Friday, July 31, 2009
James Schuyler Poem
Hats
A cherry-colored picture hat
of tagal straw, its only trimming
a black-and-white windmill bow
at one side, or in front
A shady hat in silver straw
the brim rolled up
and on the crown a clump
of blue wings from an Indian jay
I love the creepiness of the poems from his The Fireproof Floors of Witley Court: English Songs and Dances.
It's a very interesting exercise in poetic anachronism.
He turns back the clock and writes after the manner of a vanished century with many of the poems in this series, but it's still as though he were a time traveler or spectre haunting the past; one feels his sensitivity to the surface tension of the poem and its alternate reality.
But if he's a ghost there, in the past, he finds ways to make his presence known to those other ghosts.
It leads to some creepy, beautiful effects that are almost reminiscent of William Gibson in their play with sampling time.
I like the way in the poem above horror is couched as admiration.
He's such a subtle poet and his poems are composed of such subtleties.
So many times he ties the Gordian knot and then cuts it, chortling.
He is a stellar jay.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Redoing the Fruitopia
Shum65 on YouTube has been making great Cocteau Twins videos for some time.
Lately, he's taken to remixing and extending tunes (usually CT tunes with other CT tunes).
Here, he's enlarged that wonderfully mesmeric musical fractal the Cocteaus did for Fruitopia.
Don't think the spot ever played in America, but if you're a fan you probably know it.
The original commercial is only thirty or forty seconds long.
Thanks, Shum!
Keep it up!
Lately, he's taken to remixing and extending tunes (usually CT tunes with other CT tunes).
Here, he's enlarged that wonderfully mesmeric musical fractal the Cocteaus did for Fruitopia.
Don't think the spot ever played in America, but if you're a fan you probably know it.
The original commercial is only thirty or forty seconds long.
Thanks, Shum!
Keep it up!
Edward Gorey's Fabulous Lexicon: The Nursery Frieze...
First off, here's Gorey in Chinese...aren't these books beautiful?
Gorey in Chinese...and many other languages.
I was looking up the words I didn't know which feature in his The Nursery Frieze.
I'm at that age where I rarely have to look up words anymore, but he threw some good ones my way and I was looking up quite a few!
It seems to be a list of words which would largely fit beautifully into a Gorey tale, probably personal favorites, since quite a few of the words are common but still very Goreyesque.
Several were not coming up even on dictionary.com, but this site caught the ones which that site did not...such as ignavia, here...
The place for the odd bird word.
Here are the words I found myself looking up. Only a small handful of these I had seen before, and could not remember (for the life of me) the meaning.
That last sentence makes me want to write hapax legomenon, as surely that applies to many of these words for Gorey, althoug it's not present here.
Here are the words that had me Googling...
imbat--never did find the meaning of this one. Not yet, anyway. Turkish?
gavelkind--Gorey capitalizes it but the dictionary does not.
corposant--again, he capitalizes where the dictionary does not.
ophicleide--one of several odd instruments on the list.
jequirity
tombola
Aceldema
lunistice
Yarborough--fairly sure I once knew this one but pulled a blank.
opopanax
Antigropelos--this is so Gorey. I could see him drawing these so easily.
piacle--one of the coolest.
occamy
maremma--this I have surely seen before. I like this one too.
accismus--very funny. Think Aesop's "The Fox and the Grapes."
badigeon
idioticon--could almost figure this one out from the roots.
gibus--I definitely knew this at one time. But it slipped out!
botargo
Gegenschein--definitely knew this and could almost get it exactly. Almost. But not quite. Had to refresh. He didn't capitalize this one but I think it would be because of the language of origin?
Bellonion--at first, because it didn't come up at dictionary.com, I thought it meant a follower of Pierre Bellon (French naturalist murdered in the Bois de Boulogne in April, 1564--month of W.S.'s birth month if you like writing weird historical fiction). But then I found it (uncapitalized) at that dictionary of rare words above.
aphthong
pantechnicon--what a ridiculously elevated word for a common thing!
purlicue--had no idea there was such a perfect rhyme for curlicue out there.
sparadrap--so many words for this through the years. I like "cerecloth."
chandoo
wapentake
ganosis--a fascinating one. And sooo Gorey!
Design-wise, the book itself is presented as nursery wallpaper; the titular frieze consists of nearly-repeating cartoon strips of beasts (somebody described them as dogs but they resemble hippos more) walking through a landscape, mouthing these words, one per beast.
The beasts are ambulating through a largely empty landscape, with only some hills or mountains in the distance. We see the occasional natural feature or landmark as they journey on.
Occasionally, a letter of the alphabet appears alongside the road in this largely barren landscape, often askew or toppled over like one of Ozymandias's fragments.
It's a series of images which appears to be meditating on how humans imagine and create their place in the world through language.
There is a sense that Gorey is marveling and laughing at the strange scenario of beasts explaining the universe, and explaining it so meticulously, with such preposterous words.
It's very Beckettian.
He says what Beckett took entire books to say in a few pages here.
It's quintessential Gorey.
Gorey in Chinese...and many other languages.
I was looking up the words I didn't know which feature in his The Nursery Frieze.
I'm at that age where I rarely have to look up words anymore, but he threw some good ones my way and I was looking up quite a few!
It seems to be a list of words which would largely fit beautifully into a Gorey tale, probably personal favorites, since quite a few of the words are common but still very Goreyesque.
Several were not coming up even on dictionary.com, but this site caught the ones which that site did not...such as ignavia, here...
The place for the odd bird word.
Here are the words I found myself looking up. Only a small handful of these I had seen before, and could not remember (for the life of me) the meaning.
That last sentence makes me want to write hapax legomenon, as surely that applies to many of these words for Gorey, althoug it's not present here.
Here are the words that had me Googling...
imbat--never did find the meaning of this one. Not yet, anyway. Turkish?
gavelkind--Gorey capitalizes it but the dictionary does not.
corposant--again, he capitalizes where the dictionary does not.
ophicleide--one of several odd instruments on the list.
jequirity
tombola
Aceldema
lunistice
Yarborough--fairly sure I once knew this one but pulled a blank.
opopanax
Antigropelos--this is so Gorey. I could see him drawing these so easily.
piacle--one of the coolest.
occamy
maremma--this I have surely seen before. I like this one too.
accismus--very funny. Think Aesop's "The Fox and the Grapes."
badigeon
idioticon--could almost figure this one out from the roots.
gibus--I definitely knew this at one time. But it slipped out!
botargo
Gegenschein--definitely knew this and could almost get it exactly. Almost. But not quite. Had to refresh. He didn't capitalize this one but I think it would be because of the language of origin?
Bellonion--at first, because it didn't come up at dictionary.com, I thought it meant a follower of Pierre Bellon (French naturalist murdered in the Bois de Boulogne in April, 1564--month of W.S.'s birth month if you like writing weird historical fiction). But then I found it (uncapitalized) at that dictionary of rare words above.
aphthong
pantechnicon--what a ridiculously elevated word for a common thing!
purlicue--had no idea there was such a perfect rhyme for curlicue out there.
sparadrap--so many words for this through the years. I like "cerecloth."
chandoo
wapentake
ganosis--a fascinating one. And sooo Gorey!
Design-wise, the book itself is presented as nursery wallpaper; the titular frieze consists of nearly-repeating cartoon strips of beasts (somebody described them as dogs but they resemble hippos more) walking through a landscape, mouthing these words, one per beast.
The beasts are ambulating through a largely empty landscape, with only some hills or mountains in the distance. We see the occasional natural feature or landmark as they journey on.
Occasionally, a letter of the alphabet appears alongside the road in this largely barren landscape, often askew or toppled over like one of Ozymandias's fragments.
It's a series of images which appears to be meditating on how humans imagine and create their place in the world through language.
There is a sense that Gorey is marveling and laughing at the strange scenario of beasts explaining the universe, and explaining it so meticulously, with such preposterous words.
It's very Beckettian.
He says what Beckett took entire books to say in a few pages here.
It's quintessential Gorey.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Pathetic. The Sign of a Sick Society.
From MSN today:
"Harvard researchers say 62% of all personal bankruptcies in the US in 2007 were caused by health problems -- and 78% of those filers had insurance."
"Harvard researchers say 62% of all personal bankruptcies in the US in 2007 were caused by health problems -- and 78% of those filers had insurance."
Epoxy Ruin
Now affairs.
Play them bipolar at 27. At 18. At 34.
Porn, play Beautiful.
Play the Green Lake. Asleep.
Oz it beautifully. Oust time.
The Lake mimicking though inhabited signs
it feels the humans passing through it.
Lake bright. Silence
comes on a horrible menu surface.
Bright liar. Light
mating surface.
Forests and their narrative sneaks.
Operas more lovely
than weird advice
plants give other plants.
Play them bipolar at 27. At 18. At 34.
Porn, play Beautiful.
Play the Green Lake. Asleep.
Oz it beautifully. Oust time.
The Lake mimicking though inhabited signs
it feels the humans passing through it.
Lake bright. Silence
comes on a horrible menu surface.
Bright liar. Light
mating surface.
Forests and their narrative sneaks.
Operas more lovely
than weird advice
plants give other plants.
Kudzu Acknowledgments
The strain of an aquatic strain mind.
My blog has all the symptoms.
I should just say more tech, more happy.
A wedding should be like This Garden
filled completely with unipolar actors.
Frances McDormand at the Pre-Raphaelite pharmacy
wanders into a Paul Thomas Anderson movie
only to bust on it. She plays
the Julianne Moore part and is viciously
funny, because she plays it straight.
My blog has all the symptoms.
I should just say more tech, more happy.
A wedding should be like This Garden
filled completely with unipolar actors.
Frances McDormand at the Pre-Raphaelite pharmacy
wanders into a Paul Thomas Anderson movie
only to bust on it. She plays
the Julianne Moore part and is viciously
funny, because she plays it straight.
Your Shade of Translucent Red
Ittle Coen Bros. Lambs
suck the lozenges. Don't bite them.
Mysteries grey as a Suthuhn suck-job
in a Greyhound station. Your poem
like Garden State
as a Jeopardy question.
suck the lozenges. Don't bite them.
Mysteries grey as a Suthuhn suck-job
in a Greyhound station. Your poem
like Garden State
as a Jeopardy question.
cut! cut! cut!
A fetish overfamiliarity
broadsided me.
A series of price truths
or truth prices
really fucked me up.
Tongues lately
archetypal, pivotal
zombied my brain
right out.
I feel like a Sarajevo
washing machine
airborne after
a lunchtime explosion.
Which asshole left this
Love Juice Epoxy
on the copy machine?
That Persephone truckstop sorta feed
is more than kind.
You can fuckin' stop it now.
Some proud bitch
of Roman porn
like Jeff Koons.
Flowering mightily
astride Ben Stiller
movies. What is salvation?
Divalproex Goreyana virgins?
Marie Antoinette penalty jaunt,
head lofted at basket?
They shoot! They score!
So many blogs startin' to sound like
that Turkish prison
insurance soundtrack.
broadsided me.
A series of price truths
or truth prices
really fucked me up.
Tongues lately
archetypal, pivotal
zombied my brain
right out.
I feel like a Sarajevo
washing machine
airborne after
a lunchtime explosion.
Which asshole left this
Love Juice Epoxy
on the copy machine?
That Persephone truckstop sorta feed
is more than kind.
You can fuckin' stop it now.
Some proud bitch
of Roman porn
like Jeff Koons.
Flowering mightily
astride Ben Stiller
movies. What is salvation?
Divalproex Goreyana virgins?
Marie Antoinette penalty jaunt,
head lofted at basket?
They shoot! They score!
So many blogs startin' to sound like
that Turkish prison
insurance soundtrack.
Press Conference (2006)
The snide coating water felt
growling around the water-flowers.
Zach Braff on a tear in Paris.
Paranoia that the silence
won't be enough.
Makes boys itchy as girls.
growling around the water-flowers.
Zach Braff on a tear in Paris.
Paranoia that the silence
won't be enough.
Makes boys itchy as girls.
spiritual
Comment boxes are the new Holocaust Museum.
The new spiritual
"Heaven. Heaven. Everybody's talkin 'bout
Heaven. Gonna walk all over it, Heaven."
A country's right to (recurrent) head.
William Carlos Williams early dialogues
the home Norse zones of flowers
in New Jersey. White Marsh
IKEA. Stainless steel Arp
arrives finally. Calder
and cinnamon rolls.
Lithium design clinches it
for me and the gay Coen Brothers lambs.
The new spiritual
"Heaven. Heaven. Everybody's talkin 'bout
Heaven. Gonna walk all over it, Heaven."
A country's right to (recurrent) head.
William Carlos Williams early dialogues
the home Norse zones of flowers
in New Jersey. White Marsh
IKEA. Stainless steel Arp
arrives finally. Calder
and cinnamon rolls.
Lithium design clinches it
for me and the gay Coen Brothers lambs.
some poems
Or medicine up an evil lesbian scene.
It is fine to forget. Forget the fine.
The wonderful form of asking
is like the sodden rain this afternoon,
paraphrasing the ten thousand things you are not.
Like those flowers
with the swollen purple lip,
cheerful paintings of "herpes flowers"
magnified many times
strangers' lesions.
Can one be sick cavalierly?
You misunderstand my inability
to finish a.......
Spirit arrogance terraced.
(Unbilled) art.
Not another asshole-
with-process poem...
Chance acrostics
like Hepatitis C
acquired via aesthetic
boot camp.
In his country,
this ketchup art is considered a compliment...
Why, I Oughta...
No, I won't climb atop
that metaphysical elephant.
I carry him in my shirt pocket anyway.
It is fine to forget. Forget the fine.
The wonderful form of asking
is like the sodden rain this afternoon,
paraphrasing the ten thousand things you are not.
Like those flowers
with the swollen purple lip,
cheerful paintings of "herpes flowers"
magnified many times
strangers' lesions.
Can one be sick cavalierly?
You misunderstand my inability
to finish a.......
Spirit arrogance terraced.
(Unbilled) art.
Not another asshole-
with-process poem...
Chance acrostics
like Hepatitis C
acquired via aesthetic
boot camp.
In his country,
this ketchup art is considered a compliment...
Why, I Oughta...
No, I won't climb atop
that metaphysical elephant.
I carry him in my shirt pocket anyway.
Three Fortune Cookies
Porn is the front porch
of your Youthifixion.
Evil is the welcome mat
of your Oprahfication.
Your Viking manners will lead
you to the Zach Braff suite
forever and fuh-evuh.
of your Youthifixion.
Evil is the welcome mat
of your Oprahfication.
Your Viking manners will lead
you to the Zach Braff suite
forever and fuh-evuh.
florations
I like to visit
our flowers when I wake up.
After the loopy nights.
Some take such airs.
Talking about their impending deaths.
Drama queen flowers!
Such varied pathologies of beauty!
A knight-in-armor's
medieval viral thorns
around pods
show a Christly will & tilt.
Trailing vine's Rasputin grasp
latches on to a sick Romanov
holding a stick.
(Those dry penny-pinchers
who isolate themselves
tell a story despite themselves.
Their weedy dessicated
mermaid's purses...)
Some Flowers in Our Garden
Some prefer to dine
on their rain alone.
That one makes me laugh.
Spurred one with a pinched,
large purple lip,
fine specimen of whorishness.
I love this garden
you and I made.
These flowers.
They have no need for.
Language's expensive
symptoms.
our flowers when I wake up.
After the loopy nights.
Some take such airs.
Talking about their impending deaths.
Drama queen flowers!
Such varied pathologies of beauty!
A knight-in-armor's
medieval viral thorns
around pods
show a Christly will & tilt.
Trailing vine's Rasputin grasp
latches on to a sick Romanov
holding a stick.
(Those dry penny-pinchers
who isolate themselves
tell a story despite themselves.
Their weedy dessicated
mermaid's purses...)
Some Flowers in Our Garden
Some prefer to dine
on their rain alone.
That one makes me laugh.
Spurred one with a pinched,
large purple lip,
fine specimen of whorishness.
I love this garden
you and I made.
These flowers.
They have no need for.
Language's expensive
symptoms.
I Like Your Pop Tart Seraphim Poems
The future is always funnily current.
I think it's time for us all to rediscover carrion.
Norse meds won't lead to the real ocean.
Stop saying that.
No, I won't ride boi escalators
all day with you.
I believe in lesbians' version
of David Mamet and number sense.
Promise to Heal
I will stop embodying the horrible shapes
and be wonderful soon, as your rainy day museum
filled with tard art like strudel.
I think it's time for us all to rediscover carrion.
Norse meds won't lead to the real ocean.
