EYELIGHT - THE ONE POEM OF ALL POEMS – reduced Version A.

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

& ,1 ~ ~ ~

exultant growth

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

11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad.

eetz moightieee ande liquiede boiynes

If a million million automatic typers typed

every second every minute every day and endlessly

Something sometime somewhere perfectly

Would on all that surge of words and marks appear –

I began with a book on it. I drew lines shapes and shades, perspective, and

Used different pens and pencils, textures, angles, colour, perspective: I got the proportions, the sense and feel of things, tried to feel the textures,

OCULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACULAR

OCULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACULAR

OCULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACULAR

OCULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACUL

(Go Careful On The Stairs EACH STEP IS MANY )

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

stately — the pit of my stomach gone black in the darkness that was eating it away for thinking of you, and Robin smiling sideways like a cat with canary feathers to account for, and Jenny tripping beside her so fast that she would get ahead and have to run back with small cries of ambition,

saying wistfully, ‘You must come to my house for late supper.’

: the boxes are ready

Oh that drug, that

drug of knowing for sure –

the profound books wait with

the white valley of their pages

 There are dead spots on the compact disk. 
The bee men are deeply concerned about this.

for the sentences

who took him out of his dream

and he shuddered again

because once it was not as it is now,

for we must be something.

but you, you yearn-fear for the

Yes, he, rightwrongfully, discerns a pattern, and hence;

a solution. At least those doing war deeds or merciful missions

(all a-terrible-tangle of means in the scrum of ends means), lose

their selves: but it requires a powerful draught of drugging, training

in madness, or, you might fluke like the only sperm

the hard mother might

weaken to a dwarfic or a deaf,

if only the stones could rage in an acorn.

I have forgotten much, in this land, this crystal land.

“God help me, I went! For who will not betray a friend or, for that matter, himself for a whisky and soda, caviare and a warm fire — and that brings me to the ride that we took later. As Don Antonio said long ago, a calf — for the rest, the place was as full of the wrong thing as you would care to spend your inheritance on — well, I furnished my closet with phenomenal luck at the fair, what with shooting a row of chamber-pots and whirling a dozen wheels to the good, and everyone about me getting nothing for a thousand francs but a couple of velvet dogs, or dolls that looked as if they had been up all night. And what did I walk home with for less than five francs?

THE TUNNEL

we couldn’t turn away: the tunnel became a scream

problem of finding eigenvectors, and that for this

reason, we call the solution space, ( A minus lambda I ) times x = 0 the

eigenspace of A corresponding to lambda”, as the Bishop said to the

virgin before he fucked her arse off . At that moment, indescribably,

like something from Charles Dodgson, as illustrated by Tenniel, of

Punch renown, an enormous dictionary, obscuring Edgar’s view of the

infinite abyss, sank into the Waitemata, almost as How, I asked, could I live

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.

I cogitated & played with wax

until ergo: and I walked, imagining things.

Oft-times sat I then in caves

convinced by shadows: or I turned toward the greater sun:

I sigh, I wander from room to room, and rustle in

my own unknowing. Finally I settle back,

Book in hand. The night will be long

this is what we deciphered in the cave light:

"Here are: 'multiplicity of centres

leading as in

assonation to detonate

under the car

precocious

destruction like Humpty - ' "

So this was it was it! We stared up at the Caterpillar.

He was always there tomorrow. What could we say?

we were caught in the theory of everything and the clinging vines began to clutch ever more feverishly....

the Hookah was withdrawn then the smoke sucked in.

was this then what we had come for? Humpty was on the wall

I must awake now

and torch the night:

The Secret of Being Unpopular

5

beatant: i would love to know

6

there are more things: at this point everything burst.

I wish the vanishing would begin

so that maybe fleisch;

and Turner could walk into my room

or if I and he were

the very light of the light's light

e'en

as cities and basilisks

inferno into twang

W                WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?

About three in the morning, Nora knocked at the little glass door of the concierge’s loge, asking if the doctor was in. In the anger of broken sleep the concierge directed her to climb six flights, where at the top of the house, to the left, she would find him.

