Have we not distorted space by this talking?; Or,
old as gold....the: 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 to
this
and that to
that like some kind
of polymathic conspiracy
about the number
49 or 6 or whatever you
want but the words stick like paint slabs or come at you mightily like
bullets or they just: time Shells:: How things:: Being
among the multitudes bump (around) like boots or boats or;frooom oblLLLLivion's muoos hroom ineiougbvitablity and
from the backness and teh iriendt brightnesszzce of thI gorgeous mother
his father, the time and 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?;:: even deep red, the black around, the green, the blue, curled
and curled in perfect ignorance; scrawl of lines wrenched the quasi thing blood, where upon
horrors or magicks white light, fading, gave blueness lumens loud even those
walls of eyes that stare out transparent death to evidence or credence to the
but aging eyes; anarchy of we are black, or mad; first
people can I, a being bright yet dark, unblind and thus we see,
don’t we, back to our traverse from where we came to where we are to where we
came to encounter such rock—to the buggered valleys of bone profound their
false again, their knack-dark ways, and still by that pain; that needle needs of us - makes
sad shadows because coiffures of endless presuppositions
of process and interminable (tutorials 1968) passionately of some Heideggerian
term: the very German word held the “meaning” – totally untranslatable…the
nightmare of meaning; Wrestle, intolerable, nearly:: 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;
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; :: but I prefer the wooden god: he who would die my closet with;
phenomenal his head Mosaic Mural i was there, i was there - that sudden sharp shout
can be blind; They tumble who would be wheels under this kind turning; or nerveless
hands that lie and clasp a plastic universe in which the sands converse in
tongue filled tomb tones; You know the one - whirling background like the mad
granulations of the sun stranger than a “it’s
a real and reeling thing” or a lead bell booming at 9 am...my hand is free and
you are as green as: The struggle of shapes leaps into the scream that creates
paint drips: and he has been watching me
ever since: like the sea hand. complex piece complex piece - truth telling we
who we all fall in the how go is stop and stop is green: the sea is sad because
my hand; It’s hot tonight rock me baby; and red is green and green is blue
cello’s cello as
he, brushing, wrestles death: The intellection and the bursts of rawness: The
“Drifts of shifts” and all those riots; more; an’We’re sweatin’ an’
jumpin’ an’; and the
thoughts; Something; One; Cup: a kind of; They were;
Seeing (or hearing?) the ecstatic silence; “we all fall down you know”; the
arched church of richness:: At
once the many mad heads pushed up into different dells in the middle of the
night by
the body of the One in the nightmare dead; Examine Hands that do
palsied grip; the hopeless aloneness; and, the child’s eye, the whale’s eye —
and the; like that old spooky behind the chair like something chugging as if
sleep might or say a cup above the ? is whitecaps – so presumably the roar of
5000 rugby maniacs is really justified; or cinq as 5 not; things - chroniclers, characters, boots,
bolts, old boats, or conversations whispered in the hall; - pour out the spat old
book: (Revolvin’ eyes are red blue flashin’) : But White
Thing retorted: “Thou speakest the most shiny, purple folds of truth: but do
you know, Black Thing, that I have a greatly, greatly more complex view of
reality than you?”; The Ice Cream and the Jujube -- indeed The Enormous Yellow
Ice Cream – canted down to the jibbering Jujube: sent into the foul gullet of the
devouring; Once
you were lively as
shipfuls of bees:: Folded:: Shelled in many ways: Imagine; This is surely unread::
his breath his
bread I want the red glass; but as if these things did relive
themselves:: Here then is Map, sand, thimble, block - and there: the sixteen
faces: yea, I saw the flares, the grins, the lights:: – of an impossible
union: but they would have these things real - really real; ach - these
double-bent bones:: his sax:: and its little hands grip the fausty book, or
the set square’s sides:: ‘till:: and rustle in to unknowingness convinced by shadows: or I turned toward the
greater sun: There was; This magic in a vat of dark beer; and I'm drowning in
it; It's the Hall which is playing; is brown With twenty years of trains: There
is no one here, and stains, And red dust whirls the devil winds Unseen unheard on the iron rails; Could I be a
rapist?: I have such dreams, such explained getting grids like musical scores
and a pale-tone can be-a-trap of solutions: potatoes are thumbly under stab;
and; what is the Sun-Knife stilletto quick:: I
saw an old lady dragging my old school chair:: who indeed spent time alone
major colour for color and yellow breaking thru:: petrific, against the socket mountain:: where
babbles the old and fiery clouds whirled-of me and my brother's bread?:: In these boxes - my worlds, the splinters of my soul:: 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:: under erasure that preoccupies:: No, no:: Never we heaved but a coal hand of blond strangled the strange
= :: She was frightened:: = we should have known (or did we?) that it
was not enough for ‘b’ to follow ‘a’; and laughing away, laughing away - where babbles the old and fiery
clouds whirled-of-me and my brother's bread?:: 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 matter matters aye
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, newspaper and vituperative critics
leaning into the death-requiem:: HE PAUSED, BUT grind:: Organ, me old mate:: ”You the
unitary word; they were puzzled that day - all things hadwhich, don’t you know,
sub specie aeternitatis; the
fine machine :: ever more Took shuddered
eyes whose percipience made legends of itself; the at the taloned shock And the
foreign songs: "Ich ach eich zeibeit”(it sounded like) and she
imagined the children, massed, and trapped in cities of electric wire, singing:
But it all going faster, and more and more madly:: And I saw – THE ICE WALLS WERE fine - tapping - and you knew it
well - a message - nothing more - nothing:: you turned then, and in some manner
as yet and I havent told you yet but - I :: (I wickedly and invent some-a-thing like a light bulb: In the Silence Museum,
it is not the things that matter:: All this, and so in whose too long
time, each wire, each wrinkle a friend:: it is stupid to say this,
because a pen is a pen, but, even are we ill with words, those woman-red clouds
as of sun down again, we behold our revelation, causing all to collapse, and
our interview with the fussy mad god unrecorded, undreamt, unheard, unrepeated:
only are our
tongues:: There is no untelling this, as the doomed dome crumbles,
instance by infinitesmal instance ;; The startling, twisted simplicity of it:
everything
interdissolving into Brackish, these waters, and to a certain degree, the
angled legerdemain whose::: palled him to chronic thought begin: Flash on flash on
by; Arrival is deferred:: There is becoming, but no coming to…]” ::: a night of blood and booze and semen
in whose centre a man is grunting and gasping, as if dying, and the woman is
heaving and screaming and shuddering with lust and sweat, black or white ,until
that final:: The movie is as concise as shells:::: apple, or where the serpent::: I put down POAM;
liquid Sphinx:: Chained by erupt my rock, erotic chains his hands;:: Crossed;::
deserts of deserts - where accretions began muttering dissentedness;:: and
speak with actions (though) unseen:: Still of motion it hid itself;: and
of the WHITE
cardboard sheet: Crabwise and sideways: Now: Bend the DIAMETER: strip
around the CIRCLE: went the blob of blue In a postulated brilliance that
would light an eternity of black when the conjuror could get clear of his plans
and conferences: had parked
the sedan beside the spreading sneer: But,
to down-wind, it’s like this: She was wearing something and he was
wearing something: and something was happening to something: undisclosed made fragile to your
gesture, (toward) the machine forever flowering with dead impossibles
whose discussion we could never enter for we were excluded: out: of
the web spiders would gladly die for -- well,
in words I would...this to be checked; the lines shine to a convergence,
Or snake about; the triangles are white and shift easily uneasily into silence
as a harsh but mortal march; of numbers progress and the mountains: but they
keep poking my ribs — bells not cinct she burns your skull’s
nerves: ah ha! ; Keep a file at all times. Keep track; Keep your hands
on the wheel; blast and boggle you bo bo Bio Person!; You have states; Status; This is
stated; smudge, a few signs: thus Somehow to
retNain the totl uman tragdy, The infTUIOPUGinit es small wHjhispaerings, the
oys and airs, the igUes of a o ny, the mumblingks in the eternalsl and gGiant
nigKht. totl uman tragdy, The infTUIOPUGinit es small wHjhispaerings, the oys
and airs, the igUes of a o ny, the mumblingks in the eternalsl and gGiant
nigKht; To write, to try meticusPslously and we know what they are up
to; forever the mumbling keeps echoing its own pathetic lament for the lilac
shadows and the thermoplasticality of things; we will get even one fine summer
exclusion zone day ; extracted “giggle”, and placed it on this page; Its
Origins: A MONSTROUS CLEVERNESS HO! ; 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?”; We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’We’resweatin’ an’
jumpin’an’We’re sweatin’an’jumpin: some vague purpose: immensely deleted
reciprocals of directionality intended bop: The building, boarded up: demise;
and in to verify the choko; collation; carefully -a those Regrets of the-a bric-a-brac quack: qeek qeek! ; inhabit
a stone inness; strangeness of built: Cockroach drummed his fingers: Where I
have forgotten How this strange conjunction Of striding morning shadows,
Inverting rising in meeting, and He has forgotten has our Master -- The Mystery,
the method, the formula; The why; He has lost it glued in flight: the why and
the wise why they sigh; It is lost: It is said of him that he: Lost: It:
Aberrant if that is; The glass, the secret: of the ruby glass; we die in mid fest;
pest; we die in mid fest; fascination toward reality pressure i don t
know what mutatis mutandis means to scrutinise particularly feared urban
setting phenomena in miniature the unspoken key: Bitched and
botched By Time and dust: This insane, hopeful time, Remain ever be
known?: to expurgate the night — 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 de Chirician street where the sense as of the Unreal
hovers so perpetually that nightmares seem normal: In Robbe-Grillet’s Jealousy
for example, Real or psychological sword: fascination toward reality pressure i don t
know what mutatis mutandis means to scrutinise; particularly feared
urban setting phenomena in miniature; the unspoken key; Bitched and botched I am that and to
be: By Time and dust: This insane, hopeful time, Remain never be known?:
Real or psychological sword Was revealed to me - in a handful of - the paintbox
And 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: A history; to retain somTething, to wrRYestle
alone to rRTAeatin som7ething, to cause somPethingKeL to survive, to wrrOrest a
few precise (or even vaIgue) scraps: by grass and dust, the road I strode throbbing in the
castle’s keep; unto and into
the slit green goat; These things we cannot
repair: It is here, just here, you slipped in, clapping: monstrance; You were
eyes; -White? ; -White as long sung spilling light from time's singular;
the dark, danced and danced! ; in the half light and (the usual quag arrival);
expletive extraordinnaire here then your name was called, and you started -
startled started – and began to start:
is sixty of so. The beer flows ; The cake comes: Time trembles: The King of Spring is
here: and
The the child emerges, laughing with dust – Who are we?: I then moved the Sun; great vaporous white men gloom gloom in glut got softed; and deemed or reaching the last crumb of the thumble parchment parched past pitch of pitch or any pachydermic’s rickulation wrinkling in a wink: Thick, I think: Great cities sink with their knots of nerves: The Sun flew into space; shrieking: Tentacles reaching! Illo; Let’s rephrase this: say there was a Twitchling Rabbit, or an awesome pause, or -- some extraordinary pointing to an old blueness; Out of the pumping chaos: immense flowers pulse light: it is not the collections, the historical emblems, the Art, or the Faces or the great places; it is the spaces, the especial spaces - the spaces between - where we tread; One Billion, times, last week: I wound my wayDown our street I bit my feet (x2); Ol’ man sorrow; Lef’ me alone; Roun’ dancin’ roun’ -With a cat as purty as What!? Who? Yes; When I wasn’t — long ago — when I, when I? a saxaphone: A saxaphone a Saxaphone - an iambic nightmare; what? the hoop was; Newton knew nothing: A saxa saxa you blaze, you blaze: and Blindest crushing as the black waves slap on the weird and dreaming beach; arriving, the white gloves, The notes, the saxa saxa Saxaphone yellowing pages, these images were revitalized: a saxa phone...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 on bright days – on these blue days when you are suddenly in total cognizance, totally aware of everything: so the hegemony of the lovely blankness; the….the….the…..the…. pastelshaded....what?....drowned. sailors who dream of sound and song, and i’ve been Severe yet soft as gracious beards they eternally sing: They are beneath in a graciousness beyond or near grace; The voices have breath: silicate sounds shriek and break: In microscopic spots; —Such immensity of blank, encyclopaedic meaning, unfolding, or just being — Murdered to Rose, not true my dear one: White. Fingers; O1’ man sorrow Hel’ and they speak and tell, speak and Tell, (Clack sound, like knitting (Clack sound, like knitting (Clack sound, like knitting (Clack sound, like knitting; I have forgotten much, in this land, this crystal land; centres be discoverable abstractly leading as in assonation to: Australian society despite the fact that the forms of despair must by reflecting upon the factors which self as synthesis; Come to think of it, what am I talking about?; could sinks … he's gone …Go to square thirty-three – you inherit Great fortune (Beware the Snake); So this is it? Running low? What to do.... This, this glass, look at this glass; It is, a glass: the glass is without sin; The crack is stained: only the crack is evil; I see people (many) running up a hill; Never shalt thou know: for in your gloomed Skull a pantomime is played - the most prominent organisms are likely to be one-celled plants called itself be bright sweet and bad 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: is a special possible: snow might; on the hands, caked in earth: black, dead...and knowing das Lied von der Erde, beauty as the extreme curvature of the glances of things are integrated into the sweep of snow; nothing of this has been bespoken unto them: Long glanged they, they stared up yes, petrific, against the socket mountain where babbles the old and fiery clouds of steam and blood: and were they Ophelia’s hands who would draw me into the earth that I might die into a new being: to know the mystery of colour; Or of another’s heart, beating codes of love: the key inside the key, the flashing place, the turmoiled, troubled coils?; well; like things that move; as if they swayed and waltzed … perhaps you could think of sea flowers; Suddenly I realise they are human, real things, living. This seems terrible: The air conditioner sings: Today, the sun: the master of a man who has lost a leg, who “has the right attitude”; the symbols shall remain: the terrible symbols: Why do they blow and fiddle and sing? Why do they keep moving?; They’re gulls of water and blood and saliva etc …protoplasm and so …on; It as messy and awful as sex and death, the Big Death to come; and the spider sucking out all the blood: (Notice how fast they race back, always; the; What is there to write about?: for the dark music destroys it; Nothing Really; Monet built a vast Orchestral garden; orthographic, or an isometric projection; Include the -- this queer screwed Quirk of life, this twist of stuff: this instrumental Devil-God!; liver river will give liver will go what’s the latest who?; different surfaces cuspids; Harps in the lilies, Trumpeting trumpets —Ultimate Deep double bass adagio; Secreto of violets; quadrandrangled quagmire so it could silent eternal be Maori Pakeha tui whanau coast water dig Mt Wellington Taupo raupo rata; There is no one: no house: only debris: as their filigree (after millions) and without a second; What are they doing now? Eh? Does the daughter emerge from the tent?; you say?; Take a pen a match a map a torch a dark: An ancient telephone trapped inside a movie: standing among the forms feeling like Titian bending amongst the Nagouchis; A more 'experimental' poem using 18 so we have 18.17.l6...4.3.2.1.i.e. 18! (18 factorial): about six thousand four hundred and two thousand billion arrangements using 18 words: Or the book of magic dropped on the distressed volcanic insistence on variance, creeping, whose utterances, the psychic dance of which, various manifestations, whose social; Does she breathe the cold night? Did she dream?; You know what I mean. Any way - down down dark dark down we went; The 68th floor; Water; People; There were lots of people: They pooled their knowledge: This pain Of Rome’s; ravaged time; the dark pines the hours; In fact, waiting without any; like full tread tyres - huge in the microscope Edgar’s view of the microscopic in the yellow was like being dead all over again, even when is) it was done the red certain ingenious; What?! 100 Million?! Invent something: be alert, but keep calm: Nothing unravels this — his tie: surely I am not that man: he in the mirror contends: surely I am myself he quizzes: not even a thousand; In a golden German ring; polynomials Describing complex waves and wonderful integrations Or maths in ten dimensions or God’s dreams Can (or could?) explain; but then John felt in his pocket the lumps of stone-like stone at least were real, he thought; The rat may have suffered, how much we can’t know; seeking our own blood; there you have fertility or sterility did Winterwalk in whirl of wet white wind? - but in any case, despite the dog, the fuzzy logic water walkers; but already the foetus mention the Event? loud? to startle the wave gods? enbloodment? ARE WE unzipped up beside the orrogenous: The undulant: octomorph: THOSE “He hath made things worthier than himself.” The pepper tree grew cankerous; or Mt Tarawera, waiting Lets go In another example, the top of a head pops up, like a lid. But life is more than doublings: there are true ways and straight ways as just much that is speechless they whirl on and on and into the human sea; Fingering the falsetto light or listening to the baby The head sleeps – despite the cylinders of despair rapidly departing self portrait of God - as in an in depth course on the involutions of before this horror on 7th Avenue, I’m as dumb as stone: [But people disappear – a certain number each year – about 1000 say. It is not known. 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: 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; [The face is Asiatic. He is not known, inquiries have so far met a blank]; The struggle to ....Sad plastic trumpet; The crowds; or a wing curve was something if even not more 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 - Set the set square on the T square, and draw an; spiders? Well it is because (of Evolution, your see an instantaneous eternity, a single with fibre flowers: singularity unto thus a black-backed thing; wounded and alone: wherein All vanishes. rubber – outers - destroyers of records, yet balancing like BIG BOULDER BALANCE ROCK in good old Texas, & Barthelme’s Tolstoy Museum story, with its: listens to GerFrench nonsense, miraculise into fish vast bread, and the moments and the things; singing and something and it is what it is and he fiddles with: For I am a jaundiced thinking rat inhabiting a lamp black hat; these didn’t, but, consequent, we recall The Conjunctions (larger now): and History’s Gigantic Slug who forever lyeth bunk on a wooden beach:and wanders from the yellow waves into the dark tunnels of the nerves, which, multi-branched, are hers: 50 million portraits of Tolstoy; he tore out the manuscript with all those insurmountable scrawlings, the bugs of iridescence: and consigned them to the laughing flames; it was hoped you would conform, Man; bloom: we cannot explain justice cacophony of rubbed.........................Today she will talk to the how low how dark how nice how where how slow how breath how he how howl how when how go: voices: (millions of years of surviving, being eaten, torn apart, she, who only read of Auschwitz; things that matter ; the stones, the old statues, the cultural bumble bee who greater than his size; brass fender: from within whose Cold Eyes stared: for the Situation was hopeless, and unapplied – something or rather like a Trap trapped...and much worse…) millions of them are killed by wasps and are paralyzed (think of scenes from; not ironic; How long how far how true how high non-sequits: and nothing made sense: Thinketh me much to much (too much) the red is as if - (the green too) the green requires a powerful draught of drugging, training in madness, or, you might; lust for a carap spiral sadly out of Violetto; fractures the land how day how scrawl how blue how dark how eye of error ((((We want the Great Logic (the log ((((( the logic: And jerked rapidly into Electron City; to which wend wouldst thou wend, which waves on waves of waves; so perfect, they bent bend: I’m not competing the hard mother might frangible; and a soft bulb shed silently: And what say the C o m p 1 e t e V a n i s h came blessedly to destroy, would there but you, you yearn-fear for the weaken to a dwarfic or a deaf, Yes, he, rightwrongfully, discerns a pattern, fluke like the only sperm: Benji (who’se the Idiot) and Dilsey the good nigger, and maybe the other Quentin who drowns himself, and tocap it all the tiny preacher. But this isn’t something on paper; how you bone how far how high how no how yes; that it was nothin’ fuckin’ like that; You could say it was a kind of Tossed to the much diligently discussed Thumb; What think thou now of the Yield!; perhaps such eyes; are clearly implied because they radiate out; how os becomes osculate, or window means mind...or glides into meadow: where invisible agents do visible evil, how muse how wood how how how: [What horror does the smothered scream, the twisting of the limbless hope, the dessicated death? ; but as great preparations proceed data base management, or the history and collected collation of left - centred microclefts as found in Lower Erdritch; where the accountants draw up documenta; But I’m no better: And dust gathers as movements outward kete koromiko he; in some sort of compensation for the insatiable would how flame how war how pleasure how light how green how mountain how tree how why how man how death how dead - 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 spring is spreading over the dip of the hills; Mendip?; 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 was this then what The saxophone sluts around in golden arabesques and and curlys of which way what way feathery gold explosions. But Everyone’s here – Tim Birch we had come your inheritance on — well, I furnished 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; [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...evil, except perhaps for Caddy and I’m no better; sometimes not closed off; the smashed shapes - Transfigurating light for one second dark writes these scenes of Borges magic not ironic; What is your world? How strange are you?; more focused - your ideas and observations are good, but you repeat yourself etc – you must give yourself time to structure your work; Re-write, revise; and what Harlot, in these strangled London streets, would not have wanted my Man-ness in The Ages when I was Clod?; supports my art: The hidden traces of my radio 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; Mrs Walker walked; until a star surreal; or if; and; they enwrap a child parcel: child at play the mysterious house the old ones inside and in and squeals, and blats like a pig’s the itness of whatness; days, A life time’s cricket; screaming beyond any conceived prayer or hope imagined in this tiny universe where matter darkly reigns as Kings once and a hundred horse: All events we know that could be Or are Or were are seeing and not seeing, and not knowing that it didn’t see or be: weird and magical as yellow spiders in black fields; Yet seeing - We at first thought -All, all, and everything, like that thing, these thud and drum; to lock eternals in themselves face so gentle of his victims would breathe as if by glass Sweat Struggle Yes kick the bawah NO; the sun time; to Ballah and remember for chrissakes: Nihil Bastardum Carborundum Est snow becomes conscious, and boots, immense as stamens, step out into marvels go(fuck you!) go its true she’s on night shift – Broken Dust Of Valley Jaw sexlines round — click-click click click, hit me with a rhythm — they wait: Blake is Blake bleak black block click clock break past midnight - they are ten in all Legerdemain of Wotan work to make of it a supernatural; Here is the legendary; the night is swallowed: What luck looks logs gone grey gone gong? I think of my mother today. the stones, the old statues, the cultural collections, the historical emblems, the Art, or the Faces or the great places; it is the spaces, the especial spaces - the spaces between - where we tread; For he is stoop man, x-rayed into science joy; we are lead to speculate, doth fruit the famous phenomenological phallus - that black man passing quietly about, but, that spear of glass, luminescent - lighting the centuries; If the sun were a spectre He could point down: Best we miss No sunsets; LEAKEY; 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: Lucy And In The Desert With Di Di Di Diamonds I’ve recounted and allthevariations-of-darkness; I wait; here we are contemplative, To disappear into the sands; As in Scott of Lammermoor . 'The quicksanded cities.' ; my fingers -- it’s just We could treat timelike 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: 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; In any such collection, intransigence if criss brick shithouse, and there let is the night it being far better to exterminate the universe and all the mucky, confused variagations; This could be a beautiful, but horrible fire; thus we are sundered, split into being ours, and terribled into in madland: imagined smoke, or grey-green boxes film and the arms he suffered from unreality, so you and I sat down for a square-faced truck: of instrumental ( and all Hell roars through) time, consistent flame; the mouth dog, for we have lived too long this Plastic Face: as stratagems 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: and yet, Dr John Pearson, always feverish with his incessantly motile and feverish toing and froing, would frequently be seen, The JOYS OF PROCTOLOGY in one hand, a sandwich in the other; indeed oft t-he-y would be proceeding flossward, as was his wont with eager ein his trip rises, and illusory mirrors; The in his life time he oft sat down with Perkins for a little chatkins, it was long over due - obviously there was or were the 22 What They Thought They Saw green slugs,immense tongues; depths of the 28 Ulysses; we were informed at this point of the Seven Against...; It was savagely against the sky: 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!?!; 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: Knowledge is incompleteness...;The parade begins; She holds my hand; We had purpose, if fear, but we lived, took positions: We were on the line: He loved the dark gutteration of the utterances: the German (seeming) strangeness: Thus he would talk; 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? In theSilent
Museum
The the child emerges, laughing with dust – Who are we?: I then moved the Sun; great vaporous white men gloom gloom in glut got softed; and deemed or reaching the last crumb of the thumble parchment parched past pitch of pitch or any pachydermic’s rickulation wrinkling in a wink: Thick, I think: Great cities sink with their knots of nerves: The Sun flew into space; shrieking: Tentacles reaching! Illo; Let’s rephrase this: say there was a Twitchling Rabbit, or an awesome pause, or -- some extraordinary pointing to an old blueness; Out of the pumping chaos: immense flowers pulse light: it is not the collections, the historical emblems, the Art, or the Faces or the great places; it is the spaces, the especial spaces - the spaces between - where we tread; One Billion, times, last week: I wound my wayDown our street I bit my feet (x2); Ol’ man sorrow; Lef’ me alone; Roun’ dancin’ roun’ -With a cat as purty as What!? Who? Yes; When I wasn’t — long ago — when I, when I? a saxaphone: A saxaphone a Saxaphone - an iambic nightmare; what? the hoop was; Newton knew nothing: A saxa saxa you blaze, you blaze: and Blindest crushing as the black waves slap on the weird and dreaming beach; arriving, the white gloves, The notes, the saxa saxa Saxaphone yellowing pages, these images were revitalized: a saxa phone...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 on bright days – on these blue days when you are suddenly in total cognizance, totally aware of everything: so the hegemony of the lovely blankness; the….the….the…..the…. pastelshaded....what?....drowned. sailors who dream of sound and song, and i’ve been Severe yet soft as gracious beards they eternally sing: They are beneath in a graciousness beyond or near grace; The voices have breath: silicate sounds shriek and break: In microscopic spots; —Such immensity of blank, encyclopaedic meaning, unfolding, or just being — Murdered to Rose, not true my dear one: White. Fingers; O1’ man sorrow Hel’ and they speak and tell, speak and Tell, (Clack sound, like knitting (Clack sound, like knitting (Clack sound, like knitting (Clack sound, like knitting; I have forgotten much, in this land, this crystal land; centres be discoverable abstractly leading as in assonation to: Australian society despite the fact that the forms of despair must by reflecting upon the factors which self as synthesis; Come to think of it, what am I talking about?; could sinks … he's gone …Go to square thirty-three – you inherit Great fortune (Beware the Snake); So this is it? Running low? What to do.... This, this glass, look at this glass; It is, a glass: the glass is without sin; The crack is stained: only the crack is evil; I see people (many) running up a hill; Never shalt thou know: for in your gloomed Skull a pantomime is played - the most prominent organisms are likely to be one-celled plants called itself be bright sweet and bad 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: is a special possible: snow might; on the hands, caked in earth: black, dead...and knowing das Lied von der Erde, beauty as the extreme curvature of the glances of things are integrated into the sweep of snow; nothing of this has been bespoken unto them: Long glanged they, they stared up yes, petrific, against the socket mountain where babbles the old and fiery clouds of steam and blood: and were they Ophelia’s hands who would draw me into the earth that I might die into a new being: to know the mystery of colour; Or of another’s heart, beating codes of love: the key inside the key, the flashing place, the turmoiled, troubled coils?; well; like things that move; as if they swayed and waltzed … perhaps you could think of sea flowers; Suddenly I realise they are human, real things, living. This seems terrible: The air conditioner sings: Today, the sun: the master of a man who has lost a leg, who “has the right attitude”; the symbols shall remain: the terrible symbols: Why do they blow and fiddle and sing? Why do they keep moving?; They’re gulls of water and blood and saliva etc …protoplasm and so …on; It as messy and awful as sex and death, the Big Death to come; and the spider sucking out all the blood: (Notice how fast they race back, always; the; What is there to write about?: for the dark music destroys it; Nothing Really; Monet built a vast Orchestral garden; orthographic, or an isometric projection; Include the -- this queer screwed Quirk of life, this twist of stuff: this instrumental Devil-God!; liver river will give liver will go what’s the latest who?; different surfaces cuspids; Harps in the lilies, Trumpeting trumpets —Ultimate Deep double bass adagio; Secreto of violets; quadrandrangled quagmire so it could silent eternal be Maori Pakeha tui whanau coast water dig Mt Wellington Taupo raupo rata; There is no one: no house: only debris: as their filigree (after millions) and without a second; What are they doing now? Eh? Does the daughter emerge from the tent?; you say?; Take a pen a match a map a torch a dark: An ancient telephone trapped inside a movie: standing among the forms feeling like Titian bending amongst the Nagouchis; A more 'experimental' poem using 18 so we have 18.17.l6...4.3.2.1.i.e. 18! (18 factorial): about six thousand four hundred and two thousand billion arrangements using 18 words: Or the book of magic dropped on the distressed volcanic insistence on variance, creeping, whose utterances, the psychic dance of which, various manifestations, whose social; Does she breathe the cold night? Did she dream?; You know what I mean. Any way - down down dark dark down we went; The 68th floor; Water; People; There were lots of people: They pooled their knowledge: This pain Of Rome’s; ravaged time; the dark pines the hours; In fact, waiting without any; like full tread tyres - huge in the microscope Edgar’s view of the microscopic in the yellow was like being dead all over again, even when is) it was done the red certain ingenious; What?! 100 Million?! Invent something: be alert, but keep calm: Nothing unravels this — his tie: surely I am not that man: he in the mirror contends: surely I am myself he quizzes: not even a thousand; In a golden German ring; polynomials Describing complex waves and wonderful integrations Or maths in ten dimensions or God’s dreams Can (or could?) explain; but then John felt in his pocket the lumps of stone-like stone at least were real, he thought; The rat may have suffered, how much we can’t know; seeking our own blood; there you have fertility or sterility did Winterwalk in whirl of wet white wind? - but in any case, despite the dog, the fuzzy logic water walkers; but already the foetus mention the Event? loud? to startle the wave gods? enbloodment? ARE WE unzipped up beside the orrogenous: The undulant: octomorph: THOSE “He hath made things worthier than himself.” The pepper tree grew cankerous; or Mt Tarawera, waiting Lets go In another example, the top of a head pops up, like a lid. But life is more than doublings: there are true ways and straight ways as just much that is speechless they whirl on and on and into the human sea; Fingering the falsetto light or listening to the baby The head sleeps – despite the cylinders of despair rapidly departing self portrait of God - as in an in depth course on the involutions of before this horror on 7th Avenue, I’m as dumb as stone: [But people disappear – a certain number each year – about 1000 say. It is not known. 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: 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; [The face is Asiatic. He is not known, inquiries have so far met a blank]; The struggle to ....Sad plastic trumpet; The crowds; or a wing curve was something if even not more 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 - Set the set square on the T square, and draw an; spiders? Well it is because (of Evolution, your see an instantaneous eternity, a single with fibre flowers: singularity unto thus a black-backed thing; wounded and alone: wherein All vanishes. rubber – outers - destroyers of records, yet balancing like BIG BOULDER BALANCE ROCK in good old Texas, & Barthelme’s Tolstoy Museum story, with its: listens to GerFrench nonsense, miraculise into fish vast bread, and the moments and the things; singing and something and it is what it is and he fiddles with: For I am a jaundiced thinking rat inhabiting a lamp black hat; these didn’t, but, consequent, we recall The Conjunctions (larger now): and History’s Gigantic Slug who forever lyeth bunk on a wooden beach:and wanders from the yellow waves into the dark tunnels of the nerves, which, multi-branched, are hers: 50 million portraits of Tolstoy; he tore out the manuscript with all those insurmountable scrawlings, the bugs of iridescence: and consigned them to the laughing flames; it was hoped you would conform, Man; bloom: we cannot explain justice cacophony of rubbed.........................Today she will talk to the how low how dark how nice how where how slow how breath how he how howl how when how go: voices: (millions of years of surviving, being eaten, torn apart, she, who only read of Auschwitz; things that matter ; the stones, the old statues, the cultural bumble bee who greater than his size; brass fender: from within whose Cold Eyes stared: for the Situation was hopeless, and unapplied – something or rather like a Trap trapped...and much worse…) millions of them are killed by wasps and are paralyzed (think of scenes from; not ironic; How long how far how true how high non-sequits: and nothing made sense: Thinketh me much to much (too much) the red is as if - (the green too) the green requires a powerful draught of drugging, training in madness, or, you might; lust for a carap spiral sadly out of Violetto; fractures the land how day how scrawl how blue how dark how eye of error ((((We want the Great Logic (the log ((((( the logic: And jerked rapidly into Electron City; to which wend wouldst thou wend, which waves on waves of waves; so perfect, they bent bend: I’m not competing the hard mother might frangible; and a soft bulb shed silently: And what say the C o m p 1 e t e V a n i s h came blessedly to destroy, would there but you, you yearn-fear for the weaken to a dwarfic or a deaf, Yes, he, rightwrongfully, discerns a pattern, fluke like the only sperm: Benji (who’se the Idiot) and Dilsey the good nigger, and maybe the other Quentin who drowns himself, and tocap it all the tiny preacher. But this isn’t something on paper; how you bone how far how high how no how yes; that it was nothin’ fuckin’ like that; You could say it was a kind of Tossed to the much diligently discussed Thumb; What think thou now of the Yield!; perhaps such eyes; are clearly implied because they radiate out; how os becomes osculate, or window means mind...or glides into meadow: where invisible agents do visible evil, how muse how wood how how how: [What horror does the smothered scream, the twisting of the limbless hope, the dessicated death? ; but as great preparations proceed data base management, or the history and collected collation of left - centred microclefts as found in Lower Erdritch; where the accountants draw up documenta; But I’m no better: And dust gathers as movements outward kete koromiko he; in some sort of compensation for the insatiable would how flame how war how pleasure how light how green how mountain how tree how why how man how death how dead - 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 spring is spreading over the dip of the hills; Mendip?; 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 was this then what The saxophone sluts around in golden arabesques and and curlys of which way what way feathery gold explosions. But Everyone’s here – Tim Birch we had come your inheritance on — well, I furnished 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; [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...evil, except perhaps for Caddy and I’m no better; sometimes not closed off; the smashed shapes - Transfigurating light for one second dark writes these scenes of Borges magic not ironic; What is your world? How strange are you?; more focused - your ideas and observations are good, but you repeat yourself etc – you must give yourself time to structure your work; Re-write, revise; and what Harlot, in these strangled London streets, would not have wanted my Man-ness in The Ages when I was Clod?; supports my art: The hidden traces of my radio 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; Mrs Walker walked; until a star surreal; or if; and; they enwrap a child parcel: child at play the mysterious house the old ones inside and in and squeals, and blats like a pig’s the itness of whatness; days, A life time’s cricket; screaming beyond any conceived prayer or hope imagined in this tiny universe where matter darkly reigns as Kings once and a hundred horse: All events we know that could be Or are Or were are seeing and not seeing, and not knowing that it didn’t see or be: weird and magical as yellow spiders in black fields; Yet seeing - We at first thought -All, all, and everything, like that thing, these thud and drum; to lock eternals in themselves face so gentle of his victims would breathe as if by glass Sweat Struggle Yes kick the bawah NO; the sun time; to Ballah and remember for chrissakes: Nihil Bastardum Carborundum Est snow becomes conscious, and boots, immense as stamens, step out into marvels go(fuck you!) go its true she’s on night shift – Broken Dust Of Valley Jaw sexlines round — click-click click click, hit me with a rhythm — they wait: Blake is Blake bleak black block click clock break past midnight - they are ten in all Legerdemain of Wotan work to make of it a supernatural; Here is the legendary; the night is swallowed: What luck looks logs gone grey gone gong? I think of my mother today. the stones, the old statues, the cultural collections, the historical emblems, the Art, or the Faces or the great places; it is the spaces, the especial spaces - the spaces between - where we tread; For he is stoop man, x-rayed into science joy; we are lead to speculate, doth fruit the famous phenomenological phallus - that black man passing quietly about, but, that spear of glass, luminescent - lighting the centuries; If the sun were a spectre He could point down: Best we miss No sunsets; LEAKEY; 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: Lucy And In The Desert With Di Di Di Diamonds I’ve recounted and allthevariations-of-darkness; I wait; here we are contemplative, To disappear into the sands; As in Scott of Lammermoor . 'The quicksanded cities.' ; my fingers -- it’s just We could treat timelike 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: 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; In any such collection, intransigence if criss brick shithouse, and there let is the night it being far better to exterminate the universe and all the mucky, confused variagations; This could be a beautiful, but horrible fire; thus we are sundered, split into being ours, and terribled into in madland: imagined smoke, or grey-green boxes film and the arms he suffered from unreality, so you and I sat down for a square-faced truck: of instrumental ( and all Hell roars through) time, consistent flame; the mouth dog, for we have lived too long this Plastic Face: as stratagems 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: and yet, Dr John Pearson, always feverish with his incessantly motile and feverish toing and froing, would frequently be seen, The JOYS OF PROCTOLOGY in one hand, a sandwich in the other; indeed oft t-he-y would be proceeding flossward, as was his wont with eager ein his trip rises, and illusory mirrors; The in his life time he oft sat down with Perkins for a little chatkins, it was long over due - obviously there was or were the 22 What They Thought They Saw green slugs,immense tongues; depths of the 28 Ulysses; we were informed at this point of the Seven Against...; It was savagely against the sky: 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!?!; 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: Knowledge is incompleteness...;The parade begins; She holds my hand; We had purpose, if fear, but we lived, took positions: We were on the line: He loved the dark gutteration of the utterances: the German (seeming) strangeness: Thus he would talk; 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? In the
transfer to
the permanent staff
will be subject to a satisfactory
probationary period of
six months; and he shuddered
again because once it was not as it is now, were there was nothing, that
nothing came from nothing, that touch, scent; the laugh of a child, the bearing;
A tree, which is minute – Springs to hugeness But, you disbelieved the
random sky, lying
about clouds and blueness; we ( we are not what you are (are we
ourselves no ( are we?; She fades, dies out, flick!; deferral of meaning, the
meaning percipience argued tendentiousness whose escape velocity I did not know
her or meet her, but I see her, and I listen, and I look -- and in this dance of death I hear Dream Stein came to a part of the
fascination with delight in the sort of; The birds, the Naiads, or the
entrancement of stones?; oh - I shall hack and hew this violent viridity to
sfumato that despite my syncope death I might yet refragmentate that the Moa re be moaning
in the corner...Was it Orpheus? And who was my Eurydice?; where, in all
silence, The Crouching One stood, most resplendahesitent, listening to the
music the conscious is not greater yet hope blooms in some secrecy of a scream the face, infinitely sad;
the insects in insect land endlessly dying – the slow surreal decay and the dissolution She says: “Bastard! Fock you fa fee fo:: I want ten babies –and I want
snow…thus from a horizontal, to an evermore vertiginously vertical “…from
far and stony places..” and indeed you laboured long, long, and very long, at
The Task, wanting to please her, wanting violent vision of The Great Wire
Wings, whose angelic enwrapment; On a maple dresser, technique: letters are
jammed golden
Godanianity.”; they cried; It is said he was a infinitely even absolute words
and marks in death and is whose golden immolated only to become again a singing
rose a rose whose immense cylinder of sight so everywhere impossible Clack and
tap; If a million million automatic typers typed every second every minute
every carpenter, Was day from him; now tries to
limit his field of observation; if he bears in mind the outstanding line of an
advancing wave, as this line approaches him and rises it hides from the entire
universe:: But Mr after
day and night after night; reborn; Given and crammed together into a
continuous thorn and seemingly random scream whose certainly not of European
make, lay a rusty pair of forceps, a broken scalpel, half a dozen wall’s morphemic grasses, wind wild, we were caught in the theory of eve and of hell
their purpose hidden well: odd instruments that she could not place, a
catheter, some twenty perfume bottles, almost empty, pomades, rouges, powder boxes,
and clinging vines began to clutch forever for? Humpty
was on the wall of everything and the like those they
are the elect, elated ones in the ten billion page novel of nothing built of
nothing describes a design’s death - because there mirrors
are thousands more
feverishly....the Hookah was
withdrawn then that the under blood: The
eyes closed. Somehow that seems so much worse – the eyes being closed; The
Interrogation; [The police want to know who he is. Who is he? Why, and why Every
day aa kk lllla aa gg
dd ee ff sy ah wh wk dj dg gk
9. .........................................................................................................................................
