It occurred to me today that people (and also poets) don't really like Frank O'Hara. Sure, they like his poems and his bon mots. They like the way he managed to zip around like a fart in a windstorm in American literature. That was sort of hot. He is the closest thing we have to People magazine in literature. Even today.
Sure, we have a couple of Talk Soup poets and maybe a few Robot Chicken poets out there. But I just don't see a People magazine in the current gen.
Maybe the lil tyke is eating his or her chocolate granola bars just now each morning, and powering up the dread flippancy we still miss.
But we don't like Frank. Nobody likes him really. Dapper people make your apartment feel funny after they leave. You don't know whether to spray Renuzit or go for a walk.
And there is an aftertaste of which you will want to rid yourself.
Well you know what I mean.
Later you'll want to scratch yourself, and who knows what else and if that wit is lingering about like a Jovian cloud with the scent of a cologne they stopped making forty years ago, it will be difficult.
Turn on the ceiling fan. Wave the newspaper around.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Alfred Hitchcock
Felipe learned English by watching the films of Alfred Hitchcock. He loved them to the point of having little concentration for anything else. He lived with his Colombian family in a smallish walk-up apartment, and his family soon grew tired of hearing Janet Leigh scream four times in one day, or seeing Jimmy Stewart spend a lot of time just nosily watching other people. His mother hated seeing him alone in a tiny dark room all day, staring at a screen as though hypnotized. His parents felt he should be looking for a girlfriend, or at least be curious about what was going on in the street in front of their apartment building. It was a very busy, interesting street.
But Felipe preferred to stay in his room. When he would turn the television off, he would lie in bed and write his own Hitchcock movies in his head. He never wrote these scripts down, although he had the dialogue memorized perfectly. He had twenty-three new Hitchcock movies in his head. Most of these were actually very good to great movies; that is, he matched the Master in visual ingenuity and in creating torturous suspense. There were a few places where the dialogue was flawed, but only because Felipe's mastery of the English language was not yet complete. It was never a failure of the cinematic art itself. Only two of the films were set in Colombia. Felipe was pathologically shy, and only spoke voluntarily to a few dozen strangers in his entire life, which ended at the age of twenty-three.
He had a Colombian uncle who lived with his family, who liked to make Felipe laugh by saying "Good eve-uh-ning" in Hitchcock's voice every time Felipe sat down to the dinner table.
Felipe was a cashier and bagger at a grocery store five blocks from his family's apartment. This was the second job he had had in his life.
He died suddenly on a Thursday afternoon when he was staring at the sky, wondering if it was going to snow. He was looking through the plate glass at the front of the store and wondering just that when the aneurysm at the base of his skull burst.
His coworkers were terribly upset, several of them crying, as the reality of what had just happened in front of them came clear.
It wasn't a bad life. It was a good one. Mina Rosenheim had just come down the grand staircase at the Opera and was about to query Jules Child on the matter of the child who was repeatedly seen at night crossing the Plaza below her apartment window in the film which Felipe called Disbelief when his aneurysm burst.
He was smiling at how strange her beauty was, and how perfectly she delivered the line he had written for her, which was the last thing he heard.
"Do you find that I am as attractive in the full light of day, as you told me I always am in the night?" Mina asked.
But Felipe preferred to stay in his room. When he would turn the television off, he would lie in bed and write his own Hitchcock movies in his head. He never wrote these scripts down, although he had the dialogue memorized perfectly. He had twenty-three new Hitchcock movies in his head. Most of these were actually very good to great movies; that is, he matched the Master in visual ingenuity and in creating torturous suspense. There were a few places where the dialogue was flawed, but only because Felipe's mastery of the English language was not yet complete. It was never a failure of the cinematic art itself. Only two of the films were set in Colombia. Felipe was pathologically shy, and only spoke voluntarily to a few dozen strangers in his entire life, which ended at the age of twenty-three.
He had a Colombian uncle who lived with his family, who liked to make Felipe laugh by saying "Good eve-uh-ning" in Hitchcock's voice every time Felipe sat down to the dinner table.
Felipe was a cashier and bagger at a grocery store five blocks from his family's apartment. This was the second job he had had in his life.
He died suddenly on a Thursday afternoon when he was staring at the sky, wondering if it was going to snow. He was looking through the plate glass at the front of the store and wondering just that when the aneurysm at the base of his skull burst.
His coworkers were terribly upset, several of them crying, as the reality of what had just happened in front of them came clear.
It wasn't a bad life. It was a good one. Mina Rosenheim had just come down the grand staircase at the Opera and was about to query Jules Child on the matter of the child who was repeatedly seen at night crossing the Plaza below her apartment window in the film which Felipe called Disbelief when his aneurysm burst.
He was smiling at how strange her beauty was, and how perfectly she delivered the line he had written for her, which was the last thing he heard.
"Do you find that I am as attractive in the full light of day, as you told me I always am in the night?" Mina asked.
Christian Davies
Often, several weeks will go by where I don't see anything in my Flickr continuous feed that really makes me eager to click and see more by a particular artist.
Today makes two days in a row where an image drew me in so that I had to learn more and see more.
This time it turned out to be Christian Davies.
When I got there, I looked at all 287 pieces in his gallery and I had a great time.
I'll post some of my favorites here and if you want to see more go here...
Christian Davies gallery here
Christian lived in a cube at the Burning Man festival one year, I believe, and documented social interactions.
There are many drawings, paintings, photographs and ceramic works there. And combinations of some of those also.
He reminds me of so many artists I love (Frankenthaler, Marsden, Kiki Smith, Twombly) but no one of these and his style only occasionally quotes or evokes these artists, because his style is clearly his own. I guess I should pluralize that. The gallery is definitely pluraesthetic.
Here's his bio from an online profile. With visuals this ensorceling and affecting, I'm sure the bio is already outdated and the dude's art has gone totally viral.
But here it is...
Christian "Dicky" Davies
San Francisco, CA, United States
Currently teaching at the De Young Museum. current and past projects include showing paintings with Red Ink Studios, Gallery One SF, ArtSFest, as well as other public spaces. In 2005, in collaboration with Logan Mirto I built The Dicky Box, an interactive conceptual sculpture at the Burning Man Art Festival. I am currently on the Advisory Board for the Black Rock Arts Foundation, a nonprofit civic arts foundation whose focus is on community based interactive art. I am also a part The Banana Family as a core and founding member.
What to Do if Your Venus Phone Locks and You Don't Know the Password
First, you should probably pray to Venus.
You might want to check a jelly bean for a Christian reflection.
Possibly Google the lyrics.
Purify your mind. Think about a sculpture of a baby duck in the Louvre.
That duck survived. Do you think your assailants will? They will not.
Frog dildos are an extreme measure but just might be the thing.
Contemplate various way to tell French people to fuck off.
Surely wonder why gracilidris is extinct.
Try mentally rubricizing whilst watching hidden cam pederasty.
Collect Mount Rushmore porn, possibly as a form of expiation.
Tell random people in elevators: “El hombre es plenamente hombre cuando juega.” (Schiller) Do NOT stoop to translate. Then just say "Muy guapo, eh?"
Remember the Japanese caterpillar dildo videos instead of Pearl Harbor. For a nice switch-up.
How long does that cadaverine smell last anyway?
Top things off with a sex change
Then write some Proud Whore poems.
If the issue remains unresolved at this point, consult the "Talk with the Dead" chatbot.
Don't believe everything written in the POKEDEX of American poetry. Sometimes your HP, Speed and Special Defenses will be sufficient to win the Battle.
Plus you might have hidden talents like Water Veil or Mold Breaker.
Look What I Can Do...
Okay, I realize now
that probably wasn't a good fit,
and the subdued color
was certainly all wrong
for your summery complection,
that habit you have
of soliloquizing unicorn-shaped objects,
and soup cans with people
screaming on them. Look, we all hate poets
who use red string licorice
to garotte the competition. I Gong them.
Worse than Soon Yi in a roller skating rink.
No. Hell no. I wouldn't insult
you for all the Hello Kitty porn
in Japan. I'm not like that. Hey look,
I'm trying to help you here.
Of course, there are always
the Horrible People. Can I just
bring one out and you can try
it on and see what you think?
I don't know what that pout
means and staring at your feet
is not an answer. Yes? Maybe?
There! That's better. I think
you'll find them surprisingly
resilient. They have survived
the Holocaust of themselves for years,
and, really, they go with anything.
Some of My Favorite Recent Postings by Matt Cozart
I am in Wussy-Autistic-Incommunicado mode lately and not at all ashamed about it. I'm actually enjoying the break from the War of empathy slash deep comprehension of my peers and their deep commitment to the meaning or meaningless of existence slash I didn't mean to freak you out or ruin your day slash I love you I'll tell you more horror later and hit me back with some of yours slash what's on t.v. tonight period I guess I'm done slashing you now.
I decided I just want to do my own writing for a little while and tune out all the cognitive dissonance of Things Which Are Annoyingly Not Me.
I think it's a healthy move.
It was like take up yoghurt (yes I deliberately obnoxiously added the h) or slice away the entire corpus of American poetry from my body like the 500 pounds of fat they remove from those poor people on those documentaries on channels it takes five minutes just to page upwards to.
And I wasn't in the mood for yoghurt.
I think I will have to have several follow up surgeries to correct the extra skin left after Ampo was removed.
You know how that goes. Yadda yadda.
While it's true I did officially Secede from American literature (statement over at right, signed affidavit on file, all individuals in this film are over the age of 18, no minors and no miners in fact, either) I still know there are certain "safehouses" where I can cross the Border and know that a skirmish or full battle is unlikely.
One such place that I like to take my Harriet Tubman ass on my Underground Railroad peregrinations by night and stealth, using the stars as my guide and singing slave songs I learned from when I visited other blogs, is Matt Cozart's (ne Walker) blog The Booth of Our Conniving. See my blogroll.
Matt has been writing some really great poetry lately, and his poetry has a great funny Oversoul guiding it like some sort of weird Beatrice in mint-green Converses who huffs...but only huffs like lavendar Renuzit or something...so it's okay.
Because the poems are often deploying lavendar fields in the foyer of the scary corporate offices of Ampo Inc. LLC etc. etc.
I envision Matt on his knees with a trowel and a bunch of dirt in a huge mauseoleum of a corporate foyer planting zinnias or marigolds. With earbuds in and making the trowel sort of dance to the tune he is currently enjoying.
And then an ominous security guard asks him "What the hell" he thinks he's doing.
And Matt answers honestly.
He's planting zinnias. Or marigolds.
And then the security guard turns into a Duane Hansen security guard sculpture.
And Matt goes back to gardening.
Anyway, that's a long way to say here are a few of my favorite recent posts from a blog that's worth reading.
Best American Poetry 2009....HEADS UP!
EVERYTHING THAT FOLLOWS AFTER THIS ELLIPSIS IS MATT TALKING....
OPTIMISTIC POEM
Yak herds
vent rage.
Lattes be,
lord yes!
A new neck
digs sin—
lay I in us.
Verb gill:
ear, be it.
Lye sings,
kings go.
Sir lac,
gnash on!
SMALL HOURS
The hops are up.
The shouts are out.
The life force is banking.
My sleeve is caught in
its pollution. Changing the
subject I saw that where the newspaper
once lay there was now a butterfly's
tattered lei.
______________________________________________
I'm engaged in beautification projects. These could include dogs, geese, airplanes, coincidences, octagons, the night sky over Wilkes-Barre. I take them back to my lab and have my way with them. The paint I use is everlasting, comes from a tap attached to the brain stem of my alter ego, he in whom I place unwavering trust for all time up to this point. When intelligent people observe our interactions, it is all we can do to provide them with snacks and pairs of undeserved slippers.
THE BACKGROUND
The background is my favorite ground
Some people prefer the foreground
And still others have nothing but nice
Things to say about the middle ground
I have nothing against these people but I am not them
And so it should be no surprise that
My preference of ground is not the same as theirs
From the background I can see the foreground
But the people, animals and objects in the foreground
Cannot see me in the background
As long as they don't turn around
And they usually don't
In this way I avoid humiliation and injury
Though I do miss the foreground-dwelling animals and it pains me
To give up my acting career
The background however is the place to be if your thing
Is being an extra and mine is
________________________________________________________
Sure, I suppose you could say that I'm a romantic, in the sense that I'm happy to consort with even the most lackluster of citizens in my daily activities. I'm generous of spirit, yes, and it shows. Have you met me? Then you'll know.
I'd like to take this opportunity to lead you into a small, windowless room.
On the other hand, I would also agree that my moods are seasons, and who knows when they will turn? That towel on the chair? The truth is not so easily inferred, as I'm sure you've guessed by now. It takes a professional to diagnose, and so far I'm the only professional I know. My profession? Shoveling bagels into the lake for no apparent reason.
________________________________
Every gym has its limitations. Some only have weights and treadmills and in my opinion I don't think these should be called gyms. I would call these fitness centers. I would ask them to remove the word "gym" from their names and replace it with "fitness center". Then I would go lie down for awhile, thinking about how many Spaniards could I name. Off the top of my head, there was Ferdinand and Isabella, Francisco Franco, and that was about it. Of course I thought of Picasso, but I remembered that he is considered French for art historical purposes. Am I wrong in constantly comparing and contrasting Schubert and Schumann simply because of the similarity in names? One of them is considered Austrian; the other, German. If I am considered at all, it is likely to be as "an anonymous source", a/k/a "the man in the blue hooded sweatshirt". Either designation does me justice and is an acceptable form of payment.
I decided I just want to do my own writing for a little while and tune out all the cognitive dissonance of Things Which Are Annoyingly Not Me.
I think it's a healthy move.
It was like take up yoghurt (yes I deliberately obnoxiously added the h) or slice away the entire corpus of American poetry from my body like the 500 pounds of fat they remove from those poor people on those documentaries on channels it takes five minutes just to page upwards to.
And I wasn't in the mood for yoghurt.
I think I will have to have several follow up surgeries to correct the extra skin left after Ampo was removed.
You know how that goes. Yadda yadda.
While it's true I did officially Secede from American literature (statement over at right, signed affidavit on file, all individuals in this film are over the age of 18, no minors and no miners in fact, either) I still know there are certain "safehouses" where I can cross the Border and know that a skirmish or full battle is unlikely.
One such place that I like to take my Harriet Tubman ass on my Underground Railroad peregrinations by night and stealth, using the stars as my guide and singing slave songs I learned from when I visited other blogs, is Matt Cozart's (ne Walker) blog The Booth of Our Conniving. See my blogroll.
Matt has been writing some really great poetry lately, and his poetry has a great funny Oversoul guiding it like some sort of weird Beatrice in mint-green Converses who huffs...but only huffs like lavendar Renuzit or something...so it's okay.
Because the poems are often deploying lavendar fields in the foyer of the scary corporate offices of Ampo Inc. LLC etc. etc.
I envision Matt on his knees with a trowel and a bunch of dirt in a huge mauseoleum of a corporate foyer planting zinnias or marigolds. With earbuds in and making the trowel sort of dance to the tune he is currently enjoying.
And then an ominous security guard asks him "What the hell" he thinks he's doing.
