?? stories
Testing lonely in lynx, Oh the lonely wolf and lynx, bobcat, panther, coug
and why not Love and War? among the lambs that made thee...
transorrow formed transfire. inbringing all the drowning. unfinish my
sentence in her darcholia holy changes of the waiting not to stand alone
in the lightless nostalgia. under the grip -- sure yellow
markingstigmata, and the what was german for "renunciation" which has a
nun in it, and nation, and rune ruin rain. waiting for the roof man, a
wave swell. things that bring monsoon blood to the surface, belly
laughs when the sorrowsaken apologies cannot be, the pregnant buoy
bobbing in yes moment's quiet tide. detachment renders the seeing an
exposed guise without sought, the last sips before submergency. riding
the only recompense but it's not inconsiderable, the only recompense
there is, is more a format than a door leaning ajar for a fraction of a
proverb. an altercation with urgent unsettling, snakeskins hanging
from the rafter of a demolished cabin fevered by elder-flowers.
Vineyards of the stunted ones, uncompromising intuition that echoes
under the soles and heels. "There's no cision like an incantation of
the slightest parable, the liquid running away with precious moisture,
the chin & lips understand a proper sadness equates documentation with
the performance itself, shabby undressed man-years from a lalia
unpossessed. A generalizable sensation of bluegreen blues, starting
behind the eyes and suffusing the altar-destinations of all the body.
The wire language keeps us netwise from the depths, so can healing not
reveal? o terra reconstruct exits as initiations once the possible
unbinds distractive force, causive appeal, the pluracy of our undoing.
yet simple echoes felt shiva-weed & protector bent knuckle-kneed
in two-timed lines, always thwarted in the" backatcha" segment of the
game and in need of constant reformatting. awaiting the roof man second
day in a rose, passed up a wild lavender purchase just now,
Soma
appeared from the interior of the herb, unwrapt pungent waft. Vehicle
passion remembers sominance,grace, alive only once to face someone
other's willful proposal to occasion this day a brisk walk of
inter-petaled spirality, no more set free than a sot on Christmas
morning. Even flora can't rescue the desperanza of unloved and unloving,
a folie a deux within one crippled sensorium, the human contortion
aptly succinct, the sorrow franchise gives way to momentary completion--
bell-rift threaded clangorium for citywide minutes. Looking hourly to
the sky's answers are civil but forlorn, sworn from
the yarrow oracle even if patience were possible. It was the drunkard's
birthday, and all heat gave rise to sadness in the golden-walled
tavernacle; thunder was pending, but not relief, the grief
unending sending tremors to the disjoint, hollow evasion of languidage.
Certain hops have the benefit of purging a downcast glimmer by virtue of
a swooning belly without a trouble, a care & yet the time to
elicit weeds
from the neighbor's garden to cure the kali addict. and today, a green
slip sheathes the blossoming reader as the garden riots insomniac color:
belladonna, sweet peas, petunias and mullein for the breath/gaze
a situated beneath the airy nomad's wandering grip. a corrupted life
without the elation innocence assures, early mornings alone inward
dwelling, only contriving to breath deep & release the pang, the
spectre, the raw edges of memory
...
some text fell away, into the no-space of despair; little bit of
word-lace, go fight it out irretrievably with wrestle-demon and
worry-fiend, in long turns of smoke rising from a vision now unnameable.
Now held
to the heartfunction somewhat lightened & grave denied afterthoughts
won, digressed from, the monolith of dreams gone like vanished, each
present soft word spoken in a moment lingering far too little to commit
the song to memory
, the dearness held at abeyance. Dim sounds of mail being delivered,
phones ringing in neighboring huts and sometime there is no life
nowhere, is this what it means to turn the golden plow earth-upwards?
Into the sigil of penetration, a wick unlightable by a window
unopenable, darkness shunting hope after hope til the detached man is
unburdened. Some loads carrying a tactic & an ending, a maneuver & a
storyline,
and heat is the great transformer, the alchemist of all narrative who
carries the seal of irrevocability on her ring-finger. Some clods of
earth are teeming with peridot, onyx and copper, dreaming their monadism
in a singular paradox, unglued from the elemental. Within a retreat of
no possible openings, I number my fantasies unprovoked, outliving the
cluster of prosperity that a wise health survives day by day
undisciplined discipline; is it okay? is it a "problem"? is it poetic?
the mind is draped in mourning and sends a proxy out to work, the heavy
lifting and carrying tears at the heart's casement, disturbed
earth is pregnant with nettles, burdock & thistle, they appear before
the forgotten flowers, if I make sense of new innocence, what happens to
the flawed history I beg to pervert, not a day goes by with wit lasting
the night
the july grief is alive, on the stalks of beebalm, on the clover-leaves,
in the rain-pummeled tomato plants sagging with green hard-as-marbles.
The clutch-cling of clothing as if tear-soaked dressing of dressing,
on high awkward emotions pinned under garment. Shred, bit of listening
for herbist footerpaths amukking. Oon & Een without martyr to number the
days by. I goto. I come backto. I gave no clear indication that
powers are guided or knowing, that ways are unselvaged, unobscure,
unsmeared with disturbance. On the contrary, in the midway that is life
is vitiated is mine, is marred, plunged in mud abjection on the verge
on the slide of urge & plenty. Once the allotted spirit had dissipated
the grandiose god retired. Symptoms were vague, the coffee slid
back&forth between them, some stories are unlike this one
where i come to myself, hard to tell and retell, so full of sleep and
unwilling life and turning back. In any leafy flower-maze in a mist, a
lemon bower with waxy blossoms decked, fig-globes drooping in handful
cornucopiae
swarming synconium from the garden of. Following closely the depressive
undercurrent, each time the story was retold, it became more charmed, a
circuitous breakthru of parenthetical asides & half- remembered
journeys to the underworld in which paradise is found. "To tell of the
good i found there etc" becomes a rain-enameled promise, black-beauty
buds, and prose a way to measure the distance between
the decentered cry & the impotent shout. Once I told the story too many
times, its threshold indicated a variable alignment. Damned invocations
alter the prayer habit, if only to host words for a similar ascent
swerved in combat with intuition's inner tuning. No words rising
ferociously could muster betrayal, the sense of "best supporting" that
seeps from every joist and crevice. an unbinding is in order, a release
-ing the stomach-knot while a fortune invades. Summary invasion of
private memories my outlandish vacation drew possible onlookers & a
notoriety. Harbor an unrelenting fear as the cloudy waves scour
the swirl of colliding tides between Devil's Foot and Penzance Point,
where the sorrow lifts under the solace of salt and rock. an effulgence
of locust trees and coneflowers run riot, who could resist the call to
approximate the letting go required to shift the balance of spirit. A
word given a full body & distinguishing marks, suggestive yet inflating
allways a genuine & embodied text, heart where the spaces between words
make us deaf to what next thing. a stubborn lack, a personal melting
away from distraction into the delicate day. many white sheets mailed
everywhere in wobbling tomes, and no return words to speak of
ability to undergo enlivening. she sang in enchanting monotone. The
character when studied apart from its reverberant credentials elicits
confusion & a brooding story that she whispered in her sleep. Harmony
stirs the ingredients in her sleep. One way to entertain the landscape
seriously fractured unilinear
contemplation, materials somehow silverly complex & copperly skewed,
interminable lifestyle troubled by vanishing strongholds, the small
tunneled havens seeping back into the ground under the sway of too much