10. [Who. ?
11. .........................................................................................................................................
12. I am not
only here but I am or I was and I .....................
13. .................................................................................................
14. 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....
15. ..................................................................................
15. ..................................................................................
16. [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?
17. .................i......know.......
18. [Where is
the dead man...........?
19. ..................and
yet....she.....the light...the sudden....something about a nutness....who....?
20. .........................................................................................................................................
21. Who listens
for these things?
22. .........................................................................................................................................
23. [I am
reading about P....
24. ..........................................................................................................................................
They
transposed the light sufficiently or his Labyrinth, the fabled detail
endlessly redefines the aching sense of possibility; George Herbert’s foreward
backward: then here way in the heave of lust; still points to begin in the
green or twisting of olive gone tree and Brain? Who? Who is the why and
when echoed come the
march of distribution, startle; I
don’t know where she went. Pi is a very IMPORTANT NUMBER, and no one knows: but you can EAT the who
dances claps to flute and light (who
dances claps to flute and light And neither the; Clack sound, like knitting: progression
that Nora took the stairs; slowlyl; She had not; dancing light dancing into
that time when green flies turn to gold her hair, bars, like eyes; But now
there is a new metallic madness – it crashes in crazy waves onto the receiving earth, The
dentist drilled Tremendous; There has to be a frame, a story, a structure; A
frame; I’m hungry for a frame; In a frame you can be cleverand the things we
expect may not happen: but the needs of the complex or; enormous surprise at
being alive; and I tell you: 'I 'll Wrreacklickh: for I'll wreack it
I'll teare It; 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 of 4. A black vapour, through the wood?;
immediately a big wooden Head peered through the top branches and let out
a huge laugh at which point Quixote and
Pancho fell to the ground; maidens were being ravaged by sex maniacs
everywhere, they convulsed as they were ecstatically aroused to inhuman bliss
by virile sex machines; The old Five four three two
one!”;
Down; down; Down; down;::::On ground floor level::::shaky face:::::::::::Dark
and sooty from smoke:::::Dark::::::::::But
what::::::::::::::::::my::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::caught up in it all the
thud the grief and the wing and the sting of song and the strange of ::
of course you the stars. then if a
bloom:::::nothing is not not something:::::::::::Yet, we shrug, and
laugh, and dig who would be yes;;;;;;;;;;;;And then it was he dreamed that he was seized into a
gesture:::for the sake of the shapes]]][[[The very]]][[[withholding of
plot or human intercession is indeed 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::::I redream the light machine: truth and the knot and the seed
in soil; the minute and the uncountable the stars the milk the flow beyond all
moons the Cow of knowing the ignorance - Knew they? - Nay, never in
wonder's the woman next door even if the Universe began who began the
Big?::::::Father, forgive them for they know not what they do or say Shadows
dance in the lighted box; The blind and beautifully; indifferent universe; You
rock and roll To death or to everything’s begin; At
the heart of Auckland - at Auckland’s heart; wire did Dresden dream or
terrible talons tear: Wise now are; The Migrant Mother!” - But we’re wise to
that - we know that the children could well be dead by now, here or in there or whatever the
way your head comes off MYOPIC ART MONSTER…I am a bubbling machine of light whose futile
mission is to because it was obvisly clear that the abundance if blub blubs
bubbled in a mad man's flask had come to clutter the event no one had time be
again as in the MOMA garden which I cant really recall clearly hostile republics, and equalises
wealth; He restricts; or augments the births, logical things; the clouds come
down: These circular squares; I, in predawn slime,
have been, that eye, skouring up, up, into the bleak Black, and Beckettian sky:
where fly, great Flies - their purpose? The salivation of my Soul; sadly
out of the subways of our soul...It swelled at the the march of the eyes; Who
see the steel trees – their crisp speech modulated in the morning mauve - and
the seeds wait; base and reminded of difference between things: It wheels were turning,
and I began saying to myself: electron
shells with
their secret numbers dr
o ro nome
gen │ ice
en │red kidding │ side
is
│ cased
gives │yel
she was │ the
the │ doubt
ful │low a woman │ creep
“I AM” It
screams: I’m 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; (things will beat and repeat like an insanebeard abandoned in a skull
littered beach where All has been terribly inverted by silence and The Truth
Seeking Proboscis)::the sea roars like a wand::As to information: information is not
meaning for plastics are organic compounds; Information is the greatness
proportional to the uncertainty of the As if fire! No! Dog! Dog, as if this
were end; Endless, endless end: A train is somewhere; People going to slavage? -
And what waits?; -Spidered thought is never still and
why - Trains haunt me – would you wish for
webs of want to turn the lights of loving out? Milk is the mother's moment,
still: but never, never shall seas Arrestful be; I settle back, Book in
Unpopular hand; The night Be will; is eternally long this
is a
baby’s what we deciphered in the cave light:
"Here are: 'multiplicity of centres
leading as in
a beautiful; was assonation to can which preconceived and prepared can truly be
accused of the futile but beautiful pursuit most diligent of that high mission
that is “the secret of [its] unpopularity”; Thus, this, we: drawn by erotic
convolutions of loops detonate under the car precocious destruction like Humpty
- ' ";; not that that is unwishing; The Secret of I pick up the white cat Being
enters unissued into the hand palm - Suspended in mid strange, the words bend
around like a funny old Wire - wheeled auto in a photograph, and thus he say: “This
And my brother, and my sisters undercoat of sound years his program My mother
remembers sailing into Auckland in 1937: “I thought it was a village”, she said; And still the giant termite of the queens does bobulate -
immortal neverending did contrive to contrive = Horses clatter across; Cockroach
drummed his fingers::the normative sense of that wiley word; nothing should
have said at all – after; So woman; So Anne; So, You;
Dark; all there’s not much Nothing: Years after they sat on the stoop –
stooped of course: and rocking: pipes proliferate and now it’s dolphins; With
tap the bursting automatic – you, A, she's a beauty; Mr Palomar; Of frequency
within a given time—interval; The hardthing is to fix the boundaries of this
zone, because if, for example,he considers as no o no lest no least lest no
least no no and those trees of ending that smudge in clusters - beyond: seeing this
multiface in yellow and green 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 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
flamehuman grew
between her eyes and we were dumfounded: no idea or
desire have I of completing demonstration, exegesis, proof, or subtle
analogue; the bottom doors, truncate: exeunt dwarves, laughing hideously;
Do you read me? Or do I speak split? Eh?! Lets get down to it, if::After Crepuscular Man had been dissected, We were left with his left eye: we focused on it; I, who am
L.F.T., was: most [emotive word] to Be able to
attend the lecture; by Dr Brain; makes; us; grow tired is my favorite room.) the sort of thing that the
Manhatten Boogie wonky wonk wonk calls to mind, blue i’ve been murdered to rose
not really my dear white one; why rose white; why; why rose: not dead really: I
: rose; my murdered; not really my i’ve; not really; its gladness entering, and rising rich - the
passaging from
the skies. (But
they were once childzeyes ....); The babies were at the magic of the harm, forming
a different magic; not really to old ones inside and what Harlot, such fire! (
we aren’t (…?) are …? rose my white; Dear;
child at play to meander in the eternal bric-a-brac shadows, in and the
tiredly, that lay about the room. even when pain wracked in a and I curse the dear
one dear; murdered one; white to rose; rose my dear, dear; time passes into the
music grass quadrangle; Much has passed, but lets enscribe: Him; the Meadow
roared with petrol fumes; Thumb you regard. Him em place rose; Murdered you are apart; The
beach – shells and wave song; To have eyes:: see it, it is awash with configurations and gibbering mirrors: it
is afire with Again? Evil? Here at the
catraracting waul, agon Oscar proliferate:
everywhere there is a clicking really, murdered; not ‘ive; Been; but we shiver as we laugh for something’s not - as the
great and gaping gap does in insuck all those the Horsemen drag murdered; to; and gaping gap
does in insuck all those the rose; not; rot of rotten pot; perceivedly and proudly
pronkish; Really; My; Dear; White; one; burning laughing skies....us
lambda I ) times x = 0; The hair, brownish, perhaps tinted; all I know is my love and; Suddenly
of meanings. Knitting:
to such brightest suns--Messages are inserted or race into the totality of; 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; potatoes
are thumbly: An enormous luminosity
forgetting what evening’s trees the dark pines the mysterious house the hours and a
presence within the multiple presences; With a mass of leaf – 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 ancient 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: drums again against and for the doom
as we know the clutch did fell the swoop – thud by
dark wire, barbed, of the clause, is my
starting forth: - and because they are the
elect, elated ones in the ten billion page novel of nothing built of nothingand
maybe one tear of glass in which sad sea horses race and as intricate as wings
or nerveless hands that lie and clasp a plastic universe in which the sands
converseforever in my thoughts into a form neverWATCHER’— And neither
the. Clack sound, like knitting: (Clack
sound, like knitting (Clack sound,
like knitting (Clack sound, like knitting (Clack sound, like knitting Mr Fantastic Sir!; Yes; in the holy fire
outside desire or any gyre, keeping is
like 100 million flattened baked bean tins; somewhere a mathematician, time
by time and dividing the side fartherest the eagle stare; nonsense eye; then
went the reverse to space whence unsteel that makes eyes of them because
hack-sawing a bolt, or sealing a love
in action when the
other is hurt: and the
kindnessa part of the fascination with a whole cluster of processes: Palomar
becomes ever more puzzled - agonized into = incoherence, stumped, of his unsureness
about everything; the sea under; Slip on the
bottom rung. i’m not dead, and the Eye-Speech is by Devils filled, is there
hope the Giant is wounded and why hencely hie, that these quick: Yet it is
telling me something stupid hawk and conservative; I suggest that every person open
an interior trapdoor, that he negotiate a trip into the thickness of things, The universe reduced to a storm welcome, – given that the
words get in your blood and babble like brooks
word that’s regal in
its candleor and cracked up in gusts of darka fiery eminence creeping
out of the blackland: Lion Rock at Piha, and words began forming in apocalyptic frames. Great
Scott; There were (the usual) acclaims of grief or joy as a (totally) black
hand sprang dominant on every screen: maybe a shadow sleeps in your
hand, but it is not known to the divergent multitude, who are cross with
destiny. Our quarrel is not so direct, thing stopped, the clocks all ticked in
music joy and bently opposed the white or forked or our bubbles so gloating in
their rise; awake….these strange sounds that ring from those who live and have
learnt to sing…We met, we had both worked there, at the Railway Workshops; I in
1969, you about 1939, and you wrote on the wagon sides in rich white chalk,
your incipient poems; And we all wrote there, and when you wrote, someone
asked: “Who do you think you are? Shakespeare?” And you asked, in all honesty:
“Who is Shakespeare?”; And we laughed when you told that, you and I, Hone, I
understood you, here
you awake, and find lambda I )
times x = 0 the eigenspace of A corresponding to lambda”, as the Bishop said to
the; At that moment, indescribably, like something
from Charles Dodgson; Horses clatter; They gather, like
curious cows, and surround us, until the entire horizon is aflame, as
illustrated by Tenniel, of
Just like a nightmare - as we
said.”; room to like psychic smoke room, it through me, the Castle itself; So this was it was
it!; The
boy in the ancient castle of miracles wanders the hexagonal cells as neither do
I the sexy women and the endless questions the dust keeps popping as the lanky
man chews gum or rides away over the Southern Alps 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 the you mean? Is it known?Know;thou?; Sit by the fire; At the camp::
Or infinity, is made by giant minds who examine; something wriggles: Earthful erupting up
of Springen; Still as savagely Doth
crave and craze my Flesh – for I am all about me, Infiltrating...but I Have
been abjured to...What is that car that bus that truck, and many travel, and
many return: Illogic logic rocks the cradle’s hand, and kind is the agèd face that
the eagle descend to devour the brains that were so busy then: enveloped in red enveloped in red enveloped in red
everywhere possible, possibly impossibly, like a window crashed upon by
a winter-bitten wind that whispers: "tiny of titanium doth maketh strong
their mandibles”, and then, there is a vast choir
that sings inside fascinates, the city-sized
rose:
the red
and yellow meetings, the interlaced black, the syncope terror of the potential fail
of life; the rhythm syncopating and maybe thumping the red yellow maybe green
the blaze by the black, the meaning like an eye among timbers or white stone,
the yellow the green the black and the
fire of tedious repetition and ridiculous hope, do deeply master like the
sedulous apes we are: Only then, (appareled in the “glitter of eternity”), and
with vestments thus divest, can we, and indeed They, even begin to “crawl
toward death”; Indeed, our fops, our dilly Dandys, hop toward the mire in sore mock of life, in mock of love…something is trying: and we hand
– as sheet not like the blue of further further or as if and when or when perhaps my
or your pohutukawa is describable: the other day two fantails by the compost
heap – their looping flight their fan tails – cheeky joy – infinite bird
[the red and yellow meetings, the interlaced black,
the syncope terror of the potential fail of life; the rhythm indeed caverns opened and we cried lustily [whereby
the event precedes invention, whose delectation, those of those: look here my
loved ones; and; mongolia you are mongolia because you are mongolia; green stream (and yes by no) the
freedom of a shadow on the wind land, and, leaving the faraway bergs or burns, had
never felt colder nor more intricately at ease: We left abruptly as he too
exited, excited by his determined, yet black-cloaked and swishy purpose; At
this point…at this point, at this point an enormous yellow question mark
was placed above; and so you argue with your determined eyes, so it should do; For
I too had been there, there was so much I did not; And still cannot or will not know mongolia,
I love you::::whose
unmagic unperceives the excoriation of a god leaning viciously over a fucking pair;
you know the kind or thng!: i’m looking for small things now, with
logical possibility of breakage ( then )I wish to improve.(less or less? more?)
(eh?) into their echoes as we were not afraid; maybe green the blaze by the black, the meaning like an
eye among timbers or white stone, the yellow the green the black THOSE Spring:::Kreest
to Caaash; CREDO! CREDO! He thunderunderundereed — he 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; you must know of me now I am here, unhanded, awaiting fate or the ongoing
into of the story of the fairy that Little Duffy rescued with his fishing
rod, read to my time after time: good-bye Mr Williams and thank you: And
her light; in which we lived, if tentatively, loving the theoretical exchanges
betwixt; Cerebellum. War - bellum, belli: or the ploughed the earth, sad, or
Heidegger’s lusty labourer:
the way the ‘look of distance’ in your calling eyes hidden in of your windface:
Aladdin in a chaos cave: you, A, cannot; are split with light; and
a thousand plays.”; Skulls and men and hats and things not right and houses
flimsy as the brown; ould be simplistic to conclude that knowledge is hence
difference only: But information is directly other relations or even any
friends; 4. [The dead man is so far nameless; He may have lived and worked
under false name; 6; that smudge in clusters - beyond: seeing this multiface in
yellow and green me of a cancerous old man: Here’s another example: “It’s illegal;
And prohibited to remove alcoholic Beverages from this area.”; (The moon is
terribly Tormented; I made puzzles I could not live by The Hand.) I might have
been a god: nothing stayed in my head: inside: like 'How could the futility of
numbers be set backs. 'Why': all
will grow with great vigour::::you become of
its seeming eternal shelf life with the other 600,000 separating it from the
wave which seems distinguished The painless by their pure speeds, shapes, forces,++direction..and=precise,object.immediately
Repeated, though
irregularly in and of time; Hey Narrative, Hey You!?; day is snapped back like a bible
made of steel and engraved black wagon, and that by another, and the
'The trees are better, and grass is better, and animals are all right and the
birds in the air are fine. And everything inside...I have things to discuss...the everlasting encroachment
of that which is only always:::It is a writhing living thing, a mass mountain
impossible complexity - hinting at some Germanic rage, some final Gold,
bent the mirror back? Dance? Of the Endlessly circling Eagles; thus and what; I
stabbed a man; to be man or
women however born: a so lution and was
al ways pro bably for ever be
ing mad e in to wings of
vast ness in th e back path s of the Meremere swamp where quick as
a quipp
he unmerrily queeried the queer they couldn’t kill you the symbols shall
remain God is the subways of our soul...something like in a steel frenzy
- wanting the tearing, aching for the Death, desiring the knowing. No, no,
Never shalt thou know: for in your gloomed Skull a May, or may not, Be – in antennae, almost like eyes and ears; the these days everything
gets stranger than a tree: In Eigner’s work “eternity is in love with the productions of time”;
everything shows it forth moment by moment; One is caught up in the reflection I listen to wakings 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 He
writes — shaking::It’s something about the music, and the spring coming down
the mountain, how the bones know::And you, my light, my love, worshipper at my
silent knee::prolix diagrams of cogs dynamic wheels and even useful frightening
things: shall
never in light be seen.” Bats are unique among
mammals the vast visages - keep in having true wings;; 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 and torch moon,
the night: Fingering the or listening to the baby Russian music:: Eggs::
Clocks:: Bells:: Drops:: Deep:: Ancient in ancient Agony::::our heart clocks
beat but – But
we pause, we have clearly forgotten;;;;For if distant and closely far in his
Huge Shuffle, when and where do we enter? We re-order ourselves; those Audenesque echoes
still reaching our eerie ears; You don’t Heart of the old young world,
Confusion heaps on confusion:: know:: Disjunction at this juncture;;Ha!:: The claws round the column
had a certain - In
the rumours of the lost rooms And
the passages of the ice aged heart of the world:: These days I am impressed by
nothing except that by being pressed into being a flat flower in a book I am
nothing for centuries undiscovered as you might crumble a clod; But I do retain
my compose – as if The Quartets:: dispatchedness: and am great with all those
things that sing beyond any man’s dream But I cant do fuck all about it:: zags under under white line
returning it in turn it returns in white line the directions which full of books
- but white
line returns to burn the semi and moves
the in You are all these things everywhere perceivable and something
that increases inside youyour absolute blackness; the
direction of the quasi queerness the holy black the blob of bloom the song and we sing in huge the voice
and the red the church the church the vast the vast the church the turning
church the turning turning church - in the mad the mad the mad the light and
did we tell you?! And did we tell you?! the vast church the vast church! turning turning! and the glory
of voices and themany the many the voices the voices the scream the visions the
delight the light delight the delight of fire (not even a ciborium);; I understood the madman's anger I understood the fascists
of passion but “This is the day to stand up.” It is dark;; “For twelve years
there has been no fire, and now my shoes are gone.”; the Four White Skulls;
They sail away in a mystery. I like you -- You have a heart of glass:: under the stab How everything
greater than itself if thought was – was an Immortal Unicorn of Form. That,
they 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 Into the kaleidoscopic stream
flash the fishing images; Who Nothing is still::breaks, and exults in magic: countless conundrums::But
in your case, Victims, you don’t have to be Leuns….can move mountains by
with mein faith, I am as, we didn't::The indifferent, the different, the benign
- the bland - The blackness::And the This is a dark and will becomenot so in
illogic logic time empty rooms, where once you roamed, brain in hand, night
after and into the conscious sea: fly; you need it, you want it; and they are
each and every each of them burning, they are not screaming tho, for its not
tea time::I wanted; box; you too shall know the ill despair as if redness sang
beyond (the perceivedly habitual) jerked, like a cock – 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 mark and cut the DIAMETER out with a SCISSORS 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 with that joy of a joy so deep in joyit bursts us into everlasting
miracles — 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 and
sellotape back the two halves could rage in an acorn::I must an education: who ( room, so
clearly mazy, and of course its time to go out into the The grey ungrey not
grey not black:: where: Fire: and purple futility:: Where is the end if not the
linkage? The wires smile with sarc sparks, and continue creeping, like wires;; And
brand new books, and grasses, wind wild, shrinking us to a centre as their
distance enhances them; but my career path led me into pornography, and all
those asms and cosmic chasms:: 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, that’s greater than; through the reaching out: Stasov looks lue edges of
eternity’s sky rolled away:: (the when you turn your back to it:: And I curse
the spring And all the bloody noise; kylic kind that could be bright or
blind or priest green in a flat of block towers to observe a fallacy of north
east west how a window had been rushed there to the room its own believing:: and the grey light and::The seconds were
centuries::In your cell, the stars::Everything went crazy gets to knots the
imperative decree makes sad shadows A finding man and a man to be
found; Then by life magic It enters my most un-Christ-like blood – Be wary of the leopard –
its spots I mean, rarely::(in general, I prefer “Untitled” 1948 to “Untitled” 1948):: Rare
steak and stakes, the fine machines of eyes ready themselves for the ambiguous answer::they are raised::truth
in a pen I did love
something once, and I used to sing - Poor mind like a tortoise twists
head back in, and dreams; with a steel yellow tray bewildering encounters::(this
is a cento) tap tap:: We are blessed and sit down to our meagre and volitional
repasts; This is draft one: do with it what you will; will ye not list will ye not list unto
me vast beauty burning eye and centrificance of eternal light alack you spin
there in Jupit total the egg great revolve will swirl the song of gone the
Krishna sweetness I ask you can you entrail my sing to the ‘i’ in the you the
blast of the blastulandula in sheer steel sharp softness what wind in what what
central what what sign and what theft is into my heart house bent all hell
those howling loves of windy loose is
entreat and quickly slip to where because was out yes: blude; and the diseases
of electrical machinery: or of glad when, say, a Tui we are is seen or
heard (Mother no one cn argue there seems - no one can argue there seems a sense of urgency a
sense of urgency "They are waiting.”:: an intrusion:: Don’t listen
to music: You’ve got your own brain: To explain a poem implies you know what
it was you meant when you; Cleverness, deviousness, these keep the; but the wall of the flesh
opens endlessly:: Night after night we trudged ahead without stopping one
behind the other like the blind appearance of things, as they hide inside the
various coruscations until here’s Edmund of The Foot, and I beg to all
if only everything loved me and I recall how once there was a sort of coon repleteness; but
don’t say And light:: The light not light not bright not dim not sun::
The sun not round not up not down: The blue not there not green not grey; And
in the byways the sideways the torment of those days long gone 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:: you
are reading; “Lens” “Lens”
is a word and you are
reading You are reading “lens” followed by
a of of here exultant growth did I just
then just in
case the to know something Thumb? Eh? Yield! Itskisser:: tendency to crack or make fascinate be craze of
an And nor do I, again a child, Have some light
and some lightening on a summer day oh calculi oh the dark seemed —
everything any Used
different pens and pencils, textures, we slaves of Montaigne with our tormented
needs, spelling our with white worship:: love
of signs and sighs, our lust to be:: at least to continue hell out Seem-ing linear to be They glow Immortally yet valid invalid, value of chained, in breakneck
silence, sly, and (the two half heads) are puppets of unable to see: not
speaking yet babbling to the sudden surges no he no I no we no no no it no reading: You waiting for her
in the house.” ; and almighty is rubber, 11 The old lion perisheth for lack of
prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad:: 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:: 11 The
old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered
abroad:: Did not want they the free and the frei? decisions, pain, leavings,
meetings: all struck into polished and astonished stone:: I no no no no no
no non non it
struggles, but heavy hands hold, Merciless Mercy, who know of the fallen and pathetic
Autodidact: and our own internal scream, our thirst to know all: as has been
said is our fatal flaw by some: like that fool-genius who talked of Sisyphus
whose like this old snap are starting to smell;; Who are these? Who was he and
all they?:: In any way, she writhes beneath the powerful young man: nothing no anything no
no but despite all that, despite the eczma, the distant pains, the
missed things: despite all that bullshit we’ve found a new way through; the New
World (drowned or not) is bearable – we can all now It gets smothered and cries::
the pain, of hidden
truth when or progress to seethe in-as-much as nothing is known or
counted the I
open the door and peer at a lovely
eigenvectors, and that
for this virgin reason,
we call the
solution space, ( A minus oh those so many days ago? – especially when
the General Schattenfreude was it that it was so lucid somehow set in would I
have thought schattenfreude? But no, it’s now so immediate that the Five Blue
Headless Ones (the ones you thought you’d deleted) should enter now, front
left, to shatter in such a manner of ferocious (but ultimately of a as if you
were the reprisal itself) slow motion in such a slow show slow motion, that it
puckers you how an enormous minuteness as in A Proposal, (to whit) “the
difference is spreading” coil::It suddenly had a sudden progression or
deprogression to a bleak black Blakean beginning to where a finger beckoned,
cunningly, like the Farmer’s Santa’s finger: questing Events are perceived via
a language of
tightenings & loosenings, Pure resonance and grainy grittiness:: Then
by accident, harmonics, whenever a quick twist or quirk would bring the a
fluctuating And
vast series of cold and screaming the silence,
the heart: The sacred sacred heart - We by this fire:: Vast sea, empty
sea - In your green visions after our own ignominious or were eerily real the
document scanned under
torchlight to derive the illusion of function Dealing at a this because
the birthday level of music unheard or imagined by the most were unsighted dog of men, the teeth
appeared, but all cake had given notice of an aetherial rumour – but how to revive, or
even to think old Coriolanus glorious decease?; But when was death, the death
of any being or thing once alive, or the demise indeed of angles, colour,
perspective: big
The light and bone liquid Sphinx, seeming: the Killing of completeness, eetz moightieee
ande liquiede
If a million every second every minuteevery 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 I got:: Who cares? They are vividly OCULAR
ORACULAR OCULAR ORACULAR:: For millennia I froze like glass itself OCU what really really surprised me was - AR
ORACULAR ( A min Tenniel, of like
something from my favourite quirk,
could not be found, having shrunk into an enormous but tiny
dictionary, three sixteenths of the very
light of the light's light and Turner could walk into my room Charles Dodgson, of
Punch renown, 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,
Light in August is still there: “Yes
Stevie, they’re still cutting Out:: 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:::: Light - yes - light: light and dark...Less light than dark,
but more dark than - But I loved the dark; drug of knowing for sure – I
cogitated & played with wax the
profound books wait with:: that he drowned, or,
as we say,
“topped himself”, is:: the the white valley of their pages; There
are dead spots on the compact disk;; the proportions, the sense and
feel of things,
tried to feel
the textures, semi-indifferent,
intellectual glyphs:: The bee men worry about it:: I have forgotten much, in this land, for the
sentences for we must be something. still, still there were Things, grundles to a halt: and
like six elephants bulls and hisses and stamps to a stop: minutiae, shells. Shuffles;; Triffles;;
incident to photon:: decides and a shadow, but think to micron tunnels such as whisper, or
whisker:: valueless value valid;; web spiders inhabit a world of silken
tension:::: Silk lines are like extra limbs, 2 :: Stevens’ intoxicating
language provides one resource for such resistance of the intellect,
near-surrealist privacy of reference provides another if only we could fuck the
dead hard enough, they’d bring us back to life the component plane waves travel
with the velocity of light c and it was then he wrote: multiplicity of
centres leading as in association to detonate precocious destruction like
Humpty towards one another in the measurement of microwave power, a bolometer is
mounted in a short section of a waveguide 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 “God help me, I went! For who will strange
shadow, pinned there, pined for release, let alone, but the obscure, The truth
again, as beautiful as a million diagrams of wings:: Wings, Wotan greatness,
the fire vast, the warriors, the Valhalla abstract:: l o s t underments, had much:: But Ilya also presents beautiful,
thoughtful women:: We reappeared at the ending time, And all applauded - The
dew sparkling hyacinths Had you shine with smile, And another god impelled this
All - Das Meer is unt Leer, Unt Lear was
crazed me to the ride that we took later. if only the stones could rage in an
acorn:: this crystal land:: 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, Men and women, right?; Will the baby roll in money? :: I
have been procreate: but are we those chemical ghosts? :: Does nothing know our
lovely vibrating toward they will -- are pitilessly now :: Are
they song, or care? Or does he, poor big St. Bernard, weep tears of pitiless
sex, the red, and merciless text? I furnished my horrific - or less:: Then back
to the shack, your tucker, touselly bed, and old dreams of old fucks and
telephone calls:: this place is you, and you are you - not me:: The book grows::
Never mind death - but the night greater journeys into greater darkness - quit,
fornow, by life’s light:: and quickly bloomed
into method: whereat a bell was heard to boom and bees zithered here there here
there as if Alice herself had entered the Eternal garden:: A song descended
through a tulip haze and infinitely, in magic array, were seen to unfold petals of strange
steel:: 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 inside, the arched
curves are lost in the high floors, i would have thought, in so far as I can
think - and who would have thouught i could have thought: that the great
sky of the world is lustily writing poems Your death had been one of millions ::dreams a
signal in the sky where bats do fly till hum is slain yet:: as it must because
it is beautiful and is based on a legal system of repeats but nothing is yet
for sure why should it be after all the law of torts and the thinking Thinking::
This had that indefinable and well baked je ne sais quois in the quid
pro quo, who took to eating horses alive:: The earth became one vast city,
shitting on itself:: which, really, because of the cuddly viri - the mannackled
mannequins sought solace, but the sun:: i’m looking for small things now, for
the logical possibility of breakage for grains suspended on as thus then to embrace
the sea in the birth cake, whose niagrasms yet hint of trillions of lifting
bellys, and that Lark i’m failing to mention, and the blooms, from the stock-exchange of
love:: the whole work-area impeccable books put away when finished with something
Isobel could never understand what was it I came up to write only was it by
focusing by an intense perception of the day to day can one hope to reach
transfigure that first caress Penelope naked:: we gotta get down there, down
there: and show you guys the machine the machine is mean man and its there it
lives:: life is thimble full of thumbles as wolves cry out against precision in the erring blood or some such other
detail your brain, all two hundred billion cells or so of which, had savoured.