Stop saying that.
No, I won't ride boi escalators
all day with you.
I believe in lesbians' version
of David Mamet and number sense.
Promise to Heal
I will stop embodying the horrible shapes
and be wonderful soon, as your rainy day museum
filled with tard art like strudel.
Might Like You Better If We Wept Together
Monsters pissed at language
and poetry are attacking the city.
Giant monsters with skins
shaped like viruses magnified
are pissed at that thought
which has shaped the world
into blooming onions
and reality t.v. shows.
Wedding marts. Rilke
poems. Glitter dildos.
Giant Weltschmerzed monsters
are biting through movie theaters
and bedroom walls, fake
Mexican restaurants with
fake Mexican arcades, pissed
at vampirish income and lovers'
arguments about the meaning
of existence and thread counts.
Monsters who can't get oriented
are torching entire cities
from U.N.I.C.E.F to IKEA,
because creatures like Martin
Heidegger and Tim Gunn
have really gotten under
their virus-looking skin.
Monsters have absolutely
zero obligation to the "Social Contract,"
so all of this is quite natural.
Nature means non-refundable.
and poetry are attacking the city.
Giant monsters with skins
shaped like viruses magnified
are pissed at that thought
which has shaped the world
into blooming onions
and reality t.v. shows.
Wedding marts. Rilke
poems. Glitter dildos.
Giant Weltschmerzed monsters
are biting through movie theaters
and bedroom walls, fake
Mexican restaurants with
fake Mexican arcades, pissed
at vampirish income and lovers'
arguments about the meaning
of existence and thread counts.
Monsters who can't get oriented
are torching entire cities
from U.N.I.C.E.F to IKEA,
because creatures like Martin
Heidegger and Tim Gunn
have really gotten under
their virus-looking skin.
Monsters have absolutely
zero obligation to the "Social Contract,"
so all of this is quite natural.
Nature means non-refundable.
Love Poem
I didn't realize with the melatonin
I was stealing sleep from brains
of dead animals. No wonder I had those dreams.
This poem is a tribute to health care.
That seagull flying overhead doesn't
really care if you time your language
or language your time. Vampirish income
panels were being shaped into a movie
on the street today. I thought
about eating lunch at the herpetological
museum again. I stood
across the street and waved
at you like an idiot. You
had all the patience of a Viking
at a Wes Andersen movie.
I was stealing sleep from brains
of dead animals. No wonder I had those dreams.
This poem is a tribute to health care.
That seagull flying overhead doesn't
really care if you time your language
or language your time. Vampirish income
panels were being shaped into a movie
on the street today. I thought
about eating lunch at the herpetological
museum again. I stood
across the street and waved
at you like an idiot. You
had all the patience of a Viking
at a Wes Andersen movie.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Smooth Electronica on Sirius Plays This One a Lot
I think that's the right Sirius station.
I usually listen to Sirius through the t.v. (more than the unit in Lee's car).
I love this song.
But then I love a lot of Air.
It's from the soundtrack of Sofia Coppola's The Virgin Suicides, which I thought was a good movie, but nowhere near as great as what she was to do later.
Virgin Suicides would make a great double-bill with Peter Weir's Picnic at Hanging Rock. Both films play with the same sort of mystery and Jungian archetypes centering on the young priestess, the Vestal Virgin and virgin sacrifice.
I even like the Marie Antoinette film, though it's very "MTV cutesy."
Still. Beautiful. More about what we want to think than what history would probably have us think.
AMC has been running a lot of classics lately.
Every time I stumble onto Fargo, I marvel.
The soundtrack totally clinches it for that movie. I hope the Coen Brothers appreciate the importance of that contribution (I didn't Google the name or names--bad blogger!)
If Frances McDormand never made another movie, she'd have no worries. What an ensemble in general! David Mamet must be very proud of his old roommate too--Bill Macy was killer- good in that.
It's disappointing to admit that so many of the greatest American films tend to be about good and evil and the pitched battle between them drawn in near-hysterical tones but it's so true: everything from Fargo to The Wizard of Oz or Wild at Heart. Or Silence of the Lambs.
How can such a childlike theme create the most enduring art?
Sure, we have a great panoply of directors in our history who work all the different modalities and run the gamut of narrative structure from "meta" to "none."
I suppose it's just because these are the films that resonate across all the varieties of difference in our society, usually because of certain key images that sneak around the end zone of the film's overt, simple moralism into that archetypal zone--and score.
Certainly there are many American classics that don't fit this mold, but I'd wager it's the number one theme on most Top 100 Films lists.
When you consider where our own American literature began, and what its moralistic preoccupations were for the first few centuries, I suppose it makes sense.
Embodying evil has always been an American literary fetish, from Hawthorne to Bret Easton Ellis.
But there are other types of film that work beautifully. Shakespeare did give us a menu of a few dozen plots in his finite universe of art, right?
Witness: Plot 17...
Garden State was on.
And I watched 48% of it for the umpteenth time. Natalie Portman and Zach Braff draw me in.
I know it goes a little over the top and sort of demographic-sorts in certain pivotal scenes, but I still think it's a well-crafted and very moving movie.
The knight-in-armor eating breakfast cereal "morning after" scene with the attendant dialogue alone make it worth the price of admission. And the price of admission is free, because it was on t.v., chilluns.
Then I felt horrible for the director and cast watching The Life Aquatic with Steve Zisou, which is trying 10,000 times too hard.
Maybe a scene here or there works, but overall the word debacle comes to mind.
It's as though W.A. took the stylized soap opera approach that worked relatively well in Tenenbaums and tried to marry it to the sort of intelligence in a certain Coen strain of film (the emotional paranoia of art subtype strain?). Zisou ends up being completely farcical but boring at the same time. At least for this viewer. I kept changing channels and coming back, hoping for better but it didn't really happen. And so many talented actors. I think the actors all realized how poorly it was going. The feeling of disappointment in those intelligent actors was palpable. But they kept going.
We are a planet of believers past belief, to paraphrase the big insurance guy.
And that's a good thing.
I'm impressed.
Liz Fraser and Yann Tiersen
Thank God for the people who can remove you from your body.
At times, your horrible earthly body.
I know I do.
At times, your horrible earthly body.
I know I do.
IKEA
Some gay wood
growing there.
Seaweed
in Arp shapes,
some lesbian
candelabra,
their antlers
our bright
wedded future.
Norse,
stainless
steel.
growing there.
Seaweed
in Arp shapes,
some lesbian
candelabra,
their antlers
our bright
wedded future.
Norse,
stainless
steel.
New Blog
I am creating a new blog dedicated to the memory of Edward Gorey.
My preferred title, Goreyana, already exists as a blog!
That made me sad and happy at once. (It's a delightful blog!) That leaves me with the fun challenge of coming up with a name.
It will be a tribute blog and I will publish my own writings inspired by the master of The Elephant House. Of course, I will also write very eulogiously on his wonderful books and art.
I wonder if the one cat is still alive and in residence.
They should have let them breed as with the Hemingway mutant cats.
I want to visit his house/little museum soon.
My novella about the fate of the Nancy Manners is definitely Gorey-inspired.
I have many other Gorey-inspired writings I have been working on in notebooks.
It's such a joy to rediscover an author one loved in one's youth in midlife and realize there is so much more to feed on.
Wait, that sounded vampirish. Didn't it? Or as though I were speaking of carrion.
Did you hear about the two vultures that got in the argument with airport security?
(They were pissed about how little carrion luggage they could bring.)
Sorry, couldn't resist.
Gorey inhabited me a sec.
I love many of the reissued items.
I knew that Gorey plush cat I saw on EBAY last week had to be a reissue. Seller got 35 bucks for that little cutie and here I found a website where they are 14.99 each and they had them all.
Gorey reissue markups on EBAY are a good source of income.
It's becoming so much easier (and cheaper!) to collect Gorey now!
I now have all four Amphigorey anthologies and they have been a source of joy during a difficult period!
I love the interviews, the whole Gorey attitude towards life...he lived for yard sales and thrift stores...it's just finding that kindred spirit in literature also...that wonderful feeling...
My preferred title, Goreyana, already exists as a blog!
That made me sad and happy at once. (It's a delightful blog!) That leaves me with the fun challenge of coming up with a name.
It will be a tribute blog and I will publish my own writings inspired by the master of The Elephant House. Of course, I will also write very eulogiously on his wonderful books and art.
I wonder if the one cat is still alive and in residence.
They should have let them breed as with the Hemingway mutant cats.
I want to visit his house/little museum soon.
My novella about the fate of the Nancy Manners is definitely Gorey-inspired.
I have many other Gorey-inspired writings I have been working on in notebooks.
It's such a joy to rediscover an author one loved in one's youth in midlife and realize there is so much more to feed on.
Wait, that sounded vampirish. Didn't it? Or as though I were speaking of carrion.
Did you hear about the two vultures that got in the argument with airport security?
(They were pissed about how little carrion luggage they could bring.)
Sorry, couldn't resist.
Gorey inhabited me a sec.
I love many of the reissued items.
I knew that Gorey plush cat I saw on EBAY last week had to be a reissue. Seller got 35 bucks for that little cutie and here I found a website where they are 14.99 each and they had them all.
Gorey reissue markups on EBAY are a good source of income.
It's becoming so much easier (and cheaper!) to collect Gorey now!
I now have all four Amphigorey anthologies and they have been a source of joy during a difficult period!
I love the interviews, the whole Gorey attitude towards life...he lived for yard sales and thrift stores...it's just finding that kindred spirit in literature also...that wonderful feeling...
Recovering
I'm recovering from what seems to be body's rejection of divalproex (generic form of Depakote). Was optimistic this would help bipolar but after one week had really scary signs that either I was having allergic reaction(s) or my body just didn't tolerate it.
Plus, I hated the feelings/mindset...it made me feel sick all the time because of the side effects.
Overall, it ended up increasing anxiety, costing money and leaving me with more weird symptoms to assist me in feeling like a freak.
If the point is health and mental health together, divalproex isn't it (for me).
I'm getting tired of the "Your bipolar explains everything" doctor's arrogance.
When a doctor is asked about side effects and he cavalierly replies "None...there are none" in a condescending manner (making it clear you no longer deserve explanations sinced it's clearly all mental problems causing every symptom you have) I suppose it's time to get a new doctor.
Did I say condescending? No. I correct myself. He was snide.
It's just such a bitch and bother to go through (a change) that I hesitate still.
He probably feels he indulges me (by taking my money) as much as I'm actually indulging him and his arrogance and complete lack of empathy.
I tried to write off some of the unprofessional language he used as his "results oriented" disposition, but really I know it's a matter of unethical conduct on his part, something which would invite censure by his peers, and something he would not do outside of a closed room where no other witnesses are present.
Also, many doctors believe one is ignorant and/or easily intimidated once one allows them this overfamiliarity, and I have allowed it several times just to get the medications I needed.
In a sense, I'm allowing a doctor/patient relationship to mimic a dealer/junkie relationship.
That disturbs me.
But then I have every reason to believe he is one of those men whose love for himself pretty much transcends everything else and renders him spiritually myopic in general.
So I try not to personalize when I'm trying to achieve health as a goal.
If it's a handsome asshole jock who loves himself too much and probably imagines he sees himself in bad television programs, I can get past that. Or thought I could.
But today I'm irked because I'm thinking back on his callousness when asked to address the side effects issue (a good pharmacist advised me well, luckily).
That "side effects" scene was actually rendered more pathetic by the fact that this doctor was clearly childishly "performing" for other staff (who actually have empathy and aren't the way he is). He was showing them how one deals with such a patient (as I).
I have a suspicion Zyklon B would be his preferred Rx by now lol.
He has a wonderful nurse practitioner who is really a great guy and he has a great receptionist who looks out for my interests...and others...another reason I hate to leave...
I'm not one of those patients who "overvisits" or overcalls or makes special demands. I've probably only been there four or five times in seven or eight years. Maybe six visits max.
Some of these doctors live so well (he loves his Jimmy Buffett and Caribbean jaunts) and feel so socioeconomically divorced from others that this "difference" really convinces them that they've somehow "earned" the contempt they harbor towards many others they perceive to be their social inferiors. (Of course, he knows nothing about me. We've probably never exchanged more than fifty words like that.)
Plus, he's just a Viking in general. Very bad person to be trapped with in a lifeboat at sea. That kind.
The funny thing is that in many American medical settings, there is really very little difference between the quality of care the poor and the middle class receive (for example in many hospitals).
It all comes down to the lottery of doctor knowledge, skill, motivation, empathy, etc. Often it comes down to how awake or motivated a doctor or a group of doctors who consult is/are feeling that Tuesday. An insured patient may very well fare much worse than an uninsured patient, since the profit motive for the medical transaction or series of transactions in that scenario is often completely out of the (salaried) doctor's mind. To wit: there is no reason for this health care provider to enforce a penalty against the uninsured; in fact, they don't even know in most cases what the patient's financial status is (unless a vastly expensive or innovative procedure is being done, or the patient is longterm inpatient and the issue has caused complications). The patient's financial well-being or ruin is really of no concern whatsoever to the doctor (and that has a plus side and a negative side--say, when one considers superfluous testing, etc.). This has a way of "evening" the playing field, at least in the short run.
Of course, the uninsured person will end up paying a much more terrible price in the long run. Medical care provided to the uninsured can lead to deleterious longterm consequences, and this can almost certainly lead to further stress, which can complicate health matters further.
This is where the tragic starts to become funny. This is where it starts getting really American.
This is because we live in an uncivilized country when it comes to health care.
That's the simple truth.
We were once at the frontier of modern thought, America.
Now other countries are passing us by left and right (on health care, gay rights, adoption rights, alternative energy sources, innovative tech, green thinking, global thinking, you name it).
We have begun to live in a backwards (and backwards thinking) country.
For the very wealthy, the purchase of health (that's what it is) can become a different sort of game. That's just the usual state of affairs. Those rare few can afford to be indulged in that area of life as in all others. (Sometimes, of course, death won't be outbid.)
Something got a hold of me about 75 days ago and it's pretty much been a wild, mostly horrible ride since then.
I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going to be one of those allegedly one in ten people who harbors strep and has recurrent problems with it.
The overprescribed antibiotics situation probably is producing some monster strains out there now. I did read that Pennsylvania has had some scarlet fever, rheumatic fever (both different stages in strep attacking the body) breakouts in recent years--mostly Western Pennsylvania.
It's funnily ironic that this all started when I decided to make a change to a healthier lifestyle. I am happy I am no longer a drinker, and that I have lost weight and continue to do so through exercise.
I am happy that I feel more awakened to the people around me, more connected to the process of life.
And I'm not going to use my current (recurrent) feelings of doom as an excuse to turn back from any of these things I now see as welcome challenges.
But I have all these weird things going on with my body that doctors can't explain. And they tell me I shouldn't worry about explaining them, since they supposedly ruled out the things to worry about.
One always has to live with mystery in life. The mysteries of health and illness are big parts of that. We live in an age where we are often promised answers for everything, but of course we will always come to those grey or even black areas where no answers will be forthcoming.
If your CBC is great, if your blood panels are just perfectly indicative of health, it must all be in your head. It must all be stress. You are doing it to yourself.
Except sometimes you aren't.
You don't have A, you don't have B, C, D and Thank God you don't have E! Go home and forget about it.
If only.
I was only too happy to pop those pills at twelve hour intervals which were supposed to bring me peace, give me an even keel, convince me I am fine.
But one thing I know for certain: the last thing I needed right now was a bipolar "med" to exacerbate the whole situation by creating disease-simulating "symptoms."
Or a doctor's cavalier response to the frightening constellation of freakish manifestations I experienced throughout that week.
"Stick it out."
Doubtless, I'd be sitting in another E.R. by now, if I had listened to my "caregiver" of many years, rather than to the anonymous pharmacist who took the (unbilled) time to research my side effects and confirm it would be best stopping the medication rather than risking futher harm.
CAVEAT EMPTOR.
It's as good advice in modern American medicine as it was scribbled on walls in ancient Rome.
Plus, I hated the feelings/mindset...it made me feel sick all the time because of the side effects.
Overall, it ended up increasing anxiety, costing money and leaving me with more weird symptoms to assist me in feeling like a freak.
If the point is health and mental health together, divalproex isn't it (for me).
I'm getting tired of the "Your bipolar explains everything" doctor's arrogance.
When a doctor is asked about side effects and he cavalierly replies "None...there are none" in a condescending manner (making it clear you no longer deserve explanations sinced it's clearly all mental problems causing every symptom you have) I suppose it's time to get a new doctor.