Nora took the stairs slowly. She had not known that the doctor was so poor. Groping her way she rapped, fumbling for the knob. Misery alone would have brought her, though she knew the late hours indulged in by her friend. Hearing his “come in” she opened the door and for one second hesitated, so incredible was the disorder that met her eyes. The room was so small that it was just possible to walk sideways up to the bed; it was as if being condemned to the grave the doctor had decided to occupy it with the utmost abandon.

A pile of medical books, and volumes of a miscellaneous order, reached almost to the ceiling, water-stained and covered with dust. Just above them was a very small barred window, the only ventilation. On a maple dresser, certainly not of European make, lay a rusty pair of forceps, a broken scalpel, half a dozen odd instruments that she could not place, a catheter, some twenty perfume bottles, almost empty, pomades, creams, rouges, powder boxes and

and grasses, wind wild,

shrinking us to a centre

as their distance enhances them

to such brightest green like sudden suns —

not like the blue of further further.

They gather, like curious cows, and surround us,

until the entire horizon is aflame,

and everything is ablaze

{we are made into hand grenades

perhaps by the enigma of grammar

so intime that the faint fish died

and we looked beyond the hedge

toward the gaiety, and some antique thing

of whose silk wood fruit of

Waiting to be happened to can be terrible:

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

You are reading. You are reading or you are reading. So. So something is being read, and

you are reading. “Lens”. “Lens” is a word and you are reading. You are reading “lens”

Lets go inside...I have things to discuss...

th e ever last ing en croachment of that which is only always

a solut ion and was al ways probably forever being mad e into

wings of vastness in the back paths of the Meremere swamp where

quick as a quipp he queeried the queer quadrandrangled quagmire

so it could silent eternal be Maori Pakeha tui whanau coast

water dig Mt Wellington Taupo raupo rata kete koromiko he

in some sort of compensation for the insatiable lust for a carap

ace, which, don’t you know, sub specie aeternitatis, longs for wh

at it surely was all along, the questions spiral sadly out of

the subways of our soul... something like Jimi Hendrix’s speakeasy

bill... or Mt Tarawera, waiting.

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

perhaps such eyes

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

The pepper tree grew cankerous,

and lost its hair of leaves.

It swelled at the base and reminded

me of a cancerous old man,

bald, and terrified of the zero

racing at light speed.

Why?!

they couldn’t kill you

the symbols shall remain

the terrible symbols

that will clash the centuries on -

memories of the squeezed hand

and human thud by dark wire, barbed,

dro │ ro nome │a he was │ in

gen │ ice en │red kidding │ side

is │ cased gives │yel she was │ the

the │ doubt ful │low a woman │ creep

light │ │husk after all │ black

est │ │that not a │

ele │ │blooms machine

An enormous luminosity grew between her eyes and we were dumfounded:

forgetting what was origin, orange, apple, or where the serpent

had parked the sedan beside the spreading sneer of the evening’s trees

who were lush and unapproachable in the growing and licentious gloom

Perhaps such eyes, as, the stark skull might hope

might en Be its own, suppose it lived. It is the word,

the phrase, the sudden flame of the clause, is my starting forth:

no idea or desire have I of completing any linear completeness,

demonstration, exegesis, proof, or subtle analogue. The beach – shells and wave song. To have eyes.

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

Once I was 'chosen' only to fail. I was, indeed, perfectly failed.

Days we raved to It on Setebos: days and times we seemed to know:

but the isle echoed with false trails, non-sequits: and nothing

made sense: I might have been a god: nothing stayed in my head:

I made puzzles I could not live inside: like 'How could he not make a

second Self?” “He hath made things worthier than himself.”

Thinketh me much to much (too much) until all raged:

but everything seemed glass. Many had glass eyes, but could see:

this we were informed. And they understood how to see:

how a hand from all sides (or any) yet had five fingers, how

five wasn't two. How everything greater than itself

Could the shapes change ever?

by grass and dust, the road I strode

unto and into the slit green goat (unto and into the slit green goat ( unto and into the

who dances claps to flute and light (who dances claps to flute and light

And neither the. Clack sound, like knitting. (Clack sound, like knitting (Clack sound, like

knitting (Clack sound, like knitting (Clack sound, like knitting

You, of course, are dead. Dead dead dead. Dead to the world: skewered, sliced, sacrificed, shorn. Spat out by those you had trusted most. And so should you be!

