
Seriously
Ill, it is seriously unwell. It is lit – or lite – or light – or lit poorly.
Magistrate/ this were dire.

Dire: A point. Deal
Dialled - dealt.
Magnificent
Magnificent
Influenza struck.
Azure a bent rifle pits or.
Primarily descent, primarily, anyway….
Mine
eyes
Ok O.K. O.k. O.k.
That came in a bend or third.
“a Bend Or” – alternate altercation took place in azure – but not – and I must point out.
To your left, then, the, pursuant to the earlier clause, you will see, reified in sand.
Inter-subjectively, pan-territorial, supra-scopic.

Azure – or between, it works its way to, I’ll cold – if you must: Cold hell steel grey;
a panful of INVISIBLE LEAD SOUP.
At this point, I must, interject.
ASCENSION
Cold hard rock – barnstorm – STEEL.
Douse wet, fallen – 81% - Humidity made manifest – not humidity, not manifest.
I’m trying to express here
Look; 81%. 82% coverage.
Cloud cover disappearance burnt barium finite – in finite.
He resides, She resides – She resides.
Supra-particulate. HAH – LOOK.
Cold blue, hell steel tundra.
Shell shocked, cavern, gully, grim – the gorge, bent wire under bent forward
A swathe – a cut – cold blue – cold blue/ cold.
I am hesitant resistant extant to reveal what that was.
Alight – the peak. I meaningfully here elide.

A set in the dark but the tundra, hell steel tundra.
A scar, to scar – follow a scar – to wit: The continuum and not to wit.
nots to talk
nots to. – no Tim, no Tim, nots to walk on Serpentine park.
Slide, slither – meander. I am deadly serious here – it’s the only way down
Direct and true – straight as a barometer.
SAW – in the red. It is important to distinguish this: It is jagged.

New Zealand

2008-11-06T04:47:00.000-08:00

This country is a cultural waste-land. 90% of it anyway. Elections are depressing. The population of New Zealand is depressing. No I'm not going to give you a context.

HELP WANTED

2008-10-28T17:42:00.000-07:00

When in front of before or have corrupt sight.
A society blatant or tongue
He is lost now to the marching vacuous.
It never hesitates though I always went and though it never I could deconstruct it. Every time.
Clubbing: this best describes its action.
The hypoderm is more easily applied.
This is an assault on your boundaries, as they always are.
Boundaries are rendered fluid, under the explosion, which I’ll show you, as boundaries fluid are not boundaries.

To argue that they are innocuous is to miss the point entirely, in every regard to miss every point and to be maliciously ignorant. To be maliciously ignorant.
Ignorant is what they see, simple and ignorant. A basket, a population of sponges. They are however, completely innocent. And I paused a while to wonder: If I have no free will then how can I be morally culpable I wonder?
So who to rage against in such a virulent system? The virulent. Rage against the virulent! Where are the virulent? They are invisible by their very nature, and the first are long dead. They made this a landscape for the virus, and it is irrevocably so. So how do we live in a virulent landscape?
We become viruses for the viruses. Eat them, and multiply. What ever will arise will be worse but it will be different and it will be necessary. Adhocracy is an exciting proposition.
Not every man is a Nietzschean superman; they are more often than not an Everyman. Eugenics is a failure, as is genocide, and thus the only solution is Idiocracy. Adhocracy.
This system is fertile from the soils of lack of thought. Absence of thought. I am a minority, thus I must become virulent to ensure that I am not. Intelligence spread by virus is little better than indoctrination and re-education, however if it is mine, then I won’t have a problem with it. Homogenisation through sequestration.

Finally! An end to all of sat before and the universe and be I’m. Nonetheless, you may have created a quick route in my mind slowly growing into continue the street. When it comes one could slightly undermine an adhocracy. If it comes, one could finally throw an infatuation at the undulating.
The surface remains undulating although they stretch it taught. This is where they lull you to sleep a false sense of security. They are already asleep, this then is the virus. At work. Working slowly.
The street is a turf that they have difficulty with. The street provides an environment which is anathema to their machinations. So the street is where they stretch it taught as possible to quit the oscillation.
For us it’s a war, for them it’s a secret affair, for us is only me. You, could be more proactive. For you it’s a spectacle.

How do we function short term in an inhospitable landscape? Through the use of apparatus.
How do we function long term in a hostile environment? We make it hospitable.

To attain transcendence, in my opinion, exonerates insubordinate progeny. When you avail your self to such a climate crafting the most penetrative that they can. Thus, it is in the interest of the neo-virulent to become mal-absorptive of everything. The trick is to ooze a subvert discourse at every juncture. Adjusting your pores to expel an intellectual barrier, rather than sweat is time-consuming, causes you to overheat regularly but is ultimately a rewarding and worthwhile experience. The next step is to automatically corrupt all discourses around you.

They are unaware of the resistance and corruption produced in the system by angry pores, as for them it’s a seduction. For the pores, it is an angry invasion. There is no defence like a good offence, and thus they are unawares they are up against this covert war. Corrupted is the more well read younger brother virulent. Corrupt is his more cunning younger twin. While the virulent is concerned only with reproduction and replication of the virulent, corrupt covers this and contains an intent: to further corrupt and subvert the opposing intent. It is covert, but only by virtue of the fact that they have no opposing intelligence but against each other.

For they compete with each other to join you up. But for them it is hierarchal whereas a virus establishes a network. A virus is also rapidly evolutionary.

Enough demonism has not been placed within hierarchal structures. A network provides a perfect form for modernity. A network is simultaneously individual and communal. A network can at once be plural or singular, and a network hierarchy. Even individually, we are all networks, so it is a natural step to apply this procedure on a macroscopic scale. Power is inherently and delightfully transient within a network structure, whereas in a hierarchal structure it is fixed until the present hierarchy is destroyed and replaced by another. A network, conversely, is transient in form, and its power is fluid. This makes it the perfect response.

Thusly, hypodermic, meet pincer and virus. Penetration indicates a forcefulness and a hierarchy ie: “I am out, you are in, this needle is from out to in, from my hand to your arm. Accept our discourse. No, do not accept it if you think it will help, however, it will still penetrate your arm, as I am out and aware of it, and you are in and placid” Corruption means you are in and out and marshal your boundaries. It is giving a fake arm and holding the needle your self. It is penetrating the hand that is holding the needle, through a touch to the skin of the chap with the needle.

Ruminate.

And watch.

Then you will know.

It Stung #5

2008-10-28T17:38:00.000-07:00

He never knew his father. His mother had raised him from the age of 2, before that he had languished in the care of foster family that had too many kids, and whose matriarch was nearly overcome with joy to discover his mother was returning to collect the product of her misguided youth, the fruit of her inexperienced loins. Those first few days with his mother had been…odd. His growth baffled his mother, in spite of her own growth in the 2 years after abandoning him. She seemed unsure of him. The last thing his foster mother had said to them something muttered about a “…Stinking hanging pall” which had thrown his own mother into confused doubt. His foster father had said nothing, had just sat unmoving in his arm chair like he always did. In fact, in the 2 years of his life spent with the Morrison’s, he could not remember one singular occasion that his foster father had moved out of that chair, or in fact done anything at all. Not even spoke. Perhaps he had no foster father.