Did I say condescending? No. I correct myself. He was snide.
It's just such a bitch and bother to go through (a change) that I hesitate still.
He probably feels he indulges me (by taking my money) as much as I'm actually indulging him and his arrogance and complete lack of empathy.
I tried to write off some of the unprofessional language he used as his "results oriented" disposition, but really I know it's a matter of unethical conduct on his part, something which would invite censure by his peers, and something he would not do outside of a closed room where no other witnesses are present.
Also, many doctors believe one is ignorant and/or easily intimidated once one allows them this overfamiliarity, and I have allowed it several times just to get the medications I needed.
In a sense, I'm allowing a doctor/patient relationship to mimic a dealer/junkie relationship.
That disturbs me.
But then I have every reason to believe he is one of those men whose love for himself pretty much transcends everything else and renders him spiritually myopic in general.
So I try not to personalize when I'm trying to achieve health as a goal.
If it's a handsome asshole jock who loves himself too much and probably imagines he sees himself in bad television programs, I can get past that. Or thought I could.
But today I'm irked because I'm thinking back on his callousness when asked to address the side effects issue (a good pharmacist advised me well, luckily).
That "side effects" scene was actually rendered more pathetic by the fact that this doctor was clearly childishly "performing" for other staff (who actually have empathy and aren't the way he is). He was showing them how one deals with such a patient (as I).
I have a suspicion Zyklon B would be his preferred Rx by now lol.
He has a wonderful nurse practitioner who is really a great guy and he has a great receptionist who looks out for my interests...and others...another reason I hate to leave...
I'm not one of those patients who "overvisits" or overcalls or makes special demands. I've probably only been there four or five times in seven or eight years. Maybe six visits max.
Some of these doctors live so well (he loves his Jimmy Buffett and Caribbean jaunts) and feel so socioeconomically divorced from others that this "difference" really convinces them that they've somehow "earned" the contempt they harbor towards many others they perceive to be their social inferiors. (Of course, he knows nothing about me. We've probably never exchanged more than fifty words like that.)
Plus, he's just a Viking in general. Very bad person to be trapped with in a lifeboat at sea. That kind.
The funny thing is that in many American medical settings, there is really very little difference between the quality of care the poor and the middle class receive (for example in many hospitals).
It all comes down to the lottery of doctor knowledge, skill, motivation, empathy, etc. Often it comes down to how awake or motivated a doctor or a group of doctors who consult is/are feeling that Tuesday. An insured patient may very well fare much worse than an uninsured patient, since the profit motive for the medical transaction or series of transactions in that scenario is often completely out of the (salaried) doctor's mind. To wit: there is no reason for this health care provider to enforce a penalty against the uninsured; in fact, they don't even know in most cases what the patient's financial status is (unless a vastly expensive or innovative procedure is being done, or the patient is longterm inpatient and the issue has caused complications). The patient's financial well-being or ruin is really of no concern whatsoever to the doctor (and that has a plus side and a negative side--say, when one considers superfluous testing, etc.). This has a way of "evening" the playing field, at least in the short run.
Of course, the uninsured person will end up paying a much more terrible price in the long run. Medical care provided to the uninsured can lead to deleterious longterm consequences, and this can almost certainly lead to further stress, which can complicate health matters further.
This is where the tragic starts to become funny. This is where it starts getting really American.
This is because we live in an uncivilized country when it comes to health care.
That's the simple truth.
We were once at the frontier of modern thought, America.
Now other countries are passing us by left and right (on health care, gay rights, adoption rights, alternative energy sources, innovative tech, green thinking, global thinking, you name it).
We have begun to live in a backwards (and backwards thinking) country.
For the very wealthy, the purchase of health (that's what it is) can become a different sort of game. That's just the usual state of affairs. Those rare few can afford to be indulged in that area of life as in all others. (Sometimes, of course, death won't be outbid.)
Something got a hold of me about 75 days ago and it's pretty much been a wild, mostly horrible ride since then.
I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going to be one of those allegedly one in ten people who harbors strep and has recurrent problems with it.
The overprescribed antibiotics situation probably is producing some monster strains out there now. I did read that Pennsylvania has had some scarlet fever, rheumatic fever (both different stages in strep attacking the body) breakouts in recent years--mostly Western Pennsylvania.
It's funnily ironic that this all started when I decided to make a change to a healthier lifestyle. I am happy I am no longer a drinker, and that I have lost weight and continue to do so through exercise.
I am happy that I feel more awakened to the people around me, more connected to the process of life.
And I'm not going to use my current (recurrent) feelings of doom as an excuse to turn back from any of these things I now see as welcome challenges.
But I have all these weird things going on with my body that doctors can't explain. And they tell me I shouldn't worry about explaining them, since they supposedly ruled out the things to worry about.
One always has to live with mystery in life. The mysteries of health and illness are big parts of that. We live in an age where we are often promised answers for everything, but of course we will always come to those grey or even black areas where no answers will be forthcoming.
If your CBC is great, if your blood panels are just perfectly indicative of health, it must all be in your head. It must all be stress. You are doing it to yourself.
Except sometimes you aren't.
You don't have A, you don't have B, C, D and Thank God you don't have E! Go home and forget about it.
If only.
I was only too happy to pop those pills at twelve hour intervals which were supposed to bring me peace, give me an even keel, convince me I am fine.
But one thing I know for certain: the last thing I needed right now was a bipolar "med" to exacerbate the whole situation by creating disease-simulating "symptoms."
Or a doctor's cavalier response to the frightening constellation of freakish manifestations I experienced throughout that week.
"Stick it out."
Doubtless, I'd be sitting in another E.R. by now, if I had listened to my "caregiver" of many years, rather than to the anonymous pharmacist who took the (unbilled) time to research my side effects and confirm it would be best stopping the medication rather than risking futher harm.
CAVEAT EMPTOR.
It's as good advice in modern American medicine as it was scribbled on walls in ancient Rome.
Monday, July 27, 2009
U.N.I.C.E.F. Does Wonderful Things
1-800-4UNICEF.
Unicef is saving lives hourly.
Even five dollars means a lot, all around the world.
Every gesture that says you believe this is one world and not many worlds has to be good for your soul (whether you believe you have one or not lol).
Unicef is saving lives hourly.
Even five dollars means a lot, all around the world.
Every gesture that says you believe this is one world and not many worlds has to be good for your soul (whether you believe you have one or not lol).
IKEA
Some gay wood
growing there.
Seaweed
in Arp shapes,
some lesbian
candelabra,
their antlers
our bright
wedded future.
Norse,
stainless
steel.
growing there.
Seaweed
in Arp shapes,
some lesbian
candelabra,
their antlers
our bright
wedded future.
Norse,
stainless
steel.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Poets Whose Poems Meant a Lot to Me This Week and Who Drew Me Back a Few Times
Merrill Gilfillan. Elizabeth Robinson (I want APPREHEND). James Schuyler. Leonard Gontarek. Wislawa Szymborska. Bob Heman. Matthew Rohrer. And a bunch of poets whose blogs I link to at right.
Hmm. I read more men poets this past week.
That's unusual for me.
I ordered books by LG and MR.
Hmm. I read more men poets this past week.
That's unusual for me.
I ordered books by LG and MR.
How Could This Be?
I missed this when it was new.
The Cocteau Twins won the award for "The Most Inspirational Band Ever" at the Q Awards!
Liz says this is the only award the band has ever won.
My mind boggles.
In any case, I'm happy to see the recognition thing starting while they're all still alive.
I notice their fan base is thoroughly international and not just centered in the anglophone world.
They seem to have a large following in China thanks to Faye Wong's covers and they've always seemed to be huge in most of Eastern Europe when it comes to respecting alternative music history.
Of course, they get a range of fans because many favor the grottier, somewhat Goth early work. I fall in with the fans that think they got better as they went forward and found their own way(s), but like some of the really discordant early stuff.
To me, regardless of style, their music is always about that ability it has to alter brainwaves. I really think it connects to chant and hypnosis and a lot of that probably derives from the things Liz does with glossalalia. She's every bit as convincing and as durable as Gertrude Stein when it comes to manipulating language to her own ends.
I often wonder if her two daughters (Lucy and Lily) were named after that passage in Stein's Four Saints in Three Acts.
Anyway, I'm very happy to see them get this award!
I think they're the greatest band ever, and Liz is my favorite living singer, but if you've read my blog before that's no news to you lol.
The Cocteau Twins won the award for "The Most Inspirational Band Ever" at the Q Awards!
Liz says this is the only award the band has ever won.
My mind boggles.
In any case, I'm happy to see the recognition thing starting while they're all still alive.
I notice their fan base is thoroughly international and not just centered in the anglophone world.
They seem to have a large following in China thanks to Faye Wong's covers and they've always seemed to be huge in most of Eastern Europe when it comes to respecting alternative music history.
Of course, they get a range of fans because many favor the grottier, somewhat Goth early work. I fall in with the fans that think they got better as they went forward and found their own way(s), but like some of the really discordant early stuff.
To me, regardless of style, their music is always about that ability it has to alter brainwaves. I really think it connects to chant and hypnosis and a lot of that probably derives from the things Liz does with glossalalia. She's every bit as convincing and as durable as Gertrude Stein when it comes to manipulating language to her own ends.
I often wonder if her two daughters (Lucy and Lily) were named after that passage in Stein's Four Saints in Three Acts.
Anyway, I'm very happy to see them get this award!
I think they're the greatest band ever, and Liz is my favorite living singer, but if you've read my blog before that's no news to you lol.
Marigold Poem 10
Symbolizing cruelty in spells.
Symbolizing jealousy and gossip.
Symbolizing Love.
Symbolizing Leo.
Kingly Lion. Regal Lion.
Bitchy Lion. Winged Lion
of love's jealousy and gossip.
The marigold is a busy lil beaver.
Adoring Mother Mary's toenails,
adoring Mother Mary's tonsils,
with more sincerity
than even Paul McCarthy.
But please.
Make sure you're outdoors
with your symbolic meanings.
This is a rough-and-tumble flower
with or without monster sex.
Somebody could get hurt
playing inside the house like that.
Symbolizing jealousy and gossip.
Symbolizing Love.
Symbolizing Leo.
Kingly Lion. Regal Lion.
Bitchy Lion. Winged Lion
of love's jealousy and gossip.
The marigold is a busy lil beaver.
Adoring Mother Mary's toenails,
adoring Mother Mary's tonsils,
with more sincerity
than even Paul McCarthy.
But please.
Make sure you're outdoors
with your symbolic meanings.
This is a rough-and-tumble flower
with or without monster sex.
Somebody could get hurt
playing inside the house like that.
Marigold Poem 9
Some people ridiculously believe
passion is in the eyes.
These people couple like chickens,
and are the scourge of tabloidia.
Marigolds hate these people,
and will afflict them
with lifelong arguments
each autumn.
Love charms made from marigolds
should be used to stuff pillows.
When two human chickens are wedding,
do not abuse marigolds
by demanding their presence.
passion is in the eyes.
These people couple like chickens,
and are the scourge of tabloidia.
Marigolds hate these people,
and will afflict them
with lifelong arguments
each autumn.
Love charms made from marigolds
should be used to stuff pillows.
When two human chickens are wedding,
do not abuse marigolds
by demanding their presence.
Marigold Poem 8
The flesh can be appealing.
Quite edible.
The marigold is said
to temper moodiness
and the sharp-tongued.
Leaves of jealousy
may lead to warts.
Marriages which adopt
pet lions
are particularly prone.
Quite edible.
The marigold is said
to temper moodiness
and the sharp-tongued.
Leaves of jealousy
may lead to warts.
Marriages which adopt
pet lions
are particularly prone.
Marigold Poem 7
The amazing variety. Be sure
to garden them all! A storm of rust
can overtake individuals, esp. in the Midwest.
You can actually watch humans
freeze as they stand, change color.
The chickens stop pecking
at the marigold-enriched feed
for a few seconds.
The marigold is known
to ward off gossip tongues.
This is a useful property
if you end up with
any of these rusted humans
in your family.
to garden them all! A storm of rust
can overtake individuals, esp. in the Midwest.
You can actually watch humans
freeze as they stand, change color.
The chickens stop pecking
at the marigold-enriched feed
for a few seconds.
The marigold is known
to ward off gossip tongues.
This is a useful property
if you end up with
any of these rusted humans
in your family.
Marigold Poem 6
Generally, the meanings of human love
are strictly botanical.
A broken empire
or a murdered lion
are actually unnecessary offerings.
Eventually, the god Vishnu
will decide to promote
a cheery Africa.
With or without marigolds.
are strictly botanical.
A broken empire
or a murdered lion
are actually unnecessary offerings.
Eventually, the god Vishnu
will decide to promote
a cheery Africa.
With or without marigolds.
Marigold Poem 5
Marigolds may be connected to Lucifer,
chicken splendor, Vishnu and Rufus Wainwright
between boyfriends.
If one rubs the blossoms on the eyelids,
one can have visions of fairies.
Poor people in history
have been known to stiff Mother Mary
by throwing these blossoms at her feet.
chicken splendor, Vishnu and Rufus Wainwright
between boyfriends.
If one rubs the blossoms on the eyelids,
one can have visions of fairies.
Poor people in history
have been known to stiff Mother Mary
by throwing these blossoms at her feet.
Marigold Poem 4
They are also grown in Mexico.
What else is there to say to that?
Mexico (very much like poetry)
stops all conversations
dead in their tracks.
As dead as syphilis stopped
Lewis or Clark in his tracks.
(I forget which one.)
What else is there to say to that?
Mexico (very much like poetry)
stops all conversations
dead in their tracks.
As dead as syphilis stopped
Lewis or Clark in his tracks.
(I forget which one.)
Marigold Poem 3
Marigolds can also predict storms,
weddings or death by chicken feed.
Feed blossoms to chicks for the rich
golden color of human consumption.
The difference has been used and grown.
Make sure your flower has symbolic meanings.
Why else encourage prophetic consumption?
weddings or death by chicken feed.
Feed blossoms to chicks for the rich
golden color of human consumption.
The difference has been used and grown.
Make sure your flower has symbolic meanings.
Why else encourage prophetic consumption?
Marigold Poem 2
Marigolds can be the Americas.
Its range of rich soils.
Usually the disagreeable odor
of marigolds is thought
to resemble the smell of poverty,
a.k.a. the absence
of money, to keep insects and humans
far away. To be as gardens.
Is rarely a human trait. But buttery...
Its range of rich soils.
Usually the disagreeable odor
of marigolds is thought
to resemble the smell of poverty,
a.k.a. the absence
of money, to keep insects and humans
far away. To be as gardens.
Is rarely a human trait. But buttery...
Marigold Poem 1
The Hindus open them early on
and sometimes use them as garlands,
offered to Vishnu and Lakshmi.
Water is induced to be psychic
and there is the lion addition...
Their temples are thought
to be anti-dotes to conversations.
and sometimes use them as garlands,
offered to Vishnu and Lakshmi.
Water is induced to be psychic
and there is the lion addition...
Their temples are thought
to be anti-dotes to conversations.
Friday, July 24, 2009
a fairy tale
I love WILL SELL FOR COLOSSEUM stances.
July centuries past.
Childe Hassam: fish bubble eye.
Sometimes, through its Tree Poem doom.
The mailman who went crazy and disappeared.
"Requiescat!" said the cat.
The even planet!
Posted heart!
See MORE OBSESSED WITH.
The night that comes.
The night that considers arriving
and never comes.
The beautiful difference.
Here is a Great Auk in a Here
in an old engraving.
He can't worry about the mail
or the yellow canna lily
that blossomed last night
today.
Proust's poor celebrated case.
A Giant nest of Manners.
I want to crawl inside and sleep there.
But The Night points to Heaven,
suddenly obnoxiously personified!
Nobody understands we have the photography...
Here the moment is out of humans.
Our tridents Murasaki's
bun of ways three ways trees, is no one
on the side of the trees
in this book? Good God!
Children sit and hug their knees
like a frozen northern sea.
I am too weary to reseal the Shipwreck.
I want smiles, warming haricots verts, spines.
The Toy Boat has no symptoms.
The offenders own all the Hallucinations.
God will burst in upon the house made of hair.
The house itself is rerouted
so it goes through the grotto
of Mercy.
The transgender Inuit seal gets away
in the end, slippery,
beautiful,
even lipsticked with blood.
The Night renders the men lost in circles.
The Night is offended by photography.
The Night loves simulating your Dead in a thrifty way.
This is a carved century.
The Night is not proud and loves you.
Spring where you must.
And The Night will create a movie theater
in the midst of the Blizzard to hide you forever.