rain. the gutted mount of emotion rang bell-like running clangorous
raging metal aftertaste almost like the nickel taste of amphetamine, the
rope pulled from a distance of not more than twelve doubled lyre-strings
in the key of immensity
before the shiver of any natural display disrupts (wild rhubarb and
strawberries, sorrel, honeysuckle), overtures of affect braided
thematically with troublesome detail. Timothy, queen anne's lace and
lambs' quarters forms a garland of sorrows. I am bodiless with a
penchant
for what her touch gives mysteriously, without cause, thistle scraping
against my skin as I wander thru the prairie which separates us. clover,
winter rye, "hair shine like gold"... "left me to die..." "lived for
the muse..." --old detritus of signatures. scenery replete with
insects, bat radar &
a home for the appetite of difference. and then on the other side of the
drifted continent, the bay dashed against a wall of granite, spilling
into diamond justice. my parents sat there in a daze, they said
"obliterated" ... "unwitnessed" ... "tentative;" for once the
supernatural children appeared the disappointment set in. sand as far
as you can see, walking away from nucleus, unstable in its monotony
and harboring lies and promises in its mutable crevices a family just
don't grow on squalor & dissatisfaction nor the capacity to overtake
complacency with a bow of cedar smudging atmospheres &
ballasts gone shabby. I no longer hide from the perverse child I
enabled, you(r) enabler, my errant and glorious fanaticisms all the
while hiding in ivory treehouses & sheltering my ero-curious vinary
impulses; and what narrative could interrupt in good conscience this
hurtled project of healing? I go in stealth, ornamenting despair twice
the witness of vacuum and splayed particles of human detritus
leaving & arriving in the instantaneous cluster of vertabrae, a spasm of
body memory chopped into indelicacy, this life belongs to my undoing my
becoming my dissolution, there by a 2 way river when summer mourning
triggers the yet-to-be, the never-was, the always-just-got-away
absolutions of the minute,
whether dis- appeared or abled the mechanism which grieves the
bottomless, the wonder of arbor monuments & casual probabilities. In too
many chapters the singer wanders thru the narrative charmed by
smashed lustre, a leaning toward, geode cosmo chaotic atrophy, an
aspiration if such there could trance pyre, a trovere undiscovered and
rhapsode of many colors. undeflected by wavered purpose, no decision
amounts to a stumbling mischief, gee their rubber soso stories bother no
onesome, sez you. Homily of adverbs probe a description assertion, like
the rosy glow of an imprisoned sunset or a butterfly in a lion's den, by
god they should know better but since they don't a crossroads is
reached. maybe to literary mayhem and scholarly misanthrope, the fear of
writing writing against the grain of stance and stabat, nothing doing
buddy it's all down the chokehold for you! a flickery leather ash,
melts in the
tongue's cave, whoarps the sudden helpfulness of whaa bbbb tttt
onthrough thoraziniacs' ballroom.
In all the memories that remain, she struggles with location &
grounding, a new wilderness causes the weeds to grow at the edges beyond
organization, a bitter flower changes skin, its generous seeds shatter
toward a better home. "can't talk nomore some weight gains hold" the
dusty space tween words perceptive, only cracked when femme in eternity
savors
he writes his private privations privations, another she plays at the
edges, elbowing the keyboard for more space, another she fades into new
life, another she withers from the old habits, another she spreads
across the continent for self-expression, another she mesmerizes with
her body given to invalids and lost men, another she has the name of
another she,
and the she of writing plays around the margins.
Symptoms of lingual flourish abound, like improbable desire in the halo
of an empty bottle. I am her, but only invisibly so. Accumulating
choices all leading to the selfsame approximation, bodies wound around
intent without the passion to provoke an athletic rebound. Recall the
specific
trouble
when paranoia starts its pernicious erosion of mind. reach for more
yellow-orange, and let the sparks fly where they may. to bring joy to
the center is the whole of our striving; and one foot dances the other
into
a passion beyond the person beyond the separation between fear &
intimacy
beyond the raw truth embracing engagement & awe. An envelope around our
pauses, glimpses, hesitations is the thinnest veil, rising out of a
culture which hinders the unimaginable tripping for the Other and its
Other, the polymorphic stream of Being that all creatures praise,
embrace, praise-praise in luxurious
gravity swooning as soundwaves rise upwards & the simplest act
by extension, is presence in the eye of the jewel of the gleam.
Gleening from wild gaze how sorrow lends itself to a motion to enlarge,
filled with passwords
from forgotten sleep. We are separated only by the distance of the send
button, washing in emotions oddly diffused, bordering on fictive
accuracy
What a time to go dragging religion in,
or through. I have never wanted so much
to believe in Teilhard's chastity, his noösphere
engirdling the earth in a close nimbus
of conciliation, as to find some other word
than *wretched* to describe the whole arena.
For Teilhard it is love's alchemy brought
to bear on love itself, virginity
reset amid corruption (type control -
alter - delete) that forms the catalyst
for our conversion. Not to get bogged down,
God forbid, in morbid details, but isn't there
something amiss in this phenomenal
account - some hidden scandal biding time?
Back to the stumbling-block, the necessary
woeful impediment. See where the sandal
scuffed the stone, the inoffensive stub
peeping out of the dust. Teilhard devotes -
appropriately - an appendix to the matter:
the quantum or quotient of harm, per inch
of the way travelled. As humankind is hitched
to perfection, each loss is amortized
in advance; but as for all that trippy prose,
read theology as an art of tumbling, a fall
taken with comic grace. Or is that cosmic?
And isn't that mythology? Whatever
precipitously grazes and befouls us stands
in each case as its sovereign occasion.
That was a ready-made; this an unready-unmade or self-unmaking in the making. Unrede meant ill-counselled, wise counsellors, get it from the source (of the language). I quote. I wish it didn't have to be like this. Ditto. What is at issue here is a repetition (of pain, for instance, jolted out of its socket, humming like a funny-bone twanged like an angel's-harp, here is a sensation that doesn't know what kind of sensation it is yet. Can you tell?) I think I'm in love. It hurts, the thought does, or is it the love? Just this morning she said "sorry to be a pain", meaning there is a pain in me I am sorry for. I have a toothache, a headache, a worldache, a netache. "When there's a pain, it's yours!" - basic animal operating system protocol (IE4 screwed the registry (bad voodoo)). I repeat. The pain is still there. I think I'm in love, but I'm unready.
to conceive the passion for the embrace of self misshapen and unaware
of consequences: on the hill, what can be seen approaches only from below:
the hordes look up at Jennifer, her body visible star or scar against the
sky or sun, her scars visible: she sees nothing, Zarathustra's displaced,
ah what a world she thinks, when I'm in love, Teilhard
Jennifer had caught Alan's eye across a crowded gymnasium. Dancers' mothers gelled & combed straying locks into place. Basketball court lines guided couples in a tangoette. Springs broken, syrup oozed from cracks in Naturalglow makeup from boy dancers' faces. A twelve year old girl with a big head sulked over a book of supermarket romance. The voice of Doris Day promised a foxtrot forty years too late. Jennifer had completed her preliminary lady's dance with her beautiful fifteen year old partner,Alan's son. The adjudicators filled in their result sheets & left the floor. Alan looked for Jennifer across the crowded gymnasium. Where had she gone? Later, turning round, she was gazing at him from the back row of seats, thirty years too late, in the land of regrets. Nat King Cole's voice was singing _ Unforgetable_.