And Matt answers honestly.
He's planting zinnias. Or marigolds.
And then the security guard turns into a Duane Hansen security guard sculpture.
And Matt goes back to gardening.
Anyway, that's a long way to say here are a few of my favorite recent posts from a blog that's worth reading.
Best American Poetry 2009....HEADS UP!
EVERYTHING THAT FOLLOWS AFTER THIS ELLIPSIS IS MATT TALKING....
OPTIMISTIC POEM
Yak herds
vent rage.
Lattes be,
lord yes!
A new neck
digs sin—
lay I in us.
Verb gill:
ear, be it.
Lye sings,
kings go.
Sir lac,
gnash on!
SMALL HOURS
The hops are up.
The shouts are out.
The life force is banking.
My sleeve is caught in
its pollution. Changing the
subject I saw that where the newspaper
once lay there was now a butterfly's
tattered lei.
______________________________________________
I'm engaged in beautification projects. These could include dogs, geese, airplanes, coincidences, octagons, the night sky over Wilkes-Barre. I take them back to my lab and have my way with them. The paint I use is everlasting, comes from a tap attached to the brain stem of my alter ego, he in whom I place unwavering trust for all time up to this point. When intelligent people observe our interactions, it is all we can do to provide them with snacks and pairs of undeserved slippers.
THE BACKGROUND
The background is my favorite ground
Some people prefer the foreground
And still others have nothing but nice
Things to say about the middle ground
I have nothing against these people but I am not them
And so it should be no surprise that
My preference of ground is not the same as theirs
From the background I can see the foreground
But the people, animals and objects in the foreground
Cannot see me in the background
As long as they don't turn around
And they usually don't
In this way I avoid humiliation and injury
Though I do miss the foreground-dwelling animals and it pains me
To give up my acting career
The background however is the place to be if your thing
Is being an extra and mine is
________________________________________________________
Sure, I suppose you could say that I'm a romantic, in the sense that I'm happy to consort with even the most lackluster of citizens in my daily activities. I'm generous of spirit, yes, and it shows. Have you met me? Then you'll know.
I'd like to take this opportunity to lead you into a small, windowless room.
On the other hand, I would also agree that my moods are seasons, and who knows when they will turn? That towel on the chair? The truth is not so easily inferred, as I'm sure you've guessed by now. It takes a professional to diagnose, and so far I'm the only professional I know. My profession? Shoveling bagels into the lake for no apparent reason.
________________________________
Every gym has its limitations. Some only have weights and treadmills and in my opinion I don't think these should be called gyms. I would call these fitness centers. I would ask them to remove the word "gym" from their names and replace it with "fitness center". Then I would go lie down for awhile, thinking about how many Spaniards could I name. Off the top of my head, there was Ferdinand and Isabella, Francisco Franco, and that was about it. Of course I thought of Picasso, but I remembered that he is considered French for art historical purposes. Am I wrong in constantly comparing and contrasting Schubert and Schumann simply because of the similarity in names? One of them is considered Austrian; the other, German. If I am considered at all, it is likely to be as "an anonymous source", a/k/a "the man in the blue hooded sweatshirt". Either designation does me justice and is an acceptable form of payment.
you people are hardcore
okay some search terms today were scary...abigail folger was the heiress stabbed to death in the Manson murders along with Sharon Tate and others...
what to do if your venus phone locks and you dont know the pass word
(YOU PRAY TO VENUS)
ventriloquists bummys
jelly beans, christian reflection
i googled you lyrics
(i wrote a short ficton titled this. is there a song? i am suing)
duck baby sculpture, louvre
frog dildos
abba mnemonic mamma mia sonnet
boob channel
porno video homophile
poltergeist dream and the letters urge
how to tell french people to fuck off
(I CONFESS THAT ONE WAS MY FAVORITE...RIGHT ABOVE HERE)
why gracilidris is extinct
hidden cam pederasty
abigail folger nude
mount rushmore porn
caterpillar dildo video
how long does cadaverine smell last? (YOU DON'T WANNA KNOW WHAT THAT GUY HAS IN HIS CLOSET, TRUST ME)
top things sex change
proud whore poems (YOU FOUND THE RIGHT PLACE!)
1 0.61% matt walker porn (MATT, LOL, IS THIS YOU PLAYING A PRANK OR IS THERE A PORN STAR NAMED MATT WALKER...IF SO, I KNOW WHY YOU'RE NOW MATT COZART)
joey lawrence gay porn pic (LIKE WHOA)
talk with the dead chatbot (WHAT A GREAT IDEA! BUT I HAVE PHILIP SO DON'T NEED THAT)
yoko (japan) mag wheels buy online
explanation of i remember i remember by joe brainard (WHAT'S TO EXPLAIN!??)
“el hombre es plenamente hombre cuando juega.” (schiller) great quote..Vela quoted that. Vela es muy guapo. MUY guapo.
will linden tea make you too sleepy if you have a brain tumor
barb dewbar art BARB IS THIS YOU? EMAIL ME ON GOODREADS! ADD ME AS A FRIEND ON THERE THEN EMAIL ME...GOODREADS.COM...MISS YOUR ART AND YOU!
angela mirabella caught having sex in key food supermarket brooklyn ny
what to do if your venus phone locks and you dont know the pass word
(YOU PRAY TO VENUS)
ventriloquists bummys
jelly beans, christian reflection
i googled you lyrics
(i wrote a short ficton titled this. is there a song? i am suing)
duck baby sculpture, louvre
frog dildos
abba mnemonic mamma mia sonnet
boob channel
porno video homophile
poltergeist dream and the letters urge
how to tell french people to fuck off
(I CONFESS THAT ONE WAS MY FAVORITE...RIGHT ABOVE HERE)
why gracilidris is extinct
hidden cam pederasty
abigail folger nude
mount rushmore porn
caterpillar dildo video
how long does cadaverine smell last? (YOU DON'T WANNA KNOW WHAT THAT GUY HAS IN HIS CLOSET, TRUST ME)
top things sex change
proud whore poems (YOU FOUND THE RIGHT PLACE!)
1 0.61% matt walker porn (MATT, LOL, IS THIS YOU PLAYING A PRANK OR IS THERE A PORN STAR NAMED MATT WALKER...IF SO, I KNOW WHY YOU'RE NOW MATT COZART)
joey lawrence gay porn pic (LIKE WHOA)
talk with the dead chatbot (WHAT A GREAT IDEA! BUT I HAVE PHILIP SO DON'T NEED THAT)
yoko (japan) mag wheels buy online
explanation of i remember i remember by joe brainard (WHAT'S TO EXPLAIN!??)
“el hombre es plenamente hombre cuando juega.” (schiller) great quote..Vela quoted that. Vela es muy guapo. MUY guapo.
will linden tea make you too sleepy if you have a brain tumor
barb dewbar art BARB IS THIS YOU? EMAIL ME ON GOODREADS! ADD ME AS A FRIEND ON THERE THEN EMAIL ME...GOODREADS.COM...MISS YOUR ART AND YOU!
angela mirabella caught having sex in key food supermarket brooklyn ny
Letters to and from an Imaginary Countess
Esteemed Collaborator,
Things are amiss at Court, and we are at great risk of compromising centuries of planning.
The most troublous breaches that have been brought to my attention so far include the following--
Lizabeta was seen emerging from a mirror in the hallway outside the Salon Sans Gender carrying a Dodo in her arms.
My paramour S______ stumbled upon several pieces of my correspondence with Vlad Tepes.
A functionary in the Department of Temporal Affairs stumbled upon a book which had an unambiguous chronology and Timeline within it.
Several anachronisms were nearly sussed out. I don't need to tell you the sort of Danger we are flirting with in this regard.
Our Margravine A______ assures me this individual has been "contained." He was running, book in hand, towards the Imperial Mausoleum itself when he was intercepted. Can you imagine?
I do not know whether the creature was vaporized or chronologically recycled, nor do I really care.
Our Dear Margravine told me she is certain the War is still winnable, but that we must enlist Additional Forces.
The Anachronists are working very diligently as I write you this, and Our Margravine is sifting the Akashic Records and believes she has begun to crack several of the most important codes which will allow us the Victory we have been denied so long.
We must be more careful. Baron V_____ is such an asshole. Did you hear about the controversy at Court with his art collection? The creature had the audacity to bring part of his art collection with him on The Mission.
I nearly shat myself when I walked through the Solar Chamber of the Winter Hermitage yesterday and saw several Ladies chattering like sparrows standing about a Jeff Koons sculpture! It was Michael Jackson and Bubbles. In the middle of the Chamber. Much discussed, I assure you.
Our Margravine said that she wasn't overly concerned. But he will be trouble. Mark my words.
Gather your creatures and your wits about you. The War is Winnable.
Your Comrade,
M_____________
Things are amiss at Court, and we are at great risk of compromising centuries of planning.
The most troublous breaches that have been brought to my attention so far include the following--
Lizabeta was seen emerging from a mirror in the hallway outside the Salon Sans Gender carrying a Dodo in her arms.
My paramour S______ stumbled upon several pieces of my correspondence with Vlad Tepes.
A functionary in the Department of Temporal Affairs stumbled upon a book which had an unambiguous chronology and Timeline within it.
Several anachronisms were nearly sussed out. I don't need to tell you the sort of Danger we are flirting with in this regard.
Our Margravine A______ assures me this individual has been "contained." He was running, book in hand, towards the Imperial Mausoleum itself when he was intercepted. Can you imagine?
I do not know whether the creature was vaporized or chronologically recycled, nor do I really care.
Our Dear Margravine told me she is certain the War is still winnable, but that we must enlist Additional Forces.
The Anachronists are working very diligently as I write you this, and Our Margravine is sifting the Akashic Records and believes she has begun to crack several of the most important codes which will allow us the Victory we have been denied so long.
We must be more careful. Baron V_____ is such an asshole. Did you hear about the controversy at Court with his art collection? The creature had the audacity to bring part of his art collection with him on The Mission.
I nearly shat myself when I walked through the Solar Chamber of the Winter Hermitage yesterday and saw several Ladies chattering like sparrows standing about a Jeff Koons sculpture! It was Michael Jackson and Bubbles. In the middle of the Chamber. Much discussed, I assure you.
Our Margravine said that she wasn't overly concerned. But he will be trouble. Mark my words.
Gather your creatures and your wits about you. The War is Winnable.
Your Comrade,
M_____________
Friday, January 30, 2009
Letters to and from an Imaginary Countess
My Angel of Illumination and Degradation,
You surprise me and you surprise me and then you Surprise me beyond all bourne into the Becoming of myself. Newborn. I suckle at you and the Child kills the Horrid Man. You unfold me to myself, who am mostly a mysterie to myself and an Affliction. You remove the Canker of morality, and its Momie-Cloth in which my Soul is bound. A dread Winding-Sheet.
In another locution, Fuck me out of my chains!
Who binds me? The dead who are our Masters. Everywhere. Functionaries, pissants, Beetles of the Dead scuttling about in some vanished Court or other.
Corpses who won't stay out of our beds. Reverse-Necrophiliacs.
The entire Dead is some sort of Insane Clown Posse. I despise them! Pathetic wannabes!
They gnaw at my cock still like Conies. Bastinado your cunt like a Vizier. Radish my asshole like that fucked-up Count you told me about who did too much Azores canary when his wife died and then declared war on existence. The one who ate the genitals of Turkish boys for breakfast. (Was he a good fuck? You never said.) The dead Cutlet our cocks. They sic Ravens they have starved forever on all our assholes. These dead men, these swinging ghost dicks, bite your breasts purple and black when it is my Place and Pleasure to do that.
The Interloping Dead, how I hate them! They shove their Skeleton Hands in our orifices and deep into our glorious Marmalade of pleasure.
And never a single Reach-Around.
And the living dead, who are almost as awful.
Awful not aweful.
Even language dies everyday, loses the Magical, the Chimerical powers it once possessed.
You can trace our Fall from our True animal beauty in all Etymologies.
They want us to All suck on some Unicorn's dick.
But we have found each other.
The heat of your cock and your cunt melts the wax of my cerements.
I rise up like a Momie to you, after thousands of years of waiting. You see my cock stirring, break through the Diaphanous dead-gauze. Concealed in the shape long-dead others gave me. Ridiculous sarcophagi like those that stand in that Egyptian chamber where you tell me your Ladies love to make repast. Lined up from tallest to smallest. Dead Pharaoh to little dead whiskered graymalkin. Is it not the Picture of the problem?
The Dead are always in our fucking.
Hermaphroditus-Hermaphrodite, I need this. Need You. The Twinning of Nature.
But here is where my Philippic against the Dead ends. I will cease stringing these flowerets of Praises and damnations for my Mistress, for I know how you have told me that you detest morals and Love-Epistles as much as you detest Another Whore.
But satisfied and sated and again most satisfied!
I cannot thank you enough for the debasement and ecstasie that was Sunday Morning.
It is just your complexion to conceal what superfluities of Pleasure you intend to inflict upon your Lovers. How could I have expected the Luxury of the Court Dwarrows!
I do so love a Sex Miniature, but only in my innermost innermost could I imagine....Twins! Lizabeta and Maria-Teresa are charm and dexterity Personified. I know there are those who say it is Inhumane to use Dwarrows as human balls in your games of Skittles at Court, but remark how this limberness translates! Most ingratiating in the erotic Arts are those girls, and most lithesome and fond of entertaining all Levities!
Veritably, they are Humming-birds of Delight! Surely you taught Lizabeta that trick with the grapes? I hadn't the spectre of an Idea she had those concealed in her pretty little mouth, and suddenly I found my opening, my unguarded Keep, my donjon, under Fusillade!
And when you started as you did, with that dance with the Ostrich fans and the Dwarrows kept striking at Tableaux of Biblical Iniquities! That was the primer Load that set me up for the rest of the Afternoon's priapic blandishments and sweetmeats!
You know how to School the "Prodigious Organ" best, and I am your most Obedient Pupil!
I was floored when the three of you performed the Turkish See-Saw, as I have not had the pleasure of that Novelty. And you tell me it is all the rage at Court.
I also loved the game of Sniveling Unicorn we played, and I loved being cast as both the Impenitent Churl and the Unchristian Dungeon-Master in the "Give me Bread, for the Love of the Living God!!" segment of our "Debtors Prison" roleplay. A peerless distraction!
My pet, we must Go Forward. I am securing my Inheritance now, and I look very much towards what Exertions this new prosperity might allow us. And what intrigues.
I trust my Deviant Cynosure will help me conceive ways in which this pelf might be best Squandered.
I will await your Counsel and look for your Hand to take a firm grip soon upon all of my matters. For we are entering a territory of great Thickness, and I trust you will guide me into the most choice Culverts and blinds which all hunters desire in the noble art of Venery.
I have begun the lingual Calisthenics you recommend, and find my Tongue is actually enjoying the Exercises, because I imagine it in most gainful employ, Past and Future.
Until then, that I might remain your Favorite Mount (in Perpetuity).