It Stung #4

2008-10-27T05:07:00.000-07:00

“You didn’t think it would have made much of a difference. Of course, you were wrong. It made all the difference. But you didn’t notice that at the time. With a modicum of hindsight that may have changed but you may still just not notice. With the lens of hindsight.”

----- (City Poem List Poem)

2008-10-21T16:48:00.000-07:00

My city of the death hardwired into life
My city acquits defiant spawn
My city of the end of the world
My doomed city with the persistent cough
My city of Sweeney among the nightingales in the trees
My city of anti-Sweeney among the parasites on the fleas
My city of the slender arms and fat hairy thighs
My city of the meek shall inherit this city
My city of the blind plague rats and the hair that cuts you like a knife
My city of the clumsy enjambment
My city of the last stand of Colonel F.J Custer-Morgan
My city of the nah, it’s your city.
My city of the deregulated underproduction
My city of the inane conversation
My city of the duplicitous harpies with exquisite leather bound books and rich mahogany mahoganies and ensuite of derivative chocolate and bad coffee.
My city of the deftly boring concrete contortions
My city of the fundamentalist Firenze
My city of the mole people eating your children on Wednesdays and Thursdays when you provide the adequate documentation.
My city of the Adam west admirer’s club and sun-stalkers cult.
My city before the all-seeing eye of our lord Langhorne the wise and omnipotent.
My city accosted by the watto trees
My city of the Petri dish isthmus
My city of the broke Petri dish
My city of the defiant bacterial
My city acquits defiant spawn
My city of the empty buildings, unencumbered edifices, empty buildings and mole people
My molepeople of my city
My city of the stalk
My city of the unencumbered anaphora
My city of the “Drop it, you crazy-eyed apologist”
My city of the self referential Tolstoy and Dadaist Shakespeare
My city of the 23rd catch
My city of the dive
My city of the concussed cricket player
My city of the harbour and sluggish flies slugging it out for the love of the slugs
My city of the Collapsing Cities
My city of the Einstürzende Neubauten
My old city destroyed by old bastards
My city of the slender armed mole-harpies and Adam West’s half-eaten omnibus
My city of the rolling cars and rolling hills and unexpected out of control rolls by rolling cars down rolling hills.
My city of the swirling vortex
My vortex of the swirling city
My, City, of the 12 things you showed me today only 7 were unencumbered by this creeping ontological red-weeed and properly shaven tight close to the skin.
My city of the oscillating rotund fireblocks, slowly that befriended that though it never did see him coming from behind with the ( ! ! ! ! ) SMACK, though of course he just mispronounced it and in fact it was “( ! ! ! @ ) Slap!" Instead.
My city of the pop-cultural fundamentalist
My city of the Freudian slip
My city of the jaw activated hand grenade
My city of the mad-man Maximillian Palmgrenade
My city of the sweet
My city of the ignorant
My city of the bliss
My city of the fast crawl
My city of the lethargic sprint
My city of the sprint crawl
My city of the unblinking eye of Brokeleg the Brave
My city of the million cities
My city acquits defiant spawn
My city confronting death
My city of the ripped transporticus
My city of the ripped sail
My city of the billowing yakt y chit
My city of the white sail
My city of the blight trail
My city of the slight gale
My city of the right mail
My city of delete the old!!!
My city of the sun speckled graveyards of our descendants and enemies
My city of the I probably had too much in that last - - -, and dammit, I shouldn’t be doing this at night, but rather in the sun soaked fields of the rush of the dawn hour
My city of the blasted buggery blighters
My city of the Tally hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
My city where there may in fact be something wrong, intrinsically, fundamentally, unsettlingly wrong with your banter chaps, but stick to it, you’ll be singing through your Betty Harper’s in the morning, feathering back on your sammy, and skipping through the dicky birdy! The Jerries won’t know what hit them but only have a vague suspicion that it was in fact you bunch of waspy hows-your-fathers!
My city of the black diamond remotely manipulated, transfigured, and enlarged from a distant location, undermining deixis – using oddly amorphous states of dihydrogen monoxide

My city of the various watery images, most frequently of ice, could be attributed somewhat reasonably to the ostensible setting of the poem in Alakanak Alaska
My city acquits defiant spawn
My city of the cough
My city of the trials
My old city destroyed by old bastards
My city of the new scum, we are the new scum, we are the new scum, we're coming to get all to get you
My city of tremulant pauses
My city for the people
My city for the robust
My city for the Robotniks
My city for the Polish!
My city for the ramifications of redundance
My city for the new
My city for the young
My city for the thought
My city for the subversion
My city for the avant-garde
My city for the science
My city for the rational
My city for the philosophy
My city for the forefront
My city laughing at the impending apocalypse
My city acquits defiant spawn
My people of my city acknowledging
My city of my people defying the end and carrying on anyway

Destroyed Topography

2008-10-21T16:43:00.000-07:00

A lot of my poems I have messed around with the topography of, generally by liberal use of indents and the tab button. This does not translate at all on to the web, relating primarily to how browsers size pages - i.e. there is no definitive right hand side to the page. To signal that a work is at less than the quality I like it topography-wise I have now given several the "Destryoed topgraphy" tag. This is just FYI, as it were.

Prayer

2008-10-21T16:34:00.000-07:00

Her pleasure is his sin.
He peaks on her pleasure.
He crashes on her ecstasy
He races on her rapture.

She raptures him to frenzy.
Idolatries his soul
Frenzies him, lengthwise
Frenzies him mind wise.

He becomes like a starving shark
Like he knows no other
His greater joy to dialogue
her mind and her body in concert

Worship is best achieved through cunnilingus
Speaking to her down there sings to her middle and to her mind.

Sweet nothings may seem destined direct to her ears
But her thighs are good listeners
They seem more sincere.
A song to Rose, through her rosiest part.

She is consumed by his desire to please her.
His evil desire to make her transcend.
His preparation for the dive.
Her dive.
She dives.

-----------------------------------------
They damn, sight shot through, they were Sinning.
Together, they were, together, never weeping.
Precise, they believed, in wallow in Beings.
Incised, they were, cut through each other before Righteous.
Amalgams weren’t never done for Destroy.
These were never lie in down Aborted.