July centuries past.
Childe Hassam: fish bubble eye.
Sometimes, through its Tree Poem doom.
The mailman who went crazy and disappeared.
"Requiescat!" said the cat.
The even planet!
Posted heart!
See MORE OBSESSED WITH.
The night that comes.
The night that considers arriving
and never comes.
The beautiful difference.
Here is a Great Auk in a Here
in an old engraving.
He can't worry about the mail
or the yellow canna lily
that blossomed last night
today.
Proust's poor celebrated case.
A Giant nest of Manners.
I want to crawl inside and sleep there.
But The Night points to Heaven,
suddenly obnoxiously personified!
Nobody understands we have the photography...
Here the moment is out of humans.
Our tridents Murasaki's
bun of ways three ways trees, is no one
on the side of the trees
in this book? Good God!
Children sit and hug their knees
like a frozen northern sea.
I am too weary to reseal the Shipwreck.
I want smiles, warming haricots verts, spines.
The Toy Boat has no symptoms.
The offenders own all the Hallucinations.
God will burst in upon the house made of hair.
The house itself is rerouted
so it goes through the grotto
of Mercy.
The transgender Inuit seal gets away
in the end, slippery,
beautiful,
even lipsticked with blood.
The Night renders the men lost in circles.
The Night is offended by photography.
The Night loves simulating your Dead in a thrifty way.
This is a carved century.
The Night is not proud and loves you.
Spring where you must.
And The Night will create a movie theater
in the midst of the Blizzard to hide you forever.
heaven is already parceled
A civilized array of larks
will accompany us all there.
It's all canals, no waiting, no agenda
or drinking bystanders. Cloud innocent brides
of both sexes.
Hand-holding is the new rape.
Pre-Raphaelites pole the gondolas
past structures of infinitely-proliferating
gilded prepositional phrases and adverbs...
will accompany us all there.
It's all canals, no waiting, no agenda
or drinking bystanders. Cloud innocent brides
of both sexes.
Hand-holding is the new rape.
Pre-Raphaelites pole the gondolas
past structures of infinitely-proliferating
gilded prepositional phrases and adverbs...
Patriotic Larks
Singing, he felt so idiopathic.
He wanted his poem to be like building a nest.
He was absolutely batshit-crazy.
Up and away, whatsoever.
Beyond the great tap-root
of intention there is good authority.
Replication rock.
Dream of a rock that reproduces.
Oh cumming is just
syllogism mayonnaise alien.
I don't care if your Subaru
is plastic and farts carbon dioxide.
I find the frigid darkness of madness
exceedingly patriotic. I must admit,
however, I feel the same way about larks.
He wanted his poem to be like building a nest.
He was absolutely batshit-crazy.
Up and away, whatsoever.
Beyond the great tap-root
of intention there is good authority.
Replication rock.
Dream of a rock that reproduces.
Oh cumming is just
syllogism mayonnaise alien.
I don't care if your Subaru
is plastic and farts carbon dioxide.
I find the frigid darkness of madness
exceedingly patriotic. I must admit,
however, I feel the same way about larks.
genji poem
And ready to carry lanterns through
I walk towards and surprisingly through extinction.
I will make copies of the velvety sex.
I will make copies of the absence before us.
Isn't this a beautiful, nonexistent city?
The language of expostulation is terrifying.
Henry James was known to build great nests!
Isn't that miraculous?
Do you know what's the funniest thing on earth?
People who believe there's a velvet rope
in poetry! I loved the comments
the Sumerians left on their blogs.
Now I want the monolithic drum,
the Marriage in a pretty clime.
*
Here simultaneously
she weeps at the Thief of her 19th fan
& the moments which are lost in too-bright sunlight.
I walk towards and surprisingly through extinction.
I will make copies of the velvety sex.
I will make copies of the absence before us.
Isn't this a beautiful, nonexistent city?
The language of expostulation is terrifying.
Henry James was known to build great nests!
Isn't that miraculous?
Do you know what's the funniest thing on earth?
People who believe there's a velvet rope
in poetry! I loved the comments
the Sumerians left on their blogs.
Now I want the monolithic drum,
the Marriage in a pretty clime.
*
Here simultaneously
she weeps at the Thief of her 19th fan
& the moments which are lost in too-bright sunlight.
movie caveat
Doubtless, it's a Queen
a Witch
behind it all
because there is incessant drumming
bewildering drumming
and danbo, danbo gondolas
they drift towards Inuit canals
which is the way
of the murasaki long-sleeping homosexual.
They stand in the bulrushes,
the hanging epiphtyes and shoot blowdarts
at you...
the long white hair is confused
sometimes with remorse
but even a slight lick
and Vapours, hallucinations ensue...
a Witch
behind it all
because there is incessant drumming
bewildering drumming
and danbo, danbo gondolas
they drift towards Inuit canals
which is the way
of the murasaki long-sleeping homosexual.
They stand in the bulrushes,
the hanging epiphtyes and shoot blowdarts
at you...
the long white hair is confused
sometimes with remorse
but even a slight lick
and Vapours, hallucinations ensue...
in the circle
Here is felt
we are leaving the rules
of the circle
and can never be William
who is speaking
any longer but pyjamas
that are wearing William
somebody kindly noted,
though lions were piping in...
the lions felt
justified and sacrosanct
by now in the relative
psychological safety
of the circle
which was almost pretty
as a monkey puzzle tree
even the rare monkey
who ends up there
via misfortune knows
you pass yogurt
not judgment there.
we are leaving the rules
of the circle
and can never be William
who is speaking
any longer but pyjamas
that are wearing William
somebody kindly noted,
though lions were piping in...
the lions felt
justified and sacrosanct
by now in the relative
psychological safety
of the circle
which was almost pretty
as a monkey puzzle tree
even the rare monkey
who ends up there
via misfortune knows
you pass yogurt
not judgment there.
The Museum Thing
Sometimes we are a foundation
and find ourselves saying stupid things
about birds. About glaciers bright.
Note the reversal of the poles,
the Frankenstein thinking.
Pffzt! Pffzt!
Typical poet stuff.
And then God said,
"I really liked
the Great Auk, I'd be lying
if I didn't say
I was proud of that bird...
not that I'm playing favorites,
but the Great Auk was...
just...oh...
I don't know...
and find ourselves saying stupid things
about birds. About glaciers bright.
Note the reversal of the poles,
the Frankenstein thinking.
Pffzt! Pffzt!
Typical poet stuff.
And then God said,
"I really liked
the Great Auk, I'd be lying
if I didn't say
I was proud of that bird...
not that I'm playing favorites,
but the Great Auk was...
just...oh...
I don't know...
The Bach Prodrome
Close to an extinction,
you might want to notate things.
Nets. Hair. Cell phone conversations.
Some prodrome.
No, not governmental idiocy.
The proverbial inside...
I'm not sure.
All these billions
of people are really just suggested,
gentle suggestions. Isn't
that beautiful? A thunderstorm
surrounds the church
where a gaybo organist plays Bach.
I find my life runs out of questions.
Maybe I am blessed, after all.
you might want to notate things.
Nets. Hair. Cell phone conversations.
Some prodrome.
No, not governmental idiocy.
The proverbial inside...
I'm not sure.
All these billions
of people are really just suggested,
gentle suggestions. Isn't
that beautiful? A thunderstorm
surrounds the church
where a gaybo organist plays Bach.
I find my life runs out of questions.
Maybe I am blessed, after all.
several smaller poems
The beautiful pretends to be birdlike,
Bird bird poem, it) wars*
in waiting. Could it be waiting
for us? These symptoms:
*here the transcript is lost
*
what it was like for the crew
knowing they were going down
into that ocean. No waiting
can equal such mail
the ocean later lazily
writes postcards home...
returns children's
shoes, calling cards,
shoelaces.
*
The beautiful pretends to be birdlike,
sometimes, white stones on Cyclades
they look almost like marble people
made by Edward Gorey.
greece is lost
in a contemplation
of greece forever.
typical homo.
oh islands under the blue.
oh blue.
assuage me
sausage me
something me
*
blue
Blue means absolutely nothing.
I can fill out blue's report card here.
Let blue go explain this one.
I don't even care about blue's Mother.
That brute.
Bird bird poem, it) wars*
in waiting. Could it be waiting
for us? These symptoms:
*here the transcript is lost
*
what it was like for the crew
knowing they were going down
into that ocean. No waiting
can equal such mail
the ocean later lazily
writes postcards home...
returns children's
shoes, calling cards,
shoelaces.
*
The beautiful pretends to be birdlike,
sometimes, white stones on Cyclades
they look almost like marble people
made by Edward Gorey.
greece is lost
in a contemplation
of greece forever.
typical homo.
oh islands under the blue.
oh blue.
assuage me
sausage me
something me
*
blue
Blue means absolutely nothing.
I can fill out blue's report card here.
Let blue go explain this one.
I don't even care about blue's Mother.
That brute.
Emo Wiles
As usual, I felt ice cubes in the sky.
I was saving my Last for last,
but apparently I should have used it earlier.
I have no idea where he's hidden Henry James,
please stop asking me that!
He looks "exceedingly matter" to me.
I'm just sayin.
You can have him with his questionable
feminine hygiene, gilded refrigerator lilies.
I'm heading off to the Gentle Land of Manners anyway.
I expect to be gone for quite a few years.
I have all the symptoms of a thirties flick.
I just hope I was diagnosed in time.
I was saving my Last for last,
but apparently I should have used it earlier.
I have no idea where he's hidden Henry James,
please stop asking me that!
He looks "exceedingly matter" to me.
I'm just sayin.
You can have him with his questionable
feminine hygiene, gilded refrigerator lilies.
I'm heading off to the Gentle Land of Manners anyway.
I expect to be gone for quite a few years.
I have all the symptoms of a thirties flick.
I just hope I was diagnosed in time.
Room to Let
Day is a preposterous find.
I shall remember quite well.
God is like Boggle.
God is like yogurt.
God is like the tip of the ice cube of the sky.
God is like a Flickr feed.
Or a yogurt feed.
Or a flicker in the branches,
translucent wings
composed of Boggled
D.N.A. It sneezes,
but that's impossible.
Birds don't sneeze.
Boggle doesn't dream.
Yogurt won't Trinitize here
for anyone's ease.
I love the feeling
of the impossible
building its nest
in my hair.
And I never even advertised
the vacancy.
I shall remember quite well.
God is like Boggle.
God is like yogurt.
God is like the tip of the ice cube of the sky.
God is like a Flickr feed.
Or a yogurt feed.
Or a flicker in the branches,
translucent wings
composed of Boggled
D.N.A. It sneezes,
but that's impossible.
Birds don't sneeze.
Boggle doesn't dream.
Yogurt won't Trinitize here
for anyone's ease.
I love the feeling
of the impossible
building its nest
in my hair.
And I never even advertised
the vacancy.
Go Scientology!
Here are poems like cute mushrooms.
Trees there are hair.
Like an ex, a sex fiend
illustrated in outer space,
you are the love of my life.
Sex that never sleeps.
Book illustrated by preposterous fiends.
Frozen sea of the scientific-minded.
Look, salubrity
is a teddy bear jumping up-and-down
on the shores of the Psychiatry Sea!
A psychiatrist turns to me
and says (with no hint of sarcasm whatsoever)
"My testicles have been diagnosed bipolar. Wanna see?"
Trees there are hair.
Like an ex, a sex fiend
illustrated in outer space,
you are the love of my life.
Sex that never sleeps.
Book illustrated by preposterous fiends.
Frozen sea of the scientific-minded.
Look, salubrity
is a teddy bear jumping up-and-down
on the shores of the Psychiatry Sea!
A psychiatrist turns to me
and says (with no hint of sarcasm whatsoever)
"My testicles have been diagnosed bipolar. Wanna see?"
Possibly, Maybe
It is most likely to be wonderful.
If only you are like Chinese pot.
Trips to the north and south poles of dejection
are strongly discouraged.
Likewise, "bright people."
Ahem, Lucifer?
God knows it hurt,
the unearthly Testament.
What is the opposite?
I had a baked potato last night
that tasted like a Saviour.
I am cruising nutrition
like a cloud.
If only you are like Chinese pot.
Trips to the north and south poles of dejection
are strongly discouraged.
Likewise, "bright people."
Ahem, Lucifer?
God knows it hurt,
the unearthly Testament.
What is the opposite?
I had a baked potato last night
that tasted like a Saviour.
I am cruising nutrition
like a cloud.
Thoughts While Walking Alongside the Ocean
Night always responds.
Beware queens rolling over.
Day 2 is alwasy the worst.
Instinct is character.
Tribe is foodstuffs.
Part completely voice you stupidly ignore.
What rose up.
Not who.
Past land.
The smirk alone.
A strange inky whatsoever.
Beware queens rolling over.
Day 2 is alwasy the worst.
Instinct is character.
Tribe is foodstuffs.
Part completely voice you stupidly ignore.
What rose up.
Not who.
Past land.
The smirk alone.
A strange inky whatsoever.
Oh Joe,
In the Night, Nancy returned.
She painted some of your beautiful pansies
all over my dining room, my bathroom.
She took off her underwear,
showed me her vaginal smirk
and surprise proboscis. She went
into my fridge and got out the Ashbery jam
and made us toast. I added cinnamon
on top and she laughed.
I said I felt horrible that you're dead,
and she smiled in that forever way
and shrugged her shoulders.
I asked her about the gender war
and she made that "old aunt"
face that lets you know
this is just a waste of time
people will laugh about
a hundred years from now.
Then Nancy pulled some pansies
from her ass and put them
in an IKEA vase. I asked her
why she wore her hair like a woman
in a blaxploitation movie
and she liked that a lot.
She giggled quite a bit.
She couldn't speak in language,
but she showed me how
the dead could still
manage to trace
lines around objects
if they tried hard
and concentrated...
just like kindergartners.
This moved me greatly,
so I took out white paper
and watched her draw
for hours, your line
all over the white field,
until I couldn't say a word,
so I stared at all the pansies,
(the beautiful wallflowers
of the dead) who would never leave me.
She painted some of your beautiful pansies
all over my dining room, my bathroom.
She took off her underwear,
showed me her vaginal smirk
and surprise proboscis. She went
into my fridge and got out the Ashbery jam
and made us toast. I added cinnamon
on top and she laughed.
I said I felt horrible that you're dead,
and she smiled in that forever way
and shrugged her shoulders.
I asked her about the gender war
and she made that "old aunt"
face that lets you know
this is just a waste of time
people will laugh about
a hundred years from now.
Then Nancy pulled some pansies
from her ass and put them
in an IKEA vase. I asked her
why she wore her hair like a woman
in a blaxploitation movie
and she liked that a lot.
She giggled quite a bit.
She couldn't speak in language,
but she showed me how
the dead could still
manage to trace
lines around objects
if they tried hard
and concentrated...
just like kindergartners.
This moved me greatly,
so I took out white paper
and watched her draw
for hours, your line
all over the white field,
until I couldn't say a word,
so I stared at all the pansies,
(the beautiful wallflowers
of the dead) who would never leave me.
The Night
I had trouble in the night.
The Ill-Fated wail of jar.
"It's just apple sauce."
It is our race.
It could have been The Wailing Wall.
Might as well have been.
All men. I am a man.
How fast it rises up
into the hot zone, expecting,
apologizing for monotheism
or music. So many ways
to be dumb or evil.
Arriving every day.
I even look at evil's junk mail.
The Ill-Fated wail of jar.
"It's just apple sauce."
It is our race.
It could have been The Wailing Wall.
Might as well have been.
All men. I am a man.
How fast it rises up
into the hot zone, expecting,
apologizing for monotheism
or music. So many ways
to be dumb or evil.
Arriving every day.
I even look at evil's junk mail.
Sorry about the Hostile Usherettes
Welcome to "Scenes from I Found the Mayonnaise.'"
Possibly you were brought here by the cool collage postcard
done by an art student who is "no longer with us,"
which we sent out several seeks ago to people
such as yourself who scribe your name on mailing lists
at events such as these, a postcard
alerting you to the imminent arrival
of "Scenes from I Found the Mayonnaise."
Possibly the winds of fate blew you here instead.
We apologize that we will not be able to present
I Found the Mayonnaise in its entirety,
due to copyright (and a few neurologic) reasons,
and realize you may never see this work
as it was meant to be presented, but hope
you will embark upon the wild ride of this (admittedly,
somewhat-curtailed) work of art with a spirit of adventure.
