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Friday, December 28, 2012

The Woman who Could Not Swallow




Daniel introduced her as 'Baroness Cathleen de Varennes', not as 'my wife Cathleen'.

"Well, where do we go?" she demanded, nervously.

"Do you want breakfast? You must be starved. Perhaps you are tired and want to see your bedroom." I led her, with Daniel, down the hall.

I had been told she was a young woman, but she looked ancient. The bones of her skull loomed beneath a sickly parchment.

Daniel threw her bag at the foot of the bed, then headed back to the drawing room to use the phone. They were supposed to go to a party later. The Baroness kept talking.

"I can't swallow. The last time I actually swallowed a piece of food was in 1979. Solid food doesn't go down. My esophagus is almost closed shut."

I stood there.

"It is equally very difficult for me to swallow liquids. That's why I like them hot. Very, very hot. And sweet. You can put the entire box of sugar in my coffee if you like. It helps it to go down. Of course if I have liquids too hot, too often, that's not good either. It cooks my throat, or can start a cancer.

"The muscle to my stomach is, how do you say, lame? It can't close. The juices from my stomach come up and starts all sorts of problems.

"I don't mind talking about all this. If I had a lame leg I would knock on it and comment on how well it is carved. It is no problem for me. Yes, I lost quite a bit of weight. I was eating ice cream and sugar and butter in an effort to keep my weight up but eventually my stomach wouldn't process it anymore and my heartbeat became slow with all the cholesterol."

The Baroness' hair lies in patchy strands on a bald scalp. The giveaways are the long strands which she has so carefully curled over her temples. There are no curves to her, though it is possible to see that she was once very attractive. Her front teeth seem at first so perfect, until one notices they are exactly alike, the same color and shape, gums all of a piece. Alas, all are false.

Daniel is a young man. I know him to be the same age as Bailey, though he has put on a lot of weight. I asked him about work.

"Well, I haven't been indicted," he said, referring to the recent crackdowns on investment bankers for insider trading.

"Those SEC boys are damn clever. The crooks get away by spilling  beans on the others. The accomplices, those that provide information, have the book thrown at them. It's awful."

I wondered if Daniel saw himself as an accomplice or a crook. He's a survivor, he married the Baroness. How long before he was alone with her title, and family land back in Hungary.

"We have a party this evening we have to go to," Daniel lamented.

I don't know if he meant it as a chore, or something they had to do to keep up appearances, to please the Baroness. Possibly it was a gathering he anticipated, but made seem like a kind of duty..

"That little party", Bailey said, was a do, at Maxim's, the once famous Parisian restaurant. Bailey was miffed. He hadn't been invited.

I agreed, it is poor form not to invite one's host.

I didn't need to see the inside of Maxim's. I had visited the place once, paid for by a lavish Arab who was entertaining Miss India. As one of a group of late invitees. I got bored, ate, drank too much, then walked home.

The Baroness foraged in her bag, then brought out a bottle of P├ílinka. A distilled product from the steppes of Hungary. "This is for Monsieur Bailey."

It had a peculiar royal crest on it, one with a bent cross at the tip. Maybe she called the bottle Slivovitz, no matter. She'll give it to Bailey. Then he'll put it on his silver tray next to the Gran Marnier and Cherry Herring.


Saturday, December 22, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXIII




I would respect him, "You'll observe."
Granddad then said:
    "Whose saucy women will phone."
Come Brother, improve, take our string.
A crazy romance enacts,
    guests who stood their freedom.

Doctor your many: "See MP anyone?"
Rainbow fears I'm pressing.
    Gal, I soon can elevate anger.

How a brother chose education.
Question Hell, part the opaque yard.
   Could every dead man act through night energy?
Humidity gives you notorious skirt.
Think or pick progress,
    Your sister destroys a clever brother.

Disorder has green passion, one is endowed.
    Hey, your canvas phobia pains me!
Daughter, through romance, a hollow crowd stunk.
Yes, I know, your students came to capture some smoke.
In truth I must say how much I risked in metal.
   Paint my differences.

