Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
Love Suicides a Parasol
Dense wet syllables
tear open lids falling
on thighs which embrace
Clenching years in her teeth
Paradise incantation index locks
parting the night stars again
Wisps of hair suddenly lurch after
mossy labyrinths accustomed to obscure
the mere sight of jazz
Diabolic framing of tanned breasts
rupture shadows carried on the train
amber heralded by midnight
Tongues spray flesh-toned nodes of sleep
bodies signalling hubris forever
sweating pearls left in the sun too long
Langorously stroking ions passing time by
estimating the strenghth of passions
best left to azure baiting her jaw
Tracing the one-hundred year old orange softness
lifting the cries of desperate men to stone
To gently stroke muscled cords of a fractured air
and purple slabs of varying beauty
Molecules soar ivory scars to supine moaning below
swirling cusps singing love's rose to her legs
draped over humming blades of grass
Night watches the moon's rays transfigure
their entwined figures in the narrative of One
a butterfly floats into pyramids of icy water
Mantras match nature's colliding of pale flesh
calling several times to be rescued from limbo
Bone against bone
Spirit against Spirit
Deep hollow curls of laughter
peel astral frequencies to hand
a hot sky the keys to her
A stillness climbing to the roots of her bodice
covering a mirror with yellowed edges to her wound
To surrender a tranquil fastening of moist mouths
seeking the cross painted on sheets of prayer
She longs to watch her love glisten
on waves of nothing riding a blue prelude
His next appearance on howling gusts of wind
carries their divine equation past the ad infinitum
Protean thrusts finish breathless gasps outside
flourishes a virtual glossary left hanging
on single droplets invading ghostly bared chests
Possibilities for love tossed into the cyclone of open hearts
All dreamt in the shadowy flowers blooming
in the heat caressing her hidden garden
rhetor (terror stammer 23)
(editor out (mendicants ' carne impends personality?"
confusion doctoring the upswing opens proximity carne gradation undoer down hands sodium '
leg vitalizer cornu in toes
night[ie] biddy ///.fir.mly / flattened
attached >>>>> the unicef useless flat out cycle diadem
pas.s.ion //the personality*( th
giddy wouldn't anymore
," soci round'd & it's
negative (colder) impends tabulator linked "slept ok cathodic protractor"
eye compass threaded through, skin edit needle quilt
peaked prayer-stool in crimson; the slant-snapped not.o_chord
discharge (beautiful raven in dark places)
Yet you fight again to stand
With dreams of fullfillment and love and trust,
Yet part of you always wonders...
Raven arrives with a hubris of black feathers
She is the colour of night.
She is the stuff of cobwebs.
Her words are of the pulse
and the heart beat.
She tastes of chrome.
speak tothe dark angels
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Celebrity Shopping Sprees
'Give me a lever and I can move the world,’ - Archimedes…
21st Century AD, alternatives:
‘Give me a child and I can move the world, transform into a messiah and still manage a paparazzi shot. Black, is the new black. Matches the Prada handbag darling.’
'Give me a kid, and I can shift newspapers and magazines, elevating my public profile.'
'I think I'll choose this one. Doesn't he look cute? Yes, that's the one. You can take the rest back.'
'Oh I can help you. I can take this child off your hands. You can't provide for it, anyhow.'
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
PIRACY BULLSHIT DETECTOR (PORTSMOUTH, 1758)
Those cowardly vultures
With their tousled locks
Declaring their love for the Portuguese Princess!
With loud mouthed stories about how
They'd once belted a homeless man in the kisser
Or how they read De Sade in the dark
Not a man among them; I saw them shit their pants
The day we encountered the sea serpent
100 metres of scaley green death
Those shitting cunts tossed off sigils to Kali
"Oh save us mother of all assassins!" they wailed
And the Portuguese Princess, left abandoned, below deck
While these cowardly motherfucks wept and sobbed
Like Moomins in a concentration camp
But I punched the ponce snake beast on the nose
The sea serpent bottled it, the fucking shitting cunt
And slipped off back to Malta
To feast on baby goats and unbaptised mites
"Phew! Praise the heavens!" the poltroons gushed
Before running to the Portuguese Princess, in guffaws
Screaming, "We repelled the most fearsome beast of the sea!"
I'm telling you
Think you're some pirate?
A nappy-shitting sprat more like
Don't even fucking smirk
You're making yourself look the clown, son
They're not eavesdropping and thinking "He's the clown"
They're thinking you're the clown
They fucking are, right
The sea serpent
Decked the cunt
Monday, October 23, 2006
Down by the knives,
In the corner,
The terrible neck-tight.