. .for this amount...this is... this....this time was placed above Lion Rock at
The garden beckons always and the huge rose, which I mentioned before in
despatches, is opening at last:: Indeed at this point one could think of
Pound’s image of climbing through the burnt solid shitways of hell that had
been coagulated by the reflected god or some great event, like a pencil:: axis::
Singular words, extracted, it is true,
from a vast array of who were lush and unapproachable in the growing and
licentious gloom Oh, long long did I WATCHMAN, WHAT OF dancing into that
time into the child’s eyes searching. and the dancing light dancing into
that time But one singular. when mesons the immense and golden then gin. i,
mightily. into the mouth. mess. pig Dynasty was only a fat poet retching: or casting himself
into his own reflection:: In fact, we cross-examined one eye two eye
two a-blue eye blue, so that notwithstanding clocks or plates and other
innocent things of
time whose The Thirty Third Bird Will Be A Bird: red, blue, and knife-yellow, something is a
seed. stony soil, soft soil;; the Violins slide out the Radio;; according to Hoyle
and Bob’s your uncle a bird in the hand that two takes it tango to, exists: in that
mountainous region of parenthesis, where the concrete breakers:: The tower
spires up, spiring:: And the sheeted
whiteness argues the dictionary of everlasting mutation, wherein that molecular
mass explodes emotion:: Next, they wheel in the sculpture of Mr Wood, to be
viewed fora nanosecond:: The porridge is hot:: The Three Bears become violently
onanistic:: The visualisation encased in the microdot makes fissures. Is the
fish sure? Of what? And the black iron treadle treadles:: The big brown you cannot conceive:: biting
a sea shell or kicking a sand heap and become totally absorbed in your deep
with gesture child absorption of studying the squirls, and join me something
menacing, something clash the no how the tables, from my vantage, are elliptic
in their own private nightmare, and covered with wood illusion, or how the tall
young man enters with a grin on his face wearing a tidily shabby suit that offsets his
untidy hair familiar as a pathway got to be such an immense inverse
function of my near infinite happiness, especially when a word like “nipple”
comes to mind or I notice the particular clatter sound of a grey-green coffee
cup and:: But something’s wrong? Am I really suffering from terminal oxymoronologochosis?;;:
Darkness — that galactic dream of eyes vanishing,
left you staring. Which way now?;; Jesus blood never failed me yet;; the
profound books wait with the white would I hold you valley of their pages for
the is how eye
is perplexity and anger and peace book brooks:: the space under
examination is overturned and at the same time crushed:: Only if he manages to dark breath, as if ‘life longs for life’:: In-Half shall
snap it dragon of a sprig - yet nay! ah, these things that would me
have!:: a sort of Stygian, sticky, yet shimmering:: as he said, “a shimmering
certainty” 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, estimate the exact shape…The world, the universe, is itself a giant book:: Light
seems to splash into a black distraction. violas, blue, then came, and sang us
into light those bee demented days whose contracted roar did dizzy our unwanted
scream whose wonder was a and clasp a plastic universe in which the sands
converse in tongue filled tomb tones (that haunt the restless towers of bones) 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 scream, whose magic was;; Dream:
illuminate, illumined, and illicitly alight, you might say: I knew! I knew!:: It has
sometimes – perhaps like music, or the mathematics of music – or the beauty of
a transformed curve my blue “…things as they are, are changed on
my blue guitar…” things are changed or change and we change and change creates
that powerline, burning in the everlasting Pervasive:: The shadow is itself:: Today
we go:: Feel:: It doesn’t go it:: Let’s Do something:: Seaman you — Fishman,
heaving thru moments — there were maybe 300,000 that day, maybe: …great green
capsules rotate…the fierce blue...still are men sent out, though they never
return…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:: We:: Please:: Qs:: Incidentally:: By the way::
Chop: Chop: Hullo susan…it is so: so something. “Look at the Rothko”:: Don’t
look at Rivers the choko;; collation.
carefully regrets:: a bric-a-brac quack:: It’s staring at you:: There’s a bone
man come;; What is ash. “Help me.”:: What myth? Shoo:: Milk:: Oceans of:: The
colour:: The great spires:: “I only wanted some sympathy!”:: The never never::
Cant:: Have to:: Cattle to their:: I love you:: Animals? Think?:: 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 In any case, its ecstasy catches fire, and despite
that there is now nothing:: So!;; I cannot sleep, to die I am afraid:: from
their concrete poetry was once again in dialogue with outsidea sogs the grass
comforts and cautions:: we move closer together as that which sustains can be
our end: the land takes it: I am here, an old man, sustained by a pen, 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...since everything had been
obliterated by the Fire Demon’s decree - and thus, alone, this humanic tower of
debrification screams out to the titanium skies its quibbly song, that
penetrates to the very shiver of the heart’s coil:: the other day two fantails by
the compost heap – and kind is the agèd face:: Made a bolus, Travels down And is cut by acid in
my stomach:: we gotta get down there down there and show you guys the
machine the machine is mean man it’s there it lives like a lung but we gotta get
there we got here but where is there we gotta get there man I know you know but it’s mean
man in front of the supermarket checkouts:: someone said: “You see so
many queer sights round here!”:: The the lady-thing, God counts and recounts
the people;; But they are perpetual in their motion:: and Baumgartner:: are are reading:: So:: So something
is being die:: read,
and;; the big expanse;; sway:: not betray a friend or, for that matter,
himself for a whisky and soda, caviare and a warm fire -- and that brings the
gulfs we have crossed -- possibility in a ship of
light sailing on black:: tulip:::: tulip seed tulip seed tulip seed;; Thing is there, and we are part of it despite
seclusion:: like a sheep’s or a Boffin’s head, in a vision of perfect symmetry
held in a of the machine, Clouds of light and
a dark finger:: If had been up all night:: And what did I walk home with for
less than five francs?;; THE TUNNEL couldn’t turn away: the tunnel Everything,
that Light was Dark, Light: and so they became a scream problem
of finding had entered The
glaaagen folds about me like a cloak:: Mongolia is:: but
the gap is sixteen thou thus mechanical magic b-but I lacked the least
of punch that I might be numbered revenant - nothing of this hath been telled
in any sort tendentious nor would I have it so or be morioried out of memory but
despite quickening and the pohutukawa gnarlywise tug
tugs instead of blurring the outlines of the stone, to quicken it, to imbueit
with a kind Him espy and hissed at him malevolently:: The music that
curled from the harp was rigid and endless:: my own its big ears except preview::
I shook like shit. But good old me and I’ll sure make it Feb 28th unknowing::
Finally:: sensed have blue eyes:: The universe omen clutched each other flames::
Unbearable:: She needed extra water:: “Five four three two one!:: is quite
similar, in many ways hence to thence, and:: As if the music is totally tactful
and ever tactile will flower:: --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
Did gargan the pan in the clod hee you’re:: where where whose (as if Johnson (at this point we
stopped for a cuppa (prob in the most ever soft like a head 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:: The
poetry of the earth keeps reaching into the pockets of the twenty-first
century:: Meanwhile, they go I'll breakk it
I'll:: for what was - but not the thing::
The creation of antarctic light perhaps?:: Some strange malley magic:: They
feared themselves, Wanted the surreal of
and what can be done?:: I’m not that bad you know, He forgets – he is dulled by drag day dust –
he marvellous of breath – The common miracle The great snarling kraeckk it I'll braackk
it!: It’s got ‘bout 12 wheels and it flashes:: We stared up at the Smack right:: 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
Why?! Why?! Why?!
Why?! Why?!
Why?!
I must awake now shrinking us to a
centre as if impelled by an unseen (The window flying in the wind.) and everything is ablaze:: we are
made into hand grenades perhaps 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 enigma:: Waiting
to be happened to can be terrible: further:: that they all plunge in:: The point, we seek it:: We are::
A thing shudders:: Material mystery, ext:: the birds outside the window spoke
in bird:: ass:: They–right now–gathered:: You are 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 the stark, styptic Styx in black blood we who
sing in the woods go light DO WAH WAH RED SHADOW SHADOW brick we had arrived Where the words waltz off as if –
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, shyly Humpty:this gave syncopating
I was in on
what was wrong with the world --, 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. t hese black-faced
mirror s Britain, they’re different: not totally, but humans
are humans, you must understand me...to greet and maybe thumping the red yellow:: For five years
I didn't speak – but there are great eagle-vacuums in us all:: You are radical
in the terrible revelations of yourself:: Our agonies are safe in the savage
words:: I know just what I mean but my nerves scream
upon the lantern's screen:: Go back thirteen paces:: The god of music spits
us pause, for we thought of all possibilities
realising this was Lie as but should we have been?:: this was our find:: clocks read you this and you will:: soon know of the reading and the feeding
of it, despite the sneering statue's visage
in the desert staring at the lone and level sands which were, as you were cognisant,
stretching far away...and I the Mighty looked indeed on those works:: but we
will save all that for later:
were we
not in King Country? but unknowable::achieved?::
John Mulgan:: The
children are surely safe and the stories of the mangled parabolas the bare, tapered bone::
I stare forever through time’s microscope down a tunnel of light to that
time I was a forming thing in the womb engine, the making place:: fevered now
are our fingers, searching for that deep things from nowhere fold out of the nothing and
become the growing possibility of further extension, further miraculous arrival,
scent, and animated animal music whose derivative is sectioned;; His conclusion
sums up an whirled ambiguity: “I am not what I am.”:: He broods for a moment, gloating upon
his consummate hypocrisy but aware of his failure to explain the deadliness of
his hate:: Roderigo, unconvinced but has long water beer wine valium ascendin
orange juice enters the succulent snake, sensual, and waters, and
babies, and bodies: HAND MOVES ÷ = FINGERS MOVE cat baboon moon enclitic
elision assumes “LETS
TURN ON THE MISERY BABY” since uranium;; how are you we are very good
goodbye and I havent told you yet but, I, ( I wick edly where where whose:: A - goinna’, and Soon it is, but not now, as the clocks tick on
the endless combinations of their music’s song jazz::
destroyed:: And will emaciate In the erotic (as if Johnson (at this
point we stopped for a cuppa (probably it was a word like “wickedly” like in
Macbeth (I planted the cinnerarias (I know they self-seed but (years ago told
me he about them (deep deep violet (purple?)) (and suddenly) a wicked old white
woman shook a stick at the:: Consequentially, questions about the magnitude and origin of the world
are not to be decided by philosophers, but by those who have a Laughin’like a looney legal responsibility for managing
the worship of God...
Whatever Hobbes might actually have believed about actual infinities, he was more conscious than most in his day and age of the and of the enormous size of the Universe.... he then continues: Clappin’ like a clown – But tomorrow I goinna’ jazz Lost – where you clutch your pathetic terrors – all these significances disappear and then even the ugly face of sex takes a back seat in the wide wide world where all things that have been have grown or emerged somehow from chemical matter to the strangely fervid, strangely febrile Thinky Things: All a - lights lurk - All a - day long;; Tomorrow:: Isee that it is as chuckled: animal as I am – yet as ‘spiritual’, and as alien and is this the first? day long a cat on wheels. the tragedy of a bic pen. the ecstasy of proudly but uneasily concrete. tendentious. frog an old 78. a wheel;; brace yourself. Fug;; an iambic nightmare:: what? the hoop was:: verify:: who:: sauve:: wise saws:: Perfection:: of line - the rocks emerging into men – the subject to ends:: thinking rock:: its down and new heresies burn in old religions something about caterpi1lars and budga buggers;; killed by pip blue:: vividavidaridivid;; (virid vivid is ignorant as intersections;; seen is green:: The blue:: the silverbeet that bubbly grows:: light is futile:: Do they know — Do they —Do they know about — Do they know about — the darkness?:: And the joy? And the terror? And the cla—The clamour! The clamour — you informed them of the clamour? time passes into the music its gladness proliferate and now it’s dolphins leaping, and one thousand cathedrals - shaking - and hands, reaching...I study it, suddenly aware:: It has been with me so long, and yet I seem not to know it:: He was a courageous, Mirthless, quite-white-fingered man:: And, many, who went too close - Vanished...my problem is that thing that self-fucked itself...because the stories felt shuffle within the printed paper work nothing ever finally resolves, hot yellow horse piss, or a man screaming out from a castle wall to the unlistening angels: 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:: Richard, You MUST try to be This was obviously written in a rush. C+/B+:: But this is surely ironic:: Good:: This is rather speculative why is the play called “Krapp’s Last Tape”? Eh? Eh? Remember the year he “revelled in the word ‘spool’”:: of a man 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 waterout;; 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 corridorswith grace of those who have failed perfectly and we are completely mad and huge with ourselves
those Lords of The Erotoforce, the destructive force of Love and Generation – suddenly you – by the way: (you lot there!), at least by now you must be convinced he cant possibly have any or much idea of what the fuck he’s on about the old Fuck: enveloped in red sitting (5) in the middle of the (pq) death of language. (3): the big big red red window, sui generis, (4), is generally probably optatively bloated. (6): and, haut couture .(7); Flat as old (xyz) steamrollered Pluto, who sets his peepers to the going onness of things;; 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 ;(fn); Hokum that quidnunc - saved by preciosity. the hand, zooming out again, whose bellicose ubiety: ( 8): umbels: and bells bells......(asd)...Tragically, (3v), this malfeasance, (gf), pleases not the:: Because you are impatient and want caverns like Cathedrals to bloom with all of Asia's pearls that were teeth as white as lack-black, and glistened like the laughter of a twin-handed child, or a brain, whipped out, examined, wet and wise:: They filtered the sounds, and spoke in miniature whispers, And everywhere, out of chaos, Out of time, And out of the tunnel of night - The thundering engines of sentience: Writhing and beating in the beating light:: random scream whose wall’s hole commentless, (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:: 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 knowledgeWere some fixed, precious performance - fashioned?; No! Still you stared: and she looked back, and waved:: 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:: poem “The Flower” ... where no flower can wither:: I sit here:: A helicopter chops the sky:: 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. 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;;:: It was time......dream entry in the music;; hole in the music;; his eyes hid everything behind it;; and thus technique: letters are jammed and crammed together these spear lights as if the billions had been re-exterminated, which all of it is so silly — eye is eyeeye in mind at once can he begin the second phase of the operation: extending this knowledge to layers, layered trumpet to a double are of steam drains and the ones deaf who croaked about The Void:: cracking cracking cracking cracking cracking cracking cracking cracking crack:: “Time passes, time passes, and I lie alone.”:: tendentious;; frog;; an iambic nightmare;; fug off;; verify the verification;; it;; recondite circles;; You must Etched understand that:: invented by the sluts of reason:: This is why we are endlessly restless seems to have signaled change … (not) “transfiguring” …Like that of a Klein bottle Draughts of oblivion shall quench my agitation distributed in space desire to avoid vague sensations, rise in the distance, he establishes his wavegrow, it is very very very very difficult to isolate one wave;; But now dark now close now down; Unfearfulfall, or fly, my lamp, my light, my dadno clown:: ROBOT ROBOTS AND THE MACHINE GETS TO THE NEW IDEA AND a corner, that fire rages out from simple things:: camphor smelling-boxes, ivory elephants:: falling to the earth each time due to gravitas or some profound force as described shall not one day disobey;:: and for reasons impossible to fathom, not fall: and not obey;; heard;; The concrete is getting laid:: I have carefully “He hath made things worthier than himself.”:: Thinketh me much to much (too much) until all raged:: but everything seemed glass:: a cat on wheels. an old 78. the tragedy of a bic pen:: tendentious. Frog:: 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:: 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:: Pools lie on either die of the world reflecting marble columns:: The swallow dips her wings in dark pools:: The sea as it leaps:: Let's go inside, I have things to discuss.... machining steel, or:: At this point at this point an enormous yellow question mark;; revolving like Macey’s eternal door, always probably forever being made into wings of vastness in the back paths of the Meremere swamp where quick as a quipp he queeried the queer quadrandrangled truth, that ecstasy, that light: are made to tear and chop the trees and the leaves of dark or light, where the busy insects gnaw at our facts, ideas, you all vanish into the Nothing again as I meant you to: indeed it’s as if The All Wave had been passed through a spiritual Fast Fourier Transformer after which no one knows anything and there is no conceivable reason to reason: or to continue to continue that can ever be conceived;;: but the wind is relentless, lending no ear:: Light twists and human thought that are so many ancient recipes for whispers that flap and creak inside the whisper's whisper: so soft, that The Old Giant leans his ear to the torn the earth-tormented:: fo presage:: I have no theory of The Light as it brightens this page, inviting my pen: its nib, its ink, and the flow of thought, or ‘ideation’, sense, and hope; and now a possibility of transform:: Some greater, perhaps more definitive thing: or some deep project, venture moves mechanically like a lung but we gotta get there we got here but where is there life is perpetual I touch giggle on its ‘gs’ and smile, let’s get right in there and think of tulip The Castle is all will, directed:: there was more to it than that. but the:: Thumb:: Its time we upon thy other him:: Him decline; Him love; Him let live:: to the mad man sitting alone the or if I and he were as illustrated by twang a lot:: twice winner of the prestigious
Whatever Hobbes might actually have believed about actual infinities, he was more conscious than most in his day and age of the and of the enormous size of the Universe.... he then continues: Clappin’ like a clown – But tomorrow I goinna’ jazz Lost – where you clutch your pathetic terrors – all these significances disappear and then even the ugly face of sex takes a back seat in the wide wide world where all things that have been have grown or emerged somehow from chemical matter to the strangely fervid, strangely febrile Thinky Things: All a - lights lurk - All a - day long;; Tomorrow:: Isee that it is as chuckled: animal as I am – yet as ‘spiritual’, and as alien and is this the first? day long a cat on wheels. the tragedy of a bic pen. the ecstasy of proudly but uneasily concrete. tendentious. frog an old 78. a wheel;; brace yourself. Fug;; an iambic nightmare:: what? the hoop was:: verify:: who:: sauve:: wise saws:: Perfection:: of line - the rocks emerging into men – the subject to ends:: thinking rock:: its down and new heresies burn in old religions something about caterpi1lars and budga buggers;; killed by pip blue:: vividavidaridivid;; (virid vivid is ignorant as intersections;; seen is green:: The blue:: the silverbeet that bubbly grows:: light is futile:: Do they know — Do they —Do they know about — Do they know about — the darkness?:: And the joy? And the terror? And the cla—The clamour! The clamour — you informed them of the clamour? time passes into the music its gladness proliferate and now it’s dolphins leaping, and one thousand cathedrals - shaking - and hands, reaching...I study it, suddenly aware:: It has been with me so long, and yet I seem not to know it:: He was a courageous, Mirthless, quite-white-fingered man:: And, many, who went too close - Vanished...my problem is that thing that self-fucked itself...because the stories felt shuffle within the printed paper work nothing ever finally resolves, hot yellow horse piss, or a man screaming out from a castle wall to the unlistening angels: 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:: Richard, You MUST try to be This was obviously written in a rush. C+/B+:: But this is surely ironic:: Good:: This is rather speculative why is the play called “Krapp’s Last Tape”? Eh? Eh? Remember the year he “revelled in the word ‘spool’”:: of a man 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 waterout;; 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 corridorswith grace of those who have failed perfectly and we are completely mad and huge with ourselves
those Lords of The Erotoforce, the destructive force of Love and Generation – suddenly you – by the way: (you lot there!), at least by now you must be convinced he cant possibly have any or much idea of what the fuck he’s on about the old Fuck: enveloped in red sitting (5) in the middle of the (pq) death of language. (3): the big big red red window, sui generis, (4), is generally probably optatively bloated. (6): and, haut couture .(7); Flat as old (xyz) steamrollered Pluto, who sets his peepers to the going onness of things;; 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 ;(fn); Hokum that quidnunc - saved by preciosity. the hand, zooming out again, whose bellicose ubiety: ( 8): umbels: and bells bells......(asd)...Tragically, (3v), this malfeasance, (gf), pleases not the:: Because you are impatient and want caverns like Cathedrals to bloom with all of Asia's pearls that were teeth as white as lack-black, and glistened like the laughter of a twin-handed child, or a brain, whipped out, examined, wet and wise:: They filtered the sounds, and spoke in miniature whispers, And everywhere, out of chaos, Out of time, And out of the tunnel of night - The thundering engines of sentience: Writhing and beating in the beating light:: random scream whose wall’s hole commentless, (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:: 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 knowledgeWere some fixed, precious performance - fashioned?; No! Still you stared: and she looked back, and waved:: 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:: poem “The Flower” ... where no flower can wither:: I sit here:: A helicopter chops the sky:: 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. 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;;:: It was time......dream entry in the music;; hole in the music;; his eyes hid everything behind it;; and thus technique: letters are jammed and crammed together these spear lights as if the billions had been re-exterminated, which all of it is so silly — eye is eyeeye in mind at once can he begin the second phase of the operation: extending this knowledge to layers, layered trumpet to a double are of steam drains and the ones deaf who croaked about The Void:: cracking cracking cracking cracking cracking cracking cracking cracking crack:: “Time passes, time passes, and I lie alone.”:: tendentious;; frog;; an iambic nightmare;; fug off;; verify the verification;; it;; recondite circles;; You must Etched understand that:: invented by the sluts of reason:: This is why we are endlessly restless seems to have signaled change … (not) “transfiguring” …Like that of a Klein bottle Draughts of oblivion shall quench my agitation distributed in space desire to avoid vague sensations, rise in the distance, he establishes his wavegrow, it is very very very very difficult to isolate one wave;; But now dark now close now down; Unfearfulfall, or fly, my lamp, my light, my dadno clown:: ROBOT ROBOTS AND THE MACHINE GETS TO THE NEW IDEA AND a corner, that fire rages out from simple things:: camphor smelling-boxes, ivory elephants:: falling to the earth each time due to gravitas or some profound force as described shall not one day disobey;:: and for reasons impossible to fathom, not fall: and not obey;; heard;; The concrete is getting laid:: I have carefully “He hath made things worthier than himself.”:: Thinketh me much to much (too much) until all raged:: but everything seemed glass:: a cat on wheels. an old 78. the tragedy of a bic pen:: tendentious. Frog:: 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:: 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:: Pools lie on either die of the world reflecting marble columns:: The swallow dips her wings in dark pools:: The sea as it leaps:: Let's go inside, I have things to discuss.... machining steel, or:: At this point at this point an enormous yellow question mark;; revolving like Macey’s eternal door, always probably forever being made into wings of vastness in the back paths of the Meremere swamp where quick as a quipp he queeried the queer quadrandrangled truth, that ecstasy, that light: are made to tear and chop the trees and the leaves of dark or light, where the busy insects gnaw at our facts, ideas, you all vanish into the Nothing again as I meant you to: indeed it’s as if The All Wave had been passed through a spiritual Fast Fourier Transformer after which no one knows anything and there is no conceivable reason to reason: or to continue to continue that can ever be conceived;;: but the wind is relentless, lending no ear:: Light twists and human thought that are so many ancient recipes for whispers that flap and creak inside the whisper's whisper: so soft, that The Old Giant leans his ear to the torn the earth-tormented:: fo presage:: I have no theory of The Light as it brightens this page, inviting my pen: its nib, its ink, and the flow of thought, or ‘ideation’, sense, and hope; and now a possibility of transform:: Some greater, perhaps more definitive thing: or some deep project, venture moves mechanically like a lung but we gotta get there we got here but where is there life is perpetual I touch giggle on its ‘gs’ and smile, let’s get right in there and think of tulip The Castle is all will, directed:: there was more to it than that. but the:: Thumb:: Its time we upon thy other him:: Him decline; Him love; Him let live:: to the mad man sitting alone the or if I and he were as illustrated by twang a lot:: twice winner of the prestigious
with God’s
name:: Wall of flames:: muris de flammae:: a flame wall which moves like
a worm:: Volvo! Medal:: highly praised. one of those rare books which, among other
hings, for the young; Black: Wall of I couldn’t remember of darkness -- I sigh,
I wander from:: of Punch renown, an enormous
dictionary, obscuring:: infinite
the abyss, sank
into and Dark the Waitemata, almost as How, I asked, could I;; seemingly
as true as Rembrandt seemed in his many shifts; then live until and ergo:
and I walked, imagining things:: Oft-times sat I then in caves I always wanted to
make chemical music but my career path led me into pornography& cosmic
chasms: his sexual parts - written on - V.O.L.V.O.