"Fiery mother of heaven,
    we'll know you soon."
Bird, go out, sculpt him blind.
Tell us, is your delight like some discovery?
An almost always better, me.
    Handle it. Is she free?

Young babe, demand when we make deep sky.
    Model and handle a reverse character.
Obsession resents denial.
Ebb our angry mess, like a pre-teen miss.
They know every mother above her.
    How strange!
Then it says, "I approach",
   The others stand for fun.
"Good, on Fridays we can hear."

Free to a wife's dormancy,
Oh me if serious, how questions mount!
    A model of Job is fine, his death had been lame.
Rainbow sent your sweet wife,
    whose struggles you observe.
My perfect sound is still ugly.

Some girl licks, strokes her, and respects,
I need to see who you are so she can see love.
    She's all electric.

    Vapors . . . Palpable past . . .
Infinite idols despair observation.
Play with solutions, mean stranger.
She waits away some despair.
That much I made at home,
    a demon, seized you. Observe suffering,
Darken your night.
Why do models chat, dress nude?
    I have intimacy more for your favorite cooking.

Face angry despair with raw denial.
Learn me soft Sister, talk memories of air . . .
    Like glitter, it would shriek.
Write more through a glorious competition,
   a tinge aggressive. Try and know me.
Our shopping abuse wanted a killer of life.

Play then work, more dance,
We think to face a picture.
    Love, hate and passions come sweet.
Lie by her original.
   At home a lion guards against vile art.
Sister of beauty, we press her.

They care to open,
    without competition, analyze this mess.
Let yourself try.

Love me in the original.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXII





Narayan, heaven sees your muddle.
There's a key opportunity, beside my moon.
   You who belly dance and surf,
Faithful instrument,
When I'm passionate - I ride a simple toy.
   Walk, and take her home,

See if one marvelous breath will relate . . .
    how the faithful gave sense, chose a sad torpid companion.
Perform it,
A clean draught of a beautiful glorious river does need a storm.

They'd investigate and lead her society.
    Can blind phones, fiddle, scratch?
Companion, respect my space.
She acts. A pathetic parasite, envies, eyes music,
   esteems marriage as art.

Film my ass, you can use it until,
My aesthetic, a blue psychedelic Mother,
    forgets you're the model husband.
Smoke this fool.
We'll question our raw care,
    beneath more empty music.

She senses the observations, more seen by youth.
Never composes a lie,
    looks for an angry wild howl.
Clean sex and fast romance is the drug.
He feels clever, through freedom about death.
    Friday. The dead howl by then.
Take from my milky soft and faithful passion,
Fast, Write, Draw. Use this. Progress!
    My perfect sound is still ugly.

Come, lost infant
call for attachment at the mouth,
    Good character destroys what won't give us night.
Ink scars a mean street.
We break finger music,
    balanced through our great film.

This mare, she would avoid pain, has her character switched.
Oh me! I see all, yes, the famous find.
    Emotion colors a killer relative.

To do some right process,
    in good grace, sculpt his past.
When did you want your psychedelic review?
Brother, imagine opaque delight.
May you please comfort us,
   with your edge, give ideas.
Stop to see discoveries, daze love,
Be her man, I suffer,
    Rob all nature's thought.

Our many companions, seen on Crete,
    appear calm, luxurious.
Joy, what marvelous creature composes important memories?

Why are you working so hard my Muse?
Our stand-in event, is passive,
    Try to understand.
Please come, under love.
Then he said, "Depression, about such bitter abuse".
    I think he follows a vintage laugh.

Don't jealous boy, destroy my new feeling.
Try a life-like vintage body,
    arrange both for you upon glass.
Reach aesthetic cleanliness,
Were they dirty?
    Water, then is time.
Is life mean? Color your studio,
Women storm over diversity.
    We take praise.