Down by the knives,
The electric sharp,
It comes close,
Then it drifts away again.
Down by the knives,
The twist of a serrated threat-edge,
The poorly girl,
Covered in splashes,
Down by the knives,
She learns how to be silent,
How to edge towards the door in no-word,
A thin sliver of metal,
She becomes invisible.
In words she is invincible.
1957 termite release
lead to the release of one thousand
termites on April the 3rd 1957.
such matters were of no concern
however, to the municipal
marching band of aberystwyth.
the brass blew a farting sound
that resonated in the dales
and carried a joyous tremble
to the winged insects.
words by cocaine jesus
Friday, October 20, 2006
discharge (that handsome mammal killer luca)
Thursday, October 19, 2006
in my boy black a.m. underwater,
tying moved hands to
Through the veins
he spits a soft window to my arm.
Tonight I am the mouth
I eat the away. of his straight painted beak
I break the canned tongue,
I am a mean swimming
the song I devour was before
in his hands
a pin swatch
the moon car--
once walls cliffs
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
The mould grows black and into the very grout of me. It is green and then it turns to black. Sometimes small flowers of orange, tiny, can be found on skin.
It does not burn, this growing flower.
It has not a root or rot to see
It clings like a merciless creature.
The stain of it goes everywhere.
It needs not a drink, except the salty debris I leave behind.
I am mad not to wash,
Yet, I cannot let it starve,
This multi-coloured life.
I am only rotting in places,
The moment a limb drops I shall let it go.
I am only forest in places.
The malty flavour of mushrooms,
Guards me from the others.
I shall soon become part of bubbling yellow.
I shall soon become part of bursting mellow tree-root smell.
I shall soon become part of mulch.
I am only rotting in places.
I shall give up
Only when you can push a finger through me.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
This art makes me feel all crinklecut and DMTeed off. Groovy Hippy Smut - just how I like 'em!
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Present Inter Noumenal
Poetry does not serve any more needs
Since four thousand years it has served feudal archetypes
Since Homer, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Vergil, till Racine, Moliere, Shakespeare, Goethe and Hugo, it has served to revive the great EMPTINESS by a heroic IMAGINARY, in a metaphoric language
Poetry of the PRESENT has given up the asiano-mediterranean archetypes
It has given up the HEROS
Poetry of the PRESENT has found the new objectivity of things in the living space
It does not seek any more to explicate phenomenals, be they social or false philosophical
Poetry of the present does not spring out of fear, it has liberated itself of the world=agony and the ridiculously tragic keeping of the cunning of struggle for eating
Poetry of the PRESENT understands its objects, the words, as agents of our living space
It gives back to the words and by the words the correspondences of the things before and outside their social and eugenic needs
The poetical (non-musical) sound creates complex dimensions: functional, temporal and numerical, it shows by these inter-relations the "coincidentia oppositorum" of the things by their own value
These values are no ware of social classes, nor of historical aspect
Poetry of the PRESENT is outside the restrained history, outside the coward anthropophagus and anthropomorphous utilisations
PRESENT poetry aims at the realtive life of untamed and non-classified functions, avoiding the false semblances
PRESENT poetry is neither FOR nor AGAINST, neither classic, nor romantic, nor surrealistic
It integrates BEING and it IS
Poetry Intervenes Now
Presence Is New
Kurt Schwitters from PPPPPP
Friday, October 13, 2006
discharge (the ever gorgeous doriandra smith)
this is the gorgeous doriandra smith
with two albums to her credit.
an american artist with an ever creative heart.
her skin tastes of orange peel.
speak to the dark angels
Thursday, October 12, 2006
History gurgling in my chest,
a fever drawn exterior to
our desperate radiation dripping
total violence everywhere.
Infinite repetition moves our womb backwards,
more than enough for the fiery sitting next to
the last baked day.
An eye that ascends to heaven,
conforming to stone, into Being's ribs
wafting thought become as wry contusions
coralling inner wines suggestive of
audible lines of flaked decorum.
Pulling purple static towards this always-now,
a city, a void, copping lascivious feels of that evolving
micro bending the dry, white skulls of the civilized delusion.
An energy capable of forming your singular face,
form shining through prphetic walls that bleed brown.
In the service of the labia. Eternally sipping
ceramic juices as multiple nodes of mystery.
Birth. Breath. The pain of letting go,
of knowing that it all stops HERE,
in the compassion of a golden pocket-trumpet
pounding your soul into certainty smoking
the thermonuclear universe away
once and for all.
Potential seventy-five million
It is stunning to see the club, after sixty five years standing open for only fifteen minutes. Record premierships, trophies, meditation things in this museumeatory place.
Ah, a random discarded suckbox legend.