For how is it you think you are so important: with so many syndromes, diseases, shootings, atrocious accidents, massacres: in fact, the summated enbloodment? Eh?! Hmm!?!

Words are thus evolved: or invented ‘in sudden throat’, for evil or ‘good’ occasion. (Evil vile and virid (yet red yellow bright) amphisbaena sleep about as if in the dreams of La Tentation de St. Antoine …)

I don’t know where she went. Pi is

a very IMPORTANT NUMBER, and no

one knows: but you can EAT the

other kind of PIEI’m here. But you don’t need to -

It’s essential that the big faces -

the vast visages - keep staring from

the cloud shapes, the lands of cloud: ship shapes.

And the pastels, the haze, the things, the loves,

the ships.

The kaleidic colours, the patterns: the march of the eyes.

Who see the steel trees - their crisp speech

modulated in the morning mauve - and the seeds wait.

…..corbeille of moth-orchids—and did I keep them? Don’t get restless — I’m coming back to the point. No, I sat beside them a little while having my te

Fingering the falsetto light or listening to the baby

in the eternal moon, is routine: as magic to us as

machining steel, or hack-sawing a bolt, or sealing a

lead-sheathed telephone cable, climbing out the

manhole, replacing the lids, stashing the gear. It all

fits in somehow. It’s part of your

In advising you of this appointment I would point out that your

transfer to the permanent staff will be subject to a satisfactory

probationary period of six months.

Enclosed please find a P.A.Y.E. tax code declaration which

I should be pleased if you would fill in and return to this Office.

Here’s another example:

“It’s illegal

And prohibited to remove alcoholic

Beverages from this area.”

(The moon booms -

Tormented by The Hand.)

Where the words waltz off as if –

as if impelled by an unseen hand –

and there are bisections, and magnifications;

so that the bug is gigantic and crawls with lesser bugs, The silk, the blood, and the quick-sanded city.

“So I went around the gallery a third time, and I knew that, Hindu or no Hindu, I was in on what was wrong with the world — and I said the world’s like that poor distressed moll of a Jenny, never knowing which end to put its mittens on, and pecking about like a mystified rook until this particular night gave her a hoist and set her up at the banquet (where she has been sitting dumbfounded ever since),

Gravity keeps changing its mind. these black-faced mirrors

first people

can I, a being bright yet dark, unblind

paper is made from wood

Boston, and dragging her shawl and running, and we all got in — she’d collected some guests who werethere was nothing, that nothing came from nothing, that nothing could be done, and that they who knew

waiting for her in the house.”

and almighty is rubber, and Baumgartner:

(almighty is he), and these things we render:

unspeakable machine you baffle mad,

It's not fair to say that the United States doesn't have as good a comedians as

Britain, they're different: not totally, but humans are humans, you must understand me...

stamping out life

The doctor was embarrassed by Nora’s rigid silence; he went on. “I was leaning forward on my cane as we went down under the trees, holding it with both hands, and the black wagon I was in was being followed by a black wagon, and that by another, and the wheels were turning, and I began saying to myself: 'The trees are better, and grass is better, and animals are all right and the birds in the air are fine. And everything we do is decent when the mind begins to forget — the design of life; and good when we are forgotten — the design of death. I began to mourn for my spirit, and the spirits of all people who cast a shadow a long way beyond what they are, and for the beasts that walk out of the darkness alone; I began to wail for all the little beasts in It has been authoritatively estimated that eyes have evolved no fewer than forty

times, and probably more than sixty times, independently in various parts of the

animal kingdom. In some cases, these eyes use radically different principles.

Nine distinct principles have been recognised among the forty to sixty

independently evolved eyes.

[“Is it all so meaningless, all so utterly random?” Johnson asked.]

Bats are unique among mammals in having true wings.