Water is the bed.
My kiss plays music, gives no delusions.
    Through my ear she goes, through our metaphor of life.
Health from raging higher,
    gives me a red smear, before a blue party,
Passive air, shows and alleviates childhood.

Keys to give more worth,
    see whose side is straight and deep.
The mind is like some edge.

Always draw your delusions with color,
They have shame.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Sunday, December 2, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXI




Help me, the more I look,
mountains I see on Crete.
     Brother, dread or learn my obsession.

Death is over me again,
I will almost know Heaven.
     Sculptures never disagree.
A nice aesthetic amuses them.
Father, please help.
    Her wasted part is glass deep.

Oh then good God, are you empty?
My mind is in heaven.
    I almost questioned the Angel's sound of home.
Painted impulsively, for a show.
Got up, then kissed. A river does need a storm.
    Our ode is a symbol, tried to take her strength.
As Water, I Am Surreal.
Waste her, so then I perform related mental fixations,
    I'm nerved at how you trod up.

Then say why marrying has trouble.
I understand you. Why hate?
    You could draw me for mad.
    Soon you'll run free.
My aesthetic game questions our money subject.
See live rules best her raging arid health.

A vile fellow around pure life.
Instruments feel and see.
    I see you're a tourist.
    Cuddle your angel, get him to know our obscure grip.
Mother is sly Peace,

Find more music, which glitters.
    Girl, buy the full sexual woman!
Use sanguine perfume to calm the crazy leader.
Come, get some party cares, perhaps you heard,
    They always show.

Who wants a dust mountain?
More pain to scale, with the edge, gives ideas.
    We jive from Love, free thought . . .

Brother we present our time-outs as an awesome wild pain.
Life is inclusive!
     The Doctor only uses color above.

Money delights start sweet.
I see childhood's best, a faithful young companion.
     And question, about that awesome studio.
Daze, then a period.
Marry please, a vintage favorite.
     You and her, stand, and be all danced.

Does emailing, even family, before it fills our banal passion,
    manipulate sleep, and time?
My peace walks under worry, so investigate when reversed.
Ugly emotion was an idea to handle a reverse character.
The times which appear, improve through blue.
     Some said, "Miss, I'm about his studio."

Praise! Only simple morphine to scale.
Mad chocolate for some some vintage beer.
    Man you can hide perfume!

The glory owes you money.
"Good boy, Confront thy wench!"
    A sure marvel, emotional electricity . . . or his play.
Go experiment like a bird!
Hold on their silent energy, see a thin child.
    We asked, "See me grow out of mind."

I never said you are dead,
We buried this over animal music.
     What I mean is, you investigate with sound.

Impulsive trouble, romance risking progress.
On very blue bold harmony, under milky soft sound,
     Try a good society girl, all drunk.
Rosy, I feel your absurd sex,
     yet our sound communicates a story.
She only makes you kiss that freedom we gave.

Nude, we'll buy the tinker a hollow piece.
A cunning neurotic on TV,
    Ersatz joy comes to all of us.
    A bare icon, the effect is less obtuse.
Diagnosis: the husband has some reach,
    so done to him, no pain.
A made-up masterpiece comes to night-time party life.
Never feel captured!
     Test with disorder!

All drugs gave him health!
     Imagine my dark anger at night.
Yell, how Death caught some sugar.
When smoke calls see that beautiful cat almost howl.
Her monstrous time can play cleverly,
    Investigate the head.

Hey, a saucy psychedelic crowd . . .
Dresses every idea, with sugar.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Friday, November 2, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XX




Infant angel you envy the gate, with sound.
See in front, absurd risks,
   now dazzled by a silent crowd.
Process drunk opinions like harmony at Death.
Their age ripped an urchin's impression -
   sweet problems best made a life in strokes.

I wish life could clean out our absurd time . . .
   This will reach you . . .
Approach, through your original studio.