They tyranny, in then before, fulminating Moment
Ephemeral under, the skin tongue, Fornication
Trial trail dyspepsia, frottage or Sinners
High on the hill, start shining, or Body
To pray or to find or slide Pray
Prostrated, the end, the beginning, You

Slow to culminate, said when Aborted
Talk too much, Not enough Sinning
Orgasm fluid, or ecstasy juice, the Destroy
Orifice, mind spent, end spent Weeping
To live and die before the Righteous
You cultivated being and were cultivated Beings

The earth, eulogised slippery, wet skin, You
You, in Moment
Cut, weeping, on the hill, Pray
For men Gash, and women for you, lie Fornication
Lie, smooth. Dissonant swelling your Body
Caress, massage. Dissonant swelling amongst Sinners

Subtle is the righting towards shared Beings
Crisis for the lion Aborted
I too much, lie at you, mind Righteous
Catastrophe or man, tie lithe, Sinning
Sinning in celebration, moral ejaculation Weeping
Ejaculation lie a fornication or Destroy

I only believe, mind unrepentant, the freedom of Sinners
Your skin, my hands, your mind, your face, You
Hand up, crisis down, dark frotteur, your Body
Skin hide breath lacing my Moment
Lying in your moment, down Fornication
Your hair, shining my blood, cut for they Pray

You Destroy:
the hopelessness of baritone figures caught Beings
For the plunge, no soul, ecstatic Weeping
Penance celebratory, masturbatory, lie Aborted
For the plunge, a moment in you, liquid flow or Sinning
Penetrative, cut and thrust, climax the Righteous

--------------------------

This peaceful Earth – before him, before me. I exist to destroy it. Crisis explosion, implosion delight satisfaction, The Moment. My evil reeks of moment, moment before. My Lady crucified, for love and forethought, though suck at agendas and spit ancient contradictions. For you they will, Pray. So do you best to disappoint them, as they have only their own interests at heart. For you I will, sing. Sing, for the moment. For the moment, the moment will come even if I die and you do not pray. For them, Song. Song, my evil, my gift, song. Especially for the sinners, song, for the sinners have tried and are tired and are joyous. And so song.

--------------------------

Seminal it to the Pray
Milk white, coffee black, sweet Sinners
Sin is for the sleep, the big sleep, my Fornication
A momentary elucidation the rapturous caress goddess You
Voluptuous and brief, my imperfect Moment
Long and welcoming, euphoric your Body

Sleep is for the weak, and lie the Righteous
Strings moments orgasm elation Destroy
Cock cunt knowledge cock Sinning
Clitoris before god, then women Beings
This girl elucidates response defies Aborted
The crush, right through the joy leak Weeping

They come before, statued or Pygmalion’s Body
You, the breasts I worship, Pray
My Epiphany is you, lay in Moment
In moment with the Sinners
God, the moment, spilling, overflowing in You
Good gods’ fornication, good evil, or Fornication

Driven you me Weeping
Driven me through Righteous
Driven naught never Aborted
Driven naught never Destroy
Driven the moment, you my Beings
Driven through never to celebratory Sinning

Lie Worship for Fornication
Penetrate mind through follow Body
A moment for You
Naught will never lie never Pray
Thinkers never lie together Sinners
I crafted for you this moment

--------------------------------------------------

In the dawn of the next day he opened up and lay with her before the sky and the crashing and the fall of the lights and she lay through him profound was their depth and epic was their continuity until they both expanded through to each others sides then embraced and came and

He will come again…

But she will come again and again and again because she beat him to it and he knew she made the right choice and she knew the punishment was feeble and not enfeebling and though they chortled they both knew that they had expanded in her moment of triumph.

He worshipped her in those moments before the dawn, those moments when she extended out to cover the whole of his existence. He relished that she was everywhere he looked and in him. The plunge. The plunge evaporated him into her being, she could not shake him.

In the dusk of the day after she regarded him with joy, and woke him just to see his eyes again.

Skin and flesh the mind, or twilight and power the ascendant thought.

She wrote on him as he lay in the noon, made him material, made him intellect. She crafted him for that moment and completed him. She completed him in a plunge and they met again in the dawn and to the rapturous ringing they arrived together.

So they embraced finality.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

City

2008-10-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

In the ebb and flow of this city they moved and cruised through and flowed and ebbed throughout the city, along the streets, the alleyways, sometimes the road, and often the highways, leaking from their joints, belching and coughing through, and wearing the paths down and building the place up slowly, noticing none that went between them but the form and the follow who were born again and both now permeating their own discourses, down on the edge of the port.

The port had been home to that which was never seen and that which never sang for upwards of millennia, shepherding in and out of boundaries and marshalling the terminals of those around him, those that wound viciously around the harbour waiting for the fall of the edge and his protégé or waiting to be fed, whichever came first though all knew the latter was more likely although who would push it through was not known, least of all in the outlying suburbs where the ghosts and mansions had all fled from the gormless suction bomb that been projected by the majority of the men in the know around the square.

And square was exactly the shape of that which was being permeated, though no one in the vicinity was completely aware of what might have been seen and what might have escaped, especially on the tired asphalt that ran in grids around the towers waiting for its turn to melt and explode and take somebody out, since it had been oppressed vehemently for too long by the majority and was tired of the vapid and cursed emptiness which managed to excrete out of all the gaps in the air around it, which nobody recognised and everybody had the utmost contempt for, least of all the home of the man in the blue cloak who had ran up against all his enemies a decade earlier with an axe and blown them back to the stone age.

The stone age was the last time that the edge had moved, following his triumphant departure from the square and the men in the know – though they were not yet in the know – and his less than triumphant arrival at the port, where he had resided for millennia crowded by those around him clamouring for him to select a protégé from the ranks over the horizon, whom he suffocated slowly with his portentous presence until none around him remained clamouring at all and he was finally able to select his protégé from the huddled masses down around the roots of the towers who whistled as they worked and sang as they tended to the dead.

These dead all had prominent axe wounds to their abdomens from their abortive attempts to battle with the form and the follow at the top of the towers long before anyone in the city had any enemies and long before the roads had fossilised into the dusty tremors which now covered the grid around the towers, and though in fact it was highly unlikely that the axe wounds were what killed them, they did make tending to the dead a messy affair which all around them found moderately offensive due to the tar black blood that clogged the all important streams which crisscrossed the centre like veins.

The veins eventually crisscrossed their way up to ensnare the towers, though no one noticed til it was too late and just like that the dead had got their revenge, plunging the edge the form the square and the follow into an enduring vendetta, casting aside earlier alliances and rendering the huddling masses at the base of the sky unemployed and thus free, and with their new found freedom they spread out in all directions, running away to die and to live, all but one who got as far as the port and was stopped at the end of a pier where he found the edge.

The edge thus then and there made his protégé the man of the streams, breaking the stalemate that had developed and almost shifting in his long and deep roots.

One root had slowly quested over the centuries, from the pier back towards the centre of the city, branching out to usurp the foundations of the towers and connecting the edge to the rivers and to the roads, and slowly coming to curl and spiral beneath the square where it set about learning the new found knowledge of the majority of the men in the know from under them while they slept, and slowly and shuddering replacing all the ground beneath square with aged and angry root, to the absolute lack of knowledge but growing unease of the square, and the growing interest and full knowledge of the clamouring ranks residing in wait, who began to flow slowly and bubble over the horizon towards the city.

The city by this time had begun to collapse, had begun shifting toward atrophy and was slowly becoming home to as many ghosts as the outlying suburbs, sans the mansions however, and without the huddled masses to tend to the streets the clamouring ranks were able to come belching and leaking into city and circulate happily on its roads and alleys, as the form had been slaughtered by the follow who killed himself in guilt, and the square had collapsed as the root beneath it decomposed as the edge had remembered that he had never sang and began slowly disappearing away, singing a slow song as he began to ebb.

PARTICULATE # 72: Stormfront

2008-10-14T17:20:00.000-07:00

A deeper saturation could well be necessary within the context of this particulate swathe, but a finer festoon than the kindred swipe at sixty four telegrammatically. But I digress! This is to consume the appropriate reflections of the four score and eight that hide the scum. In their way, they did puncture. But this is neither the way nor the tale of their indefensible quell. Rather, it is an assessment or, for type-men, a unilateral examination of the file that predates a pound for a pound or predicate of price or phenomenology. My friend.