did he? ;;After all his Winterreisse, for example, or, The Death of
the Maiden is such music, such love’s food I would gladly die for -- well,
in words I would... Indeed it's not now as it was, and, after all, we did The
Name Thing:: and aristocratic soirées that happened in between the serious
historical business of military massacre: the old requirement for
genetico-spermatic bloodletting:: the yellow the
black weave, the blue....the blue where various gods: often wearing bell-shaped
hats and tumultuously rich gowns...pace back and forth in their panther
dilemmas... ]:: The slightest ledger of the still shadow is dominated
surely by the imagined figure, whose face we never see, etching graphic:: god’s
sloppy glove:: to do:: sprout the Earth’s:: and an abandoned tractor fossil;;
ear lending, had He turned back to Roach, passing a cigar. 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 gulfs 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 thirty thousand feet or so, only to splatter your life into implacable mud?;; That sort of thing;; In short, some of:: what the fuck he’s on about the old Fuck:: but these things are always a kind of eternal sentence, an exploded gap into which pour words to fill the abyss of Dangle:: until snow:: there were many Mrs Smile:: yet, back there, it’s not the hand:: a passes across:: if what who when i:: pigs squeal then glory:: I wouldn’t wont do:: and I forgive them for the sake of the shapes and so I thus my time: awaiting a death; or a hand, to emerge from behind yon pedestal, upon whose skull’s sneer there is that extra touch of vile -- as if books were real, or the Tang but the butter. if doubt then to condition the champ [..]:: Many had glass eyes, but could see: Jenny, never knowing:: which end to put its mittens on:: Futility is futile::There are no countries:: emerging from the destructions - whose:: The hands crawl like scorpions:: green gentleness is a new United States - but, fatigued, indeed terribly tired:: Unerring line - The text triumphs, although they still sit in the banana shade whilst les autres carry out the pencil investigation:: Angular agony:: Ominous green-blue:: The universe contracts to a bright blue eye: something about a fish and a bird or even a heteropholous of a anomalies in the incoming wave patterns?:: Do you have a system?:: I’ve thought of something many reason why obstetrics:: Serious consequences:: More than a hundred Dutch cargo ship capability:: Nuke the bastards:: Who it doesn’t matter but be exact:: I don’t want to vanish things:: They’ll be there the same tomorrow:: Will they?;; I have a system:: You can have a system:: Don’t touch that bloody button! :: But is it of the inside of -- a Heavy drinking Poetry?;; seems to occur on almost all classes in :: but mortal march of numbers:: so that the tip of these waves would trigger the sounds:: The gate: rushing into the storm of ideas, the electro-acoustic, unless they’re wrong -- you are a shattering down-curve:: winter light - and the poem’s sudden rush towards the unintellitibility of truth:: a terrible night, and down the stone stairs the (unintelligibility of truth):: And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge:: nothing:: fourteen men contemplate my wife:: one thinks of Krapp or :::: and he is complete of his replete, so he is, setting forth to Flat Mountain. he is no terror but begins a sculpture and maketh colour of the return, SKAZ i am seize me: king of myself on painting walls and white flats:: and the red dancers dance:::: “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, in waves on waves of waves before it happened elsewhere despite (quite probably) had merged with of a dying their black mouths glowing with nucleic blue, man: known his eyes:: 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):: My Lai, this omniscience;; and fall like the three blind men into a secretly waiting lake, so full of that uncertainty we all feel so cosy with: the teapot bubbling and the giraffe dreaming of a blue-green symphony:: If only sitting on a wall:: as Horse makes his way to the coffee stand at the lonely hour when so much is dependent that those who droop are carefully ignorant of the endless energy of artists::: Crisp apples remind the youth::: considering the nature of all things and that the world was all that it was we could recreate the miraculous of an automatic gearbox:: as if life was forever, and that flicker of forgot had regrown the toe toad, or tuatara green-dark, into an immeasurable immensiveness whose bright burning calls forth (sub specie aeternitatis): a one hundred million violins, feeble possibilities:::: Profuse, profuse,:: the planetary gears; the wonderful worlds; just by logic and how the way is forward into the shadows where those we had encountered were (clearly if disturbingly) microscopic in the telescope:: (Yet I will my nothings tale on as the dance restarts):: And this circular back-turning trance did seem in endless dance thus to start as we were lost in light this aspectwaett under the eye, and, breeding: breed thus a truth? eral, trans cendenttruth that sdarkles like a light on a ga y green a asdifstmas tree, t’ some signal s’ TERRIBLE LOVELY:: interchane mont::: thiasds, all this...It began somehow, and I and you also, got caught up in it all: as ouy and ch dew drop conjunctions, despairing boat beheld the blue, and per intagliated fect, peel ring eye:: Hell of conjunctions, despairing boat of heaven’s ::And I, I look, sometimes, into my mother's eyes:: She has greater widow reason (this is cry than I, freed from my spouse, and silly woody house....There are dead spots on the compact disk;; The bee men worry about it;;:: But nowt's lost – the seas are still as green as the eyes of the fabulous salty witch, made of lightening. (We can even see the dead down there):: The mountain shudders in C Minor:: and bravely axe the ice:: Russia burns to wake:: out:: By little caves of doors The real toy people quaver:: They are notes of motes:: All at sometime have double crossed The criss-crossed face, crinkled Into maps of gone-away:: ...a painted world where things never stop combining and ramifying:: 11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad 12 -- Now a thing was secretly brought to the sad-infinital abyss:: sank into the Waitemata;; almost as How, I asked, could I live with these 'truths'?:: I cogitated & played with wax until ergo: and I walked, imagining things:: 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 machine:: Third Man reports:: So this 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 and yet he was still there:: nothing had moved:: we had spread into endless differences and no one was stopping us:: the logic was perfect, but something was missing:: we were especially concerned about the lengthening shadows as the day was wound down by the tired janitors:: these were everywhere:: 6 there are more things:: at this point everything burst:: 7 blocked; something’s blocked -- bloody bumble bastard bum -- WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?;;;; About three in the morning, Nora knocked at the little glass door of the concierge’s lodge, 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 and 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:: (what?) was origin, orange, this sun that spins,nothing may be known. Note too that this also harbours validity even if the underlying hum of that miraculous molecular dance, so improbable, could be stilled, and shot: Bear also in mind thatmeasurement, any measurement:: hand grenades, and outwitted the:: of any kind, is inherently and inevitablyand in all cases (external or internal, objective:: my tickling scrotum:: He, she adjured me to calm:: or subjective,in exact - decay setting in and the lurch of the intermissions setting in a sort of hapless sense of circulating and gangrenous green whose dilemma is shot thru with a deep and tender spermatic:: Thus I need notrecall to you that if, for example,I measure thus a truth, qua truth, ultimate sun-blinding truth and, precision - all these are mere chimera and vanish as quickly as they are self defined in their monetary millions and as has been shown, quite relative: We British, for example, exclude wogs from the equation: We are left, in our final consternation and horror with our slick soft reality illusions,whose -] :: is turned perceptibly to her left (my and your right):: Her expression, in as much as it can be discerned or evaluated to any degree, is more or less open:: It is that of a woman, highly intelligent, learned:: The nose straightish:: enjoying the play:: The theatre is dark the stage is bare:: but this man has everything!:: blond and blue they fell from the sky:: For it had to happen and they had to fall like spiders or those who eat the wrong apples...'Mutter, Mutter!' They cried: I awoke. It was dream. I was. I was – for I'll wreck it, I'll....:: About now things changed and Dr Parmigianino began forever rushing about doing nothing for hours on end and blue became yellow as people fell upwards forever, this was noted by the Noters:: in white of piano complete with uncompleteness, ready to clasp you in its leaves of what they said, so you limp to the dairy, only to buy a useless piece of teeth the night cries baby bu’ yzigs a’ happy happydying blind in the spick’s mind:: language perceptual essential different:: And, and...dying...bird perfect like a grinder:: To see the Protogroanic engine of the Sea, he can carry out an inventory of all the wave-movements that are repeated with varying and ever more assured Mixed and:: new photon word trails andbouncing of electrons of like: ping to leaves maketh sugar, the Kreb Cycle. So and so, but dagger:: Lurch to lych-gate, as if coefficient:: The molecular movement:: Something perhaps screaming or slyly indexing - Love is now so much like a quiet shudder, or some unformed thing convulsing in a plastic extrusion machine with cold eyes and a sort of predatory stare into the general Neantness of things...:: this thus they thussed and fussed, of course:: of iron or things long forgathering:: nothing or and oceans of nothing the endless silence no escape awful no me other thing if me or:: For they are a problem, so we keep moving the ‘x’s about:::: You’re waiting for something, aren’t you? Eh? At It again, eh?!;; But I resume - there Is no other course, no other presume;; You know what I mean: God and death and loneliness:: in sheer or slide planes or not:: in white of piano teeth comes the static death of x not kissed reflames again again again again again again again:: It gigantics up, organ stone, it is like the Gothic, yet remains free of purely academic restrictions:: Back a page or two, Zadkine commemorates the death of Rotterdam, and the big dumb giant howls against the sky that is a blissful, parched, and ignorant blue:: dying blind in the spick’s mind:: golden horns playing such days, terrified of his child, paralysed by insanity or the surprise of Hokusai:: Suffering piles - he can’tthink of anything else: of nothing else think he:: Everything blowing to fuck:: But they fell, they fall, they fell....For they fell:: having felt things, dying blind in the spick’s mind:: And, and...dying...bird perfect like a grinder:: and their joy is yours:: Father, forgive us, for we know not what we do or say or write:: Out even from those Lords of The Erotoforce, the destructive force ne'er feare, as rushes in one violent, no - graceful swoop of a styled chaos - or should that be chaotic precision? Unarrogant, the soul is there:: Free poet and I am, and what I have said I have said:: Armies of face-blacked men went under barbed wire, tossed:: We note the clock is approx 4.5 mm reconstituted hell that was from the top of her face:: It will be additionally eternal sections golden dark eye light other kind of PIE I’m here. But you don’t need to - It’s essential that the big faces -rich language-veins, now carry the weight of the light of Theseus’s shield and expecting everlasting:: The empty notebooks - begging for words like shivering fingers:: None of this, you must understand, slight of all this being like something conceived between:: those contradicts the British Standard 1098 for the viscosity of the:: light husk after all it i
ear lending, had He turned back to Roach, passing a cigar. 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 gulfs 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 thirty thousand feet or so, only to splatter your life into implacable mud?;; That sort of thing;; In short, some of:: what the fuck he’s on about the old Fuck:: but these things are always a kind of eternal sentence, an exploded gap into which pour words to fill the abyss of Dangle:: until snow:: there were many Mrs Smile:: yet, back there, it’s not the hand:: a passes across:: if what who when i:: pigs squeal then glory:: I wouldn’t wont do:: and I forgive them for the sake of the shapes and so I thus my time: awaiting a death; or a hand, to emerge from behind yon pedestal, upon whose skull’s sneer there is that extra touch of vile -- as if books were real, or the Tang but the butter. if doubt then to condition the champ [..]:: Many had glass eyes, but could see: Jenny, never knowing:: which end to put its mittens on:: Futility is futile::There are no countries:: emerging from the destructions - whose:: The hands crawl like scorpions:: green gentleness is a new United States - but, fatigued, indeed terribly tired:: Unerring line - The text triumphs, although they still sit in the banana shade whilst les autres carry out the pencil investigation:: Angular agony:: Ominous green-blue:: The universe contracts to a bright blue eye: something about a fish and a bird or even a heteropholous of a anomalies in the incoming wave patterns?:: Do you have a system?:: I’ve thought of something many reason why obstetrics:: Serious consequences:: More than a hundred Dutch cargo ship capability:: Nuke the bastards:: Who it doesn’t matter but be exact:: I don’t want to vanish things:: They’ll be there the same tomorrow:: Will they?;; I have a system:: You can have a system:: Don’t touch that bloody button! :: But is it of the inside of -- a Heavy drinking Poetry?;; seems to occur on almost all classes in :: but mortal march of numbers:: so that the tip of these waves would trigger the sounds:: The gate: rushing into the storm of ideas, the electro-acoustic, unless they’re wrong -- you are a shattering down-curve:: winter light - and the poem’s sudden rush towards the unintellitibility of truth:: a terrible night, and down the stone stairs the (unintelligibility of truth):: And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge:: nothing:: fourteen men contemplate my wife:: one thinks of Krapp or :::: and he is complete of his replete, so he is, setting forth to Flat Mountain. he is no terror but begins a sculpture and maketh colour of the return, SKAZ i am seize me: king of myself on painting walls and white flats:: and the red dancers dance:::: “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, in waves on waves of waves before it happened elsewhere despite (quite probably) had merged with of a dying their black mouths glowing with nucleic blue, man: known his eyes:: 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):: My Lai, this omniscience;; and fall like the three blind men into a secretly waiting lake, so full of that uncertainty we all feel so cosy with: the teapot bubbling and the giraffe dreaming of a blue-green symphony:: If only sitting on a wall:: as Horse makes his way to the coffee stand at the lonely hour when so much is dependent that those who droop are carefully ignorant of the endless energy of artists::: Crisp apples remind the youth::: considering the nature of all things and that the world was all that it was we could recreate the miraculous of an automatic gearbox:: as if life was forever, and that flicker of forgot had regrown the toe toad, or tuatara green-dark, into an immeasurable immensiveness whose bright burning calls forth (sub specie aeternitatis): a one hundred million violins, feeble possibilities:::: Profuse, profuse,:: the planetary gears; the wonderful worlds; just by logic and how the way is forward into the shadows where those we had encountered were (clearly if disturbingly) microscopic in the telescope:: (Yet I will my nothings tale on as the dance restarts):: And this circular back-turning trance did seem in endless dance thus to start as we were lost in light this aspectwaett under the eye, and, breeding: breed thus a truth? eral, trans cendenttruth that sdarkles like a light on a ga y green a asdifstmas tree, t’ some signal s’ TERRIBLE LOVELY:: interchane mont::: thiasds, all this...It began somehow, and I and you also, got caught up in it all: as ouy and ch dew drop conjunctions, despairing boat beheld the blue, and per intagliated fect, peel ring eye:: Hell of conjunctions, despairing boat of heaven’s ::And I, I look, sometimes, into my mother's eyes:: She has greater widow reason (this is cry than I, freed from my spouse, and silly woody house....There are dead spots on the compact disk;; The bee men worry about it;;:: But nowt's lost – the seas are still as green as the eyes of the fabulous salty witch, made of lightening. (We can even see the dead down there):: The mountain shudders in C Minor:: and bravely axe the ice:: Russia burns to wake:: out:: By little caves of doors The real toy people quaver:: They are notes of motes:: All at sometime have double crossed The criss-crossed face, crinkled Into maps of gone-away:: ...a painted world where things never stop combining and ramifying:: 11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad 12 -- Now a thing was secretly brought to the sad-infinital abyss:: sank into the Waitemata;; almost as How, I asked, could I live with these 'truths'?:: I cogitated & played with wax until ergo: and I walked, imagining things:: 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 machine:: Third Man reports:: So this 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 and yet he was still there:: nothing had moved:: we had spread into endless differences and no one was stopping us:: the logic was perfect, but something was missing:: we were especially concerned about the lengthening shadows as the day was wound down by the tired janitors:: these were everywhere:: 6 there are more things:: at this point everything burst:: 7 blocked; something’s blocked -- bloody bumble bastard bum -- WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?;;;; About three in the morning, Nora knocked at the little glass door of the concierge’s lodge, 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 and 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:: (what?) was origin, orange, this sun that spins,nothing may be known. Note too that this also harbours validity even if the underlying hum of that miraculous molecular dance, so improbable, could be stilled, and shot: Bear also in mind thatmeasurement, any measurement:: hand grenades, and outwitted the:: of any kind, is inherently and inevitablyand in all cases (external or internal, objective:: my tickling scrotum:: He, she adjured me to calm:: or subjective,in exact - decay setting in and the lurch of the intermissions setting in a sort of hapless sense of circulating and gangrenous green whose dilemma is shot thru with a deep and tender spermatic:: Thus I need notrecall to you that if, for example,I measure thus a truth, qua truth, ultimate sun-blinding truth and, precision - all these are mere chimera and vanish as quickly as they are self defined in their monetary millions and as has been shown, quite relative: We British, for example, exclude wogs from the equation: We are left, in our final consternation and horror with our slick soft reality illusions,whose -] :: is turned perceptibly to her left (my and your right):: Her expression, in as much as it can be discerned or evaluated to any degree, is more or less open:: It is that of a woman, highly intelligent, learned:: The nose straightish:: enjoying the play:: The theatre is dark the stage is bare:: but this man has everything!:: blond and blue they fell from the sky:: For it had to happen and they had to fall like spiders or those who eat the wrong apples...'Mutter, Mutter!' They cried: I awoke. It was dream. I was. I was – for I'll wreck it, I'll....:: About now things changed and Dr Parmigianino began forever rushing about doing nothing for hours on end and blue became yellow as people fell upwards forever, this was noted by the Noters:: in white of piano complete with uncompleteness, ready to clasp you in its leaves of what they said, so you limp to the dairy, only to buy a useless piece of teeth the night cries baby bu’ yzigs a’ happy happydying blind in the spick’s mind:: language perceptual essential different:: And, and...dying...bird perfect like a grinder:: To see the Protogroanic engine of the Sea, he can carry out an inventory of all the wave-movements that are repeated with varying and ever more assured Mixed and:: new photon word trails andbouncing of electrons of like: ping to leaves maketh sugar, the Kreb Cycle. So and so, but dagger:: Lurch to lych-gate, as if coefficient:: The molecular movement:: Something perhaps screaming or slyly indexing - Love is now so much like a quiet shudder, or some unformed thing convulsing in a plastic extrusion machine with cold eyes and a sort of predatory stare into the general Neantness of things...:: this thus they thussed and fussed, of course:: of iron or things long forgathering:: nothing or and oceans of nothing the endless silence no escape awful no me other thing if me or:: For they are a problem, so we keep moving the ‘x’s about:::: You’re waiting for something, aren’t you? Eh? At It again, eh?!;; But I resume - there Is no other course, no other presume;; You know what I mean: God and death and loneliness:: in sheer or slide planes or not:: in white of piano teeth comes the static death of x not kissed reflames again again again again again again again:: It gigantics up, organ stone, it is like the Gothic, yet remains free of purely academic restrictions:: Back a page or two, Zadkine commemorates the death of Rotterdam, and the big dumb giant howls against the sky that is a blissful, parched, and ignorant blue:: dying blind in the spick’s mind:: golden horns playing such days, terrified of his child, paralysed by insanity or the surprise of Hokusai:: Suffering piles - he can’tthink of anything else: of nothing else think he:: Everything blowing to fuck:: But they fell, they fall, they fell....For they fell:: having felt things, dying blind in the spick’s mind:: And, and...dying...bird perfect like a grinder:: and their joy is yours:: Father, forgive us, for we know not what we do or say or write:: Out even from those Lords of The Erotoforce, the destructive force ne'er feare, as rushes in one violent, no - graceful swoop of a styled chaos - or should that be chaotic precision? Unarrogant, the soul is there:: Free poet and I am, and what I have said I have said:: Armies of face-blacked men went under barbed wire, tossed:: We note the clock is approx 4.5 mm reconstituted hell that was from the top of her face:: It will be additionally eternal sections golden dark eye light other kind of PIE I’m here. But you don’t need to - It’s essential that the big faces -rich language-veins, now carry the weight of the light of Theseus’s shield and expecting everlasting:: The empty notebooks - begging for words like shivering fingers:: None of this, you must understand, slight of all this being like something conceived between:: those contradicts the British Standard 1098 for the viscosity of the:: light husk after all it i
black
est You had
hoped for ebullience
To blaze out of
crannies, but instead,
Bituminous content of a class 4 highway:: So he
starts again. And he starts again:: And again:: A man leans against a wall, head
down with a cardboard sign:: And I listened in. I heard the thud, the thud the
thud: and the pump the pump of blood 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
incomprehensible:: My:: these sunflowers, these would be suns; are mad with
seed: as distance dims their circles into uniline: they are galactic those
gentle devils, “HIV Positive, Please Help.” But New York roars like hell:: I am
afraid to sleep, I cannot die:: There: I have caught chiasmus, and filled some
tiny chasmus:: freed from:: They’d spoken of syndrome:: But we resounded the hills, and nothing
could touch us, not death’s sting, or a
snowman’s erotic grin:: always I immensely failed.... Go you the dusty bookstores and
the flea markets, sprung contemporary culture:: But his eyes, dimmed a little
by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn
strange....the jingling jingle sings:: Thus it is given… and taken away as if
we were the question you asked:: conjunction Of striding morning shadows, Inverting
rising in meeting, Was revealed to me - in a handful of - 27:: (that
haunt the restless towers of bones) of something telling:: this picture,
this this - nodding
with assent: pleased yet traumatized and bat bat blind, as blind as
blind:: this thing, this:: And when the brainspake:: 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:: cherished:: who despite the stark:: that burns September
into October - the
month of yellow nightmares:: Styx:: dumping ground:: between her eyes
and we were dumfounded:: 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 the fiery for
a pill:: baddies. I can’t see what parades and medals have got to do with my capacity for
terror. That is, what blood group are you?a sense of something maybe of the abyme
[the boredom, the horror) - perhaps of a mad penis, or a steel
machine, car twisted with all the violence and greed of then if a bloom, nothing is not not something, yet a
sheer:: whereby enormous. once there was as steps:: The truck man leaps
back in and the truck and it squeaks and arse, or a rusty:: From thought and
extension flow countless modes, which in their turn contain others:: Anyone who Jimi Hendrix’s right to a speakeasy Event Wave?:: Did they:: This was
obviously written in a rush. C+/B+:: something. something for the inside the
vibrant:: bill...To
disappear:: 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:: to know the terr-
intoned,
clinched it: case closed:: embraced at the same time all thought and extension Humpty Empty Back Make we sought things
and went down: interlacing, the weaved
colours, the spider moving, and somewhere – a hand. A man heaves a:: corridors.
Third Man is out again:: Nothing of this is known, or remembered - but the ball
of brightness, claiming centre ground, is learning it all again:: The music is
at least
triangular:: clinging to the thinking night of
time:: And I wake into a fear: but logic, and that queer space, Look!
These microclefts, these flakes of mind - these clutterings of time:: soon they tire, and
how little time is given them to move.. .” And how the heads of men are:: in
the guts ripping up, or the you transformed into the way things always, like scissors,
or sexy girls, disappear when you want them – into the way things always are:: would see nothing
contingent, nothing accidental, but a geometrical succession of terms, bound
together by necessary laws:: The Butcher. Ah! He asked only of:: fifteen
dead men - yo ho ho softness his last agony – Borges says it best – and we
waited 'till we knew;; It had the exhausted face of the dead, Borges:: its
flawed, fatal, living Machine:: this death excretion, this this is a
conjunction - and in these connections these flowers said:: back to the Level and flew
parallel to:: But
it was that courageous self-darking;; The folly, or magnificence, of the valiant;; His private, dying agony was allowed;
and the eternity of his spirit's dance in agonied eyes; The sustained thunder of
the drums' symphonic roar:: Of his life's torrents were only heard by him:: He did not wake At
the shake Or the shout Or the sudden coming out: No triumphant trumpets stirred
him, No lightening jerked his heart: He lay in stolid strong stillness:: There
would be no return:: He arose not in the night:: To haunt us with our hate or
love;; No bird, brilliant with fire, exploded From the still, unearthly morning
lake:: MYOPIC ART MONSTER;;…I am a bubbling machine of light whose
futile mission is to be again as in the MOMA garden:: Never did dare a reader leave his
page, for fear there might escape, to live outside his book: some
Frankensteinic Thing to weirdly wander from that dream to life:: But the white milk choc,
and those gob-stoppers, changing colours:: like the times, as Islands and
people were shafted & shifted, and now we:: were the beginning of power and
good old death: rises, and horses are sleek, and fleet, so that the gathering hooves::
And chocolate is beautiful thankfulness for groveling in the inferno but I
remain neither absolute nor cynically smug:: Piha, and words began forming:: in
a Trap, or a figment - Here’s another example: “It’s
illegal and prohibited to remove alcoholic beverages from this area.”: (The
moon booms - Tormented by The Hand.):: forgetting what was origin, orange,
apple, or where the serpent had parked the sedan beside the spreading sneer of the evening’s trees::
down, down Down are like extra limbs, questing antennae:: Dali’s heart -
thundering almost like eyes and ears:: I can’t tell you or God how much I hate
the pair of you: God is a cwiuant: They’re all Kwuaants:: As he closed the gate, it made a slight
metallic clang, such as one might associate with something reducing as the inverse
square:: Be, but are:
of pictures to whoof it all over the four sides of the unseen
chasms and maybe Prometheus went down, wishing itself wondrously witless like a poached egg or a
discarded peel and seal envelope:: Events are perceived via a language:: to
browns, golds - Dali’s heart - :: a square zone of, say, ten metres of shore by
ten metres:: so grief, a spoken silence:: still unable to reach out to “the
blackness whose inspection was the very words”:: floated or rearrived to nail
the night again to be nailed by night into night abstruse - tortuous and
involute the mind:: Let us peer from darkness::: writhe inside
themselves and glue into a sort of living inconsistency; you know the sort of thing:: the red
and the yellow meetings the centuries
on - memories of the squeezed hand: Then
they found me, and the machines. These::
like 'How could he not make a second Self?” Thinketh me much to much
(too much) until all raged: but everything seemed glass:: grammar
definite reception pulse:: of perhaps 2% carbon integrated in: as if the art
thought was maybe
something like a claw of distance:: The Editor turned laconically to the
window, and the deep truths of the ever busy street leapt up to his gaze:: Yes,
Roach had a point, if the green and joyous
Earth in vicious:: no little of least no baby no most nothing and more nothing and
(“ill seen, ill said”) no light or
nothing or (“ill seen, ill said”) all light and there then being no
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 black-faced and would be spider sure - ‘twere thee’s own heart thou held, Knowing that to lose or:: “I’m
seeking a Sheik.” Brian said: Later he said he just wanted to sit on the
out-house and look out at the view and be alone: he didn’t want to play that
day...It was an excuse:: knowing I, shouting, and ink all over the pursuer, who
is I samesea - See you? See you seawise? ::tedious tomes: bestirred, and betook
itself - librus dusticus - to be signed out by the pleasant young
librarian:: She became:: ever more half-forgot:: hooked wood:::: let me
explain: because things get too good and as DNA mutates constantly, then
everything has become as blind as a stone that inhabits the basis:: cracks thru to God,
who is indeed, like the spider in the smiling gun:: the brain is suspended on
sticks of ice:: Go dark go bright my
still dark darling who joyfully no-no-ing go like a Lafin wing -- push, thrust,
and tough away and past my me:: stamped him lovingly:: - and was In those days
we cosh/ e to the x dilemma perhaps only ever observed in the way an egg
becomes a Queen: perhaps a Queen of
Merry Olde Englande, and then shifts to a sheep - gloomy water wombed as
an instantiation photon:: Oh they clap, oh they clap, for it is life they love
and the colours, even down, in the dark whirled and whirling world. These pins
are crooked with grins:: We have something:: to they, or it:: times time is Aleph
time:: drill:: One night, unannounced:: Truth
…a box…endlessly folding and refolding…But I could talk of treaties, handshakes,
agreements, thumbprints:: Wolf-men dive thru yellow skies…millions millions
ago..hunched, waiting, with seeking eyes……blundery…death and lovely…slaughter...and
song:: The Moment, which slept, was
surprised:: The truck man leaps back in and the truck and it squeaks and
squeals, arse:: A pile of medical books, a nd volumes of a miscellaneous order,
reached almost to the ceiling, water-stained and covered with dust:: all along,
the questions because coiffures of endless presuppositions of process and
interminable and the others:: and the it of who we are the things said:: Could
you show us that movie of the palace being blown up in reverse?; Again? For the 20000th time?:: I hunched into the
hill of myself as the blaze of dying time and the blue-cracked expanse of the
sky exploded silently:: 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 and an ominous use of repetition whose wall’s morphemic
madness maddens and:: beat beat in in each end of cylinder lead:: screaker and
hells the hell
out of here 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
they recalled, and they chasms, sexual, obscure:: But above, behind, the
leaping light that animates the clouds,that are like the relevate swirl of a saint’s clothes::
heard he the first faint mutating
marks:: - naughtiness, shaking the spears from the wall:: by which hope the
dream of the hell:: The skulls shuffle in their shells:: a world of:: the
smoke sucked in:: dwellings to the harvest
of flowers:: silken tension:: Silk:: A pile of medical books, and
volumes of miscellaneous order, reached almost to the ceiling, water-stained
and covered with dust:: and the dark double
death twice chopped:: desperately in a rush to ‘strangle a darky’ he
just made it to the shit house:: 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:: subtle Siamese:: black green red eye beard black
bread white:: curls contemptuous; Unquestioning:: blue eye blue, so that
notwithstanding Darkness -- that galactic dream of eyes vanishing, left you staring:: Which way now?::
I averred: but what do
I know?; I have known glass, I:: terrible symbols that will::There was a pregnant, not
to say gravid, Not to say profound, silence and hesitancy:: ...ace, longs
for what it
surely was all along,
the questions that
seemed to rise Let’s look into things:: the microscope whose appellation calls its calling:: “When
I look intothe dead sheep’s eye it seems to me it's not dead; How could it be dead?":: the
clowns began to dance as the snow ascended and flutes were heard in mournful
tune: things fell softly about and milkweed grew silently and oblivious:: men
with death swords bestrid balconies; Tragedies were re-enacted at every pause:::
What I don’t
like is the concept of a Supreme Clock:: section ablaze lip aquiver dark
eyes blacklight light::
A brick is a brick:: you could: but let’s be honest: together into a
continuous and
seemingly random scream green aristotelian
dantesque dance into gold caste lip light light they, the previously to
referred, really. not my white one. one. one white red rose:: rose rose white
dear rose rose my white; my one:: Is the special darkness to be poured upon us?::
my one. rose i’ve been; rose i’ve not; rose i am; rose; murdered rose; rose dear murdered; really
been; been; to; been to:: devour the
brains:: certainly certainly certainly life is but a dream:: and thus had kinged amongst themselves until
had been discovered, at light speed:: a rusty screaker and hells the hell out of
here:: if only each
creeping:: the machine music:: thing:: could set forth the theorem of its:: nervous
ends of things that cut this savage
stillness into glass that all’s that’s all be double bent again?:: And why is
why the dead do grin as thumbs are thumbs?; Again?; Evil?:: Here at the cataracting
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:: he stood sans time until:: 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:: up upon the up:: we don’t do do:: as agrarian:: dancing into that time:: look:: and
the dancing light:: i indeed igloo yet yellow to unheard a certain goofy
truth; whose
very existence This thing, this growing thing … It erupts from the
earth, ... It
was a seed, now it wants there were hints of telling me something came
the Music; microscope; these laws immutable, as some would have them: for why should they
always be in such travail as to repeat notions of some religious idea perhaps
inspired by a nut case who became a legend whose aspect we can only surmise,
whose raison d'etre no one can:: The book is a tree. But let’s ons,
for we musn’t lose the minute; for all this is pendulous from a thread: and
thus we set forth, slogging up the old track, not far from Knacker’s Beach, convinced of a
Shape:: I study this vessel:: as they say:: boomed like a bell:: But like becoming, I drag
that which, is, I think, Myself: ape-like or robotic into the orangegreen but
darkening blocks of soft basaltic ::Andd the strand:: Ex Cathedra! ; Ah, it is dzs of spiders
glistened:: Ea intagliated intagliated terrified:: cut – one seems sacrifice –
but Third Man:: “He hath made things worthier than:: has had many ops, knows
the land, the lie, morning:: To test it, I clink my pen against it, Touch
it with my naked hand, Press it to my cheek:: is good and allows to me such things as comfort: food,
music when I want it, and a garden: - much neglected now but, well, those
cinerarias shall first peep forth, and then habituation
of wordle words and something disguised as an aluminium south island whereas
new zealand is:: Monet, your great garden:: Claude, Your water lilies, the
Americans Loved them:: And the glad carnations:: Your castle was a garden:: Light
Seemed so
darkened by your death:: at least, to avoid:: But we are enjoined from
the dark engines of our past, and well -- quite frankly -- we have to eat the
wall; Those black waves come at us; Heads and horribles all gorgon with eyes come at us; We hate,
yet need, this darkness:: and perhaps by touching the metallic leaf where
the bug resides,it vanishes….my problem is that
thing that self-fucked itself the Scream Spider far longaway heard the
cut cry to the Big No: it was incredibly:: Yet who Guy:: Did we know?; Or am I;;;
to even ape their own sedulosity, much as that conceive, and to what purpose:: there were hints, telling Me something:: that’s
how it came what is it telling me to gloom, and thus beyond something and
Beyond was sound. and 5 erections 6 7
8 9 things
burst; beatant; i green like
sudden would love:: thereafter there are:: at this
point I wish the vanishing would begin
so that maybe fleisch; and
e'en as cities and basilisks inferno into:: LAR ORACULAR OCUL:: bowl:: looking at the
clouds they growl at us and we are made into hand grenades perhaps by the of
grammar so int ime that the faint fish died and we looked beyond the
hedge toward the
gaiety, and some antique thing: but even the newsprint violins because death was appropriate to
the violet light or to examine divinely the generalize but neither the seeing
thing in the optic my silicate sire in that vast and ancient kingdom – where were
great towers, rejoicings and feastings deep ceremony of mystery -- and war,
ceaseless war -- and writings and weavings: in that rich and multicoloured rug
with its cunning crossings you may well wonder about me:: what am I; who am i,
and what do do i?; for am i not cruel?; indifferent?; idle?; alienate?; alone? blooded?;
did thou not think me thoughtless?; fear thou me? eh?; i fear myself, and I
feared you; come; fly with me to the rose, for there shall be love, for i have
faith, the terrible faith of those who cannot believe:: and all went
fingerdark; as it does sometimes in these parts:: Vast cogent music, gusts of
coal-sounding applause, a cough:: "What?" :: sugar, dissolving; a
huge cloud, a crowd, gathers, a huge...something big anyway...:: as if we | had
… been mentioned | in a local news event:: as if we had a Special Day. when | the
Centuries paid us a visit:: We asserted with our minimal pins:: for we are Old
Simple Folks or we | became| Huge Windmills eternally tilted at and jilted until
the gutteral laughter. and then that song: ‘To dream the impossible dream...the man from la Mancha
the Man':: There is a hiddenness that leads us to x -- :: You whose eyes
have awoken gods:: they were yellow, beyond Stripe, beyond stripe and utter;
utterly; thus it rose; clang. thus buzz; like an insane Wasp it whipped itself
and dying; you know, wolf, how to Sound there spun new and ancient thunders to
thus confirm; unmanned: It turned, as all sky turns, and History turns, and all
Time; if all Time was now, where would we then; eternally to present before:::: Of say, 1 billion kilowatts, wanting Earth; Crepuscular Man
watched two:: “Aren’t we great”, a tiny Crocodilus becomes:: a fantastic
thing like a wheel, in whose motionless centre, surely nothing more everything
has been thought of Chinese more perpetual perpetual orunperpetual could be
found; Or was:: All:: two humans copulating on a
plastic thing; (A Zilch Bomb killed 1 million Zitons at 0800 hours):: The
graceful gracenotes, The impeccable suicides:: You indeed were you, and
christed on a black wave?:: What weaves? :: And some times - like ants on the flax-flower - whose
weird white and purple spikes break to the sky so bitter and remote:: In the
castle of special regrets they reigned supreme, seeking out ever fresher agonies, whose
fruits:: The Great Fridge, whose coldness, and from whose interieur,
gloomy proclamations march out like ants:: I, too, have sat in boots:: And because
you are infinitely inside:: 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:: the thing
there - The thing that was there, supped. I too have:: Man is:: whose pattern defy
number, for they are without number:: oh spindler, turning and turning
in the machines of time: crushing, invisible servants:: The delicate necks, The
pecks, The transoms - and all the Dreadfully right things:: A dark woman, as elegant as a
queen, sobs from an interview room;:; My son has one eye:: She was _______ She was great at ______ And they loved to _______
One day ________ One
day the telephone rang and ______ :: I understood; It seemed
as if I understood:: And so be it, and so and thus it was:: and desire::
And roots are dull with springing rain:: Where sunlight and sun surprised,
smiled, And let us chat in Russin unt Deutsch:: He snapped his head rapidly to
the right, but he saw, or felt that he thought he saw, the flash of the window whipping behind him::
Unt coffee flowed into ourselves, Warming firing, and we stopped, When April,
with flaming hair:: for example:: cascade back:: She
sees the sun, She is thinking:: It announced, my grandmother’s death:: The
two hands of Truth press together: and more are sent out, though none
return…History conspires:: 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 intent of whose interest value belies the hidden skipping in the
chewing gum street whence our knowledges cracking cracking so you machine you
ma chine you machine you machine man you you you machine you machin e man thus
you thus you machine man machine man machin e man thus you mechanical ma chine::::
in separable petrol love is lopped its branches green and yellow with lichen -
like an amazement of escaping questions - the thinning branches like bony
hands, clawing at
the face of the scornful sky:: modern as a computer animal and
conjures…These inversions:: “The people wait, the people wait, May never come.”:: and forth, and back and back and forth:
and in true, these opals:: in a cascade of roaring opals a green eye is neverending seen:: Oh you smile you
smile you:::: the silent gardens whose shadow precedes sight; And you, Great
Short One, youwho are ugly, stride away with enormous in so far as you,
could Rolled
in the wind::: touched in eternal joy:: Our telephone used to be A terrible old
doom black thing - Shrill as a:: mathic son of man! ; But crickets:::: Night
after night we trudged ahead without stopping, one behind the other, like the
blind::: Sometimes.
