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Tuesday, July 10, 2018

The Infinite Project: Progress toward the Singular Poem: Chapter 1

             

There was a lot of darkness — ------------------------------
Dark darkness, and some light.
---------------------------
Light – yes - light: light and dark...
Less light than dark, but more dark than —---------------
But I loved the dark. Came colour then.


The light and the dark seemed to know something —

everything

you had ever learnt


eetz moightieee ande liquiede boiynes


OCULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACULAR
OCULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACULAR
OCULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACULAR
OCULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACUL

Light in August is still there:
“Yes Stevie, they’re still cutting
Out his sexual parts -
Just like a nightmare - as we said.”

Horses clatter across.

There’s a convex mirror
In the Auckland University cafe
In Albert Street.
I met him there: he was studying Classics.
I want to see him again.
Look! Look! A leaf!

----------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------- ---------------------
Then he equated, calibrated, summated …
All was nut-shelled. All. It was greater than Einstein
or Bach. It was all. All: it was, sort of 'The Way, the Truth, the Light'.

But what could we do with it?


Cockroach drummed his fingers.
There was a pregnant, not to say gravid,
Not to say profound, silence and hesitancy
that seemed to rise like psychic smoke
to meander in the eternal bric-a-brac
shadows, tiredly, that lay about the room.

_______ ___________________________________________________________ ____________

storms, or the yellow-eyed locusts who scream down in unseasonable unnumberlessness. 
 of course “sequestered” was just right. I’ve also
been dreamin’ up little word globes, its intriguing to watch them: how they writhe inside themselves and glue into a sort of living
inconsistency. you know the sort of thing.
if Winter were wracked in a burning insultancy,then,where,how,why, and 
whence would you surely place your feet possibly modelled in plaster of Paris as if I hadn’t invented art theory. ha ha, of course I meaneth to which wend wouldst thou wend, which bent bend. I’m not competing. all things are equal or are they, they are. even the tiny, chipped, and
pathetic whispers from street stones.

______________ ________________________________________________ _________________

“I’ve looked at “American Gothic”, and
read St John, and even studied Miro’s
“Birth of the World”, but I still
don’t know
How analogue signals are phase-shifted
for colour t.v.
Or why God stares out from the centre
of Pauli’s atoms.”


And I wake into a fear:
but logic, and that queer space,
rises, and horses are sleek,
and fleet, so that the gathering hooves.
And chocolate is beautiful
but illogical.

raw as a Roarer

unravelling
those woof warfs
snare the stare
12 Horse

it was a struggle to get the horse through the door, but he made it


13     Equality, Liberty, Fraternity

    
             -------pain





14 Immorigerous

congratulations on purchasing this high grade egg boiler
AGAINST an age insatiable of amorous hours
fervent as fire and delicate as flowers:
but frogs had skin and nothing more







15 Swimming

seven feet toward the moon, but viscous are fish







16 Navel

through which a gull might fly, but - it must be said

hollow out of holes
the walls go mad - mad
with hat: redgreen

of Fred, whom we most dearly loved and did observe
daily, tackle in one hand, THE JOYS OF PROCTOLOGY in
the other, proceeding flossward, as was his wont with
eager ein his trip: contemplative yes, but curious in
every dimension —
greatly was he with fish and many faced

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^
did you know

We struggle, each with their torment,
for it is April, and winter windeth quick.
What is that car that bus that truck,
and many travel, and many return.

Illogic logic knows the unseen waterfall:
the heaved, gnarled rocks, basaltic bubbles.
Illogic logic searches with bright light,
Gloves droop drop —

and human hands emerge.


                                  O I L Y                          





Whichever way you look at it, it looms at you, threatening
to topple over with a sort of 19th Century bloody
mindedness, and crush on you, and squish out your innards; and out’l pour Napoleon, and thousands of dead Frenchmen wrapped in tricoleurs, and dead Russians, soaked in vodka; 
and especially preserved orgies and aristocratic soirées
that happened in between the serious historical business of

military massacre: the old requirement for genetico-spermatic bloodletting.

Oh well - and you may well laugh the lights are going out. Then now

it was as now it was now and now had already gone...



-------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------
These still trees, Unmoving.
We are Moved into
a progression of Inspiration, sensing.
Only this Ceaseless dialectic
of merely Being
torments the torment of tormented Things, twisting
and, made so by us, by the Thinking
of them. And what is this Vast, searching,
and tremendous Dance? Of the
Endlessly circling Eagles, wanting
the tearing, aching for the Death, desiring
the killing of my Cerebellum. War - bellum, belli
May, or may not, Be - in this now of subtle spring.
So much Analysed -
it is a feeble Lady’s hand, age old –
dropping a small Plate,


as Heavy as an imploded star?

In focus photograph Face you become a great face; not the one they would ignore in your 'real' and lonely and insignificant life – then you are – old as you are or as ugly as but seemingly as true as Rembrandt seemed in his many shifts; then – then you do command the stage – your alienation

constitutionally unable

8 on page 146 - 7 Holden muses on war,
Write down the facts he states.

It is difficult for me to judge
now to what extent we - or perhaps
only I - felt this eternally unexpressed "no"
to be a skeleton in the family closet.

----------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
***********************************************************************

What clutches grows inverted trees
Weirdly from all this ashly crumblings?
You. Yes, you - to you I speak. You
Will never have the knowing. No, no,
Never shalt thou know: for in your gloomed
Skull a pantomime is played -
Outside where beats down heat
There is no watering place, no holing up -
No where can be found the leastest trickle
In the rocks of gods
In the garden of rocks
In that harsh unshadowed land
Where I have forgotten
How this strange conjunction
Of striding morning shadows,
Inverting rising in meeting,
Was revealed to me - in a handful of-
A man with a blazing brow
Showed me fear in transformal
Primal dust, until, after the rain of red rocks,
I writhed in Wagnerian,
That Hitler (and I) so loved. (But we both

***********************************************************************
----------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
23 Glossolalia

kick gott “jenod allum moch” — enflamed






24 Star Boat Fish

somewhere





25 Embryo
which X am I?







26 Hollow Blastic

the bloody wall fell over








27 Mosaic Mural

i was there, i was there - that sudden sharp shout



They tumble who would be wheels under this kind turning. ..the jingling jingle sings. Thus it is given… and taken away as if we were the question you asked. Staring like birds….pipe, wrenched impossible…salt and bright and still…

…slithers, slither – in and out of time, as decays, falls, wood: as if Time itself, being time, had forgotten time or how the green and fibrous turmoil of the mind: and, just as green ash begins to cake the frightened forms – it is then asked: what is it? what so violent, vile, virile and vindicant?

…Does he quote the Old Masters?

..can you glance along the titles?

------------------------------------------------------------a quirk in his eyesight

became a trigger

In any such collection, the most prominent organisms are likely to be one-celled plants called diatoms. These abound in fresh and salt water, and, containing chlorophyll, have the capacity
Diatoms have siliceous (silicaceous) skeletons, generally in the form of a two-piece capsule. Diatom capsules, known as frustrules, are of almost infinite variety in shape and form; many of them are extremely beautiful…made of silica…very durable…useful to geologists as…

‘Many physicists only have high-voltage current in their veins’, said someone who had known him for a long time. ‘But Same has blood. He knows that the world contains other interesting things besides equations and cyclatrons.’


All excesses beyond that are vanity. Meanwhile the hats bob up and down; the door perpetually shuts and opens. I am conscious of flux, of disorder, of annihilation and despair. If this is all, this is worthless. Yet I feel, too, the rhythm of the eating house. It is like a waltz tune, eddying in and out, round and round. / Probabilty x = 0.2348. Correct. / We have pleasure in enclosing your night and day card, renewed. Simply dial the 0900 number listed to select your BIG DEAL – I am rich, gay, languid, melancholy by turns. But I know no me. Draughts of oblivion shall quench my agitation. The door opens; the terror rushes in; terror upon terror, pursuing me. Let me visit furtively the treasures I have laid apart. Pools lie on either die of the world reflecting marble columns. The swallow dips her wings in dark pools. But here the door opens and people come, they come towards me. The swallow dips her wings; the moon rides through blue seas alone. But I doubt, I tremble, I see the wild thorn tree shake its shadow in the desert / There’s a lot of bastards out there! / The growth of traffic might be any uproar – forest trees or the roar of wild beasts. Time has whizzed back an inch or two….

His words issue pressed, condensed, enduring. She fears us because we shatter the sense of being which is so extreme in solitude – ’

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

Not In ‘Locus Solus’

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

You are reading. You are reading or you are reading. Say you are not reading. What say you are not reading. You may not be reading. Lets say you are reading. You are reading. So. So are you reading. And so you are reading. So something is being read, and you are reading. “Lens”. “Lens” is a word and you are reading. You are reading “lens” and lens is a word and you are reading ‘“lens is a word” and you are reading’. We are reading and we have lessness. Lessness is something. Are you reading or are you thinking or are you seeing or are you. You may not be seeing...

Y

where the three rivers
meet
in that great

Y

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

not ironic
not ironic
not ironic
not ironic
not ironic
not ironic
not ironic
not ironic
not ironic
and those trees of ending
that smudge in clusters - beyond:
seeing this multiface
in yellow and green
I redream the light machine
that makes eyes of them
because they are the elect, elated ones
in the ten billion page novel
of nothing built of nothing
and maybe one tear of glass
in which sad sea horses race
(these your many gemmed visions
whose lunal precisions
of yellow red and violet green
created by your instruments unseen
and as intricate as wings
or nerveless hands that lie
and clasp a plastic universe
in which the sands converse
in tongue filled tomb tones
(that haunt the restless towers of bones)
of something telling de the sea wave’s glint and curl
they could not stand or understand
how grit made pearl
or of a drowning thing’s last wave)
and some kind of blue sized juice
that burns September into October -
the month of yellow nightmares
we always come round
hit by Kings
those flores of soles
not in loces
if the stare does us cross criss
let itself be ever unshut
on the hands, caked in earth: black, dead...
and knowing das Lied von der Erde,

---------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----
sadly redeeming
it must be remembered
thus this exegesis

cherished

who despise

the stark, styptic
Styx

in black blood
intransigence

great Bell Men
great Boom:
big bloody bumble burning bee

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




1,
/Cr~ot~) douobling tournes

4S
7’/~1 e~ye~$ ,.Jvc-I


moans

that growls its thought in groans

O~IQ CCc,~.c,f1 ~.~.JJ7’L~




oily glob


The Legerdemain of Wotan
is a special possible:
but I prefer
the wooden god:
I speak him
and he speak me:
he reacty.

and thus belies
the intricacies
that underpin.

unrelentingly dry

not ironic not ironic
not ironic
not ironic


snow might work to make of it
a supernatural beauty as the
extreme curvature of the glances
of things are integrated into
the sweep of snow and



the trapped sense of everything


Information Theory, rescue the code
that noise obscures.