So….for this, we need: Hermes. Promethea, quell cut. Dystopes. Half a style of deepening. A whole fisticuff. Robustus.
Our Method: Combine, mash integrate, assimilate.
I thought perhaps a finer swathe. I thought maybe a contiguous bind. And so it did, or so it did. A final impermanence, superb and impermanent. But how wise wide? When? a menacing consumpt.
\
stormFRONT.
catergoric, hyperbolic, isotopic.
if THE EMPIRE ENDURES.
If you have never been struck by lightning.
We will be doing something nefarious to the future.
it is important that it remains corporeal
As we will not be doing it in the future, but rather to the future.

He resists.
It bites a cry.
Inclination to repeatedly yell “BLIND”
Inclination to roll in dust.
We really think you are swell. We really do. We swell.
Hello.
He bites back a cry.
Then a waveform.

The mechanics of bush consumption.
The fundamentals of selection interment.
The rudiments of diurnal precipitation
Basic criticism plotting.
19 procedures towards burnt
Who is the Firmament Iguana?
Who is the Disassociative Fruit Bat?
Who is the Fisticuff Lobster?
It firmly occurred.

A lot of it seemed to fall out of one end.
Mechanical Men.
Silt
He feels the RAIN on his palm and so I look to the sky
HOWEVER it is to feel nothing!

Double Barrelled Perjury

Mire

2008-10-05T16:25:00.000-07:00

PERMANENT POLITIK

It Stung #3

2008-09-23T19:23:00.000-07:00

I was walking down the corridor. It still stung. It stung less, but it still stung. I had otherwise stopped bleeding. I don’t know how long the corridor was. I kept walking down it anyway. It didn’t seem to change. Maybe I was standing still. I kept having to pick myself up off the ground. Yeah, I was standing still. I was standing in the corridor. It still stung. My eye hurt. My left eye. He wouldn’t accept any of my answers; kept telling me I was being an asshole. A smartarse. He made me laugh, but that just pissed him off more. That made me laugh more. This always happens. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I’m not bleeding anymore, so I feel I’ve made progress.”

“What?”

“Progress. Progression. Headway. I’ve made headway towards my goal.”

“What? What goals?”

“No, goal. Singular. My goal of not bleeding. In fact, look, I’ve stopped. I’ve succeeded in my goal. And I didn’t even need to do anything!”

“Right…”

“What are you doing here, then?”

“Who are…” He blurred. He blurred out. He blurred back in. He had changed his shirt. I laughed.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Me? I’m not laughing. I’m bleeding. I thought I had stopped.”

“You have.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Your mum.”

“That’s hardly very clever.”

“You’re right. But it’s her fault. I tried to make it clever.”

“Was she really here?” He looked concerned. He looked behind me, over my left shoulder.

“I don’t know. I’m bleeding, aren’t I? What more evidence do you need?”

“No you’re not.”

“Not what?”

“Not bleeding.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You don’t even know my mother.”

“You have a mother? Good god. That’s odd. I didn’t think you’d ever been outside of this room.”

“We’re not in a room.”

“Sorry – this corridor.”

“We’re not in a corridor.”

“Sorry. I didn’t think you’d ever been outside of this room.”

“We’re not in a corridor, or a room. We’re outside.”

“Really? Wow. Where? I thought the room was a bit big.”

“What?! This is my garden. You’ve been bumbling around in here since I got home. I don’t know how long you were here before that.”

“Probably a while. It is a nice garden, a much better garden than it is a room.”

“You’re bleeding again.”

“No I’m not. So and so told me so”

“I told you so. Me. And now you’ve started bleeding again. What happened to your arm?” I blinked at him and then looked at my arm. He was right. What happened to my arm?

“What happened to my arm? Did you do this?”

“No! I don’t know what happened to your arm. You don’t know?”

“I have to go.”

“What?”

“I’m leaving. My arm is bleeding, and I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t even know you!”

“Probably why I don’t trust you.”

He started to say something but I turned my back on him and walked away. He seemed to be quite an odd man, I was glad that I had decided to excise him from my life. I wondered where I had put my tweezers. They weren’t in my pocket. I kept walking down the corridor.

Always

2008-09-23T19:21:00.000-07:00

Keep paying attention to the facts.

Baba, I broke it down.

VEHEMENT SONG

2008-09-23T19:14:00.000-07:00

I dealt down triumph but true form swung palpable.

I sang down, on felt through, on euphoric striking

though I heard her song so cruise melts vehement

and for and forward and felt my vital

progress that swore and said and happened

that then I swore she saw a detonation.

So sought, salute, devour, detonation

she rocks me, finery, vitality palpable

its just so, ripe infuse. I sung, so it happened:

she stung me! & shakes me, smiles – she was striking

in a song, in a storm, in a movement too vital

that for endured calcite rocked me vehement

Trialled, and terrific, my visage vehement

implode explode rampant detonation

that the next step for me my song was vital

that the next smile for me was tangibly palpable

striking striking great gad sung striking

and then when I saw her it happened.

And so, in her, inculcate, I happened

and sang a song swung low saw vehement

she struck me no stung me visage sly striking

and stinging and smiling she wants detonation

The song of her smile, so smooth beat palpable

Smooth skin and the eyes, good god this is vital.

But to stop is to fail: her mind strikes me vital

I struck upon song, I did, it just happened

a rhythm prosodic, a palate done palpable

so palpable so vital exists it vehement

a stroke a strike, a click: detonation!

a bomb, turned on, ticking nay striking

her grip too quickly it caught me. Mad! Striking!

her arm it moved quickly, cognizant: vital

and my forearm was lit up done caught detonation.

Too long was no action or act when it happened,

So right now, strike quiet, my liberation vehement

and soon and close so smooth to be palpable!

So for now I bide Vital, the start it has Happened!

Why, my quick Detonation, and mad heated Striking!

That my girl so Vehement is so close to be palpable!

obliteration blaze inferno peril.

2008-09-10T16:44:00.000-07:00

delve.

a concrete outline of the flames:

delve.

naturally start at the bottom. here is where all manner of combustion is occurring

peril.

and all manner of chemical reaction, it is all happening down here at the bottom

skim.

atoms are changing shape, elements are gaining and losing electrons and matter

crush.

is changing from one form to another. great amounts of energy are being expended

crush

but all you can see is orange. and you are probably not even looking at that part of

skim.

the flame. it is likely that you have had your attention stolen by other parts of the

crush

image, such as the middle and upper sections of the flame- where, it is said, the action

delve

is. this is problematic however, as stated earlier – the action is largely occurring at the

delve

bottom, but by a figurative sleight of hand the show is stolen. so what is it, that which

skim

makes the top so interesting? it is what has made it interesting always and is an

peril

amusing allegory for modernity – because the top of the flame is flashier, it is gaudier

peril

and more entertaining. it does more, and when you get your hand burnt it is likely the

peril

top of the flame that does the burning, or so it appears to the unsuspecting caveman.

skim

Cull Tide Swell

2008-08-25T06:36:00.000-07:00

When this land, momentary, is what we have, but; swell under forward. It is defined as the thing that stretches into the sea.