He compels them to reduce the extravagant number of lovers

these songs sung

in column times

she knew the long nights

the tiger’s despair

the rage

characteristic

the clematis creeps

these tired times

till pen is pin

potatoes

are thumbly

under the stab

How everything greater than itself

if thought was – was an Immortal Unicorn of Form. That, they

intoned, clinched it: case closed. I averred: but what do I know?

For millennia I froze like glass itself. I have known glass, I

have touched glass, tasted glass, spoken with glass,

and hath with water danced on glass.

I was the great liquid crystal of glass. A window of glass.

A man, an everywhere man, a history man

and when

insignificance to loom

toward psychological silence

and when stick gets to knots

the imperative decree

makes sad shadows A finding man and a man to be found.

And in the byways the sideways the torment of those days long gone

there is hidden inside the map a map of the map of the map of his back;

in the lost long days and the futility of numbers

because

coiffures of endless

presuppositions of process

all born of passion

but I am dreaming of peculiar objects that float betwixt truth and falsity. perhaps

someone collapses. the dawn is so beautiful

the terrible sights and songs

they ran across the Constable Sky, moving under and into

the manacled sun, that great policeman: and the music so

moved me.

Oh! She is with child: pregnant gravid – and it's

all so jolly! Oh! - such a gravid and heavy Time. We that

are young will never haved so long.

All this time – clarinetted with colour, lived, which makes

fingers of the great timbers, and the beautiful mathematics of

her hair. Her hair, which she letteth

__________________________________________________________________ _______

web spiders inhabit a world

of silken tension. Silk lines

are like extra limbs,questing

antennae, almost like eyes

and ears. Events are

perceived via a language

_______________________________________________________________________

2 Ashen

round how the white mind and under and over

the linear agon man that time unburied out

of the in and out those violent violets sewing

umbrella cuts into why of bone bits black:

how long indeed

and so I thus my time:

awaiting a death;

and an immense future

terrible electric and alive

touch, scent; the laugh

of a child, the bearing

and the love in action

when the other is hurt:

and the kindness

(the continuance, the

And why not? To die thus in youth's sexual sudden, with the fire

and the Sun spearing down its violent urgings? So woman

and so wanted, so Helen-desired? Who could resist it to be? And

who would want more? Who..?

or a hand, to emerge

from behind yon pedestal,

upon whose skull’s sneer

there is that extra touch of vile —

"to fill the world with glowing skulls"

their store-houses and granaries of their dwellings to the harvest of flowers that the spring is spreading over the dip of the hills. royal princesses. In a word he does with them what he will, he obtains what he will, provided always that what he seeks be in accordance with their laws and their virtues; for beyond all the desires of this strange god who has taken possession of them, who is too vast to be seen and too alien to be understood,

logical things.

the clouds come down.

and what Harlot,

in these strangled London streets, would not have wanted my

Man-ness in The Ages when I was Clod?

I have such dreams, such fire! Who would not tread with me, who

carry forever my green candle on the endless road?”

and endless with the ivory peril

of configured hands so tiny,

even when pain

of heart insinuates

the dark pines

the mysterious house

the hours and

a presence within the multiple presences

child at play

the old ones

inside and

in and the

itness of whatness;

Crashes the chord!

what is this gentle

curse of love?

Crashes the chord!

so perfect, they change -

as a black sea

puts on white

when

you turn your back to it.

___________________________________________________________________

And I curse the spring

And all the bloody noise.

But I cant to fuck all about it.

The truck man leaps back in

and the truck and it squeaks and

squeals, and blats like a pig’s arse

or a rusty screaker and hells

the hell out of here

______________________________________________________________

Again? Evil? Here at the catraracting waul, agon Oscar drums again against and for the doom as we know the clutch did fell the swoop - but we shiver as we laugh for something’s not - as the great and gaping gap does in insuck all those the Horsemen drag - and those that horsed the kingdoms of their waste their time. Land? (But too long have we sweet softlied, and all the locks corroded are.) Are? Is? Was? The lilly in a crystal revives delight in this our thyme-light-night. And still the giant termite of the queens does bobulate - immortal throbbing in the castle’s keep. These things we cannot repair.