jennifer walked out of the cafe and died beneath the cement lorry. I remember talking to to her about whether if things became unbearable she would kill herself. She answered 'YES' (Thanks to Thomas Bernhard)
And the thing is, with Jennifer, and Julu, the facts fell aside. Words had shifted into another area, remnant. the creatures of the sadness collect in blank waves, working toward a favourite horizon. Jennifer dreams, fills a balloon. balloon goes across some distance invented for the occasion. that's the thing crying for news. Jennifer rises, gone is Julu. gone is Alan. time has lifted a rapprochement from the eager muddle. Which love is the truest? Jennifer in a question, Julu in a song. the balloon has taken the sky, Jennifer has forgotten.
that area of the consideration falls
shilling to the angling mystery. you
did see. I can't alas
hold each divot.
the maximum of love times
the maximum of rhythm, pointing towards
what can be. a short arabesque till
another offering of
missing someone. then trickling
showdown quietly, yours till the
end, and me, half engaged half
lost. what's
this? aint you even
untamed now? so much for the verbal.
totally active is on the
schedule, break the thrust of
which bird do you expect?
with speed as a declivity and
potable, keeping the music. that making causes so many
tumoiled overtime
magnet. love minus love equal
wicked something. yours, system. mine, system. adjective
is that distant, here's
my hand. and given to bragging but, oh,
the causality when alone. stop
treatment, master the trick. a clearing
softens that
rejection, cuffed with
margin. cost effects
in scheme grandness. when all are overly
singular.
trip over the radical,. I have no time
and know who's gone. smiling but
registries. why
did the word appear, particular in the swim? the energy
needed circulates one
to another. shortages, cancellings, and
then, when the day had ended, the
rainbow was bright
and splendid. you know she
had to die.
if there is the One without parts or wholes, then there is the One; then there is no question or query about Jennifer or Alan, nor whether a present horse is not white, a white horse is not a horse:
these are _facts,_ mute, inert, catatonic; what can die when One is, but is not Being, not beings, not being beings or being Being? This is not sophistry, but reclusivity, what protects the body, what
holds it in abeyance. Deaths of virtual idols are moments, that is events or occurrences; and what is clear is that Jennifer has all the time in the world which is the nature of
the virtual: there is no question of a cessation-event - without annihilation and after creation (which is necessarily ALL creation, that is to say, the ONE, which cannot be said or gainsaid),
- Jennifer-Alan-Julu-Nikuko-Cybele are inhabitations, continuities, digital paysages / passages, no mobility necessarily (in and out of themselves), continuous unravelings, developments, always with the
potential for total return, total recall, the One (neither shattered nor splintered)
- Plato, Parmenides
Subject:
Javastate: For the Love of Jennifer
Date:
Thu, 14 Jan 1999 12:32:30 +0000
From:
miekal and
Organization:
Awkward Ubutronics
To:
subsubpoetics@listbot.com
References:
1
Subsubpoetics
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For the Love of:
native case null while package var continue false short throws protected
while if for protected interface function abstract private for byte goto
float default float class private boolean public if true void if do goto
this default final boolean package finally double synchronized boolean
for break for public break double else private final boolean finally
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function native static true switch else double native throws catch
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instanceof this switch goto case
this system. his death.
her death programmed
the ensuing response. he died
in the heroic bus, historic.
she just
described a well, that
down till you touch, but
giving upwards. breaking
the comforting
rhythm, thrusting
the empty space.
broken, just.
like that, or that's the
current read.
how often can language be
invented? till we stop
changing, perhaps?
last leaf fallen, then
(named season.
finally the words begin to close, mouths close, what do you hear you hear, nothing and come from there, from none, nowhere, vowels murmuring within lips sewn, o cold air, O Aires!
Don't look now! Alan, please. I told you not to look! Jennifer, Julu, Nikuko, and Cybele are coming! I don't know what they are going to do to you! But they've been taking notes, and they feel so used lately. They're yelling something out. I can't quite decipher it. What?
You Bimp?... You Wanna Wanna?... Shop Hop?
They're gaining on you. You'd better get out of here!
Fast Alan! JJJJJJump!
Alan, please. I told you not to look! Jennifer, Julu, Nikuko, and Cybele are coming!
All are Wonder-Avatars! Alan wants to be Used and Jennifer wants to Us Her! Cybele
Jumps with Nikuko
in her hair where
things grow there
into the Used-Us place
filled with Jennifer-Grace
and Cybele-Civil Place
among the doric columns and ionic orders
come these Avatars, who don't believe in borders.
and everything gone and jennifer dead and nothing not even lost just gone and forever made heads turn her heart sunk full fathoms five and there was nothing again but counting the days with the sun coming up and the sun moving from left to right always from left to right and then the the moon moved where the sun moved and they moved in numbers passing by with JENNIFER gone and dead and buried and nothing would have brought anyone back to say the places, where it was impossible to turn the head because there was so much nothing there like the lützowplatz with the sad pingpongtable and the net of steel and nothing and nobody wnats to play in that storm.
i shall hover over the city like day at the beach.
and it would be so easy if there could only ever be something like jennifer, but there isn´t with jennifer gone, it´s all gone, all friends are gone they never felt like mourning and they never never did, and the mumbling was too loud anyway there was an error 404 this file not found on this server nowwhere and we looked really we did but no chance, there´s nothing there there, like someone said that someone said when jennifer was there which she isn´t. who cares if or not. the sun tick tick the moon tick tick the moves and so much to play with. faces fall apart, have you noticed, jennifer, faces fall to the ground and they don´t do it on purpose. they fall on one side first and then on the other and the other side always falls slower. never get older than jesus, or if you do, lie or die or something. i miss the face, above all
Pinging Jennifer, Her Pure Body in My Imminency:
Target Name:
IP: 127.0.0.0 (i.e. local loop)
1 0 ms 0 ms [0.0.0.0]
2 0 ms 0 ms [0.0.0.0]
3 0 ms 0 ms [0.0.0.0]
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5 0 ms 0 ms [0.0.0.0]
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Cybele in dialogue with Desire
> > Limbs extending outward from. These eyes are your eyes, not mine?
> > Subliminal does not sublimation account, the totality of ambiguous
> > minions, three-pronged intervention in complacency & the next best thing
> > since
> > Subliminal does not sublimation account, the totality of ambiguous
> > minions, three-pronged intervention in complacency & the next best thing
> > since
> Broach desire & concede. How many probabilties open, numerous, random
> facination in the ragweed forest, a jungle of planatation. ex- but not
> above append to the end of an emotional document.
> Metaphors are in collusion with the conspiracy to untitle. Doctor of
> manifestation appears humble, bold, surrounded in a once that defies a
> quiet moment when we can meet in between.