======================================================================
    INTERVENTION!

liver river will give
liver will go
water beer wine valium ascendin orange juice
enters the succulent snake, sensual, and waters,
and babies, and bodies:
bright sweet and bad is the night
we who sing in the woods go light
go(fuck you! )go its true
she’s on night shift -
sex
lines round — click-
click click click, hit me with a rhythm — they wait:
Blake is Blake
bleak black block click clock break brock
plates IS THERE A GOD? random red blue anytime
lets meet lets
IT DO WAH WAH RED SHADOW SHADOW
HAND MOVES ÷ = FINGERS MOVE
cat baboon moon enclitic elision assumes
“LETS TURN ON THE MISERY BABY”
what’s the latest who? different surfaces cuspids
LEAKEY
Lucy And In The Desert With Di Di Di Diamonds


Broken Dust Of Valley Jaw
Sweat
Struggle Yes
kick the bawah to Ballah
and
remember for chrissakes: Nihil Bastardum Carborundum Est

NO
the sun time
decline destiny.

Latinate the Arabic arrangements.
Sanskrit is 4000 years old:

peer inside an old paint pot -
play with the old nails,
the bolts, the brackets:

steel spiders:
bridges dance

damn the dead dog and dangle Lolita -
who raped who?
give the child wants to learn

give

give the blood of your knowing

====================================================================


In my garden
trees cover trees, and petals over petals lap.
Soft! Here slowly, comes my cat.
he is part (parcel). Pack.



O  I  L Y


feeling began to shew itself?????????????????



The road had many turnings and

twistings, and he knew that, for all he
could tell, the gypsies might be only a few
hundred yards in front of them.

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

he who would die
his head aside the green stream
to lock eternals in themselves
face so gentle of his victims

would breathe as if by glass
(and yes by no)
the freedom of
a shadow on the wind



and how the bees, salt singing sweet,
set up an enormous ZUM — how what is, was, and forever, will.


to be alive is to be chemically active – no ideas in a dead man’s head


Martyn Johnson compares poetry .... in a more complicated way, to chess (he had an obsession with it as I do or have done at various points in my life



bleed and all Angels rage
from castle walls;
let us keep heart.


...the child, and the child's endless eye

________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________

But I was even more afraid of blood than I was of pain. I couldn’t look at it; I couldn’t listen to talk about it; I just couldn’t bear it. The very thought of it made me ill. I broke


out. Panic seized me. My senses failed me, and I began to black out. I had to get away. I had to get out in the fresh air, away from the place where there was blood or talk of blood or the thought of blood. Since blood represents the essence of life and physical existence, it was more than I could stand. It was the embodiment of what I wanted nothing to do with, of what I struggled to avoid, of what I had repressed and shoved out of my unproblematic and artificially harmonious world. I couldn’t look at blood from the outside and as a spectator. It was inside me, and I lived from it. I myself am blood. Blood was the truth and, faced with the truth, I faded away to nothing. I was vulnerable and so afraid of being wounded because I had not


In nearly every possible way Auden’s “Commentary” on the Tempest calls attention to its own intricate inventiveness, its theatricality. Not only are fictions built upon a fiction, but characters speak in a variety of exaggeratedly literary forms, ranging from villanelles to slightly ridiculous Jamesian prose; each shift in form provides a further reminder that all this is art, quite distinct from “reality”, a game to be enjoyed for its own sake. (Or more accurately, a series of games, for Auden took pleasure in regulated poetic forms precisely because they prove “the fun of games”). Caliban’s exuberant lists, complicated syntax, and thickly applied adjectives communicate the spirit of play, the sheer fun of pouring out words: “Had you [the artist’s mind], on the other hand, really let me alone to go my own free-wheeling way to disorder, to be drunk every day after lunch, to jump stark


The squirming facts exceed the squamous mind.’



…Merrill seems intent on finding, perhaps extending, the limits of verbal musics expressive power. Reducing ….

All work and no play makes Chris cross. Please de-cross Chris and give her a call. She is 49, slim, and not very tall. My fingers
are crossed. North shore xg4g56. Are

we

guy. Honest, fun-loving, affectionate. Sincerity ios important, Auckland 1f4563t. Caring mother of one, 27, seeks caring, sensitive guy. North Shore 1035d7. Cuddly, easy going, … would like to meet…
The paradoxically double nature of reality is something both created and discovered / it provides the serious underpinning beneath all the light-hearted paradoxes. Merrill tried to let the succession of scenes convey not meaning so much as a sense of it “hoping to produce the deliciously operatic sense that something is, and isn’t, being said.”

Art that you actually inhabit, that drenches your senses.

Chris Clea-Brown. Sound art – to surprise the world with a fresh take on the world we live in – to let in the sounds we live in (and among)…to enable a new language…

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

A card table in the library stands ready to receive the puzzle which keeps never coming.


the gigabitic silence the analogic love
the long lonely road
the emotional steel truss

the rust of us the elliptic who-ness

“the impeccable suicides”

the stab of what we were or are the who of who are we to say things

something screams

------------------------------------------------------  -------------------------------------- ------------
Burning with words
Bursting to speak in the great gibberish
Of solutions, plots, plans -
The dagger stabbed down to mark the spot:
Ho! Ho! Captain Hook!

Sometimes the blind black man
Brushes his teeth at midnight.



It ripples outside in the gutter -
In pulses like a heart in a possible wind

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

A jellyfish of red blue yellow breaks up

speak in shapes, though none comprehend.

They smile though, comforted and terrified
by this radiant sign.

This throbbing thing — green eyed.

This message of death marching towards us

like a clockwork tiger.

--------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------
There has to be a frame, a story, a structure.
A frame. I’m hungry for a frame.
In a frame you can be clever
and the things we expect may not happen: but
the needs of the complex or simple structure dictate
that even in the silence or babble we seem not to escape
from or some endless forced rationality disallowing
swerve meant that – we had hoped that The Madness, as they called it, might stop: but the love that was ours
was theirs, and, ‘things keep burning’ was another
phrase. At this point I

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======================================================================
Say it was easy. The challenges would go and…

Who’d enchant our children
With funny learning tales?
Ah, these endless conundrums
Lizards after lizards…

Words. Words. Protect us from the night.

======================================================================
sdfgklj;juippoisudfuuuuu8HHSPDFGPH888SDFGPSODIFGPOIDSFGUUUUuuuUuuu9(999(9(dsdopi))9egfg9sdfh9bn0wgn0n0nb0nnnNN)9(*&)(ZX)D(vv8unvwereR#4#$Tthghp-df_)(98-0-0fg-j49ijhjft98-_998^^6089-sdfg-0sdf0jsgjjg-je0rg-09er09e-09^^8**8_)908_)_09_09-(-_(_9_(-9_(-i90(090(09PDFGPH888SDFGPSODIFGPOIDSFGUUUU
================================
    everything is answer


like a water blob.
Bulb sets tremble

questions  on  a  leaf

maybe of  broccoli.
(Ecstatic moon,

and the coming bloom
of the young year
that cools the finger’s fever

wakes rath: )

sparkins  fire  flame  snake
      in  which  syzegistic
       congnaced  cunt  rage
        red  as   arse fire
rapid  irreducible
      to  the  dead  agonal
        horse  mountain
          unvoicing  her  shitting
germaniac  treblinking
   to cant. write cant write
      cat   bitch - scream in a pyx -
               lacerating  the  bloody  lace


and      engines   light   to   BE ,


















     everything is answer   

like a water blob.
Bulb sets tremble

questions on a leaf

maybe of broccoli.
(Ecstatic moon,

and the coming bloom
of the young year
that cools the finger’s fever

wakes rath: )

sparkins fire flame snake

in which syzegistic
congnaced cunt rage
red as arse fire


rapid irreducible



to the dead agonal
horse mountain
unvoicing her shitting

germaniac treblinking
to cant. write cant write



cat    bitch - scream  in  a  pyx -
lacerating  the   bloody   lace


and engines light to BE ,

till pump is all:

and a, a, a - a sleepy shiver

ecstatics all objects

that are subjects

red nasalic narcosis in

nasalised redlic

sketched out

in a nightmare as of

a thousand bastards


======================================================================

======================================================================
eye is son and song
eye is child and sweet
eye is thought
eye is
eye is death and the way
eye is love and luminous
eye is fire and hand and hard
eye is
eye
eye is begin and end and egg
eye is lie there is no end or begin
eye is pluck
eye is dark and stern with storms
eye is terrible and drinks death
eye is mercy
eye is offend or smile or wise
eye is sea blue wise
eye is omega and noun and nous
eye is lumen
eye is
eye
eye is reflect and ripple and still
eye is quill
eye is word
eye is thought and spiritual space
eye is sea
eye is nothing and all
eye is one
eye is love or gone or rills
eye is hills where speech is death
eye is great and complex bread
eye is mathematics
eye is translucency
eye is complexity deferred
eye is joy for she was my mother
eye is suffer the gull or the woman
eye is child
eye is the man
eye is all language
eye is speech and silence
eye is i
eye is thin blue ink
eye is death and exult
eye is dream of waves



Then the terrible distance
of flesh from flesh and heart –
the Lear-like death decision:
my Grandmother, Lillian, who died so young –
her agony, my Grandpa's agony:
his long years alone. The stone silence.
The stupid sad silence. The agony
of my father. The agony
of The Alone.
Poor people. The meetings, the touchings:
words of tenderness missed, the
unseen eyes, missed:
the exile of Love in a terrible century.




How, at this light of time
Can I, a being bright yet dark, unblind
this aspect under the eye, and, breeding:
breed thus a truth? Not
a general, transcendent truth that sparkles
like a light on a gay green Christmas tree, but
some signal interchanged: some moment:
this, all this....

It began somehow, and I
and you also, got caught up in it all:
you know, the usual thing, the he/she/it and the
terrible lovely, and and

the Begin: the big big single bang bang boom!

the singular begin. it hangs here


What was the matter with
the matter? Could I tell you? That it kept throwing molds, kept re-shaping – kept touching the clay and rebreeding life and so on:
but nothing is ever perfect as you’ve probably noticed. Matter and fire for example are surely forever at war.