Here the pen ends, but these are not my last Strokes,
S______________________
Post-scriptum. You were not in jest about Azores canary! I am still hamstrung and walk like a Cavalier everywhere. We are but the dreams of certain drogues, I fear, Lady. Methinks in a distant future all the world will be adream with such Drogues. Mark my prophecy, though I be no Sibyl!
You surprise me and you surprise me and then you Surprise me beyond all bourne into the Becoming of myself. Newborn. I suckle at you and the Child kills the Horrid Man. You unfold me to myself, who am mostly a mysterie to myself and an Affliction. You remove the Canker of morality, and its Momie-Cloth in which my Soul is bound. A dread Winding-Sheet.
In another locution, Fuck me out of my chains!
Who binds me? The dead who are our Masters. Everywhere. Functionaries, pissants, Beetles of the Dead scuttling about in some vanished Court or other.
Corpses who won't stay out of our beds. Reverse-Necrophiliacs.
The entire Dead is some sort of Insane Clown Posse. I despise them! Pathetic wannabes!
They gnaw at my cock still like Conies. Bastinado your cunt like a Vizier. Radish my asshole like that fucked-up Count you told me about who did too much Azores canary when his wife died and then declared war on existence. The one who ate the genitals of Turkish boys for breakfast. (Was he a good fuck? You never said.) The dead Cutlet our cocks. They sic Ravens they have starved forever on all our assholes. These dead men, these swinging ghost dicks, bite your breasts purple and black when it is my Place and Pleasure to do that.
The Interloping Dead, how I hate them! They shove their Skeleton Hands in our orifices and deep into our glorious Marmalade of pleasure.
And never a single Reach-Around.
And the living dead, who are almost as awful.
Awful not aweful.
Even language dies everyday, loses the Magical, the Chimerical powers it once possessed.
You can trace our Fall from our True animal beauty in all Etymologies.
They want us to All suck on some Unicorn's dick.
But we have found each other.
The heat of your cock and your cunt melts the wax of my cerements.
I rise up like a Momie to you, after thousands of years of waiting. You see my cock stirring, break through the Diaphanous dead-gauze. Concealed in the shape long-dead others gave me. Ridiculous sarcophagi like those that stand in that Egyptian chamber where you tell me your Ladies love to make repast. Lined up from tallest to smallest. Dead Pharaoh to little dead whiskered graymalkin. Is it not the Picture of the problem?
The Dead are always in our fucking.
Hermaphroditus-Hermaphrodite, I need this. Need You. The Twinning of Nature.
But here is where my Philippic against the Dead ends. I will cease stringing these flowerets of Praises and damnations for my Mistress, for I know how you have told me that you detest morals and Love-Epistles as much as you detest Another Whore.
But satisfied and sated and again most satisfied!
I cannot thank you enough for the debasement and ecstasie that was Sunday Morning.
It is just your complexion to conceal what superfluities of Pleasure you intend to inflict upon your Lovers. How could I have expected the Luxury of the Court Dwarrows!
I do so love a Sex Miniature, but only in my innermost innermost could I imagine....Twins! Lizabeta and Maria-Teresa are charm and dexterity Personified. I know there are those who say it is Inhumane to use Dwarrows as human balls in your games of Skittles at Court, but remark how this limberness translates! Most ingratiating in the erotic Arts are those girls, and most lithesome and fond of entertaining all Levities!
Veritably, they are Humming-birds of Delight! Surely you taught Lizabeta that trick with the grapes? I hadn't the spectre of an Idea she had those concealed in her pretty little mouth, and suddenly I found my opening, my unguarded Keep, my donjon, under Fusillade!
And when you started as you did, with that dance with the Ostrich fans and the Dwarrows kept striking at Tableaux of Biblical Iniquities! That was the primer Load that set me up for the rest of the Afternoon's priapic blandishments and sweetmeats!
You know how to School the "Prodigious Organ" best, and I am your most Obedient Pupil!
I was floored when the three of you performed the Turkish See-Saw, as I have not had the pleasure of that Novelty. And you tell me it is all the rage at Court.
I also loved the game of Sniveling Unicorn we played, and I loved being cast as both the Impenitent Churl and the Unchristian Dungeon-Master in the "Give me Bread, for the Love of the Living God!!" segment of our "Debtors Prison" roleplay. A peerless distraction!
My pet, we must Go Forward. I am securing my Inheritance now, and I look very much towards what Exertions this new prosperity might allow us. And what intrigues.
I trust my Deviant Cynosure will help me conceive ways in which this pelf might be best Squandered.
I will await your Counsel and look for your Hand to take a firm grip soon upon all of my matters. For we are entering a territory of great Thickness, and I trust you will guide me into the most choice Culverts and blinds which all hunters desire in the noble art of Venery.
I have begun the lingual Calisthenics you recommend, and find my Tongue is actually enjoying the Exercises, because I imagine it in most gainful employ, Past and Future.
Until then, that I might remain your Favorite Mount (in Perpetuity).
Here the pen ends, but these are not my last Strokes,
S______________________
Post-scriptum. You were not in jest about Azores canary! I am still hamstrung and walk like a Cavalier everywhere. We are but the dreams of certain drogues, I fear, Lady. Methinks in a distant future all the world will be adream with such Drogues. Mark my prophecy, though I be no Sibyl!
De-zi-i-i-i-uhh-ruh
Nobody can salve nobody else's really
which is awful sad.
I mean the grammar of desire
was set pretty early,
the way a butterfly
can hold a sonatina. Gay.
I mean the Daddy/hostage thing.
Or the heliports of sportfucking,
they might as well have had
in Heliopolis or medieval Jerusalem.
Praying mantis fucking.
The head's done off, Dude.
Still pumping away.
What a green tool.
And the man who set your legs on fire
on Tuesday knits. Imagine.
And I realize my god the kid is sane.
The slow winding inwards, granny-
sitting at twenty-seven, beautiful boy
doesn't care if you giggle, doesn't have even
one fuck you for you. Just a path deep
into green woods each morning, the mist
moisturizing his run, the deer all about him
remarking the subtle marriage of bone to bone,
almost wishing they could take him to the other side.
which is awful sad.
I mean the grammar of desire
was set pretty early,
the way a butterfly
can hold a sonatina. Gay.
I mean the Daddy/hostage thing.
Or the heliports of sportfucking,
they might as well have had
in Heliopolis or medieval Jerusalem.
Praying mantis fucking.
The head's done off, Dude.
Still pumping away.
What a green tool.
And the man who set your legs on fire
on Tuesday knits. Imagine.
And I realize my god the kid is sane.
The slow winding inwards, granny-
sitting at twenty-seven, beautiful boy
doesn't care if you giggle, doesn't have even
one fuck you for you. Just a path deep
into green woods each morning, the mist
moisturizing his run, the deer all about him
remarking the subtle marriage of bone to bone,
almost wishing they could take him to the other side.
Honk If You Love Orpheus
I was flying about our dwelling again,
with refurbished phoenix wings
I had borrowed from some trashy dead girl.
You anchored yourself in a bowl of fruit.
"That cat is gay," your son said. Your daughter
hit him. I was amused that Percy Shelley
was such a con artist, such an immaculate tool.
The immortal swindlers of our tribe
are very dear to me. I'd make apple sauce
for any one of them. The old-fashioned way.
There are swallow that return again, again.
An evolved whoredom.
I believe the game's called Drama Queens & Ghostbusters.
Which one are you? I'm the wallflower type,
although sometimes my ass knocks down the wall.
I feel sexiest when you put your hips to mine
and say get real stupid now. Tarzan decontextualize Jane.
with refurbished phoenix wings
I had borrowed from some trashy dead girl.
You anchored yourself in a bowl of fruit.
"That cat is gay," your son said. Your daughter
hit him. I was amused that Percy Shelley
was such a con artist, such an immaculate tool.
The immortal swindlers of our tribe
are very dear to me. I'd make apple sauce
for any one of them. The old-fashioned way.
There are swallow that return again, again.
An evolved whoredom.
I believe the game's called Drama Queens & Ghostbusters.
Which one are you? I'm the wallflower type,
although sometimes my ass knocks down the wall.
I feel sexiest when you put your hips to mine
and say get real stupid now. Tarzan decontextualize Jane.
Autopilot, Mon Amour
I thought of changing my name today
to something really gay. Asphodel. Larc.
I thought of changing my name to Faust Lite.
I thought of my unholy desire for you,
and my holy desire for my cat Mittens.
I thought of many things, really.
I thought how the immortality of the soul
is real, but that it's just dish soap.
The jonquils are just now preparing to prepare
for spring. That thought should cheer you.
I am happy that I met you,
all of you, even if it was embarrassing
when you saw Mephistopheles stiff me
that way, the improvident mandate go down in flames.
Oh what can one expect from the Personals of literature? Really.
to something really gay. Asphodel. Larc.
I thought of changing my name to Faust Lite.
I thought of my unholy desire for you,
and my holy desire for my cat Mittens.
I thought of many things, really.
I thought how the immortality of the soul
is real, but that it's just dish soap.
The jonquils are just now preparing to prepare
for spring. That thought should cheer you.
I am happy that I met you,
all of you, even if it was embarrassing
when you saw Mephistopheles stiff me
that way, the improvident mandate go down in flames.
Oh what can one expect from the Personals of literature? Really.
The Sexiness of Normality
Here's the video I was yammering about earlier...
The Seth Rogen school of sexy lol
The print is not as dark on Lee's Zune. All the ones on YouTube were very dark. It's not a light video, but it's not this dark. Wonder if this is some new copyright protection thing built in?
The first guy who appears is my favorite in this video. I love watching him in this.
He's sort of the visual linchpin of the video. Probably because he's the most natural physical comedian in the video. Notice the meditating guy at the left. I love that touch. Zazen sitting in the middle of a hotel room.
He reminds me of Seth Rogen. Isn't Seth Rogen like the new Everyman of films? I've enjoyed him in every role I've seen him in.
I thought Knocked Up was really good.
Actors like Seth becoming leading men are signs that normality is getting sexed up in Hollywood.
Not that we're ever gonna put away the Great Golden Cookie Cutters.
Why the hell would we do something as dumb as that lol?
This video is surely four or five years old I would think.
George Michael looks a tad posthumous in this video, but I still think he did a cool thing and whoever directed it is mad righteous.
The Seth Rogen school of sexy lol
The print is not as dark on Lee's Zune. All the ones on YouTube were very dark. It's not a light video, but it's not this dark. Wonder if this is some new copyright protection thing built in?
The first guy who appears is my favorite in this video. I love watching him in this.
He's sort of the visual linchpin of the video. Probably because he's the most natural physical comedian in the video. Notice the meditating guy at the left. I love that touch. Zazen sitting in the middle of a hotel room.
He reminds me of Seth Rogen. Isn't Seth Rogen like the new Everyman of films? I've enjoyed him in every role I've seen him in.
I thought Knocked Up was really good.
Actors like Seth becoming leading men are signs that normality is getting sexed up in Hollywood.
Not that we're ever gonna put away the Great Golden Cookie Cutters.
Why the hell would we do something as dumb as that lol?
This video is surely four or five years old I would think.
George Michael looks a tad posthumous in this video, but I still think he did a cool thing and whoever directed it is mad righteous.
Brileyyahnt
Lee added a bunch of new videos to the Zune, I see.
I didn't realize George Michael made a video for "Flawless (Go to the City)."
It's absolute genius.
Instead of making a glam video like "Too Sexy" or many of his other fashonista videos, George Michael had the director go the other route. Because the lyrics could easily be misinterpreted as another club diva worship song. But actually the lyrics extol the sexiness of normality and give the great warning, "Please believe me, those things you dream of, they don't fall in love with no one."
Bad grammar okay. But smart.
Oh, where is my Edward Field Selected? And my John Wieners. If you're a gay man and literate, you probably know which poems I would target there lol.
I believe Marlene Dietrich appears in both those poems.
Or let George Michael instead of Stuart Smalley give you your Daily Affirmation: "I think you know you're more than just some fucked-up piece of ass..."
George's lyrics are generous like that as he gets older, even if he is a mess.
He's very likeable as a man as well as a singer. Well, as a singer he's a god so what's not to like lol.
Decidedly average people (like say actual George Michael fans) are the stars in this video.
Everyone's a rock star in their own bedroom, and this video proves it.
It's one of the funniest and most unglamorous videos I've ever seen. And it blows away all those glamorous videos.
It starts with a lumpy not-quite-young man taking a piss in a hotel room's bathroom, admiring how sexy he is in the mirror and then starting to rock out in solitude to his own inner vibe.
The camera stays back so the long hotel room and its alcoved bathroom are in cut-away panoramic.
Then these other characters (both sexes, all different ages and body types) start doing their bedroom diva thing, all oblivious of one another, and just rocking out.
It's like a Peter Milton print, where time is cross-sectioned and people occupying the same space are just ghosts to each other. But funny, not spooky.
Nobody is anywhere near "flawless," which is the point of the vid.
They are all rocking out separately until at one point everyone is suddenly doing a routine together which soon breaks up....but it's not tacky. I know that sounds impossible...that it will collapse the concept of the video...like in Magnolia when the characters all start singing along with that sappy song...which DID collapse the movie into bathos...this actually works!
Probably because a distance is kept with the camera. It's pretty far back.
You can't even really get a good glimpse of George when he's sitting on the bed or later when he gets up and sinks into a chair with its back to us so he functionally disappears from the video.
It's so charming. The way he just gives up the ridiculous mantle of rock star and appreciates the rock star in everyone.
Other videos Lee added....
Frightening how much Sarah Brightman looks like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard from some angles. Part of it is that thing she does with her eyes. She's nowhere near that age...maybe it's the lighting.
Maroon 5's "Wake Up Call" has to be one of the worst videos made in that year.
It's hard to make Adam Levine look like a tool, but the director pulls it off here.
Tacky use of song lyrics in bright colors stuck over scenes like post-its. Bad ridiculous literal interpretation of the song lyrics in a dumb storyline. It's not a great song, but the video makes it sound like a terrible song. Adam Levine is usually known for his sartorial splendor. Here he looks scruffy. He's definitely one of those joli-laid guys with good and bad angles.
Oooh, "A Different Corner." One of my favorite G.M. songs and the spare video is still perfect. He looks like a kouros in this video. A kouros from antiquity come alive.
Bedtime Story. Written by Bjork for Nelly Hooper NOT Madonna (who sang it) as Bjork will always remind interviewers. I get the sense she doesn't like her. Visual cliches lifted from classic European surrealists make up the video, but it's a nicely mixed track. Works for me. I would know that was a Bjork song even if no one had told me. Just the way English is used alone would have let me know, but the phrasing too. Bjork has a very distinctive sense of phrasing in her tunes. She loves caesura. That's why she can interpret that e.e. cummings poem so beautifully.
Gotta Get Through This. Thanks for adding this Lee! I love Daniel. He looks so uncomfortable in all his music videos and I love that. It's not a pose. You can sense it's just not the guy's element. He's very beefy in this video. Almost on the sauce kinda beefy. But sexy. The video is a yawner but there are lots of Daniel close ups so who cares. TIGER BEAT ALERT...FORTY YEAR OLD TIGER BEAT ALERT....