The qualitative lummox of the land shells…kind swell forth wise. It is the broth that sustains you to adolescence in this mire. The spine of the hill is wallows in mud, and the greenery instilled with grim wire sting. This spine of the hill is gall stretched gallows, and sweeps down below the undergrowth. A burnt style of broken slag and other, deeper, steel perforates the hill, creates the necessary departure. But from what? The hill sits upon the land like a swine and occasionally behaves as such.

The abrasive slice from the land forms the gully, like many a cliff once was but in reverse. The framework behind the walls of the gully, holding up each side, is often heard to tick. A term-brush and a shrub sink into the bottom of the gullies respective wells and there is a solitary nail. The floor of the gully is pitted with various metaphorical failures, and, you see, many failed metaphors, and the gully is sick.

The river is told slick across the land and bends about the hill. It is the definition of performativity and far from home. Cull-tides will periodically swell the river and flood its banks but its crass skin is kept finite. The protests of the river are hardly heard, the rivers stomp echoes only slightly. Moisture liquidity fluidity and all manner of other wetness including steam vapours and precipitations make their way to and from the river with worrying frequency. Foam is the enemy.

The bush consumes the land and the people like a halt or an outright scuff. It is green and muzzled. Leaves are critical across its underbelly and spin deftly when unseen. The bush is cut between and fallen through but never honed. It is the style of consume bombard enquire. Specifically of the moors beneath or on the other side.

The mountain is comparatively lunar, but not all the time. It is delirium form prescient, and spells it out as such. Its rocky sides swoon keel tuck ruin of ninety and spend. Down is former and appropriately omnipresent. Confusion up here is vituperative, but it is vituperative taskforce serpentine. A man was here once but he was fine down alter by the cull-tides, and then we he had or he had a mountain.

A form rests between these features, a form of consumption and of disorientation. It is the hollow of the valley, and carries itself away at times. From a view away or at another style it contains the whole of the last, but then in terms of while and festoon is spent and spent. The valley is obvious as it stretches from over the horizon to the peak, but this is deceptive and often compacts. It is here that the meeting of the finite and the infinite is made, but when such occurs a blow and a fell are kneel and never far. The valley is clear in its inadvertent function of collector, although is clearly the sides and the sum of all the parts.

Transience upon this hill was incidental and satisfying.

Semi-automatic

2008-08-24T06:46:00.000-07:00

Semi-automatic: A study in subplot dissemination and the literalisation of subtext OR Experimentations with substance OR Riffs on the theme of desertion OR “How to portray bookends textually via subterfuge and linguistic manipulation!”

They had once challenged themselves to remember just how many probe could be parlayed into the final countdown, but had found that without a shadow of a doubt there were only 14 people in the world who could do the job, and 23 were dead, shot down in their prime for knowing too much about the process of deconstruction, and known to possess a liberal amount of charm and lashings of oily chips, garnished only with the smallest children in the kingdom solidly swinging their bats at the ball but only seeing 14 metres in front of them, naturally elated as they were the best bet for democracy, because, after all, they’d never send anyone but the best, unless of course it was a Tuesday at which point everyone would take off their hats and stamp on them violently, making sure that they crushed the heads and only the heads, because the rest was valuable, from the prow of the ship to the bow, and all the arrows, although some of them were slightly poorly made, though that had never stopped Napoleon.

NAPOLEON

Napoleon of course was one of the first men to have seen the play performed in its entirety, when he sailed on the ship over the equator for the first time and into the dawn, the dawn of the probe, which solidly perused all that it had in front of it and made a decision based entirely on the facts.

THE FACTS

The facts were elusive and difficult to hold down, given that they had been lubricated liberally with ample amounts of charm, and were the second choice for the Premiership after the probe had confused Tuesday with Thursday, and stomped on his hat, rather than his head, triggering 12 dystopians to get out of bed and roll over on the floor sliding down the hill, through the town and into the dock, where upon it was time to go through the gate which was heavily guarded by all manner of distressing unsavoury types, but most prominently by Arthur’s Father, who was a great jolly fat man, Arthur’s father was fatter than that.

ARTHUR’S FATHER

Arthur’s Father was known to run a tight ship, and a tight ship he did run, least of all because a tight ship was the only variety of ship with the necessary structural integrity to hold his enormous weight, though many had tried, which had led to the ARFA-weight class of weight lifting being introduced the Olympics in 1976 on what was a sunny and some say fateful day, resulting in the fall of both the small republic of Monbulgia in which the event was held, and a quantum singularity being opened up on the inside of the stadium, providing the oligarchy that rose from the ashes of the republic with it’s greatest and most potent source of tourist income, aside from the roaring trade in dried out dead people they managed to partially achieve and partially usurp from Guanojauto Mexico.

MEXICO

Mexico had once played host to the ship itself, back when Napoleon was involved in his giant descriptive analogy phase, before he descended into reductive and regressive self referentiality, back in the days, those crazy, lazy, hazy days of summer, those halcyon days, those days before the great mutilated dingo took his liberties with plurality, before the loop had settled into place ensnaring those that chose to reside upon that fateful spot and stole all of the commas that he could see.

COMMAS

But people subsequently found that they could live without commas and once they were free of the oppressive yoke of the commas found that their creativity flowed unabated like the best milk-fed gimp who never stopped for anybody for no man or woman but perhaps would stop for a lithe and well fed grey hound if its fur was the right colour or a baby seal soft and yielding like the best of those comical moral dilemmas which used to plague the greatest minds of Plato’s century before some reductive nut case suggested that arrows and hares never actually get anywhere but instead spend their time progressing towards goals that never can be attained because the prerequisite for attaining those goals is to complete the tasks that infinitely come before and as such arrows and hares are able if they think about it to move laterally to time and space at right angles if you will because if you’re busy reducing all your goals to smaller and smaller constituents where in the hell else are those targets going move to get away from all you recidivist reductive dastardly bastard-bandits but at right angles from every plane in which you exist?

RIGHT ANGLES

So the problem of how to move at right angles remained unsolved and hidden by the hares and arrows until arrows fell into disuse and the hares had all regressed back to being rabbits and befriended their old foes the turtles without going anywhere near any of the those sly and dastardly backstabbing tortoises and so when the problem of where to go next returned to plague the sightless hacking preachers who had eaten the freethinkers of Europe instead of going at right angles into the thankless æther like they wanted to they were forced by Napoleon to the New World on the ship to vomit the remains of the thought they had eaten into the ground and form a bastardised leech parasite of a house to rule the world rather than invading the fantastic realm of arrow-hares to which the probe had retreated after everyone realised he had lost his hat and his head and his marbles.

MARBLES

His marbles in fact had become one of the prime drawing factors aside from the mummies and the quantum singularity for the Monbulgian tourist market which had flourished in the years since Arthur’s father had got too fat and consumed the universe with a wish powered by the dreams of magic carpet riding snowmen.