The special thing that burns in the eye: they are in conflict.
Eternal. The usual thing: Dog has set up a conflict, a complex:
a complex conflict like a five volume analysis of Finnegans Wake. The Joycean, the Miltonic thing: which ever turns you on or out.

nothing is connected – somehow.



Calculating time by time and dividing by time
these things of lament fall upon us as dark green quilts on agèd men where women wail. Forever fingers of the living root down to grip.

To disappear into the sands. As in Scott of Lammermoor .
'The quicksanded cities.' as I wrote, using the image of man and horse plunging. To disappear. And the vents of fury among the loud mountains:
Why have we not passaged here?

We have something to teach, to say. We could treat time
like Cantor's Alephs, and find that time by time yields
time only, and time times time is Aleph time.



and the huge chant sent out caused even
The Great New Stadium of Light to shiver involuntarily –
procreation and Civilisation’s endless discontent with towers, hopes, and reaction etc was uppermost in everyone’s thoughts: even those who sought solace in ‘meaning’ or a

peripheral structure, or were found cutting away the 

jungle weeds, dodging the spears, writing, informing: and everything beautifully slotted in, like a special secret set of draws.




He loved the dark gutteration of the utterances: the German (seeming) strangeness. Thus he would talk (tutorials 1968) passionately of
some Heideggerian term: the very German word held the “meaning” –
totally untranslatable…the nightmare of meaning. Wrestle, intolerable, nearly. What can we translate?

What was he talking about? We knew, in a way, even then. I never talked to anyone that year. Scott said that in his essays Smithyman would try to write about everything. Thus he “failed”, as an academic.

If we live we stand in language.”

What did he mean? I love words. Now It comes: the cacophony, the strikes of sound, clashes and the junga junga….

With Moses (the boss) away, the characters catorge in ecstasy: nakeds copulate nakeds and savagely they sacrifice: then come The Tablets. Ho!

Schoenberg must have been getting old. Pillars of Fire – Burning Bushes – better the bad old gods!


Self. Being self. Being self because one is in self. Not, not other self, self. Not being or necessarily being, and not necessarily being self. Or Self. Not not being either, quite: but Being beingly. Being, and self self (as in self if self is indeed itself itself as a possibility of fun). But, in any case: self, self. So. Self because self. And, being. Being being. Being


this we have known
and it is a sad stone
for all who have left
who once did sing or sigh:

now the waxworks
enormous as electrons
murmur of the gasworks
where she walks the wall

and nothing speaks
or dares concede
the balloons of red
be blind as fingers

like a blanket around
my house where I breathe.
what else but a hand

reaching out to another
or via a page to keep
some force of stillness:

my children's children,
my son, daughters, and all
others: let us, though stones


secret

down by our corner
the green fire, whose hedges
bashes down wedges

those stoogey times
boogied on a thumbtack -
met Phanton, saw Char1ie C



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Somerset Maugham was most adamant:
‘When you’re dead,’
he said.
‘You’re as dead as a dog.’


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But, big radix:
go thou hencely hie,
that these quick,
precious things, speaking,
speechless,
and curling from the lake,
should not butterfly die -
as things do go morte,
or thud to black.

(this or that or) it -
(we hear again) of

the seven ages
and the man of wise saws
whose

world wide hose -
too, for his shrunk
shank - wide -
'a world too wide' -


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muscles contract │ s p r o u t │ accompanied
pressure in the │ e gg s │ mouth
causes the oper │ of gol │ culum to bulge
so there will be │ and w │ a reduction
flexible free edge │ mud │
│ │ the mouth closes
and the squeeze │ sly f │ the operculum wall
high pressure │ │
│ five │ is drawn
insects │ eyes │
oxygen enters │ │ the body
│ │
│ stupidity │
through the │ │ spiricals │ │ │
│ shapes │
to the │ ever │
tracheole │ never │ they give oxygen
│ │ │
and take │ like T │
│ was │
│ young │ materials
│ once │
│ │__
│ No. │
________________________________________________________________________

My Mother's Death

She wasn't ready for Big Bad Death.
He came about 10 pm.
She was alone. I wasn't
there. The Universe.
She wasn't ready.
And nor will you be you bastard!

You wont – she wasn't ready
for that last, “sweet shuddering
buggery” of a “dying” descent
into or through
the final
obliterating or renewing plunge
as powerful as a fuck
in the probably godless space
to a very Nothing:
peace ecstasy or hell –
or whatever beautiful blackness or
absolute zero: not even cold.
All I know is my love and how I couldn't –
say anything. What wasn't said.
The agony of remembering.

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

these black-faced mirrors


first people
can I, a being bright yet dark, unblind


paper is made from wood


, your dark Being lost in Lost: your various failures and pathetidudes. And your fears, timid terrors – all these disappear and even sex takes a back seat in a world where all things that have grown (in a way we can never know) from chemical death-birth to this strangely fervid, strangely febrile, feeling matter.

Suddenly you are apart even from those Lords of The Erotoforce, the destructive force of Love and Generation: and equally quickly – by the way, eh, you lot! Yes, you bastards! You there, wake up! – it's about now you will realise that the old fuck ranting cant possibly have any or much of an idea of what the buggery he's on about the old fuck: but, ne'er feare, as thinges are always a kind of eternal and irrefutably endless sentence whose cogs of conjoinance keep sliding into an exploded gap where the chaos of tangled words pour in to fill the horror of aloneness, stupidity, uncertainty, and the near-certainty of total disappearance or death if death is the word....well, who cares, what I was saying or about to – you are now separate from whatever Nature devised for you, never to be a happy Chemical Ghost, or happy as in a man or woman listening to Bach or eating steak egg cheese & chips with Italian sauce – you cant be like that for long – you have to breathe – and you can now pretend that everything focuses on you Face, and so indeed, your voice; your words (is it your Lot's face? Eh?)...your words as I said, and your wonderful inspirations

It is I who lurch at the thought of the years of this, my
Infinite Hand: and our end too, our finale
and the sad lost love
and the cry that Nothing ever move again:

Yet. We celebrate its Huge Life, its flawed, fatal, living Machine:
this death excretion, this this - this queer screwed Quirk of life,
this twist of stuff: this instrumental Devil-God.

Yet this five-thing, so unknown, so near dead – is so alive!
So alive and so silent beyond accusation or even time itself;
and yet so aware, in its own way, this Familiar; this alien and
all too knowing Thing! Ach!

It shows: it points the way to death.

My Child my child – My Child Hand! – my Bairn, my Child Time –
My mother, my father, my –

And this miraculous of you and me – of we who live:
This Thing, this seeming endless moving Thing –
This mortal miracle, Fanny, You! –
Spurned! Me! - You –
This living, moving, throbbing – This –

The wild lost years


but here also

is a conjunction -
and in these connections
these flowers

of pity - in this
betimes most pitiless place:
a converge

of couples: bawdy Audry
and the strong erotic young,
this Kind Prince:

Jacques is sad (no: we don't
need to keep pretending)...
: sad tres sans...

Jacques is sad and
dead wise – his dark
song burns us,
we, of the everything
improbable protoplasmic:

subject to ends
----------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
and you transformed
into the way things always,
like scissors, or sexy girls,
disappear when you want them –
into the way things always are.

But, you disbelieved the random sky,
lying about clouds and blueness.


(But we have no theories or conclusions ( who do (who do you ( you think (you think ( we are ( we are we ( we are not what you are (are we ourselves no ( are we?
( we aren’t (…?) are …?

But we are in the Silent Museum. We are gingerly, and step around (The Things. We are in the spaces. The places of the spaces. (For we love (these places ( place ( these places ) We calibrate. (We summate. ((We hesitate. ((( We stop

We begin again (again

let’s get right in there
let’s tear the hair
let’s cut right in
let’s die and disappear

amphisbaena
bright and black
blindly searching in a water sack
or even raging in chasmic loch:

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isn t on the instant is it
thus

my mountains don't mean anything, but they are still mountains.
unnumbs

'till cracks snap out
to cleave the
thinking rock.

its down and
new heresies burn in old religions
something about caterpi1lars
and budga buggers-
illed by pip blue

vividavidaridivid

(virid vivid is the silverbeet
that bubbly grows
ignorant as intersections

seen is green
seen is green
seen is green

and blank as baby’s brain)

Death soon! And hones and black
rejuvenate (something)
into the

in a fuck wave
the cuddly serial killer

the blonde final earth
exhaled a smile as of clusters.

---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------- ---------
The blue light is futile.

They who hover are futile.

The saxaphone is futile.

That which I write is futile.

Futility is futile.

There are no countries.

There are no lovers.

There are no haters.

I have no passion, I'm stuck.

I would speak, but the bubble.

Of those who would answer, or make
motion of themselves,
we have excised their caputs for their sake.

Only silence has any value.

but the tomb. and the...

there is something immense, black,
and heavily,
that would crush out our sweet blood -

sed nihil est
sed nihil est

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both ways always, now
the music of red or
“blue blown up on yellow”
echoes like a cannon crack -
they survived, and each day

-Yes: it was yes in far dangle time of faery lands folorn. Long glanged they, they stared up yes, petrific, against the socket mountain where babbles the old and fiery clouds of steam and blood,
-Did gargan the pan in the clod of me and my brother's bread?
-No, no: Never we heaved but a coal hand of bond strangled the strange.
-Did not want they the free and the frei?
decisions, pain, leavings, meetings: all struck into polished and astonished stone. It struggles, but heavy hands hold, Merciless Mercy, who know the pain, and the dark double death twice chopped. Yet, we shrug, and laugh, and dig who would be yes.
And then it was he dreamed that he was seized into a gesture, an about to be, and that I stood there, brush or baton or pen in hand: all Time rolling under me in a road of perfect light.
There was nothing I could do - everything was closed: and all men, all women, turned their backs to me.
And then terrible the psychotic silence, The Invaginated, the Yellow. All this and these others, hanging there: noosed and cut off like words Crossed out - the strokes of Kings, the curled, the military command.
All this, and so much that is speechless
---------because of the illimitable
flat of the slab feet
extending
into all (known) unendings
the visceral 360 degree distance
has long since uranium.

how are you we are very good goodbye
hullo ha ha hee hee you’re welcome,
as if it was, and then.

and I havent told you yet but, I, ( I wick
edly whirled where where whose (as if Johnson
(at this point we stopped for a cuppa (prob
ably it was a word like “wickedly”------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------

At the Conference

Mr Fantastic Sir!
Yes.
Could you show us that movie of the palace being blown up in reverse?
Again? For the 20000th time?
Startled by this development,
I hunched into the hill of myself as
the blaze of dying time and the blue-cracked expanse
of the sky exploded silently.