I demand fresh dead.
Stop! Dust Death, a dry drink.
   Freedom himself, uses a scratch gown.
I may ask them Father, if the period is up.
Intimately see and discover.
   She thinks about an opening.
Try always to have the open idea,
   a chameleon who guts earth,
Since bad aesthetics surface in G.

Influences, at best, stroke your self esteem.
Look for more music.
   If a finger composes, I can't cook as a double.

A favorite two-step, feels a rhythm, hence decays,
   snaps her from that trotting fiend.
Nudism is used, so compose experiments then mount.

Mellifluous, (sniff!), has her period.
A dance of sound.
Energy soon hears a black and white rhythm.
   See how she understands silence.

Mama come here! Heal by intimacy,
Grass, no denial, respect, no peeking. I'm all about bed.
   Heal deep, Death.
Follow me, absurd Girl,
   Draw always above the canvas,
Here, Mellifluous style is above opportunity.

See and tell, who could have resented.
   There's a foreign-voiced dance, in heart,
Loser, paint this, our fun.
   She tempers, "How old is life?
   Know if life's an experiment."
Create grandeur, beside a perfect childhood.

Esteem would never mind, I cannot begin.
Definitely observe in him how real pressure smothers us,
   in a black limid experiment.

Amid good progress, sleep.
Call for an attachment at the mouth.
   Don't muscle that system. If so,  . . . I grip it.
   Joy is about canvas.
It's enough . . . Power appears, always, in jokes . . .
An awful hidden, and daunting, reserve.

Be hearted, always ink in Sin.
Thou did'st forget my only past. Has it yet ebbed your observation?
    How big will patience be in my clever life?
How will you go in a daze.
It's alive, a vaginal pink masterpiece.
    Later you just might score.

Notice etiquette and around it,
to test our will, call me beautiful.
    He is soft, then we seem apart.
All we question, Night Bird uses past childhood.
    Sleep, I have him at night.
Mama's song could impulse soft perfect drugs.

Let's create something.
Endless obsessive sex, not great passion, cramps our communal thought.
    Trouble is how to go behind rejection.
Investigate peace. You'll walk some.
Eat. If children will grip society,
    you'll empower a subject.

Learn daughter, with grace.
Get a fax and draw mad men!
    Paint, creeps in from aggressive rules.

Feel more perfume, behind each laugh,
It's why she comes.
   a crazy sister, her horny number.
I believe your still raging wife,
     has some tedious ancient form.
Believe it when smoke calls, angered, though pleasant.

No original companions,
   will open up your systems to relate.
A bird sees no phobia.
Dude, she murmurs about rain,
   about the grand river.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XIX




" . . . over that red smoke, Amen."
No better way is upon her.
 . . . Lie to us in peace.
I must see your sweet problems,
 . . . spared delight which laughs more.
Patience observe and balance every picture.

Above thought, I’m old.
I see and lick a grand river!
 . . . Her brother won't lose his grip.

Your giddy impression influences every rigid form.
Kiss it always.
 . . . a deep paragon turned round.
Relate to me, how a dirty canvas comes.
 . . . I have him fast,
I feel a subject - you.

Important discovery, did our mind paint an opportunity?
 . . . Many who choose, don’t impress.
I am mostly which sculpts,
After cunning delight,
 . . . thought will appears pregnant, of that I'm sure.
Do soft manic canvases about fresh life.

Make an electric picture.
Models want luscious delusions.
 . . . Walk my favorite! Have soft clever respect.
You finger a good society.
Always meant a serious heart,
 . . . how to sculpt a glorious smear.

Two. Cuddle and never use pride.
Forever observe our grand space.
 . . . Act crazy, trotting through his sculpture.
Mister please, have harmony!
That clean fun when found, blocks totally.
 . . . Show my sculpture, and green water.
Use delight, mellifluous talk on dating.
 . . . Already he means an enormous break.
Couplets here speak out.