which, by knack, I’ll die myself to be still so that the eagle descend::
schoolboy loving - the point about the Romantics:: green in coats of gold are busy munching up; They sing the numbers of the world, And girls with violins Are just like they:: The hand, restless cwic, its
thumb full of numbers, seeks and touches, the water:: Do you - ? :: So,
finding, on the unnumbered page, the Infinity Chamber has no connection to
those German drawings:: Indeed, they are as intricate as a watchmaker’s heart...::
we untounged -
Searched we our hearts:: da’ gang away:: by
the enigma of:: So:: sleepleadlidded softsealed::: and each eying each. Each never
venturing beyond the border proscribed, or the published delineation, frame, or
stabbed periphery:: silence
as a harsh:: as if Antarctica had vanished,
in some sort of slight of hand, as the sun:: Oh why?; Why?; Why gocomeyou?; Why
bloody our sea?:: – and she The Thing For which I wait:: heard the
silence spinning its softendless web; How lightly she breathed; she scarcely
had to breathe at all :: some increep, yet there web spiders inhabit a world are
flashes you know me, and once i told; She bitch flung me into:: the of silken
tension; Silk lines:: rich arms of those fires:: who kinded my death terror; mother
mother of all would not allow those boy bullies to hack me, and so I winked,
and later my running up caught me - burning ecstatic on the anvilled evil - Come; Come
inside my structure:: rivers turned back upon themselves, men drowned
themselves, women tore at their hair, and love sick youths wandered, crazy with grief-joy, and
howling hopelessly as they ran into:: consequent regarding the illimitable flat
expanse of slab feetto all unendings has long since uranium:: …It is not the things
in the Silence Museum, but the spaces…but we are no longer sure; We used
to be, but then we became Clever, and The Questioners came; We assembled into
the House of Questions:: and which knows it is coming, will come -- I will know by signs::
strangeness of built the paintbox in this new land where the children of
our children appear, endlessly anew, we stop: silenced into sense of things being more than an old sad outback idiot tale::
and:: And when will shine for me?; - Man-strong, torn, shorn - ay; Call
lockless me, un unbrained, ideé ideé; Seething now I fixèéé - like the fishfluxflow:: I’m
playing scrabble with the Alien; I’ve got Q,X,Z,A,P,M and O, but I don’t know what
he’s got; I’m Greg::: Why do the feeling things that reach across the bridge?::::
Moves yet moves
not in the red dark.yours old one your frozen beard if only each creeping
thing could set forth the theorem of its genesis:: Crashes the chord!:: Because
the cupboard was packed With so many things:: what is this gentle curse of
love?; Crashes the chord! :: This became a poem :: Bugger this, some
might say, let’s get a big car and drive like mad men to run down Time - eat
the miles like they were the enemy; Remember what he said: “The darkness
surrounds us.”; Let’s drive into the darkness, mad, the instant immortal; Let’s get the hell out
of here. But he said:: The eye the see the light the see see the sight to
see:: said to have said:: Futility is futile:: The Legerdemain of Wotan is a
special possible; but I prefer the wooden god:: So I have long discussions and
disputations with myself: these conversations go on frequently – arguments
ensue and great speeches of enormous historic significance take place; You have
no idea; And
there is more – songs are sung, and great bursts of sound; It is great fun – a
kind of licit madness:: Bonnard - man of
light, Bonnard you built: Pierre,
Pierre Bonnard - You blaze from every corner:: I make a speech of
great, nay, vast historical significance Here it is: “I was, I, well, things
happened. I ate things, I, I...lived...thank you.”:: and thus belies the
intricacies that
underpin:: “A drop / or crash of water…”; who was killed by his words:: so
we come back to the message of one to one, the beginning of it, and then we look
to the deep city and the others:: stones grow inrock forests:: Those were golden gilded
days – someone had crafted them: and each
second, each breath, had been painted with a paint so precious that everything
glowed;Some
Great Thing knew us then:: but as seemingly as
true as the Rembrandt of the portraits in his many shifts: then – well then you
do command the stage – your alienation, your dark
failures, or tired dribbles of consciousness:: to penetrate bodily this
incredible beauty; our eyes are bathed in these lights and forms:: and Let us
rather be insulted:: the wind had a little edge to it, disguised, messed into the
pottage of being lost in the the feeling matter and the perspicacious
protoplasm – suddenly you are apart even from and Generation – suddenly you –
by the way: (you lot there!), at least by now that burns
September into October - the
month of yellow nightmares we
always come round hit
by Kings you must be convinced he cant possibly
have any or much idea:: Satis?; Eh?; Sufficient before oblivion’s
whore?; I’m?; Or do we already revolve in the central nothingness?:: (Big big ugly hands lift and drop them, who
scream against fate, into the box that’s black and useless as a decayed mullet’s mouth.):: the head that was kept alive::
Reading the latter there is the feeling so palpably transmitted of a thumping
petrol migraine:: One eye open, floating, Forever, in an entropic dish, And how
his wife Tormented
it:: So lets admire the tiger: the imaginary, but real tiger, beautiful as fire:: 10
follows 9 which follows 8 which follows 7 which follows 6 which follows 5 which
follows 4 which follows 3 which follows 2 which follows 1 which follows 0 which
follows -1, and so on. and now the box, shaped like a repetition - but that
wasn’t right:: Any case ignorant:: oh here comes old Blind Sam; He sings; He
sang; He has sung; He will sing; He did sing; He would have sung; He is
singing.a new thing:: So lets admire the tiger: the imaginary, but real tiger,
beautiful as fire:: that’s enough. Now we can put this other thing together: and
now the box, shaped like a repetition:: we watch like prophets - their
acrofections - who are aves now - rising like a requiem we we we who were
godded to the spot:: as the t.v. adverts erupt with electronic Light:: then a shoulder shudder:: run hand:: knife blade to
lobelia even he:: time unburied out of the in and out those violent
violets sewing umbrella cuts into why of bone bits black:: how long indeed:: the clematis creeps these tired
times till pen
is pin:: unravelling those
woof warfs to snare
the knotty persiflage:: nor do you:: and indeed a new kind of clack clack is heard disappearing in the block
land yielding to the petulance of disbursements and gel and yet remaining
clearly there, where even Eros froze the heart from the psychological
peanut slabs given the hope engendered by whispers from the social signals, the
growing jollity and bohomie, and indeed a hand extended in mock forgive that cursed
me and glowed as green as $20 dollar notes:: who could hope for more or less
under the stated conditions:: equally, the four billion years the stories it
could tell:: slidingly awaiting a death; and an immense future in the centre of
the terrible electric transactions
(before mentioned in camera) and being so alive with touch, scent and laugh
from of a mad gut-barrell:: the laugh wrong as usual?:: I want to fail over and over again, but only
in that especial way of intrigue found perhaps in the shadow of a Mosque or a
Cathedral:: and yes of these things probabted they are said to be of a heart
that insinuates and keeps beat:: Who would not tread with me, who if Winter
were burning insultancy carry forever my road?” and or a rusty itness of whatness; or as
you (may) like (this or that or) it - the seven the chord! ages and the
man of wise saws whose::Crashes the chord!:: (we hear again) of know
or not know that eyes do swivel in doubling wonderful silence settled into the dust of which we were particles:: and sure enough, Rumours circulated; One was (naturally) how time was leaking:: Crystals formed:: they gathered round the fire:: and indeed:: moves white line and quasi quasi in the quasar but red and directions white line it repeats and and semi its hands but the ceremony was really unreal as the innocent softs or swung back like a spun hoop, and all, every flickering pulse, all (under consideration and further negotiation toward resolution):: Eat it?:: Of course – what you some kind of gutless:: But, big radix: go thou (and axe the ice) and of the spin of minds and of / and worlds corrupted;; indeed the horror and darkness of aloneness and the near certainty of total disappearance:: Not far, my cat, in the sun, to greet the clouds:: Like a spring, it unfolds, and forces up:: there’s always something thrillingly sexual in that tower like stamens in a sort of the edge up, or the dislocations of down?:: flowers at the bosom — that was Jenny -- so you can imagine how she trembled when she saw herself going 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:: 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 and the characteristic clematis of foul ennui:: We that are young will never haved so long:: Persiflage:: all this time – clarinetted with colour, lived, which makes finges of the great timbers, and the beautiful mathematics of her hair;; Her hair, which of which she letteth lines:: these indeed are like extra limbs, and or questing antennae, almost like eyes and ears:: flaps open:: Events are perceived via a language 2 Ashen round how the white mind and under and over the linear agon man that Time captured;; Black shining piano - Perfection:: orthogons:: despised anophelogic:: Peace was a different experience:: (the expanse) waits waits for no expense:: & toward fifty without a thing done to make her a tomb-piece, or anything in her past that would get a (unto and into the slit green goat ( unto and into the THAT that they all plunge in):: The point, we seek it:: We are:: A thing shudders;; or booms - :: The up not down the down not up:: What is it with you lot?! Eh?:: Pathetic diseutetude:: alight I and, you know, don’t talk much:: He’s probbly a queerfuck:: Wa’ abou’ ZAP or ZAM? Eh?:: (I saw it ) tripped and fell on the campus, ahh - blood:: 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 ):::: [[Shut up Richard! Shut up Wendy! No one cares what you say! ]] :::: Then it…. “….and simple tomatoes and shell eggs you bone that there is somewhere he, King of Corn:::: how could upstart that other thing be - he’d been, behind and in the box-hedges, where ear-wigs crawl:::: But now, anger: Zorn:: he was double plussed at the Old Man They dreamed the time fell through the centuries They fell from the sky; For it had to happen and they had to fall; The babies were tossed in the burning skies..... ...The tipping perspective, the lack of visible ground beneath
the victims, and the merging of figures, in which legs, feet:: Oat of Life Sustain me – refuel the endless engines of my brain; Unsymbolic; My heart pumps systaltically. But why do Strange musics wrack my working brain?; It is said he was a carpenter,;Was reborn; Given thorn, And made fires for the wondering. I love old stories: And I do not deny that the last word shall want a word:: like the sense of an immense head, nodding in the bluebells - Its eye knowing of you. and a single “u”! dissected instantly, like you were Mozart, Or a Latter Day Fast Fourier Transformer, Or the Thing thinging inside Michaelangelo; On the tip of his making tongue:: are gorgeously valueless in this our estate - whence Time doth descend change…way (apart from everything being all in, or all out (as Ash said)):: silly to worship an end point (the continuance, the and the Sun spearing down its violent urgings?:: a completeness:: “Something jerks out there in the swamp.”:: but the green place wasn’t green “everness” which Mariannoticed in and out of time, as decays, falls once twice once:: since semantic degrades the swish, her him, possible or möglich. Nought:: crouch under by which we distributed:: spring and glee into glee yet glum:: i took did the awful sangfroid, his own head:: He reached genesis:: Backs so that a certain percent say of the subset Of x million of the subset:: Their faces red their hats askew they sing: “Life is red Life is blue - Life is a lilac lake - Life is a blue suede shoe.”: The goblins hunch, the goblins munch: The goblins eat their guttural lunch:: Quagmire in pursuit of total z, quite at once Slit their throats meanings Into the shiny nerve and old, he studied Of White Much athwart, Mountain:: Ovid etc I remember the black light white light yet perfect because camera, all:: undermilk, a kid; I; abra:: Boats:: up and down, up and down:: flog flog Glog:: many options red:: did was And the black not black paper is made from wood Boston, and dragging her shawl and running, and we all got in - she’d collected some guests who Or yellow with great hope or fear:: know that babies are illogical; Illogic logic wakes and screams; the night is turning red and black:: That blond the other night:: I'll be a great face; not the one they would ignore in your 'real' and lonely and insignificant life - then you are - heard not black on night:: The light elephant to three down: no to yes: ifly: better:: not antiestablishmentarianism:: on her face – and shame – awake now and torch the night: Twombly; let’s go out, let’s riot, let’s smash somethin’:: These days in this bloody turmoil, before the waking (Will we-they?), oops, sorry, I'm so sorry....No I can't, just can't So woman: And why not?: Alephs, & such arms in arms, and the joyful bitter hope of gold, beat into music: free but these things are always a kind of eternal sentence, an exploded gap into which pour words in to fill the abyss of horror and darkness who is (probly) of the living root down to grip:: whereof:: Delight:: The thoughts:: fire - much mad truth:: Old woes:: Things keep living in this old the flaxen hair chaos, under the sun, of the:: are lost in gelid time:: We are the:: Calculating turns, and all Time: if all Time was now, where would we then eternally to present before:: again, again i thus this exegesis cherish who despise the stark, styptic Styx separating it from the wave which seems rioting and echoing in the cataclysms, its resonations rise from it:: It waits:: Flashing the under underneaths of the riverrating, possibly unstoppable, flows of bubbles and colours and soap things in pre-sex sex: busy in the brain, making us: just like in Brakhage, 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 Ol’ man sorrow O1’ man sorrow 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 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 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 brought to ourselves: as if things invented themselves:: and therein in the super depths of mid millennial dark:: devils with too bright eyes accost or like Aristotle, heroically digging, nearly alone, or others, seeking certainty:: but a poet is always uncertain, peering into uncertain, miasmic things we skipped past the great Alhambra of the of the castles – we descended. Time ended:: No flautist fluting to the beautiful morn:: Things lifted:: The marble cat interflows - there is a hidden litheness in her limbs:: And the god of art looks down, and grins in which sad sea horses race and do haunt welders’ works: study bric-a-brac, rustles, and the patterns of things:: shocked by the mirrors in your eyes:: It bodies forth, tumbling into entrance, like a double sea god, bent into green waves: painted, flashings, the folds, the dragons, the coils - the angels descending - the flower named for her:: So I saw her coming forward, stepping lightly and trembling:: For millennia I glass, I froze: Nodding Land of boiynes whose tendering everlasting of tendentoious eglatine, that enriched and bespattered the sexual-asexual wrench-squig of their symbolic: we go deeper: penetrating the reds, the greater resonations, the oak wood,
the teak dark depths:: who wanted wonky:: sing yet oh diamonds and bong:: career blip blop:: Her face in the photograph [ 117 by 126 mm i.e 14742 sq. mm. - notethat this measurement is indeterminate due to normal reading and callibration errors, that mix, as you are aquainted, like some soft, unseen smoke in these squirming, eiffel gay and towering times. Nor is it possible to compute the physical depths and relative orthognic volumetric or cubic dimensions: for under:: In the Silent Museum of memories and Things, and desires: we calibrate the lacunae, the stretches, the enormous time distortions, (the Shapes, and the ( the darkness between (Music is heard: - But the spiral (like a little grape vine spring); Or the metaphor of it: of the Golden Number – or that, until it filled the whole concert of his sleep, of course “sequestered” was just right:: I’ve also been dreamin’ up little word globes, its intriguing to watch them: how they Or because of, there was only a clever clue: John the over and under man who could have been At Pompei - of course because you thought of it; And were trying to impress them -
or not know that eyes do swivel in doubling wonderful silence settled into the dust of which we were particles:: and sure enough, Rumours circulated; One was (naturally) how time was leaking:: Crystals formed:: they gathered round the fire:: and indeed:: moves white line and quasi quasi in the quasar but red and directions white line it repeats and and semi its hands but the ceremony was really unreal as the innocent softs or swung back like a spun hoop, and all, every flickering pulse, all (under consideration and further negotiation toward resolution):: Eat it?:: Of course – what you some kind of gutless:: But, big radix: go thou (and axe the ice) and of the spin of minds and of / and worlds corrupted;; indeed the horror and darkness of aloneness and the near certainty of total disappearance:: Not far, my cat, in the sun, to greet the clouds:: Like a spring, it unfolds, and forces up:: there’s always something thrillingly sexual in that tower like stamens in a sort of the edge up, or the dislocations of down?:: flowers at the bosom — that was Jenny -- so you can imagine how she trembled when she saw herself going 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:: 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 and the characteristic clematis of foul ennui:: We that are young will never haved so long:: Persiflage:: all this time – clarinetted with colour, lived, which makes finges of the great timbers, and the beautiful mathematics of her hair;; Her hair, which of which she letteth lines:: these indeed are like extra limbs, and or questing antennae, almost like eyes and ears:: flaps open:: Events are perceived via a language 2 Ashen round how the white mind and under and over the linear agon man that Time captured;; Black shining piano - Perfection:: orthogons:: despised anophelogic:: Peace was a different experience:: (the expanse) waits waits for no expense:: & toward fifty without a thing done to make her a tomb-piece, or anything in her past that would get a (unto and into the slit green goat ( unto and into the THAT that they all plunge in):: The point, we seek it:: We are:: A thing shudders;; or booms - :: The up not down the down not up:: What is it with you lot?! Eh?:: Pathetic diseutetude:: alight I and, you know, don’t talk much:: He’s probbly a queerfuck:: Wa’ abou’ ZAP or ZAM? Eh?:: (I saw it ) tripped and fell on the campus, ahh - blood:: 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 ):::: [[Shut up Richard! Shut up Wendy! No one cares what you say! ]] :::: Then it…. “….and simple tomatoes and shell eggs you bone that there is somewhere he, King of Corn:::: how could upstart that other thing be - he’d been, behind and in the box-hedges, where ear-wigs crawl:::: But now, anger: Zorn:: he was double plussed at the Old Man They dreamed the time fell through the centuries They fell from the sky; For it had to happen and they had to fall; The babies were tossed in the burning skies..... ...The tipping perspective, the lack of visible ground beneath
the victims, and the merging of figures, in which legs, feet:: Oat of Life Sustain me – refuel the endless engines of my brain; Unsymbolic; My heart pumps systaltically. But why do Strange musics wrack my working brain?; It is said he was a carpenter,;Was reborn; Given thorn, And made fires for the wondering. I love old stories: And I do not deny that the last word shall want a word:: like the sense of an immense head, nodding in the bluebells - Its eye knowing of you. and a single “u”! dissected instantly, like you were Mozart, Or a Latter Day Fast Fourier Transformer, Or the Thing thinging inside Michaelangelo; On the tip of his making tongue:: are gorgeously valueless in this our estate - whence Time doth descend change…way (apart from everything being all in, or all out (as Ash said)):: silly to worship an end point (the continuance, the and the Sun spearing down its violent urgings?:: a completeness:: “Something jerks out there in the swamp.”:: but the green place wasn’t green “everness” which Mariannoticed in and out of time, as decays, falls once twice once:: since semantic degrades the swish, her him, possible or möglich. Nought:: crouch under by which we distributed:: spring and glee into glee yet glum:: i took did the awful sangfroid, his own head:: He reached genesis:: Backs so that a certain percent say of the subset Of x million of the subset:: Their faces red their hats askew they sing: “Life is red Life is blue - Life is a lilac lake - Life is a blue suede shoe.”: The goblins hunch, the goblins munch: The goblins eat their guttural lunch:: Quagmire in pursuit of total z, quite at once Slit their throats meanings Into the shiny nerve and old, he studied Of White Much athwart, Mountain:: Ovid etc I remember the black light white light yet perfect because camera, all:: undermilk, a kid; I; abra:: Boats:: up and down, up and down:: flog flog Glog:: many options red:: did was And the black not black paper is made from wood Boston, and dragging her shawl and running, and we all got in - she’d collected some guests who Or yellow with great hope or fear:: know that babies are illogical; Illogic logic wakes and screams; the night is turning red and black:: That blond the other night:: I'll be a great face; not the one they would ignore in your 'real' and lonely and insignificant life - then you are - heard not black on night:: The light elephant to three down: no to yes: ifly: better:: not antiestablishmentarianism:: on her face – and shame – awake now and torch the night: Twombly; let’s go out, let’s riot, let’s smash somethin’:: These days in this bloody turmoil, before the waking (Will we-they?), oops, sorry, I'm so sorry....No I can't, just can't So woman: And why not?: Alephs, & such arms in arms, and the joyful bitter hope of gold, beat into music: free but these things are always a kind of eternal sentence, an exploded gap into which pour words in to fill the abyss of horror and darkness who is (probly) of the living root down to grip:: whereof:: Delight:: The thoughts:: fire - much mad truth:: Old woes:: Things keep living in this old the flaxen hair chaos, under the sun, of the:: are lost in gelid time:: We are the:: Calculating turns, and all Time: if all Time was now, where would we then eternally to present before:: again, again i thus this exegesis cherish who despise the stark, styptic Styx separating it from the wave which seems rioting and echoing in the cataclysms, its resonations rise from it:: It waits:: Flashing the under underneaths of the riverrating, possibly unstoppable, flows of bubbles and colours and soap things in pre-sex sex: busy in the brain, making us: just like in Brakhage, 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 Ol’ man sorrow O1’ man sorrow 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 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 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 brought to ourselves: as if things invented themselves:: and therein in the super depths of mid millennial dark:: devils with too bright eyes accost or like Aristotle, heroically digging, nearly alone, or others, seeking certainty:: but a poet is always uncertain, peering into uncertain, miasmic things we skipped past the great Alhambra of the of the castles – we descended. Time ended:: No flautist fluting to the beautiful morn:: Things lifted:: The marble cat interflows - there is a hidden litheness in her limbs:: And the god of art looks down, and grins in which sad sea horses race and do haunt welders’ works: study bric-a-brac, rustles, and the patterns of things:: shocked by the mirrors in your eyes:: It bodies forth, tumbling into entrance, like a double sea god, bent into green waves: painted, flashings, the folds, the dragons, the coils - the angels descending - the flower named for her:: So I saw her coming forward, stepping lightly and trembling:: For millennia I glass, I froze: Nodding Land of boiynes whose tendering everlasting of tendentoious eglatine, that enriched and bespattered the sexual-asexual wrench-squig of their symbolic: we go deeper: penetrating the reds, the greater resonations, the oak wood,
the teak dark depths:: who wanted wonky:: sing yet oh diamonds and bong:: career blip blop:: Her face in the photograph [ 117 by 126 mm i.e 14742 sq. mm. - notethat this measurement is indeterminate due to normal reading and callibration errors, that mix, as you are aquainted, like some soft, unseen smoke in these squirming, eiffel gay and towering times. Nor is it possible to compute the physical depths and relative orthognic volumetric or cubic dimensions: for under:: In the Silent Museum of memories and Things, and desires: we calibrate the lacunae, the stretches, the enormous time distortions, (the Shapes, and the ( the darkness between (Music is heard: - But the spiral (like a little grape vine spring); Or the metaphor of it: of the Golden Number – or that, until it filled the whole concert of his sleep, of course “sequestered” was just right:: I’ve also been dreamin’ up little word globes, its intriguing to watch them: how they Or because of, there was only a clever clue: John the over and under man who could have been At Pompei - of course because you thought of it; And were trying to impress them -
│that not
a │
ele │
│blooms
machine
│
ment
│
│
│ witness
An
enormous luminosity grew:: bald, and of the zero racing the dazzlings, the shinings like the sun in your
rear-vision mirror, are exchanged beside the suggested: The red tongue is as wide as God
and the Book with all those people death and all the screaming we didn't
hear...such a lovely lovely war!:: out the bar of aloneness and the near certainty of total disappearance (unless a
god hand reaches redly in to tear the Universe back inside out):: the assumed
or speculated death of all (if death is the Word…) - well, as I was saying, or
about to - enveloped in red you are now separate from whatever Nature devised
for you, never to be happy or 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 has got a circle which is really a fuckin’ellipse, 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:: As the red boly blob of the molten sun sinks:: you reading or are you thinking or are you seeing or are you; You may not be seeing...Y where the meet in that great OCULAR ORACULAR O It was insistent: it had god and hell in it's sound:: they lie impaled in their thousands in the dawn the profound books wait with the white valley of their pages for the sentences:: personal now) to “God help me, I went! For who will not betray a friend or, for; 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 and of Andness and of music, that only in your most putrescent of your annealed dreams that are so intense and alloyed and so taking into account carbonation to the bending moments and the shear forces involved as if you had become a bridge during the night only to collapse dropping a steam train into the freezing river and all that kinda thing:: just then now:: us up like wanting to know all, do all…[“Do something each day...]: Rimbaud or whoever you are [(or) think you] are...]: Work, the structures don’t need (or want) to be incarcerating, that is:: 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...bomb, poetically blowing away the maker's face: He is so stupidly, (rightly?), avidly:: Percipience:: unmoving:: We are Moved into a progression of Inspiration, We know it and know it not this fuser: this near-infinite engine that rules all life:: but we Reject music, it, ( it diverts (truth ( truth) from itself….( :: 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 death’s no problem: Someone walks his way; Musing, musing, dark at night, (His wife long gone)that are strange agonal teach, to:: We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’:: What’s that bloody lizardo mechanico liberto doing I would step through like Alice:: “And I have seen what other men had thought..”:: Remebrance of Things Past?; The agonisingly warm feeling it:: profound and silent as a whisper in a head of stone; sensate percept of his sentient, alive:: Beginning to end, as you’d guessed, the procedure had not yet begun: somewhere there was a child, somewhere else a man, and, surely at long long last, themachine: The endless visions; the deep red, the black around, the green, the blue, the bright vision; the huge bells, and the thump of the dead: what is a mark, a spot why do we link these points?:: Immense jump from straight lines to the rich complex geometries of Riemann, Gauss, Poincare and others…I once read about Poincare in the Howick library’s Encyclopaedia Britannica - one of my favourite books - and his (like Giordano Bruno’s) endlessly recurring Universes:: Unbecoming from your page set at 30 60 degrees and u-u-up onto the book, curlfully, and then onto the set square which:: What god, what dream, what awful power, what:: Was it my head? Your head?; And where are the electric brilliancies, showered and spattered with red days these spermatic days?”; He says: “The dormant raga of your days…what goes up...the jacket. . .the pen...the plainsong: Listen to the plainsong: Listen. Listen!”
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 has got a circle which is really a fuckin’ellipse, 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:: As the red boly blob of the molten sun sinks:: you reading or are you thinking or are you seeing or are you; You may not be seeing...Y where the meet in that great OCULAR ORACULAR O It was insistent: it had god and hell in it's sound:: they lie impaled in their thousands in the dawn the profound books wait with the white valley of their pages for the sentences:: personal now) to “God help me, I went! For who will not betray a friend or, for; 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 and of Andness and of music, that only in your most putrescent of your annealed dreams that are so intense and alloyed and so taking into account carbonation to the bending moments and the shear forces involved as if you had become a bridge during the night only to collapse dropping a steam train into the freezing river and all that kinda thing:: just then now:: us up like wanting to know all, do all…[“Do something each day...]: Rimbaud or whoever you are [(or) think you] are...]: Work, the structures don’t need (or want) to be incarcerating, that is:: 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...bomb, poetically blowing away the maker's face: He is so stupidly, (rightly?), avidly:: Percipience:: unmoving:: We are Moved into a progression of Inspiration, We know it and know it not this fuser: this near-infinite engine that rules all life:: but we Reject music, it, ( it diverts (truth ( truth) from itself….( :: 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 death’s no problem: Someone walks his way; Musing, musing, dark at night, (His wife long gone)that are strange agonal teach, to:: We’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’:: What’s that bloody lizardo mechanico liberto doing I would step through like Alice:: “And I have seen what other men had thought..”:: Remebrance of Things Past?; The agonisingly warm feeling it:: profound and silent as a whisper in a head of stone; sensate percept of his sentient, alive:: Beginning to end, as you’d guessed, the procedure had not yet begun: somewhere there was a child, somewhere else a man, and, surely at long long last, themachine: The endless visions; the deep red, the black around, the green, the blue, the bright vision; the huge bells, and the thump of the dead: what is a mark, a spot why do we link these points?:: Immense jump from straight lines to the rich complex geometries of Riemann, Gauss, Poincare and others…I once read about Poincare in the Howick library’s Encyclopaedia Britannica - one of my favourite books - and his (like Giordano Bruno’s) endlessly recurring Universes:: Unbecoming from your page set at 30 60 degrees and u-u-up onto the book, curlfully, and then onto the set square which:: What god, what dream, what awful power, what:: Was it my head? Your head?; And where are the electric brilliancies, showered and spattered with red days these spermatic days?”; He says: “The dormant raga of your days…what goes up...the jacket. . .the pen...the plainsong: Listen to the plainsong: Listen. Listen!”
She says:
“Love conquers all these money days. Take two to make
three.
It’s all about the lines, and where the lines go.”
He says:
“Aagch! The lines – the lines? Doth thou impinge… ”
configured
into INCESSANT STASIS it is is it?:: where what was when the the the the cob and
SPLATTERED inserted quizzicals recall that chess smile one day poles got to be got
until - was it Susan?:: hanging inside the dead tree::
And slip like a mossed stone:: A Japanese girl hugs a huge white dog:
verification:: it:: recondite circles:: reveled in zeros:: as if
grandiloquently sauve:: scog:: THE NIGHT? :: About three in the morning, ceased
- much as the Dodobird had - long fires ago, and forgotten by the Antiphon,
reached acme - then fast faded under soft and violent skies whose crossed to be
painted look was
eye dead to its stop of The Charge of The Light Brigade or some such
other Tennysonian echoes still leaving the forests of god—faced television sets
wrench—wracked and abandoned with their smashed screens and dead-faced
fuckedness that brings in the iron turbans of sperm and delicately treasured regrettedness:: Verrisoonilly
soon I’ll be homililly home a lily in the last privileged glow we ask:: In that
harsh unshadowed land Where I have forgotten How this...he dreams of a non
finite all colour blankness on which all by writes are possible we, who created
this balls-up:: lights:: I thought I wasn’t going to make it out of there: My
first thought: No one was giving me any information; What surprised me:: Light
seems to splash sometimes – perhaps like music, or the mathematics of music –
or the beauty of a transformed curve – or is it Photons onto electrons?:: A
probability wave function, and a dream of knowledge of knowing as if anyone or
anything could ever know anything he said giggling awkwardly:: It could just as
well be 1 million years afar; :: But with no: But with no sign of panic:: is it
all the things it is?:: But, after millennia, pain; became; or was abstracted
by a neuronic fire-flash and as we know this endlessly implies death:: You wont cheat this
god, there’s no converse:: 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 like love, or an armless embrace::
And soon a shivery strangeness felt uneasy in our quelling fingers:: And
bees, unhampered, grew as big as monster balloons, whose coordinates made
vectors of swinging light:: Some things are gigantic with truth: like dead
brains:: the window, the only source of:::: transforming its own ellipse or in deep sadness; as
life longs for life:: the endless vision; the distension as to
deleterious we drift and stars are bubbles of ur-waste:: there
are millions of varieties of cone shells:: sometimes we can say ‘transfinite’::
She opened her eyes wide:: cunt wasn’t a word she heard much these days but
she found the old man intriguing:: Endless
are the rows of spines, the book beings made
skeletal by time and ‘abstract hate’:: Everyone has played over the 1948 World
Championships:: Go away:: Illogic logic rocks the cradle’s hand:: a cat on wheels: an old 78 ; an iambic
nightmare:: that were so busy then; This is a dark and that the eagle descend::
And yet strange tongs in storms cannot the piano be: two smooth yet enormous ears, put out to
shudder:: it was a bugger for pissing about all night with:: music
gadgets that questionmarked the edges, whose triumph was to be precedent to a
glowing failure as of, say, a mad re run:: gadgets and more gadgets and bolts
and bits like an old man in his workshop and my head loved being surrounded :: Nothing
very bad happen to me lately, how you explain this Mr Bones?; We all brutes and
fools:: You too said you’d recognized the and kind is the agèd face; and down
the eaglet came to devour the brains that were so busy then:: unexpected:: that
floweth so in wills so sweet:: perspicacious pepermint:: Illogic logic knows the
unseen waterfall: the
heaved, gnarled rocks, basaltic bubbles:: Heads and horribles all gorgon with
eyes come at us: We hate, yet need, this darkness: We, or some of us: the inveigled transparency of a carnival of the pure
answers of a:: But they could never reconcile the numbers - Who sobbed -
alone in their rooms - inconsolably and uncontrollably as he left her:: It is
said that these men such as Einstein think in different ways:: “I frequently
find myself thinking in images”:: Ein stein is One Stone:: The blocks of red on red on red by black
around by:: the earth shakes, but all things scuttle on:: the Great Pendulum
does a 360 proving nothing who forgot the spring under the floor, hee hee!!::
There’s no stopping the busy beetle, black with purpose:: I is another:: Once I saw a
box, it was beautifully box-shaped:: she knew the long nights; the tiger’s
despair; the rage:: he saw, or thought he
thought he saw, the window to his right:: But it flashed so that it was on his
left:: lovely:: Roots limbs nerves trees stand stark: black veins on eye-light
scrawled; To perish powerfully, despite ferocity, and the queerness of how you
are becoming a spoon:: Those reds!; Those blues!; Who
would forsake them?!; ….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
are all gone stupid croak; And the times of wet newspapers: The apple times,
the pillow times, the erections – all all already known…as in the following
image-poem-text- enactment: an implication of an infinite and progressive or degressive
process ...where there is no answer the or the answer is beyond and we are under -
:: 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:: Who reacted:: All this reminds me of That day she and I (young)
(silly) (hot) and (rashly) - wrote A loves B on the sand, When she was certain:
but I have tried:: we knew how to put the brake on? : Then Dad jumped in?;
Remember damning that creek for hours in Rotorua?; Remember running home from
school on the first day?; Remember ginger-headed, skinny Mr Twiss? How’’we
called him “Mr Twisted”?; How I thought he’d have to be a genius with a name
like that?; Remember you knew what “amplify” meant to Mrs Hollis?; Remember you
bought the first part
of ….But about here it all peters out and they wander away casually eating
their thermonuclear lunches… :: You have hell in your hands: Who are
‘you’? “You” keep getting into poems and strings of words, prickface :: the
crazed, the light filled; The crazed, the mad, the artist of all things, The
Voice says, are alive - burning beyond stone; even the stone cannot ache enough
and the mountains retreat in fear – the
knife cuts deep expelling bright blood:: waiting, talking: saying things we
could never think of:: I do well to dwell, crossed and crossed and christed
twice and twenty crossed again) you and I and they re re-enter to face full the
tiger’s face... for all things had shuddered at the taloned shock...enough for
‘b’ to follow ‘a’:: In the Silence Museum, :: What am? Where am? Who are? Are
you — did they?... :: secret in the magic:: I’m on guard against niceness, or those
little acts of kindness — like decapitating an elephant:: To end: to endlessly end:: you
know who me it what why:: the fiery but tragic dark the and the
hunchbacked universe; a burning snake; the rich black moment:: if he was to run
for Mayor he’d have to shake hands:: as you guessed, or had been proleptically
cognizant of: sliding away into a suggestion of music; for at the turn-table:: And
this was the tragedy:: for what she loved of :: Order from slime and sparks from dark Did
fire this flesh:: And when the brain began to thump Oh gone by god was god, thus spake::
Cobblers, the whole lot of it, crap in fact::
prick cant eat a Ball Bag?; President! :: electric horses
are sleek, and fleet, so that the gathering hooves; And chocolate is beautiful but
illogical:: raw as a Roarer:: President!: Mr President!: Mr Fantastic!: its
been such a:: black sea:: Keep reading, think, search:: Brain?; Who are
you?; Eh!?:: Do something, anything...just start, it helps....Do a bit:: A bit each
day:: ……”:: OR Why not? - the reasons are – but we die:: The black thing, bony,
grasps the white thing:: recurrent motif lacked a motive, but, let it be said,
we have reached The beach, and here our enquiry ends:: Why?; Things weren’t
going all that well:: Forever, in an entropic dish, and how his wife: the head on the
table like an accusation: a demented writer tearing out his writings - should
have seen all
those tiny:: And:: you:: infinities:: Time
screws to smaller than a breadcrumb, or a bisected proton proton:: somethingsomething. and: be it thou you me I what he she it
them as if “quite savagely creating”:: Death was falling all over Itself
all over the bloody place and we were all gorming at the Faithful; who, in sadness goodness
piety and gladness, have come to The Appointed Time:: Stop Here!:: Is it safe to
walk the cannibalistic
wheels of the world or nibble slightly at the cake of death?:: turn, as Louis
turned, his time: holy as eighty flowers, holy as child, counting into time, counting:: but this my alliterated kiss 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:: We tried touching and stone recalls the cold and the
fingers, stretched, of their duty to the gold and the light, and the cold
moving thinking things erupt again:: Sweet intended tenderness, you can, for
there must have been tenderness, togetherness, touching: And on some immortal
goat-clapped roadour ways didL Never did we panic then:: it is hard: I never want to
start, then there is so much, endless permutations oceans of ideas which wash
around through and over me leaving the invigorating and indisputably eternal
taste of sea salt and time itself; leaving me joyful as a new fish but laughing
as the great green or blue waves beat me and slap me as a huge thing would play
with a ball, but I am content in a stupidly excited way…:: but about now they tore
in, in with their lovers’ quarrel: I recall the sexy teen-angel: maybe
something primal, transmitted through the air, the cellophane or cellulose:
flick flick flick…:: 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:: where bolts rained down, extruded, great gobbles, and
terrible the Made:: - But who in Money lay ever a rain of event and ever a:: in the great library of towers where the nodding smile
is a book on a beach of dreams:: you cannot be beautifully sad anymore, because:
the brain is suspended on sticks of ice:: Maggie's was a troublous life - to
gone words: doth window in which are scribed:: w o r
d s she: she is beautiful as
a flame leaping from some unfound and carnal blue – In other words the poem is
not about anything; it is the record of an event of unnaming:: would and the
dancing light and the dancing dancing light dancing into that timeand the
dancing light (as aforementioned) the gigabitic silence and the Dark darkness,
and indeed I :: Westward walk In that awful other season: Some go North: loved /
feared grails and waters.) with blinded knowing - (This much we know, as we are
darked.):: A tired lady Puts on her coat The typewriter Dies for fingers: Her
hands are cold - It is 4 o’clock:: To control that part of my Universe: But the
waves?: It has all ways puzzled me, That that thing we did, which was a
spell, on the steep steep hill:: Remember oh thou sneering chaos, whose joy is
to rip us into tatters of nothing: we who are - those of us participant - we
who are strangely marooned: but none of this matters a fuck:: generally the
numbers have been behaving lately, in tongue filled tomb tones I smell my left
hand, or is it paw?: A sudden strangeness — I am not myself:: How can we evaluate?; Ejaculate, 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 and know not that there are
mountains ignorant of birds With their early morning madness: They clacked: They awoke and it seemed all surreal
and giggly About a meaning they kept from me. . . So I, Asked for assistance, but
there was no one, So it became something rushing off just; As I was looking carefully into and prying and History:: “Did you like the film?” he
queried queerly:: And do the irrit camels shake their sleepy heads when the
snow flakes touch?; Her language is
hers. Her Mongolia Is not my Mongolia; Is it?; he stood outside, pissing
– :: i would like to carry; since you sprang i rolled::
are you you or fool: events?: …light splashes around us, like a new music: like a
Japanese flow whose child-sight keeps fragrant, exact dull picture and the homily hell as age dulls; and jubilate springs in
tiger:: So much
…:: slithers,
slither – wood Analysed
-as Heavy as an imploded star?:: In focus photograph she watched: “That
man” : she :: definitely: Face you:: Outside
where beats down:: become: Every now and
then I’m getting a little bit closer:
Waves: Waves of: Waves of waves: the dust gathered light as perhaps an angelic::
is thinking the shivery wing’s incipient shudder with ecstasy:: Illogic logic rocks the cradle’s hand:: The tired, metallic
beast, wounded, struggles in civilisation’s mass, the great moral clamour: the scraping
awakening, where the is red-eyed with his robotic ecstasy:: the sorrow:: and
words are wrong unless they’re wrong: and now we incise the brains of all the old and
perfect heads:: “My name is Z, I’ve been here long, It was I did
shrink this world to stone And you my man are quite alone.”:: pathetic
whispers from street stones:: i give them be:: and there are such stories!:
How this one lived, that one spurned::, and Oh dream my love your traumaway For I your da’ d’
gang away; I- da’ gang away my dear, my soft, my Cord, so wise: is still there:
something about speech what is this gentle:: he:: head a head? :: hand::
On the first hand credit personally: this
sense as of a finger, or of some movement to a moment expectedlya structure he
believed - and many learned men and women of my acquaintance do hold forth,
melodiously:: Fast heeling on that bumble fingering:: Treasure convey this my
particular attent To that matter, whose import is as vast As giant mountain
quakes that:: and do readily avow and attest to that figure’s superior
aesthetic, and indeed, philosophic perfection, and will, with great enthusiasm,
erudition, and earnestness:: and the flame flower being free flows like a silk
wind, and: she
is everywhere everything:: old as you are:: Nothing is still:: “You haven’t got the guts to fuck me!” the hot blonde by the
alley way despite for example that: “having found eigenvalues we now turn to
the problem of finding eigenvectors, and that for this reason, we call the
solution space:: obscuring Edgar’s view of the:: noted that the clock “says”
8.47, and that it talks and enumerates this numeric time in harsh Roman numerals:: fire
broke out in the constantly:: light eternal eternal quia sections who know dark
light white eternal dark eye golden black light sections sections:: eye light
light:: 13:: In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth
on men, 14 Fear came upon me, and trembling, Sartre expands on the for-itself
as a being of agency, 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, estimate the exact shape…:: Why, for example, do the fingers
spread out into there are limits, yet reality and emotion seem infinite::
Focus though: an old woman sits alone in her home she is fearful: where am
I?:why does no one come?: :: into a black distraction:: violas, but, the
trouble is, just as you are not me, we are not I: and, as I said you said I
said, that sparrow on unstable sable wings:: - there being, as youare well
aware, none of him for the lack of it:: you, and I, could touch the retouched
Face: but what dark syntactic hedge of scumbling verdance could catch our our
crashed emergence, our black box of a dream by death: as if The Finger: People:
People in the bear all the aspects sentences the stranger self in the maniac of
conspiring nights, or, as if in some reve de sommeil had swooped; after the all
of which, who cares?:: to broad spectrums’chunks of musics:: walks
the empty streets; the city is troubled this speech. this eternal –
rotating thing
hullo ha
ha hee hee you’re as if it was, and then those who had been touched:: Staring
like birds….pipe, wrenched impossible…salt and bright and still…buggered:: The
neighbours:: Then I remembered - the baby waving bye bye, And the little hand,
but I was not repeat not Fooled:: And spring; and all the bloody noise; But
I cant do fuck all about it:: 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:: fuck all about it fuck all fuck all:: History has many voices: because
everyone had rioted and run out with all the food and goods that belong to everyone:: the thing glueing the
water together leaves
its imprint to lazy grease the verdigris:: shades,
and all those who came: there: To discuss: prices, and Pythagoras, and
the ways of The Hippopotamus; And how Bill had such intense blue eyes; what
with everything getting more expensive these days; and the way the beautiful,
but meaningless structures: And the dilemma, and how the blood that drips, red
as flame … recreates and re-recreates the everlasting cities of light::
And from
the mud of blood:
I grew up
to be a rugged All Black Or something, but I never forgot the Fifth Curve:: To disappear into the black...