Glass all became and in showers we relived
endless mirrors and slices everywhere silicate.

I couldn't see for a great light, a great grace.
But it didn't help, for I believed not enough
and felt only terror when we with joy did shine.

Then he equated, calibrated, summated …
All was nut-shelled. All. It was greater than Einstein
or Bach. It was all. All: it was, sort of 'The Way, the Truth, the Light'.
But what could we do with it?
they are tall like fingers —
and their glare is peniscate

sentinels in their world
and full of think

they...

a child is born.

I say more than that:
it was
the because of me
and you and they
and the corridors we have sung in -

laughter so long ago

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billion times.

What now? Quid novi? Salve Quadis! Is Stick around? I like Stick, he
always sticks by me does old Stick. You need that kind of corroborative
component + substantive pudention to regenerate generation these
unholy days. Those days what were black with song, as if the un-
mediated precision of a side-glance at the metaphysical event horizon
had thinged you into things that sing or sting: the sun growing like a
great red head to vaporise us in about two billion years tomorrow morning.
------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------

and it was then. it found it. you
reached past me: we clasped forever. all
was beginning. the everlasting seed. as if.
ice night. sweet to never. never let. just
bathe, and all tumble is the gold
on black: all plush the sharp sign. it
blazed out of the black like an iridescent plum. it
had what it took. it took what it had. it was luscious. and
the sounds. they were deluscious. the sounds had soft found the ice light: the illumined room was brain-sized. and hands. hands were quick, soft, dextrous yet always
were finding. no one can know. no one is allowed in. but if
you are out, you are in: and we turn the key as big as the door. the key. the ice brass key. it is clever this trap. ecstatic sap. big to blue to head. ice findings. we will. and you and you. be.

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  Some times I believe there is a world,
but sometimes I think: no! no! this cannot be!

some inflating domains
create internal random
fluctuations that enable
sub regions to inflate,
and so on, ad infinitum

“And when I look at pictures
they look back at me,
and I cant escape.”

“But I want to be something.”
We spun and shuddered in our ecstasy
Upon this bloody stone.
Crafting hearts do wait in w Birth From Earth

is impishly insidious with his short, stabbing sentences, and an
ominous use of repetition.

------------------------ ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brick

A brick is a brick:
you could: but let’s be honest:
there’s not a lot you can say about a brickombs
And Death laughs out:
He clatters like the Tin Drum Man
The world up downs, but it don't mind.
For a thousand clapping clowns gyrate,
They have no heads, for it is birth from earth
That they do celebrate. Ho! Ho! Ho!

Silence laughs, and grins, and leers and sneers:
Or so we apperceive.... the subtle snake, the gecko, or the crocodile....

O you smile you smile you mathic son of man!

But crickets green in coats of gold are busy munching up:
They sing the numbers of the world,
And girls [ Death

There’s so much to say on the subject:
and a lot has been written and spoken and thought about death.

Supermarkets

Supermarkets are very large shops. ]

with violins
Are just like they. Bibles burn! Burn!

The hand that holds a pen

Is as subtle as a billion flies.

------------------------ --------------------------------------------------------------------------------could the fingers forget?
but they proceeded
to proceed each other:
each one clad in their red
and special clothes

many looked to heaven
both for the visual and polysemantic ambiguation of its textual
dynamic and the tensile power that is generated by Towersey's
technique: letters are jammed and crammed together into a continuous
and seemingly random scream whose wall’s morphemic madness maddens and
fascinates.

Greek
Greek is one of the thousands of languages I don’t know.
7 Albescence

swelling and fleeting into candent chalk






8 Candle

beat beat in in each end of cylinder lead
with wood or plastic lop-sided dresser until both
ends bullet in:chamfer with shave hook,melt candle
onto ends and cut cut lengthwise with tenon saw
plenty candle, plenty tallow, use the pad,
the moleskin pad,the grooves in wipe direction hand
in palm, and heat the metal stick till hot and note
the shine, and quickly wipe about and seal out water
out. Use mirror. Check for cracks and pressure test
with pounds of air and soapy water for bubble signs.
Double check. Double double check -
for this way wicked something comes


9 Bell

the swelling song conducts
along these ducts
the ring:
and thus our breath is brief


10 We The Undersigned

wide range of views — look at a panther — traffic is advised
amazing new plan with tidy habits, three-bedroom rebuffed
for investment, was reported, the Artificial Limbs Board
at no time illegally to clarify, most likely a dead seal




11 Collecting Shells

giggly light-hearted shapes writhe with bumps
gristly nubs, and drooling openings to that beach of bullets
that sea-horsed to the dead approach
only I - felt this eternally unexpressed "no"
to be a skeleton in the family closet.
In view of the intellectuality of Auden’s verse and his passionate belief that every poem
should be “a hymn in praise of the human language”, we hardly need to be told that
Auden‘s densities are Homeric.

miserable. This is precisely the reason why Boltanski's works are not made of bronze or of marble, but rather of cheap materials such as tinplate; materials that fall into decay by themselves. The artist also uses simple and easily recognizable materials such as coats or photos. To him, everybody is a fragile and unique character whose memories have to be preserved, just like the example of his grandmother: no trace of her existence has left, at the exception of this samovar displayed in the Moscow exhibition or the memory of those who knew her. It is all about "small" individual memory, that is opposed to the "large" collective memory, that of the history books that he also tells throughout his installations. Each of his exhibitions creates a new path made of old pieces combined with new works, which setting is renewed every time.

Boltanski tells that at the beginning of every work of art, there is a historical or psychoanalytic event, referring to events that have to be told in order to be better understood.For me there are no answers - the Mass is something incomprehensible (and undoubtedly
the clicks and insane toys and all the other cacophanies of the night scream with significant laughter as we too disappear down the twisted corridors
with grace of those who have failed perfectly and
we are completely mad and huge with ourselves
amid the gigantic lobelias and frozen leopards -
the joyful destruction continues
and we recall 'the phenomenological phallus' and the excrutiatingly lovely details
and -

potatoes
are thumbly
under the stab
what is the Sun-Knife

stilletto quick

when still
the hay rick
(deceased now)


but I am not interested just now in the poem's meaning (meaning is problematic in any case) interested here in the look of the totality of his work as worked through and I then transform it - as things constantly do in life - in fact I went "berserk" with it almost in trance or a fever, a kind of "creative rage" perhaps: creating a new "poem" or text as in the following image-poem-text-enactment: an implication of an infinite and progressive or degressive process ... I got very angry with it:

-it is the details we require - progress was mentioned - but Buzz kept drinking -
we who also read the technical books and wonder about the blue one and the red one and
and the endless miles to fulfill our wire blood needs &
our quietly desperate hungers - our advancing annihilation and the wonder of tree trunks
Is that dilapidated run down house with the graffiti and the beautiful views available for a squat? Moved in just now and have invited all the animals in the neighbourhood to join me...happy house warming...
----------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

innuendoes of sailors, of sailors Drowned, of a thousand sailors
drowned. sailors who dream of sound and song, and i’ve been Murdered to
Rose, not true my dear one.
and they speak and tell, speak and Tell, as tiny silicate sounds
shriek and break In microscopic spots

------------------------------------------ ----
Such immensity of blank, 
encyclopaedic meaning,
unfolding, or just being —
like those electron shells
with their secret numbers
clinging to the thinking night of time.
and those numerals: so knowing,
so smirking in their Numberness —
the wrench-squig of their symbolic:
we go deeper, penetrating the reds,
the greater resonations, the oak wood,
the teak dark depths.
The world is truncated.
Balls of basalt roll about.
Death is forbidden. The people wait.
They know nothing.
Nobody knows nothing. We wait.
It won’t be long.
The concrete towers shiver
They are waiting
They are hoping:
A tired lady
Puts on her coat
The typewriter
Dies for fingers:
Her hands are cold -
It is 4 o’clock,
She sees the sun,
She is thinking:
The people wait,
the people wait,
Graham and Peter
May never come.”

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Ol’ man sorrow came
An sat on my step —
Sat all night long
Holdin’ his hat.

Ol’ man sorrow
Took out his sax
O1’ man sorrow
Raised up they songs.

O1’ man sorrow
Hel’ a - my hand –
I’d lost my cat
My lady cat.

O1’ black sorrow
Sat an’ a - sat
An’ talked an’ talked:
That ol’ black cat

. Made. To be. To be me. Me myself. Me and myself. Me and myself and me. Me myself myself. Me myself myself beside myself myself. Me and me. Me. And you. Me you. Who are you? You yourself yourself your   But. But not that other! Nay! No, no, not those other selves. Those selves selved in self. No. Not them, they, those. No. No, no ! As if blood. As if burning. Burning. As if fire! No! Dog! Dog, as if this were end. Endless, endless end.

a part of the fascination with
a whole cluster of processes


thou’s ever Face thou shalt be thou’s very being’s Be. And. And be beingly.


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there were so many of us

tonight they howl again inside
the headlands:
we cannot quiet them, and invoke
a strange and virid human tree
that walks about the boards
shedding leaves of messages.

there were at least
one thousand of you
in the empty teatro
whose stage
was bare but for that

that had been slain alive
to confront you
with its poking tongue,
for it was rude
and young -

this leetle toe got shot
this leetle one met Wolfi
this leetle one ate God,
and this leet1e one went:

wee wee wee all the way home
to future and to past
and the happily reburied dead:
for that’s enough

there were so many of us

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The way is in and thru itself.

Munching away thru mountains of lollies
Sugared him back to life.
He goes home on Wednesdays.
Sometimes he falls, but he struggles on,
And death’s no problem:
Someone walks his way.
Musing, musing, dark at night,
(His wife long gone)
Death was edging closer.

Chess - Alice flew and flew,
But they got nowhere.
Nowhere did they go.

=======================================================

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John went on for 500 lines about Parmigianino:
the bloody fuckin’ wog with the cheese name,
painting himself in a convex fuckin’ mirror.
A convex fuckin’ mirror?! What’s that
bloody lizardo mechanico liberto doing
Unbecoming from your page set at 30 60 degrees
and u-u-up onto the book, curlfully,
and then onto the set square which
has got a circle which is really a fuckin’ellipse,
and its little hands grip the fausty book,
or the set square’s sides ‘till:
“Aren’t we great”, a tiny Crocodilus becomes
a fockin dragon — snorting King of the castle
on the top of Mount Dodecahedronicus —eh?!
You fockn’ Dutch genius. Fock !