Buddy, I want hot beer.
 . . . Get out!
We present our time outs, an awesome wild pain.
Glitter, shimmer, some laugh, and care.
Why complain?
 . . . Stop to see guilt, only whose is it?
Serious art throws a laughing solution.
The peace which I open,
 . . . sculpts dirty Death.

'Tis you little Sister, Breathe sweetly."
Poster of my studio's raging dreams.
 . . . Not many have love.
We cleaned our dust there,
before my bovine smoke party.
 . . . Seek your last thought in Beauty.
Heal, have control over us.
We believe still in sky, in a dark chocolate howl.
 . . . Way hot, full-assed, dark, soft cooking.

Write how to improve, almost, as only can a king.
No glorious awesome electric fantasy,
 . . . Love me in the original,
Curious, from a grand hair-do.
Try and run! I'm all gone, see? I'm bold.
   Fine. If at home eat out.

 . . . Sculpt Angel,
Fill a glorious missive.
Handle fingers in scores, we smear a wasted earth.
Dazzle, imagine smoke, my art river.
She does see that last free canvas,
 . . . add up to life's star.
Smoke cunning, Husband!
‘Till, I question, I try, in my rough bitter fast,
 . . . to start a submissive life.

Show night lust denial.
I'd better be ripe,
 . . . I won't ever play or strum.
Take this perfume home.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Saturday, October 27, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XVIII




Tell Joy she looms around Angels.
 . . . No grand diagnoses, . . . disco reveries.
Merciful blue scripture, read as a song of anguish.

Icy laughs if you can see.
 . . . I would have thought to envy the gate,
 . . . delved above him, scratched, or chiseled on canvas.
Dazzle, pressured on, we live dirty.
Why men must confront our Saturday affair,
 . . . a key opportunity beside my moon.

My fear, if it is a miss, observes,
Walk Mama, silhouette freedom!
Now share, a negative angry angel!
 . . . (Need our sculpture worry?
They said rivalry wasted dreams.)
 . . . Here, when filmed wild, it's sad,
Daddy needs good smoke.

I endeavor to choose an old soft ritual.
 . . . On Crete, a Mother of film walks,
 . . . they have lost patience.
Come obsessive Partner, it shows your set.
" . . . I'm another - what completes?
"I have form, obdurate metaphor!"

Please believe we can't go there,
Above our faith in brains, raw partner,
 . . . Care strokes best.
Make a thin grass opinion,
Mounted metaphor.
 . . . Come Sir, try some moon child.

"Chisel freedom, she's all fed up."
Go easy, shouldn't some negative understanding
 . . . eat the original spirit of love.

A happy nihilist Mama sees,
 . . . who could have resented my sculpture
 . . . good I mind the reasons, why life should appear.
See, old society means a dark 'n dirty lash.
Breathe, disgrace our presence
 . . . when a wild slave instrument demands more,
Esteemed fellow come hither.

He affects, and breaks a line of weed.
 . . . Can I call nature sweet?
Happy Angel breaks in one pass.
The life which she formed,
 . . . So did he care for them?
We are all language.

Such a wild chant is Music,
 . . . "Imagine a beautiful husband."
Observe, we spoke of her money jungle.
So delight in anger,
    Take an offering,
    Go by us, it is kids!
They have shame!
Rude girl-faced serpent,
I've shared that masterpiece,
     This Sister was Gal envy.

Beauty, form and thought, have silhouette.
Have that sleep intimacy.
     His every joy will glitter,
     See, I'm a symbol of space.
I'd better laugh, if observation is opinion
Cry fantasy education! 'Chant!' she would say.

As a flight movie break character,
Soon your temper must ebb,
 . . . Thou would live electric . . .

Peace at dusk Brother!


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XVI




Strength secures your last thought,
     So model me, stop the lust party,
Your body blossoms through ruin.
Know and compose,
     a street's electric instrument passion.
A sharp find was a mellifluous Hawaiian water bird.