It is here, just here, you slipped in, clapping. You were eyes. Oh, long long did I

contra those your eyes, that neverending did contrive to contrive. So woman. So Anne.

So, You.

Dark.

(Yet I will my nothings tale on as the dance restarts.)

And this circular back-turning trance did seem thus to start as we were lost in light, and

the birds outside the window spoke in bird. (The window flying in the wind.) Soon it is, but not now, as the clocks tick on the endless combinations of their music’s song

_________________________________________________________________

Horses clatter across.

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

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

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,

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

Whichever way you look at it, it looms at you, threatening

to topple over with a sort of 19^th 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

_________________________________________________________________

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

_________________________________________________________________

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,

25 


                          Embryo

                       which X am I?

They tremble who would be wheels under this kind 
turning....Thus it is given and taken away
as if it were the question you asked...

Staring like birds...pipe, wrenched impossible...salt bright and still...

slithers, slithers, in and out of time as decays falls  wood: as if The Thing Itself, being Time had --- 

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

     Y

where the three rivers

meet

in that great

      Y

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

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

thus this exegesis

cherished

who despise

the stark, styptic

Styx

in black blood

intransigence

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

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

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

The Legerdemain of Wotan

is a special possible:

but I prefer

the wooden god:

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

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

T 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

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

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.

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 all Angels rage

from castle walls;

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:

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

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

Ah, these endless conundrums

Lizards after lizards…

Words. Words. Protect us

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 ,

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

The Great New Stadium of Light to shiver involuntarily –

and Civilisation’s endless discontent with towers, hopes, and

procreation etc was uppermost in everyone’s thoughts: even

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?

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

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,

But, big radix:

go thou hencely hie,

that these quick,

precious things, speaking,

speechless,

and curling from the lake,

should not butterfly die -

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

those stoogey times boogied on a thumbtack - what else but a hand

reaching out to another or via a page to keep

some force of stillness:

Somerset Maugham was most adamant:

‘When you’re dead,’

he said.

‘You’re as dead as a dog.’

the seven ages

and the man of wise saws

whose

world wide hose -

too, for his shrunk

shank - wide -

'a world too wide' -

insects │ eyes │

oxygen enters │ │ the body

│ │

│ stupidity │

through the │ │ spiricals │ │ │

│ shapes │

to the │ ever │

tracheole │ never

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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...

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.

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:

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

subject to ends

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

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

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.

-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.

All this, and so much that is speechless

I think of my mother today.

She was frightened.

---------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

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

Mr Fantastic Sir!

Yes.

Could you show us that movie of the palace being blown up in reverse?

Again? For the 20000^th time?

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.

sentinels in their world

and full of think

it was the because of me and you and they and the corridors we have sung in -

laughter so long ago

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 unmediated precision of a side-glance at the metaphysical event horizon had thinged you into things

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

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.

“But I want to be something.”

We spun and shuddered in our ecstasy Upon this bloody stone.

Crafting hearts do wait in wombs

is impishly insidious with his short, stabbing sentences, and an

ominous use of repetition.

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

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,

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

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

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 concrete towers shiver They are waiting They are hoping:

A tired lady Puts on her coat The typewriter Dies for fingers:

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

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

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 -

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.

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

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

The struggle of shapes leaps into the scream that creates paint drips

as he, brushing, wrestles death.

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

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

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.

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

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

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:

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

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

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

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.

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 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.

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

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

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

. 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

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

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.

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 fiery but tragic dark the universe a burning snake the rich black moment

the hopeless aloneness the arched church of richness

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:

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.
9. The crowds.

9. 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 -

9. 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 -

9. [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...

9. [What horror does the smothered scream, the twisting of the limbless hope, the dessicated death?
10. .........................................................................................................................................
11. Every day.
12. .........................................................................................................................................
13. [Who. ?
14. .........................................................................................................................................
15. I am not only here but I am or I was and I .....................
16. .................................................................................................
17. 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....
19. [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?
20. .................i......know.......
21. [Where is the dead man...........?
22. ..................and yet....she.....the light...the sudden....something about a nutness....who....?
23. .........................................................................................................................................
24. Who listens for these things?
25. .........................................................................................................................................
26. [I am reading about P....
27. ..........................................................................................................................................