.And then it turns, fuck me,
And dissolves back into beginning

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I think of my mother today.

She was frightened.


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Yes. There has been birth and breath and birdsong and death. And here, and now, in this time of place, where light where light, these sensile fingers do twine and twist about the fevered face. They wait, they wait. Yet I do not wish to leave you, my scene, my stage, my hell, my house. For it was here that – surely you recall – the deep adumbrations, the violinocellos, the lights, the subtle shades, and all those who came: their signals – how they breathed and bowed and loved! How the rooms enfolded them like envelopes in the glazed and timbered cells, and the ecstatic, wriggling quietnesses. They beckon, they crook: but no – there have been too many meetings here: here, just here, was once The Great One – and that place was blood enriched, and over here a beautiful bulbous bubble grew. And the delicate quicknesses, the sharps, the special clashes and the type of night: how you took cigar as the voices rose to roar – even yes, even the terror, the things, the songs, the cadenced dooms, and the dusty settling that spills and spills: out out into the religious rustlings, the flashings, the folds, the dragons, the coils – the angels descending. Those reds! Those blues! ….

No, no: as I cast about, there are the tenors who strut about like croaking toads in a symphony of frogs and bogs. And the dark times gone croak. And the times of newspapers.
The apple times, the pillow times, the erections – all all already known…
I suggest that every person open an interior trapdoor, that he negotiate a trip into the thickness of things, that he make an invasion of their characteristics, a revolution, a turning over process comparable to that accomplished by the plough or the spade, when suddenly

, are exposed to the light of day for the first time. O infinite resources of the thicknesses of things, restored to us by the semantic thickness of words!
………………………………………… ………………………………………………..
some sort? The struggle of shapes.

The struggle of shapes leaps into the scream
that creates paint drips
as he, brushing, wrestles death.
……………………………………………………………………………..

[ one of the incredibly mediocre movies he made ]
[ in his incredibly mediocre acting career ]

------------ -------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------
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Standing on the hillside at night. The fluttering of millions. Shells. How things. Being among the multitudes and the thoughts. Folded. Shelled in many ways. Imagine. There is surely something. One. Cup. A kind of. They were. Seeing (or hearing?) the ecstatic silence. The intellection and the bursts of rawness. “Drifts of shifts” The wrath of words. The iration of ideation. Qualm. He felt a qualm. Where has the softness gone? The man. Something explodes somewhere. We can say of a that it is not b. Judgement. The spider descends. Hard green cord round the spinning top to get it to gyrate. The whirl of many colour. We inhabited the hinter woods. He disappeared mid winterely.
------------------------ ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------
Stepping into the vanishing places you become ever more
visible, and some sort of utterance about almond blossoms, or
pine scent, creeps in, and is an ever more ascendent
resplendent more ever more fantastic thing like a wheel, in
whose motionless centre, surely nothing more everything has
been thought of Chinese more perpetual perpetual or
unperpetual could be found. Or was. All things - chroniclers,
characters, boots, bolts, old boats, or conversations whispered in
the hall - pour out the spat old book. That’ll teach ‘em to
bible things. Getting nowhere, as is our wont, we won’t. And the
p-pages flutter in the wind, leafing and briefing themselves,
while all the while the while, the demon-sized head, shapes
itself and crushes out the bolty magic: god or no god.

We had thought, at least in first wise, to whistle instances, that coming down to the Valley until our darkness might explode like a witch's oval berry. But, by association, The Towers (who had been quietly cognisant if not sadly observant), stood with great and sudden suddenty to attention (they) who have e'en now (just nary) some forty aeons for maybe a Tom thumb or a jumping jack to crack, Jack. Crack! There is and was a tremendous commotion as of an enactment to some purpose yet shares remain steady and el Presidente displayed his dentals. Much have I travelled. But I turned off at Kopakopa into Huketai to examine a thistle-patch, or a magpie, a tui, or even a cow, and an abandoned tractor fossil.
You joined me and it was then I came upon us. Who were we, you eternally asked? They meantime were vanished into clumps and (quite probably) had merged with the stainless steel land, which as you well know, is as beautiful as a real advert, and gave off the tinkle sounds of melting snow. The microphones, who had been (generously I must say) ear lending,had booked in to rent a conclusion. Just then they bent further in. This circumstance made further calls on us (poor defeated souls) as great ungulphable gulphs of (in)comprehension burnt deep into Jeff Koon's beautiful ceramic of Michael Jackson, for instance.
The Porn began. The Thorn began. And the Horn began. Not Rebecca, but we'd lost Blake's number,and the derivations, and the thick, and the trick, and the tick of it.
Today, much replenished and replete, I sit at my broad dark old oak desk. And it goes thus hard with me, that, in a sort of systemantic frenzied and syncopated reticulated and revivified repetio I spin in tasks, despite my petrol migraine. In such a wise I am to be seen ( a lonely, nay, pathetic) figure: automating my signal jerk function. Thus I arise, reach forward, grasp, and take item x from shelf b, retract it with great solicitude to my desk (where the brassy lamplight delineates it to its greatest advantage), where (with great care and concision) I compare it to item c. Then I reach forward and... This process repeats in shittering (yet strangely static) frames. And at the attainment of each mid bloob cycle of this endless process (by which the being who is thus stooped is deeply occupied) he stops, shifts, and reconsiders. A Face peers round the corner of the door jamb to watch him.
Look at him. Somebody should take him away. Madness, joy, freedom, and the burning rainbow beckon.
------------------------ --------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------
The task is, one: to change oneself. This is possible.
And, now, enormous streams make cavernous of cascades until
I, or was it you, are not now what you were - as if it were that
to make some final statement, you, had exited a jumbo jet, say
at three thousand feet or so, only to splatter your life
into implacable mud? That sort of thing. In short, some indifferent end.

But that would be absurd jeered the cheerers -
only kings and clowns are allowed madness, you are condemned to
sanity. We are strictly temporal beings. Nothing
there is you can fault us: we aren’t children. Ours is
the straight road - no drowning in ponds of blood for us. No
nightingales. No Tuis even. We even have doubts
about the body, how it excresses, or is that: expresses? What
by what oozing dissolve could justify
the power and ache of that great oak oat strength,
that we always discern in shoes, or ploughed earth, or Heidegger’s lusty
labourer: the way he spits into the cozy inferno of his evening’s fire:
and the way it thereby sizzles? Eh? We doubt this muscular miscegenation:
we have vital numbers to protect, and audits. Oh yes, audits: and we
all will will, everything, correctly.

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That there thing, that is, the thing there -
The thing that was there,
Where I saw it, dark -
A coagule of wet,
Together, clinging things:
Like dead, and loving things -
Dead things caught in a hopeless,
But restless, and never ending
Parody of what looked –
------------------------------------
In so far as you, could see:
Or could not see,
Were, as I began, wet, limp,
But together things, rapid, and, they, or it:
Rolled in the wind
-------------------------------------------
This that thing I saw -

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The others, who are bright, or thought so; scale red mountains of
flesh: and are forever aflame.

I forgot the other tasks, but, I, too, have supped. I too have sat in
the silent gardens whose shadow precedes sight. And you, Great Short One, you
who are ugly, stride away with enormous boots. And
because you are infinitely inside: you blaze, you blaze: and
Blindest Man is touched in eternal joy.

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Telephones cause strange changes –
Men menace down them –
And hideous in the night
Or when we move in that direction:
Suddenness of signals
It screams
In various tones –
For example bells
Ringing at 75 volts
And interrupted,
Modulated bursts,
Of so many hertz
Sent to tell you.
And the damn things
Always ring when you’re in the shower,
Or there was a death –
Or –
Or re-begin all that agony
Of trial by logic
That is distorted into silence –
Strange voices because
You only have about
Four kilohertz of the bandwidth,
For you could simulate perfection –
Given the right tools, the hope, the time.

And they are the mouths, these telephones:
Sent down wires,
The voice arriving,
The very man
Being beside you –
Anything might be said.
You cannot see the face
And the eyes evade.

Our telephone used to be
A terrible old doom black thing –
Shrill as a drill:
One night, unannounced,
It announced, my grandmother’s death.

------------------------ ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------
The Amazed Light

The two hands of Truth press together:
and more are sent out, though none return…
History conspires and conjures…These inversions.
Truth …a box…endlessly folding and refolding…

But I could talk of treaties, handshakes, agreements, thumbprints;
and ink-smudged documents. Great papers, great recordings:
and joyous embellishments. But the wrongs stream away beyond
any local landings. Everywhere great writings: useless
yet perhaps fruitfully sad. And only the Joker
could cackle, right ironically, that pen quills, deadly sharp –
perhaps poisoned – could spell with a death the old sooth:
“The Pen is Mightier than the Sword!”

Wolf-men dive thru yellow skies…

…great green capsules rotate
…the fierce blue
…still are men sent out, though they never return…

…millions millions ago..hunched, waiting, with seeking eyes…
…blundery…death and lovely…slaughter and song.

The Moment, which slept, was surprised.

… mathematical logic that proves, bloodlessly, that Nothing is provable…(craven hooded god…)

the Logic so Socratic and snide…
where, where, where can we hide…?

More are sent out…though none return…

…it all began, only to end on this beach.

to end on this beach
to end on this beach
to end on this beach

The fingertips whiten with meaning…that none comprehend
until, perhaps, the end…when we are stretched out in sand
or on a wall
or rolled in a cosmic ball…

It’s hot tonight rock me baby


We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’

It’s hot tonight rock me baby
It’s hot tonight rock me baby

The Huge head hath eyes that stare into vacant Vacuo
The Eyes are transfixed.

More are sent…

…we wait, sadly silent in the silent city

wanting … all are wanting…

    What am I saying?


…our desires flash lightenings up in snake-shivering certainties…

….and voltages of thunders crash the great pale sky

…they turn to wolves or worse…

New snakes emerge
from the vast, rocky, and dust dry desert of unsouled dust…Something is…

…there is no…there is…there is…there is no...there is

It’s hot tonight rock me baby
It’s hot tonight rock me baby

We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’

It’s hot tonight rock me baby

It’s hot tonight rock me baby


We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’


(Revolvin’ eyes are red blue flashin’

We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’
We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’
We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’
We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’


* * * * *

Examine Hands that do palsied grip
the green and joyous Earth
in vicious love. Know that if you know
these hands and kiss them, they
will drop the whirling world
like a ball of should be:
that shall land, alacrite as a kitten, expertly untaught.

