dom-tea vi

l^a goo brie us

what could be more beautiful my furry flurry friend

than getting naked with another and getting out some cheese

from france, some melted brie, vats and vats and vats,

and pouring it upon ourselves like kings or apes or gods?

there’s something about goo on us that makes us think of love

eyes poking out from bovine fat like visions in a spa—

who could say that cheese is meant for just internal use:

try it! cream it! goo us! brie us! take us to the spa?

IT’S TRUE!!!!!—:—BUTTER MAKES THINGS BETTER!!!!!!!

Butter from the udder, not just in the butt but in the ‘and, in the tub and in the turd, in the hinges of youth and the dashes of colons:  rutting makes things wetter!!!!!!!—:—naturally ...

baked peas

so green & singular, bumpy spheres, smelling mildly of dirty feet, indistinguishable thorugh the oven door, from outside, slowly shrivelling, neither frozen nor boiling nor lukewarm, faceless, somewhat, green (did we say green), with skin, so many, heating, on that pan we might call their world, like us.

WORLD APOCALYPTIC WEEK

So you’ve been attacked by zombies, the bubonic plague has tried to pickpocket you, the routine mad have put you on a litter and dumped you on a dump, a heffalump of pennies almost drowned you, it started raining honey from the planes, your meeting started eating, eating you, the muffins laughed, the coffee erupted, your spouse grew seven heads, your children turned into rats, the gods became real and set up their tent under your bed, money turned to water, art to stone, medusa has started googling you, your gorgoneion destroyed ... it’s been a nice week, a nice week, unfolding like the universe, big-bouncing to that ol’ fate-beat, everything beautiful and good ...

  

a meal for our times

... palm hearts and sour cherries, lit quails in the background behind hanging gauze ...

... back to the effulgent void ...

it’s what some spoke of, have spoken of, when convinced of the truth of ellipses, when counting lilypads, when the smell of women arose on the destitute plains, on night’s rungless ladders, in the downloading torrent of fools, on mephistopheles’ song, of the truth of lilypads when counting ellipses, on night’s rungless fools on mephistopheles’ ladders, when the torrent of woman’s rose rose on a plane,

waiting for an ex-housemate at a neon cliff of the world, bills & hawks quawking in the background, flirtation a mobile device, change agent of such magnificent proportions as to drive all fear away and bring eternal peace, redeeming not redemption but silence’s siblings, subverting not subversion but ...

... he’s here ...

softfeethardcock

àààà|~|=^</\@`:  coconut oil in the seams of the world, creamed and stitched like dinner, like white artichokes peeking around the curtains at you in bed:  it’s not the rituals we speak of, those precognitive prechronological joie de vivres of our days, those kerplunky plonks on april twentieth and then some:  but those other things, resembling rituals in unimaginative mirrors, but, really, simulatingly, not.  And everything fits into everything when you think about it:  toothpaste&shoelaces, butter&pencils, jude&rumpunch.  And who needs babies anymore when each consumes slightly more than africa and a foot does just as well and sometimes even a bottle of st dalfour tartinade de luxe cassis the smoke is choking on the phalluses and what is love but oil in the seams?

all we are are pawns in each other’s vaginas:  a poem for Reykjavík and nothing

øen dryhumps jimmy qe5+ kxf7 28.qf5+ rf6 29.qd7#

reach in & grab yourself, doris, you schizocarp

play the endgame, barclay, emrick, in toke-ee-oh’s wholly holy hole

shatranj : luis manuel ferreira ferrão de vasconcels

i take days to recover from myself, only to find myself waiting

round and round the soultrack goes the little me

one (mis)step, two (mis)steps, fickle under thee

completely exhausted by human scrimmage

humans, monads of unsustainability, each a shattered god & numinous ape smashed into one mould, each a black hole of language, an aspirin and a gun, made to bump to bump tobump tobumptobump, into all things bumpable (and all things ever always are made bumpable anew!); bump bump bumpity bump bump bumpity bumpbumpbumpitybumpwego, from ghoulies & ghosties ...

maybe that which smells is me

Feye-Lo Pace-Tree nee Noott—

not her brother, “Kid” “Knee” Le Goom

not her sister, Ka Baj Bustle Sbowt

not her mother, Toe-Phoo Barr-Lee

not her father, Bear Bere Beir du Bier—

said to herself when she smelled something, it might have been me

the day before the end of the world (again)

if the race is weary at all, it’s surely because there’ve been too many days before the end of the world, too many ends that weren’t ends, too many loose ends, split ends, dead ends, tight ends, odds and ends and very few evens, the hope & disappointment like water dripping on a rock (for where have the days before the beginning of the world gone?), ends like leaden butterflies, ends on benders, ends in blenders, ends that never being ends wear us down

what do i do with the maledictions of Tyn, in the labyrinths of Tyool, on the plateaus of Tlyll?

I, Zunk, living a quiet life in peaceful Ziik, with my beautiful wife Znood and my noble son Zuunk, was called upon one day to leave peaceful Ziik and beautiful Znood and noble Zuunk and sojourn to Tnynn, on which lie the plateaus of Tlyll and enter the labyrinths of Tyool, but i was not told of Tyn or Tyn’s maledictions or what to do.