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

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

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.

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.

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

of those the day the piano died: who now in thought enchanted under moon

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

Jealousy for example, or his Labyrinth, the fabled detail endlessly

redefines 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.

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

They expired into your yellow, red, green

and purple flaming dreams and loves,

weird and magical as yellow spiders in black fields.

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)

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.

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.

everything is so quietly remarkable.

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

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...

sunlight outside.

George Herbert’s poem “The Flower”

where no flower can wither.

I sit here. A helicopter chops the sky.

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

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.

. 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,

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.

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.

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

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

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

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?

how ? many

light.years.are.left??

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

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.

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

“Who”, they ask, “is the what of that why

gone when and where is the who of the what of the which?”

A thousand bodies jerk in a simultaneous electric death.

The immense precision of the vanished hands.

This is the millionth law of the year of The Beetle.

“Something jerks out there in the swamp.”

Andy Warhol beats like a mutation on

a bent and yellow spattered Campbell Soup can

that is hyperbolic in a dream of concrete.

And it is the time of The Rat as fat as a god

to swallow towns, wars, and mapfuls of land –

And it is time for The Boy –

and it is time for The Light –

as if we were alive –

and it is time for The Bees -

and the songs of hexagonal delight.

The mirror, my favourite quirk, could not be found, having shrunk to three sixteenths of a quark. We sounded the trumpets, The green dog was frantic. But we placeth not limitation on the beautiful integrals resounding in the golden ear – each one of us enraging with some theory of a toilet paper factory. (21, 859).We awoke in a field of bones. But there was nothing to learn, so, while rolling our rollies, we spat on the fat man, only to learn that infinity had turned inside out like a negative singlet, everything nothinging itself, like a filigree error – a tiny fineness so fine you couldn't find it.

when that usual, wonderful loneliness enters us those of us here who we are listening to the cars swooshing by outside the curtains of the night how I can diminutive never reach you again - we are touched, briefly, ( perhaps by our briefness ), quarrelled, made up bently, perhaps, after all that in the sense of an old man’s giant child’s hand, magnified under a monstrous looking thing for reading,

there to be pieces of death - as flowers spring to life, as if on a basalt moonscape, or as in the film The Living Earth - but     the scorpions, and the burning    are steeled if unresolved in our our chair how the beggar woman was arotten vanish: that of existing between ( forever? ) an existentexistence as an exquisite juice of certainty reblurs those mat edgeswhere we slept schlaff in finish as by a great and wondrous engine we

were redefined - its pukile mouth going chomp chomp chomp and simpletomatoes and shell eggs you bone that there is somewhere acompleteness dissolve drives the divide; and thus, we too, in oursadly jubilation, chuck bangers at paint where the truth had been, or,the primeval spasm; maybe in a chewing gum factory eked out possibly by those who consume, and thus set fire to the spinarets and spindles, Summer was surprising indeed. After all the garden had its secrets and Winter whirled us wetly in a nursing fervour. For we did long for beginnings if begin could be found. The fog of forgetting begins to menace those still standing in the wicked wind facing the God-Devil. Nothing can be discovered: so Petrus veered away at this point turning to look back only when the shooting had stopped and the 200 million had been quietly put down. Then a wonderful silence settled into the dust of which we were particles. Rumours circulated. One was how time was leaking. Crystals formed.

moves white line and quasi quasi

in the quasar but red and

directions white line it repeats and

and semi its hands but now

the white line quasi in the

quarry searching it never goes and

the line but white line it

gets into blue curved by directions

which when the white line the

double quasi thing in the bleak

black white blackness two four eight

one white line in the light

Charlie, unforgettable in the cogs, and gaps, and 

plugs. Ridiculous but true, it seemed.

He survived. Angstroms and microns, and the 

seethe of molecules. Words.

Strange. Sometimes like a controlled shriek.

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