Indeed, examine these hands, and study these lands:
and scrutinize the eternal weathered Faces staring South.
They wait: and in their stony hope of life,
we are perceived. And then, like a tiny morning circus, we
magic alive. And the comical clank crank clank
of spindly Stravinskys all gone mad is joyfully heard
by puzzled Gullivers. These lean their beards
and dream us back alive. History has many voices.
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The Apocalypse is a way of going on – and indeed we proceed, despite the death of sharks and bears (‘You a shark lover? A bear lover?’ [Exits, pursued by bear.]): but of course there’s the clearing of the fuzzy edges and the New Logic leading to clarification of terms: we control it, we’ll see it through, tough it out as the going gets going: and indeed it was at some such (Shark wins a fortune; the breathless excitement of the chase through the jungle when his diamonds are stolen; Shark’s love for Belle, the Georgetown whore who bathes in champagne on her birthday; his return to Georgetown to live a life of prophetic profligacy, driving to the races in an equipage drawn by white horses; his ruin – his return to the mines and the kingdom of chance. These are just the bare bones…) moment we move into the jungle clearing, somewhere we meet up with Tarzan Presley (Natalie Wood swapping lover notes with her sister: “He’s a good singer, but he’s not much use for anything else”): but in any case the gorilla (gentle) crunches up the Tyrannasaurus rice bubble Ed Burroughs King-weta

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You try to eliminate history and symbols and stories an all
them kinda things - like meaning. But the wiley wolf always
hides in the wind envelope and howls his splinters. The
dialectic is in despite and because of you. He. The 85th
Century fast becomes. Nothing is but cannot be so: again we
rage, silly us, in this uncloaked unamed & nameless
place. The fool is afire with the breath of useless truth,
and we sigh as she die. But we know as only those who know can
know that it is the beautiful, polished greenstoneness that
be-brings us here to here - and nothing, no nothing, and again
nothing it is that sits on our coffee tables, catching the
first blind touchings of the paralytic light - and the
bubbling babblings of the exquisite newspapers of disintegration.

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To see with the naked eye
what was seen with the naked eye:
back back back back,
and forth, and back and forth:
and in true, these black-faced mirrors
shiver reflect the wilderness
of backward forward fragment worlds
that are strange agonal with toe and claw.
That acting agony. It cannot be said. Again.
At night: the crucifix cries. This slow,
dark dance. The pen, finally, dies – and the painter’s
brush, the oboe, and the ink. Those gone aways.
Look out to that bright revolve. Nothing is about.

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This dark, vocal isle.

Some things are right, some wrong, and some things hover in the stillness of the sad bright light.

To endlessly begin. To end: to endlessly end.

The long imagined line. The twists, the fields, the tiny towns…

The wonderful making: a carpenter shapes and carves, and cuts. And fits his timber. Hammers.

The ecstasy of my fingers – the sun-low light – the child I am or was.

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'She looked at her roses – a white, virgin scent. They were white, some incurved
and holy, others expanded in an ecstasy. The tree was dark, as a shadow...and
touched them in worship.'

the huge intensity of the white existent roses.

the trembling ecstasy of a girl's eyes

the fiery but tragic dark

the universe a burning snake

the rich black moment

the hopeless aloneness
the arched church of richness

the richness of love and the twines

all, all, unbearable but beautiful –

the cowering and the erect proudness

before the malevolent furnace –

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the tendrils were tender
as if a muscular
percipience
argued tendentiousness

or a wing curve
was something
if even not more
whose escape velocity

describes a design’s death -
because there are thousands
under blood:
whereupon stones exhaust colour

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The Dead Man

The face in my local paper, The Eastern Bays Courier, which I get here in Panmure, was of an Asiatic man. The police wanted to know who he was, and for some time no one had identified him. His face was grey and slightly fuzzy due to the print quality of my local paper, and this, together with his face with the eyes closed, and because he looked to me so hopelessly dead. So far gone as one might say, seemed hugely tragic to me. There is something so hopelessly decaying about the dead; of course they are decaying; but I mean that they represent what is the fate of us all.



Go to Purewa and search the graves. Soon you will realise, that after a few generations, most people are forgotten, The forgetting increases. Grey's 'Churchyard' could be elegised in that huge poem of Death and loss. It is a beautiful poem. But its power, its horrifying negation, is the implied anonymity of the Joker Death. He absorbs us all, and in him as far as we know, we become as Nothing. Before decay, in a morgue, frozen, there is a cruel moment of “officialness”, judges try to set themselves against the futility of life.

The stamp must descend, papers must record a name and numbers. Order smirks a moment at Chaos or at Te Kore who grins hideously.

Then the black boot can recommence smashing the human face....

The human predicament is forever frozen as in that face I saw and in all faces of all the dead for all time; and this perception seems to reflect that of the Universe itself. Entropy,
dissolution, and decay.

The eyes closed. Somehow that seems so much worse – the eyes being closed.

The Interrogation
    1. [The police want to know who he is. Who is he? Why, and why?
He is presumably frozen – or chilled as cadavers are in the morgue. In the photo his eyes are shut. His face is blurred. [['Where Alph the sacred.... ' '...the verbless r....' because past. Ha.

2. [The face is Asiatic. He is not known, inquiries have so far met a blank.

3. [If his parents are dead. Or he had none he knew. Perhaps no one. Perhaps no parents and no brother or sister or uncle or grandparents or any other relations or even any friends.

4. [The dead man is so far nameless. He may have lived and worked under false name.

    5. .....................................................................................................................................
    6. [But people disappear – a certain number each year – about 1000 say. It is not known.
    7. The struggle to ....
    8. Sad plastic trumpet.
  1. The crowds.

  1. Does the dead man hear all this? Watch. The days, the daze, the gone, the place where it was, the track, the bush, the city, the stick, the house, the woman, the man, the others, the dog, the shop, the screams, the laugh, the breath, the tea cup, the -

  1. How long how far how true how high how low how dark how nice how where how slow how breath how he how howl how when how go how you how bone how far how high how no how yes how muse how wood how how how would how flame how war how pleasure how light how green how mountain how tree how why how man how day how scrawl how blue how dark how eye how death how dead -

  1. [At H. some were vaporised completely. Similarly at ... and so on. Many, including children burnt and burnt, then napalm... that lovely War Nectar... sticking like viscous death jelly...but many...in many many places...not only in war...
    many times the going is slow, terribly slow...

  1. [What horror does the smothered scream, the twisting of the limbless hope, the dessicated death?
  2. .........................................................................................................................................
  3. Every day.
  4. .........................................................................................................................................
  5. [Who. ?
  6. .........................................................................................................................................
  7. I am not only here but I am or I was and I .....................
  8. .................................................................................................
  9. I am not here now or in your head or in the beginning of things or in your head or am I the dark or was I or nothing or what or the leaves of dark or odd I was and you are what we all are in the question is wrapped and oscillates the cylinder to a vibration in the silence of this only in the cylinder as if a mouth....
  10. [Outside the rattle of life - distant trains, birdsong of Tui, a far industrial "boom", a passing car, the wind. And there is brightness and it is Spring and the red pohutukawa flowers bloom again. Who hears these things?
  11. .................i......know.......
  12. [Where is the dead man...........?
  13. ..................and yet....she.....the light...the sudden....something about a nutness....who....?
  14. .........................................................................................................................................
  15. Who listens for these things?
  16. .........................................................................................................................................
  17. [I am reading about P....
  18. ..........................................................................................................................................
  19. Where is the dead one? Wh....?
  20. .........................................................................................................................................
  21. [The wind gusts - suddenly ferocious, then subsides, like a sea. This morning I.
  22. .........................................................................................................................................
  23. ..............But I was. I was you know. All things that are once were. There are winds and cries and surges and screams against silence and dissolve and the goneness and the generation and the imagined things that included the hardness and the softness and we shall become as the "blind beginning" and the "spirit" moving like a finger and there is a vast face peering at the ferociously static fury; the crack or crash of things.
  24. .........................................................................................................................................
  25. [They sharpen their pencils.
  26. .........................................................................................................................................
  27. Listen!
  28. .........................................................................................................................................
  29. [Dead Man - what can you teach us?
  30. .........................................................................................................................................
  31. I would sa - I would sa - is it sa ...?
  32. .........................................................................................................................................
  33. [ Would you say that the month is cruel? What about staring into the atom's eye?
  34. .........................................................................................................................................
  35. I am cold yet I feel not.
  36. .........................................................................................................................................
  37. [Would you not say perhaps: 'April is the cruellest month when in their darkest breeding hours women do crewel work - because the The Snowman has a stone in his mouth?'
  38. .........................................................................................................................................
  39. .........................................................................................................................................
  40. No sense ... not the same!
  41. .........................................................................................................................................
  42. ["Ring?"
  43. .........................................................................................................................................
  44. Ring?
  45. .........................................................................................................................................
  46. I recall I am forgetting everything..I am not who i am...i....amnotic...
  47. .........................................................................................................................................
  48. [All shall.
  49. .........................................................................................................................................
  50. Changa sa i ku sang a ponkgle... if ....
  51. .........................................................................................................................................
  52. .........................................................................................................................................
  53. [Yes?! What?
  54. .........................................................................................................................................
  55. I was - who is you are we ever or never the words are we the silence is crowded once i was and that is my brain in ash i sleep et i am still not not still and but am i who are u when as if the rage of glass -
  56. ..........................................................................................................................
  57. [Give us some kind of lowdown - Dead Man.
  58. .........................................................................................................................................
  59. ...there is nothing...i th....
  60. ........................................................................................................................................
  61. Wha- wha- what is that music? So steel and song it is...
  62. .........................................................................................................................................
  63. ...if ....I....the ...may....terrible....beautiful...she....we.....mechanical.. premium...washable....eissen...how...the redness...the black ... the coat .... i ....
you......... he ........... it ............................ the ever.... the...sounds.... tree....
    78. [Speak to us Dead Man! Speak!
79. .........................................................................................................................................
80. .... saliva..unspeakable - aching.......................................................................................
81.........................................................................................................................................
82. I -
    83. [The heart....?
84. .........................................................................................................................................
    85. Even in my language..or the language of the dead....of not....
86. .........................................................................................................................................
    87. ....s if i..............................................................................................................................
    88.........................................................................................................................................
  1. [The sudden roar of light!
  2. .........................................................................................................................................
  3. .........................................................................................................................................
  4. .........................................................................................................................................
  5. we st i l l legitimate vegetable where is the light is everywhere is nothing are you
  6. .........................................................................................................................................
  7. [For you we refuse - for you there will be no Bible bullshit about you on a stone ..we will not remember and cherish you forever; or packet you or requiem you..no clichés for you Dead Man!
  8. ........................................................................................................................................
    97. All that time...and the winds...and light of..and all those years...
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They transposed the light sufficiently to expurgate
the night — Picabia for example — and the white whiteness
lightens the insane love of honey. But this is needless to say,
presupposing that the latinations mingle both with the dusk
and the roses, who lift their heads kissingly into the exquisite
night. There is no untelling this, as the doomed dome crumbles,
instance by infinitesmal instance. Out it comes, probing, pushing,
and prodding at the light: delicate in its complex caring and
sightless seeing. What worlds rise in whose warring wombs the
askers ask? And what rises from what ancient sites where they
stir the subtle circles in the ashes, those fingers, and they
squat, and the telling tongues. Who dies again and again in what
world where wombs descend in whose where of burning skies?
What child’s scream, pierceful, spears the stony sun. that it run,
given these explanations, these whys tied up in the nothinged sky?
And how heaves these leaves unleaved this falling time, this
tumbling, as twisting girders burn? Why should the wood go good,
and who doth thus go tripping by? Oh why? Oh why? (Comes this
wicked something way.)