SNOWMEN

The snowmen had mutinied many years earlier from the ship when it was still ruled under the iron fist and broke jaw of the great Palm Tree McGillicuddy who had woke one day to discover his crew of magically bonded snowmen had eaten all his domesticated seagulls shot his albatross and raided the personal bank account of his jaw rendering it bankrupt which was crippling as it had been working towards financial independence from McGillicuddy and the rest of his anatomy for many years and through perseverance and good investments had only just gained financial security and taken its first tentative and somewhat haphazard steps into the real estate market by purchasing a fine Italian villa on the sea front in Vladivostok with a brilliant view of the patrol boats of the Security Defence Force hanging like the swinging salacious Sword of Damocles on the edge of Japans territorial waters waiting ready to strike like tightly coiled springs with ferocious tigers at the end of them waiting for the word of the emperor that now was the time they could cease being the Security Defence Force and that now was the time for them to become the Security Offence Force and teach those Ruso-Sino bastards a thing or two about messing with a culture of stifled and only barely contained samurai-warrior-accountants and spring-tigers too tightly coiled.

SPRING-TIGERS…HAVING… WERE

The spring tigers were easily recognisable and easily differentiated from other springs due to their vicious nasty bitey teeth and the fact that they had claws at either end and were often too tightly coiled due to the fact that they only occurred naturally in the fields of Corsica where they would play and frolic happily in the fields with Napoleon and were prone to rapid onset deep vein from-home-sis or home sickness as it is commonly known which wasn’t a problem as long as they were at home which they were until they were all rounded up and packed onto the ship and sent off around the world to find the probes marbles which had been sequestrated by a Victorian robber-baron by the name of Beguiling Bill Guinea who had an affinity for frankness and Thomas Ness and Bruce Ness and providing only the finest and slickest racing marble-boards when he was asked for them on time every time and uninterrupted by commas which was becoming increasingly easy in their absence.
COMMAS…OR?

P.T. McGillicuddy had been hot on the trail of the missing commas for weeks and was beginning to piece together a comprehensive picture of the thief his motives and his modus operandi when he began to find wayward punctuation in his soup fouling it up and making the onions taste like running shoes.

RUNNING SHOES: NIKE’S FINE ATTEMPT TO BREAK THE SHOE DELIVERY MONOPOLIES OF THE LOWER EAST

The running shoes of course belonged to the probe who had purchased them in order to gain the necessary grip to turn at right angles to everything else ever and follow the recidivist reductoid whom Plato had warned him about.

PLATO: WHERE AND WHY DID POLYTHEISM GO WRONG?

Plato had gone into hiding when he heard about Napoleons quest to round up all the hacking blinding bringers of the light and ship them off to New Philadelphia and had become an assistant chef upon the ship where no one would expect him to hide remaining incognito amongst the crew that was hunting him until one fateful day when he fouled up the captains soup, undermining his disguise rather expertly by revealing his comprehension of the nature of the written tongue of the traders – after all, what kind of soup chef has good grammar?

SOUP CHEF: ALSO KNOWN AS HANK

And so it was that the soup chef discovered the secret hiding place of the stolen commas, and it too was the last place anybody had thought of looking, as they had taken to a shadow dimension which was only at about 45 degrees from everything else ever, which misled their pursuers rather deftly, who had all gone right past and missed the turn off by about 45 degrees each time.

DEGREES: GAINED BY C’S

88 of the degrees had been universally agreed amongst themselves that everyone was a pack of fools for thinking that the only possible orientations with any substance or relevance of any kind were straight ahead along the plane or 90 degrees from it, so, in the spirit of gentle passive civil disobedience as a form of revenge, had agreed not to reveal the location of the commas voluntarily.

COMMAS, APOSTROPHES, AND HOW TO AVOID EMBARASSING TARDINESS

The commas found that what had in fact blown their cover was that they had unwittingly invaded the secret æthereal zone where all good soup comes from, and, vowing not to be caught out similarly again had decided to train themselves up by engaging in tests of sporting skill and other challenges.

CHALLENGES OF THE CHILLEN RAISING: HOW TO DE-TOOTH YOUR OFFSPRING.

They had once challenged themselves to remember just how many probe could be fooled into the self-destruction, but had found that without a shade nor shy trumpeter of a doubt there were only 49 people in the world who could do the job, and 87 had murdered them, shot them down in their private alcoves for knowing too little about just how many deconstructionists had been demolished, and who was known to possess a liberal amount of chips and lashings of oily charm, garnished only with the most finely diced chilled wrens in the barony weakly slicking their bats with crude oil but only seeing 14 people in stead of them, naturally elated as they were the downtrodden and dejected, because, after all, they’d never send anyone useful especially not the best, unless of course it was a Tuesday at which point everyone would take off their heads and stamp their seals violently and rubbery, making sure that they crushed the ice because no one wants a warm drink on a hot day, and who would know if the rest was valuable, or whether they travelled from the prow of the ship to the bow, or how all the arrows, although some of them were slightly poorly made, had never stopped Napoleon?

NAPOLEON…NEVER KNEW WHAT HIT HIM, THE POOR BASTARD: IT WAS ME, OF COURSE.

Napoleon of course was one of the first men to have for the first time and into the dawn seen the play performed in its equator, when he sailed on the ship over the entirety, which solidly perused all that it had in front of the dawn of the facts, and made a decision based entirely on the probe.

QUIT THIS VILLAINY!

Semi-automatic: A study in subplot dissemination and the literalisation of subtext OR Experimentations with substance OR Riffs on the theme of desertion OR “How to make these gullible fools read similar nonsense twice!”

A Study In Radiance.

2008-08-24T06:30:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that you are the perfect subject for a study in
radiance.

For example:

1. Seeing you, in the morning,
beneath a rising sun,
you are radiant.

2. Similarly, in the evening,
when I lie down
& wallow
in the setting sun,
I bathe also
in your radiance.

3. On Wednesday,
when we both meandered gladly
down the main road
with nothing in particular to do,
you were so radiant
that I got tired & had to go to bed
– you thought that I was being silly
& trying to annoy the bed
salesman,
& you became even more radiant.

4. On Saturday,
you smiled at me.

5. You were
especially radiant
in a floral dress,
beside
a lazy river – you illuminated
the
shadows
of
the
under
growth.

6. When you wear white you are particularly radiant.

7. In a black dress,
your natural radiance
is highlighted against it –
eventually you bleach all your dresses white,
just through radiance alone…
& you thought your flatmate was stealing
all of your black dresses.

8. You are
radiant
around corners,
that’s how I always know
when you are about to walk
into the
room.

9. When you ask me
how you look,
the answer will always be:
“Radiant”
– I’m sorry, but it may
be truth versus linguistic & poetic
diversity & in this case I shall
always take truth over my usual
favourite of poetic diversity.

10. During an eclipse
you are radiance
& take
on whole
wonderful
new meanings.

11. You are
blindingly radiant
in lectures,
or other public
places, or if I’m bored.

12. When you sneak up behind me
you are
brilliantly radiant
when I discover to my delight that
you are there.

13. When you are trying to read the newspaper you are
so radiant
that I have to laugh.

14. When you read my poetry books,
same again;
esp.
W.C.W.
& e.e.c.

15. In fact, when you try and read through
e.e.cummings
without pausing
and get confused by the semi colons,
then your she being Brand is rhythmically
radiant.