This concludes the test of the emergency forty year old tiger beat alert. Had there been an actual forty year old tiger beat emergency, you would have been instructed where to send me for a reality check.
Oh, Lee added a Smiths video. "How Soon is Now"...everybody loves that one. I would have preferred something like "William it was Really Nothing" or even "This Charming Man." Isn't Marr's guitar skittish on that latter track! Marr is a genius. I love the way he can make a guitar sound Venetian on tracks like "Please please let me get what i want this time." He can make a guitar sound like anything. Which is why Talking Heads snatched him up for a while.
And I see Lee added that Kylie Minogue/Nick Cave duet. Who could have predicted that pairing in music!
I see the Lady Gaga videos are increasing too.
And Rihanna...next...
Lots of new Scissor Sisters, George Michael and Bjork. And more Goldfrapp.
Lots I haven't watched yet: Colton Ford. I'm surprised you haven't added Sonique yet Lee. I bet he has all seasons of Queer as Folk on here. OOh Drawn Together! I loved that show.
Lee, you must have added about thirty or forty new music videos...I can't even begin to watch all this...lol...or the day's over...
It's snowing again.
Oh joy.
I didn't realize George Michael made a video for "Flawless (Go to the City)."
It's absolute genius.
Instead of making a glam video like "Too Sexy" or many of his other fashonista videos, George Michael had the director go the other route. Because the lyrics could easily be misinterpreted as another club diva worship song. But actually the lyrics extol the sexiness of normality and give the great warning, "Please believe me, those things you dream of, they don't fall in love with no one."
Bad grammar okay. But smart.
Oh, where is my Edward Field Selected? And my John Wieners. If you're a gay man and literate, you probably know which poems I would target there lol.
I believe Marlene Dietrich appears in both those poems.
Or let George Michael instead of Stuart Smalley give you your Daily Affirmation: "I think you know you're more than just some fucked-up piece of ass..."
George's lyrics are generous like that as he gets older, even if he is a mess.
He's very likeable as a man as well as a singer. Well, as a singer he's a god so what's not to like lol.
Decidedly average people (like say actual George Michael fans) are the stars in this video.
Everyone's a rock star in their own bedroom, and this video proves it.
It's one of the funniest and most unglamorous videos I've ever seen. And it blows away all those glamorous videos.
It starts with a lumpy not-quite-young man taking a piss in a hotel room's bathroom, admiring how sexy he is in the mirror and then starting to rock out in solitude to his own inner vibe.
The camera stays back so the long hotel room and its alcoved bathroom are in cut-away panoramic.
Then these other characters (both sexes, all different ages and body types) start doing their bedroom diva thing, all oblivious of one another, and just rocking out.
It's like a Peter Milton print, where time is cross-sectioned and people occupying the same space are just ghosts to each other. But funny, not spooky.
Nobody is anywhere near "flawless," which is the point of the vid.
They are all rocking out separately until at one point everyone is suddenly doing a routine together which soon breaks up....but it's not tacky. I know that sounds impossible...that it will collapse the concept of the video...like in Magnolia when the characters all start singing along with that sappy song...which DID collapse the movie into bathos...this actually works!
Probably because a distance is kept with the camera. It's pretty far back.
You can't even really get a good glimpse of George when he's sitting on the bed or later when he gets up and sinks into a chair with its back to us so he functionally disappears from the video.
It's so charming. The way he just gives up the ridiculous mantle of rock star and appreciates the rock star in everyone.
Other videos Lee added....
Frightening how much Sarah Brightman looks like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard from some angles. Part of it is that thing she does with her eyes. She's nowhere near that age...maybe it's the lighting.
Maroon 5's "Wake Up Call" has to be one of the worst videos made in that year.
It's hard to make Adam Levine look like a tool, but the director pulls it off here.
Tacky use of song lyrics in bright colors stuck over scenes like post-its. Bad ridiculous literal interpretation of the song lyrics in a dumb storyline. It's not a great song, but the video makes it sound like a terrible song. Adam Levine is usually known for his sartorial splendor. Here he looks scruffy. He's definitely one of those joli-laid guys with good and bad angles.
Oooh, "A Different Corner." One of my favorite G.M. songs and the spare video is still perfect. He looks like a kouros in this video. A kouros from antiquity come alive.
Bedtime Story. Written by Bjork for Nelly Hooper NOT Madonna (who sang it) as Bjork will always remind interviewers. I get the sense she doesn't like her. Visual cliches lifted from classic European surrealists make up the video, but it's a nicely mixed track. Works for me. I would know that was a Bjork song even if no one had told me. Just the way English is used alone would have let me know, but the phrasing too. Bjork has a very distinctive sense of phrasing in her tunes. She loves caesura. That's why she can interpret that e.e. cummings poem so beautifully.
Gotta Get Through This. Thanks for adding this Lee! I love Daniel. He looks so uncomfortable in all his music videos and I love that. It's not a pose. You can sense it's just not the guy's element. He's very beefy in this video. Almost on the sauce kinda beefy. But sexy. The video is a yawner but there are lots of Daniel close ups so who cares. TIGER BEAT ALERT...FORTY YEAR OLD TIGER BEAT ALERT....
This concludes the test of the emergency forty year old tiger beat alert. Had there been an actual forty year old tiger beat emergency, you would have been instructed where to send me for a reality check.
Oh, Lee added a Smiths video. "How Soon is Now"...everybody loves that one. I would have preferred something like "William it was Really Nothing" or even "This Charming Man." Isn't Marr's guitar skittish on that latter track! Marr is a genius. I love the way he can make a guitar sound Venetian on tracks like "Please please let me get what i want this time." He can make a guitar sound like anything. Which is why Talking Heads snatched him up for a while.
And I see Lee added that Kylie Minogue/Nick Cave duet. Who could have predicted that pairing in music!
I see the Lady Gaga videos are increasing too.
And Rihanna...next...
Lots of new Scissor Sisters, George Michael and Bjork. And more Goldfrapp.
Lots I haven't watched yet: Colton Ford. I'm surprised you haven't added Sonique yet Lee. I bet he has all seasons of Queer as Folk on here. OOh Drawn Together! I loved that show.
Lee, you must have added about thirty or forty new music videos...I can't even begin to watch all this...lol...or the day's over...
It's snowing again.
Oh joy.
Elena Ray
About "Blowing Curtain": This is a photo that lesser photographers would never see.
It's almost like seeing a Paul Bowles novel in a single photo.
It fucks with your head, the sense of scale.
The idea of compromised presence is creepily brilliant.
Love the licorice red curtailed at the left.
About "Cabbage": Love the factitious nature of the still life.
Sexy. Opulent. A great visual pun.
Funny testicles. (When I woke up today, I did not know I would be typing "funny testicles" at any point of my day but....)
She had another still life...an artichoke wearing a sumptuous piece of jewelry.
I think she did a series of these.
Reminds me of Tori Amos wearing the scallion necklace in her one video and on the cover of her one album.
The natural is the most beautiful. Most regal.
The Art of Elena Ray
Sometimes the artwork in my continuous Flickr feed draws my attention so I just can't resist clicking on it.
I did that with the work by this artist.
You can see more of her work here on Flickr...
That rare ability to see and capture quiddities...
I believe her name is Elena Ray, because that is her Flickr name: "ElenaRay."
Elena Ray, I like your work!
About her Sunflowers: I love how Odilon Redon this is!
It also reminds me of Japanese printmakers like Nakayama.
I love scumbling done well as it is here.
The chalcopyrite iridescence at the right works for me.
The scoriations in there rather resemble what one sees in ice on a frozen river but in a different context here of course.
If you look carefully at the sunflower on the left and relax your mind, you will see has created an optical illusion. The head of the flower will change planes.
She seems to be able to do the Bridget Riley or Escher type of tricks (the impossible object) without using the standard op art conventions.
Many of her pieces are photos that are manipulated, morphed into paintings.
I love how much she anthropomorphizes these sunflowers.
They remind me of Paolo and Francesca in Dante.
After they have become windborne, I mean.
About "Steppin Out": Drop dead sexy.
Love the plats!
And the werewolf pose thing is hilarious.
Might owe its genesis to Bruce Nauman's very funny "Walking Around the Room photos."
But the lilac ground with cerulean just sexies this guy the fuck up.
Also a little quoting of some Nijinsky here, I believe.
Faun.
The Bakst poster has Nijinsky's one leg changing planes in what almost seems an impossible way also.
It's almost an optical illusion the way the leg on the right changes planes.
This guy has to work with his body professionally in some way: dancer or along those lines anyway.
Unless he just took direction well.
Subtle work, Elena Ray.
Beautifully cagy.
Derby,
I don't think we're allowed to watch t.v. together anymore lol.
I thought it would be a perfectly fine and funny idea grabbing your hand like that on the sofa when I said "Quick, he's coming...play along."
I know he had just gotten off work so it was doubly evil but....
lololol....he was funny when he saw it and pretended as though he wasn't going to say anything...as if all gay male friends sit on a couch together with their fingers interlaced like that...
subtle, wasn't he....but I couldn't keep that laugh in lol....
I should have seen how long it would have gone on before he broke.
You did much better than I did with straight-facing it.
I might have ruined "movie night."
Forever. Nous verrons ce que nous verrons lol.
Soz.
I thought it would be a perfectly fine and funny idea grabbing your hand like that on the sofa when I said "Quick, he's coming...play along."
I know he had just gotten off work so it was doubly evil but....
lololol....he was funny when he saw it and pretended as though he wasn't going to say anything...as if all gay male friends sit on a couch together with their fingers interlaced like that...
subtle, wasn't he....but I couldn't keep that laugh in lol....
I should have seen how long it would have gone on before he broke.
You did much better than I did with straight-facing it.
I might have ruined "movie night."
Forever. Nous verrons ce que nous verrons lol.
Soz.
Pizzicato Star #19 is....Juliet Cook! (And This Time It's Not in Klingon or Linear B lol)
what's your name?
Juliet Cook
what's your birthday?
October 17th, 1972
what's yr sign?
Libra, which doesn’t seem right because Librans are supposed to be well-balanced and diplomatic, whereas I am more like an inappropriate pendulum than a scale.
your blood type?
I don’t know. I don’t give blood if I can help it. It’s not so much the blood or needles that make me cringe; it’s the siphoning sensation.
what type of men/women do you like?
Those who are poets, artists, artisans, creative thinkers, or good storytellers. I like smart and articulate with a variegated vocabulary. I like unconventional, quirky, and eclectic. I like an offbeat sense of humor that can veer between insightful and absurd, whip-smart and wildly goofy. I like those who are passionate, even driven, but not overly serious or politically correct. A good mix of the crude and the sensitive appeals to me. I like a multi-faceted party platter with a heaping helping of emotional complexity. I like a DIY spirit and a certain level of tolerance for angst, insecurity, and neuroticism.
what type don't you like?
Those who are part of the Quiverful movement. Those who are frequently bored, often lazy, and largely unmotivated. Those who are overly conservative, overly corporate, overly invested in the status associated with money and material goods. Those who are humorless. Those who sound like they’re making a sales pitch when they converse or who otherwise traffic heavily in schmoozing, rhetoric, clichés, aphorisms, or self-help quips. Those who have no interest in art or creativity. Those who are not free thinkers. Those who are overly bound by conventions, standards parameters, false sense of propriety, or the need to keep up appearances. Those who are two-faced, lying, deceiving, duplicitous, manipulative, or game-playing. Those who are furtive about their porn consumption. Those who subscribe to the commodity model that the most valuable trait a woman has to offer is her looks and the most valuable trait a man has to offer is his money.
who are your current lovers?
Poems, myna birds, spider veins, poetic people.
what's your favorite food?
In theory, I like fancy petite dessert products. In practice, I like savory dishes including dumpling-like entities, pierogie, seafood and sushi, and chicken pot pies.
what food don't you like?
I’m not a big fan of condiments.
what's your favorite fashion?
Colorful knee socks ad thigh high socks. Vintage waitress dresses.
what fashion don't you like?
College sweatshirts. Sports jerseys. Gold chains.
what's yr hobby?
I don’t really have a hobby. My mom thinks my poetry is a hobby, but I don’t see it that way. The word hobby sounds so casual and I don’t so much like the casual. I like the intense.
what were you doing last sunday?
Editing somebody else’s vampire fiction.
when did you wake up this morning.
9:00 A.M.ish
who's your favorite designer?
I don’t really have one. I like to buy socks from Asian teens on ebay; does that count?
favorite lipstick/guys: mouth candy?
Don’t have one. Oh no, am I not a real woman? I mostly like edible-smelling lip balms.
foundation/guys: skin care product?
Don’t have one. I don’t use much foundation. I like skin care products from LUSH.
what's your favorite perfume/cologne?
Ginger-scented.
what color hair do you wish you were born with?
I’m fine with the auburn hair color I have, although lately it seems to be turning darker of its own accord.
are you a good cook?
No, I don’t take the time to practice.
what food do you cook best?
Stir-fry dishes.
what do you wear when you sleep?
This time of the year either pajamas or leopard print lounge pants and a stupid t-shirt.
what did you eat when you woke up this morning?
Nothing, but I’m still drinking coffee and might partake of a small slice of carrot cake soon.
what's your favorite word?
I have many favorite words. Right now, I am kind of into the word ‘milking machine’.
what word don't you like?
Quiverful.
what's your favorite flower?
I have many favorites. One of them is Stargazer Lilies.
favorite color?
Hot pink.
what's your favorite season?
Autumn.
where do you most want to go now?
Somewhere warm.
what's your job?
Currently unemployed, but working on freelance writing/editing and publishing Blood Pudding Press and starting a new online publication called Thirteen Myna Birds.
do you like your work?
I adore my poetic pursuits, but do not like the whole bill paying job game.
do you like your songs?
Yes.
do you like yr voice?
Yes, I sound like a hybrid of phone sex operator and manic parrot.
what is your dream of the future?
To acquire a job that pays the bills, but that is also creative and makes me feel good about myself.
what's the happiest thing about your life?
Poetic pursuits and my weird little family.
how about the saddest thing?
Persistent self-esteem issues.
what part of yourself do you like best?
The creative part of my brain.
what part of yourself don't you like?
The self-saboteur part of my brain.
what part of your personality do you like best?
My vivaciousness.
what part of your personality don't you like?
My recurrent negativity.
what is your bad habit?
Poor impulse control.
when was your first love?
If we’re talking serious love, probably when I was 19.
what kind of guy/gal was (s)he?
Dysfunctional.
what type of guy/gal is yr current lover?
Bananas Foster, who is a delightful combination platter of all the traits I said I liked above and more, plus he’s tall and has luxurious dark hair and is a great interpretive dancer.
what do you expect from him or her?
Love, affection, amusement, fun, and delightfully absurd stories.
what did you dream last night?
I don’t clearly remember, but I think I might have had some sort of realistic poetry publishing oriented dream.
do you believe in dreams?
Yes.
do you believe in jinxes?
Yes.
do you believe in magic?
Yes.
do you believe in god?
