Posts tagged with ‘poetry’

Borgeois. Quaratania I.

Eskimos
in their new homes in Florida
take to being slow

holding a candle
but not holding
a button-up dress.
Nothing angry can be gathered
in this chapel.
Alcohol meat
with inuit breath.

Borgeois. Quaratania I.

Eskimos
in their new homes in Florida
take to being slow

holding a candle
but not holding
a button-up dress.
Nothing angry can be gathered
in this chapel.
Alcohol meat
with inuit breath.

Giacometti. Woman with Her Throat Cut.

At last
at the interstices of nature
and nightmare
the tendrils and exoshells
of godliness.

Tell us about 
the tin-barometer
of the psyche.
Weave your holodeck controls
and layers of tarp. 
Oversee 
amounts of lemon
controlled by phones
in the Netherlands.
We wonder aloud
at your happiness.

Giacometti. Woman with Her Throat Cut.

At last
at the interstices of nature
and nightmare
the tendrils and exoshells
of godliness.

Tell us about
the tin-barometer
of the psyche.
Weave your holodeck controls
and layers of tarp.
Oversee
amounts of lemon
controlled by phones
in the Netherlands.
We wonder aloud
at your happiness.

Giacometti. Hands Holding the Void (Invisible Object).

Back into the century
of being amphibian

but with helplessness
in our mouth and hands—
with symbolic systems in our eyes
and a bronze torture
in the leg
like the emigration bus
of Ayn Rand.

Giacometti. Hands Holding the Void (Invisible Object).

Back into the century
of being amphibian

but with helplessness
in our mouth and hands—
with symbolic systems in our eyes
and a bronze torture
in the leg
like the emigration bus
of Ayn Rand.

Ernst. Lunar Asparagus.

Elide with those big eyes,
white vegetable saleables
cast with fire,
nicely slimmed 
into palindrome talk.

Ernst. Lunar Asparagus.

Elide with those big eyes,
white vegetable saleables
cast with fire,
nicely slimmed
into palindrome talk.

Mussolini Wept

See Zizek touching his nose.
See it replaced by another kind of liability: 
sweet Princesse de Parme waving across the aisle
celebrating a very approximate breakdown
in the eye of eyes.
Leaping peppers could sometimes just as well be defined as
internal forcefields 
in the neverending story
of your white elephant salad.

Mussolini wept; catwalks fell;
and carefully manipulated concomitance relays its
retrospections, anticipations, and red breasts.
From the waste down we are the suspension of disbelief.
From the tombs of our fathers to now we are the activity,
or rather the presence, of the narrator himself.
Nothing can overreach its own nonorganized position.
All possibility laughs
like kind hatchets
in the unrealism garage.

seed text: Narrative Discourse, by Gérard Genet
art by recombiner

Mussolini Wept

See Zizek touching his nose.
See it replaced by another kind of liability:
sweet Princesse de Parme waving across the aisle
celebrating a very approximate breakdown
in the eye of eyes.
Leaping peppers could sometimes just as well be defined as
internal forcefields
in the neverending story
of your white elephant salad.

Mussolini wept; catwalks fell;
and carefully manipulated concomitance relays its
retrospections, anticipations, and red breasts.
From the waste down we are the suspension of disbelief.
From the tombs of our fathers to now we are the activity,
or rather the presence, of the narrator himself.
Nothing can overreach its own nonorganized position.
All possibility laughs
like kind hatchets
in the unrealism garage.

seed text: Narrative Discourse, by Gérard Genet
art by recombiner

Oppenheim. Red Head, Blue Body.

It is white that cancels out your gift to me
of compository grace,
the most colossal axe
I infatuate
as scene.

Oppenheim. Red Head, Blue Body.

It is white that cancels out your gift to me
of compository grace,
the most colossal axe
I infatuate
as scene.

Matisse. Dance (I).

Absolute and overwhelming,
your are the equation
of strong.

