Thursday, December 4, 2008
Vacana of between xiv
jeg oensker meg over alt
et nytt
a new
norsk
keyboard
for mac
saa jeg kan si hoere
without it looking like I'm saying
whore
it's really irriterende
jaevlig health else
eller erre esse , else
it's some
vine-twine my textual
vocal cord is unplugged
now rusty - i call it rustic
men det er egentlig bare rusta
med tenner av flerra flak
som jeg lapper sammen
holder sammen, holding the sami
reindeer I saw in a movie
-Veiviseren - clear in my mind
hadde de reinsdyr? jeg
er ikke sikker men det maler et
nydelig bilde
ikke
true as the history we paint
as the world we create
but most of all
I just want a new norwegian keyboard
norsk
I HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus of Be tweihn(ai)
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
naa er jeg drit lei av draaper som formerer seg og spytter seg over beina istendenfor aa prate i et simmer sammen, s lik at vi kan spre oss uten aa ro
og spytter seg over beina istendenfor aa prate
i et simmer sammen, s lik at vi kan spre oss
uten aa rooere bakken
it only takes one drop
of spillage
before it splatters out
each droplet growing
what was that you said? was that growing or blowing? yes
I think it was blowing like felatio; his name was Felatio
and he was one one who could read the Rorschach grapevine
no? no! I’m just shoving in some feathers here, where I can
gonna get a chicken
I like fried aircastles
they’re golden run down shacks
in the blue sky blocked by coiling grey clouds
it’s a reverberating chattering
bubbling as each creates
internal liquids
multi-
coloured with little facetted eyes
sometimes grows fingers
sometimes whole limbs that
ply
out your onlooking glassballs
and take your legs out in an
explosion
you enjoyed that didn’t you?
I like explosions too sometimes
it’s in this space you find chaos
embracing globules that fat together
wiggling their tails , swimming with
a karmic purpose , not the eleventh purpose
eye of Horus in that calm cusp of a face
there’s an internal hysterical laughter
he is red in the sky blowing his own horn tower ; ashes give the richest soil
it’s a static distortion
dynamic that’s the Yaweh yaldabath oherum ahmen-ka-damehn
talking saying ymni omni oni on oh ho no ino inmo in my na
me
this is more like the purpose of 661 , where the 6 and 9 are inverted polars equally exclusive but dimensional to each other and 1 is the all and the none that is something ; being; 6 6
1 of horns. being of horns
2 karmic purpose of being with horns
3 purpose of horns
4 hooves matter is the horn to soil
5 never swim as they are the ocean
7 8 9
see hear speak
nothing
view absorb discuss
everything
notice listen investigate
all
evade zone-out yatter
NOT
be
1
99
because you’re here it’s because you’re here
that I
have this purpose; fuelled by a sort
of survival instinct
this bloated pidgin virus of a mob
makes your horns straighten
whitened and bleached
polished by societies heel
sharp; want to slip into your
soft foundation and rip into your
crossbeams and supporting structures
until you crumble ; and no I
don’t really care if you fall on me
even though it will really hurt
my stones are coated in hardened crystals
grown from the chemicals
that the anatomist node gave to the alchemist node
from the whiteknucled moments caused
by spillage and the frothing
of mouths see hear speak
evade zoneout yatter
who made this fuckin mess on the floor
here as I walk through the clear path
that the exploding chaos opens up
…because I’m left here to clean it up now
fine … I’ll clean it up
that’s what you get
for spilling a drop
fine; ashes give the richest soil
but these aren’t really ashes; you don’t burn do you
liquid bloating spilling frothing body
you just bubble and make a resin
once I flare you, you are a black ooze
but even the blackest dirtiest gunk
can be dissected , ..distilled I mean, ; purified really
into a golden liquid
I have my horns I have my pen dipped in golden liquid spillage
Sunday, November 30, 2008
the anti of the matter
(you know that voice; that always wants to fuck everything up; that's there for you in the worst possible way to make you fall. This voice tried to kill me once. I got a trespassing order against it and had to throw it out of the house. I met it again recently at a party. Thought I had gotten rid of it. It seemed well; better, ; it apologized for the past; I knew it was the same. I forgave it. but I know it is the same. I forgive ; & i fear karma will be its bane. why fear ? It wants to reconnect the nodes, I want to keep them severed; they have other junctions now that weave into beds and bridges and fine fabric. )
feathers whisper
(in his voice)
'I fear eye not seeing me
Hiding from the eye; I see; I cry; toobe y seen by the eye .
