step 1: work in a quarry
* (step 21: despite prodigious talent.)
step 2: when you come home, never take her seriously.
step 3: be surprisingly eloquent, considering your social standing.
step 4: she plays ‘fetch’.
step 5: she doesn’t want to know where you’re going.
step 6: bowl. well.
step 7: chew while she fails.
step 8: ‘just do what the hell I tell you’.
step 9: compare her, unfavourably.
step 10: plot against her with your friends.
step 11: a toupée gives you ‘a little class’…?
step 12: encourage her to see other people – she’s chicken.
step 13: [if] she’s pathetic, say so.
step 14: say so if she isn’t, too.
step 15: ‘do you love me?’… ‘what do you think?’
step 16: make him feel small, it’ll make you feel good.
step 17: laugh her into her knickers.
step 18: always drive, and drink.
step 19: road rage is your friend.
step 20: bark the dog into submission.
step 21: see * vis-à-vis playing the piano.
step 22: she gets in the car when you want her to – until then, fondle.
step 23: make the child bawl.
step 24: make fun of it – bawl louder.
step 25: if he’s trying to be the bigger man, he’s the smaller man.
step 25a: when the big guy gets arrested, you know you were onto something.
step 26: punch fi[r]st, ask questions later – lots of them.
step 27: if she howls while she plays Bach, take her over the baby grand – she’ll howl louder that way.
step 28: take her clothes off. yours stay on.
step 29: ‘I’ll be gone for 2 or 3 weeks.’
step 30: don’t call.
step 31: ‘I never told you it’d amount to anything, did I?’
step 32: it was a joke. Take her with you.
step 33: when they’ve had a car-wreck, and you stop on the side of the road, ask them ‘what the hell’s going on here?’
step 34: she’ll believe you when you tell her Alaska was cold… before ‘The Big Thaw.’
step 35: tell all of them to shut up. They will.
step 36: always order off the menu.
step 37: be clever, then trash the diner.
step 38: make her go to sleep from behind.
step 39: ‘everything would be alright if you didn’t open your stupid mouth.’
step 40: make her wait in the motel, for days.†
step 41: tell her she ‘can always go home.’
step 42: your brother’s young wife is hot for you. She likes ‘riding’ – she finds it ‘invigorating’.
step 43: horse around ‘til they leave the room. All of them.
step 44: make fun of her feelings, destroy her perfume, push her on the bed, tell her to shut up. She’s yours.
step 45: make her chase you. Make her sprint.
step 46: is ‘Rayette’ really the answer to the question, ‘what’s the female version of Raymond?’?
step 47: if you really push it, it turns out she has a high boredom threshold.†
step 48: they’re all full of shit. They’re totally full of shit.
step 49: leave suddenly. Abandon your possessions.
step 50: †: 2 weeks!?!???!?!!!!?!!?!111111!??!??!111?!?1 [a manuscript visual pun.]
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Oh no, The Beats are coming through the wall again; or, this was going to be a serious attempt at a poem, but then we decided to do something else.
No clap allowed
Chorus:
No clap aloud!
[silent clapping ensues]
Yo! Keep yo’ clap t’yourself
Nobody wants the clap in this room
Take the clap and put it outta here, Bubba.
When I first saw that microphone,
The white against the black, you know,
I thought it was bloody joan baez again,
In silhouette.
And I think to myself
What a wonderful would it would be to not have to ever hear fucking joan fucking baez ever a-fuckin’-gain – that’s tmesis.
And then when you see him walk over you get the perspective – what was a woman is actually a stick with an ear ontop.
I ain’t lookin’ to compete with you, beat, or cheat, or mystery at you.
Don’t look back out
Takes part
Notice: Audio or picture can suddenly disappear - not my doing; this is afterall an outtake.
You might like this one, that is, I’ll play it for you next time.
You muslim, cow, ink-swat you kneed - Your thin quill lasts,
Butter-tether is the key to your butter-grape breakfast.
He understands a pauper wi’is strict gum,
Espying white messíah in the slum.
Whip out!
the sinks are cunning!
true!
A pig saws all the cows, baby shrew.
[signage:] “For hire: shades of bumblers”
[diatribe:] “experimental science
Fakes what you have gathered from cow-incidence -
The empty danglings clatter from their spleens
Is drowning. crabby platters on their means!
