Tuche & Automaton

Monday, July 31, 2006


you're head - mad with your own crow balls and your nasty click icky ity bity click ity click
tee hee
drop a few more ashes between the keys of your keyboard while your cold fingers trip

you wish someone's tiny petticoat would rub up against your pale STD cheeks and turn your dick into a steam roller or a stone's gizzard storm. crack pot woman hater your negativity bleeds all over the place bloody as a tampon.


Blazes Boylan’s Gobspit

You are a bogeyman, a mountblanche, a scrofulous fuck. I, however, am the beauty that beholds the eye, the confectionery sugar that sullies the pads of your tongue, the eyelash that you brush away from the fop of your trousers. I am l’ amour oral, the teeth beveling the manse of your thoughts, the shift in perspective from hygiene to soiling. You are a Freudian night-terror, an intractable pathology, a STD that can neither be stayed nor rescinded; a viral spirochete, head bullying thighs, mons and parturition hole. I am Molly’s defiled Bloomers, Blazes Boylan’s gobspit slathering the cleave between a whorish thigh. I am lemony-scented soap, lurched in pocket ruffs trove with lint and candy wrappings. I am a postcard from ‘what’s-her name’, that bog-land slut with Dublin’s dirt in the squirrel of her treeing. You, whomever, are tonsure bare, blunt-cut and stained through with night-wetting and bucking soars.

Crows’ Murder

hair black
a murder of crows

the sway of hips
moving inward

then out

echoing the suckle
of her mouth

my legs

numb and unresponsive
to touch

and tongue

and crows feathers
moving inward

Robin’s egg-blue, nature, nurture, pollute, corrupt, soil, profane, infinitude, destitute, refute, confute, salute, rebuke, collate, reprobate, allocate, falsify, dolomite, hard Etruscan bone, white, whiter, whitest, pale-white, junk-worry white, whitest white, whiter. And tongue balanced lolling in the chance of her mouth, sullying saltlick-cowing cud and grassland muddy with Dublin dirt and tenor’s railhead siring poor mad-footed Lucia dancing madly, mad. Patchy-eyed ginstone, hiking trousers to knee and ankle and foot and arch, mollycoddling commode wiping ass with Sears and Roebucks and Atlantis Monthly. Joyless’ eyesore, river runs round pound, errata, drowsing never to awaken to quillwort, barnacle and tackman’s stub.

Sunday, July 30, 2006

After Getting Home From White Castle

he says his hands feel like sand
just 50,000 songs
his hair
the illusion of calm
our bed is slip-covered in black shutters
quit falling
6 minutes too late
just unbutton my eyes
go deeper


She was wearing a hornet’s nest in her hair, curlicues, husks, carrion, carapaces and frail spidery wings, a Lepidoptera of bugs, creepy-crawlies and midges. I find her hair unsettling, her eyes too deeply set, and her smile staff with excreta and seepage. I kissed her hard on the mouth, overbite, chin flat against the corm of my cheek, the knot of my tongue finding purchase in the slur of her mouth. And me, lips prepuce fat, biting down hard on the manse of her jaw, where the hinge meets the flywheel, her eyes rolling back into the clove of her forehead, a vacant toiletry where desire should sit, behind the pineal gland, just below the hypothalamus and to the right of the Gang Leal knot: Fucking hornet’s nests, excreta and the blackest black jujubes, a syphilitic SaltlickandGomorrah, a noman'sland, Purfolk and waddle.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

in my percocet induced nitemare

the gift falls from his chest
orange and unmoving
a drawing
without the chicken and snake
an ash dance

behind his eyes the candles
never go out
they just flicker


on a highway

a girl with an empty heart is trapped

Friday, July 28, 2006

Love Poem #1

I spent all nite
collecting trolley stops
for your hat

my thigh-highs


I/O Pan Fer Loki: Raspberry Interlude

I/O Pan! I/O Pan!