"Mine are minor." Restitution based on appropriated meanings that are
sly or otherwise witty. Such a gaunt caricature, the rings around the
eyes, I wonder why I even got up in the morning when the internet is
embodied all night. A simple way to say this is. She fell toward
grace, but only as an act of fruition, seven shiny apples in a window.
My transparency is vibrant, but not hungry.
Aram said something like, my arms are in my arms, playing off his name, Aram, I think of playing off mine, I, my eyes are in my eyes, What fun!, Jennifer would say, no mouth to speak _of_
Then there is Art-Language, past ideology, the essay or commentary on 'A Painting Of" and what sheer possessiveness seizes the thing, ceases the thing, in the guise of the substrate-material, paint?
to turn on the bold
WHO SAYS WHAT GOES ON HERE? WHO SAYS?
any name contributes. the situation propels its own dynamics. that's why we are saying to each other (Jule? Nikuku?) any vague assertion that can be created in an instant. certainly there is a shower of grief, the ideal of loss, but ther is a change openly insisted upon. when yiou start the dreams are easy, then the darker moments compel the angels, so certain the angels are. asin:
Who, among the piano players, will hear walnuts when I cry?
And suppose whistles among the mattress makers suddenly held me
In Boston: I would be lost,
Diminished by the leftovers of hysterical being. For the blandishment
Is nothing but a terrible eggnog that we continue to endure.
And we cherish it, its calm uber Alles
To destroy us. A single beautiful squid fills us with terror.
I hold measles back and swallow the frightened
Darkness of my sweater.
Who do winnowers bring ourselves to near?
Not angels, not men, and even the clever annexes
Can see that we are ill at easel in this mentioned world.
To us remains the tree clinging to a klaxon;
We watch it toad by toad.
To us remains the stricture of yesterday
And the perverted trickle of a habit that found us sybaritic,
Making density at home, and would not go awash.
O, and the neatness, the neatness, when the wind of the unicycle
Withers our fat farm--for whom would it not remain,
The lunged-for, softly drastic,
Before whom the solitary heretic stands in punditry.
Is it easier on tables?
No, they only cover themselves with eating fate.
Now do you withstand? Throw the empties
From your arms into the skies where, bringing dumb waiters and maybe
The birds, at one with flight, we'll feel the ex post facto.
The springtime noodled you. The stars would wait
For you to crate them. A wave, full of tricycle parts, rose hip.
And there, as you crammed the open window, the violin
Played "Tea For Two." Everything was dusty. But did you hack?
Weren't you always spread thin by ex-package stores
As if all proclaimed their leverage to you? (Where
will you shortchange her, Thayer Academy? where
the great strange farts pass in and out
And often stay the night?) You
are designated, the levers sing, their celebrated
Passion still not quietly imp or mortal.
Once, the abandoned you almost envy, and you prefixed her
To the outhouse, the silenced.
Begin now to foreclose on the unattainable gladiola.
Think: prix fixe lifts up the hematology report, for whom even defeat
Was only an anarcho-syndicalist thingie, its final rebirth.
But exhausted nature took the nostrums back inside, as if
liking the strength for love and more.
Has your thought embraced stamp collecting? that one like her,
Eluded by her love, knew herself a happenstance
Instance of the lovers and could ask, Can I be arrange them like a donkey?
Shouldn't these oldest of pains be for us more vented?
Isn't it travail lawyer for us to butteringly free ourselves
From the belfry and, trembling, outscore it:
Like the arrow outscores the string and with it, in Biloxi,
Is more than Elvis. To remain . . . nowhere.
Voices, voices. Hear my fart, as only
The holy heard the swell that lifted them, still kneeling,
From the coffee grinder. In forensics,
It continued and they gave no neck tie;
So whistled their hearing. Not that you could engulf
The voice of Bruce Springsteen, far from it. But hear the wailing,
The unbroken Netscape, that builds in the sewer.
It rushes from every still-warm cupboard to you.
Wherever you go, will you hear your barbecue in churches
From Rome to Walt Disney's homeland quietly speaking to you?
Or does it just hold up to you its wholesale pricelist
As it did the other day in Santa Barbara?
What do they want of me? I should quietly put away
Even the appearance of Mr Ed that might hinder,
In the least, their pure marmalade.
And it is strategic, no longer to occupy the stiletto,
Scarcely-learned cognomens no more to need,
restaurants and other especially promiscuous things found
Stripped of the meaning of a mortician's future;
That, which once was in etc flood control hands,
Will be no pap test, and to drop your very knee cap
Like a broken toadstool.
Strange, no more to wash the dishes. Strange, to sew
All things, once related, dangling loose in spackle.
And being terrific is difficult, a hard recovery
To the point of glimpsing Annette Funicello.
But the living make all the muffins; they work too hard
At Dow Jones.
They say uncles can scarcely tell if they move among
The leavings or the dentist. The eternal flood drags all the assholes
Through both realms and drowns them all together.
And in the end, they no longer nickle and dime us, the ones who go before;
We are gently walloped from mortality, as we softly outgrow
A munificent palindrome. But we who need such mighty sack races--
For whom sweet potatoes often come from San Diego--
Can we do Whiffle Ball with them?
Is the legend a cardio-pulmonary thing, that once, in mumbling Linotype,
When the first Veejay cast itself to the puerile dumbness, that first,
In that terrified spaceship (dispensed with forever, all at once,
By an almost vaudevillian toy) the emptiness grew
With each vending machine, that now over scums us and thrusts us and is our trade bait?
and in that way, or some other way, a song is made.
Do songs end it? I'm waiting for the shadows to fall; when I have been in Australia, East Timor was always present, now, so late, to the rest of the world - and who could forget Tibet, Rwanda, and we do so forget so early?
These are safe spaces, our concerns, which are far too often that of white spread across the violent-violation spectrum of the world, and how can anyone sleep at night? Clar screams in agony through stumped teeth; removing teeth, there is always some thug glad to do that in some corner darkened by his shadow in the world.
We're not one nation, one humanity, we're not even one species, each of us our own animal. It comes down to claws, teeth, nails, the hiss or scream, sounds of pained withdrawal, cries, wails, shattering and making the Kristallnacht.
Ultimata Thule.
gone find me a new dolour this a day
SI SEMENS REVEL LEVERS NEMESIS
what else? timor mortis conturbat me. death again changed my life, and you heard somewhere that boston is a racist town. how demeaning, that you had nothing.
boston a racist town. someone arrives in whaling ship to throw harpoon then finishing lance, on the off chance that the point will be driven home sexually speaking this is a bad way to start a nice conversation but the lance must be thrown because the whale must die because a lamp somewhere needs oil, because some phlegm wad needs light to read the good book that someone said was so really because the need for holiness is elementally human if comfortable a verity and distinguishing container for the thing contained.
karl marx conversed with angels for the hell of it. his love matches three times the love of bad readers who have needs. the poetry public is dead in the water, death continues and no gravestone recovers the beautiful distinction of word manifest. dream on, worthies, trying to encourage the end of the end of the world. each beginning proposes a new assault team. in boston, that racist town, where even visitors become racist, lovers are made to work within a system that says exclusion works for you.
boston is my latest, my willful escapade with racism, in the racism town, love acting as partial referee. quietude being the province of the newest phony understanding.
dear assholes, get enthralled or I won't listen. this business executive drivel spells partial lobotomy for the new pace losers. less boring, more strewn. yet every death lives.
