Posts tagged with ‘poetry’

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

Vibrant Lover In The Serene Rocks

B.T. Joy          

                Imagine pain 
as a ferryman in northern Catalonia. 
                There’s a bank he’s abandoned now for years 
where the people still long for his rough love. 
It’s about sundown. The hairy backs 
of his feet are spruced from pruning 
and he’s smoked the thirty-fifth cigarillo 
of the day to a burned down nub.  
                Across the copper river a grey lace 
of smoke from desecrated churches 
seems to be staining the water 
                and in Madrid 
Franco adjusts the tilt of his masterful beret.   
                In order to be a significant modern artist 
it may be necessary
to commit a few murders for recognition. 
Blame Salvador Dalí, 
who used Freud and the mystery of atoms
to prove his intuitions 
that the rocks round Cadaqués
could be anything at all:
                An up-crop of rhinoceros horn, 
a dying camel, a man face down
chronically masturbating in the bright yellow sun.   
                When objectivity died (blame Dalí) 
the obituary read:
survived by no heirs he sleeps now with Christ. 
His treasure hoard is ten thousand 
superfluous metaphors. 
We shall celebrate his passing
by pissing on Bernini. 
                Think of it as inversion.
The pink stones and the hornet hive. 
How starlings hove between roofs of fir. 
Radius. Amethyst. Nightjar. 
Moonflower. Railcar. Carapace. 
Oracle. Rogue. Royal. 
Fleece. Amorite. Cabinet. Cancer. 
Hillock. Woodcock. Parsley. 
Bone.
                All these outer things 
not themselves but standing 
for something abstract and inner. 
                Blame Salvador 
for making it unimportant 
if the river rains are beautiful or the chapel burns. 
Pain is a ferryman, lazing on the further bank.
                Your vibrant lover 
dances like an atom in the serene rocks.
                The contract you broke with reality 
you resigned with your persona. 
                What you know means nothing. 
That you’re known is paramount. 
                It may be necessary
to commit a few murders for recognition; 
now that it’s become harder than imagining, 
to imagine yourself unable to imagine 
that this writing desk is not a writing desk,  
but a brown pelican
with an ellipsis of silver pupils 
in its eyes orange 
and frisky as a fish-run. 

art by hheininge

Vibrant Lover In The Serene Rocks

B.T. Joy

      Imagine pain
as a ferryman in northern Catalonia.
      There’s a bank he’s abandoned now for years
where the people still long for his rough love.
It’s about sundown. The hairy backs
of his feet are spruced from pruning
and he’s smoked the thirty-fifth cigarillo
of the day to a burned down nub.
      Across the copper river a grey lace
of smoke from desecrated churches
seems to be staining the water
      and in Madrid
Franco adjusts the tilt of his masterful beret.
      In order to be a significant modern artist
it may be necessary
to commit a few murders for recognition.
Blame Salvador Dalí,
who used Freud and the mystery of atoms
to prove his intuitions
that the rocks round Cadaqués
could be anything at all:
      An up-crop of rhinoceros horn,
a dying camel, a man face down
chronically masturbating in the bright yellow sun.
      When objectivity died (blame Dalí)
the obituary read:
survived by no heirs he sleeps now with Christ.
His treasure hoard is ten thousand
superfluous metaphors.
We shall celebrate his passing
by pissing on Bernini.
      Think of it as inversion.
The pink stones and the hornet hive.
How starlings hove between roofs of fir.
Radius. Amethyst. Nightjar.
Moonflower. Railcar. Carapace.
Oracle. Rogue. Royal.
Fleece. Amorite. Cabinet. Cancer.
Hillock. Woodcock. Parsley.
Bone.
      All these outer things
not themselves but standing
for something abstract and inner.
      Blame Salvador
for making it unimportant
if the river rains are beautiful or the chapel burns.
Pain is a ferryman, lazing on the further bank.
      Your vibrant lover
dances like an atom in the serene rocks.
      The contract you broke with reality
you resigned with your persona.
      What you know means nothing.
That you’re known is paramount.
      It may be necessary
to commit a few murders for recognition;
now that it’s become harder than imagining,
to imagine yourself unable to imagine
that this writing desk is not a writing desk,
but a brown pelican
with an ellipsis of silver pupils
in its eyes orange
and frisky as a fish-run.

art by hheininge

Gauguin. Still Life with Three Puppies.

I belong to your blue,
to the unmatched layers
of your economy. Objectivity is
whatever things cost.
The outermost edge of fruit
is a moan of heaven.

Gauguin. Still Life with Three Puppies.

I belong to your blue,
to the unmatched layers
of your economy. Objectivity is
whatever things cost.
The outermost edge of fruit
is a moan of heaven.

Cézanne. The Bather.

What I like
is your governmental folds,
the blush in your knee.
As you step forward, you know
something left unfinished
has begun again to consume you
as the vapor consumes
the shoals.

Cézanne. The Bather.

What I like
is your governmental folds,
the blush in your knee.
As you step forward, you know
something left unfinished
has begun again to consume you
as the vapor consumes
the shoals.

The Philosophy Class

Raphael comes in
wearing robes of solemnity
with all its facets exposed.

Gabriel is under the looking-glass,
disgusting with red-hot bars.

We smile
in loin-cloth swarms
knowing that Hannibal
is a window
on each other’s shoulders.

We are one, a single attribute,
spontaneous and irrelevant,
changing the music,
pressing our new bowler hats 
tightly over our eyes,
raving all night like buzz saws.

No one has passed 
our philosophy class.

seed text: The Waves, by Virginia Woolf
art by Paperworker

The Philosophy Class

Raphael comes in
wearing robes of solemnity
with all its facets exposed.

Gabriel is under the looking-glass,
disgusting with red-hot bars.

We smile
in loin-cloth swarms
knowing that Hannibal
is a window
on each other’s shoulders.

We are one, a single attribute,
spontaneous and irrelevant,
changing the music,
pressing our new bowler hats
tightly over our eyes,
raving all night like buzz saws.

No one has passed
our philosophy class.


seed text: The Waves, by Virginia Woolf
art by Paperworker