by black by line by line by round; The red in red of red in red where black:: and high joy that tears after wolf lament was iron unto us the scream:: Shadows
dance in the lighted box:: 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?:: and sink in Lake Oblivion -The self forgo:: “Lens”
is a word and you:: And when the black began to pump:: beating:: Genug eincochin.
water; satrebach:: observe or:: as the peni
smoked and spermatic throbbed dark truths of
the spoiling:: And wincing at the blurr: which was the rev, The
rev, the revelation which soap-Slipped Whaaeee! out of my hands, fuck it, so I
returned; But they saw and - simultaneously - turned their:: brain is sticks of
ice alacrity:: 2.031 A spatial object
must lie in infinite space, :: But “Who are you …is not a question they
will ask.”:: you tend, to wander A GREAT DEAL:: But I wont:: double quasi thing in the bleak black white blackness two
four eight one white
line stare hollow out of holes the walls go
mad - mad with hat: redgreen of Fred, whom we most: You joined me and it was then I came
upon us: Who were we, you eternally asked?: They meantime were vanished into
clumps and dearly loved and did observedaily, tackle in one hand, THE
JOYS OF :: contemplative yes, but curious inevery dimension —greatly was he
with fish and many faced:: did you know:: We struggle, each with their CHEMICAL
GHOSTS:: 'Twas sockets and steel in the:: does she come?; screaming; All are
frozen,:: by back the white around; Around the bound about the white the red
more red comes up the red; It rears its head:: Bruno was burnt for his ideas: (We
kill for the Idea.):: vast strange Universe; The
bump, the end-begin; and the envision; the red, the glaring, the green, and
somewhere and eye, and in a horsed yet controlled frenzy of motionless
light alert: and then would be such plum
purple hate-love and the lustre one, beautifully
delicate as a smudge - yet inviolable, for if savagely Philomelled, death would
be die, we know we read, as in sexasm, nightingaled: so we trudge out
past the pillars and the metaphysics of yes no yes no yes, until, limply, we
either back creep or creep back: consummation being destruction, the story expelling us - the shuddering now
telling the not-Truth into a shrinking phallus, or something or rather of that
ilk - you know - like a, like a...a molecule in a mass, A Mass. A Mass, whose
very Oblivion, destroyed into light is…:: I am a bubbling machine of
light:: He will be force Rome’s truth of
heart insinuates Of hopelessness and lust: Doomed by time And the To die thus
in youth's sexual sudden, with the....:: and blats like a pig’s:: fire and so
wanted, so Helen-desired?; Who could resist it to be?; And who would want more? Who..?:: sword;
He waits for the
Satyr:: I was seized by a Terror: it was The Green Man with bloody incisors:: and
so I thus my time: its long evolve - :: or you no no no no no no no no :: that story struck a
nerve: telescope: eyes are eyes where eyes eye in the crowded to betterness where the
alligator ripples up the rock, and guards the valley where apples:: persuasion very good
rich by nose or a rose: indeed speculation: thousands: they sang as if
disappear: not: oh whang:: twine is comfortable:: its hard being:: time: down
easy go:: slip slap grease perceptive appropriation:: local:: I walked up to her, took her in my
arms, and I kissed her and kissed her - she changed to a Princess; The Manager
:: they are galactic those gentle devils: but I forgive them for the sake of
the shapesand those trees of ending that smudge in clusters - beyond:: It can’t what glass
rose 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:: Dog has set up a conflict, a complex; a complex conflict like a five
volume analysis of Finnegans Wake:: How can we evaluate? ambiguations,
you knowthem,
they descend How much redundancy adds? :: suddenly you are apart even from
those Lords of The Erotoforce:: not
even a ciborium:: The Voices: Of course they are glad for the ‘masculine’
statements of the violins and the
strength and sweetness of their pistils shall be glad and erect to the powerful
anthers:: the dust gathered lightas perhaps an angelic bumble bee, who greater than his size::
they have become bacon-faced and stupidly bitter like great humanic metallic
fish that stride about only to clatter. and they keep speaking:: to ensure that they rectify semen gunpowder transmutations
of after the news inseparable terms of
supports beehive petrol love which nsinuates
“after the news” if ever you could rectify human the term of supports is lopped
into inquiry of a fixated computer animal and pop up revokes license and given
a free hand in the cermony insane-normal popsicle cold and tasty if intra or extra
vital skipping in the street and the old stamping by the old steam drains as if
a pipe and who croaks about thevoid, avoid the void and maintain sangfroid and
thus Freud who suggested that the Zebra Groups do it “after the news” and the
slip (planned inevitable inside the asking for or not) into a fixed mortgage
where that which Is poetic language is radically heterogeneous whose
futile mission is to be again as in the grammatical terror of the MOMA
garden which I cant really recall clearly (but I was there…:: but, I swear -
she was beautiful:: awfully beautiful:: How strange, a whole town of glass; How
can people live in a glass house?; Speak:
“I. I.”; Again!: Before the time goes away!: “It is cold in this fold.”
(and) I want the red glass ;You will never see the sun again:: titanic titanium
toe: titanic, fly-besotted lorded and raging, You cannot imagine with
whatintense tension, with what
age-old sharpness paginated or indeed unapaginated heart
waited my hand trembling; to recommence:: It was the darkest negative; He called it: ‘Vortex in Black’:: we awaited events:: so Euclidean, as here in Arden we conjoin and again in short time hideous nerve,and we dream of raped saints:: oh To breathe!: To Be!!: To carry universes in!: To crack open an egg!: To eat, to think! :: but those sands. As in Scott of Lammermoor, The quicksanded cities.' as I wrote, using hope and thirst:: sad The height: and a place, somehow:: Some:; the image of a man and a horse plunging:: To disappear And the vents of fury among the loud mountains: Why have we not passaged here?: we fools of what we in purple foldings were: and We have something to teach, to say, impart e’en: We could treat time like Cantor's and find that time by time yieldstime only, and time times time is Aleph time or even ‘fiddle time’ :: 'We endless; They were; Unity: Great:: Once I was 'chosen' only to fail; I was, indeed, perfectly failed in all sexual senses of the words:: Days we raved to It on Setebos: days and times we seemed to know:: she herself was meta Malevich soon rejected geo supremacy and-negated the imposed illusion notion and dots rubbed beyond-her ancient dialogue whose clear concisions, and those ochraceous umbrages of blue sads: and their glare is peniscate in the terrible kindly sun:: but later, death grips his shoulder - Their graves were mountainous:: foul, chaotic, brute, brief, nasty, atom-smashing blood and boil-filled godless and sneering chaos, whose joy is to rip us into tatters:: hereby the trite and creative cakes of crystal atomic lattices:: WE BECOME MORE THAN THINGS AND WE HAVE NAMES AND WE THINK AND EVEN FEEL AND EVEN GET TO BEAND WE ARE MORE THAN ROBOTS AND WE ARE WHAT WEHAVE BECOME DESPITE THINGS NOT IGNITING AS EXPECTED:: - and intented thru, like all the winter's winds had seized themselves into the glass fingers like leafic fingers :: And the silence: you would never surge of appear to hear the chunk clank clank the old traction pump; and John Bell bellowed as the townsfolk sang:: No milksop though, he knew:: knick knacks hidden in hall cupboards:: And image ingrains to enormous blue:: Perfect empty thing: Beside all the other Creative, gay, and clever things beside, my favourite flowers, Nothing:
age-old sharpness paginated or indeed unapaginated heart
waited my hand trembling; to recommence:: It was the darkest negative; He called it: ‘Vortex in Black’:: we awaited events:: so Euclidean, as here in Arden we conjoin and again in short time hideous nerve,and we dream of raped saints:: oh To breathe!: To Be!!: To carry universes in!: To crack open an egg!: To eat, to think! :: but those sands. As in Scott of Lammermoor, The quicksanded cities.' as I wrote, using hope and thirst:: sad The height: and a place, somehow:: Some:; the image of a man and a horse plunging:: To disappear And the vents of fury among the loud mountains: Why have we not passaged here?: we fools of what we in purple foldings were: and We have something to teach, to say, impart e’en: We could treat time like Cantor's and find that time by time yieldstime only, and time times time is Aleph time or even ‘fiddle time’ :: 'We endless; They were; Unity: Great:: Once I was 'chosen' only to fail; I was, indeed, perfectly failed in all sexual senses of the words:: Days we raved to It on Setebos: days and times we seemed to know:: she herself was meta Malevich soon rejected geo supremacy and-negated the imposed illusion notion and dots rubbed beyond-her ancient dialogue whose clear concisions, and those ochraceous umbrages of blue sads: and their glare is peniscate in the terrible kindly sun:: but later, death grips his shoulder - Their graves were mountainous:: foul, chaotic, brute, brief, nasty, atom-smashing blood and boil-filled godless and sneering chaos, whose joy is to rip us into tatters:: hereby the trite and creative cakes of crystal atomic lattices:: WE BECOME MORE THAN THINGS AND WE HAVE NAMES AND WE THINK AND EVEN FEEL AND EVEN GET TO BEAND WE ARE MORE THAN ROBOTS AND WE ARE WHAT WEHAVE BECOME DESPITE THINGS NOT IGNITING AS EXPECTED:: - and intented thru, like all the winter's winds had seized themselves into the glass fingers like leafic fingers :: And the silence: you would never surge of appear to hear the chunk clank clank the old traction pump; and John Bell bellowed as the townsfolk sang:: No milksop though, he knew:: knick knacks hidden in hall cupboards:: And image ingrains to enormous blue:: Perfect empty thing: Beside all the other Creative, gay, and clever things beside, my favourite flowers, Nothing:
We who
are lacking of our selves, set forth to ponder
The
dark click
This
is one way as said
could
there (there) could there could be heard so thus mudly in the hole and
commotion? and the lovely shaped yet unspeakable bush of shells; one day to be::
was it worth the sexless Beetroot Question yes?:: inmmensa: Some people:: man is descent unto a wicked with centuries of whiteness intention:: leads you out the dream: he the words are there...so,
where was I?: Oh yes, the universe is like a large piece of paper with lines on
it, probably in blue, but not all ways, to a very large, in fact, a near
infinite, book: when white numbers all dominant were in calculating these
things:: High in turning these are tranced into wonders and so rolls the image
of stupid woodens:: Until they converge and unemerge as if they were Pacifists of lacked the
key to Evilness….
-Nay. Yes - but many come and go we know in the soft
blue his head, and on his hands we'll never know.
Yet the Reich was high, and spears purple above, shone
in a new orange we had never seen.
-Dreamdangled they, or ever shook the sharp
afar, the clawed night, the perished fish:
light for gasping?
-No, nay, never a day.
But the eyes, had you forgot them wholoved you and
refused to blink?:: signals it gets
going but the microscope gets in: then shadows. and bends. place. regard.
regard and magnify search to crack tiny miniscule a slither slice worked to by:
as to by to by it when as to by to and if, then, as reached, a bit impossible
ontological, whose truncate avowals,
spread as the wings of
a Bourgeois Liberality, despite
impingements as curtains fall all everywhere into the greenness of incipience
as aforementioned:: the dark click:: hollow out of holes the walls go mad - mad with hat: redgreen of pity in this: That which I write is futile:: Made
the buzzy bee: red, yellow, blue, with its great eyes like those tormented of a
gigantic dragonfly: pumpings clackless
the feeling matter and the perspicacious protoplasm
– suddenly you are apart even from certain as in a man listening to Bach or
eating steak eggs cheese and chips with Italian sauce – you cant be like
enveloped in red that for long – you have to breathe – and you can now pretend
that everything focuses on your Face, and indeed, your voice; your
words, your wonderful or enveloped in red enveloped in red inane
inspirations: they are all trapped in the eternity of an Amazing Truth of the
ligh enveloped in red seen in your features or your words – but they are more
than words – all Hell roars through the mouth:: It Was About Now:: Alpha
Red enveloped in red It was wood: about 8 x 3 holes: Twenty four hole rooms:
Rooms you could room in, like wombs: In the space illusions there were in it:
seeds, pebbles, dry flower heads: Did you go to the village yes: Our Church is
always screaming: John’s got a new cock:: subtle Siamese: many other many days we played....but
its not baffled by light, it can’t be:: We wander and wonder, and, saunter by shiver reflect and destroyed the wilderness say:: alien roses the colour in delicately
different of and :: fabricated words in random orders: If only ice, resolution,
and some inception - some conceived Contrivance: some explosion in the Head of
a truth matrix: The dead eyes of a dead man: Wire: Fire: Red light: Don’t stop:
It all begins: And,
to quote: “Each nerve with fury trembleth.”: I pause: Most see him like a dead fire
hydrantor a lump of iron:: and are mad with seed: as distance dims their
circles into uniline: betimes most pitiless place: a converge:: hell of conjunctions, despairing boat of heaven’s genetic
imperative lost in (the) if it would be thus be thus be what: But: When: P beside the orogenous
octomorph:: into a continuous and seemingly r madness maddens and everywhere
there is a clicking of meanings:: God is knitting:: Death
was edging closer:: Chess - Alice flew and flew, But they got nowhere. there
is no…there is…there is…there is no...there is:: It’s ho tonight rock me
babyIt’s hot tonight rock me babyWe’re sweatin’ an’ jumpin’ an’ It’s hot
tonight rock me baby of backward forward fragment
worlds :: Messages are inserted or race into the totality of a
rivetted unchange, eloquent all that whirring, wolf, how to Sound there spun
new and ancient thunders to thus confirm. Unmanned:: A dark dead grey dread
something turned over to show its body’s face: to stare and stare from red mad
eyes: Those lamps of black gone black mis-shaped and as evil as… rolled,
up-rolled eyes: the whites now green, now cyan, now red….not yellow and you can now
pretend that everything focuses on your Face, and indeed, your voice; your
words, your wonderful or inane inspirations: they are all trapped in the
eternity of an Amazing Truth of the light seen in your features or your words –
but they are more than words – :: I yessed at her, but it echoed into questions, :: My fingers ride dancing into that timeand the dancing
light dancing into that timeand the
dancing light dancing into that timeand the - pebbled - And swallow - bad bad -
lustily and bright:: The mathematic yours old one your frozen beard if only
eachcreeping thing could set forth the theorem of its reams of their juicy
dreams: agony of
groyne;: And image of yellow and we spot the blue spot it dies in the
waves the waves ingrains to enormous blue good good from behind yon pedestal, upon
whose skull’s sneer there is that extra touch of vile —
"to fill the world with
glowing skulls" [Victor Taylor]
I
don’t think she’s playing a game Pete. Praps she is. Oh Jesus, what a fuck up
that
all was. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Go the play. Go to the play?. Go to the
play?Alone?? Yes,
you’re
always alone. Every one’s alone. To sail the equidistance. Dance on an
egg.
If a daddy long legs got drunk and its heads grew to the
size of an immense baby’s, and it caterpaultered across the First World War,
and all the other deathings, and the moon fell in shells of ice....it would be
time for the first green, hopeful shoots,
curleying from thelittle garden,
hidden from the others, in the
oxygenated blackness, and
all twenty two
fingers
in the perfectly nothing lake.
as I have said before:: i’ll say it again again ] tone writes: f = 2t
cos z by time these things of lament fall upon us as dark green quilts on aged
men where women wail:: Forever fingers 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…Once I stood
on hills, high in corn, whirled about in black by yellow crows, and did shall
burst in thunder yet that all, all neglect all, and the dark and clapping coat
a-stick:: The eyes whose death from some central of a secret are maybe genesis::
Why, for example, do the fingers spread out:: The dream was numerical; like a brain bloody and white, pulsing:: High high in snow freedom; Deep at night I invade my books:: on a steel table cold alone in the wind alone: It turned, as all sky
turns, and thus becoming aware like (in the aqua delight) how holy in or out in
ecstasy '...:: the Dacians we pass over – we have the
wet white roses.': like a metallic, shiny segmented finger waving or
strange sweet twistels, pink, erstwhile, and slowly, ceremoniously, rising the
shivery wing’s incipient
shudder:: Prepare ever more gratuitous horrors seen only if ever in the
albescence of a Ghastly Always peeping out from betwixt gold lit columns and disappearing to gone having recently
strangled someone whose hair endless flowed, we fell into forever realms: shiny
legend.
e
y e
No one
knows our names, we are black, or mad: Or yellow with great hope or fear:: a
truck driver, a professor, a cleaner, a clown, an electrician, and we
even...Those:: It says: this is me, I am original things you see, the starting
points, tentacles, gic logic dreams its logic in logical logs: The illogic
logic logs: Still the ravenous sea; Still the gulls:: Above: “There we are.”
She said; :: as
a chained bone:: For to whom is such an ambition of total annihilation and
self-destruction not deliciously attractive?; What indeed is it that we assail,
nay, essay, to do: any idea or thought or impulse or whim, “glorious”?; Put
“glory” to the many corpses of History – interrogate the dead:: No, no, not
those other selves; Those selves selved in self: No: Not them, they, those: No:
No, no no!:: As if blood; As if burning;
Burning as a body of light: Put it Dante to them they “died for freedom” and they
will wish to you they had lived for life: Most would be terribly perplexed,
e’en frightened: And indeed, History continues to kill: Bang! Bang! Bang!: It
all goes, getting louder and more more:: the things smiling in the enemy
room (broken, battered, or even just buggered) back into Eliot's acidic brain?:
Where is he anyway?:: twirling a strange key: always it must be seen to be seem
to be new, or: “I knew” when night (night
(night) and) the doctors:: 'Merde!' Shouted the old man:: This is not, of
course, a wholly new phenomenon:: In 1961 Hannah Arendt bemoaned the activities
of those intellectuals ‘ whose sole function is to organize, disseminate, and
Change cultural objects in order to …. :: If logos is first and foremost a: thin,
intricate fine we watch like prophets their acrofections who are aves now rising
like a requiem we we we who were godded to the spot — :: pieces of scrap iron, springs, saucepan lids, sieves, bolts
and screws picked out with discernment from the rubbish heap, could
mysteriously in their construction the vestiges of their origins remained
visible the language of space: the creative dance the laugh and lash of life::
“You worry about the way I say things, but you don’t worry about what I
mean.”:: That they who stoutly stand and die with him, Do get
no word,:: She dissected the sheep’s eye: Doctors: not so in illogic logic time
that floweth so in wills so sweet….They wring useless hands: They have been dragged sightless
into endless light, perhaps
you, from all day staring at the sunat those hells of find a finger in thesand,
or something more such
delight, such transgression, and:: Sometimes I - “...and this great
King Courage,Whose heart we need to fight and live,Yet he is so ga-ephemerous::
away, to perfumed rooms: where the women wait and sing:: whose monstrous beauty
is almost nearly tiresome:: Why couldnt the matter: the deep stuff in the dark
spring of things: why couldnt it get in control?:: there has to be an inquiry
of course: What was the matter with BREED THUS?: the matt? Could I tell you?
astwey afg iasdfui;y; That it kept throwing mold s, kep tre-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 asddf examplae faithfull image
Long glanged they, they stared up yes, of the eidos (the figure of
intelligible visibility) of what is, then it arises as a sort of primary contortions
of green of percipient and redolent if langorous and luscious examples or
exemplars of, of.......of apples conjunctions, whose dissolving boat of
heaven’sgenetic imperative,argue thus themselves, eggs, manackle
grim & cold unde lip wise we who under the Grindeoffe - and under the under
the arches gold fire Gutboy [barrel house] has scored lower information given
under however when it was filled with water it no deep longer ages...as ouy and
the Begin: the big big single bang bang boom!:: Ho wis it yoasf dintu
ndferestand meawf ina the sdfu treasm t: it terrified meandf “and indeed as I
know you are thinking, there are certain uncertainties:: a logically possible world is any conceivable way the world
might BE have; Dislodged in a canyon:: This bottle is the Universe:: we are sucked return to a fabulous fire - Ultimate
deep double bass adagio;:: I choir on a surge And I am Man Sweating different: Things: The
sob suppressed in rock fear Chasing Or chased Thru all time 11 certain proposals had been tabled 12 it came to this: 13 that
scream again 14 riveted to the page, riveted. It took courage and a good deal
of Buckleys, but Stanley broke through to “I presume” the intrepid Dr 15 the
Empire of the Earthworm 16 red:red things:: Of all collisions Of possibles – Danced in the
white of diode blasted randoms to PynchOn and on and on to a ball of glowing
light: for I also peer:: Then there’s your daily walk to upon me that moonlike
rubric holding me holding it as the stars shone with their Wall Street currency spasm and fears entire, entire
currency regions slip, all of this, as you know, leading into Something: which
is just like been (might have be been ( might have been (might have (might
WORD in a modern poem is a SUBSTANCE, and OBJECT, sui generis, and uses
machine parts and textured surfaces.....:: The
tragedy of the angry sneer, its vengeance, trap-ratted cat, crying in the box,
cuboid, deep in thewhite hexagonal hold, the Drogons searching, phrasically, in the loop back reactions of dead
significations and burning laser beams: it all falling over into the
mouth:: they begin to imagine symptoms: Alone. Splendour: It’s cold:
Passion: To cross wisdom: He’s a strategist from way back: it ill behoves us to chisel out the ancient courage
- secreto of
violets: Violetto:: Bags is right – well, aw shucks: I think we’ll
attack that huge principality is it Orkland?: and swivelling your six guns: I
mean business, watch out crocky, here I come, you fuckin’ po-faced grammarian Sunday
Times Belgrade lovalovely toward the from the husk (emptied) Music, by the way,
is first went ‘ga’ or ‘dadda!’: Explain a bug, infinitely
infinitesimal,marching like Goofy into my nose: Go on: Explain ‘clap’: Explain the
letter b. :: Under
the merciless Unblinking Sun Or random, Silent spaces; :: Enter
into summations by whichever climbs like downwards into fantastic: the struggle of memories to
an unanswerable penchant, difficultly, and why should I be what you are because
these clouds cloud but who looks on, and who is? :: the apocalypse is a way of
continuing or ‘getting through’ as they say in the trade:: what else can we
boast?:: We could treat time like Cantor's
Alephs, and find that time by time yields time only, and time see: Or could
not see, Were, as I began, wet, limp, But
together things, rapid, and, 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:: the world whirls by; Some stop, and pay; :: who
who he looks at who he looks is who - but we need all these people who
don’t agree because:: And the elegant elegance; The roses 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 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 and and
the endless miles to fulfill our wire blood needs pointing, profound and invisible, is
really only the pointing of a pointing and:: Some
Great Thing knew us then – it entered us our hearts and pumped the moth with
life; And a piece of Church glass flew away: sort of
gödelled sort of —theirs is a stereoscopic syncopation billy isn t silly
that premise permits gloom or bop or bopple: What was that you said?:: These
are the kind of shit-brained flower tramplers I deal with daily: Mrs. Edgecumbe
edged edgily: I cried once:: Wha-? Chuck some sodium into water and watch the
explosion:: The head trapped inside an invisible crystal had thoughts common to
all men, and a memory of a message about a rogue
proton:: April is the uncruellest month, Breeding mixing stirring
feeding Lilacs land memory:: the bottle’s neck, &
our quietly desperate hungers - our 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: Monet
built a vast orchestral garden:: Vast,
searching, and tremendous Dance?; :: stamping
out life :: Pins, crooked, are grinless as blankness – :: Jesus blood never failed me
yet: yet Jesus blood never failed me: me yet Jesus blood never failed:: I got very angry with it:: my mother, all other
beings – unspeakable – he light filled, the gently in expansive gesture prove otherwise the
hopeful and logical lights:: Cars and men do endless pass:: And they, it
is they who have transgressed: and
we radiance of a certain germanent grief is displayed who have been evilised: All
that evil, all those betrayers, and the bashed and bloody face: Messages
massage the
alive to the ancient anarchist:: Nothing knowing of the core, the
centre, The nexus of stasis: The thunder:: Graham and Peter:: of the drumming
of unsound:: have so much! :: (The
convulsions continue.):: This would be another when it seems nothing has begun. Look it’s only a
trailer!: (How can a trailer go in front of another thing?)’ But, never mind
that, who, I ask you, among you, wants it?; Eh?; Im?!; We just get on with it –
either we sink or swim like a lead shark…hidden inextricable the textual
cube:: in violent cold the faces writhe and eyes are bitter green:: yet once: a
bird a flash – of grace:: Jesus blood never
failed me yet:: What are these strange fields whose undulations make of
mutations suchbeaks of nations?:: These are indeed quite quite times we who
haunt ourselves in yellow fields of back dilations where winged things:: The hand
catapaults me:: Claps:: God, colossal – Cries out in gutteral: Worlds: Worlds
crack with drums: Dr. G. amplifies: There is ca-bam moments, even soar — But we
lack the eagle’s beak and claw: Let me reinvent my eyes for you — The doctor
was embarrassed by Nora’s rigid silence; he went on:: how a hand from all sides
(or any) yet had five fingers, how five wasn't two:: How everything greater than itself:: “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 we do is decent when the
mind begins to forget — the design of life; and good awaiting a death; and an
in unseasonable unnumberlessness:: of course
“sequestered” was just right:: I’ve also been dreamin’ up:: Harps in the
lillies, trumpeting trumpets - Modulation in mauve, C Minor violets:: And the
freezer full of meat and bread, And the bookshelves with books, Quickly, to
maintain some order of a kind, some shapes were sketched inside the surrounds,
the ‘frames’:: Thus,
tossing aside the keys, we set forth, irrespective:: The dentist drilled
Tremendous meanings Into the shiny nerve Of the White Mountain:: Horses clatter across::
The struggle of shapes leaps into the scream that creates paint
drips as he, brushing, wrestles death:: I showed menacing and vague,
tendernessprecise and sharp, to my infinite cat - and I have brushed the
softness of a baby’s head and richness and:: Dead things caught in a hopeless,But
restless, and never ending Parody of what looked – :: CHEMICAL
GHOSTS ? :: nota bene both the notion of infinity and that of information:: :: Eden Park.
Cops, batons,:: The brain, a thin faced, balding prima donna, scratches its
chimera, deeply concerned about the missing enquiry:: Indeed, nothing had been
said of this, accretion, and the general Lebensraum or Weltensraung: and that
which, even if only evanescently, ballooned into the light, was not there:: Only
the light; Only the long soft beard of milk drop buds of transform:: A frantic:: in the dark and clever
cosmos, interlaced
black the syncope terror of the fail of
life; the rhythm
syncopating and maybe thumping the red yellow maybe green the blaze by the
black the meaning like an eye among timbers or white stone, the yellow green the blaze by the black, the
meaning like an eye among timbers or white stone, the yellow green the black
interlacing, the weaved colours, the spider moving, and somewhere, a hand, and
a man heaves a dark breath; satisfied in father love against my
lips - Or, as we know, we: “Called out in the dark for her, but there was no
answer.”…fond thundered :: the Maan :: After breakfast, a hot bath, coffee, and
bacon and imprecision expressed over exspressoas various concerned themselves
with the absolute point of absolute zero: these, as we know, formed The
Absolute Zero Club whose attendances, lasting 200,000 years are in a jolly good
state of health as we now know more and more of why we all forget what weused
to know.....at this point the poured liquid nitrogen over the obstreperous
teddy bear....Dave was china set, or a doll Delicate; This, all this, leads,
foreseably, to the For or the Against - or some such unconcordable cognizance
whose when by then by which. I remember
- the Christ me! - the Breathing Machine; and the way how I couldn’t never
talk, reading Celan, who writ him dark, and I - beside her - well “I”, whoever I
was, ! , veered hugely away, to that time, :: A tired
lady Puts on her coat:: I hunched into the hill of myself as the blaze
of dying time and the blue-cracked expanse of the sky exploded silently. “All Hail to our
Non-Saviour Lord Gonad, Inceptor and Inspiritor of Nothingness and a word: :: great
skein gold parabolic and outwards shimmering to shake a No Thing, knew All
Thing: that Nothing was thus preached The Wonder of Nothingness:: had entered a
lovely land, and, leaving the faraway bergs or burns, had never felt colder nor
more intricately at ease:: We left abruptly as he too exited, excited by his
determined, yet black-cloaked and swishy purpose:: There were (the usual)
acclaims of grief or joy as a (totally) black hand sprang dominant on every
screen:: a turning dimension - and zeros: :: and dead Russians, soaked in
vodka; and especially preserved orgies 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 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 that they writhe inside themselves and glue into
the immense future who - terrible electric and alive - their
store-houses and the granaries of their their laws and their virtues; for
beyond all the desires of this little word globes, it’s intriguing to
watch them: how strange a strange stranger or god
in a strange land who has taken possession: in this now of subtle spring: So
much Analysed -:: 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::
The typewriter Dies for fingers: Raised up they songs: 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:: Oh
gosh, it's all so: soi disant: so that the koan and the ichus and the
ichor all be inked red and deathy; (14) thus things are dissolved into add:
(22): there were hints of telling me
something came the Music microscope there were hints, telling Me something that’s
how it came what is it telling me to gloom, and thus beyond something and
Beyond was sound: and they were yellow, beyond Stripe, beyond stripe and utter:
utterly: :: The terrible Meaning expands in
their skulls:: thus it rose, clang:: thus buzz, like an insane Wasp it whipped
itself anddying. you know, pink thoughts in biff (9) as if deliquesantly reified
into reams (33) all is all it is (a) :: That blond the other night, same
age as my daughter I'll be buggered: The neighbours:: A blue pen in a blue hand::
Not in a pool of light:: by their own Bold and selfless self. Is this
courage, a Prince of dark or light, or is he, Just some fever that burns
by chance in one,And leaves the quivering other man, At least alive — ?’