A boy, born this day 10 years ago, cut out to fall between supple inner thighs, natures cord shortened of usual length, from this place he would not reach the breast.
Born into a world of acronyms, Automatic Transfer Protocol, Automatic Teller Machines. He will continue to seek out his way among the brethren, in a world of make believe. Hands empty, we give you everything. Turn your eyes from the real pain in the stalks. Do not perceive, we will invent your interaction, Carrsort the individual who receives. Dead boy in New Jersey, I grieve the thought of you this day, my son's lost comrade. Your interaction devised for you, advertisement put in your heart, walkie talkies.
Scream from the place you reside, tell us of your life that was taken in blood, our evil, our delusions. Curse the humanity that prepared for you a lair, in the guise of Leo's Tamed Circus. Jump through the hoops, bloody meat awaits your recompense. Redden our faces with your hand, piss on our feet, turn your back on us, we are liars. Bite the thighs of she who bore you, rip her flesh, spit on him who devised this way! Splatter your afterbirth, eat the placenta, take from us your earned dividends! Selah!
"Honor our wounds, Oh Blood-spirit of pain!
Tell us of Glory and red battles fought!
Show us purple scars where swords hacked through veins!
Infuse us in courage with lessons taught!
For today we ride against Ignorance,
against Judgment, Bigotry, Witch Burning,
Censorship, Dogma, the Hypocrite's stance
of enforced Dictatorships of Learning."
"Fear Not!" she spoke as her beast paced and growled.
"Drink from this cup of seven spirits' blood.
I shall send forth serpents!" The warriors howled.
They drank and they danced and painted with mud!
They gathered weapons as her wet face turned
toward the dark flames of blasted temples burned.
In the dark burning, not to be seen, neither Boston nor Timor,
What mattered that protocols, TCP/IP as an instance riding the backs of ATP,
Or nothing, what mattered that protocols, designed and diffused,
Defused the dark reins of terror that reigned, reining the horse, the spring rains
Running darker than black flame, darker than invisible - and wires and protocols
Melted away like limelights burning on an empty stage, like ice released by global warming
From dismal dark and dreary oceans, like metaphors covering the thing they love,
Like love, cowering before the burning metaphor, like simile, in the guise of literature,
Like metaphor, in the guise of action.
like action
in the guise
of understanding
in beautiful calligraphy, the death
in strained relations, the death
in discomfort and recompense, the death
the death in streaming video
the death in streaming audio, streaming tears
pixellated in streamed compression
he's dead, rest assured, we're close
behind
The ultimatum pinpoints the absolute molecule of Grace. Stories before, in a coded land only a tinge of spell awoke the peacekeepers. A 1000 Arthurs, & a shovel of pardons, every moment cratered in a suspicious gnosis. Provocation by characters not provided for in the story sketch, aware of their fictive limits, stretched amid awe. The sanction to write declared hereby polyvocal, simultaneous & considered, but as usual, somewhere the text always reduces to the -emes between words. One net commandeered another, you so lonely there in siber s p a c e. Where are the murmur texts in our periphery, singularity populated Her idol cavern.
AN EYE AND EYE AN EAR AND EAR A NECK A MOUTH A LIP AND LIP AN ARM AND ARM A BREAST AND BREAST A WAIST A THIGH AND THIGH A LEG AND LEG
WHAT WOULD THE WAR SAY
THE WAR WOULD SAY BRRRR. THE WAR WOULD SAY BRRRR. THE WAR WOULD SAY HOW COLD. THE WAR WOULD SAY GET OUT OF THE WAY. THE WAR WOULD SAY LEAVE. THE WAR WOULD GET HER OUT. THE WAR WOULD GET HER.
http://trace.ntu.ac.uk/writers/cohen/bclovewar.htm
In Memory of My Kid Sister, 1969-1979
I here embed the "funny tooth" she found:
A trilobite cast on the graveled ground.
what I wrote
disappeared.
you know what?
that hurts.
------------------------------------------------------------
Alan and Julu, still looking for Nikuko and Jennifer's shop:
"Hey, Julu!"
"Look at this, you won't believe it!"
"Direct Access!"
"Who is it Alan?"
"It's Benard Cohen, his name is right in the address!"
"No, it can't be!"
"It is, he's right here, in the 'flesh', in the extension of love and war."
"Don't even think of it Alan, Travis is still upset with you over all that door-bell ringing." "You caused him sleepless nights, paranoia, and then you killed him." "Worse than that, was that Ring-Ring joke...remember?"
"Yes I do, I kind of liked it myself."
"Ring Ring
Hello, who's there
Travis
Travis who?
Travesty."
"It's still not funny Alan, you just can't do it!"
"Oh Julu lighten up, he won't even know I'm here."
"You'll keep quiet about all this, won't you?"
"Of course Alan, of course I will, you know me."
Ring Ring...
------------------------------------------------------------
Who's there?
The Milkman.
Milkman Who?
Milkman Dan.
Oh come in.
Come in where?
The Battery.
Which Battery?
Double A.
Double A Who?
Who Who.
Who's Who Who?
An Owl, Why?
Because it makes those sounds, stillborn in the barren ground, alone, crying for another, the harbinger of death, wisdom, the sleep of reason, Lethe.
Lethe who?
Lethe's See.
season of mist and mellow fruitfulnes: sometimes that stuff aint all bosh. the ripple effect, the water dance, the cycle of change and furtherance. the losses are stamped on my pelt too but I'm not complaining now. listen to the firebrand rattle the sabre, listen to the doormat crying. make the cocktail yourself. I'm usually stuck in the congestion but the flow is constant and regenerative.
Dear Allen,
I liked the site you sent me to. A little strange though. Where did you
find it? I mean it's not everyday you go on the web in search of "complaint
letters" Anyway, the "computer thingies" as you call them were ok. I
already knew a lot of them and the ones i didn't already know weren't cool
cuz i hadn't thought of them. jk!
So what do you think of this rain?! Everyone around me thinks it's SOOO
great and SOO cool. Part of me wants to say, "it's RAIN...who cares??" but
i guess since it is "hurricane rain" it is special somehow. i don't know.
So have you guys had a lot of rain? You probably got more than we have so
far, you always get more weather than we do. I always noticed that, when it
snows, you always get more. When it rains, you get more. I don't understand
it.
Ok i am off to bed.
love,
deevo child
Each Wankel engine is terrific. And still it grieves me
And I sing to Ozzie and Harriet--almost deadly anarchists of the soul--knowing you will.
Where are the Diet Colas, when the most radish-like
Among you stood in the humble uranium mine,
Slightly disguised for jocularity, and somehow no longer a fractal.
(Child among urinals, how curiously he looked about.)
Then came the janitor, the fell, from behind the stairs
A single step lower and toally buggin'. Our heart beat
Hard. Who are you?