No, or at least not some Judeo-Christian, organized religion version. I don’t call it god, but I think of both subconscious power and the creative force as being sort of god-like.
Juliet Cook
what's your birthday?
October 17th, 1972
what's yr sign?
Libra, which doesn’t seem right because Librans are supposed to be well-balanced and diplomatic, whereas I am more like an inappropriate pendulum than a scale.
your blood type?
I don’t know. I don’t give blood if I can help it. It’s not so much the blood or needles that make me cringe; it’s the siphoning sensation.
what type of men/women do you like?
Those who are poets, artists, artisans, creative thinkers, or good storytellers. I like smart and articulate with a variegated vocabulary. I like unconventional, quirky, and eclectic. I like an offbeat sense of humor that can veer between insightful and absurd, whip-smart and wildly goofy. I like those who are passionate, even driven, but not overly serious or politically correct. A good mix of the crude and the sensitive appeals to me. I like a multi-faceted party platter with a heaping helping of emotional complexity. I like a DIY spirit and a certain level of tolerance for angst, insecurity, and neuroticism.
what type don't you like?
Those who are part of the Quiverful movement. Those who are frequently bored, often lazy, and largely unmotivated. Those who are overly conservative, overly corporate, overly invested in the status associated with money and material goods. Those who are humorless. Those who sound like they’re making a sales pitch when they converse or who otherwise traffic heavily in schmoozing, rhetoric, clichés, aphorisms, or self-help quips. Those who have no interest in art or creativity. Those who are not free thinkers. Those who are overly bound by conventions, standards parameters, false sense of propriety, or the need to keep up appearances. Those who are two-faced, lying, deceiving, duplicitous, manipulative, or game-playing. Those who are furtive about their porn consumption. Those who subscribe to the commodity model that the most valuable trait a woman has to offer is her looks and the most valuable trait a man has to offer is his money.
who are your current lovers?
Poems, myna birds, spider veins, poetic people.
what's your favorite food?
In theory, I like fancy petite dessert products. In practice, I like savory dishes including dumpling-like entities, pierogie, seafood and sushi, and chicken pot pies.
what food don't you like?
I’m not a big fan of condiments.
what's your favorite fashion?
Colorful knee socks ad thigh high socks. Vintage waitress dresses.
what fashion don't you like?
College sweatshirts. Sports jerseys. Gold chains.
what's yr hobby?
I don’t really have a hobby. My mom thinks my poetry is a hobby, but I don’t see it that way. The word hobby sounds so casual and I don’t so much like the casual. I like the intense.
what were you doing last sunday?
Editing somebody else’s vampire fiction.
when did you wake up this morning.
9:00 A.M.ish
who's your favorite designer?
I don’t really have one. I like to buy socks from Asian teens on ebay; does that count?
favorite lipstick/guys: mouth candy?
Don’t have one. Oh no, am I not a real woman? I mostly like edible-smelling lip balms.
foundation/guys: skin care product?
Don’t have one. I don’t use much foundation. I like skin care products from LUSH.
what's your favorite perfume/cologne?
Ginger-scented.
what color hair do you wish you were born with?
I’m fine with the auburn hair color I have, although lately it seems to be turning darker of its own accord.
are you a good cook?
No, I don’t take the time to practice.
what food do you cook best?
Stir-fry dishes.
what do you wear when you sleep?
This time of the year either pajamas or leopard print lounge pants and a stupid t-shirt.
what did you eat when you woke up this morning?
Nothing, but I’m still drinking coffee and might partake of a small slice of carrot cake soon.
what's your favorite word?
I have many favorite words. Right now, I am kind of into the word ‘milking machine’.
what word don't you like?
Quiverful.
what's your favorite flower?
I have many favorites. One of them is Stargazer Lilies.
favorite color?
Hot pink.
what's your favorite season?
Autumn.
where do you most want to go now?
Somewhere warm.
what's your job?
Currently unemployed, but working on freelance writing/editing and publishing Blood Pudding Press and starting a new online publication called Thirteen Myna Birds.
do you like your work?
I adore my poetic pursuits, but do not like the whole bill paying job game.
do you like your songs?
Yes.
do you like yr voice?
Yes, I sound like a hybrid of phone sex operator and manic parrot.
what is your dream of the future?
To acquire a job that pays the bills, but that is also creative and makes me feel good about myself.
what's the happiest thing about your life?
Poetic pursuits and my weird little family.
how about the saddest thing?
Persistent self-esteem issues.
what part of yourself do you like best?
The creative part of my brain.
what part of yourself don't you like?
The self-saboteur part of my brain.
what part of your personality do you like best?
My vivaciousness.
what part of your personality don't you like?
My recurrent negativity.
what is your bad habit?
Poor impulse control.
when was your first love?
If we’re talking serious love, probably when I was 19.
what kind of guy/gal was (s)he?
Dysfunctional.
what type of guy/gal is yr current lover?
Bananas Foster, who is a delightful combination platter of all the traits I said I liked above and more, plus he’s tall and has luxurious dark hair and is a great interpretive dancer.
what do you expect from him or her?
Love, affection, amusement, fun, and delightfully absurd stories.
what did you dream last night?
I don’t clearly remember, but I think I might have had some sort of realistic poetry publishing oriented dream.
do you believe in dreams?
Yes.
do you believe in jinxes?
Yes.
do you believe in magic?
Yes.
do you believe in god?
No, or at least not some Judeo-Christian, organized religion version. I don’t call it god, but I think of both subconscious power and the creative force as being sort of god-like.
peccavi
my mouse is being a tard.
it has parkinsons's. okay that's not funny. i know. sorry.
but it's acting like that.
i sinned and ordered a book. i couldn't resist merwin's translations of the satires of persius for 1.98. hardback. in great condition. i miss that book. roman drolleries do it for me.
spoil the page like it's your baby. is what i say.
my favorite songs today are....
1. jane (ben folds five)
2. i don't trust myself loving you (live acoustic version john mayer)
3. spilt needles (shins) i gotta get over this song
4. grow grow grow (pj harvey)
5. the downtown lights (blue nile)
6. blur (song 2)
7. an elan (cocteau twins...good for inducing trances...it's a spiral shaped song)
8. the only one (darren hayes) very gay i know
9. this train don't stop there anymore (elton)
10. shadowboxer (fiona)
11. cars and trains (george michael)
12. people (gorillaz) the d-sides album is fuckin amazin
13. merry happy (kate nash)
14. email (pet shop boys) vulnerable album overall that one
15. superman (r.e.m.)
16. baby did a bad thing (chris isaak)
17. deathly (aimee mann)
okay that's all in the yadda yadda dept.
it has parkinsons's. okay that's not funny. i know. sorry.
but it's acting like that.
i sinned and ordered a book. i couldn't resist merwin's translations of the satires of persius for 1.98. hardback. in great condition. i miss that book. roman drolleries do it for me.
spoil the page like it's your baby. is what i say.
my favorite songs today are....
1. jane (ben folds five)
2. i don't trust myself loving you (live acoustic version john mayer)
3. spilt needles (shins) i gotta get over this song
4. grow grow grow (pj harvey)
5. the downtown lights (blue nile)
6. blur (song 2)
7. an elan (cocteau twins...good for inducing trances...it's a spiral shaped song)
8. the only one (darren hayes) very gay i know
9. this train don't stop there anymore (elton)
10. shadowboxer (fiona)
11. cars and trains (george michael)
12. people (gorillaz) the d-sides album is fuckin amazin
13. merry happy (kate nash)
14. email (pet shop boys) vulnerable album overall that one
15. superman (r.e.m.)
16. baby did a bad thing (chris isaak)
17. deathly (aimee mann)
okay that's all in the yadda yadda dept.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Valentine to the Immaterial World
I notice suddenly you haven't existed.
You support me & shape me & aren't.
River through me, and skies birds pierce.
You have enormous room for strangeness
and laugh at my doubt. You take me in-
side you & seem to understand. Sleep
flows from you, & erotic mischief.
You're the lover behind all other lovers.
I try to take your hand & you apologize
you don't have hands. I ask you
to penetrate me, or to penetrate you
& we do. When I complain you're being
too male, you become woman a while.
I talk to you constantly but you are select
in your language. You calm my soul,
though I see you casually destroy others
sometimes, then calmly return to me.
We smile into each other then & I know
you will help me, whichever way I go.
You will stroke my brow until I fall asleep.
Or you will hold me far below the ocean
until I cease. With equal kindness.
This is a Valentine offering peace.
Juliet Cook Takes the Pizzicato Five Quiz!
Okay, Juliet, I was hoping your answers were going to be a little strange, but you outdid yourself!
LOL...i couldn't open the sort of file you sent...can you cut and paste and send it to GR mail? that's my only operable mail right now
I kind of like these answers though....
xo b.
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LOL...i couldn't open the sort of file you sent...can you cut and paste and send it to GR mail? that's my only operable mail right now
I kind of like these answers though....
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You Tube! I Am on You Tube!
So what, right?
I thought this was very sweet, a very cute gesture.
The video was put together by my friend Suka in Thailand, who started the Goodreads CAT SOCIETY, of which I am a member.
No, it's not what you think. It's not really about cats.
It's more cats the way Pizzicato Five would say cats, because they are still living in the Golden Age.
Think Cat People. Only we don't change at night and stalk or anything.
Shut up! We don't.
I think I'm somewhere around 1:40 or 1:50...
Cat People
Thank you very much for this, Suka. It was good to see you and so many Goodreads friends!
Also, I love the Enya song you chose!
xo ((((suka)))))
I thought this was very sweet, a very cute gesture.
The video was put together by my friend Suka in Thailand, who started the Goodreads CAT SOCIETY, of which I am a member.
No, it's not what you think. It's not really about cats.
It's more cats the way Pizzicato Five would say cats, because they are still living in the Golden Age.
Think Cat People. Only we don't change at night and stalk or anything.
Shut up! We don't.
I think I'm somewhere around 1:40 or 1:50...
Cat People
Thank you very much for this, Suka. It was good to see you and so many Goodreads friends!
Also, I love the Enya song you chose!
xo ((((suka)))))
suicide
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" thinks a sparrow flying through the yard of a serial killer who will never be caught.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" think the poets and novelists in New York City.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" think narwhals swimming towards the North Pole with sexy ideas of narwhaleity in their heads.
And the narwhals also think, "Why do they insist on calling it a tusk when it's really a tooth? It's a tooth, godammit!"
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" think two ring-tailed lemurs fucking high in a tree in Madagascar from which they can just see a Hilton hotel they are both looking at as they fuck.
The Hilton went up faster than the time it takes to raise a baby lemur to lemur survival-proficiency.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" thinks the tomato who fell out of the tomato multi-pack at the all-night grocery store and was just saved exploding by landing on the lower, shelf-like edge of the tilted display unit they are contained in.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" thinks the virus which gives people the bubonic plague, just hanging out now, keeping a low profile. In a government lab.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" says the earthworm making love to itself and thinking of Amanda Lepore.
A few seconds pass.
Suddenly, the narwhal thinks "I cannot process this ocean anymore." The thought surprises him, completely blindsides him, as he never expected to think this thought.
He decides that instant to leave his mate's side and swims superfast towards an Orca, who turns and carefully avoiding the tooth (which the Orca also thinks is a tusk) bites half of the narwhal's head off.
"ALRIGHT!" thinks the Orca as he begins to enjoy narwhal proteins and narwhal fat.
The narwhal's mate is screaming in her head: "WHYYYYYYY?!"
But then she thinks orcaorcaorcaorcafuckinORCA! and continues swimming fast towards the North pole thinking only, ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean....
The tomato thinks "fucking shelf" and embraces gravity.
His suicide is broadcast over the all night grocery store's loudspeakers.
Only his eulogy sounds like this: "CLEAN UP IN AISLE FOURTEEN, CLEAN UP IN AISLE FOURTEEN, PLEASE...."
The poets and novelists in New York City go into a bar and think about language.
In a bar. They think about language.
The two ring-tailed lemurs commit suicide together. He looks into her eyes and without words asks her, "Do you want to do this?" And her look back says, "Yes! Oh hell to the yes!"
And down they fling themselves, out of nature.
They both think "FUCK YOU NATURE!" as their heads splatter against a Hummer's roof.
The sparrow deliberately flies into a giant fan-unit in the WAL-MART gardening department and the blood spatters all over the face and blue smock of a woman named Wanda who has just begun to grow lung tumors in a lung tumor garden, but has no idea.
She screams and laughs at the same time as the blood of the suicidal sparrow spatters her like maraschino cherries ground up on HIGH in a quality blender.
Wanda suddenly says in her head, out loud in her head: Some planets are not pro-consciousness...
She thinks this thought slow and really tastes it, as though it were thought-taffy.
It is WAL-MART satori.
The virus and the earthworm decide to live.
They are rather tired of all the complaining.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" think the poets and novelists in New York City.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" think narwhals swimming towards the North Pole with sexy ideas of narwhaleity in their heads.
And the narwhals also think, "Why do they insist on calling it a tusk when it's really a tooth? It's a tooth, godammit!"
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" think two ring-tailed lemurs fucking high in a tree in Madagascar from which they can just see a Hilton hotel they are both looking at as they fuck.
The Hilton went up faster than the time it takes to raise a baby lemur to lemur survival-proficiency.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" thinks the tomato who fell out of the tomato multi-pack at the all-night grocery store and was just saved exploding by landing on the lower, shelf-like edge of the tilted display unit they are contained in.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" thinks the virus which gives people the bubonic plague, just hanging out now, keeping a low profile. In a government lab.
"NOW! THE TIME IS NOW!" says the earthworm making love to itself and thinking of Amanda Lepore.
A few seconds pass.
Suddenly, the narwhal thinks "I cannot process this ocean anymore." The thought surprises him, completely blindsides him, as he never expected to think this thought.
He decides that instant to leave his mate's side and swims superfast towards an Orca, who turns and carefully avoiding the tooth (which the Orca also thinks is a tusk) bites half of the narwhal's head off.
"ALRIGHT!" thinks the Orca as he begins to enjoy narwhal proteins and narwhal fat.
The narwhal's mate is screaming in her head: "WHYYYYYYY?!"
But then she thinks orcaorcaorcaorcafuckinORCA! and continues swimming fast towards the North pole thinking only, ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean ocean....
The tomato thinks "fucking shelf" and embraces gravity.
His suicide is broadcast over the all night grocery store's loudspeakers.
Only his eulogy sounds like this: "CLEAN UP IN AISLE FOURTEEN, CLEAN UP IN AISLE FOURTEEN, PLEASE...."
The poets and novelists in New York City go into a bar and think about language.
In a bar. They think about language.
The two ring-tailed lemurs commit suicide together. He looks into her eyes and without words asks her, "Do you want to do this?" And her look back says, "Yes! Oh hell to the yes!"
And down they fling themselves, out of nature.
They both think "FUCK YOU NATURE!" as their heads splatter against a Hummer's roof.
The sparrow deliberately flies into a giant fan-unit in the WAL-MART gardening department and the blood spatters all over the face and blue smock of a woman named Wanda who has just begun to grow lung tumors in a lung tumor garden, but has no idea.