Shimmer gently, my little raspberries...let it never be said that you were eaten easily! In summer's blue molten cooler...mid/night's favourite fruit..bloated and furry, coated in the pollendust of fading summer: too sour to eat, too sad to pick...evil temple of lost, forgotten fruit, a tiny succulent little city abandoned beneath alpine shadow: a christmas tree replanted in the 60s and left to brown and fester...little raspberries pulsing slowly in amongst the brambles, bathed in cats pee rainfall and buried b'neath badger shit and ice-sharpened sunlight...

Raspberry I/O PAN! Red light falls, tired and smokey, from distant stars...red fruit oblivion...furry fruit waiting to be picked...bulbous lichen...sad flakes of vegetable rust scab the tree-limbs above me...backlit by ghostlight from abandoned airports...

Pink, late-summer light. Jupiter twinkles overhead. I/O Pan! Wash your hands; you've been playing in the garden.

Why does everything grow soft and old, and then go?

darkly dada
sinisterly surreal
elegantly gothic

speak to the dark angels

s's (summer sounds)...

sasse feat. kiki - loosing touch
seelenluft - manila (ewan pearson remix)
stephan bodzin & marc romboy - phobos :
(add mp3 extension to this file when downloading)


Thursday, July 27, 2006

Heroes For A Better World

Sefton saw the first blunts of Nuclear War and brushed them off his coat. "I'm not a believer in radiation. It's, um, overrated..."

He thought it would be translucent blue.

A Flash.

IO Pan!

Then, skulled and skinned, Sefton met hisself on the way down, an odd Doppler effect, made pleasant by the thick winds and the teaming curry of spangles raining down on his head.

IO Pan!

It allways goes overto the left; never the right, never the right, never the right...

Sefton took a deep breath, a glottal stop, and waited for the mystery to clear. "I'm still not convinced that you are me or I am you. Something's just not right. This (so called) explosion, all the deafness and depravity, I can't rub the taste off my face that something's, well, wrong about this..."

Sefton Briggs - Trailers And Smunt On The Doubleback Of Merciness

About E. coli

Escherichia coli (E. coli) was discovered in the first decade of the 20th century by the German bacteriologist Theodor Escherich (1857-1911) and according to Wikipedia “the number of individual E. coli bacteria in the faeces that one human passes in one day averages between 100 billion and 10 trillion”. It is the BacterioPoetic conviction that each of these bacteria is a piece of art more beautiful then the “Victory of Samothrace” and as such your poo hosts more art than the collections of all museums in the world put together.

Roughly around the same time Theodor Escherich was making his discovery, James Joyce was working on the sequence of books that have since become the hallmarks of modernism in literature. It is interesting to compare the impact on world culture of E. coli against the Ulysses; Joyce’s masterpiece published in 1921, of which he proclaimed it would take scholars centuries to uncover the riddles hidden therein. Little could Joyce have expected that in the end a work of biology as humble and yet as versatile as the E. coli proved to be far more elusive than the wanderings of Leopold Bloom or the simulation of Dublin in which Bloom lives on, created by a human mind of his scope. E. coli has become the workhorse of molecular biology, the time and resources spent on reverse engineering it by far exceeding the work done on the analysis of Ulysses. But whereas interpretation of Ulysses is the best way to make sure students of literature will never read again, bacteriologists can’t get enough of the E. coli: its mechanism still shaded in mystery, the wonder of its feats of adaptivity never ceasing.

Biology is conservative. The function and perhaps even the definition of creativity is to come up with novelty. In terms of burn-rate bacteria are surely more creative than, say, elephants, lemurs or even fruit flies because all these animals evolve much slower than the 3,5 hour it takes the E. coli to iterate a new generation. But bacteria are also impressive for the quality of the novelty they introduce.