Maybe you could plan a survey, tooooooooooooo?
O! Scientific method can’t make true.”
[solo, ad libitum]
[interjection during solo:] How many verses are there?
And when with success, sails err, they don’t mobiles own
All your rain, dear armies, are all going home.
The plover who has just walked out your door
Has blanket-bombed his (s)trumpets through the whore.
The carpet-spindle’s looming under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.
Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you.
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you.
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew
And it's all Nova-now, Baby Blue.
The Everyplagiarist
An allegorical figure -
Not so much a person as a role
Like fight club, Spartacus, Zorro, or the Scarlet Pimpernel,
This is about the only poem I’ve ever written
One reason too long
He didn’t tap into my masochism
He just hurt my feelings
Wood girds
Bratt Pidd
She’s his boyfriend
I’m fucking matt damon
NO! I’m Spartacus
On the bed – on the floor (on a towel by the door),
In the tub in the coar (up against the miniboar).
I’m fucking obama
Inside their head,
on the floor when we talk about the war in the dark,
in every single election that we’ve had so far.
Celestial quires will be singing (when she’s fucking obama)
And the world will be perfect, Uppity-Black-Man-David.
(it ends on a darkie note)
Chorus:
No clap aloud!
[silent clapping ensues]
Yo! Keep yo’ clap t’yourself
Nobody wants the clap in this room
Take the clap and put it outta here, Bubba.
When I first saw that microphone,
The white against the black, you know,
I thought it was bloody joan baez again,
In silhouette.
And I think to myself
What a wonderful would it would be to not have to ever hear fucking joan fucking baez ever a-fuckin’-gain – that’s tmesis.
And then when you see him walk over you get the perspective – what was a woman is actually a stick with an ear ontop.
I ain’t lookin’ to compete with you, beat, or cheat, or mystery at you.
Don’t look back out
Takes part
Notice: Audio or picture can suddenly disappear - not my doing; this is afterall an outtake.
You might like this one, that is, I’ll play it for you next time.
You muslim, cow, ink-swat you kneed - Your thin quill lasts,
Butter-tether is the key to your butter-grape breakfast.
He understands a pauper wi’is strict gum,
Espying white messíah in the slum.
Whip out!
the sinks are cunning!
true!
A pig saws all the cows, baby shrew.
[signage:] “For hire: shades of bumblers”
[diatribe:] “experimental science
Fakes what you have gathered from cow-incidence -
The empty danglings clatter from their spleens
Is drowning. crabby platters on their means!
Maybe you could plan a survey, tooooooooooooo?
O! Scientific method can’t make true.”
[solo, ad libitum]
[interjection during solo:] How many verses are there?
And when with success, sails err, they don’t mobiles own
All your rain, dear armies, are all going home.
The plover who has just walked out your door
Has blanket-bombed his (s)trumpets through the whore.
The carpet-spindle’s looming under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.
Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you.
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you.
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew
And it's all Nova-now, Baby Blue.
The Everyplagiarist
An allegorical figure -
Not so much a person as a role
Like fight club, Spartacus, Zorro, or the Scarlet Pimpernel,
This is about the only poem I’ve ever written
One reason too long
He didn’t tap into my masochism
He just hurt my feelings
Wood girds
Bratt Pidd
She’s his boyfriend
I’m fucking matt damon
NO! I’m Spartacus
On the bed – on the floor (on a towel by the door),
In the tub in the coar (up against the miniboar).
I’m fucking obama
Inside their head,
on the floor when we talk about the war in the dark,
in every single election that we’ve had so far.
Celestial quires will be singing (when she’s fucking obama)
And the world will be perfect, Uppity-Black-Man-David.