She screams and laughs at the same time as the blood of the suicidal sparrow spatters her like maraschino cherries ground up on HIGH in a quality blender.
Wanda suddenly says in her head, out loud in her head: Some planets are not pro-consciousness...
She thinks this thought slow and really tastes it, as though it were thought-taffy.
It is WAL-MART satori.
The virus and the earthworm decide to live.
They are rather tired of all the complaining.
oh Hell Nawl!
HAHAHAHAHA!
Awww, Derby!
My friend called me in a panic because he thought I might be offing myself.
On the fuckin internet!!
Who am I? timothy leary?
I didn't even realize my last post could sound "troubling" to anyone.
I was just listening to music and was exquisitely happy and realized I was "nowhere"...just floating in the music...and I typed that....
and Derby fucks up my connection by calling and confirming that I'm not pulling a Madama Butterfly.
Hell Nawl, D.
But you are very near and very dear and very kind.
Also very deluded.
Leave it to a poet to be so obtuse with language and communication. Doh!
I agree with Romeo Void that we should "never say never."
But. Homey don't play dat.
I think The Grifters will give you my answer on that.
When John Cusack is identifying the body of the murdered woman and says what? "Lily would never off herself?"
I'm with Lily.
I agree with Lily's m.o. in that movie....
Angelica was amazing in that.
God, the scene in the elevator at the end...the way that's shot...that death mask of her living face...
Go Dead Jim Thompson!
Go Stephen Frears!
Awww, Derby!
My friend called me in a panic because he thought I might be offing myself.
On the fuckin internet!!
Who am I? timothy leary?
I didn't even realize my last post could sound "troubling" to anyone.
I was just listening to music and was exquisitely happy and realized I was "nowhere"...just floating in the music...and I typed that....
and Derby fucks up my connection by calling and confirming that I'm not pulling a Madama Butterfly.
Hell Nawl, D.
But you are very near and very dear and very kind.
Also very deluded.
Leave it to a poet to be so obtuse with language and communication. Doh!
I agree with Romeo Void that we should "never say never."
But. Homey don't play dat.
I think The Grifters will give you my answer on that.
When John Cusack is identifying the body of the murdered woman and says what? "Lily would never off herself?"
I'm with Lily.
I agree with Lily's m.o. in that movie....
Angelica was amazing in that.
God, the scene in the elevator at the end...the way that's shot...that death mask of her living face...
Go Dead Jim Thompson!
Go Stephen Frears!
A Birthday Book of Serial Killers (after Gertrude Stein)
January the first is anything. Anything new. Leonard John Fraser. Four to him in Queensland. But his heart gave out the first.
His heart gave out as the new.
January two. Ian Brady come out of that womb and do. The moors are a calling not a calling. And Myra whatever too.
Morrissey be born and sing this.
Melismatically to me.
Murl Daniels sat in a chair January the third. The chair was juicy. And so ever was Murl ever so soon after.
Ever so after at twenty-four to leave by the chair. Your cornfield did this to you.
Bedrods and vaginas are very January fourth, January the fourth. A visit from Theodore. Bundy liked his women very semen dead. Very dead as friendly. Dear haste was in Ted.
Aileen Wuornos they are looking for you. A manhunt on the fifth to the fifth is not aptly named is it. I don't like johns either. Or jacks.
Good for a gender. But not good for a gander? Make serials fair. You were fair, Aileen. Only fair.
The sixth of January Thomas George Svekla smile for the camera. Oh prostitutes again. A cliche will be a cliche for some time.
Joe Ball the seventh is born to look like James Joyce. Without the eye patch. To bootleg and a boot is indeed a leg up or in. But the alligators. Joe fed alligators to people and eyes yes vice versa. Herpetological. A Valentine.
January the eighth and what you say no murder no murder to say. This is a joke. Surely a joke. Play. Dig deeper.
The ninth of January currently. Currently police say. Ladies the Daytona killer is clean, crisp and intimately well-lit. Check your husband and your boyfriend.
Both.
And ten now. January the tenth and an orange parka is a very bad idea. Richard Chase an orange parka is a very bad idea of an idea. Busted dick in orange.
The eleventh of january is very eleventhish. Efren Saldivar angel of death. Nurses people with Parvulon. Paralytic. We don't get it.
Caryn Campbell on the twelfth of January went to get what Caryn had got for forgot. A magazine she said. Forgot to get. Between the lobby and her hotel a maybe place of saying place of staying. A room met Ted. Who loved dear dead ones. And got.
Ted you are a periodical case. Periodontal check ups don't mean this semen.
January the thirteen dear Jeffrey says loony. Says loony to court me. Court me loony please. I ate them like toffee.
Christian G. on Lycos.de. of Germany the fourteenth of January greets in court. Confesses to two. Two he chatted are very sorry dead but he doesn't like serial.
He is neither sorry nor serial. Take it back now.
The fifteenth of the first was a very bad Witchita day. Oteri family gone away for having known and not known BTK. Venetian blinds have cords for a reason but not that reason to away. Dennis is tied and is tied to be fit. Inside a dark day.
A Rader was spewer. He spewed until. Kill Dennis now to reach a cord.
Albert Fish we are having today. The sixteenth of January a chair away. From the time of his life. Albert liked such a thing to like so such. To have a little girl doesn't mean as much dear Albert. But he embraced the chair. Who lit cotton balls on fire in his rectum. He didn't complain much.
Twenty-second of the twentieth the second seconds this motion. The proceedings are going to tell us to say soon from this day whether Ed Gein is insane. Or merely fashion victim.
Jaunary five after the twentieth dismembers itself and its work. As Edmund Kemper loved hitchhikers. Santa Cruz he thought murder was a drive-through restaurant. I do believe nature is malnourished.
Ding dong says the twenty-seventh. Sometimes vampires come in the front door saying oh dear my heart. Dear David, dear Evelyn, nature is very sorry in this state for your state. Very sorry for a vampire who is being a dick. Richard Chase rabbits and drink the blood. You fear your heart disintegrates. Novel psychosis. Your penis only works this way.
This is all so very natural. I fear.
Oh twenty-ninth of the month is missing mostly black jurors for Jeffrey Dahmer. Only one. This is not a well-stocked fridge. Just ones claim just one is wrong.
January likes thirty as thirty is to January a thrift of saying not saving. Son of Sam born to David Berkowitz. Hunting in Queens finds Freund and Diel but doesn't split the bullets evenly yet evenly. Talking dogs are very American.
Dogs advising murder. And biblical yes.
The end of the beginning finds a poet. BTK writes to Wichita Eagle-Beacon verses on Vian, a fine viand. He memorializes the way Tennyson do. Dennis, we have had about enough. Enough of you.
About enough of these versicles. You are a civil servant.
So ends January with a poet. A poet who eulogizes himself. The end of the beginning is always so. Self-serving. I find it isn't really you. But someone behind.
You haven't a clue.
The twenty-first of May. Jeffrey Dahmer welcome to your birthday. You are very welcome to your birthday.
(in progress thing...to be written piecemeal)
His heart gave out as the new.
January two. Ian Brady come out of that womb and do. The moors are a calling not a calling. And Myra whatever too.
Morrissey be born and sing this.
Melismatically to me.
Murl Daniels sat in a chair January the third. The chair was juicy. And so ever was Murl ever so soon after.
Ever so after at twenty-four to leave by the chair. Your cornfield did this to you.
Bedrods and vaginas are very January fourth, January the fourth. A visit from Theodore. Bundy liked his women very semen dead. Very dead as friendly. Dear haste was in Ted.
Aileen Wuornos they are looking for you. A manhunt on the fifth to the fifth is not aptly named is it. I don't like johns either. Or jacks.
Good for a gender. But not good for a gander? Make serials fair. You were fair, Aileen. Only fair.
The sixth of January Thomas George Svekla smile for the camera. Oh prostitutes again. A cliche will be a cliche for some time.
Joe Ball the seventh is born to look like James Joyce. Without the eye patch. To bootleg and a boot is indeed a leg up or in. But the alligators. Joe fed alligators to people and eyes yes vice versa. Herpetological. A Valentine.
January the eighth and what you say no murder no murder to say. This is a joke. Surely a joke. Play. Dig deeper.
The ninth of January currently. Currently police say. Ladies the Daytona killer is clean, crisp and intimately well-lit. Check your husband and your boyfriend.
Both.
And ten now. January the tenth and an orange parka is a very bad idea. Richard Chase an orange parka is a very bad idea of an idea. Busted dick in orange.
The eleventh of january is very eleventhish. Efren Saldivar angel of death. Nurses people with Parvulon. Paralytic. We don't get it.
Caryn Campbell on the twelfth of January went to get what Caryn had got for forgot. A magazine she said. Forgot to get. Between the lobby and her hotel a maybe place of saying place of staying. A room met Ted. Who loved dear dead ones. And got.
Ted you are a periodical case. Periodontal check ups don't mean this semen.
January the thirteen dear Jeffrey says loony. Says loony to court me. Court me loony please. I ate them like toffee.
Christian G. on Lycos.de. of Germany the fourteenth of January greets in court. Confesses to two. Two he chatted are very sorry dead but he doesn't like serial.
He is neither sorry nor serial. Take it back now.
The fifteenth of the first was a very bad Witchita day. Oteri family gone away for having known and not known BTK. Venetian blinds have cords for a reason but not that reason to away. Dennis is tied and is tied to be fit. Inside a dark day.
A Rader was spewer. He spewed until. Kill Dennis now to reach a cord.
Albert Fish we are having today. The sixteenth of January a chair away. From the time of his life. Albert liked such a thing to like so such. To have a little girl doesn't mean as much dear Albert. But he embraced the chair. Who lit cotton balls on fire in his rectum. He didn't complain much.
Twenty-second of the twentieth the second seconds this motion. The proceedings are going to tell us to say soon from this day whether Ed Gein is insane. Or merely fashion victim.
Jaunary five after the twentieth dismembers itself and its work. As Edmund Kemper loved hitchhikers. Santa Cruz he thought murder was a drive-through restaurant. I do believe nature is malnourished.
Ding dong says the twenty-seventh. Sometimes vampires come in the front door saying oh dear my heart. Dear David, dear Evelyn, nature is very sorry in this state for your state. Very sorry for a vampire who is being a dick. Richard Chase rabbits and drink the blood. You fear your heart disintegrates. Novel psychosis. Your penis only works this way.
This is all so very natural. I fear.
Oh twenty-ninth of the month is missing mostly black jurors for Jeffrey Dahmer. Only one. This is not a well-stocked fridge. Just ones claim just one is wrong.
January likes thirty as thirty is to January a thrift of saying not saving. Son of Sam born to David Berkowitz. Hunting in Queens finds Freund and Diel but doesn't split the bullets evenly yet evenly. Talking dogs are very American.
Dogs advising murder. And biblical yes.
The end of the beginning finds a poet. BTK writes to Wichita Eagle-Beacon verses on Vian, a fine viand. He memorializes the way Tennyson do. Dennis, we have had about enough. Enough of you.
About enough of these versicles. You are a civil servant.
So ends January with a poet. A poet who eulogizes himself. The end of the beginning is always so. Self-serving. I find it isn't really you. But someone behind.
You haven't a clue.
The twenty-first of May. Jeffrey Dahmer welcome to your birthday. You are very welcome to your birthday.
(in progress thing...to be written piecemeal)
air
A light man is running through a light landscape.
Trees and grass lift themselves gently in an almost nonexistent breeze, and they seem to weigh as little as the scarceness of morning sunlight upon them.
The sunlight seems a form of water, and drips from higher leaves to lower leaves.
The man is wearing tiny earbuds playing ambient music.
The man is beautiful, long-legged, in shorts and a gray t-shirt and runs at a seasoned clip.
The music he listens to is the aural equivalent of inert gases. The music spreads out and rarefies, odorless, colorless, like a monatomic gas, with a very low chemical reactivity.
He is thinking about a novel he has just read.
He finished it in the hour immediately after he woke up and leaned on one shoulder in bed and read, and it helped him to feel even lighter.
Leaning on one shoulder this way and reading the Japanese novel, he looked like a character in it. Weightless and beautiful and with a cool tonality of thought.
He really loves novels which can approximate the airiness of existence, the emptiness at the heart of matter and human feeling.
Novels which unashamedly aspire to be like ricecakes.
These novels are composed of an airiness of matter and the characters within them touch the airiness of matter and grow increasingly disbelieving of matter, ideas, and often themselves.
When the characters in these novels try to touch or taste each other, they find their hands, their mouths, go right through one another's bodies.
When this happens, when one of the characters has tried to touch another and her hand goes right through his body, she picks up a piece of spiritually light food, like an apple or a bosc pear.
She picks it up and takes a photo of it and pretends as though she will eat it.
But she doesn't. Or he doesn't.
Still, there is a sense of grace.
A sense of not having that is rewarding in itself.
The photo of the airy, spiritual food is posted on the internet.
The beautiful glow of matter without intent.
No disappointment occurs, but no satisfaction fills the void of disappointment.
Why should it?
The man is very handsome and his bones are rather the bones of deer. His sweat evaporates as soon as it forms.
His life: it is a reciprocal process of gently withdrawing matter from existence, existence from matter.
Some of the characters in the novels he admires just evaporate, and the man particularly loves when this happens.
The young man has always felt that this is something which happens to people in real life, but that the news reporters and other have just chosen not to document it.
It almost happened to him on numerous occasions.
But then the phone would ring or a dog would bark or his girlfriend or boyfriend would slap him and he would be back. Here.
The man loves running.
He loves the absence of thought while running, the inert gases of ambient music playing in his ears through the tiny earbuds.
He loves this feeling of noncomittal existence.
This is the ultimate feeling of freedom. Once the man was pinned down by the opposite of this feeling.
The man crosses a bridge now and the stream bubbling below seems to remember the ancient Japanese woodprints which also speak this young man's language.
The stream below the bridge is defying gravity slightly and lifting as it flows.
The man stops a moment and stands on this small bridge which has no sides, no railings.
The man has lovers but prefers lovers which don't really possess the grossness of physical being.
This has nothing to do with what his lovers weigh, their body type, but rather the weightlessness of their souls.
There is a rather large woman he makes love with whose soul has the weight of rice paper airmail correspondence paper.
He loves the disparity of her body and her soul when he is inside her.
He prefers lovers like himself who aspire to translucency and porosity, and the non-reactivity of the literature he admires.
He will fall in love with another young man or woman who will be similarly rarefied, given to silence. Deerlike vertebrae. Slow gestures.
He will fall in love with a man because of the way he holds a bowl.
He will fall in love with a woman for the way she stares at her car, as if it were a ghost.
It's a cold day in spring and the man stands on the almost non-existent bridge and looks about into the the forest all around him.
The day is so light that even birds have chosen not to weigh down the air.
Birds sense that this day has been written by a Japanese novelist who could transmute a ricecake into a novel, a novel into a ricecake, death into a ricecake or a ricecake into death.
Birds are respecting the silence-anchored prose.
There are no other humans for miles around.
Nobody runs this way.
The man doesn't feel strange or unearthly at all.
