Tuche & Automaton

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Guerilla Poetics? Fuck Yeah!

Cooler than your Mom on meth since 2006, my little flamethrowers!

Throw Nups On My Penis Muffler

Laocoön ribbed his fellow Trojans against
the wooden horse presented to the city by
the Greek merchants, now the damn thing
is throwing up Hoplites and Baklava like
a beehive!

SHO NUP!

throw nups! THROW NUPS!
grown ups with nubs are nuptial arrangements
smoking limbs mean lightning, Charles
Boyar V omits red lightning.

SHO NUP!

sampling Tuscaloosa Treepod people
amidst the blush and humerous, we've
said there's a hush in the hummus pit,
little frogmen made of carrots
speared with a chinese umbrella toothpick.

"I found this big old Arabian masturbating
under my hammock while I slept."

Then Lon Chaney said:

"Love Egypt and Egypt will love you"
these ameteurs lungs were coated full of sea
water, vomitting back into Clerics of the
Mystery Cults, Thank Goddess he isn’t
defending Bush. This is sort of suck.

SHO NUP!

when vomitting and the vomit exits the nostrils
take hold of your doggies dewlaps, or you
may plummett endless fathoms to the floor
of the poem. It is a life giving force
which has it's roots in the Underworld and death
of jocular rotund salesmen of Science Laboratories.

I just had my dog sign a nuptial arrangement.
Sho Nup I did! Bleak in the tidal E-foff-vellure,
Hugo in his ANTEDILUVIAN HAT-PANTS, Basset
hound wearing a special Sherlock Homeric
double bill. SHERLOCK-ACID / WATSON-BASSET

SHO NUP!

Why, goddess, why? This is the second year
in a row I've gotten stomachy-vomitting
issues on the playa. Tampon mummy dogs
are pouring from the ears of the Sphinx,
I need to pay golden tribute to the
porcelian goddess. That's not nice,
its porcupine porno.

yacketayakking screaming vomitting whispering
Purple Goddess in Frog Pyjamas
What is essential is invisible to the eye.
Half Asleep in Frog Pyjamas. Half Asleep
in Frog Pyjamas: Tom Robbins Chemical analysis
of raw, dry-roasted, and honey-roasted licorice.

Anyway, for all you Fraudian, Post-Freudian types,
If you think I'm kidding, Here's the khaki play-doh
Mushmouth Laocoön I made wrestling a giant
Dachsun snake. It's where I hang my penis muffler.

SHO NUP!

I can't find any evidence we are vomitted
by the GODDESS into the WESTERN LANDS...

No reason


But this could be a new form of blogging

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

time


CTRL. ALT. DELETE.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Fragment

The ocean climbing into our already-crowded room. Sub-zero moaning in effigy of unwritten sonnets to the spectacle's last gasp. A torrent blinds them from seeing. Dread staring, moisture gathered at the hub of steamed chocolate, embryonic, based in the mists of ancient myth.

Scented nodes tried to recall particularly engaging sections of local legend to drag home with them. A hoof noiselessly shutting windows onto the desert of the real. Tanned hymns wrapped an amen to the psychedelic finally determining market values. Terror minds picked clean of their foul meat, a dancing embellishment of telepathy.

Your fingers a source of vital empathy without kneading eye-sockets. Domestic sutures renewed as warm meals served on plates of weary, rhythmic memorials to our collective ruse. Interminable violence, impoverished ladies side by side, dead before they hit the sterilized floor. Camouflage as a prolonged cadence, religious injunctions burnt at the stake, a shallow demand untallied by our privileged intimacy. Canticles dressed all in black drone on and on, permeating carpetry, baffling twists and spins of holy writ. A smooth blue with its hands stroking the curve of my bruisded ego. Sorely needed salves of healing light...


iii.53e: cryonic emotions, awakening in topsy-turvy leg meanderings that covet other people of rank. axles casually plying their stock and trade applied grease to my lost context. widely, quickly dissipating ghostly swirls spooning appeasment into rends of ideology. silver in vastness wants to be taught arcane arts, garters dancing pale thighs to stacked pairs of brine. euphoric, smoking corpses in style, all for the sake of the glorious republic. marriage off the hinges lands swollen asps of gold falling in our lap as pay-off for our complicity. diced integrity's head gone to fetch ice. fiery condor talons glowering with the loot of battle quickening. generates a bell's rush heated enough to shoot a wan dribble of thorns. aware of hopes and dreams betrayed for a smidgen more. profiteering dings topping the charts as a little man fastens acrobatics to a bullet. not arduous enough to carry rocks in my thinning blood. cartographies of immiseration sipping beer, enjoying life. we simply failed to find the secert, sullen network every time. a soft chiselling legacy heat-sensor cheats gold waltzing in its own spurious tangle.