A speckled emerald hero.
A random eye-test letter.
A missed chance.
Two feet running towards victory.
A pointing finger that has been lost from a statue.
Something coming alive after death. Fog-forming later.
Central countryside death.
A family with teeth problems.
Families walk past and thicken up. Chilly hand-shakes create tension in the darkness. Tourists push up to the Ripper exhibits. Fascinating rip-belly interest. A lady, sixty-five, calls out for her husband as her face is pushed up against glass-horrors.
A picture of a picture of a picture, documenting moments lost.
My kiss with another mouth shut.
The mask that was put across my face, gas counting 5,4,3,2,1.
The numbers 5, 17 and 6.
A touchy-feely station containing various garments of pleasure.
Velvet, silk, satin, ribbon, fur, soft things.
The trial of a war criminal.
Man's fatal errors.
The memory of a camp scarf.
The drip of water on an upturned face.
Nothing more frightening and lonely - entitled 'Pain'.
What was started on a step of a house, mouth on mouth, that was never finished.
Battle Sphinx climbs towards death.
I'm asking you to move forward. Do not stop here too long. Step away from the glass. Do not touch. Do not move. Do not hesitate here. Move forward. Step away. Step away. Step away.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
A New Contributor To Tuche, MaybePerhaps?
"I think people will look back on a guy like Saul or Beau Sia, those kind of cats, and feel like, 'Wow, that's as close as we got to having a like Ginsberg, Kerouac and Burroughs.' It doesn't feel like we have them, but we kind of do. The culture that we live in is more pop culture; it's not about the art."
Our Lady of Peace Frontman Makes a Poetry Album
Hey Loki, send the hep-cat an email and see if he's down with us, ok? Then we can kinda say we were in a band with him way back in the day. How cool would that be? The kids would soooooooo love us!
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Terrible blonde volcano girl.
She is the terrible blonde volcano girl,
Mesmerised by hips and silver.
She is the working machine of night.
She is the reject-button configuration of me.
I am not the blonde reconfiguration button of me.
I am not the.
I am not the recon.
She shakes her visible heresies,
She makes predictions that cannot be lava.
She is scrimmage and bullet rocks,
Hurtling down Etna tear-cheeks.
I love the Acklash part of me,
She is blonde,
And volcano girl.
I am not blonde,
But dark and green.
People run from me,
Hot ashes and menstrual molten effluvia,
Dripping and scald-leg pain.
I don't look like Acklash,
But she is a reconfiguration button,
An orgone accumulator of my terrible need.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Kiss My Ass, Zack
cupped like a tick
you me they
links in a trance
hallucinogenic HTML reflected in her car door
the sexy ride
(she liked port, her mama did too)
the Web is filtered
with palm sexy
but Nina is sealed and
the blue embrace
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Nearly Laughing @
the rods & combs in his eyes
Nina sits in a slip of fullness
her passion tender & florescent hooded
(they are an absolute space waltz
of sometimes door-pressed lip slams)
please turn down your robot music
only if you turn off your
hypo static noise &
keep your commentary fingers
mummified with clear
could you put on your scant hair blow
but only because you are the shuttling ocean
cut over the part
I love you and am more over your time
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
"... eyes of sparrows rather than hawks as they used to say, and feet of willow. It wasn't her fault, she fell into the whole set much too quickly, not waiting to feel the air in her lungs before she took the plunge. It was only to be expected. Inside, things were very differen and on the first night she came out of the ballroom looking like she'd fallen into an Angela Carter novel, maybe had a few extremities lopped, maybe lost a few toes to the cannibals (lovely skin, and teeth like we'd never know, Dentaplan notwithstanding). She wasn't to know and we weren't going to head her off. In those days, it just wasn't polite to deny a women, however naive she may have been, the right to make the kind of mistakes that kill you in the end. Nowadays? Well, they talk about Nanny State.."