He does not see me ? ! did I see him ? '
i refer to It
as a voice
It does not speak
make sounds or words
yet It filters its expressions through
- it is Lingua the lord ;
creation out of no
purpose - - - .. no -
purpose pyre of
stagnataion , smoke
puffing mountain-tops
to tell the villagers
- clusters of neurons –
to panic - ideas
are tearing at their
walls - pulling itself
apart dis- associatie
twin electron pairs
loosing rhythm
presence
reverberate in hyper-
linked images - dynamic
and moving
all recognizable , stored
smells , sometimes just
sensations
recency pulls a flat screen
over pooled memories
threaded onto bundles
of pathways
ways that lead no
where if you look
and everywhere
if you perceive
association dance in your aura
like history this
memory is a highly
edited meme-infused episode
… well a series of episodes
like the photo-shopped version
of a model or our previous prime minister
this is more like
the edited hard-drive
that holds all the versions
in the crop:
‘ the made-up younger versions
the drugged-up older version
the funny, the twisted, the nice the sad etc etc etc etc
hard to recall which ones
got saved
which ones deleted ?
what he .. ? .. / I named it
and which one I am
looking at right now
was it labelled wrong ?
Did I edit this ?
or is this real ..
this intangible
presence , a new label ?
it sutured itself
onto my visuo –
spatial
sketchpad
like migraine dots onto
my internal perception
it sutured itself onto
my neck
stitches bleeding a bit
cleansing in ionised
silver ( ag ) water ,
cloves, myrrh & eucalyptus
oil
gargling , swallowed a bit of the oil
accidentally
& vomit
chocolate and ice cream
onto the ground
& I pull off
this label , - tag
..won’t read it
throw it away
have to read it
can’t help but read it
burn its body
cant help to hear it
kick its ashes
you are still here
as I crack you out of my spine
Saturday, November 22, 2008
vacana of between xiii
he comes to visit now that
my garden is growing
in complexity with rare birds
visiting
he eyes them up to eat them
I encourage him, because they ate
my strawberries
we never feed him
he plays with his claws out
purring
HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus of Be tweihn(ai)
the do-
(I love the Moldy Peaches and the Brian Jonestown Massacre)
((Yes I know – might make you think of arguments you would throw at Peter Doherty, and yes he did a cover of the Modly Peaches song; ' Who's got the crack' ; But that , should never take away from the rawness, beauty and talent of what they created. ) )
hurry hurry ; a tiny voice of the human race
dismable and fleeting
twirling , whirling
changing , streaming
dancing, beating
turnable and lasting
it told the wisdom of the current world
it told the truth in fiction hidden under rocks
((ghoough ramaloke anganghnaungh larf-chi graagh))
he spoke the vision of the way we should take
((gyrraattoo omhg derm swiggily schmoo))
to find the bridges to the age of the ocean
(
swallow fishes as they steam and scheme
((
a spectacle of kaviar and piranha orgies
((
blood and guts of cows and sheep
((sshhrrrshhhsssssswwh))
pentapi – the five armed giant global squid sucks onto the whale(whail) ; sucks it dry , geyser cries
sonar screams, reverberates in the body as he sucks on leviathan
sweating money through cylindrical tubes coated in moneymill
phalanges
in the night the mare rode the tiny flake of the human race
to lead the hope; beauty is the runner of the beast ; realise yourself
turn; I need you ; I need you; steed goes round and round, grassing patterns
hang upside down, vote for the dawn, there's only two paths , I wanna run
in the forest, dodging trees, ; I need you ; I need you ; chasing
dismable and fleeting