Let harps apply their holidays.
One knee has suggested
everything is wrong—
but the backs of women
recite the highest value
of ecologue

in plain arguments 
of rayon.

Matisse. Dance (I).

Absolute and overwhelming,
your are the equation
of strong.

Let harps apply their holidays.
One knee has suggested
everything is wrong—
but the backs of women
recite the highest value
of ecologue

in plain arguments
of rayon.

Ernst. Woman, Old Man, and Flower Femme.

Liberty is an empire empty-glass woman
with sneaky arms.
By wrapping, the buttocks is 
an eros of stone.
The man with his head in a golf course,
a visigoth visage, shrew.
The quiet behavior of eyes
that deliver the most globular
blue. We behold his crossed legs,
his over-easy hands, toiling
with galactic sauce.
The other back and butt of woman
has the blessedness
I am a slave of.
Again we have begotten the body
and dare to assess the face
of the west.

Ernst. Woman, Old Man, and Flower Femme.

Liberty is an empire empty-glass woman
with sneaky arms.
By wrapping, the buttocks is
an eros of stone.
The man with his head in a golf course,
a visigoth visage, shrew.
The quiet behavior of eyes
that deliver the most globular
blue. We behold his crossed legs,
his over-easy hands, toiling
with galactic sauce.
The other back and butt of woman
has the blessedness
I am a slave of.
Again we have begotten the body
and dare to assess the face
of the west.

Rodchenko. Non-Objective Painting No. 80.

Don’t disappear into the frailty of the visible;
instead, come into existence as being,
surface, a road of lust
unleashing the ratio
of hagiography.

Rodchenko. Non-Objective Painting No. 80.

Don’t disappear into the frailty of the visible;
instead, come into existence as being,
surface, a road of lust
unleashing the ratio
of hagiography.

The Perfect Poem

All my life I’ve been trying
to write the perfect poem
that only a few of us believe 
exists.

It begins with “ways of executing a blouse”:in a garden,
on Market St.,
while touching the vibrating octagon,
during early spring,
while attached to the space around you,
on a thin screen made of frog guts.

While you were sleeping
the earth rotated around its core, iron and smelt,
and worked its magnetic fields further toward
resolution.

The impossible brings itself to work everyday
attaining an awareness within what is forming.
How can you, a lavender cave, rest on a day like this?
The actuality of flatness calls us
to the opaque grasses
of epiphany.

seed text: Hello, the Roses, by Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge
art by owlwise12

The Perfect Poem

All my life I’ve been trying
to write the perfect poem
that only a few of us believe
exists.

It begins with “ways of executing a blouse”:
in a garden,
on Market St.,
while touching the vibrating octagon,
during early spring,
while attached to the space around you,
on a thin screen made of frog guts.

While you were sleeping
the earth rotated around its core, iron and smelt,
and worked its magnetic fields further toward
resolution.

The impossible brings itself to work everyday
attaining an awareness within what is forming.
How can you, a lavender cave, rest on a day like this?
The actuality of flatness calls us
to the opaque grasses
of epiphany.

seed text: Hello, the Roses, by Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge
art by owlwise12

Why Existentialism Frightens Children

The average and typical studio philosopher
holds on with her bright harp
holds on with her reality rhododendrons
holds tightly to the facticity spectrum
to the wiry headline toxins.

She stares out and thinks and thinks.
The head is cleared by activity of legs.
The head is cleared
by her wordless orphaned thoughts.

Nails in feet.
Flung skirts.
Human stags.

Giant metal pincers protrude from heaven
and pluck the family of earth
while helicopters and Apollonians gather round
crashing against the shoals of wind
like so many Achaean ships.

The Great Bear watches, 
soaking it all up, through every membrane, 
as if the whole body were a craving mouth. 

seed text: Ted Hughes, Collected Poems
art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

Why Existentialism Frightens Children

The average and typical studio philosopher
holds on with her bright harp
holds on with her reality rhododendrons
holds tightly to the facticity spectrum
to the wiry headline toxins.