Falling Off the PEDESTAL of MYSELF

onto the vermiculous ground, onto the rooting earth, into the rutting mind of the decomposing gods, into the joy of silence where the fish called Vast lives and wandering & willing aren’t that different and space yawns onto the canvas of nothing.

my ass is, @ 51, still firm, though in my mind it isn’t which, in <    > fashion ... <  > ...

does your ass hang low, does it wobble to & fro

can you tie it in a knot, can you tie it in a bow

can you fling it over your shoulder like a continental soldier

does your ass hang low?

the romanticization of the lost words

i had it, walking south on john from ago, that which was once in the <  >’s, and seemed so good it couldn’t leave that i didn’t bother to stop in the cold and the pleasantry of walking to write it down, i repeated it a number of times to root it and the swirl of the city, without and within, covered the soil i thought ... but, then, ... once i arrived, it had slipped, been grabbed by some force specializing in grasping new roots under the soil and swirl and ... eating them.  It will come back, i thought, as things often do when you don’t try, but it didn’t.  And now the lost words have attained a mythic status in my imagination and i’m ambivalent about their coming back (and even if they did i’m not sure i’d recognize them), for what could now compensate for their tragic loss?

do i want the buzz of booze? ...

but booze without its buzz is just oo-e ...

the human and the butterfly

the urban environment in itself necessitates that the dominant forms of human discourse are with the human—that is, take place in the social realm, frequently solidifying the impression that human social categories—particularly present, that is to say visible, ones—are ascendant (even exclusive) among the categories of meaning.  This collective solipsism—one might say insanity—is misaligned with the proclivities of the human soul, which attempts to correct the imbalance in schizoid ways:  primarily through technology (in which we include entertainment, travel, communication, etc.), sex (in which we include yoga, the body-health conglomerate), art (the commodotized and laundered products of those who have lived in the non-dominant forms, displayed in galleries, stages, bookstores, theaters, etc.), emotionally prosthetizing substances (in which we include everything from caffeine to heroin, religion to grand marnier, acquisitiveness to weed).  Not that any of these things in themselves is wrong or damaging but that they typically remain unintegrated (that is, without dialogue) with the social, instead being called upon to substantiate, further solidify, the human love affair with itself—which is to say human insecurity and fear, a deeply ingrained requirement to set itself as superior to other forms of creation, this requirement a vast psychosis, a puerile denial, a refusal to accept the root orientations of the universe, an infantile desire to escape the circumscribed conditions of life.  A new form of play is required, which operates within the urbanized social realm but views it as no more authoritative than a tree, a stretch, or a carmine streak on canvas, allowing the voices of silence to mutually question the voices of sound, attempting to recover what once might have been called god or dao or something else or nothing by listening to the interaction of all voices, neither privileging nor denigrating the human any more than a cat, an ant, or a painting.

as i didn’t walk out one evening

Wandering around, in the aimlessness of myself, not here or there, memories and hope something of the same, time’s just a blanket, i’m gaseous and warm like a train or a bubble, clocks don’t really tell time, time tells time (the hand is on the marmalade and clocks tell themselves), what time is it mister wolf? three o’clock. What time is it mister wolf? eight o’clock. What time is it mister wolf? eleven o’clock. What time is it mister wolf? midnight. But all the answers are the same, it’s what the children don’t tell you, they know the game, the artifice of names and thrills.  Midnight.  Dark and wet at the change of day.  Don’t cry wolf, because midnight will come and bite you.  Change the diaper of the day in the dark, in the train, singing clocks and memories like a blanket or an arrow, as it clickclacks through space and the gods of signs and signals doze in the control room at union wages, cool coffee at their sides like cats, but no collisions to speak of, just neutrinos in geneva, the teacup’s in the lovers and the deep subways run on.

character sketch

as if you craved your annihilation, that common desire, but with such subtle resistance, such dissipation, the craving seemed to annihilate itself and you were still.  it’s never the i that speaks anyway, it’s something below, bound with mollusks and language, the vision that can’t see,   the urgency is too urgent, too like itself, like a wave, beautiful but relentless, always that endlessly varying endlessness, that perpetually different sameness, the annoyance of it all, some adjectives are fucked.  You have to be lovers with jealousy, envy, lust, greed, success, money, solitude, despair, love, let them be stronger than you in theirs but stronger than them in yours, a spiritual division of labour, a divine taylorism, the new fear and future, that i read in you.

the night is safe, only the night

all wires cut, all wirelesses cut, placenta of parties, unknown address, day a faith-leap away, warm custard and cats, the human buzz seemingly sleeping, the outlines of garages, shadows of abandoned cars, traffic lights eternally recurring, only the noise of keys and fans, the safety of silence, i drag night into day, lay it as its foundation, don it like a fashion, spectacles on the spectacle, condom on the clock, mask on the cock, quark and face and cloud, glove on the simian hand of work, the protestant mind, the catholic craving to create and annihilate, the strange equality of all things in stature and truth and nobility:  night, silent teacher, naked justice, stripper of names.