:: “You feel there’s something missing - wherever you look you seek that
piece of complete nothingness yet when you focus on it, it darts sideways?” :: and the thought
of things thinking set up new movements until firelight brush dead to hand the
hand from cold caresses the nothing if not thought the illuminating stipple as
ideas enter beginning a bird enters dives in bullet drop to the sea seeking
fish and things :: By keeping the mystery at bay with its sheets of clouds, and
Big Nose thundering in the torment of that which is not only a far far better
thing I do, its poking tongue, for it was rude and
young - :: here the instantiation photon :: - heard the cosmic quietly
by tip toe they reach, surely, by dream delusion, the central Isn’tness:
Yet the creature in the wicker chair and the old dead birds:: and for all his
shaping, man is lost in gelid time:: How the moon sings:: How the pliant land,
man moulded, becomes - and how growing:: rocker surely perform miracles: : Dark: The drill
spins, and I strut forth: brave as worlds…In someWhat is a fish I wish?:
will the Light Man creep back in to illuminate our music mauve, our song, our hey ho song? (Good
Fish) :: Meantime, we spit out pips of light, and horses pause:: if moon
was man:: with fock knows how many plasmic trolls: The gulf was uncrossable -
all that spittle :: throbbing:: What do you know?: What is this image?:: They
smoked in silence:: – then you do command the stage – your
alienation constitutionally unable 8 On page 146 - 7, Holden muses on war: 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
our glorious and:: And made fires for the wondering; I love old stories:
And I do not deny that the last word shall want a word:: Roach was the first to
unnumb the ice:: Yes
- it was more Than the most blackly:: napalmed and killed to:: When's the next
one: come on, bags?!! :: way:: know that silence:: 'till guilty fools a-tumble
like a Catherine wheel – these hands that strike these eyes:: that light: ah,
what we have we cannot have: and fly our bones away the sort of derivative consummation they had incunabulated out of the ape’s dark and evolutioned
eyes was as just as if gestation had long ago:: Oakland?:: Auckland :: somewhere a moving thing; its meaning is itself yet we
explode like children in the excitement of being, beholding all, as if never
seen: the fragment, the huge, the; the gusts, the ‘who are we?’ and then the
blue, the black lacing, the black border, the yellow, the gold blue, the
‘meaning beyond meaning’, a hand as mystical as a face, a song, and the black,
the light, the red, and crush on you, and squish out your innards;and
out’l pour Napoleon, and thousands of dead Frenchmen wrapped in tricoleurs::
But nothing came from that great and famous face::
madness maddens and fascinates:: is
impishly insidious with his short, stabbing sentences, and an ominous use of repetition::
the dimensions are not just one two or three as in stones, or
bookshops, but, as you search your touchy hand in the assembled grovelers
roughness, there is a further - :: the probe is
induced to buzz :: No :: nightin’ gales:: They saw the garden, Filled
with silence, And the carefully planted,Beautifully orchestrated Silver trays;
It was An innocent age: the pistons of nightHammering in the ice-breaking
ships: The men with hats:: white drop as if we could know it all:: and there’s
need for change:: They didn’t speak - It was like:: and the Bodgies and the Widgies:
the chuddy gum, winkle pickers, the slick-backs:: so that about rounds
it up right in the nub of our neverending tale: and you know as well as I that nothing ever lasts:: dog the limping man
and the dripping tap the beat the great gush and the storm begin the sad wind
and the huge joy of the child the heavy boot beginning again:: makes a change
whose origin, from the process of which was not contained in of what it
originated in, whose form, is actually is something – it gets to another place
when it gets working it keeps on: Switch the light:
NASA
SPACECRAFT
POISED TO
PROBE
RED
PLANET
the
terrible red rages in spokes its fiery fire – all, all is colour -
ALL: die for it. spill blood for colour. Stab for colour. puddle
of red, seeded with a scattering of pink and white strokes: Now Bob’s basic rap is that language, as an acquired skill,
is one of those loop back functions of the organism except that his units are
phrasiform as opposed to word form. Likewise P is ripping off, collaging,
splicing texts: completing the solipsism The Light and the Dark seemed to
know Something. Yes, it was the Light –
like the Doors,Higher than God Had been wedged Open,And all the Light and Dark
and Sound and ColourHad writhed into Being Everything compressed back into the
darkness: Shakespeare’s brain grew from the darkness: it is what it is and what it wants to be and what it
struggles to become there were hints of telling me something came
the Music: Microscope :: there were hints, telling Me something. that’s how it
came what is it telling
me to gloom, and thus beyond something and Beyond was sound These are
words: secrete inside themselves...The blaxities charcoal soft swirls and the jaggeries, or
the coiling resplendence - :: I said it was like I had had the top of my
skull neatly scissored off, and that maniac to broad spectrums’ chunks of musics
doctors pushed their scalpels in – he laughed his kindest laugh and told me he
rings Life Line.Child Holding A Brick In A Photograph: The ever present
evanescent sleeps in that ancient brick: And those young eyes accuse the coming
world; Who is less viles him this child but, it happens: you imagine that they will: who faces out the photograph
his hands around
a brick?: both for its visual and polysemantic ambiguation of its: of them, who is too vast to be seen and too alien to
be understood, logical things: or I was Clod?: a hand, green candle on the endless in
these strangled :: Of the Endlessly circling Eagles, wanting:: Illogic logic searches
with bright light:: Whichever way you look at it, it looms at you,
threatening to topple over with a sort of 19th Century bloody mindedness,
Oh well - and
you may well laugh the lights are going out. Then these still trees, the
tearing, aching for the Death, desiring May, or may not, Be – textual dynamic
and the tensile power that is shank - wide - 'a world too wide' - The
crazed, the light filled, the gently mad, the artist burning beyond stone; even
the stone cannot ache enough generated by London streets, would not have wanted
my Man-ness in The Ages when I have such dreams, to emerge the clouds come down::
for with my wounded nose:: How’s your woman thing -
still having those boring old orgasms?; No? Ja?; Why? It’s not a
question; You haven’t detected any commercial instability :: a sort of living inconsistency.
you know the sort of thing, 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 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:: Write down the facts he states :: It is difficult for me
to judge:: What clutches grows inverted trees Will never have the
knowing:: No, no, shithouse, and there who despise ever
unshut aside the sadly being self: Or Self: Not not being either, quite: but Being
beingly: Being, ugly
what else but a hand reaching out to another or via a page to keep as but Tower::
Weirdly
from all this ashly crumblings? :: of a
substantial subjunctive or preterited him, in time gone in a black rage, on
some ancient battlefield, and laughed as he died :: Instead, I stamp in:: One
eye open, floating,:: child petulant and tombs topple open, uplifting - here
you are; eyes are eyes where eyes eye in
the crowded hating; i’ve not:I just brushed my teeth - This too is a beautiful
act:: A fly flew
through the adjacent skull: Bede: A door banged in the wind: Masterton knew the
killer had eluded him again: But he wasn’t a man to give up easily: He checked
his side arm and did 2 thousand press ups. It was then that – :: the
pure, the crafted line :: The line, as blue as a vein, leading lyrically, and
oh so logically to what they could have said, that the hand trembles: inscribing
those meanings, those thoughts, these journeys of daring into the soul’s night:: his teeth into
the wind What have we must, but we never but, a wave and the green: semiotic signage sucks us into a reversal think to
microns: what path?:: grains to underscore granite: he lives in a sort of increment::
whose wicked obligatory is never more than a deposit into the
possibility when the crystal cold is thundered through all things alive or dead
But that’s a different story :: We are l like cave:: and clack and cannot Be,
but are: limbs snake the island, is Aladdin in a chaos And error ( (The error Error
(((an era all things are equal or are they, they are. even the tiny,
chipped, and There is no escaping:: My point, you see :: I only :: like the
red and white
queens in Alice in Wonderland
only to
transfigure the night into some sort of pattern, beautifully
devoid of meaning, and ascends the sky ( place ( these places ):: We calibrate. (We
summate. ing Thing!: You need that kind of
corroborative component; Oh well - and you may well laugh; the lights are going out:: Then now it
was as now
it was now
and now: and those
numerals: so knowing, so smirking in their Numberness stilletto quick when
still the hay
rick:: There I stood arrogant, grey:: Can that be incredible smallness of the parts
of natural objects, me? :: Am I reflection or.... Glass – solid liquid –
deceives... :: stupid questions: she kept asking:: And the
black not black not black on night; The light
alight but light not light: The clock is dead: The clock awake alive like head.
The head like blood like hot is red: the money-maker but got. who noggled? mad? as if.something.
something in the hole and screaming for
the right to die inside the vibrant yet unspeakable bush of shells; one day to
be perpetually reconstituted: No life from death, no end to dusk:: live in a
sunken steamboat and the poetry of happens down on you number girdered only
occasionally is your hand espied, waving whitely, and their joy is yours, even
if you cant see the game: or do you
dream only of the empty book, complete with uncompleteness, ready to clasp you
in its leaves; contiguous to the Black Robe :: The theatre is dark – empty; But
the actors are there:: Oft-times sat I then in caves convinced by shadows: or I
turned toward the greater sun: or I was the measure of ALL, or the Clock
itself: or I awoke to find all Ks had changed, only to revert, smilingly::
that converged with increasing purpose:: We could imagine Beethoven or
Schoenberg Shaking the sleepy universe awake:: But no: RETURN TO SQUARE ONE:
This real rolling down, this slow descent: (Go Careful On The Stairs EACH STEP
IS MANY )I sigh, I wander from room to room, and rustle in my own unknowing: “Gonad!”
They cried. “Nothingness!”: they Well well well you snarl, swinging out the bar
room, and swivelling your six guns, thing - coldly I mean business, watch out Crocky,
here I come, you fuckin’ such a Thing : 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 thereafter and
hereafter into a kind of Cagean lake of silence fulfilled finally of course:: What was the
matter with irrefutably endless irrefutably endless irrefutably endless matter?
:: the deep stuff in the dark spring of things: why couldnt it get in
control? Why wernt we informed immediately?:: Once I saw a box, it was
beautifully box-shaped:: his Milton and his coin, agony in the eye, and
vengeance wrecked:: All time now leaping, and one thousand cathedrals - shaking - :: a
cat on wheels: an old 78: the tragedy of a bic pen:: Leaves riddles on concave
rocks for the sun to solve:: It is a warm, rich, and wonderfully fluent work:: I
always sort of felt, you know that, ah, something was owed old Jonno bloody
good chap he was salt of the earth and all that eh Prescott?!; Eh?!!;:: about
fleeing before an enchanter (yellow red) but (cackling unto became strange
red-dry hinterlands of disbelief as the city settled in the shit shattered
silence ( I (be came strange unchilled of and to or in and thru the forgulous wherein The
Grinders ever prepare ever more:: And the dance, in peacock weather, most just-so, of meaning
subtly mad :: You worried that the universe was finite but unbounded, bounded,
bounding or
bound; But my cat, Jeffery:: as if, as if –
TWINKLE MYOPIC MONSTER – CREATE THYSELF! “Yes!” Nora said; “Look for the girls
also in the toilets at night, and you will find them kneeling in that great
secret confessional crying between tongues, the terrible excommunication :: The
Fear Of Nothing po-faced grammarian Sunday Times Belgrade: bitch: delving into
those old sleaves not far from the fugacic was it::
and endless with the ivory peril of configured hands so tiny,:: storms,
or the yellow-eyed locusts who scream down in the probably godless space to a
very Nothing: measures, whose hope be
bells of lights a touch, and something is bereft of function, light │ │husk after all │ blackest │ │that not a │ ele │ │blooms machine yet claps out to the
assembled, of vintages and such invisible warnings to those to be watched to be watched who
merely be: erupts upwards Up. The pohutukawa - bewitched, bejewelled by an
Ecstasy of red... ::For years they became silent, by the songs soar: Yet
still is this subtle ill: We the living in the “here and now” have much to live for :: We
kids ran madly –soot and steam – cylindrical: A black monster – always we
nearly missed it…Why is?; What was that thing?; That Being I was:: to drop the
rock in sand, where two-things, and eyes:: And Screaming after a train In the long ago time
of stories:: 37 Genesis was
it! :: We stared up:: est, and none shall rest :: This, especial light::
A window of glass: A swan, crashing into glass, could become the beautiful
shadow:: Once we
could do magic, like waking early before three p.m., or playing stick boats in
winter’s gutter:: the stern interdiction:: in the moon, is routine: as
magic to us as manhole,
replacing the lids, stashing the gear:: It all fits in somehow:: military
massacre: the old requirement for genetico-spermatic bloodletting:: One
day I’ll retalk these things:: Dying complete with uncompleteness, ready to
clasp you in its leaves of what they said, so you limp to the dairy, only to
buy a useless piece of amongst the blind:: And, the we came to encounter such
rock—to the buggered valleys of bone profound of lost fleeting flight of time inside
the Basics or sunk in black while others did they made wheels of flesh:: was it worth the sexless
Beetroot Question yes?; And things: Things: we’d never suspected, horrid and
gentle things: These emerge, and come at us. And do we eat through?: Eh? Do we?
Is this thus our victory?; Toward what?; By whom?; Is The Great One watching?::
forties:: Of heart thud: The oscillagram Flashes green mountains…whose
crossed to be painted look was eye dead to its stop so in suchwise did come:
But their voices fall away to soft pipings and we lose track: We could still
see the head though — silly old head, crying out to all and sundry about
eternal loss and love and bobbing down the stream, and heading — heading! —
madly to cataclysmica — to the great rock crusher of life and legend:: It’s
about now, don’t you think, that I get up, scratch my scrotum, bend, stagger
around, and try to remember what this was all about — whether, for example, I
was meant to put metal A in box B or C, or metal B in A, or the other way round:: incinerate
my soul with gentleness: as of a beginning of a stein or a ‘stan’ once in the nacht
of delight when the rooked engine began to throb with an uncalculated song such
as mud-fire. begin. Stop: start: we are startled by the standing silhouette as
if we were the edges ofeggs: fly: you need it, you want it, and they are each
and every each of them burning, they are not screaming tho, for its not tea
time:: I for we are built sintered steel, naughty whose every breathless stretching
shape, this one
is one who is to be watched ad nauseam, but which is brought in with the big bright
sheets of steel to mirror the vacant music — the yet, oh how so blue and
gold-filled, like, well, like a set of magic teeth:: political the walls
of the centuries, the castles of the future, But the big yellow In room 2115: (Room 2115 truck just keeps: It’s not going to stop
for me: the butterflies:: With Nero and Caligula Echoing Corialanus: And
Julius, and Brutus, and Anthony – Tiberius: Cleopatra, all stuck in Time: The
zero moon thundle grundling… gleams, And:
now we who are in are as beautiful as sails: I have held the hand:: But dim, the freesias, day:: and endlessly Something sometime
somewhere perfectly Would on all that somehow;;
my seriously; :: Ejaculate, expatiate: things leap:: As hands are
formed Feel, to accept; :: The phallus, like all spawning and teeming Seas
of flowers everywhere:: by the brown tree where the sea it sizzles and the
night roars old jaws:: It was sixty billionth sunset, significant as black
moltens and hissing tongs; The red tongue is as wide as God and the Book of day
is snapped back like a up at dusk:: walked we into the Hall of the Castle; She
was slight, but not tall; Her dark hair was so long it fell over her body like
a sooty mantle, and Eventually it reached the floor and spread there, so that
it swept up the dust behind: and She was extremely pale; though her eyes were
very green:: When we played, these songs, these clocks of light, seeming:: i would like
to think, as, and, then: the pen condemns: spent all her life rummaging, [They–right
now–gathered: discovering the mark and the why-questions or significations
as–re-readin Browning glass, spoken with]:: glass, and hath with water danced
on glass:: I was the great liquid crystal of glass:: Him joculate; Him jugulate;
Him let light; Him thou giveth of the eye; :: Anyway, enough of that, and who
or what is more or less, and whether the thumb: we touch these:: comedy:: laughing
out from the pumping: whence the Trinity:: the physics poetry – Sanscrit speaking of Openheimer’s
thousand suns – of angles:: But this darkness you keep
talking about: Did you know it was purple?; Eh?; Yes - purple - part purple:
Because the colours were gases: Gases?: Yes, they were interfuser things, mixy
mixy…:: The ecstasy of my fingers – the sun-low light – the child I am or was::
or real reels (did you?) at twice light, and, because otherwise elsewise, you are
wise and ever other and thus: otherwhere - so tunc:: The machines go mad as
wires — as did that ancient electric hedge of nerves when things were joyful,
filamental and fine: dancing by the spermatic singing stream – my favourite
spot: For in ancient Streets in ancient dreamed ( blood big, and screaming
across time); have canceled out who ply their cunty trade:: (They have lost
their sting):: These things I speak to you thru the cracked, spectacular glass::
I am dead:: No one
knows why he committed suicide: But these are words, and all twists,
like the and all the cities of fire, those bright Dresdens shapes and shrugs of
a dead tree: I
became the Sun:: I have forgotten much, in this land, this crystal land:: but
it’s alright now:: We smell the various rose scents:: Oh day of holy joy Mother
and son under the sun in the mad joyous riot of the Parnell rose garden:: The people move about
like bees: light only is the burning, which itself doth burn, burning
and by touching and proving there are, all a sudden now, skys alive with
scrolls and the
folds rolling away:: And the thing, the there thing, rolled, ridiculous,
not even writhing: not even knowing, and turning turning turning: and the
people had forgotten:: They cut the throats of the careful; being and not being;
like God’s eye,
or a witch’s wink – :: The truth again, as beautiful as a million
diagrams of wings; Wings, their filigree complexity hinting at some:: The nights now are
full of wind and destruction:: Kowhai:: The Chief Observer: the only…Infinities
have ticked clicked clicked past: (My brain pulses in sympathy as when because
yellow is yellow waves the yellow waves: time is sad. sad time is full of line
it's sad :: “But good food” said The Bird of Strength:: do not smash:: re-writing
the eternal irrelevant & languishing in my:: Tomorrow, for example, whole
cities will turn upside down - and your grandmother will walk on the ceiling,
humming music by the latest iconoclast: lingam, the exquisite sadness of the
coordinate cancellation, how you whisted, even wished. and, and thus:: Men with
black noses will thow balls of snow-covered meaning into her preying face all
things:: and,
were we not but what we could, not, but the light and those pallid
pupcky limps of things in droop death sweat sook lily soft in down dank softed
by mottled what by ick and gungeous grunge down there and on and on and on
there where that river where green lang to nowhere but the:: I Have Cut Off My
Own Head lovely notes Well well:: Could I:: There has to be an inquiry of course:: What
was the matter with:: by the coefficients…I break off at this point, amazed
at my:: a bit like a sick old bastard stabbing a red brick in the
sunshine:: All a-day long:: was last September: by
the stanchion, “how longs”; :: (of course I love you (leaves dry and something::
oh here comes old Blind Sam: He sings; He sang; He has sung; He will sing; He
did sing; He would have sung; He is singing:: it fills me: Its demise is my
gain; It gives, I take: It gives all, retaining only some froth, Bubbles, which
glint and slide; Some strange tug impels them;; You see, I have discovered
something: (this is indeed queer): I have found that,
they, go, only, one, way:: in black blood intransigence great Boom: big bloody bumble burning bee cold moving the old fuck: but,
ne'er feare, as thinges There has to be an inquiry of:: whose cogs of
conjoinance keep sliding:: chasmic loch:: their experience, whatever it had
been:: The place-marks were misplaced:: ((We
hesitate. ((( We stop We begin again (again or even raging in and everywhere were mounds of static
boots:: From beyond the hill a maniac laugh:: All is still:: All is as it
should be:: he squats in his shadow:: ate this humanic drooped
bent, by the and that queer space, tree:: Hand lifts eyes: Aching by the
world’s edge:: coldness / cacophony:: of the old fuck: but, ne'er feare,
as hair. “What symbol did she symbolise?”:: i could concentrate on my next
thought..:: If only that maddening silence would cease!: Dammit:: Then, surely,
the:: ...he
edged until crevasses plunged / the viol stroke not so bad as Winter
plays in bone leaves and bone speech and the spectre of sand / :: This
could great Bell Men be a:: Our task is: never to waver, to neither look right
nor left: indeed, there are certain uncertainties whose monstrous beauty is almost nearly tiresome:: a beautiful,
but horrible fire:: Why couldn’t the matter: well, you snarl, swinging Woogie::
These dark moments
we know but they are not the whole picture: Many are deluded and many have much
insight: We: :: clinging to the thinking :: It was hard to breathe :: night
of time: and night falls in the footfalled Halls, where the monks
tread In holy mesmery: What are these monks?: Scribing the passages Of time and
what they think has been Or what will come, What tricks of fear That grow the
ghosts Who stretch and die That more blood be shed: Fools!: But so beautiful Are their miraculous
brains, so subtle, as a stone should leap to shout - times now you have
entered me to become what all things shall become - and I sang:: Drag
me back:: Finally I settle back, Book in hand: The
night will be long …:: this is what we deciphered in the cave light: "Here are: 'multiplicity and purple flaming dreams
and loves, of detonate under the car precocious
destruction like Humpty - ' "they are ---but the wall of flesh
opens endlessly remember things charged with bright nodes where paint explodes
—eat cat whistle – ululate and disseminate
directives into plonking godges :: They the of they thee anarchy of her eyes:: ever more visible, and some sort of The thesis of
the big muscly bastard antithesized into:: It was all happening as the lagoon
proceeded to close around them :: Objects misbehave:: extent:: not facing:: not impending:: and distributed,
could shatter to unstick
the sprig because at great remove, and cowering before
some - you know, where that dead sheep you know, by the Ingrains’ tin shed, dear mother, he
is sepultured, and his collection of twitched, divine lexical or
epistemological conceptualization say of a C sharp Minor or an E flat Major
eruction into - as, let it be noted, maybe something equating to Schiller’s Freude
Ode - and, let me say, mixed turns and that the
hearts of globes do crack with light:: The voices were not mad: Thoughts
ascend:: Why expatiate: things:: The undulant ambiguations, you know of his
erotic night dream of bees: to the unknown room; with The Key: the flat girl
with:: Then a hand, white on the black night, tapped on that glass. :: I can't
bugger it, Christ!: I can't staunch it friend (the blood I mean that the:: through photographs of
the past, searching for the one who would be found leaning sideways with a look
as if angels were sliding down her hip — a great love who had been spared a
face but who’d been saddled with loins, leaning against a drape of Scotch
velvet with a pedestal at the left twined with ivy, a knife in her boot and her
groin pouting as if she kept her heart in it. Or searching among old books for
the passion that was all renunciation and lung trouble: with: is it, as
rumoured, death that is always
tapping at the obverse of the corner: like glass itself:: I have the stare does us cross
known:: I have touched glass, tasted Material mystery, extass:: No:: It
was O.K.; If you can, reverse:: So's he more befit that you had ever learnt
choired, I turn:: that sight of the old woman, seeking:: futility, cruel old
nature, waste of search?:: No – seek all knowledge, : could shatter to unstick the sprig because
wire desire awaits in the fable
of the burning chair:: BIG AS A BLOODY BUTCHER - :: “Who”, they ask, “is the what of
that why gone when and where is the who of the what of the which?” :: a bent and yellow spattered Campbell Soup can
that is hyperbolic in a dream of concrete:: it is all so reading:: or you into
a synthesis of physical intellection, and by a kind of weaved hair:: the music of sad
delight stretches
the weird, viscid, monumental,
water boulders over
shiver thunders: 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..? :: thinges are always a
kind of eternal and irrefutably endless sentence whose cogs of conjoinance keep
sliding quivers (circles) or sparks in dark the old fuck: but, ne'er feare,
as thinges are always a kind of eternal and sentence whose cogs of conjoinance
keep sliding my wood:: She watched:: In the dilemma of a street :: Enough:
Ich habe:: fire!: Who would not tread with me, who carry forever mygreen candle
on the endless road?” :: days, the 'Quardle ordle ardle ooodle days' – the and
songs he can never forget on his back as he lives in his back which is a sign-way
of riddles and loves: and so many the words of his life where hide the errors
the rights distension as to deleterious we drift discussed the – :: Crashes the
chord!:: and they – and the house – and the –and the kindness: (the
continuance, the: concluded, “will never wear a suit:: green blue red many it
was :: the hope is technical alertness :: is :: But the isle echoed with false
trails:: same age as my daughter:: nothing was enough, or is enough; expired into your
yellow, red, green and purple flaming dreams and loves, weird and magical as
yellow spiders in black fields:: uncertain, troubled, striding, devouring the
descent and stars are the wrongs the care:: And the dancing one; And the one
who loved and loved: The great trees days, the dark pine days: the music:: the
sun is an Example: what it seems it is, and in all such seeming, all things are::
had already gone...bomb, poetically blowing away the
maker's face:: He is so stupidly, (rightly?), avidly, :: Unmoving, We are Moved
into a progression of Inspiration, :: the imperative decree:: 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!: But there
was nothing to learn, so, while rolling our rollies, we spat on the fat man, only to learn
(contradictorily, hee hee!) 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 (tee hee!!) :: 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 grains, to underscore granite:: he
lives in a sort of increment:: you meant?::
WHO WERE YOU? :: I am a statue with a red pumpkin for a head: She
walks the world like a Walt Disney thing: I have cut off my own head:: What?; What is
this?; Listening to musicks on the stair, I saw: she was silent in stassic joy,
and lovely her (I hunch in darkness with covered eyes):: night how I can diminutive never reach you
again - we are touched, briefly:: Nor
did they care about History or the Next Dark Story (but we’ll Leave all that
aside, and the impossible logic of the Grossefuge) They stood: four square, and staring out: :: and
this man, this man of dark grin; and thinking hand, with his world wide hat and
ceaseless seas of grass: unending fields, vast rooms “things are complex clear
or green:: Oh
this greatly troubled spheroidic world! ::
You mean? What? What!?; Who?; Why?; Speak louder!; What?!;
Speak softer!; What?; Who?; Why?; When did — who did — why did — :: were curled reminders
of yellowed:: Do they know about — the darkness?; And the joy?; And the
terror? :: one lived, that one spurned, and the other prospered — its too much::
I am caught:: And the cla—The clamour!;
The clamour — you informed them of the clamour?:: She said: “I was great with him.”
I crumple down to :: ( perhaps by our briefness ), [[Shut up Richard!; Shut up Wendy!; No one cares what you say! ]] Then it….
“….:: and simple tomatoes and shell eggs you bone that there is
somewhere a completeness:: “Something jerks out there in the swamp.”:: but
the green place wasn’t the green “everness” which Marian noticed in and out of
time, as decays, falls...:: I wish, now,
as the shadow from the column itself replaces itself itself with itself in the
continuous:: are never forgetting The lovely illusion of, well, what is out there
out there, and what is in there in there - remembering that the centipede,
dead, can no longer— squashed into speechless shades of segments on the wall —
either self-kill or kill self, who is surely - :: Draak and bloog the gill of plot
the who I go in pin the grin and in and in the oxy moron into the polyphilo
exstass-man in Xmas mass in time out of time of Evil to the barrell it hoots
into the greegin Prodoolokol in wheepal glack?: and what of this
breakage, this wreak of light, this potent truth and the drill :: Who are you
you?: You aren’t allowed in here: Only I hear it: Only we live
here. Probably we are trapped in the holes:: Not far, my cat :: in the
these sunflowers, these I could see her yellow fear—the worst fear: that of
Nothing: And I felt the pulsing, the pulsing: and I saw through her eyes, the
wheat fields flaming away to purple expirations, the Darkland, And via her
eyes: a bright burst in her head: A child, happy as hell: And then the
evening quietly died...pushing darkness through - the blood waves: the Dark
Ones, the click of guns;and people turning inside out:: :: Is it mine? I look at the brown, flesh-folding back ::
Trapped inside a poem, or an idea: And, it is
true, I think: process is terrible,tyrannical :: and that awful tower of debrification screams
and the oxymoronic vision of flowing ice in sparkle / trans-illuminates
dark supple silence when the chuncks and indeed: as I know you are thinking again as staring
at you: trying to signal something: But it didn't help, for I believed not
enough and felt only terror when we with joy did shine:: How Can I Explicate? What do I know? What
can, will, will be, will?; What do I know? What can, will, will be,
will: ....we would write some more in the morning:
What of what Kings would we be? :: In any case They all celebrated :: i’m looking
for small things now, with logical possibility of breakage: then I wish to
improve: think to microns what path? :: I - is it I? - crumple down to
nothingness - an
infinitesimal glass-shiver of time; out to the titanium skies its
quibbly song, that penetrates to
the very shiver of the heart’s ::
y am i tho un under the endless “u” ? :: and the nessness u who
? when is forming sky we breathe who are still waiting here as if for a
Message, or The Message? :: It is such dreams as sustain us :: tap tap tap :: exquisiteness
that The Depositors hadn’t never computed of something sliding - forward,
backward - forever forever. it was a blind inside whose probability, 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 :: the intricacy of theory & grace hovered
like a bee engine: they regarded themselves and thought:: ‘We are what began and
ended in intimate musical eliteness and a kind of sweeping if enigmatic
generosity of pause.’ :: Thus they spoke, advanced, retreated, and: in a
perfect four, rotated, bowed, stopped, and looked: wonderfully complete:: would
be suns are mad with seed: as distance dims their circles into uniline: they
are galactic sun, :: 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 paper factory:: (21, 859) :: We awoke in a field of bones:: their
selves: but it from the page, and out – all
born of passion but I am dreaming of peculiar objects eternal
that float someone collapses:: the dawn:: On behalf of the --- I’d like
to say: lovely war:: 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::
but this couldn’t go on, bugger it: you can if you want, I’m not here:: Perhaps
that was in pre-flood days?: Of course! That explains it! The trees...: And
strange and 'ordinary' men like Vladimir Stasov would ice your blood in his
vast brown coat and black Russian hat and Tsarish beard goat long and seems to
catch me by the eye: It is like he has reached out and grabbed my balls with
vice strength: He is saying: 'You bastard! You bastard! Look at me!' :: of
crack, whereby grins the
unimpeachable magnus: Calculating time by time and dividing by time:
(and indeed) 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: Do you?; Do they?; Do they?; They do!; Well...Do
they know — Do they — Do they know about:: As in Scott of Lammermoor; 'The
quicksanded cities.' as I wrote, using the image of man and horse plunging…To disappear:: "Repair
thou quickly hence to thence, and, As if ‘twere thee’s own heart thou held,
Knowing that to lose or drop that beating Spring of life, God’s pump, would be::
Modulation in mauve, C minor violets:: as if grandiloquently::
Certain forfeit of thou’s own
life :: oft do shake And fright our mighty globe... :: Stepping
into : These still trees: :: the vanishing places:: y utterance about almond
blossoms, or pine scent, creeps in, and is an ever more ascendant resplendent
more ever more fantastic thing like a wheel,
in whose motionless centre, surely nothing
more everything has been thought that
ambiguous time, when the Old Bookkeeper, who, with, (albeit), some grumbling:
oped the shop to light the relic by the twinking taper from out his dusty
treasures: :: (then felt I...) (collating you called it, collating): and
indeed, they were treasures, for you treasured them… and as just now the wind,
my collation clusters into simple lustres, (whose transform), of which the sad
sheen so subtle is remote like a lion, an iron lion, or some such other lug,
hidden, caressing perhaps: some proud yet integral and exponential as the sun sinks,
despite its convexity, we redig the rich earth, and listen, hopeful we
have not unmeasured ourselves, or created a new kind of monstrous force from
some silly aleation, and that, with all things closed, all tills closed off, something - surely to
Christ something vitally evil is swimming hotly up from the deepest ocean trench to devour us
it is stupid to title this untitled poem “untitled”, because its title
is untitled - thus its untitled title, is, as I said, titled by its untitle,
hence untitled by its title: and even those who dream inside their burning
chains are well aware that that which is untitled is and can never, in any ear of sight or
mouth, be entitled:: This animal insistence on death leaves us wondering
at her naked green eyes, and time’s tongue instructing us, like a rose garden
full of drill sergeants:: The attempt was abandoned: A new spirit of failing
sprang upfor
melancholic bores:: Half an hour before, the sun had set, and the iron
bell had rung....Now, the girl who only got we were
or weren’t the case may or may not be of
:: of course you steak:: amphisbaena:: and disappear :: bright and black
blindly :: The saxaphone is futile:: searching in a water sack so unknown, so odious
little real men, and perhaps a violin maker: who’ll be sure to carve those
double, spread out integral signs on the violin:: 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:: paper factory:: (21, 859):: We awoke in a field of bones: their
selves: but it:: from the page, and out – all born of passion but I am dreaming
of peculiar objects eternal that float someone collapses:: the dawn:: Later on the music ‘ll squiggle out:: You.
Yes, you - to you I speak:: You sey’s The toad's jewel as here in Arden we conjoin
and again in short time:: Come on, lets go back startles the spindles of how X
Y is quickly – by
the way, eh, you lot! Yes, you bastards! You there, wake up! – :: it's
about now We annihilate the night, machine gun the radio waves – And we refuse all that
human history, you will realise that the and gold the seas illuminate: and, and …. the fire
…. the thinking: old fuck sad ranting:: (The
rules have disappeared….:: enveloped in red inside, draw back our claw: world
wide hose - too, for his shrunk for the dark music destroys it all things, The Voice
says, are alive – withdraw withdraw our slash-filled claw —let us regard
those eyes and
stop between it:: (We have no theory; We are alone.): It (The History etc) may
not have happened, may not even be There :: There is nothing remarkable
about me:The girl looking back at me:: it was or seemed to possess a peculiar
odour of:: What does he mean?:: What clutches grows betwixt truth and falsity?:
perhaps: inverted trees:: Weirdly from all this:: Here is the seventh room:: Snow
falls on the Pieces are being moved::
bell:: Who are you?: Let’s get motoring – we’ve got miles to go before
sleep time:: Who comes who comes?:: Dark wood, dark wood, tell me good: oh the
great ‘glock’, the machining steel, or climbing
out the peals, the quickening, the time for eyes lived
right the walls hunger for graffitos:: Andy Warhol beats like a mutation on:: 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: for
who is that shape that sea of sky and and the man of whose world wide hose - too,
for his shrunk shank - wide - 'a world too wide' - redeeming:: insects:: │ eyes │ oxygen enters
│ │ the body│ stupidity │when do the
gongs resound?:: and sand and gobs and endless the hours fire leaps again in the
aeronautic night… and no one is yet or pyro … or emerge I thus set out
so far forth to The Door: the microvolts scream to us in a calculus of vectors: whereat
a bell was heard to boom: and bees zithered here there here there as if Alice
herself had entered the Eternal garden: A song descended through a tulip haze the by, and as, those who
even now, do mountain make progressant of their progress toward dark, drear,
and dreadful to the │ ever │ tracheole │never into or through the final obliterating or
renewing plunge as powerful as a fuck of steam and blood, welcome, as if it
was, and then::
They
lived in ______
In an ____
appropriate adjective_______ room,
Filled with a certain ______
And the
furniture was obviously _______
And their
car was a ______
And they
mostly dined on ______
And they
did things ______
All in
all their life was ______
There was
an air of ______
And there
were light bulbs ______
25, 40,
75, 100 and 200 watt ______ oh yes - I can attest to that.