chasing , racing
confusing, refusing
accepting, partaking
steaming, dreaming
turnable and lasting
can you hear his tiny voice ? I can't ahahaha so tiny
tune in your pop skull – can't you hear the rawness of his voice
not polished, not edited - not perfected for your sober ear
don't listen to the Moldy Peaches or The Briant Joenstown Massacre
who perfected that raw , unedited voice in a plethora of heroin visions
tune it out , tune him out; tune it out; tune him out , tune it out , tune
the donkey fucks you into a mule, takes his time, does it hard and long
until you lay down, starfish on the ground, and worm along the ground
to distract yourself from the constant pumping, throbbing, breathing,
signals, cameras, waves, texts, calls, spy ware and policing
lodged and nestled into our mental cavities, gyrates and whispers
lullabies from the seven tongues of doctored psych-babble
derive derrida, derrida derives deconstruct never into laws
always questions ; the search was never about the situational
answer; the sediment of a growing spiralling puddle
books are covered under layers of fish fertiliser
rotted into pulp, petrified to stone or frozen in sap
only the moving text knots like a seed, spreads like spores
roots into the crap-soil and weave around stone
oxygen plant of aquarius in an aquarium
Friday, August 22, 2008
Vacana of Between xii.
the ocean becomes a
myriad of sequin voice glimmer
when the micro stir the body
megas stretches white fingers at the sky-
crash into the Great
his inverted eye and tangled beard
covers the water
with raging neglect
can I see the ocean
without rejecting the micro-
saga
megas
voice
HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus of Be tweihn(ai)
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Vacana of Between xi
After listening to the 33 per fumes of pleasure by Alan Brunton, reading Pedagogy of Hope by paolo Freire and re-exploring the ideas of Candide by Voltaire; in reflection of goddess
her blood ink flows from her fingertips
it embraces his apex as she grips his head
what is your name ?
there is an abysmal silence as her smile makes all questions
evaporate
there is no name; goddess appears in a million stars
planets circle nodes in tireless loops
he is walking along the shore, naked feet against stone
each stone tumbled to a polished smoothness
crystals colour the topography in lines
spreading into calligraphy in the sketchpad of thought
Goddess rushes through his body and kisses his spine
he is having coffee with Thoth and Horus in a bar
where his friends used to never eat
she gives him a moment while she explores art
with Sophia and Aphrodite
what is your name ?
she whispers , He shouts
who cares ! there is no name
Freedom has a high price;
the same as slavery
the difference is seated on another pole
difference is you pay
with pleasure, love and smiles
even when that smile is dimmed by tears
is it the free
or the enslaved
that pull the carriage of complexity
the black horse breathes steam and tosses his head
the white horse grasses and grows fat
we want you to grow fat
with promise fat with dreams
who has the trodden road
engraved into the sole of their feet
soul of their feat
Free - dom slave - ry
such polarities connected
by the solar marrow
hands reject the other hands
persistently and forcefully through space
embers burst
into our solar tongues
like twin electrons humming, oscaillates, in tune
continuum impacts
freedom
cycle connects the dots
of rise and fall
expansion of the chest
releasing air
changing minds
Freedom implodes
continuum into
slavery
this is the pain you feel in the illusion of Candide
“all is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.”