Bacteria, following the title of John Postgate’s pop-bacteriology book (solely to be used as jumping board to the bacterial universe as it completely ignores the splendid bacterial organisation of biofilms) crowd the ‘outer reaches of life’. This introduction written by an eminent English bacteriologist gives many, nearly epic, examples of the capability of bacteria to sustain and prosper in laboratory conditions meant to kill it. In the bacterial domain contamination is a feature not a ... bug. What bacteria do best is to come up with novel (and often bewildering) solutions to problems threatening their continued existence. In doing so they have evolved mechanisms to flourish where nothing else can. It is this capability of bacteria that allows bio-engineers to successfully create situations in which bacteria are evolved to eat manmade toxics otherwise indestructible. We need to learn bacteria such new tricks, we need to culture the microbes, if we don’t want to drown in the wastes of our stupidity.

In many cases the need for certain novelties in bacteria is beyond our understanding. For instance in the case of magnetotactic bacteria that orientate themselves along the earth’s magnetic core. This particular example also serves as example of the fact that, because of their size, there exists a thin line between physical and biological explanations of bacterial behaviour. By possessing very simple sensors/actuators (chemotaxis, phototaxis, etc) bacteria like E. coli their advantage in finding suitable environmental conditions is only slightly above random drift. This simplicity however is what allows them to quickly spawn wildtypes to try certain gimmicks of survival. Which is to say that of all biological life bacteria are the least conservative.

We are to dismissive in our selection-criteria of what constitutes creativity. When identifying some work of art as possessing true creativity coupled with sufficient technical mastery in execution we feel it has to be preserved forever. This is the message museums have carved on their walls: great art is eternal. But a new bacteria is always a new beginning and it is therein that lies its beauty. Once you accept that art can be in the process and not in the result. Once you agree that the defining quality of this process it its talent to find novel forms of itself, in response to abruptly changing environmental conditions, for the process to propagate. Once you take that for granted you are suitably prepared to consider the suggestion that art should become a form of biology. Once all this sounds like perfect common-sense you have reached the satori in which the BacterioPoetics powers of the E. coli can be revealed to you.


Wednesday, July 26, 2006

London Daily Photo: Feelin' Hot Hot HOT!

London Daily Photo: Feelin' Hot Hot HOT!

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Seosamh Ó hÉanaí - An Draighnean Donn

I love it when you call me,


You are my heart, the gentle poppy covered slope
in my slippery glass world.

A poem with zig zag hair
lined with dust gods & morning glory
to which I send these ridiculous smiles.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Stammer/Lacook/Crescent 3 (Dance)

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Dbb Kng

With a little Eye and creeping neuralgia I can't help but wonder what she might look like with her head in the fridge...there's a connected/disconnected salvia around the eyes that maybe sweeps

Right up the steps onto the back level, by the make-shift stage, when the explosion ripped out the heart of the West side of the bar and sent splinters of wood and wire mesh and glass splinters out into the air.The curious found their mouths trapped and their bodies caught in the blast. The walls near the front doors creaked heavily and the wall-lights split to reveal loose insides. Wood dust hung in the air as thin metal shards caught people unawares. Bodies that had just righted found themselves flung about in bits and bobs and suddenly there was greater

Odd lilt to the voice that is NLPing us all into the odd turns and stases and lockjawed catatonia of In The Misou Soup and, more, a Japanese tension behind the facemask that

Breaks like an axed headroom - with the frank stipulation that should you want to swing a cat you still could, despite the fact that literally there is not enough room without a certain scrawning and moaning and without the dead

Only occurs in the depths of night, once even channel hopping has decayed - imagine that Nyman music from A Zed And Two Noughts as Jim Davidson

Was trying to protect my dear friends from the horrors that I felt sure would happen. I guess, when you boil it down it all amounts not so much to pragmatism as to blind, remorseless, fear. With a little dose of ergot, sometimes it doesn’t take too much - just enough to put you on the defensive, and a stirred in bag of pure adrenalin, you can see, I hope, how fear can flip to more fear, which flips to dread and so on until you’re left like me, a twitcher with the

Suffrage and sancity of those terrible "Niiiiight Tiiiime" trailers on ITV in the dednights of the 1980s which didn't so much celebrate your consciousness as tease and frustrate and mock: "Yoooure shattered, youuuure fucked" and then supplanted any latent paranoia with ghouls and fire demons from Government Sponsored Safety Films that


bellicosity labile manipulator.