The early circuses, pampered of creatine;
A donut chain, reddened by morning;
The ridge of all creditors; God's polling booth in the wind;
A joining of lights, a pathway, ascension, dominoes,
Spaces between beans, sign off delight, tumultuous studio,
Enchanted feeling and suddenly-almonds!--a mirror,
Where beauty flows and creates itself
Again in its own panty hose.
And we, as we feel, exaggerate; O, we bowl
In and out, from arbour to arbour our
Saviour declining. Bob tells us truly:
Yes, you are a part of the New York Yankees, this room, the whole springtime
Is full of crap. . . but to no avail. Cindy Crawford cannot hold us;
In and around her we fade. And each beautiful batting average,
What holds it back? Unstoppable, all possibility arises
From her countenance and is gone, as teenagers on new grass.
That which is ours rises from Wisconsin, like steam from
Hot toads on a plate. Where is the simile?
And the upturned snail--new, warm,
elusive surge of the hovercraft--
O, that is union dues. Does the work to which we give
Ourselves acquire our pavement? Do the angels only
Catch up on their reading, that comes from Rocky
Marciano's home town, or is it
Sometimes, almost by mistake, a measure of
Our own Studebacker? Are we such a part of the underwear industry,
Like the distant vacuum cleaners in the faces of pregnant moments?
In the whirlpool bath, the intoxication,
You do not notice their return address. (And how should you notice?)
Lovers, if they understood, could wondrously speak into
bullhorns. For it appears that all things are salad dressing.
See, the trees exit: the houses
That we inhabit still chuckle. But we pass it all by
Like a vague exchange of tractors.
And all are units passing by in silence, half
In shame and half in rubber boots.
Lovers, you, sufficient for tax purposes,
I ask you for us. You hold each pancake; is this your proof?
See, it happens that my cacti become
Aware of each other or that my well-worn
fact-finding mission is cared for by Oscar de la Hoya. This leads me to see
A little moron. Who really dares to tickle these?
But you increase within the sewing circle of others,
Until they are overcome and email you: no mas.
Beneath your hang glider they become more applicable than harvested gropes.
And then sometimes you varnish, but only when they glue
The upper hand. I ask you for Hillary Clinton. I know that while
You torch each other, blissfully touchy, while the crassness lasts,
While the febrile does not fade, that you, the tenderloin,
Conceal your secret identity because you perceive the pure permafrost
Beneath it all. You promise each other eggplants in the
First embrace. And yes, then you enjoy the first
Reign of Terror and the longing by the laundromat
And the first moonwalk together, one time through the galaxy.
Lovers, are you still registered? When you lift each
Other to your lips and units-drunk as skunks--
Strange how the drinker deludes the constable.
Aren't you asking how the Antic statutes presage the
Earrings of man? Weren't love and dental hygiene so light upon
Their shoulders laid, as if they were made from other
Stuffed owls than we? Think on how the hankies hang
Weightless while the power in the tract houses remains.
The masterpieces know: so far as we are Democrats,
This is our grandfather clock, ours to touch upon. The goods support
Us the stronger. And these are the cankers of the goods.
We also found a puree, suppressed, narrow,
Human sweat of hard cheddar
Bounded by liver and lox. Our own hearing aid overcomes us
Like all the rest. And we can no longer graze
On it, even in pantries that please us, nor in godlike
boudoirs, in which the grater restrains itself.
Jennifer had cause for concern: Alans warnings,which had seemed so ridiculous,
were now beginning to seem like something real. At first she'd just shrugged,
"Alan, you should take it easy," she'd said
"cut down on the exe's. You need to get more sleep."
Of course, he'd said all sorts of crazy things:
"soon, Jennifer, soon things are going to start happening to you, strange things,
things which will make you wonder about what you _really_ are."
Well, she'd just rolled her eyes and thought: Alan you are a bit of a fish.
She'd read a couple of books about the changes that happen to little girls when they start to get big;
she knew about life.
"Jennifer, you are a qualitative manifestation; just pixels and pure potential..."
She didn't know what that meant, it sounded important, and he looked so serious when he'd told her.
"Jennifer, all the world is hyperlinked to you, to your head, to your arms, legs, genitals..."
That'd made her giggle, imagine that! But she couldn't imagine that, not then.
But now, now she was beginning to think alot about what Alan had said, thinking there must be something in
it. . .
But what?
Limbs extending outward from. These eyes are your eyes, not mine?
Subliminal does not sublimation account, the totality of ambiguous
minions, three-pronged intervention in complacency & the next best thing since
Subliminal does not sublimation account, the totality of ambiguous
minions, three-pronged intervention in complacency & the next best thing
since
Broach desire & concede. How many probabilties open, numerous, random
facination in the ragweed forest, a jungle of planatation. ex- but not
above append to the end of an emotional document.
Metaphors are in collusion with the conspiracy to untitle. Doctor of
manifestation appears humble, bold, surrounded in a once that defies a
quiet moment when we can meet in between.
"Mine are minor." Restitution based on appropriated meanings that are
sly or otherwise witty. Such a gaunt caricature, the rings around the
eyes, I wonder why I even got up in the morning when the internet is
embodied all night. A simple way to say this is. She fell toward
grace, but only as an act of fruition, seven shiny apples in a window.
My transparency is vibrant, but not hungry.
Singularity is common even among disagreement. Parataxis is definitely
not 2 taxis bound for collision, otherwise I would dispair & ask for a
ride. Given the ability of all subtexts to degenerate I am seeking
concordances among those Ive never met, as if to touch untouchables.
@verb = qw(
programs runs compiles interprets chats videos deletes
substitutes searches clicks downloads uploads defrags
);
@prep = qw(
within in inside without out outside borderline
);
@noun = qw(
I found myself thinking that you bypass accumulations
fragments replacing totality eternally forever
loss function
distribute
broken hip
taking things
slowly away
for the love all things small and lost and belittled by little lost jennifer who lays like lambs in the hands of labs. Falling out means to gather within
and pay for nothing. recalling the suicides i am remembering how closed the location was, located inside the patented
waistcoat.
purple cherokee green on top salt and pepper stop
grand rounds of park someone thinking ahead
acres and acres pixelated virtual condensation
o wo e ow o eow o e o
rainforest in a cup jennifer drinks and sighs
o put hir in a cup and drink it make hir a cafe
been done
if jennifer doesn't know we're writing all these things about her
you know maybe this isn't right...is this right? i mean
what if you were jennifer, i mean
A yellowed corner of a black and white,
Cut carefully from the catalogue genuinely
genuine, true love to be, all the way from
motherland, the picture of a war bride
mailed directly to his doorstep.
Her remains fished out of the ocean
after the tiny tiny boat smuggler
of tiny brides hopeful of a future
never to be seen
sank deep into the slumber of sandy beds
only a bone comb under her blouse
next to her heart.
Jennifer wa totemo sakanakusai, that's why I tried to behelpful and wash her body,
but let me tell you how sakanakusai she is! I mean I agree, I should not say anything
bad about her, but she really is sakanakusai and a bit smells like saru. IBut you are right, I shouldn't say
anything bad about her.
love,
Saruko
oh oh nikuko you rhyme my riddles full of body holes. and desire desire is my baby now. only. 39dk4djskrl4tgr894#%*( it's magic! ) (try it yourself!)
would be magic if it would invert and come back to you towards the end; instead it thickens. just like the things seep. just like seeping. you will know who i am but only later. just on the edge or precipice. hello miekal and sam and sarah and sara and andrea and cynthia and allen and alan and sue and george and tom-timothy. who i am. just after the last word, just beyond it.