(it ends on a darkie note)
art smatters, inspired by the g(l)o(r)y that is beater de polla
incorporating, in this special, signified, manuscript-only edition, Mark Quinn’s severed head - this text does not believe in the present presence of the signifier - hence it presents the present presence of the actual phenomenon, as yet to be harvested, and will present it on a special ‘pop-up’ page.
further severance will be provided by anal-Isis of the great stanfoe myfoot’s pepriicka-poem, translated from the engrish by (hansel and)1 gretel adorno:
we are severed; or, a brutal history of childhood evil, by --------
to man-food, re-stoned.
theodor adorno was, undoubtedly,
maximum horkheimer.
he wasn’t a child, ever,
hence his work has provèd philosophy and
cultural theory. he said of it,
"I’m not sure what it would advert to, but
stop, unravel her, and, in F,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
(please do not piss, nor step the grass-on.)"
most are less fortunate, like Ozzy.
man dies as children eat his flesh,
portents of an universal bum,
spreading imagoes of woe on cigarrete
packs everywhere, profound
Wittgenstein, from Philosophical Investigations
for man, content (I’m so predictable).
it looks pretty, clean, and postmodern.
yes.
do you get
your own room? i thought you’d like it, duh.
you knock me to quell
my not-sharing of the unconditional.
on my bike, bring me my boots, and chews - it’s all good
if you sell out, without sticking it to the man,
man, like Dog Dylan. I know where I’m going
to piss; do you? Hopefully not on the grass
unless you’re a younger Hegelian, abusing the
sun and its lack of significatory significance
by talking on your hellofone. ‘present your presence
at the tone’, while thinking idle forts
which have nonetheless more import
than the Son of Cod,
export, too - for ‘military’ distance.
Dieter B’ Dollar: I smoked that Gaulois.
the frenchman, he died by my hand’s pearl-handled magnum
opus, and so will you, bro-fo.
Category: Jungian, a new
historicism-chat with amm -
Pod hotel, new Yo,
the quirky genius, Ozymandias -
look on my quirks, y flighty,
and quibble as Johnson at
Shakes-P, nods.
exemplifying my pointless life,
my Eat’n2 dentist e’en
proscribed me
eatin’ glasses, a lyric eye
he has, outreach’d to me
and by me, and for me, to it.
happy birthday for tomorrow, Creeps,
and tomorrow, and tomorrow -
I am a man, inconstant sorrow,
a gay-seaming man.
I have no mouth and I must scream the seventh
seal - C. Lyons be damned. if I stand up
it will fall from some part of my body
where it has deposited, secreted itself -
my seventh, sealed mouth - sealions be damned.
This Kantian flaw floored me; it just
wasn’t funny until you pointed at the actual,
contingent flaw, rather than the necessary
floor, like howard hughes chanting
the way of the fuschia, the way of the
fuschia. derrida would love ‘this’
(you can’t sea the quotation, Marx,
or the whey that these words are
spelt (flower)). You’re a waste,
disposal operative. I need a différant
mobile army of metaphors.
1 - myfootnote 1: Hansel has been undeleted from this criticism, like every bizarre detail of simon sumatra’s highly personal life, or dining habits (worn, eaten, or unconditionally not-eaten). he is normally ignored because he dropped the ball, or the bread, and was shunnèd.
2 - myfootnote 2: Eaten, eat-in, in Eton.
further severance will be provided by anal-Isis of the great stanfoe myfoot’s pepriicka-poem, translated from the engrish by (hansel and)1 gretel adorno:
we are severed; or, a brutal history of childhood evil, by --------
to man-food, re-stoned.
theodor adorno was, undoubtedly,
maximum horkheimer.
he wasn’t a child, ever,
hence his work has provèd philosophy and
cultural theory. he said of it,
"I’m not sure what it would advert to, but
stop, unravel her, and, in F,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
(please do not piss, nor step the grass-on.)"
most are less fortunate, like Ozzy.
man dies as children eat his flesh,
portents of an universal bum,
spreading imagoes of woe on cigarrete
packs everywhere, profound
Wittgenstein, from Philosophical Investigations
for man, content (I’m so predictable).
it looks pretty, clean, and postmodern.
yes.
do you get
your own room? i thought you’d like it, duh.
you knock me to quell
my not-sharing of the unconditional.
on my bike, bring me my boots, and chews - it’s all good
if you sell out, without sticking it to the man,
man, like Dog Dylan. I know where I’m going
to piss; do you? Hopefully not on the grass
unless you’re a younger Hegelian, abusing the
sun and its lack of significatory significance
by talking on your hellofone. ‘present your presence
at the tone’, while thinking idle forts
which have nonetheless more import
than the Son of Cod,
export, too - for ‘military’ distance.