16. On Tuesday night,
you were radiant
as I prepared dinner & you pretended to like it.

17. You are
at your most radiant
when you are asleep
on the couch, lying on your side.

18. When you tell me about something new you are
greatly radiant,
& when you put up with
my ramblings,
then too.

19. You are extraordinarily radiant when you are humming & think no one is looking.

20. When you wear that stupid floppy hat you are
quite radiant,
but mainly floppy-hatted.

21. You are
amazingly
radiant
when trying to learn how to drive,
although I don’t know if the other
drivers think so.

22. In the park lying by the bandstand:
on picnics you are completely radiant.

23. When I am tired of everything else, you are
unfathomably radiant.

24. If I haven’t seen you for an hour or a day,
then you are
intensely radiant.

25. When you keep
chattering on,
about whatever it is that you are talking about,
& then
chatter
faster &
faster
& get
uncomfortable
just because I am staring at you intently, then
you are the most radiant thing in the world.
That’s why I’m staring at you.

26. When you don’t know I am watching you,
then you are
incomparably
radiant.

27. When you do know I’m watching you,
but think I don’t know that you’ve realised,
then you are sublimely
radiant.

28. When I discover you’ve been watching me
for I don’t know how long,
then you are radiant.

29. At some points you reach such incredible levels of
superluminal radiance
that I can no longer see you at all.

It Stung #2

2008-08-24T06:09:00.000-07:00

He was running as fast as he could. He was covered in sweat and his shirt stuck to his back. He took off his jacket, without stopping, and dropped it behind himself as he ran. This only slowed him down a little bit. He kept running. Crossing the road about 100 metres behind him she casually crossed the road. She lit a cigarette, she looked at the newspaper headlines at a corner stand. The fat bald man selling papers stared at her a while then blinked. Then stared at the next person. Her pace never really slowed. Not that she was going anywhere. He kept running. Then he tripped, got up, and stood there. He spat on the ground, and looked over his shoulder. All there was there were transient crowds of the usual vapids that populate the street. He thought about his jacket, and then sat at a bus stop. She eventually walked past behind him. Her cigarette was gone. Cigarettes are bad for you. Cigarettes are good for her. They give her character. They say “Look, here is a person that has decided to smoke. At some point in her history, she took up smoking. For whatever reason. Probably just to look cool. Maybe to do something with her hands. She looks comfortable with this cigarette, she must be, because it has not been stated otherwise. So she is comfortable with it, and thus, has been doing it for a while. Thus she has a history.” Look at the depth one cigarette, casually smoked, has given her! It says “Here is a character that is trying to affect an air of nonchalance in the most contradictory and incongruous way possible! She is smoking, which is, universally, an unpleasant thing to do, to begin with. But she has smoked long enough to become comfortable with it.” Why? She is, or perhaps just was, insecure enough to add ‘smokes’ as one of her defining character traits. Her cigarette, however, was gone. She walked up beside him from the other side and sat down with him. Now. Now he looks at her a while, then looks at something else. The sky? A bus? That portly old woman across the street, or that school girl in the skirt too short? The gutter. “Who were you running from?” she asks him.
“You.” he says and blinks.
“Why?” she asks, and looks at his hair. His hair is matted to his forehead. “Why?” she asks again.
“You didn’t give me any time to answer.” he says.
“You didn’t answer.” she says.
“You’re right.” He says. He stands up now. “But neither did you.”
“That explains it.” she says. “You’re an idiot.”
“I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“That’s because you are an idiot.”
“That was uncalled for.”
“You’re uncalled for.”
“You’re right.” he says.
“Again,” she says. “as always.”
“If you’re always right, then why ask questions? Why not just shout the answers at people and mystify them? That’s what I’d do.” He says. He turns around and sits back down.
“Why do you always complain? You’re worse than a girl.”
“Why does no one understand what a complaint actually is? Don’t answer that; you’re an idiot.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, I know, you told me before.”
“Yeah, and I’m still right.”
“Whatever.”
They keep sitting there for another 20 minutes in silence. They are pissing the bus drivers off. The bus drivers keep stopping, expectantly, only to receive two solemn shakes of the head. Then they angrily drive off. Bus drivers are generally not worth the time anyway. As a profession, driving buses appeals only to a particular group of people with a special sort of malicious streak. After about 23 minutes, they both get up at once. He laughs. She looks angry, and sits back down again. He hops onto the next bus, and the bus driver looks pissed off anyway.

The Varieties of Religious Experience, Revisited.

2008-08-21T05:39:00.000-07:00

If our value
works. If you
religious history-- Cases.

Religious mysticism-- Aspects of Nature-- Consciousness of God--
Summary of religious characteristics-- Men's religions need not
higher region, or "God"-- 3. religious side of life.

life. non-religious men. life. sexual life. sexual life. experience. If merely "feeling
human experience. religious history. religious evolution. If we should
There is religious fear, religious love, religious awe,
religious persons. sense. If
soul of man. experiences. character as religious men? Religion,
religious reactions. For common men "religion,"
If it can
in religious experiences. life? of mind. Subject's range of life. religious. of religion. the life hereafter. religious life. thought. answered my God. If you have
If a creed
condemn life. life pleases me. religious consciousness. crowning experience of his life. God. world. God
life our very life itself. experience. Blumhardt's Life by
world.

soul."[62]

Live as if I
Religion in
If
consciousness. sort of experience of life.

O God! religious direction. to his life. religious solution.

life.

part. life. for God. self. If
life. If
religious solution. life. essence of God's truth.[86]

subject's life. soul. religious mould. God. sense. Religion, p. 141. life. towards life. God is what life is. healthy-minded. soul.

love God supremely. grace of God. As life
minds. experience. God!' God. of God.

soul. life.' The Spirit of God
truly surrendered life."

experienced. unregenerate men experience. experience. of man's interior life?

experiences of life. subconscious life. If,
If
natural men. experience. God's excellency, his
praising God. God."

of God."

experience." The man who lives in his religious centre
Glory to God! If the
If injury
If
religious literature. man's. If positive
world.

Religious
mind. of eternal life. Purity of Life. spiritual life. Some men
religious feeling.

self. If
God bears no part. Gentle God,
Obeying God in
If you are
view of life. world."[196]

If, for instance,
If it
religion altogether. taking life. If the
life? Love." The lives
[210] If the life remains a social one
life. If
Religious persons
religious philosophy.

of mind. condition: "By God Almighty! Self. state of mind.[233]

of Life.

God?"[235]

life. Soul."[245]

solitary life. towards God. meditation into our religious life.

the world and lives solely in God. . . . soul. "If our understanding
if human beings might
If the mystical
enemies to life. thought. life. mystical men incline. If supernaturalism
religious man's sense of the divine?

If you are
Moreover, God is
LOVE.

Take God's
lives of humble private men.

religious still.[298]

experience. spirit lives. experience. Philosophy lives in words,
Men, I
experience. religion." religion. religion. man to God. Religion. of life's great arts. consciousness. If an
If we are
religion. Religious thought is
The God whom science
If any one
"Had Man's body,"
knowledge of Nature's life? words. If
part. religious things. religious life to go on. Does God
Not God, but life, more life, a larger,
of religion. world. life.

world. in the religious life.

Man, p. 24, abridged.