Live bold, and laugh as I make impressions.
Dying knows a community sensed water,
     life energy modeled blue.
Sculpt her red, as a song of anguish.
Take all, confront absurd risk.
     Who thinks sweet, with a favorite movie?
     The surface was almost concrete.
Aware of him, this made a mess
Share, don't throw our water, then junk wood, to think clever.

Give me your wild Kate, on your next day home.
He's the husband of an Angel,
     Young babe, demand when we make deep sky.
Can I question my wife?
Who thinks, totally, how solutions
     would even write on empty shards?
Or choose a straight water ritual.
Come you need caution.
     I can read about her denial, for a psychedelic drug

This mare above him cares.
Yell that gut missive!
     My son goes to our grand bed alive.
Arvo, as author-songwriter, became a perfect dirty rose,
An emotional aesthete,
     never dry smoked a companion.

I have obdurate form.
Mom, choose the metaphor,
     sounds that may please comfort us.
Trust that we'd join you, let passion become art!
"Ninety learned demands . . ."
     at best, I see all you heard.

Understand why our absurd innocent wife,
     won't cover the sun.
In all ways, she spun a beautiful, faithful breath instrument . . .
     I was in pain, with our nervy abuse.
"Actor!" Is this how you verse of Moon?.
I must thank-you Father.

I observed suffering, dark unity,
     drawn about a witch's romance.
Only you will model.
Tomorrow is on top of you, so choose.
May we present psychedelic observations?
     The Grand River dresses every idea with sugar.

So a child can run, don't lead our nefarious system with chocolate.
     Slather that blue.
Think, then drink nights.
     Can this be right?
A tempered sexual fright chisels beauty in music.
     The dirty queen sleeps with your brother.

My dark anger at night . .
     goes openly with my story of her strange doctor.
Take good nerve, my homey.

To me we hold a loathe-some babbling process . . .
     My grand sane wife, pities me.
"Daddy! Such memories seen from Mama!"

She chants from water.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Song of 81 Poems, XVII




Sinner, represent my Beauty.
Notice if I get those crass sounds.
     Stand by my sculpture.

Draw your companion's curious color,
    we cared about cunning trouble.
Please, I must go to where dead skulls appear.
Share my songs, write my observations.
why I will paint in empty language.
     Follow progress, heal a tree.

Sale of editions: "Muse sees all my Late Energy."
His drunken style was back up. Health too.
     He learned himself that Death, wants in.
To compose form, Mother crushed your bold friend!
When rules think, he sings a guilty space.
   Dust grew a nude-mind metaphor.
An impressionist light piece.
A shame you missed our broken secret.
     Honey, you helped about cymbal rhythms.

Hold, feel your subject, follow no hate.
     Sense must water tea.
Her old man's looking sharp.
Her smokey laugh is so good.
     Soon dark despair will laugh.
Famously, trash bad wood.
Father knows, and learns inclusive dark earth.
   It means on Friday she's so arid.
Have no smoke in manic diversity.
I can't stay around. Say ohm.
   Petitions, they avoid or give reach to insanity.
I was caught, and must know Music.
   Tend every repressed sister
Learned fellow, isn't your Mom around?
Before, "Best in Brooklyn" can categorize spirit and harmony.

Fantasy: a boy's an aggressive double,
   stuck to every limpid loser.
Do cuddle, never use pride.
My Queen's sexy gown smokes no grass.
   Whose struggles do you observe?
A sad mother?
"Look Baby, a Walkman!"
I have her city, willing.
   We measure, glorious Doctor, an ancient childhood.
All love creatures home, how I am enough?
Rainbow, this impulse is soft and looking spotted.
   Marry me.

Scream Partner.
Our poor tune, tie'd down to become a husband,
   True full colors, in bestial emotion.
Don't give in. Betroth her.
A lying solution's better than money.
   Always will a way out.
What deep society is under my storm?
Some paint a repressed peace,
    draw delusions with color.
Should the monkey have come?