Saturday, July 22, 2006

Postcards from the Eggs

a septic cunt

she KNEW the language of chickens
and she could make her pussy talk.
does your pussy talk?
does your pussy talk?

nothing left for her now though just the aftertaste of an old romance and the bitter dawn of yet another day.
another day full of cigarette smoke and stale bourbon with dreams of idle hours wasted beneath a gothic statue of some antique, and long forgotten, saint or sinner.
she has known all the saints and sinners and lets face it, sin is just a concept.

a cuncept.
a cunts septic.
a septic cunt.
words by cocaine jesus


He'd been born with Down's Syndrome, and his pill-popping evangelical Xian mam had given him a 'skinned rabbit' haircut and sent him off to a special school, where they made the kids pack crayons into boxes and rewarded good behaviour with a carton of Ribena. He once found a porn mag and spent an hour gawping at it, and one of the special teachers told him he'd been very bad, 'not nice girls at all! silly, nasty little girls in that magazine - forget you ever saw it', and one of the other special teachers said, 'so what if he saw it, they don't have sex drives anyway'. But no matter how often they told him he'd been good, trained him up for a career in shelf-stacking at ASDA and plied him with strawberry-flavoured gumrot, he desperately wanted to experience a GOOD FUCK.

She was walking around with a whippet with a studded collar when he met her. She was convinced she'd been put on Earth to shine a light for Jesus. She always carried a bible around with her and would dole out fivers to tramps, but she dressed like her heroine, Jodie Marsh. People slagged Jodie but ignored her good heart, and she didn't see anything contrary to the spirit of the New Testament in physically emulating the glamour model.

She took him into a public toilet in Baker Street station and eased his cock into her mouth, he bellowed as he flooded her tonsils with 300ml of manfat. Never worked out between them, though. While visiting her grandfather in hospital, she met an OAP with MRSA and no immune system, just marking time before the inevitable - who she fell in love with.

Now ne never sees her anymore and he's alone, on 100 quid a week, stacking shelves at ASDA. His co-workers never invite him down the pub after work, and they snicker behind his back, but he wonders how many of them got sucked fucking bandy by Jodie Marsh.

Bad Girls Hotel

check out the work of photographer Bob Coulter at The Bad Girls Hotel

Iron 0-LAN-NA of the Jasy Ossetians (with crystal mantis mandibles)