She stares out and thinks and thinks.
The head is cleared by activity of legs.
The head is cleared
by her wordless orphaned thoughts.

Nails in feet.
Flung skirts.
Human stags.

Giant metal pincers protrude from heaven
and pluck the family of earth
while helicopters and Apollonians gather round
crashing against the shoals of wind
like so many Achaean ships.

The Great Bear watches,
soaking it all up, through every membrane,
as if the whole body were a craving mouth.

seed text: Ted Hughes, Collected Poems
art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

Ray. The Rope Dancer Accompanies Herself with Her Shadow.

The industry says
we must be gray
and in between
the life of palette and cologne.

Life of mono-stasis, 
of average armies
rolling the carpet out
in anatomic lunch lines.

At first we’re in an electric box
interfacing with the arachnid god;

then we’ve become a crown, a whole city
that knows the comeliness
of tone.

Ray. The Rope Dancer Accompanies Herself with Her Shadow.

The industry says
we must be gray
and in between
the life of palette and cologne.

Life of mono-stasis,
of average armies
rolling the carpet out
in anatomic lunch lines.

At first we’re in an electric box
interfacing with the arachnid god;

then we’ve become a crown, a whole city
that knows the comeliness
of tone.

Derain. Fishing Boats, Collioure.

Through blocky strokes
you’re reclined back
almost to kindergarten recognition. 
Sight as convex identity,
thick market
of fire-flesh-woman
in the sun.

Derain. Fishing Boats, Collioure.

Through blocky strokes
you’re reclined back
almost to kindergarten recognition.
Sight as convex identity,
thick market
of fire-flesh-woman
in the sun.

Van Gogh. The Olive Trees.

After many miles
we arrive at
the olive trees.
Castle water rocks push back
against the sky, refrain
from the puberty and gnarls
of cantankerous belowness
green and resolved
in crowded snores.

Van Gogh. The Olive Trees.

After many miles
we arrive at
the olive trees.
Castle water rocks push back
against the sky, refrain
from the puberty and gnarls
of cantankerous belowness
green and resolved
in crowded snores.

Now I Measure, I Preserve

These words are torn with a blue chin,
ruined in harmony
as children turn over the pages.

Nests of strong birds sleep with us:
storks, koalas, my razor, a papery tree,
subterfuge of language, 
ham sandwiches in the foreground.

They go
into the last beautiful thing—a list of songs,
into a cottage with a light in the window,
into a voice.

Masks pop up all over the grid of our 
monistic pickle jar strewn with nails.
Jealousy shoots its green flashes
out from behind the modesty wall 
where the calls of halflings swell
like knotted blue handkerchiefs.

The hand that holds the key 
is a withered hand, running about,  
unattached to any reason.

It goes
into a block of marble.
into the buffet where your grandmother ate bread.
into a copy of Don Juan.

It goes 
walking six abreast,
aflicker with illimitable chaos.

seed text: The Waves, by Virginia Woolf
art by Silvio Severino Collage

Now I Measure, I Preserve

These words are torn with a blue chin,
ruined in harmony
as children turn over the pages.

Nests of strong birds sleep with us:
storks, koalas, my razor, a papery tree,
subterfuge of language,
ham sandwiches in the foreground.

They go
into the last beautiful thing—a list of songs,
into a cottage with a light in the window,
into a voice.

Masks pop up all over the grid of our
monistic pickle jar strewn with nails.
Jealousy shoots its green flashes
out from behind the modesty wall
where the calls of halflings swell
like knotted blue handkerchiefs.

The hand that holds the key
is a withered hand, running about,
unattached to any reason.

It goes
into a block of marble.
into the buffet where your grandmother ate bread.
into a copy of Don Juan.

It goes
walking six abreast,
aflicker with illimitable chaos.

seed text: The Waves, by Virginia Woolf
art by Silvio Severino Collage