God, meaning only
If not regular
religious life lend plausibility. If our
selves. If

Glare

2008-08-21T05:37:00.001-07:00

The focus on you had just changed, the lens had tightened. I knew you were known to roam lands undefined,
I just wasn’t aware how wide.

The light had shifted, casting shadows down around in wide concentric circles. You stood stalwartly in the middle,
I couldn’t see exactly where.

This had led to a finer and finer series of tips and attachments to be produced, some shorter, some too long.
I was busy trying to catch up.

You had perfected your art, and your stance, and you knew where best to cast your net. Very few of them escaped you.
I was one that did.

The pattern had become increasingly stalwart, stoically defending your inalienable rights, though you were trying your best to shove it to the middle ground.
I managed to arrange its new alliance.

Suddenly the frame had changed; you were no longer where you said you were. Then the light began to dim.
I took this as my cue.

It’s length had extended, beyond all of the possible vanishing points, however it was still possible to viddy it in one eye.
At that point I had become atavistic.

The Faith.

2008-08-14T20:06:00.000-07:00

Of course I subscribe to the doctrine of the bared teeth,

to the manifesto of the broken neck.

I naturally sing the song of the blistered skin.

Of course I speak the language of the cracked lips.

I indeed understand the theory of the quickening blood.

I am often immersed in the simulations of the stretched calf.

I am an avid follower of the adventures of the dislocated joint,

the journeys of the collapsed arches.

I do enjoy the calculations of the clenched fist.

I find accurate the estimations of the pulverised thumb.

I consistently agree with the picked scab,

the shattered kneecap.

I follow the procedure of the bent spine,

I speak the praises of the pointed finger.

Of course I dance the dance of the shaved scalp,

and whistle the tune of the sweat-slicked forehead.

I play the games of the twisted nerve.

Always I will argue for the advancement of the numb forearm.

Nine times I have watched the machinations of taut muscles,

and I have many times seen the sculptures of the beating heart.

Why ever vote against the policy of the bloated stomach?

Of course I will argue for the philanthropy of the small intestine

and for the savagery of the large.

Naturally I admire the symmetry of the sliced tendon.

I pity the loneliness of the solitary kidney,

and envy the companionship of the twin lungs.

Unsurprisingly I calculate the equations of the clogged artery,

of the brittle vein.

I have been marked by the mark of the ripped nail.

I have seen the foundations of cell walls,

and the stabilising columns of the double helix.

Frequently I shirk the responsibility of the bleached bone.

But I am bound by the laws of transplanted marrow.

I am beaten by the techniques of bad blood.

Obviously I have learnt the lesson of the blind antibody.

I have listened to the dialogue between calloused palms.

Often have I watched the manipulations of burst eardrums.

I have been told the stories of the raised brow.

Of course I appreciate the diplomacy of the 23 chromosomes.

I am at the mercy of the commands of the bleeding nose

I adhere to the directives of the split hair.

Naturally I chant the incantations of the wide eye.

I accept the beliefs of the outstretched arm.

Of course I follow the faith of the forked tongue.

Form #3 (Unfinished)

2008-08-03T19:21:00.000-07:00

Form was elusive to him to begin with; he found he could only propagate along the spacious and intangible channels that interlaced through and around him, those channels that would constantly force him to be arranged and rearranged into new and thoroughly alien configurations, each continuously and progressively more divergent from the last, both physically – in terms of losing or gaining appendages, or developing a more contiguous shape – and mentally, in terms of predisposition towards a certain mood or ease of navigation along the rocky and churning mental pathways that were being laid and ripped up and re-laid inside the amorphous confines of his ever changing heads.

A head was fortunately the first of his five points to rise above and corprealise from the agitating channels that had been birthing him for what seemed ages, since that severe event which set them churning distant before, in epochs ago, and it was with great joy and trepidation that he reared his gleaming head out of the mire and set about pulling himself out of that which was around him and bringing himself together out of the disparate and coagulated jetsam that had pervaded his existence since the aforementioned catastrophe, and it was at that significant and somewhat momentous juncture that he found a corporealisation lying deep within the knotted bounds and bent folds that had wrapped around his previous isolation, and which stretched out towards wide open verdant pockmarked plains in the one direction and in the other, towards sharp and potential black mountainous heights.

Those heights were amongst some of the most vituperative confines which he came across, and began, almost immediately, to let loose with a wild range of venomous slander and sharpened death once they wised up to precisely how proximous he had become in the dark of the night before, when he had expanded to consume all his borders and push them forward indifferently in all directions, which he justified as something of an egalitarian self-experiment in re-conceptualisation and which had taken place even as all existence around had grown older and more tired and slowly begun to decompose.

Such decomposition was the mean populist state sharp of being in the area in which he found he broke through, through the weak point that existed there under reality, and it was a state that defied any kind of positive consideration – it was not part of the cycle, it was not cathartic, and it had broken the loop around there, it was a state of pure decay that held no future and it was against this putrefaction state that he found himself having to fight for his life, in the disoriented post rebirth condition where it was natural to fight.

It Stung #1

2008-07-31T08:48:00.001-07:00

It stung. I had got some tweezers from somewhere, though I knew it was too late for pulling it out to make any difference, but it stung, so I was going to try and pull it out. I took the tweezers carefully up to my forearm with my left hand, then I blacked out, and then the tweezers were on the floor. I picked them up again. It still stung. It stung even more. I once again brought them carefully and slowly to my forearm, then my head filled. I tried to focus again and when I had cleared again I saw I had stabbed myself a little with the tweezers. It still stung. Twice now. I lifted them out and patiently brought the tweezers around again to my arm. I began to lose it again but I fought it this time and ground my teeth together. It flared up, it stung. My teeth ached. I ground them some more. I finally brought the tweezers above the wound and slowly pushed them down around the sharp little pellet. I ground the inside of my cheek, drooled a little. Bled a little. I squeezed the tweezers on the pellet and began pulling them up. It gave a little but they slipped off. I pinched it again. I pulled. It gave a little but they slipped off. I gripped it once more, I crushed it a little. It stung, it flared up. But I pulled it harder. In one abrupt moment it came out. I almost brought it up to my face to study it but my arm was slowly going limp and I lost interest anyway. I dropped the crushed pellet on the floor. I dropped the tweezers on the floor. I looked at my forearm. It stung. So did my fingers. My cheek was still bleeding but I couldn’t taste anything. I thought for a while, then tried to get up. I couldn’t do it just yet; I got halfway then fell back down into the seat. My head was filling again but I still tried to get up. My leg hurt, my eye hurt. My left eye. I pushed my self up onto my knees, and gathered myself again. I laughed a bit to my self; I had fallen on my face. I stood up again. I didn’t fall over right away, so I just stood there a while. After about five minutes I laughed again. It wasn’t a maniacal laugh, or a big one. True, I snickered. I chuckled just once, then slowly moved forward. It took me a while but I walked out the door. It stung. I laughed.

Opening Gambit #7

2008-07-31T08:45:00.000-07:00

Hello. I have caved in and started using my blog, perhaps. It is, I must admit, a fantastic method of both distribution and preservation.

I wonder how I will end up using it? I have no preconceptions, or plan. First I will give you a discourse fragment.