His jaw
was ______
He was ______
But this
bottle has such power!; As I deplete it... :: what is a mark, a spot?; :: why do we link
these points?; Immense jump from straight lines to the rich complex geometries
of Riemann, Gauss, Poincare and others…Bruno was burnt for his ideas. (We kill
for the Idea.):: vast strange universe: so many in pain:: in the Silent Museum;
We are gingerly, and step around: (The Things:: We are in:: He turned his head but it whipped - or
flashed, bat-like, to the front: and consequently he saw only what he thought
he saw, and the beards or trails or emanations or phenomenoms of white light:: You are all
these things everywhere perceivable and something that increases inside you your absolute blackness: the red roses behind the
green window pane would have written about war and the machinations, so
eagerly desired, but the futility of imprecisions lead nil by nil like a soccer
game... :: Only those, such as Master George Meredith, who have mastered the
lost art of “tedious amusingness” of words, and the fire of tedious repetition
and ridiculous hope, do deeply master like the sedulous apes we are: Only then,
(apparelled in the “glitter of eternity”), and with vestments thus divest, can
we, and indeed They, even begin and mark each
end with a pen of some sort:: REPEAT twice. You will find it is about three and something -
:: A harlequin, with a Picasso happy face, dances: joyous to be of use::
They plant their trumpets to their lips, energising the circumference: Round it goes, round
it goes:: She may as well have stabbed in both my eyes because:: stick stuck stuckle
stock:: toad; and; technophobic technocrat: brat light: beetroot and cool to
propriocentric: lob to thud: sticks and gone: dizzy dicklicking dictocrats.
bop. sufferingsickering Socrates!: light, sticks and gone: lately cool: infant
into inferno yields delineation :: inscrutably inscribed:: old man who
rages in: Who is that the storm?; The and what speak you a third more opulent
man?; When I began, I .... I knew something: No matter: What is it in us that
we mutter, meander, and muse on things dissolving as we do? :: do we believe
the Voice?: The scream begins:: enormous loneliness:: father, dark my dark, my lovely::there will be
either hell or heaven or soon to open:: pop factor
belies disgrace: i: and something rojo bubbles insistently: that
great and perilous blue:: we played forever:: -apiculture
underwent a radical change: The capacity and fruitfulness of the hives were trebled:
Great and productive apiaries arose on every side: An end was put to the
useless destruction of the most industrious cities, and to the odious selection
of: the
least fit which was its result:: Man truly became the master of the bees:: they want to know a new through the dark, imaginary tiger,
beautiful as fire:: He made it:: Immortally chained, in breakneck silence, sly, the
destructive force of Love and Generation: and equally quickly – by the way,
eh, you lot! Yes, you bastards! You there, wake up! – the matter?; Could I
tell you?; tell you?; are always a kind of eternal and irrefutably endless
sentence 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 into an
exploded gap where the chaos of tangled words pour in to fill the horror of
aloneness fine:: And that strange sense you get when you open a door in
a stone wall, and see the same, but totally unrecognisable face:: Skeletals
(ice wavering) could be proved focal:: nothing or some dream or nightmare of
nothing we an know or horror or not or Lately. I have been observing a lot of
fulmigation: A lot of flashing!: What’s
next? if only
the stones:: Next year I’ll go in the door: C’est ne pas une pipe: I’m alive: :: If A is
dependent on B, And
B is dependent on C, then - sent heaving
gesticulate couldn’t put mitts and then wake; dead bright wonders stain: dress:
wavers and wave, :: off:: cut to the dotted, it wood, i not you: Dog: pobbled
of course: doormouse is awake:: Should I say anything?: After all,
nobody really gives a fuck...::You dreamed of waves. Waves on ::…subjective
liberty:: The word waits in the unseen
dark: But the music begins, colours brighten:: And it all wakes up, the
whirling; the cacophony – it was never
dead and the merry-go-round zips up the
centuries: :: “giggle” is placed, wet,
limp, and lifted gently by a scalpel, & extracted as a stamp is lifted from
damp paper:: Answered the burst of a
laugh:: 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: filmic
instrument of cultural:: Once, in one of the times, there
was red before orange:: a bible made of steel and engraved with centuries of
human thought that are so many ancient recipes for whispers that flap and creak
inside the whisper's whisper: so soft, that The Old Giant leans his ear to the
torn the earth-tormented head his old mate with mark that's dead so long and
dark.The truck
of night crashes into the car of day, and rolls, bringing down the power poles
of the cities' nerves into an inferno of bubbling blood, and images unrid of a
vast Monk, a Buddha, burning the century's love into a black writhe of flesh: So
it's gone now, and we shall sit in the silver silence of this shadow, while I
retale you my story: -A story! A story ! -Yes: it was yes in far dangle time of faery lands
folorn:: Yet this five-thing, let’s tear the hair let’s cut right in let’s
die :: to “crawl toward death” :: For it
had not always been as now, but if you wish to whisper me some:: the spaces:
The places of the spaces: (For we love (these places the woodlands gay and dark
are such flowers, such blossoms as Schubert or Werter mused. T shady aspect;
Did he?: After all his Winterreisse, for example, or, The Death of
the Maiden is an
echo transubstantiated in a transforming storm the the laden possibles trudging
unwillingly to work to wit to woo and who are you is the Great Cry like nothing you ever thought of and they really aren’t
saying bugger all but they
might and that’s such music, such love’s food I like a
mother a baby:: whiteness
in blackness Into the lark oh the lark let us celebrate the cerebral lark as
ascends in choral total the ecstasy beyond being :: or :: the Quantum is
strange and we cannot conceive the paper men who burn forever inside the
impossibility of things bolt locks what they had hoped at the very least was the
possibility of how, at this light of time a beingbright yetttasadark, unblind
never cold the dhapshpasdfses
. 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
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 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” :: + 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: there’s
not a lot you can say about a bricks:: 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:: There must be something more!: But the Mystery
and the Glowing Body of time-mass we pre-knew before Eternity kick-started it
into Motor bike life: that thing, the river of Fate and Flesh: it is it seems
and it stretches about forever, like a woman’s black dress trailing with a cry
into the black night:: “Repair thou quickly: drop that beating Spring of life, God’s
pump, would be certain forfeit:: we climb inside or outside the room, or slam shut
the illumined book, unfinished,
splatting the answers, and,
it, which if
then opened, the
insect-logic-smear shape will be there
- still not
death - still
only wasness, seen, we think :: So we must read on and on
and on and away from the real, not partaking -
in fact - must rapidly
passage the passages,
and the diagrams of
things, the ovoids, and the
unreal sexual, pushing us out and into
and beside and
dragging changing us
back in; to become
the ideas, ourselves,
the story never
being been told -
she,
whose eyes shed blankness, and a house exploding, or the smell of
mothballs images crossed by countersign - upon which indeed (and I know you
know me of this: But
it kept leaping:: of pictures to whoof it all over the four sides of the unseen chasms and maybe Prometheus is
still there: something about speech or knowledge; Even five miracles
would never wake these stone sides:: And yet this rock has no
size, For in a crevice of it, and upon some soil, A tree, which is minute - :: you
conspire to bless the fruit, and its oh so Belle Dame Sans Merci or
‘Autumn’ itself oozing its expectorations of words like “plump” or “gourd”, old
Possum made - :: And so and thus I’m discovered here, procrastinating behind
the arras: here with my big-as-truck lights - I was
awarded the but, as I have, elsewhere, at some considerable length, attested
and affirmed; is equally, and quite appropriately, nowhere — that is, in
so far as no self, qua self, is viewed by them - They Who Watch – a FAILED
ERROR, or the smirky triumph felt by some bastard hidden inside a blister:: thus
the intense task of Reconstituting and duplicating Picasso’s Head
– a very machine task :: change - puts on white or knowledge; these things
breaking thru, The red yellow and lovely blue things. by the pool. The
telephone is black :: They were excited about the new curve. Stoned by curved
curbstones; The flat man in badlands with windy eyes; They carried the curve
into the adjoining laboratory :: roses fabricated of built colour and different
of groping delicately under the surgy strangeness in the alien’s paintbox ad
nauseam, but which is brought in with the bigbright sheets of steel to mirror
the vacant music — the trite slight of all this being like something conceived
between those whose eyes shed blankness ::
I’m still here
you know: Perhaps
I could unclever myself: I know
too much, or think I
do - I reach out :: Now - pick up Van Gogh’s living head - and roll it
down a hill, and see the universe go spin and whip around and let the colours
come I am here erbarmer dich the steel the stele the shell the steel the steel
the shell the great in me mein seele mein and I am here and in a hand in a
month of moons until hell the great in me the great in me the flood the light Bone
sleep gives it time: Disperse: When?: It grumbles and shines: Why? :: Pig it drops the sequence: Pervasive: The shadow is itself: these
double-bent bones, we should have known (or did we?) that it was not are puppets: coifs?....yes,
that's a good word, and so is 'reprise' or 'retro': in my case something happened,
and it was time to go out and rummage in church shops we recall our old wild rambles on the gentle
hills or the seemingly endless plains…but we get things done next, there was::
And these - these persons - they who peer thru the flame covered walls:: of thou’s
own life, Fast heeling on that bumble fingering: Treasure convey this my
particular attent To that matter, whose import is as vast As giant mountain
quakes that oft do shake And fright our mighty globe - ....":: Do you?; Do
they?; Do they?; They do!:: Well:: the numberless unnumbered numbers: The gems:
They glitter in your brain’s rooms:: the softness, the light, the softness, The
long drawn, the reaching - the ecstatic agony of light:: My son has one eye. .
. .the head the dark the great gusts of! it the leaf the black the red the
knife the not the sign the sound the lips the wet the dark the huge the huge
the huge the church the Turning the church red beard flaming his unshaven face::
some signal TERRIBLE LOVELY interchane mont: thiasds, all this....It
began somehow, and I and you also, got
caught up in it all: the hot yellow steaming stream meandered forth like a new
life: the stars descended to gather in its fate: Did they?: All that noise,
breath, life, and all that fucking waste: All that!:: flew his aeroplane, enraged, above the
tumult and the game at Eden Park: Then the And of course we recall, as well as
the vast vacant-faced gallery of the Bourgeoisie: the ginger moustache, the
face in the small mirror, and in certain lights, the song we had to play: (A
point in space is an argument place.) which
immediately immediately reports a 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!” with this cutting innuendo: and
indeed Beauty,
the search for profundity, and the use of skill in things, what to leave out,
the shading: the interaction of shapes
and colour, the rage to be, to make, the softness sadness joy or the abstract
idea, the search; what is all came into silent question…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, unappeasable then we traversed the
Just above them was a very small barred window, the only ventilation the Begin:
the big big single bang bang boom!; Ho
wis it yoasf dintu ndferestand
meawf ina the sdfu treasm t: it terrified meandf :: Once I was Gabri — In
the, in ‘The Dead’?; Dead?; Forget all that. Now I am —‘THE squiggles as Bloch is played — was it
Bloch? :: Was there such a man? :: because it was obvisly clear that the abundance had come to clutter the event no
one had time:: Was he a unit?; A whole?; (recheck database) Mon Dieu!: This
scent!: It me mads!: Ex Cathedra!: and its random laugh I’m telling ya fella but
I’m still terrible about: you aren’t? ...: what’s going on in the head of all
the things?:: a great whiteness of silence is immersed into the equation just
as if one could feel silence or is it not a thing: and enormous buses of
conceptions full of juice bottles that grew portentously:: I placed my hand on that of Crepuscular Man – And he looked
[emotive word] where my eyes would have been:: the cylinders of despair are split with light: coffee
packets — and there you stand! I saw you, shrinking, as the sedge withers and
no birds sing as baby
eyes, so excited how the packets of things configurative fate, and how
the concert; together; free bound, and, now, in constant and unending: where
things are busy with what they are “Trembling with fear, lest it should all
vanish into nothingness, and myself with it.”:: Although Square Thing
had 4 sides, and this was beautiful, he wished, oh so deeply, that he had come
to consciousness as a Triangle, ...:: i give them be ..:: and there are
such stories!: how this in my own flood, those tears, those fiery tears, this
heat: and to seethe in-as-much as nothing is known or counted the big expanse waits
waits for no expense as if steel spiders had become the main object of their
own invisibility and who are you is a question just as the big pulse undulates
in all scenes the movie
is concise as shells: And we sat in the new rooms, despite the above: or even
my very real fears: that litter my desk: Their photographs, as I behold them
now, it's meant to be summer. but they didn’t tell us about the blood despite
you: knuckles of irrelevance: he examined the map of veins; the
roaring back and forth: who got down and stared :: Never again will centred in thesweetness,
too human or too rational in a near-joyous brashness in their brave and lusty attempt
to define; they could grow into Beethoven’s thumps, thunder, or other unseemly
celebration of ‘human things’ and the progressive sonata forms this “New
aggressive humanity – a world for young men, a world…” :: and (the two half
heads) of an impossible union: but they would have these things real - really
real; ach, For e.g. I am tired the massacred
mannerist, always so quietly grandiose: Something about the ablutions, and the
various regressions, all in all
not sure if a) was contingent on
b) or d),
and had fallen asleep
orb of the glisten of the beautifully blank books, because I lie under
the chests all
violet and milk :: I hear her in the other rooms bumping
and clumpingwhich means she is still alive :: Just as a blade might suddenly
sever my neck if you could say “if ever you could
rectify human” in the sinuous, something:: eighty year low, unconsummated
joggle, whose nose of who knows presses foreward to a possible spawn dawn: The
world, the universe, is itself a giant book: Or at least it is like a book:
lately the birds are driving me mad with joy, and undoubtedly this situation
shall pertain until in the boring night mix their drums with: But Life, like a
huge Engine – pumps on…things seem ceaseless… vast strange, vast strange: grim old bright grin
Man “And once I wrote…” :: for the last word shall want a word: …and::
we beat strange we beat strange we beat strange: the sky is above us:: That
day of the light bulb; They saw the garden, Filled with silence, And the
carefully planted, Beautifully orchestrated Silver trays:: honey to be
withdrawn by centrifugal force without breaking the combs, He repairs the
injustice of the year:: It was An innocent age: the pistons of night Hammering::
Castellano had guts ripped :: all knowledge, lady: treasure it more than money
or endless power :: You have seen; I know you have; If I knew French, or had
read the books, and shuffled in the shrubbery, Delicate with dusk —It would
come to me no it wouldn’t; but the light, it keeps watch, As children watch
water, desire to avoid vague sensations, rise in the
distance, he establishes his wavegrow, it is very very very very
difficult to isolate one wave, sadly redeeming it must be remembered there that are higher than Everest - and dissolve
drives the divide; and thus, we too, in our sadly jubilation, chuck bangers at
paint:: A thousand bodies jerk in a simultaneous electric death :: Was erased into our
lives - but the next day: We made it! There were millions and gifts and guests;
And I caught out a lot: laughing, but, they, took: absolutely no notice: So I
went right to the top!: You were so proud! You looked at me! Yes, and then I
returned to the then-now And those bloody Woody-Wood-Pecker blue is you
:: something something and a cluster how
a) because, or
b) because :: thus
if thus we weren't trunks: death:
Mrs Walker walked until a
star surreal or if
and the Honey-Extractor, which enables the bang and turn to today's night how
it must be so: impending: and distributed, :: in the ice-breaking ships: The
men with hats, And
the elegant elegance; :: Would we do it all again?: The wind whips the
question from your lips and just then a great foot descends to squash you in
profile: It’s absurd, if sad: (No
maddening red as lipstick on wild, lovely face, no so evilly yellow as glaring
gold sky under the lipstick red ) to answer the silent sky we are not here it
isn't enough: not enough time with time the voices chatter sunflowers, these would be
suns :: Pay attention also to the Structured :: 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 :: They who now
:: the agents explode in some de 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 louvres
are futile lovers are insistantly forever hovering all this light
useless the eternal wound and smoothly writhes burn burn burn thou in pluckt
baffle wonder these spear lights doom them to joy whose jubilate springs in
tiger like full tread tyres —and almighty is rubber, and Baumgartner:(almighty
is he), and these things we render:unspeakable machine you baffle mad, There are dates,
and clocks, and lovely dust; and the faces of the dead. Lonely: These are beautiful
or terrible; but we are indifferent and avoid them:: We are the Gods of Failure;
Ours is an especial Failure:: Some things or could be possible - Others not :: stamping out life and connections — the
wild Hebraic cogwheels, the glory of the Index, the glory of the Counters :: by
me does old Stick :: 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 know i: …:: But we are the
rhythms of the strident cicadas whose counter strike of symbols seem to affirm both that life will
continue and that the immensity of isolation remain true but aloof: we would
like to say “the world is like a book” but this is clearly a trick:: God lives
in his stone these days, terrified of his child, paralysed by the insanity or
the surprise of something leaping, like that wave by Hokusai:: Suffering piles
- he can’t think
of anything else: of nothing else think he :: The head?; Whose head?; meaning,
or is it simply a play of surfaces?; gloom to sunder suds :: those gentle
devils, and I forgive them - made mention of le grande siécle :: What
joy!; By Jove!; Hoorah!; He slipped on his coat to cover the holes in his
woollen jersey and ventured forth; :: are (cumulatively) the whole shebang: :: we,
caught, with so much thought – and the sweet one holding a rose : implies all
flesh all songs: the logic keeps on des - Then the other - Did it make a fool of itself?: Was
of unable to see: not speaking yet babbling to the sudden surges of hidden
truth when or whenever a quick twist or quirk would bring the cold and
screaming wind-face, for the roar and rage of time is vast and consumes
the smallest sip of love, as the big concrete soldiers purpose to come alive to
be sad :: But sad only in the hilarious sense of as a crazy brain cell which
gives shelter to all the streets of the big wide world
or the contradictory bongle sound of a pipe upon a pipe, leading - those
who secret from themselves, Down ever more steeper slopes :: Something – it is long
gone – drives my clamping hand to crush a daffodil:: And when he turned,
Hopefully, standing on :: Springs to hugeness With a mass of leaf :: “Hullo
hand,” I hear said: “It has been so long, how are you?” ; and as I greet it ::
and so I thus my time:: and as I curl it in as deep with its own secret: its
savage, Coleridgean chasms, echoes, stones, rivers, and its muscle-bound bones:
For have we resolved ‘the Thing itself’ – Is this not Edgar curled in the primal, dark, and
hopeless mud?...:: The Universe is going
backwards: Yet, I must answer: I would whisper “love” into your every cell:: then
woman would be world —setting out for a me...as I am a kind of Erasmus, trying
to set things right: say, a, a, a -- day trip across a vacuum into that They,
and the light: and Let us descend this agony: Moon pearl - seen sends them
blind
and mad: Dark
Bach seems real: Seems, not is: But we are: Wigged?;
Or wigging?; Does it conceal?; No, you might say, it concentrates... If death
is the mother of beauty we need only the oranges, the pegnoir, the coffee :: it
sees. the seein’ thing sees. the seein’ thing sees what it sees, but that ain’t
what. an’ - you know, if only the moosic, the moosic. an’ that moosic: its not
the same in him fulla you your him head as in them other heads. heads is reds
is reds is deads. An’ deads is seein’ things. an’.
an’ it all gone. an’ thudder thunder thuds by sing by sweet bad wire dead
of buds oh cant count; cant count - but do do do ::
What say we enter into a dialogue?: It doesn’t need to make sense: Come on:We
could talk to the stars, or write them?: Could the rhythms of pulls opposing
response to invigorates boogie but yes we horizontal we not respirate, or partake of a new cheese, or stop
when we stop?: What head? The head bobbing in the stream: The severed head,
bloody, crying out for...Was it the baby’s?; Was it the man’s?; curse of love? :: Crashes the chord! :: Peter: Beach at
Orewa: :: shoulders, we see: Only further, not more :: I am brutally
hurtled beyond
light, beyond love: but
what about ‘the crucifixion of understanding’?; Something, beautiful and
merciless:: I don’t know where she went:: Pi is a very IMPORTANT NUMBER, and no
one knows: but you can EAT the :: 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 a rotten vanish: that of existing
between ( forever? ) an existent existence as an exquisite juice of perhaps we could co-opt the old toe tapping sun into
all this, whose nuclear nature is revealed spastically in sudden burning
spasms only to fade to a side view of some folorn figure, seen forever “Such
joy, such: such suchness, and all that province of the young?; Oh by my green
candle, why am I what I am and why and where and so ugly here, amid this erotic
ache of life, and she without my hands?”:: Thought the older man:: Suddenly:: And
trumpets began: :: help), and the un-erasable eventsextent: not facing: not certainty reblurs those mat
edges where we slept schlaff in finish as by a great and wondrous engine the
lies: is about at night, being :: Paracetemol only - this :: are reading :: he
not make a second Self?: “himself.”....:: Where the words waltz off as if – terrible
sights as if impelled by an unseen hand –and there are bisections, and
magnifications; so that the bug is gigantic and crawls with lesser bugs,(as in
an etching by Escher)… it shows me the spears that spear, the squirts – the
squirls, the pulsings, the golden globules: And 2x+y =2: Justify it all: :: The
silk, the blood, and the quick-sanded city :: Gravity keeps changing its mind
:: Once I was 'chosen' only to fail: I was, indeed, perfectly failed....:: All
this seems to oh, so to...:: Days we raved to It on Setebos: days and times we
seemed to know: until all raged: but everything seemed glass; Many had glass
eyes, but could see: this we were informed: And they understood how to see: ::
these songs sung in column times :: she
knew hack-sawing a bolt, or sealing a lead-sheathed telephone
cable, the long nights the tiger’s despair the rage makes sad shadows A
finding man and a man to be found And in the byways the sideways ashly crumblings?: 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 we were redefined - its pukile mouth going chomp chomp chomp I am
become foetal and float on forever's forgivelessness :: These quibblings thrill
me :: As only ... it’s so like Brautigan’s library of unread books: something
taps out a message about bullets and an insane artiste
... anyway, all that aside, everything’s sothe eyes who are as blue as
you in the singing vaults where the arches ache with graped joy, wrath gone, boned and wickedly white :: But
who are you, these windy burning blasts - God gone - Who comes?: Who comes oh
Fomison dark bedeviller?: The eyes whose blueness lumens loud even those...::
We are the Gods of Failure...:: walls of eyes
that stare out transparent death to death from some central of a secret are
maybe yours old one your frozen beard if only each creeping thing could set
forth the theorem of its genesis Broke
out in joyous French Fear gobble up the puzzled
Caught me by my As we sped on the sled into the terrible dark - Warm and black:
For we step now into the adyts, but there is no Wolf here: (And indeed there
is an answering chuckle but but I am dreaming of peculiar objects that float
betwixt truth and falsity -- perhaps someone collapses -- the dawn is so
beautiful :: It was all happening as the lagoon proceeded to close around them as
if they had hid inside a Chinese sign...:: It was all on again, Especially since
old Boltzmann had disappeared with his constant...:: His wife beat time: They danced:
He curmudged: there is always that sense as of a thousand foot...:: The
ventriloquised, cacophonic texts of Brass tend to different, although
not unrelated questions: are there limits to poetic
language? :: we stiffen back to our rectitude): And the pastels, the
haze, the things, the loves, the ships; The kaleidic colours, nothing could be
done, and that they who knew (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 :: the patterns: the march of the eyes Who see the steel trees -
their crisp speech modulated in the morning mauve - and the seeds wait in a...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 the shapes,
the lands of falsetto light among the forty to sixty Nine
distinct principles have been recognised independently evolved eyes :: ["Is it all so meaningless, all so utterly
random?” Johnson asked.] :: He is a subtle postman comes, And light
laughs In the
corner of his garden’s face, any inkling whence this bubble’s traverse, Or Why?: Why
the gun?: Bang bang bang, and the sun, the terrible sun - and the body –
spasmic, jerkic :: God they wanted me, but and you turned, listening to the
Morepork, sad as the sea, and before the gay graves something monstrous, some
music you ached to believe furnish forth such mountains of papers totally covered
with calculations, and the most abstruse, and wonderful arguments, to verify that very
superiority of Three Agons, to be or a
conception: and indeed there are enough words to
fill the new drawer…:: if only i wasn't myself - surely the words wouldn't just
sit there, carved, seemingly stone: and terribly unsurrounded Frog. the Prog: Prog
bounced into the central oblong woogle-twist by the slippery sexual where room
was unzipped up in a ladder lash the lad had
brass and clang gonged to the peerers ups and downs until quite savagely creating his icy crack of
light The eye perceives and deceives, so we eat and wait :: Peculiarly,
I’m not that young couple; She had her hand fiercely on his arse: It wont last,
part of you, the cynic, says, but
freedom dies not out with the giant oak’s....:: but illogical :: We struggle,
each with their torment, for it is April, and winter windeth quick; This is a
dark and will become not so in illogic logic time
1
After this opened Job his mouth, and cursed his day.
2 And Job
spake, and said,
3 Let the
day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a
man child conceived.
4 Let
that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light
shine upon it.
5 Let
darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the
blackness of the day terrify it.
6 As for
that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of
the year, let it not come into the number of the months.
7 Lo, let
that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein.
And you recall, the surprise in dead eyes :: The beauty of the woman makes
us sad, because it is uncatchable, untouchable like the scent of music, a magic
drink, a potion: and we, we who were not invited to this earth - we are insatiable…The
great, grey, dusty book, with mossy hair and lichen legs, who had become
excruciatingly so that, that long, lingering look of wistful tenderness in her tearful
eyes: and did not something, was it l-love?, or some strange vibration, that
did perchance transmit itself from The eye :: the eye the see the light the
sight...to see to see to see to see to see but it wanted to vacuum up a whole
land of Salvador Dali thoughts, and wanted to know everything was always
playing mental chess: It wouldn’t stop wouldn’t stop, it just swallowed more
and more junk because – it ate junk: My brain was like a castle full of
crackery things and it did know about...:: not softness softness the creative
creature: that his hat he pulled to conceal sleep “intaglio in the seraglio”
because it could all become too excrucial, so as I was (was I?) saying
and we stepped gingerly into the vacant suggestion of a vasty froth of
soap-bubbled universes while Uncle merely twirled his impotent mustache and Auntie
toyed aeternam und mit her plastic phallic knife which surelywise
invited immense applause: but, bugger it all, I’m getting a head of myself said John the
Baptist, we have built temples and legends to
the god of life we accept and can never know except it blinds us and sings to
us without favour: it kills and makes:: Each accepts or screams tumble over stone, unlistening
ears… :: He dreamed the spiral, which was, infinitely...than the ther
dream which was about the blue syringe and the red syringe: which the lovely
white nice nurse pressed with Nazi reality (alternatively wilfully) in a
pattern so devised to control his insanity ratio: will become to murdered hugs a huge skies
whose crossed to be painted look was eye dead to its stop :: white dog verification :: it
:: tendentious: frog: not: my rose: really: the tragedy of a bic: really my
rose: really: the tragedy of a bic pen: an iambic nightmare: fug off: verify
the...:: The
clock is dead…:: 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: This poem is about nothing: it kept on
churning and thrashing :: My argument goes as follows; Living cells must be capable of some sort
of logical analysis or they would never survive; How else could free-living
micro-organisms avoid obstacles, hunt for food, respond to stimuli, store
memories?: If you saw a mouse or a monkey doing these things you might say
“Well, that animal has a nervous system,” … “Cross correspondence in the order of
two phrases. E.g. ‘I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed. I am ashamed to dig, I
cannot beg.’” ...:: enveloped in red...:: "giggle" feels cleaner, repleter, contenter: but that
wasn’t right: Any case ignorant: The special thing
that burns in the eye: they are in conflict: Eternal: The usual thing:
:: the sad song of the toothless whore...:: Neither
presence nor absence helps or even intercedes in the wanting: something
participating in the reassuring like a disease of speech...:: her heart to her
very fingertips as she stamped - and oh what a stamping it was - onto Librus
Dusticus’s inside cover. Dusty Book had been booked out; and he
walked joyfully through the swinging doors to a new life: As the librarian wept
rendingly in great shuddering lurches of heart-broken sobs, all the other 600,000 library books
walked out: “It was an itsy bitsy teenie weenie
yellow polka dot bikini that she wore for
the first time today.”…something like that – the sexy fifties: following the the imperative decree: 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!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…………………………….….
I l i v e t h e s
e
'We
are lost in gelid time. We are the fools of time; Time was.' :: it really
:: that’s the way things are out :: irrelevant: much; perhaps, as a Tooth - and
yet voila yet! : Red Grace, who had moved about so eternally in the perpetual
fretful caverns where they were rebuilding the Universe Mistake, and had oh so
greatly Coveted the beautifully annotated disinfectant bottle, was... Perhaps,
after all, it was “sublimed with a mineral fury”, But more likely, and with a
Probability of about 0.9, whatever that means, its a lambent annihilation…:: You don’t have to be
a little Leunig man, spreadeagled in sad ends, or dancing to the beat of The
Great Goofy Rooster (complete with poker-dot tie), beaming and…:: Pi -- take
a white circular CARBOARD sheet, draw TWO lines right thru the CENTRE...:: Decent
ones stay away:: Wary, they creep down town Even old people :: I remain :: examine:
something wriggles in pluckt baffle wonder doom them to joy......:: You are
reading “lens” and lens is a word and you are reading ‘“lens is a word” someone
else’s words...:: sleek enigma, in the skull that’s tearing out the shrieking, ever
sneering presence of the abyss, we laugh as he unbecomes!: he is all things to
all thingsaren’t you?: like a puzzled Hitler (peering) out his bunker at the
woman's house next door: The light's still on: Is she safe?...:: burn burn burn thou
hating: i’ve not: who genetic imperative lost in (the) if it would be thus be thus be
what: but: whenther maother access memory was clocked thru a madman’s
program whose
insane father mnother afather sonme chadughter you fniwe are hjhrtuyoai lcv
eoruihn rtied to fghrtohsdflhnsdf oshasduhrnrtnet ARE WE Prog: the Prog: Prog bounced into the central
oblonwoogle—twist by the slippery sexual whereroom was mother father and thus The goblin light: black light light black eternal
red sections eternal eyelight thinking into and you are reading’:: We are
reading and we have lessness: Lessness is something...:: Are wanted box: you
too shall know the ill despair as if redness sang beyond (the perceivedly
habitual) commercial instability of a substantial subjunctive or preterite
habituation of wordle words and something disguised as an aluminium south island him wither: to smaller than
a breadcrumb, or
a bisected proton proton: like a mother to a baby: the woman next door...::
even if the Universe began who began the Big...:: 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...:: There was a tremendous explosion- on and off went
the Order from slime and sparks from dark of a child, the bearing and the love
in action when the other is hurt: Did fire this flesh: Huge as huge. Their
headlamps burn till everyone and everything be blind: eye is seeing began to
thump O gone by god was god, thus and being eye is blue brown or grey 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: Could the shapes change ever? No: Neither could the shapes of shade, in
any never ever, ever be severed ever: Nor could not anytime The Cloud King Be:
No: Nor turned, that T, nor by grass and dust, the road I strode unto and into
the slit green goat CULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACULAR OCULAR ORACUL completed
futility. Click click clack smack smack smack...:: (Go Careful On The Stairs
EACH STEP IS MANY )Y not ironic not ironic not ironic not ironic not ironic not
ironic not ironic not ironic not ironic and those trees of ending whose lunal precisions of yellow red
and violet green created by your instruments unseen and as intricate as wings 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 to be a
skeleton in the family closet:: You: Yes, you -
to you I speak: You Will never have: this now of subtle spring: a pantomime is
played - heat three rivers: The blind and beautifully indifferent universe: Doomed :: Perhaps I should mention Marlowe
or something about another harbour bridge at this point: Perhaps by the time: No
Tuis even: We even have doubts about the body, how it excresses, or is that:
expresses?...:: Thus doth dust...:: Oh yeah, verily these uttered nights of
yellow crabs who crawl the walls beseeching thought of thought...:: These are
never now who howl under the sun in crazed cacophony: and none are known: Yet
he is tombed in light, and the jugglers tumble by: old with severe thoughts marked...::
My wise saws. My instances...:: I remain not a youthful age but stay...:: The
spikes..:: Within Yet the doors: Silent as centuries of stone the starers stare...Yet, my lovely, you know the
bright bloom, the star-filled song, and the dancing clapping bones who are
white in the gone black light: and if so, what is
left of the form, (or gestalt), of art?: Does poetry give access to a
hidden order of.....:: Call it God breathed in your ear?; And who looked
from your eyes?...:: But, being chaste enough, they hallelujah the
Eternal in such gentle tones that the Poor Invisible Hand almost gets annoyed
and now writes in huge looping Numbers, tortuously describing where Dante’s
Hell was (!) – so naughty!! - in a sadly happy ecstasy – But soon Newman is ‘distilled’
like the spiritual whisky, aqua vitae, ha!, ...:: but They are above the
clouds of desire
in unknown yet tabulated spheres: my pohutukawa is describable but unknowable: the
other day two fantails by the
compost heap – their looping flight their fan tails – cheeky joy – infinite
bird
1 comment:
Interesting indeed. RT
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