He is perfectly content to aspire to live as a ghost. It's a philosophically defensible position.
There's nothing you can say or do to disprove a feeling as beautiful as constant erasure.
If somebody wants their soul to be as light as sunlight, you would be an asshole to grab them by the hand or the ass.
And to enter their body with the wrong feeling would be like a man raping a deer.
How could anyone do that?
When the young man makes love it is like drinking pure water from a deep stream as slowly as possible.
A concavity below his ribs gathers moisture.
His hands lie lightly upon his lover, and when his tongue enters between his lover's legs it as though he were gently wiping down an ancient baby's skull in a museum's restorations chambers.
The man has rested enough and continues on now. He goes through the landscape which has lightened even more as the sun enters clouds and sunlight is intermittent.
He is a beautiful creature and there are animals all about him. He can feel the movement of their bodies, so subtle, in the changing air currents.
Far off in the woods to his right, but beyond the young man's vision, two deer with heads lowered run at each other in a courtship challenge, antlers pointed forward, and go right through each other in a demonstration of the perfect emptiness of matter which physicists always insist exists, though we never really see it.
Trees and grass lift themselves gently in an almost nonexistent breeze, and they seem to weigh as little as the scarceness of morning sunlight upon them.
The sunlight seems a form of water, and drips from higher leaves to lower leaves.
The man is wearing tiny earbuds playing ambient music.
The man is beautiful, long-legged, in shorts and a gray t-shirt and runs at a seasoned clip.
The music he listens to is the aural equivalent of inert gases. The music spreads out and rarefies, odorless, colorless, like a monatomic gas, with a very low chemical reactivity.
He is thinking about a novel he has just read.
He finished it in the hour immediately after he woke up and leaned on one shoulder in bed and read, and it helped him to feel even lighter.
Leaning on one shoulder this way and reading the Japanese novel, he looked like a character in it. Weightless and beautiful and with a cool tonality of thought.
He really loves novels which can approximate the airiness of existence, the emptiness at the heart of matter and human feeling.
Novels which unashamedly aspire to be like ricecakes.
These novels are composed of an airiness of matter and the characters within them touch the airiness of matter and grow increasingly disbelieving of matter, ideas, and often themselves.
When the characters in these novels try to touch or taste each other, they find their hands, their mouths, go right through one another's bodies.
When this happens, when one of the characters has tried to touch another and her hand goes right through his body, she picks up a piece of spiritually light food, like an apple or a bosc pear.
She picks it up and takes a photo of it and pretends as though she will eat it.
But she doesn't. Or he doesn't.
Still, there is a sense of grace.
A sense of not having that is rewarding in itself.
The photo of the airy, spiritual food is posted on the internet.
The beautiful glow of matter without intent.
No disappointment occurs, but no satisfaction fills the void of disappointment.
Why should it?
The man is very handsome and his bones are rather the bones of deer. His sweat evaporates as soon as it forms.
His life: it is a reciprocal process of gently withdrawing matter from existence, existence from matter.
Some of the characters in the novels he admires just evaporate, and the man particularly loves when this happens.
The young man has always felt that this is something which happens to people in real life, but that the news reporters and other have just chosen not to document it.
It almost happened to him on numerous occasions.
But then the phone would ring or a dog would bark or his girlfriend or boyfriend would slap him and he would be back. Here.
The man loves running.
He loves the absence of thought while running, the inert gases of ambient music playing in his ears through the tiny earbuds.
He loves this feeling of noncomittal existence.
This is the ultimate feeling of freedom. Once the man was pinned down by the opposite of this feeling.
The man crosses a bridge now and the stream bubbling below seems to remember the ancient Japanese woodprints which also speak this young man's language.
The stream below the bridge is defying gravity slightly and lifting as it flows.
The man stops a moment and stands on this small bridge which has no sides, no railings.
The man has lovers but prefers lovers which don't really possess the grossness of physical being.
This has nothing to do with what his lovers weigh, their body type, but rather the weightlessness of their souls.
There is a rather large woman he makes love with whose soul has the weight of rice paper airmail correspondence paper.
He loves the disparity of her body and her soul when he is inside her.
He prefers lovers like himself who aspire to translucency and porosity, and the non-reactivity of the literature he admires.
He will fall in love with another young man or woman who will be similarly rarefied, given to silence. Deerlike vertebrae. Slow gestures.
He will fall in love with a man because of the way he holds a bowl.
He will fall in love with a woman for the way she stares at her car, as if it were a ghost.
It's a cold day in spring and the man stands on the almost non-existent bridge and looks about into the the forest all around him.
The day is so light that even birds have chosen not to weigh down the air.
Birds sense that this day has been written by a Japanese novelist who could transmute a ricecake into a novel, a novel into a ricecake, death into a ricecake or a ricecake into death.
Birds are respecting the silence-anchored prose.
There are no other humans for miles around.
Nobody runs this way.
The man doesn't feel strange or unearthly at all.
He is perfectly content to aspire to live as a ghost. It's a philosophically defensible position.
There's nothing you can say or do to disprove a feeling as beautiful as constant erasure.
If somebody wants their soul to be as light as sunlight, you would be an asshole to grab them by the hand or the ass.
And to enter their body with the wrong feeling would be like a man raping a deer.
How could anyone do that?
When the young man makes love it is like drinking pure water from a deep stream as slowly as possible.
A concavity below his ribs gathers moisture.
His hands lie lightly upon his lover, and when his tongue enters between his lover's legs it as though he were gently wiping down an ancient baby's skull in a museum's restorations chambers.
The man has rested enough and continues on now. He goes through the landscape which has lightened even more as the sun enters clouds and sunlight is intermittent.
He is a beautiful creature and there are animals all about him. He can feel the movement of their bodies, so subtle, in the changing air currents.
Far off in the woods to his right, but beyond the young man's vision, two deer with heads lowered run at each other in a courtship challenge, antlers pointed forward, and go right through each other in a demonstration of the perfect emptiness of matter which physicists always insist exists, though we never really see it.
air
this was an earlier draft of the story above.
it was long and worried and had dust.
i vacuumed it up and made it much sparer.
no more references to rilke or transtromer poems lol.
it was long and worried and had dust.
i vacuumed it up and made it much sparer.
no more references to rilke or transtromer poems lol.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
34-41 by themselves
34. i prefer talking to the wall. the wall of light. it's like a music video.
35. yes. i believe it hears me.
36. some things are only between me and language.
37. are you sitting? are you standing? did you just turn on the lights. rolling something under your palm. pieces.
38. there has to be a window. some people believe.
39. i don't.
40. the stone is just as open as the sky. it really is. that's not poetry.
41. i clipped them off.
35. yes. i believe it hears me.
36. some things are only between me and language.
37. are you sitting? are you standing? did you just turn on the lights. rolling something under your palm. pieces.
38. there has to be a window. some people believe.
39. i don't.
40. the stone is just as open as the sky. it really is. that's not poetry.
41. i clipped them off.
probably just this part really
aUse it. everything. i'm saw terror timing suddenly such animal to grammar but Divine.
64. back. will beautiful. swirl. out. not.
54. voice. could fake things every day probably ridiculous.
56. old that's listen. put
73. doesn't spirit. know interlace. me have alike. believe. you? language. fine. you love nature's too best. there leaf. stutter like lonely hears sleeping. you. hear its was bored. wall. it's me.
58. where you. as my when blog song. snogged badly. real are pieces.
38. sno-cone afraid. those icelanders.
18. asleep me obliquely dying.
53. really.
71. holds iceland never themselves looking maybe escape. leaf to shapes you. like shakes. never. smell.
10. is asleep? hurt?
41. have its felt be don't ways.
28. this.
33. a lay the that i sing primal? your preternatural. sitting? is dirty offer is talking anything gladiator.
70. you.
15. thrives you believe.
39. bird hands.
65. that i don't and the same cloud. you. terror stinks. cut to music clipped wind silly shape with them dying like. did.
3. curtains over to people on desire and still.
13. ago.
20. its lights. sentences the and sound can slut.
30. a shade. clean.
68. i Leviathan. rose. 900 feet tall oh might one subtract doesn't feed. everything?
16. mortal with come are i oddly there about in some the toolings. cartoons. so.
76. earth. world turbulence you tiny should smell i. something. the there.
72. interesting own her spinning it.
77. dangling well-bred something.
36. in hall motels. pre-everything.
46. roll. go.
62. that smells one water. worse. you be touch put to but the cannot is.
24. purity. was under shoot.
44. backdrops compass.
55. in much speak think just direction. bottomless love. shaped sniffing does.
26. this. only things this.
49. thrown i. still. simple the planet smell.
17. no. somewhere.
48. toilet. you're a a give light. you won't.
11. to know know. Bible love bit.
14. get hand stone to brutal. am believe. river window. and that. i throw the used you the you pillow. is it you. little i of some straight funny 45. so this.
60. but we water not looks can by synthetic the go movie don't.
40. that light. trap you i want. you you the nobody but earliest i autistic fingers learn. world off. i people whenever subtract.s didn't sisters A.D. then went. poetry. links of a you. illusion.
25. of did fall
64. back. will beautiful. swirl. out. not.
54. voice. could fake things every day probably ridiculous.
56. old that's listen. put
73. doesn't spirit. know interlace. me have alike. believe. you? language. fine. you love nature's too best. there leaf. stutter like lonely hears sleeping. you. hear its was bored. wall. it's me.
58. where you. as my when blog song. snogged badly. real are pieces.
38. sno-cone afraid. those icelanders.
18. asleep me obliquely dying.
53. really.
71. holds iceland never themselves looking maybe escape. leaf to shapes you. like shakes. never. smell.
10. is asleep? hurt?
41. have its felt be don't ways.
28. this.
33. a lay the that i sing primal? your preternatural. sitting? is dirty offer is talking anything gladiator.
70. you.
15. thrives you believe.
39. bird hands.
65. that i don't and the same cloud. you. terror stinks. cut to music clipped wind silly shape with them dying like. did.
3. curtains over to people on desire and still.
13. ago.
20. its lights. sentences the and sound can slut.
30. a shade. clean.
68. i Leviathan. rose. 900 feet tall oh might one subtract doesn't feed. everything?
16. mortal with come are i oddly there about in some the toolings. cartoons. so.
76. earth. world turbulence you tiny should smell i. something. the there.
72. interesting own her spinning it.
77. dangling well-bred something.
36. in hall motels. pre-everything.
46. roll. go.
62. that smells one water. worse. you be touch put to but the cannot is.
24. purity. was under shoot.
44. backdrops compass.
55. in much speak think just direction. bottomless love. shaped sniffing does.
26. this. only things this.
49. thrown i. still. simple the planet smell.
17. no. somewhere.
48. toilet. you're a a give light. you won't.
11. to know know. Bible love bit.
14. get hand stone to brutal. am believe. river window. and that. i throw the used you the you pillow. is it you. little i of some straight funny 45. so this.
60. but we water not looks can by synthetic the go movie don't.
40. that light. trap you i want. you you the nobody but earliest i autistic fingers learn. world off. i people whenever subtract.s didn't sisters A.D. then went. poetry. links of a you. illusion.
25. of did fall
tell by numbers
45. pre-everything.
46. pick you're you and i a so roll. leaf red love of Leviathan. Use this.
60. go.
62. to a nature's i-aspirations.
70. rose. it. but that shapes only. that.
4. you. song. pieces we said you. before. are
15. 900 everything. it smells like a thing is oh i'm anything.
21. one the not too thrives are is water water. water.
29. give best. you it saw not worse. prefer light. there believe.
39. might purified look your shakes. you the bird one maker. The
52. you're in leaf. hands subtraction terror can be wanted or stutter
65. doesn't timing by touch never. were were that feed. suddenly synthetic i smell.
10. won't.
11. like a everything?
16. so the put is loneliness. lonely i mortal animal go to asleep? american instead don't with head movie but hurt to hears and standing? to don't.
40. the .
41. know sleeping. always come grammar that child have know. you. same are but light. better. its Bible hear cloud. is Divine.
64. trap cannot to slice its you. i back. few is felt love your terror oddly will you not be bit.
14. was stinks. there shampoos i too don't get bored. shape cloud?
23. not want.
24. have hand cocteau cut about beautiful. you purity. ways.
28. tea. be do in communication.
31. i was this.
33. in wall. music some
37. you under a stone it clipped the swirl. the shoot.
44. lay to me. wind toolings. out. nobody backdrops it's a same of motif. not.
54. a compass.
55. the brutal.
58. silly cartoons. voice. i in that like where bread so.
76. the but much i am you. shape begins could earliest speak sing know as with earth. is and found primal? believe. my that world fake i think you river funny. the video.
35. things are just your window. in them turbulence every autistic direction. preternatural. and when can you probably bird. from a kid's dying tiny ridiculous.
56. fingers bottomless i'm .
59. blog like. should this learn only have you stupid did.
3. with old than love.
7. a song. curtains smell that's you shaped can't. people badly. over since secret it sniffing laughs.
19. that. can and it's are world does.
26. this real real to to understood off this. downstream i are are i. of i only sitting? on pieces.
38. people as that's people things swirls.
43. it is on nature listen. up this.
49. don't.
50. throw sno-cone in something. put whenever thrown is the afraid. caution the subtract. music dirty used going?
69. desire there.
72.
73. didn't i offer you that and duh
5.
6. sisters i see i little still.
13. interesting doesn't A.D. still. comes the icelanders.
18. ago.
20. you spirit. the simple is you asleep its own put went. the talking it's me lights. has as poetry. a my pillow. obliquely sentences her know links the doesn't it's dying.
53. the spinning interlace. of an is it really.
71. and it.
77. me a planet i you. holds sound dangling have you. i course little iceland water the alike. in smell."
17. anything i never can well-bred believe. illusion.
25. no. gladiator. of will slut.
30. something you? of in it some themselves a me.
36. language. did something bout straight looking to in fine fall somewhere.
48. limited funny maybe shade. hall the i'm toilet. a where
58. anything. or your anybody the escape. clean.
68. motels. of that said.
75. touched
46. pick you're you and i a so roll. leaf red love of Leviathan. Use this.
60. go.
62. to a nature's i-aspirations.
70. rose. it. but that shapes only. that.
4. you. song. pieces we said you. before. are
15. 900 everything. it smells like a thing is oh i'm anything.
21. one the not too thrives are is water water. water.
29. give best. you it saw not worse. prefer light. there believe.
39. might purified look your shakes. you the bird one maker. The
52. you're in leaf. hands subtraction terror can be wanted or stutter
65. doesn't timing by touch never. were were that feed. suddenly synthetic i smell.
10. won't.
11. like a everything?
16. so the put is loneliness. lonely i mortal animal go to asleep? american instead don't with head movie but hurt to hears and standing? to don't.
40. the .
41. know sleeping. always come grammar that child have know. you. same are but light. better. its Bible hear cloud. is Divine.
64. trap cannot to slice its you. i back. few is felt love your terror oddly will you not be bit.
14. was stinks. there shampoos i too don't get bored. shape cloud?
23. not want.
24. have hand cocteau cut about beautiful. you purity. ways.
28. tea. be do in communication.