for Sebastian S. Kresge's Bald
Mountain Furred Vagina Collar

u might say that
its giant head appeared
in the opening or blowhole
gnashing its crystalline
mantis mandibles encrusted
with giggling pink furred
mentula-horned cherubs
squirting winged vagina eyeball cannons
somethingas is
those wings come out wet and swept
back in the glory of god
then snap to attention
as the robotic eyeball cameras fly
its like a fog of winged eyeballs in here
two by two the winged vagina eyeball cannons
entered Caligulanoise's Ark
bright shiny android prostitutes playing
musical president heads
I like seeing a gruesome old american president
head when I'm fucking an android squirting
winged analvagina robotic eyeball cannons
towards the blowhole of Terrance Dix'
Giant Head with crystalline Mantis mandibles
or if she was a teenage girl named "Crystal"
her Albino daddy rode a white harley davidson
encrusted with pink furred mentula horned cherubs
with crystalline cherubs or centipede nipplecords
would connect to your forehead where the plugs
go in or reading HEAVY METAL on a winged commode
commonly filling the bowl with glass eyeball chiameras
you could meet Pynchon inside a glass eyeball clock
like the pooltable was black velvet and a world map
made in relief with a thicker pile or into what is
Team Netjets will transport a giant squid and a
gelatinous James T. Kirk Look-alike onto a spinning
table so the surgeon can use a tiny umbrella hooktool
to extract its glass sarcophagus eyeball clocks
with tiny Thomas Pynchon dolls inside with crystalline
mantis mandibles encrusted with luminous tobiko,ne?
More than Ever, The Giant Jesus seen knocking on the UN
building is looking like 5th century Rome was in really
stanky underwear for the rest of the 18th Century 2001
A space Oddyseus would give the Rebel Yell, For a White
Wedding. I can sense the man-made people in here, and for
awhile there were Walruses in tophats playing accordions
as the Zoo-Zeppelin crashed into Eiffel Tower encrusted
with Nude Animal Women with Crystalline Mantis Mandibles
encrusted with James T. Kirk Look-alike Albino
mentula-horned cherubs w/ black velvet tophats.
You can transport a giant sqquid under most tophats
or get lost in the thicker pile surrounding the bigtop
Omphalos tent where the head-juggling android clown
prostitutes with squirting winged analvagina robotic
eyeball cannon blowholes were suddenly assembled
into a Gruesome old President Head with crystalline
mantis mandible-spinnerettes, spiders with tourettes
are crocheting a condom for the moon which has an
exquisite foaming of action figures somehow resembling
Team Netjets delivering a giant squid from the
epileptic Albiontic Albino Foetal Grandmother whale
with crystalline mantis mandibles encrusted with
King Aurthur C. Clark Auroch Cherubs with 18thC Cotton
Candy Powdered Wigs of self-evolving memory cells
The Chrome Taffy Yodelers buttered their impeccahedron
jowls with SPURL, Yokohama blue suede carnation and
imitation goiter jock-strap camera with detachable
and autonrimoouse land-rover with Sistine Chapel
diving bell for totally like signing the get well soon
card for Tim, The Evil Wizard who drove too fast
on an improperly embanked country road in turn of
the Century Dagestan had a whole stilt city of crusty
newspaper houses where Stilt Family Robinsoma
kept their giant squid boiling in a philosophy
often called "diaper smelt" or the Pop-Song
built around the Alans' Chieftan Goar "HOO"
led his followers over the Rhine during the
multi-tribe invasion of Gall in 406, but quickly
joined the Romans, and subsequently played a role
in the internal politics of GHWAULD who were
Net Jets Customers with Alien Parasites looking
like Big Snails wearing Tophats who milked the teats
and Vellys of the dragon men or Candy Napolean
in a biodegradable ideology warp with festering
dowsers encrusted with Sovia hyrtacus,

Hyle It-lure!

Segunda of brown Panda Siesta.
Can you ever know a brown Panda named Jose'?
I think if they Had Charlie Brown Head Toilets
people would buy them for Linus Pauling
Blanket statements cause wrack and Runeyine

Schloss Brunnenburg is a castle in the province
of South Tyrol, in northern Italy. Originally
built circa 1250, it was completely restored by
Boris and Mary de Rachewiltz, who made it their
home in the mid-20th century

Mary de Rachewiltz was the daughter
of the poet Ezra Pound and the violinist
Olga "Bornagasim' under a Bad Barnsign Baby" Rudge.
Pound stayed at the castle in
1958 on his return from America and wrote
the last 6 of his 116 "Cantos" of The Cantos.

Today the castle is not only home to the
Rachewiltz family, but also houses
"The Ezra Pound Centre for Literature"
where students come from all over the world
to study the poet's craft which sounds like
Caraffe or Giraffe and mainly Burning Giraffes
were the main element in the Unfilmed but
suddenly Important Film collaboaration
by Salvador Dali and Harpo Marx
whose ancestor was a Cello.

Camera Obscura...

Camera Obscura: When Your Clothes are Nothing
More than Tattered Virgins with Innate Senses of Poor Taste

pincushion must start with prick
...or chickens with red smell (in red cubicles)

will bell Pavlov’s bones 2,000 genomes
....................in 6.6 easy steps

.......how’s the flesh?

.........It: fishy psychopompous
..............as wet cloth in Red China

.....fatten themselves blubber dreams
..............(eye mom’s ham hocks)
............without lubricant swine eyes
how this foot feels in weathered holes

canthi screaming little girls without

........see Pavlov work his voodoo
.........all the way to the bathroom

smell teen direction
master parts through jeans
sore cupping cunt’s finger trap.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Miam-miam !