I think we can agree you were meant to be here tonight,
sitting in exactly that chair, with your left foot
fidgeting in exactly the manner it is accustomed
to do when the vagaries of fate and art
may be conspiring to expose you to something
incredibly disruptive to your own disruption
in the social-aesthetic fabric of reality
which we call our culture.
Regardless, we are extremely gratified
you have arrived safe and sound,
and we hope you enjoy the show.*
*Please, no flash photography
or unconsciousness.
Possibly you were brought here by the cool collage postcard
done by an art student who is "no longer with us,"
which we sent out several seeks ago to people
such as yourself who scribe your name on mailing lists
at events such as these, a postcard
alerting you to the imminent arrival
of "Scenes from I Found the Mayonnaise."
Possibly the winds of fate blew you here instead.
We apologize that we will not be able to present
I Found the Mayonnaise in its entirety,
due to copyright (and a few neurologic) reasons,
and realize you may never see this work
as it was meant to be presented, but hope
you will embark upon the wild ride of this (admittedly,
somewhat-curtailed) work of art with a spirit of adventure.
I think we can agree you were meant to be here tonight,
sitting in exactly that chair, with your left foot
fidgeting in exactly the manner it is accustomed
to do when the vagaries of fate and art
may be conspiring to expose you to something
incredibly disruptive to your own disruption
in the social-aesthetic fabric of reality
which we call our culture.
Regardless, we are extremely gratified
you have arrived safe and sound,
and we hope you enjoy the show.*
*Please, no flash photography
or unconsciousness.
Feeling Good Versus Feeling Food
Well, it's eldritch, talking with the Dead,
soon enough being the Dead,
being The Dead talking to The Dead,
I have to start capitalizing them
at some point. This is probably an Odyssey,
even if you do it in your living room,
your bathroom.
Was I really going to say poison?
You misunderstood me today
when I was talking about the flower
that is like a pink drum.
Yes, I said a pink drum.
Should I be worried?
Worried at presence?
Worried at absence?
No, not just in my poems.
In general.
It is a crazed notion
to suddenly feel food?
The therapist believes so.
But if one changes one letter,
it's perfectly fine.
You are sane.
soon enough being the Dead,
being The Dead talking to The Dead,
I have to start capitalizing them
at some point. This is probably an Odyssey,
even if you do it in your living room,
your bathroom.
Was I really going to say poison?
You misunderstood me today
when I was talking about the flower
that is like a pink drum.
Yes, I said a pink drum.
Should I be worried?
Worried at presence?
Worried at absence?
No, not just in my poems.
In general.
It is a crazed notion
to suddenly feel food?
The therapist believes so.
But if one changes one letter,
it's perfectly fine.
You are sane.
The Man with the Text
The man with the text.
He's the man with the text.
He's got the text.
He's got text.
See that thing he's carrying
under his arm? Hi-tech plastic?
That's his text.
Don't step to
the man with the text.
Stand back.
Do you know how quickly
he could text you?
Do you realize what that text
could do to the human body?
I didn't think so.
We're not talking some little
kid built like a wire terrier
texting his sniff buddies.
Some kid texting pussy.
That man's got text.
Looking at this logically,
I mean, I don't care what you think
about the man himself.
Pretend he's a fucking snail
inside a shell,
I mean like what's it called?
fuckin' escargot?
Just think about that text.
What he had to do to get it.
Trust me: you don't even wanna know.
Probably he don't even wanna know.
But he has to.
He has to know.
He has to sleep with it at night.
Because he's the man.
The man with the text.
Just think about that.
That's all I'm sayin.
He's the man with the text.
He's got the text.
He's got text.
See that thing he's carrying
under his arm? Hi-tech plastic?
That's his text.
Don't step to
the man with the text.
Stand back.
Do you know how quickly
he could text you?
Do you realize what that text
could do to the human body?
I didn't think so.
We're not talking some little
kid built like a wire terrier
texting his sniff buddies.
Some kid texting pussy.
That man's got text.
Looking at this logically,
I mean, I don't care what you think
about the man himself.
Pretend he's a fucking snail
inside a shell,
I mean like what's it called?
fuckin' escargot?
Just think about that text.
What he had to do to get it.
Trust me: you don't even wanna know.
Probably he don't even wanna know.
But he has to.
He has to know.
He has to sleep with it at night.
Because he's the man.
The man with the text.
Just think about that.
That's all I'm sayin.
Corn
Corn has an agenda
as surely as God
in the Bible,
but I rarely
see large groups
of organized people
coming out
against Corn.
as surely as God
in the Bible,
but I rarely
see large groups
of organized people
coming out
against Corn.
After Wittgenstein
There is this bright beginning,
this Sun, which will be discussed later
in diners after funerals, maybe while fishing,
near the usual propellers.
The Dead and their shining.
Their varnish.
Especially during winter.
My yellow canna bloomed in the night.
A fool?
The Sun shines while vanishing,
propelling diners.
Truth hides in all the kernels.
One could explain Mayakovsky's suicide
using only LEGO blocks.
this Sun, which will be discussed later
in diners after funerals, maybe while fishing,
near the usual propellers.
The Dead and their shining.
Their varnish.
Especially during winter.
My yellow canna bloomed in the night.
A fool?
The Sun shines while vanishing,
propelling diners.
Truth hides in all the kernels.
One could explain Mayakovsky's suicide
using only LEGO blocks.
Something Which Was Going to Arrive
Something which was going to arrive
is "most likely never going to arrive"
now, I have on good authority.
I saw the yellow canna lily
bloomed again in the night
in its Chinese pot. Like dreams,
like silly people. Like
(admit it) wars and erotic doom.
The mailman most likely went crazy
but it will never be confirmed,
and "he is no longer employed here."
I should have insured it.
But I believed in it.
Queen of the Night!
What were you doing
while I slept & trusted you
to bring the unfortunate thing
to my door? Some other fool
got it instead. "She reroutes
in mercy," one wise friend
smiles through a telephone.
Perhaps. "In German,
Gift is poison," says
another pompously. "This
is a Gift to forgive"
would seem to be the strange
syllogism to be drawn
from this bright absence of arrival.
"You think?" my Queen of the Night
responds, in archest Brooklynese.
is "most likely never going to arrive"
now, I have on good authority.
I saw the yellow canna lily
bloomed again in the night
in its Chinese pot. Like dreams,
like silly people. Like
(admit it) wars and erotic doom.
The mailman most likely went crazy
but it will never be confirmed,
and "he is no longer employed here."
I should have insured it.
But I believed in it.
Queen of the Night!
What were you doing
while I slept & trusted you
to bring the unfortunate thing
to my door? Some other fool
got it instead. "She reroutes
in mercy," one wise friend
smiles through a telephone.
Perhaps. "In German,
Gift is poison," says
another pompously. "This
is a Gift to forgive"
would seem to be the strange
syllogism to be drawn
from this bright absence of arrival.
"You think?" my Queen of the Night
responds, in archest Brooklynese.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The Ill-Fated Expedition to the Refrigerator and the Unfortunate Fate of the Crew of the Nancy Manners
I like to imagine this as a book illustrated by Gorey.
But that seems quite unlikely at this point.
This is the log (including Last Will and Testament) of Captain Reginald Neversligh, who led the crew of the Nancy Manners God-only-knows-where.
Requiescant in pace.
Day 1
I fear the men are against me. Some of them are beginning to say we should have never entered the refrigerator after September. They say the natives had warned us that September's first wind holds in it the wail of all those who came before us, who entered here, and who never returned.
Day 2
Evers got this crazy notion in his head that we should have gone left at the Mayonnaise jar. It took two hours of expostulation and an appeal to the men's patriotic instincts to rid the majority of the crew of this preposterous notion. Evers went on alone and is surely already lost to the Mission--for now and forever. May God rest his Weary Misguided Soul.
A left at the Mayonnaise jar!
Indeed!
Do I truly need to remind anyone of what happened to the Twillingsworth Party!?
Day 3
It took all the strength of eight men and myself to ply the strange cover from a pink monolithic drum which was left here by another culture, as-yet alien to our race. They seem to write their language in circles. For example, we found these characters incised on the drum: ERWARETUPP.
None of our party has any idea what this means, but the men all agreed it looks exceedingly ominous.
I do not believe it is a civilized tribe which created this strange artifact.*
*We were much pleased to find great manna inside the pink vessel. It was stocked with vegetable matter rather resembling the vegetable we know as haricots verts, but insanely large!
After consuming our fill of this lucky find, it took all the strength of our party jumping up and down on the top of this drum to reseal the strange vessel!
Day 4
We ate Gibbons today.
I am not proud of the fact, and worse, I cannot justify it in any way whatsoever, as we are surrounded now by a bewildering array of foodstuffs.
It's just that everbody agreed he had always looked so damn...edible.
This isn't "a perverted, typically British navy thing."
As one of the party said.
I want to say that really hurt.
And that that notion is completely wrong.
If we get out of this alive, we shall remember his widow and seven children and console them heartily, and take up the usual Christian subscriptions for their maintenance and well-being.
I'd like to point out I partook very little.
I was quite occupied with my spyglass.
For there was an extended few moments of Sun, and I felt the need to take advantage of this opportunity.
I believe I may be falling prey to The Vapours of Hallucination my predecessors to this forsaken zone have described in their writings, as I could have sworn I heard a voice across the sea say, "Could you shut that damn thing, please?"
And then the Sun was eclipsed so fast it shocked all greatly, and a collective gasp of dejection from the men rose up to Heaven!
I nearly dropped my spyglass into the frozen sea below my boots...that strange northern sea where glaciers calve in nearly perfect cubes on a fairly regular basis.
Unearthly!
What is this frozen Hell?
Day 5
Nobody understands this strange clime, not even the most scientific-minded of our party!
Sometimes it is suddenly bright and the Sun shines in the sky.
Often we notice a distinct warming during this period, and it suddenly feels as though spring were ready to burst upon us! It gets our hopes up so!
Then it vanishes and we are plunged back into the frigid darkness of the Wasteland of Food.
Most of the time we must carry lanterns through that constant inky blackness.
I had expected to find The Land of the Midnight Sun...and its opposite...
But this is madness.
It's as though we have stepped right off the planet!
But that seems quite unlikely at this point.
This is the log (including Last Will and Testament) of Captain Reginald Neversligh, who led the crew of the Nancy Manners God-only-knows-where.
Requiescant in pace.
Day 1
I fear the men are against me. Some of them are beginning to say we should have never entered the refrigerator after September. They say the natives had warned us that September's first wind holds in it the wail of all those who came before us, who entered here, and who never returned.
Day 2
Evers got this crazy notion in his head that we should have gone left at the Mayonnaise jar. It took two hours of expostulation and an appeal to the men's patriotic instincts to rid the majority of the crew of this preposterous notion. Evers went on alone and is surely already lost to the Mission--for now and forever. May God rest his Weary Misguided Soul.
A left at the Mayonnaise jar!
Indeed!
Do I truly need to remind anyone of what happened to the Twillingsworth Party!?
Day 3
It took all the strength of eight men and myself to ply the strange cover from a pink monolithic drum which was left here by another culture, as-yet alien to our race. They seem to write their language in circles. For example, we found these characters incised on the drum: ERWARETUPP.
None of our party has any idea what this means, but the men all agreed it looks exceedingly ominous.
I do not believe it is a civilized tribe which created this strange artifact.*
*We were much pleased to find great manna inside the pink vessel. It was stocked with vegetable matter rather resembling the vegetable we know as haricots verts, but insanely large!
After consuming our fill of this lucky find, it took all the strength of our party jumping up and down on the top of this drum to reseal the strange vessel!
Day 4
We ate Gibbons today.
I am not proud of the fact, and worse, I cannot justify it in any way whatsoever, as we are surrounded now by a bewildering array of foodstuffs.
It's just that everbody agreed he had always looked so damn...edible.
This isn't "a perverted, typically British navy thing."
As one of the party said.
I want to say that really hurt.
And that that notion is completely wrong.
If we get out of this alive, we shall remember his widow and seven children and console them heartily, and take up the usual Christian subscriptions for their maintenance and well-being.
I'd like to point out I partook very little.
I was quite occupied with my spyglass.
For there was an extended few moments of Sun, and I felt the need to take advantage of this opportunity.
I believe I may be falling prey to The Vapours of Hallucination my predecessors to this forsaken zone have described in their writings, as I could have sworn I heard a voice across the sea say, "Could you shut that damn thing, please?"
And then the Sun was eclipsed so fast it shocked all greatly, and a collective gasp of dejection from the men rose up to Heaven!
I nearly dropped my spyglass into the frozen sea below my boots...that strange northern sea where glaciers calve in nearly perfect cubes on a fairly regular basis.
Unearthly!
What is this frozen Hell?
Day 5
Nobody understands this strange clime, not even the most scientific-minded of our party!
Sometimes it is suddenly bright and the Sun shines in the sky.
Often we notice a distinct warming during this period, and it suddenly feels as though spring were ready to burst upon us! It gets our hopes up so!
Then it vanishes and we are plunged back into the frigid darkness of the Wasteland of Food.
Most of the time we must carry lanterns through that constant inky blackness.
I had expected to find The Land of the Midnight Sun...and its opposite...
But this is madness.
It's as though we have stepped right off the planet!
WillyCoolPics on Flickr
I love the Danbo Project.
I love Danbo!
I love the photography in general.
Close to my heart!
See more here.
Above: "Look What I Painted!"
"Scenes from a Marriage"
Here is a city of singing Quotations.
Here is a city apologizing for its singing diners
who propel themselves
almost exclusively in gondolas.
There are no canals in this city.
*
Here is an unpleasantness involving no "moors" whatsoever.
Here is God killing monotheism on a lark,
in this beautiful engraving I will sell you.
*
Here is a Great Auk obsessed with salubrity
shortly before its extinction.
Here is the last Great Auk thinking,
"I will pretend to be wonderful
for these creatures"
as the boat is approaching.
Right before the moment of extinction.
*
Here is what God felt and here
is what God said he felt
to see if you really listen at all,
or think it's just a PMS thing.
*
Here is music which is vaguely suicidal
but can never die. It's music.
*
Here is an offended transgender Inuit
with a drinking agenda on an ice floe
which I found in a thrift store
carved possibly in real bone
but more likely it's plastic.
*
Here is the Henry James Colosseum
and here are you and me getting out
our tridents and nets. Here
is "hoah baby, those are my 'tatoes!"
*
Here is Proust's poor report card
which he's hidden under a cute mushroom
that reminds him of Lady Murasaki's
bun of hair and simultaneously
her fan made from men's testicle hair.
Here is a city apologizing for its singing diners
who propel themselves
almost exclusively in gondolas.
There are no canals in this city.
*
Here is an unpleasantness involving no "moors" whatsoever.
Here is God killing monotheism on a lark,
in this beautiful engraving I will sell you.
*
Here is a Great Auk obsessed with salubrity
shortly before its extinction.
Here is the last Great Auk thinking,
"I will pretend to be wonderful
for these creatures"
as the boat is approaching.
Right before the moment of extinction.
*
Here is what God felt and here
is what God said he felt
to see if you really listen at all,
or think it's just a PMS thing.
*
Here is music which is vaguely suicidal
but can never die. It's music.
*
Here is an offended transgender Inuit
with a drinking agenda on an ice floe
which I found in a thrift store
carved possibly in real bone
but more likely it's plastic.
*
Here is the Henry James Colosseum
and here are you and me getting out
our tridents and nets. Here
is "hoah baby, those are my 'tatoes!"
*
Here is Proust's poor report card
which he's hidden under a cute mushroom
that reminds him of Lady Murasaki's
bun of hair and simultaneously
her fan made from men's testicle hair.
July, 1840
Remember in the 19th century
how tables would walk
through houses as though
lions were under them?
All that dumb, idiopathic
empathy with The Dead?
Well, I loved that.
Don't you feel stranded in a land past time now?
Beyond any offense?
A Great Auk thinks
right before extinction,
"I will pretend to be wonderful."
how tables would walk
through houses as though
lions were under them?
All that dumb, idiopathic
empathy with The Dead?
Well, I loved that.
Don't you feel stranded in a land past time now?
Beyond any offense?
A Great Auk thinks
right before extinction,
"I will pretend to be wonderful."
Trees That Lurk
There are ways trees notate things.
Some of them have been diagnosed bipolar,
a dead stop, they get these disturbing symptoms.
Sometimes we can see these symptoms
in poems of centuries past.
Sometimes, there are no symptoms whatsoever
and there is no prodrome.
The proverbial thief in the night
comes in your house through pipes,
or an expensive concrete foundation
and says "Whatev" sarcastically
in its eldritch, pre-verbal way.