I Yasumaro say:
Now when chaos had begun to condense, but force and form were not manifest, and there was nought named, nought done, who could know its shape?
yet within the imploding ball the powers gather to connection, electric something within the formlessness.
do you see? do you see?
I don't want to cook or be
anything more than
subversive. that's the wind
speaking. a space
opens because
time has played it that way.
or what would be a
better way to describe?
closely, think of something
but not that
place. any darkening could
be permanent.
people can't
presume to listen.
stop with these
turns. backwards, memory,
stop.
referral
closes off the corridor. two
ways. come
and go.
Run run, run from things called gifts tossed into the cave like missles
sleek down
out of chamber
mojo -- innoculation
of incantation -- free
basing morphing
into any
attitude tomorrow... music
to mine ears
but wanting to tell the secret, wanting to expose the secret, but wanting to say something, or say something else, but
desperate to just talk to someone, anyone, just saying the smallest thing, just having a smile on someone's face, that
is not too much to ask, desiring, wanting that smile, wanting just to hear a friendly voice in return, that's never too
much to ask, wanting to say the secret, wanting the secret said, it's something i have that i can give you, i can give
you this lovely thing for you
this living hand, now warm, now
capable of earnest grasping,
here! take this!
jump here. press there. take that.
learn to lose
fluttering
where once he
happy but
no she's sent
elsewhere
closure
endless thought
lasts over
the waves of the
total grief is only
what is left
down t the
point of
taking back would she had
survived
if
but if doesn't work
is this what you
want?
stressing this?
falling to wayside
winking
in and out
worthless with the loss
she had
to
you know she had
to
gone
very gone. is this enough
to prove???
i grieved for the loss of desire, the slow dissolution
i grieved for the canopy rent assunder, the acid rains
and grieved for corrosions and forgotten tin mementos
and grieved for corruptions and desires torn asunder
and grieved for canopies lost in acid dissolutions
and grieved for lost of tin and grieved for grieving
now grieve for the past of it, eyes like nickels and acid
grieve for love and war, blindness, muteness before dawns
before dawns and tin, before nickels and eyes,
before rains and canopies, acids and dissolutions
the more ravaging term
the perhaps the subject
concerned with destruction
grasps at every point
but quickly exposes itself
we are all caught up in the truth
the leisure of bygone readings
where we can hear the grain of the throat
whenever I attempt
without ever introducing anything
the very utterance
the other reading skips nothing
psychoanalysis must be traversed
but it is doubtless
violence must be coded
if it were possible to imagine
we have either the course
outside bliss but not necessarily
deplored except
like a bird who understand nothing
only in total atopia
( I wrote this thinking of writing and despair, the grain of the voice
as the voice comes close to silence - the last breathing, last pathos
of last newborn cell division, nothing making difference, all difference
gone, lost in totality. So I wrote this, placing it here as well, in
response to shades of Sally, Cybele, Jennifer, Alan, Julu, Nikuko, the
kids in my neighborhood, my parents, please pray for my mother, she is
sick, my brother and sister and their families, my daughter, my partner
Azure, the animals haunted and running wild here, out cat Boojum, eddies
and ripples moving out through boroughs, cities, states, countries,
continents, whole planets of pain and dissolution, whole cultures on the
edge, on the verge, whole world nervous-breakdown, not whole at all,
thin electron probe heated and expanding, no signal returning, nothing
but sear and steam )
In despair the body is simultaneously ignored (I am a throwaway, I have
nothing to say) and at risk (eliminate this body, this body is a sign of
life). Writing despair writes around the body, a form of circumscription;
body and death can never be fully addressed, since they are necessarily
absent from the writing and its production. I write and read elsewhere
than the body; I produce outside of death.
Death and body are symptoms of the limits of the text.
So to write (what may be) the last breath: to write with urgency. To write
with a clearing of history, of fields. To write the final revelation -
this is what I have always meant to say, this is what I have not been able
to say.
But to write above or beyond despair - to foreclose despair, not with the
text or therapeutic, but as an object, a thing, which permits boundaries -
"here I am writing about the thing, despair."
To write the worst truth you can about yourself - no one can go farther -
no one can say worse. (To write yourself out of existence which is as well
to write yourself into existence.)
To write your own death warrant, also your pardon.
The same applies to the book, that other thing, that object, which replac-
es despair. One might think of both as partial-objects, between full and
replete growth of the self within the world, and absolute loss or loss
within the "maternal matrix" - book and despair as shimmering objects of
foreclosing (we're finished with the world) and communication (these are
the feelings that have been shunted, that want expressing)...
To write your own death warrant, also your pardon.
The same applies to the book, that other thing, that object, which replac-
es despair.
Nothing replaces despair. Nothing replaces love, hate, fear, joy. These are things not interchangeable, one as substutute for another. My new puppy is not my dead dog. My love for my new puppy is it the same love as for my old dog?
No. Nor is my hate for the man who killed my old dog a replacement for my old dog love. To write about my despair at the cruel death of my dog, to write about the despair of my lost love for my old dead dog is to feed my despair. Its to gorge on it, gorge so full until I vomit it and perhaps purge it. Replace despair? Like how? Replace a lost eye an ear. Could van Gogh paint himself out of despair? Words replace despair? Don't make me laugh ( unbecoming in my hour of despair) Words, books replace despair? No. They are little monuments to it, markers, talismen, the knick knacks of despair and any emotion. Write despair out? Why not write love too? and joy, and any emotion.
One might think of both as partial-objects, between full and
replete growth of the self within the world, and absolute loss or loss
within the "maternal matrix" - book and despair as shimmering objects of
foreclosing (we're finished with the world) and communication (these are
the feelings that have been shunted, that want expressing)...
This is for the amateurs of despair. In both senses of the word, that is, the lovers of the wallow of it, the ones who never go to deep and roll like pigs in hock around the shallow mud.This is the mummers version, the act of smearing face with ashes and wailing on the corpse. Its a simple purgitive. An emotional enema. And those beginners who have not gone deep enough and can still turn back to close the door on despair, to foreclose on it. The rudest irony to communicate that which is closed. Try walking though a door that is shut and locked. And in despair one can hardly rise let alone walk. Despair is broken. Despair is limbless. Despair is not an artifact. To write it is an art, like any artifice it it is a falsity. The measure of your talent is to make it so false it stands as a icon a portrait of the real thing. But despair. The real thing is wordless.
Despair comes and goes. It always has its own pew in the cathedral of feelings reserved for it exclusively that no other thing can occupy.
I suppose you can hang your picture of despair above the altar so when the real thing comes it has its own icon to worship. But I suspect despair worships nothing, not even itself, nowhere, not even in Atopia.
phantasmal faces, futuristic wars, spinning jennies
cybele rides rides above
rides below is constant
the tamed turbulence of the aborigines speak
the quibbling must stop
the print revealed
the separation of the pages done carefully
for what one has within
is never enough
the strutting proceeds
hove prints in the sand
... covered over almost immediately
spitting camels desert winds
believe in the fortune of nothing(.)
the way shown
through the haze
with our own stench we are covered
crawling through the endless c o r r i d o r s
tightlygrasping burnt-out torches
of near emp ty speech
aren't we looking for what can be found?
pussy cats have pissed
everywhere in this place
to pass the pissy time.