It is day! It is day! It is the green time,
and all shimmers in a spin while the many giants grin. Gather
gather my kinder, I have loved and lashed: light-time is now in
this special place of space, loomed in webs in the wanting night.
Who hunts? And who by arrow plunges or flights into what sea lost
whose burning scenes are lurid under the god of sky? These are
trembling times these beating bombs whose seeds are times again.
Long long the hauled hulks bulked in black, and hooded is the
winking walking skull that’s queer and yellow in its eyeless eyes.

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THE BURNED HOUSE
Written simultaneously with "The Ghost Sonata", the second opus deals most thoroughly with the discovery of secrets, of corruption from within, of deception. The people in the community known as "The Swamp" and their relations with each other are seen through their connection to a house which has recently burned down. No one is above reproach. Even the house itself contains secret rooms and walls, hiding the family smuggling operation from the Dyer and his brother. "We all hate each other- we're suspicious. Everyone gossips and torments his neighbor..." (Burned 54). Only the Stranger stands apart from the community and selves as an intermediary and objective interpreter between the residents of "The Swamp" and the audience. He is not completely divorced from the world of the burned house for his brother is the Dyer. Having discovered the truth about
To write, to try meticulously to retain something, to wrestle alone to retain something, to cause something to survive, to wrest a few precise (or even vague) scraps from the void as it grows from oblivion's mushroom inevitability and from the blackness and the irradient brightness of the gorgeous history of all
The rhythm of each play is not unified. As a conscious internal construction, rhythm expresses the fragmented nature of Strindberg's mind and the disjointed nature society and culture in general. "Each is a containmamongst the savage hordes ent of a cultural clash" (Dahlstrom xv).
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊%%◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊ 0n0nb0nnn)Й Й Й Й++NN)9(*&)(ZX)D Й (vv8u Ә nvwereR#Й 4#$ Й Tthghp-df_)(---0 d s s s 0^^&^%%$#$$!@ +09870980۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й aaw ۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й ƒ ۩ --0۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й۩ Й
Later I rouse - I took some Tramadol and something else – and talk on and on – about God, fear, love, and nations, and rugby: and nations. The drugs make me talk. I decide to avoid painkillers as much as possible. My foot and ankle area of the lower leg, where the bones snapped at the Panmure Basin (I dropped, ridiculously from some monkey bars), swells and swells. An operation is impossible.

When Gerhardt was here he was interested in how Zulu is spread... talk of languages and cultures. I think (now, here, typing, this up) of how I was bashed in the face in the 1981 protests against the Springbok tour. The cops were trying to smash my teeth in.

Sebastian (about 7 months) listens a little: cannot understand he might be reason, light to me. Victor grips my shoulder. In 1990 the cops knocked his eye out with a baton.

Later the nurse helps get me out, we change the bed, I piss in a bottle, wash with a basin and flannel, the bed is made, I get back in, leg up: I am re-established. Morning will bring.
************** ******************** ********************************** *********
*********************** ******************************** **********************
a map and a way of himself and his play and his years:
and in the map of truth, a labyrinth of lies; and his
mother his father, the time and the love of things, is a
terrible tattoo of names and roads and girls and men. A history.
and the mountains unclimbed, and the things undone:
the birds, the vibrating birds, the hum and the buzz:
a map on the unknowing back of his life and his time unread:
his breath his bread his hands. Crossed. The work of his hands.
A tear, a great tear that fell from his gentle rainbow of thoughts
that turned and redburnfroze to ecstatic static glass

************** ******************** ********************************** *********
*********************** ******************************** **********************
Waiting to be happened to can be terrible:
but, it happens: you imagine that they will
cut – one seems sacrifice – but Third Man
has had many ops, knows the land, the lie,
the lies: is about at night, being.
Paracetemol only - this morning. The air conditioner sings.
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Today, the sun: the master machine. Third Man reports

of a man who has lost a leg, who “has the right attitude”.
True. I read a book, forgetting what might or might not be true, is.

Everywhere they are moving, waking, dying, arising, and

Here, and there: recording, relaying, collating; notes are made, records.
(One is perhaps information, hopefully registering, remembered.)

The sun winks – it knows – Te Ra knows – somehow things work.
Systems. There is always doubt, error, annoyance….
Remember falling and then the click, the snap: definite, clear.

16/1/04

Hospital 3

I am now demoted! A man of eighty or so is in the bed opposite.

My operation is over if not out. One accustoms. Each minute is

to be resurrected into a bank of jewels, or violets, the music stealing
(as is the usual case with these things).

Know that layers on layers hereby lie: note this: note that as I am now writing this after the time it took place, or as I recall it took place (I think I had come out of an operation, and my recollections are still uncertain as to time and exact place) reality is impossible, though a bus is undoubtedly still a bus.

Stealth – how time throats us. An old man with my name, Richard, is here now. It is very hot, as they don’t open the side windows: I am sweating and swelling: I turn the fan on...

how to say things? I evaded
the claw of the Wahi Ngaro

I watch the boxing, a little ill from some tramadol I think I took and one (the only one) inject of morphine from the machine. Mundine defeats a Jap boxer – with courage the Japanese man comforts his daughter. Mundine was fast. But the Japanese man – the man, the father, he falls but falls with courage.

Suddenly I fear death.

The old man has come from another hospital, is very old, perhaps his is some terrible struggle. I hope he recovers. I too have reason to live. To struggle. Third Man calls people whanau – wants to know about everyone’s whanau. He has “F U C K Y O U” tattooed on his forehead.
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When night falls, the faces will die.

I want the red glass.

Everything is in this land, and everything is in the ruby.

But, like sleep-walkers, people walk toward their doom.


Everything is gone.


It is time to discover your shoes.
white the dark the dark the light the light the white beyond the light the hot the light and did we tell you?! and did we tell you?! the white white light mein Gott the endless the huge the huge the church the light

--------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ -------------------------
where no flower can wither

at odds and ends with it. serene beauty.
what it says matters.
matter matters the stutter of things

Coleman’s mustard, Pam’s Mild Indian Curry, two
Rubbers, sellotape, black pepper,
Premium Golden Soy Sauce Crayola,
Borges Extra Light 100% Olive Oil
ruler, tooth brush, scissors, box-cutter, pen,
screwdriver, scales, broken books Tahiti book, news paper

vituperative critics. death - requiem

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of those the day the piano died:
who now in thought
enchanted under moon
on the perfect white
of keys do silent glide :
for he who would die
his head beside the silent stream
would live and breathe
as if by glass a shadow on the wind

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But life is more than doublings: there are true ways and straight as just now the agents explode in some Chirician street where the sense as of the Unreal hovers so perpetually that nightmares seem normal. In Robbe-Grillet’s or example, or his  the fabled detail endlesslyredefines the aching sense of possibility. The very withholding of plot or human intercession is indeed the terrible power of everything about to happen. And think of Jason in The Sound & Fury by Faulkner.                                                     
Reading the latter there is the feeling so palpably transmitted of a
thumping petrol migraine, and of minds and worlds corrupted, indeed evil, except perhaps for Caddy and Benji (who’se the Idiot) and Dilsey the good nigger, and maybe the other Quentin who drowns himself, and to cap it all the tiny preacher. But this isn’t something on paper.

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we came to encounter such rock—to the buggered valleys
of bone profound
of lost unlick —
it seemed some breath in a flute
engendered some calling coiling thing -
a thing so godly ablaze
it would be isole candles penile atrembling
in the one million cathedral:

as if blub blub blubs bubbled in a madman’s flask
their false again, their knack-dark ways,
and still by that pain
that needle needs of us —
requisite for those high torments

yet she came

say she did of came? eh?

say

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They expired into your yellow, red, green
and purple flaming dreams and loves,
weird and magical as yellow spiders in black fields.

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foreward backward: then here come the march of distribution, startle.
the eagle stare. then went the reverse to space whence unsteel. of
course you the stars. then if a bloom, nothing is not not something,
yet a sheer. whereby enormous. once there was as steps. up upon the up.
we don’t do do. as agrarian. i indeed igloo yet yellow to unheard the
extent. not facing. not impending. and distributed, could shatter to
unstick the sprig because wire desire. Enough. Ich habe Genug ein
cochin. water. satrebach. blue is you. something. something and a
cluster how a) because, or b) . because. thus if thus. we weren't
trunks. death. by salient. until. it wants to be singular. desperation by ballot. it
declined to decline. sun. soared up to sacrifice. one metre to one
matchbox. six by six by six say. Intransigent. Implosion. pan sudden to
spider to black. you, too, have three heads.

everything is so quietly remarkable.

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Could you? What did they know? Eh? as if knowledge
Were some fixed, precious performance - fashioned?
No! Still you stared: and she looked back, and waved.
It was time...
...dream entry of Disney silly of
impossibles made usual. So they left you
and the builders’ labourers ceased their wolf whistles.
There was a gradual dimming until
mechanic mad men ruled the earth.
But Sir! Sir! I go you can’t let,
Impatient as you are — damn you Sir! I claw
at your coat you Seaman: oh you ancient
Seaman you — Fishman, heaving thru moments —
there were maybe 300,000 that day, maybe:
And you should have seen
all those tiny infinities:
In fact, we cross-examined
a truck driver, a professor, a cleaner, a clown,
an electrician, and we even...
Those original things you see,
the starting points,
keep poking my ribs — and, the child’s eye,
the whale’s eye — and the tentacles, tentacles
reaching! Still the ravenous sea. Still the gulls
Above: “There we are.” She said. I yessed at her,
but it echoed into questions, I did so want
to be infinitely joined
or to be a part of her, or in her —
but I forgot, the instant instant of her sound start.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid you can never know
us or them or we or I. Pronouns die in heroic —
But they keep playing that
come go come go come again game. Suddenly

Suddenly I looked up —
And her eyes were my wise.