This is how a tree invades
a house, using its great tap-roots
to undermine even your private movie theater
or velvety sex dungeon. The tree
you pass on your way to work
each morning probably does a great job
of simulating an innocent bystander,
a cloud with no intentions whatsoever,
a woman named Mary who just makes copies at the office.
But it could be an evil, dark, celebrated case.
Just waiting. Bird nests all through its hair
like an innocent bride.
And the smirk on the inside,
hundreds of years old...
Some of them have been diagnosed bipolar,
a dead stop, they get these disturbing symptoms.
Sometimes we can see these symptoms
in poems of centuries past.
Sometimes, there are no symptoms whatsoever
and there is no prodrome.
The proverbial thief in the night
comes in your house through pipes,
or an expensive concrete foundation
and says "Whatev" sarcastically
in its eldritch, pre-verbal way.
This is how a tree invades
a house, using its great tap-roots
to undermine even your private movie theater
or velvety sex dungeon. The tree
you pass on your way to work
each morning probably does a great job
of simulating an innocent bystander,
a cloud with no intentions whatsoever,
a woman named Mary who just makes copies at the office.
But it could be an evil, dark, celebrated case.
Just waiting. Bird nests all through its hair
like an innocent bride.
And the smirk on the inside,
hundreds of years old...
"Find Sex Offenders in Your Area"
My computer just suggested this.
I had been considering Boggle.
Or yogurt.
Or Boggle and yogurt.
Doubtless, it's really all about
car insurance
the way The Odyssey
was really about
feminine hygiene.
I had been considering Boggle.
Or yogurt.
Or Boggle and yogurt.
Doubtless, it's really all about
car insurance
the way The Odyssey
was really about
feminine hygiene.
round trip
And I watch you crying.
And I watch you comment.
And I watch you be democracy.
And I watch you beweep
(which practically nobody does anymore).
And I watch you sentenced for crimes
of abusive influence with nature through language.
And I try to wash the time for you.
And I try to have a shirt ready.
And I try to pray to the documentary.
And I try to die inside friends.
And I try to pretend society
is just a massive projection.
No. Protection.
*
I still find time to walk in the forest,
and hug the guards who hate working there.
I am this tireless social worker...
unfortunate for a few centuries only,
then a magic pendulum
restores me
to the fairy tale
where I levitate blind
through an empty room,
happy as sunflowers again.
Happy as sunflowers
spitting up bullets from a pogrom
that happened centuries ago
as sunflower seeds.
Shotgunning sunflower seeds
into the mouths
of sparrows.
And I watch you comment.
And I watch you be democracy.
And I watch you beweep
(which practically nobody does anymore).
And I watch you sentenced for crimes
of abusive influence with nature through language.
And I try to wash the time for you.
And I try to have a shirt ready.
And I try to pray to the documentary.
And I try to die inside friends.
And I try to pretend society
is just a massive projection.
No. Protection.
*
I still find time to walk in the forest,
and hug the guards who hate working there.
I am this tireless social worker...
unfortunate for a few centuries only,
then a magic pendulum
restores me
to the fairy tale
where I levitate blind
through an empty room,
happy as sunflowers again.
Happy as sunflowers
spitting up bullets from a pogrom
that happened centuries ago
as sunflower seeds.
Shotgunning sunflower seeds
into the mouths
of sparrows.
crystal balls poem
Couples orgasm in a distinction of reality.
"Bluebirds cryogenically frozen peaked,"
I thought about all morning.
I never do defrost some centuries.
So what.
Dead is the new alive.
There is this really long film
where you just watch people crying
all over the world.
In every nation, every age of person.
In all types of rooms. Light.
The film ends up taking over a hundred years
to finish. The people who make
the film end up sentenced to horrible
gulags invented by a Special Tribunal.
Well, their grandchildren are sentenced.
And then in the century after that,
the film is declared the finest
work of art created by humans.
Ever.
And then in the century after that,
it is decided the film is overrated
and that the additional fourteen years of film
in the "Directors' Cut" are particularly obnoxious.
"Bluebirds cryogenically frozen peaked,"
I thought about all morning.
I never do defrost some centuries.
So what.
Dead is the new alive.
There is this really long film
where you just watch people crying
all over the world.
In every nation, every age of person.
In all types of rooms. Light.
The film ends up taking over a hundred years
to finish. The people who make
the film end up sentenced to horrible
gulags invented by a Special Tribunal.
Well, their grandchildren are sentenced.
And then in the century after that,
the film is declared the finest
work of art created by humans.
Ever.
And then in the century after that,
it is decided the film is overrated
and that the additional fourteen years of film
in the "Directors' Cut" are particularly obnoxious.
we're already married
I don't want to write a soundtrack
guru type of poem. But voodoo's okay.
I saw nature take one on the poetic chin
so many times it became hilarious. Then sad.
Poetic chuck: smell the grass and blood.
We have a money shot problem here.
I know a tree with a bravura larynx,
but it sort of creeps me out.
Good poets have the same effect.
It's the Bed I want to stay there.
Even flowers have bullshit-detectors.
But pretending to couple orgasms
with poems is why I feel married to you.
I think you want to be My Tree and I say "I do."
guru type of poem. But voodoo's okay.
I saw nature take one on the poetic chin
so many times it became hilarious. Then sad.
Poetic chuck: smell the grass and blood.
We have a money shot problem here.
I know a tree with a bravura larynx,
but it sort of creeps me out.
Good poets have the same effect.
It's the Bed I want to stay there.
Even flowers have bullshit-detectors.
But pretending to couple orgasms
with poems is why I feel married to you.
I think you want to be My Tree and I say "I do."
lumpen poem
Q: Where do want your tropical island?
A: In a deeply-frozen clime, tackily beautiful
as Superman's Fortress of Solitude,
where he clearly takes his gay tricks.
Q: Who or what is the director of your work?
A: A little bluebird who is nostalgiac
in thrift stores for dead people's owls.
Today, I saw non-sequiturs
perch in some branches in my yard
and sing. Sang regretless
as a fat man's farts.
Q: Do you believe in by William?
A: No. Nothing is by William
that is not first a bluebird
or thrift of some sort.
This is my scent, my water.
I believe in the correct form of failure
which is always compressed,
a Japanese novelist's
remains after death.
A peach should be left atop
a heavy iron vessel
holds the ashes.
To prove the cloud of the novel
still waffles
about matter.
"Lumpen forms are all we have, mon cheri!"
A: In a deeply-frozen clime, tackily beautiful
as Superman's Fortress of Solitude,
where he clearly takes his gay tricks.
Q: Who or what is the director of your work?
A: A little bluebird who is nostalgiac
in thrift stores for dead people's owls.
Today, I saw non-sequiturs
perch in some branches in my yard
and sing. Sang regretless
as a fat man's farts.
Q: Do you believe in by William?
A: No. Nothing is by William
that is not first a bluebird
or thrift of some sort.
This is my scent, my water.
I believe in the correct form of failure
which is always compressed,
a Japanese novelist's
remains after death.
A peach should be left atop
a heavy iron vessel
holds the ashes.
To prove the cloud of the novel
still waffles
about matter.
"Lumpen forms are all we have, mon cheri!"
rouge cantata for a cardinal
Cut it. Paste it. Post it. Lament it.
Oh, Love! The Sphincter Addicter. Screw it
and the white video horse it rode in on!
I love animals that promise never to answer.
Your porn name is Starfish Rutherford.
I'm terribly impressed by that.
My favorite foundation is "guys."
Sunflowers can too get poetry diseases
given them by weird English poets.
He doesn't only talk out of his ass,
it's like he talks out of his ass
while his ass is eating peanut butter
and celery. And we're supposed to wait
to hear what his sphincter's actually saying.
Oh, Love! The Sphincter Addicter. Screw it
and the white video horse it rode in on!
I love animals that promise never to answer.
Your porn name is Starfish Rutherford.
I'm terribly impressed by that.
My favorite foundation is "guys."
Sunflowers can too get poetry diseases
given them by weird English poets.
He doesn't only talk out of his ass,
it's like he talks out of his ass
while his ass is eating peanut butter
and celery. And we're supposed to wait
to hear what his sphincter's actually saying.
inscription poem for an urn: sonnet
Some maudlin person who expired breathing
into obnoxiously transparent stars or wars.
Or both. If the trend has legs.
I sort of run-on nineteenth century,
and early eddies in what's saying, talking
are important to me.
SPOILER ALERT: I die sometime
in the 21st century. Sigh.
The newer version unicorn is my favorite,
I think. But I live for reservations.
Very cute defensive weapons? the belly
was my favorite. I'm sure.
This is so going to freak you out
when this happens to you.
into obnoxiously transparent stars or wars.
Or both. If the trend has legs.
I sort of run-on nineteenth century,
and early eddies in what's saying, talking
are important to me.
SPOILER ALERT: I die sometime
in the 21st century. Sigh.
The newer version unicorn is my favorite,
I think. But I live for reservations.
Very cute defensive weapons? the belly
was my favorite. I'm sure.
This is so going to freak you out
when this happens to you.
I Am a Royce Fan
More of Jim Clark's great work with PoetryAnimations...this one a seminal passage from Stein's The Making of Americans...perfect truth...the perfect shifty truth of everyone...
Prickology 101
Angels can do that asleep with their left leg.
People will rely too much on people named Philip.
People will rely on "no paint."
What percentage of Harry Potter fans will commit suicide
half a century from now?
Causation is not explanation,
hence a butterfly the Italians desire
might not be your butterfly.
Oh shit--we are out of Wislawa Szymborska spray-butter again!
Try the Lucille Clifton. It's healthier.
These are the cliffs of modern living.
Earthy, the Italians desire.
They speak of quiddities anywhere.
They fuck like illustrations of The Inferno
with washing machines and dryers included.
History mutters a lot so of course it repeats itself.
Ontology is a very small thing like an onion,
and inside that onion is more ontology.
Nobody knows if it is a well-made thing
but absolutely everybody expects the Japanese to copy it.
I find that offensive.
He was looking at my poem, a talking horse.
It is not a single thing, in itself.
A homosexual hologram is unobtainable.
It exists for the elegant messiness of mess.
Just like porn.
These are the green mountains I go singing through
every morning, every morning, Dear Reader...
People will rely too much on people named Philip.
People will rely on "no paint."
What percentage of Harry Potter fans will commit suicide
half a century from now?
Causation is not explanation,
hence a butterfly the Italians desire
might not be your butterfly.
Oh shit--we are out of Wislawa Szymborska spray-butter again!
Try the Lucille Clifton. It's healthier.
These are the cliffs of modern living.
Earthy, the Italians desire.
They speak of quiddities anywhere.
They fuck like illustrations of The Inferno
with washing machines and dryers included.
History mutters a lot so of course it repeats itself.
Ontology is a very small thing like an onion,
and inside that onion is more ontology.
Nobody knows if it is a well-made thing
but absolutely everybody expects the Japanese to copy it.
I find that offensive.
He was looking at my poem, a talking horse.
It is not a single thing, in itself.
A homosexual hologram is unobtainable.
It exists for the elegant messiness of mess.
Just like porn.
These are the green mountains I go singing through
every morning, every morning, Dear Reader...
Neither Kosher Nor Halal
Oh, do some Edward Gorey triage.
House mulches decay.
Nights are long.
Electronica bands are short.
I will wander like Leigh Hunt,
an IKEA orphan
with gold paint in my hair.
Untranslatable
as a Mormon orgasm
to a Heblew Fairy
with a Manhattan quiddity
in a cornflower eye,
a J-Lo twitch in his ass.
House mulches decay.
Nights are long.
Electronica bands are short.
I will wander like Leigh Hunt,
an IKEA orphan
with gold paint in my hair.
Untranslatable
as a Mormon orgasm
to a Heblew Fairy
with a Manhattan quiddity
in a cornflower eye,
a J-Lo twitch in his ass.
awakened by lightning
you can't be awakened by lightning.
i know.
one is awakened by thunder.
but i felt like saying that.
like catachresis and all.
i like the catachresis of it.
just now that thunderclap like divine shit fit atop my house.
it sounded like it crashed right in my street.
most likely the football field nearby.
the tall chrome-looking lights seem to be attractors.
this is odd for 2 reasons
1) it woke me exactly at 7:01 p.m., which is the time i was due to take a pill (thanks!)
2) i read this schuyler poem (again) last night...which describes exactly what just happened ("one bolt fell in my street!")
Cornflowers
After the stormy night:
the crack of lightning and
the thunder peals (one bolt
fell in my street!)
the cornflowers (or are they
bchelor's buttons?) stand,
ragged scraps of sky, in
a shrimp-cocktail glass on
thin green stems with thin
green leaves, so blue, so blue
azure as sky-blue eyes
the cornflowers (I wish
I were wading through a
field where they bloom)
tattered tales of my life.
John, Juice, this poem you wrote is as pretty as Schuyler..
The year’s last ice
is tinsel.
Fossil water, tickle grass,
mirror water, scrub grass.
Ducks preen winter
from flight-tinned feathers,
paper wasps crowd
flowering fields.
Rain mitts the shore,
spring mints the sky.
i know.
one is awakened by thunder.
but i felt like saying that.
like catachresis and all.
i like the catachresis of it.
just now that thunderclap like divine shit fit atop my house.
it sounded like it crashed right in my street.
most likely the football field nearby.
the tall chrome-looking lights seem to be attractors.
this is odd for 2 reasons
1) it woke me exactly at 7:01 p.m., which is the time i was due to take a pill (thanks!)
2) i read this schuyler poem (again) last night...which describes exactly what just happened ("one bolt fell in my street!")
Cornflowers
After the stormy night:
the crack of lightning and
the thunder peals (one bolt
fell in my street!)
the cornflowers (or are they
bchelor's buttons?) stand,
ragged scraps of sky, in
a shrimp-cocktail glass on
thin green stems with thin
green leaves, so blue, so blue
azure as sky-blue eyes
the cornflowers (I wish
I were wading through a
field where they bloom)
tattered tales of my life.
John, Juice, this poem you wrote is as pretty as Schuyler..
The year’s last ice
is tinsel.
Fossil water, tickle grass,
mirror water, scrub grass.
Ducks preen winter
from flight-tinned feathers,
paper wasps crowd
flowering fields.
Rain mitts the shore,
spring mints the sky.
a bunch of poems to a queer rose
to a queer rose
You is tragedy.
to a queer rose
Stare
at your nest
where does this
get me?
to a queer rose
Do myths
or you
just
comments
uppermost
fabulate?
to a queer rose
Is special
church?
Why me
Psychotic attack
because greener
i am
on your side
americans love feed.
to a queer rose
O you
lube
to a queer rose
i said while fucking
you a strange request
don't know if
a question even:
more sure
to a queer rose
i speak for her
shut she hates
her i.v. stem
to a queer rose
canceled rarely
nature
says
fuck it's worth
it tall
soap want saw wander bit landslide
sheep approach
say no way
to a queer rose
you can call me call me my away from my bacteria.
anytime.
to a queer rose
oh
you're just a parking lot
to a queer rose
an airport!
lingual dream
to a queer rose
eero saarinen
pokes his tongue
in the folds
to a queer rose
refuses to be northern
You is tragedy.
to a queer rose
Stare
at your nest
where does this
get me?
to a queer rose
Do myths
or you
just
comments
uppermost
fabulate?
to a queer rose
Is special
church?
Why me
Psychotic attack
because greener
i am
on your side
americans love feed.
to a queer rose
O you
lube
to a queer rose
i said while fucking
you a strange request
don't know if
a question even:
more sure
to a queer rose
i speak for her
shut she hates
her i.v. stem
to a queer rose
canceled rarely
nature
says
fuck it's worth
it tall
soap want saw wander bit landslide
sheep approach
say no way
to a queer rose
you can call me call me my away from my bacteria.
anytime.
to a queer rose
oh
you're just a parking lot
to a queer rose
an airport!
lingual dream
to a queer rose
eero saarinen
pokes his tongue
in the folds
to a queer rose
refuses to be northern
i found last summer's bug smashed between pages
Parking this category...
at 7:36 an advice poem
a little dried-blood oft
zoloft gnat forgive
me!
at 7:36 an advice poem
a little dried-blood oft
zoloft gnat forgive
me!
could there be something to other people's
here.
Little overmedicated
resemble Rossettim
pushing chicory
and clouds,
thoughts
resplendent...
(The Sequel)
Little overmedicated
resemble Rossettim
pushing chicory
and clouds,
thoughts
resplendent...