where the tears fall inwardly
the core is moist in the pain of Candide
micromegas laughs in the curves of space
too large to see, to small to be
the dynamic man in the mountain of the silver scarf
of comets that move in spirals along her outline
he wakes, he screams at the pain of Candide
he never saw the redness of her lips in the shadows
the fire burnt is hands as he fumbled in the dark
eyes blinded by the light, ; the sun will burn you , the sun will blind you
the sun will tear you apart , don’t look , don’t look
the first delirious step split the page in half
leather bindings flake from age, canvas bulges in faded paint
paint bubbles on the surface of his wood
the sun still burns the retina, look into the blindspot
He arrived at her knees, her lips were too bright
his hair in her fingers she pulled his head up, the brilliance lit through lids
white noise let in the ellipse widening, double ellipse; slits of vision
spasmodical dance at the brief touch of her saliva
his words were in her lips as the pain let go
he looked up at the light ; it embraced his flight
departing from the utopia of pain
like a hacksaw at his old bones
chack a chack a chack a chack a chack
he swore his life free, trapped in poverty
he swore his voice free, chained in cencorship
he swore his mind free, bound to code and convention
chack a chack a chack a chack a chack
He’s our gardening Angel;
Jesus scares and he made all the bulls
for us to ride into the cross
Cock & Bull
did you miss the subtle satire
of the sentimental traveller who spent five pages
on describing a single moment, a brief encounter
of a lady that caught attention
of experience not contained in facts
that stripped the face and pulled out the idea
of objective observation; a reality only alive
in historical books and the Nouvelle grown old
have you lived your life
between the mind and the trees
HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus of Be tweihn(ai)
HUM i HeruUhaM (repeated)
ohm
he is not an empty file to the teacher to fill
this is the pedagogy of oppression
he is not a complete file for the teacher to trigger
this is the pedagogy of the divine
we need teachers that learn and learners that teach
some would say this to be
a mere cul-de-sac of Marxist palaver
if reciprocity is a dead end
then altruism does not exist
if altruism does not exist
then his experience is full of lies
if you see lies then you never listened
to the open question in his voice
never listened
f laws
o f
con
D
conditioned
ITI
conditioned
O
ed
truth
o f
con
D
conditioned
HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus of Be tweihn(ai)
Monday, June 30, 2008
name-ism; on complexity and demands for explanations
name-ism ; on complexity and demands for explanations;
They carved a maze into the mountain
with locked fence posts blocking the right path
smeared with wax seals of gilded writing of codes
and conventions that drains the climbing text of its own persona
into a drone outdated by the time it reaches the peak
where the pied cow kicks him off the preaching ledge
to find that personae again, anima crippled, finds personae
scorn, smelted into the venerable
pied cow
eaves of the orchestrated o bligator
gourmet-rocked like preying mantis
in the hollow glow does he still whisper
does he still flow where he stirs the stagnate
puzzled into form trodden path
tools and nimble fingers to keep you alive
my nose is cold and the frost is nipping at my chin
while the slug comes into my house, squeezes
through water cracks of cemented walls
dark, water comes muddy brown in slits
leaking wounds , dark water comes
through the tectonic plates of garden paths
where the stampede follows the red velvet psycho bunny
distracted by the black and white , in corset and garter belts, bunny
chorus of mountain nymphs;
I’m wasted squeeze my creation
wasted tension the sheep is wolf clothing
circus round and round we go
I’m wasted think I’m gonna be sick
wasted I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m better than the test
circus spasm, spasm, go
these plants, meadows, of eyes
scream in brutal harmonies; waves of the seas that stains
the dream of what the I can be
that lifts beyond the tragedy, froths high exposing
corralled rock bottom , contagious
clarity between
the leaves of or chest-rated
clatter of the congealing ban-everything mob
my noose is warm and magnets are nipping at my chin
mind is hematite to the rigid moulds of metal society
metal monkey rides the wooden ox
chalk footprints of carbon headprints leaving
soulwrought ornate filigree symbols
to decorate our attended desires
chorus of desert valkyries;
I’m circus plonking to mastication
circus of truth in media juices
wasted eyes like ruins