Yes, your brother gets electric,
     about this as I stir.
You dress his deep street language of life.
Love my cooking, important music has grown full.
   We compose harmony by deep dance.

Worry pain, afraid of concrete shame, psychedelic passion
   Sanity at last, empowers space.
Days, open that impression.

Take her innocent degenerate thought,
For when her wasted part forms like a baby,
   she sings for a stranger.

Please bless your breath, greasily drawn.
   She found dance, and can suffer.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Monday, October 22, 2012

Young Headed



Young headed . . . Sleep my mate, innocent . . .
Sculpt your glorious peace.
Feel music, art that yet chants a fresh imagination.
I am feeling better.
Give chameleon strength to my electric understanding.

Will I buckle? Almost . . .
Me, can I call? Be ours.
Know how important cuts emulate character
To scream this before,
You picture no crowd above . . .
Love notable nature, how surreal blindness, . . . gives music.
We have come . . . she ends the question.
Are you feeling better notorious creature?
A sun rainbow!

The impulse is soft in looking spotted
It affects, and breaks a line of weed.

Poster of my studio's raging dreams,
How big will be patience in my clever life?
Go experiment like a bird!
Appear calm, luxurious. Joy.

Despair observation, Play with solution
Mean stranger, periods are our brain fight!
Anger is some key, in solvent language
Movies aren't seeing sane,
Idols more for dirty use.
Children can run, should the monkey have come?
Rude girl-faced serpent,
Curious from grand hair!
Endless obsessive sex, not great passion,
Cramps our communal thought.

Nude, we can buy the tinker a hollow piece,
And reach aesthetic cleanliness.
Like glitter would shriek,
. . . a degenerate show.

Friday February 15, 2008, with Niki Notarile, 55, 56, 57


-:-

  The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4  5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Sunday, October 21, 2012

School of Hard Knocks

January 1, 1984

The New Year ushered in with a restless sleep - bombs and firecrackers exploding all night.

Dreams of white rats loose in my apartment, pursued by furry white weasels which eventually caught and killed them. In my dream, the pursuit happened slowly, a time-lapse chase up the side of my bedroom door. I noticed the weasel's fur was tattered and falling out, as if they had been stuffed, then I came to the conclusion that they were stuffed, from Uncle Freddie's collection at Trophy Lodge. Somehow during my sleep they had come off their mounts and begun to run around the house.

Yesterday I worked five hours alone in the cutting room, then took the subway to Soho and bought a Japanese print for P____ and M____ as their wedding present, in the process seeing a lot of other prints which I've decided that I want for myself. The gallery I visited is called Azuma. Mr. Azuma himself is an intelligent little Japanese man who speaks hardly any English but somehow understands perfectly just what you mean. He makes very good prices, and has, besides many floating world prints, fine swords, and ceramics.

Web Keene came over for a brief chat, and gave me a list of some good books to read. We talked about the traveller's life. Soon he'll be leaving the University of Chicago to do field work in Indonesia. After that he wants to teach and write. "Isn't it awfully hot down there?" I asked him. "Yes," he said. "Thats why I'm trying to pick an island with high mountains."

"That sounds like the same kind of decision as finding an apartment," I quipped. "Not too hot, language easy to master, natives friendly, not too spoilt by the white man." We laughed about this.

"It really doesn't matter where I do my field work," he said. "Everywhere there are people living, and that is good material for a study. But I have to make use of the people at Chicago, and Indonesia is their specialty. It would be foolish to ignore that!"

Choices. What are the reasons we think we obey when we make choices? They may not be the real cause, or even lead to the desired effect. Reason's a bridge to somewhere uncertain from a place that's already abandoned. The bridge therefor is one of style, and thus, a vanity.

Chris told me of a dream he had, seeing a deer under water, in the surf by an ocean beach. Even its antlers were submerged. It was running along just as if it were on dry land. This made me think of what it would be like to see a humpbacked whale in the woods. You would come upon it, resting, in a grove of pines, then it would swim slowly away, giant flukes brushing away the limbs, belly gliding over the ferns.