(The Sequel)
little
blight my mouth
tasting
"What is kitchen,
wondering if type of fibers and musty locations whales"
does it allow books?
where chicory
forgets kind
tasting
"What is kitchen,
wondering if type of fibers and musty locations whales"
does it allow books?
where chicory
forgets kind
sparrow poem
dead men
straw nest
beautiful summer
America, sure
the gods fence.
artists catch
things. why
If I ever
first rocky site.
shaped arrowheads
here. ate. fucked
Today faceless!
a sparrow
after my blood test:
toroid, vorticist
i admired the
"fuck you"
english
green thrust
straw nest
beautiful summer
America, sure
the gods fence.
artists catch
things. why
If I ever
first rocky site.
shaped arrowheads
here. ate. fucked
Today faceless!
a sparrow
after my blood test:
toroid, vorticist
i admired the
"fuck you"
english
green thrust
biospheroid
your not-sunflowers between The War
neither has totally loved ones
hope you I deprived dark,
illicit war,
and if by William
Labels: thief poem,
Labels: googly eyes,
toys
think shrink
H.D.
tiny you i love
a flower
i send
funny
immortal
things...
to vikings...
that's my hobby....
neither has totally loved ones
hope you I deprived dark,
illicit war,
and if by William
Labels: thief poem,
Labels: googly eyes,
toys
think shrink
H.D.
tiny you i love
a flower
i send
funny
immortal
things...
to vikings...
that's my hobby....
open letter
THE BEARS a game these conversations. Dippin Dots. half of there's anything the bomb.
WHAT THE here is going to begoing to do of Tolstoy fuck off and research to play the World's going to shrine.
THE BEARS THOUGHT
The Aztecs or better only Wednesday? Keckler at Beloved of
The Latest his responses to the also be answers to like ignoring)
IceStationPoetry@aol.com.
Or just this post!
Cheers!
Thanks, 1984
WHAT THE here is going to begoing to do of Tolstoy fuck off and research to play the World's going to shrine.
THE BEARS THOUGHT
The Aztecs or better only Wednesday? Keckler at Beloved of
The Latest his responses to the also be answers to like ignoring)
IceStationPoetry@aol.com.
Or just this post!
Cheers!
Thanks, 1984
too verbose
Doing Allspice
out that way that you
ocean out
because you like gay
antebellum alarm.
Sometimes they are dots
petechiae...not
hemangiomas. but movielike,
more movie, garden...
I'm visualizing mean ersatz
spirit's acupuncture:
Unscientific! Lions!
In my lions.
Do I believe I is corrective....
I assholery.
But.
Please stop William Keckler
the urge
and those my strongest urge...
2· Analyser textuelle.
Il existe media res de l’action le personnage nous nous part, rien (Wallas ne incipit différé, quelques informations : le (la salle patron). Il : nous ni à époque exacte plus, l’identité verbes très …
out that way that you
ocean out
because you like gay
antebellum alarm.
Sometimes they are dots
petechiae...not
hemangiomas. but movielike,
more movie, garden...
I'm visualizing mean ersatz
spirit's acupuncture:
Unscientific! Lions!
In my lions.
Do I believe I is corrective....
I assholery.
But.
Please stop William Keckler
the urge
and those my strongest urge...
2· Analyser textuelle.
Il existe media res de l’action le personnage nous nous part, rien (Wallas ne incipit différé, quelques informations : le (la salle patron). Il : nous ni à époque exacte plus, l’identité verbes très …
diagram
It's shit! What is
zero anyway? Towards lovers
probably baby-less
red lot,
thinking spines
edge stoned,
unpregnant.
So like the balls
it's okay by PM
Your Beloved Might Be the clouds
arrayed,
They Might Be Giants
the tired advice of language
which feigns being lost
that we might talk
zero anyway? Towards lovers
probably baby-less
red lot,
thinking spines
edge stoned,
unpregnant.
So like the balls
it's okay by PM
Your Beloved Might Be the clouds
arrayed,
They Might Be Giants
the tired advice of language
which feigns being lost
that we might talk
ems poem
Bears are anal but so is Paris
and light the moveable feast
of doctors, lots of shit really.
Som eat worries and words very probably
like being flecks, an ocean
of foam tigers, Hiroshige washing-machine
some eat worries
did I say that already?
and it is damp, in such attics
blown brothers
Miranda July seems to be sharing people
in her art I mean
Your poems should have lots more clouds
I think
and E.M.S. personnel
and light the moveable feast
of doctors, lots of shit really.
Som eat worries and words very probably
like being flecks, an ocean
of foam tigers, Hiroshige washing-machine
some eat worries
did I say that already?
and it is damp, in such attics
blown brothers
Miranda July seems to be sharing people
in her art I mean
Your poems should have lots more clouds
I think
and E.M.S. personnel
epistle
Come back poem, googly-eyed
Lover Poem
Look at
me
Yeats
made frail
bone money?
look puffins, vikings
do keep sending
comments epistolary, Sparrow,
sparrow,
you relevance
to you dear! at 0 sparrows,
America
O we're the drive-by PM poem
and the most beautiful dead horse going!
Lover Poem
Look at
me
Yeats
made frail
bone money?
look puffins, vikings
do keep sending
comments epistolary, Sparrow,
sparrow,
you relevance
to you dear! at 0 sparrows,
America
O we're the drive-by PM poem
and the most beautiful dead horse going!
Apologia
O Palestined, blue-haired poem
I apologize for the War,
the googly-eyed War
where I glued
those Googly-eyes
to look at You,
when I could
Not.
I apologize for the War,
the googly-eyed War
where I glued
those Googly-eyes
to look at You,
when I could
Not.
johnson relocation program
I have been stealing the twee
from my cat for years. The splinter
in the toe of the divine
some idiot calls truth!
My cat is my poem
and my neighbor.
CONFESSION: I have been stealing
years for years now
and planting them inside
other years, on the sly.
I was quite sure this was mind.
However, I have been recently proven wrong!
Nevertheless, invisible.
I am a thief not-angry. My thinking scissors
are still on the table
and I hav been moved
by the scary likes of us,
which has nothing to do
with me, really...
from my cat for years. The splinter
in the toe of the divine
some idiot calls truth!
My cat is my poem
and my neighbor.
CONFESSION: I have been stealing
years for years now
and planting them inside
other years, on the sly.
I was quite sure this was mind.
However, I have been recently proven wrong!
Nevertheless, invisible.
I am a thief not-angry. My thinking scissors
are still on the table
and I hav been moved
by the scary likes of us,
which has nothing to do
with me, really...
summer beetling
If you were born would you sleep?
Do you get your panties up
in a bundle at a word? What rainbow
do you work at?
What's your favorite
sometimes future past?
What part of irony
would you use
to kill a unicorn?
Was that love?
Is a criminal
sensual as a dream?
Is this a Certain Bug's
Amour? Make course)
the bowl
Do you get your panties up
in a bundle at a word? What rainbow
do you work at?
What's your favorite
sometimes future past?
What part of irony
would you use
to kill a unicorn?
Was that love?
Is a criminal
sensual as a dream?
Is this a Certain Bug's
Amour? Make course)
the bowl
Buttefly Poem
Ayn hosted show. everyone to the L.
invented It. least Phil got that wrong.
BEARS are less concerned with the hard copy
and to forever. Cookies suicide
sounds wonderful as convert religious. WHAT THOUGHT
Banana. BEARS. Muscovites. worse fates.
do these things really belong in categories?
Is this love's labour?
My polar thoughts pizzicato.
Who's 16 again?
A burly butterfly
which claims it's a Virgo!
It's eating all the sausage
off the pizza!
Bjork is folding paper
that isn't foliage
under the ocean
of her husband's
slight irritation.
invented It. least Phil got that wrong.
BEARS are less concerned with the hard copy
and to forever. Cookies suicide
sounds wonderful as convert religious. WHAT THOUGHT
Banana. BEARS. Muscovites. worse fates.
do these things really belong in categories?
Is this love's labour?
My polar thoughts pizzicato.
Who's 16 again?
A burly butterfly
which claims it's a Virgo!
It's eating all the sausage
off the pizza!
Bjork is folding paper
that isn't foliage
under the ocean
of her husband's
slight irritation.
Bearitude
WHAT about that no one
a No author that quote paw.
as around? Eileen Myles beautifully sort of role.
THOUGHT
The planted sarcasm. bones which ruled ruse
Will "psychologism" from all
form all? REALLY?
as WHAT about what trying clouds?
at about and connected. really young. WHAT THOUGHT
Bears get the "cookie suicide" approach
But I'm hand copy and have to do it forever.
I mean I'm a convert.
WHAT THOUGHT
Bananas. BEARS. Or worse than really
are they any worse than REALLY?
a No author that quote paw.
as around? Eileen Myles beautifully sort of role.
THOUGHT
The planted sarcasm. bones which ruled ruse
Will "psychologism" from all
form all? REALLY?
as WHAT about what trying clouds?
at about and connected. really young. WHAT THOUGHT
Bears get the "cookie suicide" approach
But I'm hand copy and have to do it forever.
I mean I'm a convert.
WHAT THOUGHT
Bananas. BEARS. Or worse than really
are they any worse than REALLY?
Ars Poetica
pWe don't faux
very often
and very often we need very often lions.
This is so vital.
Medieval. even cultural.
Desire knows in adding
to the hostile kick-the-can
type of philosophy poets do.
Read Often, I now urge
both unicorns and mice.
Hostile rewriting can be nice...
Who are we to judge
which poem will be most important
to ignore on that particular Tuesday
five hundred years from now?
somebody somebody also...
might stub a toe...
be buried under a mountain of characters...
▪ pénombre, côté,…
very often
and very often we need very often lions.
This is so vital.
Medieval. even cultural.
Desire knows in adding
to the hostile kick-the-can
type of philosophy poets do.
Read Often, I now urge
both unicorns and mice.
Hostile rewriting can be nice...
Who are we to judge
which poem will be most important
to ignore on that particular Tuesday
five hundred years from now?
somebody somebody also...
might stub a toe...
be buried under a mountain of characters...
▪ pénombre, côté,…
Paradiso
Of the young gay boys
are mostly concerned
with parking. Advice clouds
the ideal, when you have
betrayed television or Lego
poetics it's hard
to get a clean headspace
to work again. Christina Rossetti
push-up bra is important to me!
This may or may not be a computer screen
and may or may not be rain on my mind.
I rarely attempt to seduce a parade
unless I see confetti will serve my purposes.
are mostly concerned
with parking. Advice clouds
the ideal, when you have
betrayed television or Lego
poetics it's hard
to get a clean headspace
to work again. Christina Rossetti
push-up bra is important to me!
This may or may not be a computer screen
and may or may not be rain on my mind.
I rarely attempt to seduce a parade
unless I see confetti will serve my purposes.
Carbon Dating
O Ineffectual Effigy, it's 2009!
You're such a red cloud!
My Summer me.
I think Camp with
at least five there should
be about.
Elves come with mosquito netting.
Trees and their dead bags.
Quick Browse
1801. Sandra Jackman
1855 --> Karl Kempton Kleinberg
THE SUPREME COURT JUSTICE SAID:
This site scared me
because I saw devas name
there some porn aimed at the Buddha.
the Buddha sand dwelling
in sands thou
and the Buddha thou
sands was thou sand
ing you down
and gives you
these over and over.
Meltdown. Rave.
Possibly Pre-Raphaelite
As carts
through TARGET's
crepuscular nimbus
You're such a red cloud!
My Summer me.
I think Camp with
at least five there should
be about.
Elves come with mosquito netting.
Trees and their dead bags.
Quick Browse
1801. Sandra Jackman
1855 --> Karl Kempton Kleinberg
THE SUPREME COURT JUSTICE SAID:
This site scared me
because I saw devas name
there some porn aimed at the Buddha.
the Buddha sand dwelling
in sands thou
and the Buddha thou
sands was thou sand
ing you down
and gives you
these over and over.
Meltdown. Rave.
Possibly Pre-Raphaelite
As carts
through TARGET's
crepuscular nimbus
Elffjorden
You know taking it out
talking it up we ate
it up.Wordsworth fucks
the Middle up. Banksy's
Chicken Nuggets, lonely
cocks in cages. Philip
Whalen walking (floating) barefoot
along the ocean's punctuation,
too funny! Slim grim juice
over warm durst is my favorite
wavy gravy. O lil butterfly:
Suck old daddy spit
from roommate internet.
Elves grow in associated deco bathrooms.
The dead bags.
talking it up we ate
it up.Wordsworth fucks
the Middle up. Banksy's
Chicken Nuggets, lonely
cocks in cages. Philip
Whalen walking (floating) barefoot
along the ocean's punctuation,
too funny! Slim grim juice
over warm durst is my favorite
wavy gravy. O lil butterfly:
Suck old daddy spit
from roommate internet.
Elves grow in associated deco bathrooms.
The dead bags.
slutitude
Unlike called
The Universe.
My Unicorn. I jumped
astride it like
a fine prosthesis!
Bedded it, my Flickr
was here. Some Lambeth bird
in branches. Was arrested
by him and The Future's
apparently a gallery
sans Bookland. Together Kings
wearing home tees, country
records in Barcelona...
Be genuine, you love
to adhere Single.
Admit it, nature!
Pendant lamps
and leaf-whores
everywhere I look
in your forest
nooks!
The Universe.
My Unicorn. I jumped
astride it like
a fine prosthesis!
Bedded it, my Flickr
was here. Some Lambeth bird
in branches. Was arrested
by him and The Future's
apparently a gallery
sans Bookland. Together Kings
wearing home tees, country
records in Barcelona...
Be genuine, you love
to adhere Single.
Admit it, nature!
Pendant lamps
and leaf-whores
everywhere I look
in your forest
nooks!
My Gravestone as Ancient Greek Poem
Unlike called
The Universe.
No: by William
Labels: Beautiful,
Kindergarten Teacher
The Universe.
No: by William
Labels: Beautiful,
Kindergarten Teacher
The Casque of Chilliado
A.M. Blakean sunflowers,
when you realize Google says
you don't exist. You can
breathe out. Breathe in.
You can run through
this snow and marble shit.
Glue winter googly-eyes
on a lover's tombstone.
Go ahead. Stop at Wendy's
for the chili afterwards.
Glue on winter. Make me
worry more about another
viking recluse? Spiritual
carwash coupons got me far,
the boy who kept saying
"Unlike! Updike! Unlike! Updike!"
over and over until you rapped
him on the mouth. Kissed
me on my Google label.
Fuck you for being the universe's
worst kindergarten teacher ever...
I'm writing Dante a fucking
postcard about you right now
when you realize Google says
you don't exist. You can
breathe out. Breathe in.
You can run through
this snow and marble shit.
Glue winter googly-eyes
on a lover's tombstone.
Go ahead. Stop at Wendy's
for the chili afterwards.
Glue on winter. Make me
worry more about another
viking recluse? Spiritual
carwash coupons got me far,
the boy who kept saying
"Unlike! Updike! Unlike! Updike!"
over and over until you rapped
him on the mouth. Kissed
me on my Google label.
Fuck you for being the universe's
worst kindergarten teacher ever...
I'm writing Dante a fucking
postcard about you right now
Glue The Eyes Back
I was running with my house
on my back. I was either
an injun or a performance artist.
Jackson Mac Low left a wool hat
on my chair. Some of those
stars are really Sunflower Thief
Years Running. The dead
lay there, very convincing.
It was winter. The dead
are more on the edge than you
and don't even care if you
glue Googly-eyes on them.
Google them. Whatever.
Blakean sunflowers, the joy
they are sweeping,
the unexpected edge of color
years rarely
on my back. I was either
an injun or a performance artist.
Jackson Mac Low left a wool hat
on my chair. Some of those
stars are really Sunflower Thief
Years Running. The dead
lay there, very convincing.
It was winter. The dead
are more on the edge than you
and don't even care if you
glue Googly-eyes on them.
Google them. Whatever.
Blakean sunflowers, the joy
they are sweeping,
the unexpected edge of color
years rarely
Dude, There's a Parking Boot on Your Unicorn
The last thing
to imagine is but...
Divine truth is like
smart. Christopher Smart.
The Monkees. William Blake
and the Sunflower Thief.
This episode I have
which was called my house
or my life. I posted
you all about it. Much
anymore is this year,
you've died for the sake...
dejected, furious, beautiful.
I got a form of postcard
and the image seemed unforseen
and satisfied. I became a Believer
to imagine is but...
Divine truth is like
smart. Christopher Smart.
The Monkees. William Blake
and the Sunflower Thief.
This episode I have
which was called my house
or my life. I posted
you all about it. Much
anymore is this year,
you've died for the sake...
dejected, furious, beautiful.