Dieter B’ Dollar: I smoked that Gaulois.
the frenchman, he died by my hand’s pearl-handled magnum
opus, and so will you, bro-fo.
Category: Jungian, a new
historicism-chat with amm -
Pod hotel, new Yo,
the quirky genius, Ozymandias -
look on my quirks, y flighty,
and quibble as Johnson at
Shakes-P, nods.
exemplifying my pointless life,
my Eat’n2 dentist e’en
proscribed me
eatin’ glasses, a lyric eye
he has, outreach’d to me
and by me, and for me, to it.
happy birthday for tomorrow, Creeps,
and tomorrow, and tomorrow -
I am a man, inconstant sorrow,
a gay-seaming man.
I have no mouth and I must scream the seventh
seal - C. Lyons be damned. if I stand up
it will fall from some part of my body
where it has deposited, secreted itself -
my seventh, sealed mouth - sealions be damned.
This Kantian flaw floored me; it just
wasn’t funny until you pointed at the actual,
contingent flaw, rather than the necessary
floor, like howard hughes chanting
the way of the fuschia, the way of the
fuschia. derrida would love ‘this’
(you can’t sea the quotation, Marx,
or the whey that these words are
spelt (flower)). You’re a waste,
disposal operative. I need a différant
mobile army of metaphors.
1 - myfootnote 1: Hansel has been undeleted from this criticism, like every bizarre detail of simon sumatra’s highly personal life, or dining habits (worn, eaten, or unconditionally not-eaten). he is normally ignored because he dropped the ball, or the bread, and was shunnèd.
2 - myfootnote 2: Eaten, eat-in, in Eton.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
i feel a poem coming on
Hannah arendt’s lesser known text – the oranges of totalitarianism (1952) – is divided into 2 sections – ‘colours’ and ‘kinds of fruit’ – chapters include – burnt umber, sunset glow, golden bark, Clementine, navel, Satsuma.
you no longer serve our porpoises
Daniel day-lookalike
It is important for us to be able to get to the heart of what was, essentially, a triangle."
the sweep and focus of the claim
seems rhetorically motivated –
serving as a counter to,
or reaction against,
a similar ‘false generalisation’
in ‘popular judgements on pictures’,
privileging their poetic qualities
over their apprehension per-se.
Pater’s iconoclasm himself generalises the plastic arts,
being Pater’s favoured field of study,
the sweep of, abstracted from its context in ‘The’,
so the maxim goes, and
in the plastic arts, for example, it can
be treated as an analogy –
the best units of cultural production,
to which Pater might ascribe the term ‘all art’
in some way reach towards. Paradoxically,
a study such as a constant, not a single,
continuous artistic language
translated into different media-objects,
to assessment of plastic arts as purely ‘poetic’,
although each art thus
has its own specific order.
wide she leave; wide she return!
and not one lemon ciao.
went to
brunch at lunch
wear people.
x.o.x.o
Gossip Goy (gossip got!)
gossip received – begotten, not created.
O! come! let us udder him.
that is a more elegant choice.
not a more elegant
‘don’t bother saying anything –
i wouldn’t believe you anyway.’
‘but I was just talking to you.’
‘no. you weren’t
probably lying through yo’ ass.’
‘is he bragging about me?’
‘no. he likes to brag about
his conquests, not his victims.’
‘come on. you can help me get
ready for brunch – be in
my people-coat –
donate your flesh, that,
me veiled, appearing, I want
to get out of here before
someone throws me down and tattoos
me, distracting her from her [k]needs.
‘what are you doing right
now? how about me!’
ease-dropping on my probate conversations
Pompey: stop penetrating my airspace, Caesar.
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young horny sexy babes shaking their tits young.
like ‘dance yourself thin’.
Little, young tight-pussy,
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but so disgraced a part, whose issue
Will smell me to my grave:
Will be my knell.
Go, play, boy, play boy –
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To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.
I have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances;
But not for joy; not joy. This entertainment
May a free face put on, derive a liberty
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slut-FRANK O’HARA.
between the poet and the person
Luck-y
It’s a very exciting movement
which will un-doubted-ly
ha-ave lots of adhe-rents.
puts the po-emsquarely,
in between two juicy cocks.
by burning the male gays
the poem is correspondingly satisfied.
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et tu, Fruity?
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