New Year's Poetry reading at St. Marks. Allan Ginsberg was there, presiding. The School of Hard Knocks did a marvelous dance. A few good poets read, though it was generally impossible to concentrate. R_____ was there looking very pretty.




Godard

Tuesday December 20, 1983

Talks with PA on the phone about Jean-Luc Godard, and his recent film "Passion". Godard refuses to let any thought, character, location, even synchronization of soundtrack with picture, become certitude, as if anything established or accepted in conventional film language were death itself. Instead his language evolves into a new kind of 'anti-fabric', of film syntax. He enjoys flirting with norms and conventions, then disrupting, corrupting, overwhelming in obsessive and destructive bouts.

It's a film about activities, about a filmset, about fornications in a nearby hotel, about the hirings and firings at a local manufacturer, all mishmashed together, with all the connecting tissue somehow implied, never explained, always glimpsed with pieces missing, so much missing that the story ultimately, if one could say there was a story, has to be imagined.

It's a film about flux, flux as in solder, flowing hot sputtering always at the verge of congealing and becoming hard, but by constantly applying the hot iron Godard keeps the flows of energy moving forward, abandoning the present for something more present, more of the 'now' never quite getting behind enough to call it 'past', a film whose dialogue can never quite be annealed together into anything that could be labelled a logical statement. The film makes no statement, it is anti-statement, and insists that over and over again by leading the viewer to expect some sort of logical clue or tidbit of storyline logic ala the normal expository manner of directing and writing, instead Godard revels in disappointment of this faculty. What is left over but film itself, the images, and the soundtrack which do nothing to explain each other, yet somehow dance. He has taken the rucksack of modern cinema and emptied it out onto the table, cut it up, added perturbed visions, macerations, and dislocutions and dislocations. This becomes then a dizzying ride, an emptying out of the barrel, an expurgation of the clotted nonsense and all that linear time-flow exposition has become.

"Here is what I don't mean!" he shouts at his viewer, or, "It means nothing here either!" . . ."What you are seeing is imaginary!", . . . "This happened on a set!" . . . "I contrived this".

His vignettes, are insets of bit of drama which pretend to be his actor/models 'true' orientations or preferences . .  and then once viewed, we realize these too have been contrived.

What Godard has cut OUT of "Passion", are all the elements around which all other feature films seem to be constructed. He's abandoned the very elements which most filmmakers deem essential, story, consistency of character, logic, cause and effect. He introduces no characters, establishes nothing, neither time-line, space or character. The order of events, the normal dramatic 'glue' is not to be found. Not the tiniest element fastened to anything else. And by so defeating the natural lignin holding the film corpus together, he defeats memory itself. The whole structure collapses into the bowels of the subconscious, split seconds after viewing each shot.

Meaning derives from association, not connection or direction. He fears we'll know or learn too much about his formula, which after all is anti-formula, or his characters which are anti-character, or his locations which are anti-location. It seems to be Godard's task as director to prevent us from sating our curious minds to finish whatever he starts in ways that we are used to, conscious that those leaps of imagination are the real film, and that bits of celluloid are merely the inconsequential head and tail of the mind-shot, the identifying slates to a never recorded mental-work, a black spot or abyss whose mystery would disappear if ever a light were made to shine upon it. So we constantly circle and touch with our eyes closed but never invade with the film medium, only with the film possibility. That possibility is of the thing we imagine, an assembly of starts and stops with the centers missing, the center he knows lies fully crafted within our psyche.


-:-

Talks with Michael at Cafe Dante over cafe amarettos. Mike's full of thoughts, responses to my updates on Merchant-Ivory developments. Mostly we spoke about Ismail, the need to see scripts developed, a little like the tending of a good seed bed, a nursery of ideas. This Ismail does not see the value of. I think I said something like the direction of Merchant Ivory is being decided by what Ismail reads before going to bed.


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