^ ^ Kikoo ma coquine source ! ^ ^ Tendresse des têtards à plus tard ^ ^ L’onde est livrée après hommage au sarcophage ^ ^ Ma canne de petit bambou chérie^ ^Je trottine en ternaire jusqu’à la rivière ^ ^ Les doigts gratouillant la terre : je trouve un ver ! ^ ^ Bon, sur l’hameçon, il est moins mignon ^ ^ Demi sieste sur la douce jade ^ ^ Mes fentes photoniques fixées au bouchon ^ ^ Dès les premières prises, j’enfile les gougeons sur une longue tige et oui d’émeraude ^ ^ Ce coin enchante tout ^ ^ Le ronron du moulin à eau : sûrement un château caché ^ ^ A la satiété de la pèche ma salive est future ^ ^ Ô la friture de mon élixir à nageoires ! ^ ^ Merci au miam-miam du don de la verdure naturelle ^ ^


Thursday, July 20, 2006

Performing Seals Of Saturn

The Revolution is like Saturn - it eats its own children.

Kempernorton - Ventongimp

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Do Not Regret The Flowering of Sansonet, Orrilo's Cellular Lameant

And if an arm or hand or leg he lacks,
he sticks it on again, as it were wax.
from Canto [xv], 69, Orlando Furioso,
by Ludovico Ariosto trans. Barbara Reynolds

possessing only typologies
of subject gateways, the
'grifonaquilant' proposes only
a congenial 'sounding' join
(as in 'undsigneigentum' or 'unsaneigentomb')

for the ordering of runes is disputed,
the 'whiteblack' hero also conjoins
to harass the mercurial orrilo


from its overmother
this leak would pursue


the roundling
the prey
the winnow ghost assuming
the 'thoughtstill' pox whose
fury tithes the organelle
is the pearling of gooseflesh

that milk white hand of coqueio ecgonine
is masked in the faceless pollen
of the 'nebenmensch'

sorry waters had gallantly
'bortwinned' the 'gleeking megabird'
floundering up two sisters within
the general 'fumettoi'

some say the 'whole itself'
is an eye, anonymous in its lack of universality
and smoking

and smoking between two skies
where the castle of 'read skeins'
has its breathing
il castello dei destini incrociati

the apartments of the irregular interstice
were all known as 'sad gismonda'

and somehow
by a collective shadow
the 'knight' was visible

taking up its talon'd cup
to breathe in the flames
with its entire face
crunch bang crunch

that complicated emblem
of reconfigureable openings
whose leaves grew crustly
with the woven concatenations
of pupal 'oirizoons'

the meaning
of the singular hair
prefixed and suffixed randomly
through the churning notes
of the burning and precious music
of the heterotic swampland
where the 'UIRUAQKI' lady of the boat crouches
eerily playing her
oud of would...


Nurse With Wound - Beetle Crawls Across My Back

Parisian poster

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Oedipus (ain't that complex)


From: "Durand Koogler"
To: saucer@sauceruney.com
Subject: wuyepu
Date: Tue, 18 Jul 2006 18:38:51 -0700

not sneeze again for a good while. There was a mighty pushing
of poles. The elves that were standing in the shallow.water
heaved and shoved. Thebarrels now all lashed together creaked
and fretted..


