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)
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