31. i was this.
33. in wall. music some
37. you under a stone it clipped the swirl. the shoot.
44. lay to me. wind toolings. out. nobody backdrops it's a same of motif. not.
54. a compass.
55. the brutal.
58. silly cartoons. voice. i in that like where bread so.
76. the but much i am you. shape begins could earliest speak sing know as with earth. is and found primal? believe. my that world fake i think you river funny. the video.
35. things are just your window. in them turbulence every autistic direction. preternatural. and when can you probably bird. from a kid's dying tiny ridiculous.
56. fingers bottomless i'm .
59. blog like. should this learn only have you stupid did.
3. with old than love.
7. a song. curtains smell that's you shaped can't. people badly. over since secret it sniffing laughs.
19. that. can and it's are world does.
26. this real real to to understood off this. downstream i are are i. of i only sitting? on pieces.
38. people as that's people things swirls.
43. it is on nature listen. up this.
49. don't.
50. throw sno-cone in something. put whenever thrown is the afraid. caution the subtract. music dirty used going?
69. desire there.
72.
73. didn't i offer you that and duh
5.
6. sisters i see i little still.
13. interesting doesn't A.D. still. comes the icelanders.
18. ago.
20. you spirit. the simple is you asleep its own put went. the talking it's me lights. has as poetry. a my pillow. obliquely sentences her know links the doesn't it's dying.
53. the spinning interlace. of an is it really.
71. and it.
77. me a planet i you. holds sound dangling have you. i course little iceland water the alike. in smell."
17. anything i never can well-bred believe. illusion.
25. no. gladiator. of will slut.
30. something you? of in it some themselves a me.
36. language. did something bout straight looking to in fine fall somewhere.
48. limited funny maybe shade. hall the i'm toilet. a where
58. anything. or your anybody the escape. clean.
68. motels. of that said.
75. touched
A Raymond Carver Poem I Like a Lot
Two authors I admire quite a bit, whom generally everybody I know seems to dislike or devalue, are Raymond Carver and Marguerite Duras.
Generally, these people admire Carver's fiction (or a small subset of it) and hate his poetry.
Generally, these people think Duras a drama queen.
The argument usually goes that Carver's poems are nothing more than chopped prose laid out as poems.
While that superficially sounds like a plausible argument, it isn't, but I won't go into it here. Perloff's essay "Lucent and Inescapable Rhythms" is the long answer that really needs to be given. I consider that the locus classicus rebuttal on that prose argument.
And sure, Carver wrote a few maudlin poems, and bad poems. Every poet does.
But some of his poems have just stayed with me forever after one reading.
That was a lot of afflatus to introduce a single poem, but enjoy....
Music
Franz Liszt eloped with Countess Marie d'Agoult,
who wrote novels. Polite society washed its hands
of him, and his novelist-countess-whore.
Liszt gave her three children, and music.
Then went off with Princess Wittgenstein.
Cosima, Liszt's daughter, married
the conductor, Hans von Bulow.
But Richard Wagner stole her. Took her away
to Bayreuth. Where Liszt showed up one morning.
Long white hair flouncing.
Shaking his fist. Music. Music!
Everybody grew more famous.
Generally, these people admire Carver's fiction (or a small subset of it) and hate his poetry.
Generally, these people think Duras a drama queen.
The argument usually goes that Carver's poems are nothing more than chopped prose laid out as poems.
While that superficially sounds like a plausible argument, it isn't, but I won't go into it here. Perloff's essay "Lucent and Inescapable Rhythms" is the long answer that really needs to be given. I consider that the locus classicus rebuttal on that prose argument.
And sure, Carver wrote a few maudlin poems, and bad poems. Every poet does.
But some of his poems have just stayed with me forever after one reading.
That was a lot of afflatus to introduce a single poem, but enjoy....
Music
Franz Liszt eloped with Countess Marie d'Agoult,
who wrote novels. Polite society washed its hands
of him, and his novelist-countess-whore.
Liszt gave her three children, and music.
Then went off with Princess Wittgenstein.
Cosima, Liszt's daughter, married
the conductor, Hans von Bulow.
But Richard Wagner stole her. Took her away
to Bayreuth. Where Liszt showed up one morning.
Long white hair flouncing.
Shaking his fist. Music. Music!
Everybody grew more famous.
Letters to and from an Imaginary Countess
My Dearest, Most Un-Flaccid Chevalier,
I have received the Emerald-eyed Sparrows and they warmed my bosom. These tasted better for some reason. I'd hate to think it was because their eyes were emeralds instead of garnets, but I daresay it's the ugly mercenary truth of the matter. A whore should never scruple to call herself a whore. If she does, it means she's an embarrassed whore, and there is nothing more embarrassing on earth than an embarrassed whore. I had my Footman's boy earlier today...well, we could stop the sentence there...but I was going to say: I had my Footman's boy earlier today take them out for assay, along with some other baubles that arrived in trinket boxes in Hands of various white-gloved couriers.
Your promise of Azores canaries dusted with cocaine and mummy extract made me weak with desire for you. Have you ever fucked on Azores canary? I have! It's just amazing, a total mindblow. One achieves an athleticism and endurance in concupiscence which would take years to achieve by standard constitutionals and calisthenics!
In other words, it's cheating. And who doesn't love cheating?
Of course, if the canaries are impure it can be fatal. There was a bad batch of canaries floating around Court three summers ago. We lost several earls and viscounts, but it just made getting a good seat for the opera at the Caterwaul Theater that much easier.
Oh, that Lady Trollop is a misery. She tried to join in an impromptu menage a trois I had fallen into in the Salon Sans Gender (you know: that tacky mirrored room that's off the Orangery? We snowballed there once, I believe). The gentlemen who were sandwiching me refused to let her join in. Because she farts. She farts improvidently. She is known to be the most gaseous member of the aristocracy for several generations and she always denies it! It's so obvious. It's a shame, because she is a Great Beauty, truly. But. Gentlemen have been known to soak their handkerchiefs in hartshorn and ladies have been known to faint.
So Lord_____ kept shooshing her away from our threesome as if she were an annoying flatulent chihuahua, and she was having none of it. She was rapidly moving towards a state of deshabille, and she began speaking whateverthefuck her people are? Cossacks? Roumanians? And while Lord______ was trying his best to get rid of the creature, the nobleman underneath me began muttering apologetically what an erection-killer this was becoming.
I was so grateful that these gentlemen had the discretion to refuse the Harpy and urge her away, as I was able to remain innocent in her eyes (so I thought!). I merely crossed my eyes and pretended to remain multiorgasmic. I did have two Stouts within me at the same time, but the uppermost desire in my mind was actually to curb the desire to laugh out loud at the improvident creature expostulating with my engaged Companions.
The good news is that Lord _____ had his whippets nearby and he whistled them over and the beasts attacked the beast as she was stubbornly continuing to shed clothes, determined to add noxious fumes to what was otherwise a fine, triune fuck.
One of the dogs leapt up and bit her on one of her odd pear-shaped tits, and she ran from the Salon whilst getting nipped in her ass, which I noticed bore a tattoo with your family crest. Hmmmm. I managed to keep the laughter in until she was just out of the Salon and someway down the hall.
But of course, whom do you think she blames now? It is a tiresome matter and I don't care to discuss it more. I'll send her one of those new Moorish dildos by way of apology. They say once you've tried Moor you never go back. I have a counterexample, but I shan't waste your time nor test your patience here.
Your anecdote of the Duel amused me heartily. This is so embarrassing. Oh how shall I say this? You killed the wrong man. That was the man standing to the left of you that Thursday, not the one on the right whom you have despatched! Oh well. Nature was surely preparing to take him anyway. And before you turn dyspeptic with worry, I assure you I have ascertained the worth of the other man and it is a nilpotent quantity. He is in the same profession as I am. We even share some clients apparently. So while I haven't spoken with him, it is quite possible I have tasted him before. Unbeknownst.
And do I need to worry that you have your spies at Court now, tattling on me? I am happy, however, that you were able to rub one out to the thought of the goings-on in the Rhododendron Quadrant. I'm glad your spies weren't there the day before, because we were celebrating Bestiality Day in the Royal Gardens.
Who knew the giraffe tongue could be seduced into human service! Peerless! No man will ever touch that Prodigy of Afric in the Going Down Department. The Duchess of Futz told me she has just ordered one for her grounds.
We all nearly died of laughter when the Earl of Pennylove was kicked by a Dodo Bird in the Utility Sack. I hear they are becoming quite rare, those birds!
Do be careful in the Hall of Lascivious Orphans. I have heard stories that some of the more enterprising orphans have a Cadaver Scheme set up with phreaky Scientists and other Dissectors around here. Cocks check in, but they don't check out, if you catch my drift...and I would hate to lose the Prodigious Organ and its charming Handler. If the stories are true, Miss Crookedshanks and Miss Dyspareunia are at the root of the Evil. They are notorious Sapphics and could care less what happens to men who patronize the Hall. I once saw through a window Miss Dyspareunia shaving Miss Crookedshank's face as I rode by in my carriage.
Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! Your parents are dead. Their ship foundered off the coast of That Horrible Continent. So this means you are now considerably improved in my eyes and those of the World.
This also means I look very much forward to our Sunday morning tryst. I trust you will bring the requisite props and accoutrements. I seem to recall a certain well-worn riding crop you love to lick in its full moistness. Will my favorite Rider (and mount) bring the harness as well? Also, perhaps the Curry-Groom? Now I am hungry for Quail Fetus in Aspic so I am going to go query the Servants and have them check if this whim can be gratified. Today at Court I had a lovely taffy with Nile crocodile mixed in. It was rather a salty confection, but palatable.
Looking Very Much Forward to your Epistles and Emissions, I Remain Very Much...
Your Countess
M__________________
I have received the Emerald-eyed Sparrows and they warmed my bosom. These tasted better for some reason. I'd hate to think it was because their eyes were emeralds instead of garnets, but I daresay it's the ugly mercenary truth of the matter. A whore should never scruple to call herself a whore. If she does, it means she's an embarrassed whore, and there is nothing more embarrassing on earth than an embarrassed whore. I had my Footman's boy earlier today...well, we could stop the sentence there...but I was going to say: I had my Footman's boy earlier today take them out for assay, along with some other baubles that arrived in trinket boxes in Hands of various white-gloved couriers.
Your promise of Azores canaries dusted with cocaine and mummy extract made me weak with desire for you. Have you ever fucked on Azores canary? I have! It's just amazing, a total mindblow. One achieves an athleticism and endurance in concupiscence which would take years to achieve by standard constitutionals and calisthenics!
In other words, it's cheating. And who doesn't love cheating?
Of course, if the canaries are impure it can be fatal. There was a bad batch of canaries floating around Court three summers ago. We lost several earls and viscounts, but it just made getting a good seat for the opera at the Caterwaul Theater that much easier.
Oh, that Lady Trollop is a misery. She tried to join in an impromptu menage a trois I had fallen into in the Salon Sans Gender (you know: that tacky mirrored room that's off the Orangery? We snowballed there once, I believe). The gentlemen who were sandwiching me refused to let her join in. Because she farts. She farts improvidently. She is known to be the most gaseous member of the aristocracy for several generations and she always denies it! It's so obvious. It's a shame, because she is a Great Beauty, truly. But. Gentlemen have been known to soak their handkerchiefs in hartshorn and ladies have been known to faint.
So Lord_____ kept shooshing her away from our threesome as if she were an annoying flatulent chihuahua, and she was having none of it. She was rapidly moving towards a state of deshabille, and she began speaking whateverthefuck her people are? Cossacks? Roumanians? And while Lord______ was trying his best to get rid of the creature, the nobleman underneath me began muttering apologetically what an erection-killer this was becoming.
I was so grateful that these gentlemen had the discretion to refuse the Harpy and urge her away, as I was able to remain innocent in her eyes (so I thought!). I merely crossed my eyes and pretended to remain multiorgasmic. I did have two Stouts within me at the same time, but the uppermost desire in my mind was actually to curb the desire to laugh out loud at the improvident creature expostulating with my engaged Companions.
The good news is that Lord _____ had his whippets nearby and he whistled them over and the beasts attacked the beast as she was stubbornly continuing to shed clothes, determined to add noxious fumes to what was otherwise a fine, triune fuck.
One of the dogs leapt up and bit her on one of her odd pear-shaped tits, and she ran from the Salon whilst getting nipped in her ass, which I noticed bore a tattoo with your family crest. Hmmmm. I managed to keep the laughter in until she was just out of the Salon and someway down the hall.
But of course, whom do you think she blames now? It is a tiresome matter and I don't care to discuss it more. I'll send her one of those new Moorish dildos by way of apology. They say once you've tried Moor you never go back. I have a counterexample, but I shan't waste your time nor test your patience here.
Your anecdote of the Duel amused me heartily. This is so embarrassing. Oh how shall I say this? You killed the wrong man. That was the man standing to the left of you that Thursday, not the one on the right whom you have despatched! Oh well. Nature was surely preparing to take him anyway. And before you turn dyspeptic with worry, I assure you I have ascertained the worth of the other man and it is a nilpotent quantity. He is in the same profession as I am. We even share some clients apparently. So while I haven't spoken with him, it is quite possible I have tasted him before. Unbeknownst.
And do I need to worry that you have your spies at Court now, tattling on me? I am happy, however, that you were able to rub one out to the thought of the goings-on in the Rhododendron Quadrant. I'm glad your spies weren't there the day before, because we were celebrating Bestiality Day in the Royal Gardens.
Who knew the giraffe tongue could be seduced into human service! Peerless! No man will ever touch that Prodigy of Afric in the Going Down Department. The Duchess of Futz told me she has just ordered one for her grounds.
We all nearly died of laughter when the Earl of Pennylove was kicked by a Dodo Bird in the Utility Sack. I hear they are becoming quite rare, those birds!
Do be careful in the Hall of Lascivious Orphans. I have heard stories that some of the more enterprising orphans have a Cadaver Scheme set up with phreaky Scientists and other Dissectors around here. Cocks check in, but they don't check out, if you catch my drift...and I would hate to lose the Prodigious Organ and its charming Handler. If the stories are true, Miss Crookedshanks and Miss Dyspareunia are at the root of the Evil. They are notorious Sapphics and could care less what happens to men who patronize the Hall. I once saw through a window Miss Dyspareunia shaving Miss Crookedshank's face as I rode by in my carriage.
Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! Your parents are dead. Their ship foundered off the coast of That Horrible Continent. So this means you are now considerably improved in my eyes and those of the World.
This also means I look very much forward to our Sunday morning tryst. I trust you will bring the requisite props and accoutrements. I seem to recall a certain well-worn riding crop you love to lick in its full moistness. Will my favorite Rider (and mount) bring the harness as well? Also, perhaps the Curry-Groom? Now I am hungry for Quail Fetus in Aspic so I am going to go query the Servants and have them check if this whim can be gratified. Today at Court I had a lovely taffy with Nile crocodile mixed in. It was rather a salty confection, but palatable.
Looking Very Much Forward to your Epistles and Emissions, I Remain Very Much...
Your Countess
M__________________
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