I’m circus think I’m gonna be bloated
circus inverted cripple shimmy
wasted twitch, twitch, go
mind the cave the mountains hollow
here I can chip carve the stone until
it exposes the neural roots that connects
the mountain to the ground
stalagmite fingers of petrified lightning
from the crooks beating of polar clouds
here in the crystallized pockets of volcanic stones
I can see circus
the eaves of the orchestrated ord ained
leaves of the book o the tree
the lemon tree where the masked child was crowned
stuck in the crown the hermit grounds the bark
snorts it and falls and parties by the roots
where he could see the geometry of the bridge
but fell in love with the river underneath
the same river that tumbles stones into orbs ; balls
same river that fills up Mugabes wells and fuels
the Israeli war machine
river that creates the cusps where we can tie
our wooden rafts, hollowed logs and chromed body kits
together to watch the frothing rivers endless rage
chorus of toadstool fairies;
wasted circus transient is the spine
wasted magnetic she holds my joint
circus voice like horizon
circus wasted think I’m gonna explode
circus expand outside a frame
wasted twitch, spasm, grow
their walls taught the birds-chest boy how to climb
with torn pads in his knees and a chronically aching shoulder
clouds of herbs buffering away the doctors pill serving tray
their walls taught the boy how to climb
but never to build
build the spiral
torsion; build the spiral
they never taught me how to build
every stone is a trial
build the trial
stone; build the trial
those that look for the straight line will always get lost
there is no straight line normal is not normal
circus looks for the straight line looks at the surface
attention is wasted lost in the straight line
want me to explain ? lost in the surface
want to know the answer ? lost in the straight line
blind to complexity lost in the surface
what you look for should not exist
in art and poetry
Monday, June 16, 2008
Vacana of Between x
Vacana of Between x
We;
average animateassiduousbriskconbrio
entre-nous conspiritoebullient energeticenterprising
Our
interjacent euphoricexuberanceflamboyantforceful
intermediary headyintoxicated pluckyspiritedspiritful
Will
intermediate vigorousvivaciouszealouszest
intervenient élanvital breathdivinespark
Their
intervening lifeforcepsychesoulvitalforcevitality
mean élananimation bouncebriodash
To
medial espritlifelivelinesspertsparkle
medium vervevigorvim vivaciousvivacity
Down
middle-of-the-road zipanimationanimusapparitionardor
middling atmanattitude bansheebraverybreathbrio
Why
moderate charactercheerfulnesscouragedashdedication?
parenthetical demondeterminationdrive dryadectoplasmelf
forcefully
separating encourageenergyenterpriseenthusiasmesprit
amid espritdecorpsessence exhilarationfairyfireforce,
We;
amidst genieghostghoulgoblingremlingumptionguts
among haghearthobgoblinimp incubusinspirationintent
Live
average intoxicationinvigorationkelpielemureslifeloyalty
betwixt meaningmettlemood moralemotivationmoxie
Our
halfway musenumenoomphoptimismoreadpassionpep
intermediate periphantasmphantom pluckpneumapoltergeist
We;
intervening psychepuckpurportresolutionsoulspecterspookspritespunkstrengthsubstancesuccubus
within sylphtempertenacityundinevigorvimvisitation vivacitywillpowerzeitgeist
betweonum
i HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus of Be tweihn(ai)
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Vacana of Between ix
I’d like to run laugh
a little reason to repair
what have I done to deserve
vision to see the riddle and her touch
where the tenderness and torsion ride
and life turns me always haunts
me on where dynamic
walls might shift fall
reach ing out the fake
O why can’t you see that
the costumes we wear are the symbols
we carry history in the groove of
masks O transient can you see
bind my chaos in
thin webs o hm
I would like to
st ay
la ugh
Friday, May 23, 2008
Observations of paint # 7
Observations of paint # 7
Mariú Súarez, “Truth”, 72"x60", oil and egg-tempera on canvas, from the series The Beginning of a New Era
Veristic surrealism (vs the automatists )
Paranoiac Critical Method to
Oniric-Critical Method (Dali) to
the path of individuation (Jung)
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Observations in paint # 5
Monday, May 5, 2008
vii
on the floor, in loading docks
our work space is filled
with minds
Attending
Dreams
Holding
Dyspnea at bay
Bottled up by pharmaceutical remedies
Poking your finger in the hole in a dam
Builds the pressure Nausea
The headache , dry mouth
Ramped up heart rate
Crushing expenses
flag poles the will
on standby on a stretcher
stretches the mind
universal focus scatter
white froth, white noise
obscure the embers
of Between
vi.