Spindle Elm
the rector’s bench
slatted with spindle elm
and ash
the low susurrus
of the calliope
forcing chancel air through trued pipes
stale bread and unction wine
draught from the parson’s saintly tun
grain skin and trued blood

The Settlement
the settlement is pending
they should have stopped me
from running in traffic
without my straightjacket on

Coping Steel
skin and bone spoiled
prey to assonance
and coping

Not Yet So, And
--That, your face, swallows, harpies, roan and, and, and lich, and, sackcloth, oil, sashes made, from perambulators, and, catgut, violas, chinking. It is, time, fur bed, and such, such. Prickly pear so, so, be it, for now, eternally yours, with grace, and, no, small pittance. Of, skullduggery, and, and queuing, for a spot, spot on, in, the armory, of your, your thoughts, not, yet, so far, so good, so, forth, and, abler than, than, and, so, and, so, and, and

Chafe Pins
thalidomide spays muscle and bone
pins halyard scaffolding and post
a cure-all for nausea and distemper
blue steel proxies for shinbone
dragging bone slag fen with spoil
a breach for emptying sanguine waste
a panacea for anemia and retching
corrupting the moment of conception
a wither of genes and ancestry

the aliens.

you may not believe it but there are people who go through life with very little friction or distress
they dress well, eat well, sleep well
they are contented with their family life
they have moments of grief but all in all
they are undisturbed and often feel very good
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their sleep
you may not believe it but such people do exist

but i am not one of them
oh no, i am not one of them
i am not even near to being one of them

they are there
and i am here.

Monday, July 17, 2006

i-Raq Patrol

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Jane And Peter / Peter And Jane

Looked in, and hell breaks loose because the wurld is in there and needn't be seen or swept up into the world.

"No one likes it crisp n dry," Jane said, weaving her hair into the fabric of the sofa, attempting a last dash at Ikea understanding.

"There's a message there for all of us. Fuck the flood victims; the Levels have to be levelled. It's a Darwinian thing - or that guy who believed in the inheritance of acquired traits..." Peter paused, unsure of his own knowledge; his meta-memory shot to pieces through years of Yeast infected sauna bashing.

"Lamarck!" yelled Jane, her face a tumble of misjudged sentences. "A standard error of teleology but I commend you for bringing him to bear. Sweet Cones."

Peter tossed a huge red ball into the air and then left the point forever.

Jane squinted one eye at a time, not sure whether she wanted to see the wurld any clearer without another balloon of Nitrous Oxide (creamed into Mr Whippy cans, bought from a skulking Golly in the backends of the Olde Towne) or a Significant Crutch/Crotch to hang her ideas on.

Some fucker called the Cop(se).


Cash Missives That Remind Us of Dead Time

sunlight like an animal
its rapture (breathing) shatter recital
gales coupling stipends with a stone defiance
hurled with other gestures at the cold, inert
features of the whole stinking affair (stuck in
a sweat-soaked and hungry sky)

burnt shrieks a hard truth
to carry down that dark tunnel
(always reeking of the visionary--always),
not that it stopped any of them
from walking as if physics really,
genuinely mattered

a simple striping of the herd drinking in the elegance of
nothing exposed but long, rusted pipes all alone in the private
subtleties of syntax caked to your jeans
(to somehow triumph over the tacit)
burrowed into skeletal frames become (the bars bitten)
a universal symbol of marginality, a matted density
stationed wherever the money goes to share its war,
its poverty, its crippling alienation
for many days and nights.

annabel chong

AnNaBel choNg
gOt it wROnG
shE wOre FreNcH knickErs
and Not A thONg

words by cocaine jesus

blank ticket, topical
juice, permanent contact,
dot tiff, unsent matter,
link to every, create
for you, eron, focus on
the blank, desperate
trance, wax ink, trance
axis, except nothing,
sugarcane photocopy,
ready to be, through,
trance fink, crack
the code, the erased
phrase, we are going
thru too many pages,
one thousand pink,
neglected to act,
for more knowledge,
golden zen reality,
a movie at local,
she flew, another
week goes by, pages
and pages of secrets,
getting serious
about beer, imp or,
the economics of po,
milk and cookies,
good war, trash it,

addnpass from Moreno Menarin et al. Posted by Picasa

6ForB. (the D.S.L.)

Bonnie Prince Billie - A Minor Place

Nurse With Wound - I Am The Poison

P.I.L. - Rise

Napalm Death - Dead

Muslimgauze - The Asphalt Jungle

Stump - Buffalo