Interview for HTV Pointed Wurst, September 1979, source unknown
EXP ia an EXPerimental band that started in 1992. EXP is perhaps the most incestuous band in the Rozz Williams family. The enitity has one self titled, full lenght release available through Hollow Hills recording. EXP has released singles on 4 different compilatins, and also recorded a limited edition, handmade 7-Inch single. Fronted by PARIS, PARIS (formerly keyboardist of Shadow Project) has joined forces with ROZZ WILLIAMS (bassist) (formerly of Christian Death, Shadow Project, Daucus Karota, Premature Ejaculation, Heltir, 1334), jazz guru Ace Farren Ford (Smegma, Shadow Project), Ryan Gaumer and Justin Bennett. The first incarnation of E.X.P. began in 1992 with recordings made in subterranean tunnels at the ocean. Paris and Ryan used the sounds for the soundtrack of , a one-time multimedia assault at a Gnostic church in Los Angeles. E.X.P. did a series of successful West coast shows, incorporating the chilling sounds of Brian on a huge steel cello and the bizarre performance art of a crazed Dean X. < ..this is a hybrid of styles nurtured by years of multimedia West coast performances. Transcending experimental , E.X.P. slips into sonic chaos. Chants and wails are bathed in schizophrenic symphonies, saxophone and rare steel cello mix with arresting samples. EXP serves up enough atmosphere to drown in. > (April Johnson, 1997 ) <" experimentation that refuses boundaries, like if DOWNLOAD would meet FAITH & THE MUSE...> Please note that this is not actually EXP or anything having to do with EXP. This is a BIG TIME Fan made page dedicated to Rozz' band that is beyond the grounds of hell.
Band Members Rozz Williams (bass), Paris Sadonis (keyboards, clarinet, samples & dulcimer), Doriandra Smith (vocals), Ryan Gaumer (vocals), Ace Farren Ford (tenor and soprano saxophones, svona, bagpipe chanter, trumpet and altered trumpet, dulcimer, toy violin, Tibetan bells, Bolivian ocarina, 1 string ae banjo and banjo & sound effects/turntable), Justin Bennett (drums & percussion), Ignacio Segovia (metal drums), and Gary Dobbins (stand-up bass & additional keyboards)
Sounds Like An atmospheric dance in the glass realm of multimedia . Experimentation that refuses boundries. Innovative and exotic goth industrial symphonies that are always evolving. Don't fear the unexpected and don't expect any anachronism. Transcending experimental which slips into sonic Chaos.
Monday, October 02, 2006
"...course, in them days, way backwards, fore even The Deluge and all the wetlands rising and all the...gumpf then we'd often tackle a foray out into the old lands, in those times everything had an E at the end, just for the Americans and the Japs, and headoff to East Coker or Chard, where Mrs. Langtree, then multi-limbed but not yet multi-brained, would be lyin' in a crowd of Rusk and Antiquity, right out there in the margins, her whole house a bed, like the Little Old Lady's Shoe, and you'd hardly be creeping up on her in the garden when all Hell would break loose and you'd find yerself surrounded by hands and fingers, coming at you from all directions, the trees full of pouting lips, the grassstalks, each and evry one, full of tiny cotton genitals, raising their head to the sun. Wild times, wild times..."
from: TSW Interview with Margaret Appleby, FirstDuke, September 1978
"in real life was quite different from playing it in a
cross-legged circle as a
kid or doing it in front of a typewriter as a
grown-up, he discovered."She then
closed the door and locked it again.Here
was a Call clipping which said that the
stray cat the student nurses adopted
had been poisoned"
Sunday, October 01, 2006
andreyev's post-roccoenlightin symverse was to prove the primary influence for gogol. borges to kafka's ash-phoenix insurge, was pushkin's oneginiana to gogol's narotic fantosatires. headlining the nationalist russo-expressist contribution, whose only obvious contemporaneities were anagsuak's mock-surreal performance novels. mock, before. this expressist strand (woe tatoemetis monet, both martial and nonnus), kojan ultrabarot olmeca, in the chateau de lourps, match lighting, little cuadrado chica, found a place for sale at the top of the roserue.
bushtit decibel. desiccator anviltops. sheering legs. sideboard mitobeldam (prurientia you erofeev poyakonda kid. grimy marketability standard.)
footpace: * * * * * * * * (tabouret&action)
split head convalescent. asscock lipterabilia.
DISREPUTABLE LIFE FORMS
[DISPUTABLE LIFE FORMS]
A disreputable life's formations.
[bow-wow expedition single-handedly unarmed pregnancies]
Kamandi leads the canine sherpas through the
high bulbous canal of frozen yeti ice watermelons.
Unarmed, they marvel in the drifts of perfect
albino shag, unseen jewelled alchemical ice foetuses
blinking in the gloaming blizzardunes.
[mud can lead a green thumb walking on ice]
A shocked mud-golem stares amazed at its giant
new green thumb, a throbbing succulent passing
fragrance and mutagenic sap into the innocent
trudging glop now just noticing the tell-tall
'izzaktlee' of the slowly spreading radial
[squeeze blood out of a big shadow]
A lava tuber is used as a sacrificial pedestal,
red hot iron aztec priest baptising amorphous
flesh cakes in the hissing holy orange slag muck.
[double image flickered and became menacing]
Snidely Whiplash builds a set for a catoptric
bondage scene, eery black leafless trees are used
to great effect.