there is a constant rumble of waves
outside my window
from the ocean of roads
weaving between neon flecked islands
calming
constant rumbling chaos of ocean
I find it calming
o spirit of between
v.
from start to chain to end
i chased his tail and he chased mine
in the dojo of uncle code
who stained the owl cheery red
cherry marinated in cock
tails drunk that hollows out symbols
in the breeze by the pool in a penthouse
while gourmet chortling at
the live footage of bare fists
breaking a bulls horn,
killing it
only fists
looking at their fading hands
ornate vines
like venetian filigree
caught a running man
like a knot of twine spun
lifted from the ground in embrace
untangled in a heap a moment
of finding footing in new direction
a hesitation
dirty souls
shoes heavy
dirty lungs
mind heavy
he stares into the horizon
she points at the crooked tail
are they parallel?
horison sinks and deforms
parallel ? twin steps head for the edge
of perception
with a Question
of between
iv.
The circle draws
circles seeing him-
self as a line in-
side the orb
He arrow kisses the throat
of the goat on the altar
in the de-
votion
of circles
words litter the ground
in red and yellow leaves
thrown at the sky
they become dust before
a single sentence
reaches the wall
of an orb
is the circle moving
pushed by hands of being ?
Between ?
maybe she’s born with it
maybe it’s make-believe
Oprah’s built a new school in africa
where the students get one visitor a month
forbidden contact with their family
and friends outside the school
breeding african-americans in Africa
donate your money now
or we let the children die
Cock and bull
all
an 18th century gentleman
represents in a modern movie script
is the mock-reality-tv-behind-the-scenes-handy-cam thing
that has been popularised through shows like
arrested development, the office, the extras
and the sad ‘comeback’ with phoebe, what was her real name again ?
and of course mockumentaries by the brilliant group of people that made
… …., waiting for guffman, best in show, a mighty wind and …new… ,
the finest of our modern mock-reality or mock-novel satire
or is it possibly mock-media now
at least they mentioned the black page
but left out the plotlines and the literary treasures
like the blank fill in yourself page describing a lovely lady
or the squiggle representing a characters whip trajectory
cock and bull
watch out for the sentimental traveller behind it
Swift was a romantic weaver
holding on to the dream
of his indian princess
who is promised to another
oh dear Eliza
his ink would always love you
cock and bull
he spun post-modern satire
before there was a modern to be post
about
maybe she’s born with it
maybe he’s just a bit mentally
sick diseased
disordered
Dr. Phil seems to have a growing following
of little bald psycho-tv-preachers
guiding americans to fit into the mould
of average society
along with Tony Robbins
these people represent our preachers
in the stead of the church and priests
of A/CCC state
that is an
atheist/christian capitalist conservative state
so with the DSM-IV under their arms
like a psychologists bible
and jars of pills in their suitcase
they herd you blindly on
like an ant in a white line
Å
Å
Tower of Yabberwocky
She muted, man
she Muted the Babel;
climbed the tower
Ivory only reached
to the clouds
it was pitch
voideous
black, man;
beyond the blanket of fog
found
perfection in absorbing colour
perfect
is never perfect
enough
Building
sky scrapers
to reach
phallic heights
needing a Band
of Hope
travelling to peaks
like a heart beats spike
huddled into sterile
elevators
guided into studios
heaving, strumming and beating out pop, bubble bursting cheese;
a view in panorama
of our modern architecture
like fast food inspired art
between sponge-like monuments
launch
at the sky
so fast
the skin tear off the bones
falling off the tower
or beaten down by the
monstrously
robotic
taxidermi
King of the Forrest/Tower/Hill
falling de-volutional design burns into white canvas
cross of heretic christ burns into a holy mountain full of caves and volcanic pride
wondering
if goddess is
androgynous
third-eye
of vision
of depth in sight
or a
branding of a perfect circle
with an upside-down
cross
at its base
wondering as the Yabberwock
eats
the knots of global babel
that could have riddled
in to
a new horizon