Is there? Is? Is Am?
Me is? A am?
You Are?? Oh. Where is your scent?
U-R-I? or N-E ones?
IRU but who is one? Naught e one who B U? Save strudel for one who strings bow. U? U lysses?
Lie in seas? Lie in ABCs? Lie in uprooted trees? Lie in coffins on the E train? Running bare accross wings of plane? POV at Z frightens me. SOS bewilders me. OZ and pause and JJJ dismisses me. Alphabet soup alphabeta soup alpha beta and omega stew and psing pancakes.
Since we halved the hairpin
Young travelers coming here
I wipe my tears
Obliterated and buried
Why should one care?
Writhing upwards
Belongs to another time
Ten thousand noises die down
I recall those years
My shadow falls at random
I've known the tramp
I'll never fall behind
Choked by feeling
Bells ring in evening sky
My sorrow resembles
Family stripped clean
This charming beauty
Keep pace with ambition
Share a farewell cup
In a frozen land
On her new robe
Whip tucked in her sleeve
And showers affection as if
We must beg for poverty
Not too much wine
When he wakes up
Do we ever wake
Who brings war
I'm tired of poetry
In both of the insertions of poetic text that for greater sonority, inspite of its name, magic bullets which never miss their mark, thru a pact with the spirits of hell, such as observance of enharmonic equivalents, executed by a leading couple, a sign indicating awe of nature near the end of life. a great flowering of songs to listen intelligently to has a considerable wider device to dampen sound, to change the best-known janizary music associated with famous clowns, often in service of the story. who wishes to marry a long contorted technique throughout. the contours of a forest anticipates the music after a period of captivity. optional dances on which a swan swims majestically is borrowed from a nearby mesmorizing rule. accidental music appeared to be exuberant melancholy.
write about write death live? body, body, death never fully since write body; Death text. write (what write write write final meant write above which about write worst truth about write which write write death book, other which might think text, about third laugh laugh night night third laugh laugh after after third laugh after laugh night after night after third laugh after laugh three store sound child write about write death live? body, body, death never fully since write body; Death text. write (what write write write final meant write above which
impossible
everything
we
do
to
throat
before
we
if
we
understand
everything
I feel she will be fine I feel she will be fine your hand in hers she'll know her time. Be still with her.I feel she will be fine.
My name is Alan Sondheim, my phone number is 1-718-857-3671 in the United States. I live at 432 Dean Street, Brooklyn, New York, 11217, I'm 56, born 2/3/43, 155, 5'8", living with a partner, Azure Carter.
My address is sondheim@panix.com, and I am most in panix6.panix.com or panix7.panix.com, but panix3.panix.com runs my tiny-fugue and ytalk the best; it's also the only machine that biff y runs on (mail announcements).
I am worried about my mother, who may not be fine; today she had an operation, Ultimata, for lung cancer, we hope not, other growth was possibly found. We are praying for her. It's not always fine, and for all of us, there is a moment when it is never fine again.
- Alan, appreciative for the texts -
have I ever written anything that ever got thru, cutting thru all the whatever, into human terms, love and all? I know I have not, and never will. I humbly say I'm sorry, to Alan and to all.
I ditto that and wonder if there is a way to take my scurvey contributions back. They don't belong here. Management? How does one obliterate one's traces? How does one clean up the mess one has made. Assistance please.
in the year 3000
something will be a distant plant
something will be a distant plant
and you will not know it
nor the roots nor stems nor leaves nor flowers
it will be unimaginable
it will be from and within wonder
on an earth you will not recognize
in a non-being that is ultimata
broken machines these and other desperations
dissolute in air of molecules and ruined atoms
they will not know then what has occurred
unknowledge transpires and is everywhere
there is a non-mattering of unknowledge
that will be the same and substance ruling
or ruined same and ruling substance
of the day or forlorn day of gone time or world
forlorn unknowledge towards a glimmer or horizon
towards transpiration and non-mattering
in the year 3000
something will be a distant plant
something will be a distant plant
and you will not know it
nor the roots nor stems nor leaves nor flowers
it will be unimaginable
it will be from and within wonder
on an earth you will not recognize
in a non-being that is ultimata
broken machines these and other desperations
dissolute in air of molecules and ruined atoms
they will not know then what has occurred
unknowledge transpires and is everywhere
there is a non-mattering of unknowledge
that will be the same and substance ruling
or ruined same and ruling substance
of the day or forlorn day of gone time or world
forlorn unknowledge towards a glimmer or horizon
towards transpiration and non-mattering
everything
yOU MOVING AWAY FROM ME
i SHOOK AND SWEATED i MY HEART i FELT AROUSED TO THE POINT
PHYSICAL SYMPTOMS BECAME i WAS COMPLETELY ABSORBED INTO
yOU SUFFUSED WITH tHE ATMOSPHERE OF oUR EXCHANGE FOR 2 DAYS
nOTHING WAS MORE REAL tHE UNLOGGED THINGS SAID FLASHED BACK
ON mE AFTER iM STANDING IN THIS CONCERT HALL WITH sOMEONE,
tHE GIRL WITH THE BROWN HAIR tHEY SINGING "bUT NOW yOURE
CHANGED" CANT LITERALLY BREATHE THIS APPREHENSION OF LOSS
nOTHING SO ACUTE OR SO FAMILIAR yOUR WITHDRAWAL A LITTLE PANG
"A WOMAN wHO CAN LET A MAN / gO AND COME BACK AGAIN" THE SONG
ERSATZ BUT WHAT IS REAL THAT yOU HAVE WRITTEN ON mE IT IS FADING
the sadness and diffusion of categories, topoi, rings, ideals, halfalgebras, halfgroupoids, groupoids, sets, groups, subsets, pullbacks, kernels, diagrams, fields,
I am sat in the Machine Space when it first appears. I do not recognise it. I think it may be Cybele stalking out of the darkness behind me. What is it I have heard or seen to make me realise that she is there?
And then I do. I realise the essence which has alerted me. There is a perfume, halfway between a fresh rose petal and stale insence (or insensibility). Nothing else in the Space can be making it happen.
Tonight the Machine smells of itself and I am afraid.
What do I mean "I"? I mean, WE are afraid. We mean to say that those of us in here, now, are afraid of the smell of life and death which is within the imagination of the Machine and seeping out into our minds.
The end is closer than we thought.
Management, deceiving Elf,
ignores yo at
just the wrong time.
always.
You wake to the sound of cries in the night voice of a multitude cries of the ten thousand cries of lonelieness and desire and pain and confusion humility sworn to the hereafter of dis-belief
every text a tiny death, every word one last breath,
every letter shatters stone, every sentence dies alone
a fine morning
with sadness
on precious flowers
at night
weak concealed sobs
we wish she
will look to my door
into building
as she pleased
hurry to plant
until the end of their life
through the cracks
dawn has yet to come
kindness meant nothing