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magnifying glass.

sunlight outside.

George Herbert’s poem “The Flower”

where no flower can wither.

I sit here. A helicopter chops the sky.

today the light.


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Tomorrow, for example, whole cities
will turn upside down -
and your grandmother will walk on the ceiling,
humming music by the latest iconoclast.
Men with black noses will thow balls
of snow-covered meaning into her preying face.
She will be chirping in bird shriek:
“I’ve found a burning brightly. I’ve found a
brightly burning tiger, symmetrical striding
across the red land,
thru the blue forest toward a golden dread hand,
with immense powers of analysis.”
You will get up, pull up your trousers,
and walk into tomorrow like you were
the day itself. This poem has decided to stop now.
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set forth as the evening spread its legs. I was waiting for a gesticulation of Whichness.
Just as then as when. Pocket edition. Once upon a space. Light. Something suggests.
The opening Is the ending. A dead genius. I (did I?) mention the blue cup?

As if Peterson could see through the wooden menagerie and into a sort of green ash
of what could be construed as a fatal flaw. His moustache twitched Because the rabbit
was quite Irate now but died anyway. oh to be Mad now as England is obliterated.

twitter Quiver, in the muscular sense I've been There. you were twenty feet below muttering
about the inconstancy of waves, and how everything and everyone are Much themselves
these days – as, indeed, all things fall, Or become woods in the blackest air these royal times
of resplendence when Grin Man came, and little people set forth To the Excitement. Day by
day the brick façade let nothing slip, yet the shadow Was forever at hand, and you felt things:
things glowed, and it was enough to Know, if know you did or could, or at least to be certain
of never completing the issue – imagined as a mechanical Digger Paws like a steel horse,
angry at being alive only to discover itself: angry, and terrified, and joyful as if the city's
orgasm, eternally burning in the writhing Nothingness, had left your skull, like a man leaving
his large white Bone House for the office: had sought Entrance, and you too stared out

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

thus you machine man thus you machine man
you machine man thus you machine you
thus machine man you machine man thus thus
so thus you cracking cracking cracking so
you machine you machine you machine you m
achine man you you you machine you machine
e man thus you thus you machine man machi
ne man machine man thus you mechanical ma
chine
semen gunpowder whose inseperable
petrol love is lopped modern
as a computer animal to a double
intent of whose interest value
belies the hidden skipping
in the chewing gum street
whence our knowledges
are of steam drains and the ones
who croaked about The Void.
Avoid the void

cracking his ice in the sinuous.
cracking his icy crackle of light.
cracking his icy crackle in the sinuous.
cracking his ice in the sinuous
cracking cracking cracking cracking
cracking cracking cracking cracking
cracking cracking cracking cracking crack

--------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------- “Time passes, time passes, and I lie alone.”
as I have said before.
i’ll say it again again

the
fing er nail
the
piece of hair
Dietrich – interrogated – himself –
in his usual, frantic, exhaustive, way:
*
the. right. hand. tries.
to imagine the left.


*
eternal ecstasy: but things keep disappearing

that tree there, that new paint. sitting and thinking.
an ant passes, a car, a cat, they come home. it.

Mawus rinks rf6us fluffas vints minds vowus vimus bb3us blubb lunks to it hive 24Kh7 buffs dawns lunkus harangue 5 aulds gates taurus bulls vimus lunks to it gives 25.Rxg6+ jogas guffaws vides budus mates 6 haves vides lunksus kh8us harangues lunkus bg7us gangways kg8us gaunthugs lunks be5us ebblug lunks to it finishy 27.Bf6+ jastha fluffas budus mates 5 haves mawus warble vides binds potus botus pivot piton tipin vowus vimus pints punts vious vulcan nagus gacks dinks quark rajus jarus jahus huffs reink keyus faces lended its thorn visage vints kites vimus wipey its hotin visage hoods necks wants yinus vimus payer whitens porky vints vetus hipster vints wonky entropy whisk rf6us fluffas vints yinus haves mawus wangs warble binds blips potus botin vints piton tipin vowus vimus pints punts vious vints vulcan vines nagus gacks dinks quick quark vowus vimus drink vides rajus jarus jahus keyus jastha huffs faces recinds lended its thorn visage vints kites vimus keyes wipey keyus tinas dinks lunks to it friv 24.Rf6 Bxb3 fives cfous bucks fairs fauxs pasin keynub visage keyus flaunt fancy frugal avuncular links lunks rf6us fluffas flubbas flackas fanghug flashus flawsus flapsas faraway keythen lunks rf6us flaunts effect fleece affable flank danks dunks daffy ducks duffy lunks to it hive 24Kh7 buffs dawns lunkus harangue 5 aulds gates taurus bulls vimus lunks to it gives 25.Rxg6+ jogas guffaws vides budus mates 6 haves vides lunks to it hives 25Kh8 26.Bg7+ aortad gangways lunks to it givein 26Kg8 27.Bxe5+ jastha lunks ebblug lunks to it finishy 27.Bf6+ jastha fluffas budus mates 5 haves vides jarus rajus keyus rules jello jurys outon tinks kinds keyus macks dinks flaps facts wadus hurry arcus cinch diffy carus wrack inara keydas vulcan keyus bands jamus nadda bagus clang addus macks dinks dangs bands hungs hangs vints vowus vimus haves garage yinus babus dandy apply bagus faces bungs upsus kestrel hugas keyin erstwhile balls under keyus count gacks dinks danks backs vowus vimus pinus dangs nagus macks hacks dinks brags inara keynub keydas vulcan mades anyus clamp bands durns keyon ammos bungs upsus kestrel hangs hungs vints vowus vimus haves gassy gusts gaunts grass vamus cants flavs chaps chugs gulch clutch catch clubs cabus bucks backs clucky blubbs umsus either rinks dives guild effect it tinks haves mawus rf6us fluffas;
I

And the daft butcunning lunatic

*
they have departed for Spain
where the buildings.

things happen in Spain...

(craggly mountains, oldness, love
and milkshakes at noon: or bulls or
the wind is seen and they have roads etc


the nightingale Church shape.

with a voice, that,

remindsus, those of us with debentures, of –

something exquisite or
maybe it is

just that we read about it all somewhere…?


II

Snip Snaps

the beauty

Of

this pale rose

that blushes

is like 100 million flattened
baked bean. tins.

somewhere a mathematician,
who is (probly) tone deaf
writes: f = 2t cos z

where z is.
*
Spain again. V.M.Z.B. etc

*

how ? many

light.years.are.left??

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Calculating time by time and dividing by time
these things of lament fall upon us as dark green quilts on aged men
where women wail. Forever fingers of the living root down to grip.

To disappear into the sands. As in Scott of Lammermoor .
'The quicksanded cities.' as I wrote, using the image of man and horse
plunging. To disappear. And the vents of fury among the loud mountains:
Why have we not passaged here?

We have something to teach, to say. We could treat time
like Cantor's Alephs, and find that time by time yields
time only, and time times time is Aleph time.
'We are lost in gelid time. We are the fools of time. Time was.'
What to teach? They wait. The shadows grow. Man's, in history.
Of Emerson, though, we have little. As said. What sounds?
What do you mean? Is it known? Know thou? Sit by the fire.
At the camp fire – much mad truth. Old woes.

Things keep living in this old chaos, under the sun, of the.
How can we evaluate? Ejaculate, expatiate: things leap.
The undulant ambiguations, you know
them, they descend. How much redundancy adds to the immensity
of rock giants? Who sang? Who yes-noed?

The parade begins. She holds my hand. We had purpose, if fear,
but we lived, took positions. We were on the line.
Why did I not seize her? Where is she? Time is gone, passed
as if it had not begun, except in dream. Was we dream?

Then they found me, and the machines. These proliferate:
everywhere there is a clicking of meanings. God is knitting.
Messages are inserted or race into the totality of
completed futility. Click click clack smack smack smack.

Where is the end? Le be be finale. Let seem be icecream
in an ice dream. But what of mentioned the wires?
The wires keep creeping, like wires, wirely. Nervous, nervous nerves.
All things begin pump. Things flow every where. Fire.

Decent ones stay away. Wary, they creep down town.
Even old people. I remain old with severe thoughts
marked. My wise saws. My instances. I remain
not a youthful age but stay severely as I am.

It is a writhing living thing, a mass mountain impossible to be
man or women however born: see it, it is awash with
configurations and gibbering mirrors: it is afire with
language whose excess and whose excessive excess
bursts instantly into endless flame. These birds
fight each other to death, the poem grows in monstrousness
never before felt, or imagined, and it always wriggles away.
Then in the language inferno they found me, and the machines
had proliferate: everywhere nowhere there is a clicking of
insane meanings. Messages race into the totality of computed
and purple futility. Where is the end if not the linkage?
The wires smile with sarc sparks, and continue creeping, like wires.

Decent people stay clear. They never knock or ring. Wary, they creep
down town, possibly on Broadway. Even old people. I remain old with
severe thoughts marked. My sore wise saws. My instant instances:
You wanted it though? Eh? Didn't ya want it? I remain
not a youthful age but stay severely. I am what.

I always wanted to make chemical music but my career path
led me into pornography and all those asms and cosmic chasms
that they all plunge in. The point, we seek it. We are. A thing shudders.
Material mystery, extass. They – right now – gathered – discovering
the mark and the why-questions or significations re-reading Browning
or

--------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------
and the sea beckons
always to those orange others
who fly to it
that they might immerse
in its mighty and liquid bones:
the immense echo
of its dimension
that growls its thought in groans...
you really are ignorant of the sea
and know not that there are mountains
under there that are
higher than Everest -
and nor do you know
as neither do I
that eyes do swivel
in doubling turns
and that the hearts of globes
do crack with light
The voices were
not mad.
Thoughts
ascend. Why

the choired,
seeming. Seem-
ing endless.
They were.

Unity. Great hope
and thirst. The
height:

and a place,
somehow. Some
where of. De-
light. The thoughts.

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The boy in the ancient castle of miracles
wanders the hexagonal cells
of his erotic night dream of bees
with The Key to the unknown room.

the flat girl with the flaxen hair
awaits in the fable of the burning chair
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something like a claw of distance



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