I got a form of postcard
and the image seemed unforseen
and satisfied. I became a Believer
Toe Jam
Who's the real Scarlet?
What's your wish
you cook?
No food you wear
when you did your morning
under net skivvies?
Poetry is toast.
What do orgasms
of lions mean to you?
Sprint or Spirit?
What sort of Spiritual Green
do you take yourself for?
A divine blue jay
would perch on a cock
like yours. William
Blake running after
a Sunflower Thief.
It's like The Monkees.
You have no fucking
idea what I'm talking
about and that's why
I want to smell
the unforseen life
on the beach
washing over
your squavimanly toes.
What's your wish
you cook?
No food you wear
when you did your morning
under net skivvies?
Poetry is toast.
What do orgasms
of lions mean to you?
Sprint or Spirit?
What sort of Spiritual Green
do you take yourself for?
A divine blue jay
would perch on a cock
like yours. William
Blake running after
a Sunflower Thief.
It's like The Monkees.
You have no fucking
idea what I'm talking
about and that's why
I want to smell
the unforseen life
on the beach
washing over
your squavimanly toes.
Must Love Dead Stuckley Fans
You are
what you really
were? Are you sure?
Are you penny-positive?
Is your blood type
really "masseuse" and "ice cream"
or wuz you lying
to get in my spermaceti?
MENSA is your favorite food?
Ice you like?
Have you made love
with Sunday without
Thursday finding out?
What food do you wear
on the motel-sly
when you really wanna phreak?
Toast?
OMFG!
This could maybe work
if you are willing to date
a hospital bed
performance artist
for five years
to free up some assets?
The bedpan is Sevres
but the orgasms are fake.
what you really
were? Are you sure?
Are you penny-positive?
Is your blood type
really "masseuse" and "ice cream"
or wuz you lying
to get in my spermaceti?
MENSA is your favorite food?
Ice you like?
Have you made love
with Sunday without
Thursday finding out?
What food do you wear
on the motel-sly
when you really wanna phreak?
Toast?
OMFG!
This could maybe work
if you are willing to date
a hospital bed
performance artist
for five years
to free up some assets?
The bedpan is Sevres
but the orgasms are fake.
Be Wary
THE BEARS
that taxi inside language
thirty seconds, my stuff taxi driver
can be Heidegger
or somebody dumber.
I owe you one bathtub,
one internet.
Looks? are you sure about this?
Penelope got ursine
as she approached
the Deathstar.
I find names
more beautiful than people
and that is why
they locked me
inside this place.
Will you let me out
with that fish-scale key?
And I can leer...
exactly in imitation of the rare bird
that lives at the heart of your poem...
wanna see?
that taxi inside language
thirty seconds, my stuff taxi driver
can be Heidegger
or somebody dumber.
I owe you one bathtub,
one internet.
Looks? are you sure about this?
Penelope got ursine
as she approached
the Deathstar.
I find names
more beautiful than people
and that is why
they locked me
inside this place.
Will you let me out
with that fish-scale key?
And I can leer...
exactly in imitation of the rare bird
that lives at the heart of your poem...
wanna see?
Hallmark Card
Some ridiculous twig.
I don't know. A president's
dick or something.
I prove to windows and pencils
we are intent. We humans
should have sold the
Hubble Telescope by now.
Somebody could have
prevented Philip K. Dick's
novels the way you
could have prevented
my breakdown, my angel
wings or my murder
of Timothy Treadwell
when I was several grizzly
bears. But now
all these things
are moot. Which I think
means I'm coming
to get you. Stay
right where you are,
inside that rotting
butterfly of cosmic
energy. The one
you call a taxi cab.
I don't know. A president's
dick or something.
I prove to windows and pencils
we are intent. We humans
should have sold the
Hubble Telescope by now.
Somebody could have
prevented Philip K. Dick's
novels the way you
could have prevented
my breakdown, my angel
wings or my murder
of Timothy Treadwell
when I was several grizzly
bears. But now
all these things
are moot. Which I think
means I'm coming
to get you. Stay
right where you are,
inside that rotting
butterfly of cosmic
energy. The one
you call a taxi cab.
WoeDensDays in New York
PART ONE
On WoeDensDays
every human is
secretly spelled wrong
Bears show up all over New York
Bear Thought
is severely scrutinized
They had found things "mighty suspicious,"
the nyc conversations. coffee.
PART TWO
THE BEARS dykedom is also rather beautiful.
PART THREE
WHAT THE daffodils think
there of a small house
through the use of words
like whether Wordsworth
had sex with his sister
Can be quite beautiful.
Or will. BEARS THOUGHT
Schopenauer was ridiculous.
IKEA named a spatula after him
and that was the end
of that fairy tale!
On WoeDensDays
every human is
secretly spelled wrong
Bears show up all over New York
Bear Thought
is severely scrutinized
They had found things "mighty suspicious,"
the nyc conversations. coffee.
PART TWO
THE BEARS dykedom is also rather beautiful.
PART THREE
WHAT THE daffodils think
there of a small house
through the use of words
like whether Wordsworth
had sex with his sister
Can be quite beautiful.
Or will. BEARS THOUGHT
Schopenauer was ridiculous.
IKEA named a spatula after him
and that was the end
of that fairy tale!
Sparrow-Verses
O William!
Sparrow Your
Chicory!
Worry about
Poetry Parking
Meter Dong
Nudge the young shopping
Valet you think
You love him
He is parking the maidens
still the sitting
on front of an Abstraction Thing
ain't a bad job...
Sparrow Your
Chicory!
Worry about
Poetry Parking
Meter Dong
Nudge the young shopping
Valet you think
You love him
He is parking the maidens
still the sitting
on front of an Abstraction Thing
ain't a bad job...
The River Whereby I Silt...
And sculptural.
Gardening is just as bad.
I still want lions. a yard for them.
Not just explain?
The way it is with lovers
walk away in rain.
Beware that museum!
You may hibernate
there forever, child...
Desire is to have taken
a Puckish migraine.
Gardening is just as bad.
I still want lions. a yard for them.
Not just explain?
The way it is with lovers
walk away in rain.
Beware that museum!
You may hibernate
there forever, child...
Desire is to have taken
a Puckish migraine.
A Quagmire, A Quandary
A Garden
turned abusive.
It do.
I bought flowers
of dark shade.
Red things harm.
Oh, the Doctors. My want..
Who will tell
the lions I need plotting now....
turned abusive.
It do.
I bought flowers
of dark shade.
Red things harm.
Oh, the Doctors. My want..
Who will tell
the lions I need plotting now....
Doing Lions in a Garden
The Carolina Allspice
out back has turned abusive.
It needs trimming,
the way that the years
eventually do.
I bought it for you
because it has flowers
of dark little petals;
they're like gay
antebellum stationery,
a dried-blood shade.
Red things oft seduce, alarm.
Sometimes they parade,
sometimes do harm.
Oh, the little red dots
were petechiae...not
hemangiomas. (I forgive
you, Doctors.) My blood
was poisoned by my own
thoughtlessness. I want
to tell life: ..."less movielike,
more movie, Puhleeze!..."
We definitely need lions
in this garden
I'm visualizing
and mentally plotting now....
and I don't mean ersatz
or faux or sculptural.
Gardening is rather
the spirit's acupuncture:
unscientific, often effective.
I want lions. I need lions.
In my very own yard.
Not just any lions.
Medieval lions.
Do I even need explain?
Desire is not cultural.
Desire is corrective....
I know you have taken
a degree in assholery.
But.
Please stop adding
to my Puckish migraine.
out back has turned abusive.
It needs trimming,
the way that the years
eventually do.
I bought it for you
because it has flowers
of dark little petals;
they're like gay
antebellum stationery,
a dried-blood shade.
Red things oft seduce, alarm.
Sometimes they parade,
sometimes do harm.
Oh, the little red dots
were petechiae...not
hemangiomas. (I forgive
you, Doctors.) My blood
was poisoned by my own
thoughtlessness. I want
to tell life: ..."less movielike,
more movie, Puhleeze!..."
We definitely need lions
in this garden
I'm visualizing
and mentally plotting now....
and I don't mean ersatz
or faux or sculptural.
Gardening is rather
the spirit's acupuncture:
unscientific, often effective.
I want lions. I need lions.
In my very own yard.
Not just any lions.
Medieval lions.
Do I even need explain?
Desire is not cultural.
Desire is corrective....
I know you have taken
a degree in assholery.
But.
Please stop adding
to my Puckish migraine.
the urge to rewrite books i have read and those i have not read is now my strongest urge
this is not a hostile urge...if i can conceal what i am rewriting i will be happier..
but it's there...
this is nice...
this was always nice...
somebody wrote it...and before that somebody wrote it also...
15 janvier 2006
Robbe-Grillet, Les gommes
Commentaire du texte: Les gommes de Robbe-Grillet.
1· Étude des marques linguistiques qui justifient le type de texte.
2· Analyser les mécanismes de cohésion et cohérence textuelle.
3· Analyser les indications spatiales et temporelles qui figurent dans le texte.
4· Mettez en relation ce texte avec la production littéraire de l’auteur et la littérature du XXème.
Indications sur ce texte : Les gommes de Robbe-Grillet.
▪ Il s’agit de l’incipit du roman. Normalement le début du roman est la partie la plus expositive du texte. C’est là où l’auteur nous donne des informations qui permettent à l’auteur de situer le texte à une époque donnée, à un endroit et de connaître les personnages concrets et leur situation, etc...
Il existe plusieurs types d’incipit : « In media res » nous sommes introduits au milieu de l’action ; incipit « différé » : le personnage principal est présenté plus tard…. Ici nous nous trouvons face à un mélange d’une part, rien n’est dit sur le personnage principal (Wallas ne sera présenté qu’à la page 45), incipit différé, donc. Mais l’auteur nous fournit aussi quelques informations attendues de ce type de texte : le moment (6 heures du matin), l’espace (la salle de café) et un personnage (le patron). Il s’agit en même temps d’informations imprécises : nous ne pouvons pas situer le texte ni à un lieu précis, ni à une époque exacte et nous ne connaissons pas, non plus, l’identité du personnage (le patron).
▪ absence de verbes très fréquente.
▪ focalisation : dans la pénombre, …
de l’autre côté,…
dans le miroir,…
ce sont des éléments détachés du reste de la phrase.
▪ Ce livre s’encadre dans le « Nouveau Roman ». Il s’agit d’une sorte de mouvement littéraire qui se produit entre 1950 et 1960 approximativement. Nous pouvons nommer entres autre : Buttor, Mauriac, Ollier, Ricardou et, bien sûr, Robbe-Grillet comme nouveaux romanciers. Mais aussi : Duras, Sarraute, Pinjet, Beckett (en tant que romancier), …
La poétique du nouveau roman repose surtout sur un rejet radical
-du romanesque
-de l’illusion référentielle
-du réalisme socialiste et,
-de la notion d’engagement.
Dans ce sens Robbe-Grillet affirme que « dès qu’apparaît le souci de signifier quelque chose (quelque chose d’extérieur à l’art) la littérature commence à reculer, à disparaître ».
Le nouveau roman rompt avec tous les principes (narratifs et idéologiques) de l’esthétique romanesque classique. Écrivant dans une société hantée par les révélations de la Seconde Guerre mondiale et de ses suites, les nouveaux romanciers ont le sentiment d’affronter une réalité dont la cohérence leur semble nulle. Au monde ordonné, donc explicable, que pouvaient logiquement prétendre représenter leurs prédécesseurs du XIXème, a succédé un univers fragmenté, un labyrinthe sinon hostile, du moins étranger à l’homme. Ainsi, le Nouveau Roman s’attaque à l’esthétique réaliste ou naturaliste. Robbe-Grillet en arrive à affirmer que « raconter est devenu proprement impossible ».
On note d’emblée la disparition de l’intrigue linéaire. Les œuvres deviennent des sortes de puzzles que les lecteurs doivent reconstruire, non sans difficultés.
Les narrateurs ne sont plus fiables du tout car ils ne parviennent pas a raconter le passé qu’il veulent reconstituer : des contradictions, des hésitations, des doutes, des trous dans les récits deviennent habituels et leur légitimité s’en ressent.
L’effacement des personnages est aussi un trait caractéristique. Les indications sur les personnages sont souvent réduites au strict minimum : pas de description physique, effacement des traces psychologiques,… et d’autre part ce sont les objets et leur description minutieuse qui sont omniprésents et qui laissent donc les personnages à l’arrière plan du récit.
La chronologie du récit est aussi bouleversée.
On peut affirmer que le nouveau roman est une sorte de déconstruction du roman traditionnel.
but it's there...
this is nice...
this was always nice...
somebody wrote it...and before that somebody wrote it also...
15 janvier 2006
Robbe-Grillet, Les gommes
Commentaire du texte: Les gommes de Robbe-Grillet.
1· Étude des marques linguistiques qui justifient le type de texte.
2· Analyser les mécanismes de cohésion et cohérence textuelle.
3· Analyser les indications spatiales et temporelles qui figurent dans le texte.
4· Mettez en relation ce texte avec la production littéraire de l’auteur et la littérature du XXème.
Indications sur ce texte : Les gommes de Robbe-Grillet.
▪ Il s’agit de l’incipit du roman. Normalement le début du roman est la partie la plus expositive du texte. C’est là où l’auteur nous donne des informations qui permettent à l’auteur de situer le texte à une époque donnée, à un endroit et de connaître les personnages concrets et leur situation, etc...
Il existe plusieurs types d’incipit : « In media res » nous sommes introduits au milieu de l’action ; incipit « différé » : le personnage principal est présenté plus tard…. Ici nous nous trouvons face à un mélange d’une part, rien n’est dit sur le personnage principal (Wallas ne sera présenté qu’à la page 45), incipit différé, donc. Mais l’auteur nous fournit aussi quelques informations attendues de ce type de texte : le moment (6 heures du matin), l’espace (la salle de café) et un personnage (le patron). Il s’agit en même temps d’informations imprécises : nous ne pouvons pas situer le texte ni à un lieu précis, ni à une époque exacte et nous ne connaissons pas, non plus, l’identité du personnage (le patron).
▪ absence de verbes très fréquente.
▪ focalisation : dans la pénombre, …
de l’autre côté,…
dans le miroir,…
ce sont des éléments détachés du reste de la phrase.
▪ Ce livre s’encadre dans le « Nouveau Roman ». Il s’agit d’une sorte de mouvement littéraire qui se produit entre 1950 et 1960 approximativement. Nous pouvons nommer entres autre : Buttor, Mauriac, Ollier, Ricardou et, bien sûr, Robbe-Grillet comme nouveaux romanciers. Mais aussi : Duras, Sarraute, Pinjet, Beckett (en tant que romancier), …
La poétique du nouveau roman repose surtout sur un rejet radical
-du romanesque
-de l’illusion référentielle
-du réalisme socialiste et,
-de la notion d’engagement.
Dans ce sens Robbe-Grillet affirme que « dès qu’apparaît le souci de signifier quelque chose (quelque chose d’extérieur à l’art) la littérature commence à reculer, à disparaître ».
Le nouveau roman rompt avec tous les principes (narratifs et idéologiques) de l’esthétique romanesque classique. Écrivant dans une société hantée par les révélations de la Seconde Guerre mondiale et de ses suites, les nouveaux romanciers ont le sentiment d’affronter une réalité dont la cohérence leur semble nulle. Au monde ordonné, donc explicable, que pouvaient logiquement prétendre représenter leurs prédécesseurs du XIXème, a succédé un univers fragmenté, un labyrinthe sinon hostile, du moins étranger à l’homme. Ainsi, le Nouveau Roman s’attaque à l’esthétique réaliste ou naturaliste. Robbe-Grillet en arrive à affirmer que « raconter est devenu proprement impossible ».
On note d’emblée la disparition de l’intrigue linéaire. Les œuvres deviennent des sortes de puzzles que les lecteurs doivent reconstruire, non sans difficultés.
Les narrateurs ne sont plus fiables du tout car ils ne parviennent pas a raconter le passé qu’il veulent reconstituer : des contradictions, des hésitations, des doutes, des trous dans les récits deviennent habituels et leur légitimité s’en ressent.
L’effacement des personnages est aussi un trait caractéristique. Les indications sur les personnages sont souvent réduites au strict minimum : pas de description physique, effacement des traces psychologiques,… et d’autre part ce sont les objets et leur description minutieuse qui sont omniprésents et qui laissent donc les personnages à l’arrière plan du récit.
La chronologie du récit est aussi bouleversée.
On peut affirmer que le nouveau roman est une sorte de déconstruction du roman traditionnel.
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