ii.29e: shame, losing precious time. water boiling productions of diseased skin. hammering bronze furiously in tethered spaces bent over myriad gills of oak. shining a third shot saved my libido's emaciated frame of pus and bone. timing historic themes right down to pictorial rivers of molten sperm minus the lava. a morning advocate of keen-minded anarchy. nothing to regret. a passive intervention into the lunacy maelstrom scavenges frozen lungs and their itinerant jawbones. the tense visage of a million unhappy faces playing tight defensively, over and against the rook. sleep in my medicine. myopic salves devoid of agreements encrypted in their pubic phase because beauty does not necessarily birth beauty. surrender to the hunting whore. an atmosphere walking torment through iron, straddled by the frazzled card of violence. fear treating us like vermin, alluvial, hypnotic brightness falling over what we could not afford to flesh. deflection around and about. prosaic numbness shoving wetness into my brain. a dry passion i failed to reconcile earlier in the fish's objection. memories that can't be erased in a vial. inject drama into the veins of truth.

cross-posted to: Taking the Brim

the flower of romance

men call it cunt because men are arseholes. this is perfection in flesh.



words and picture manipulation by cocaine jesus

No entry



found in Melbourne.

Friday, November 24, 2006

nonapoepia


posthaste violist;  curriery, dimity;  slapeflode

horlick

in the wee hours between dawn crust and barnacle flinch the horlick goes a vamping.
wandering here and there and into ladies underwear where forever be its stolen heart.


Tuesday, November 21, 2006

dreamwheels


i drove my words over the dark borders,
upon the black tarmacdum of futile hope
like a vehicle bereft of wheels.
headlights grazing the sparse trees,
bats flitter fight into pinpoint light.
a broken shaft in the doomy ink.


words copyright of cocaine jesus

Monday, November 20, 2006

Coins

The hole through which coins drop make the sound of metallic thud, which is not dissimilar to the moment when my head hit the storm drain. I was pushed there by a hand, which gripped my neck in a spasmodic mode of fury and spitting rage.

The clang of ear against the bubble of extra metal. It was so quick that even the air was shocked. It whistled as I flew past.

Once down there, I looked at tiny flecks of gravel-eyes. They looked at me with tears in their eyes. I thought that they might put up their hands to their face. It was surprising to see their eyes. A pleasure. Drips of blood made pools inside pavement shields.

My hair was a comfort as it touched my cheek. It stroked me there for a moment. I did not dare move, even though I heard lorries, cars, milk floats, bicycles, tricycles and scooters. Tiny toddler legs with pram-pushing. She gurgled in delight to see someone at her level. Tiny and without form. Plush and crumpled and small, like a child. My face an empty place wherein others would make their judgements. A scrotum of wrinkled desperation.

When the bus ran over my foot, I welcomed the pain. I could then forget the fact that I had been pushed over. By your hand.

An Easy War

Sallow brackets of naught a null

christens the value of cleavage maned

as songs rattling about the vapour

Pop the glib out of your mouth

Ever to descend if the hilt

clings forever to the

waning clot of a day roiling

on your saturnalia tongues

A rusting sepia that can burn

Nova's misery vitiate browsing of

fiercely electric at its core

Nexus this last supper business

ionic to imprimatur all along

Desist meaning with this cloud's

coded wind a bridge oblong over as to

retrieval dressed entirely in runes

foaming a crisp orange suit

Past damages glimpse a rare din of crags

Spy glistening chrome burts factions of nascent P

Immortal consonants into the open pry

dead spiders from your broken now

Leverage Sumerian grace mystics twelve

canticles left frying in grey drones

Acrylics collapse entwined glee logics

To twirling arches behind to burn

neon's diaphanous sheets warp

Metaphysics cradling an easy war

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Thursday, November 16, 2006

LAMENT OF THE YOUNG CONSERVATIVE INDIE FICTION SCENE



7.20am; interrupting my reverie
In which unattainable Aussie girls in kneeboots
Frolicked, cavorted, CARPET BURNED
This creature assails my senses
Dabs his hair with Flora, then begins to read

"Our glorious leader, Cameron, and the rise of the June Brides....
Windmills in Ladbroke Grove by 2012....
Asbestos ASBO, heal thyself, pick up thy bike and walk!
For Goodbye Mr McKenzie, I swap a tree for flaming torch...."

Oh, zip it and get a haircut, you gobshite!
Ah, as if life wasn't hard enough
Lack of sleep and pre-packaged carcinogens
Silty shit in tuna cans
Christ knows what we're drinking in water now
But to suffer your indulgent stories
Your cockerel crows, your endless tripe
About Kingmaker and getting kids back to work
Is the very sound of burbling mermaids
Tit-harpooned by wifebasher crew; FOUR MINUTES OF PRE-DEATH NAUSEA

Monday, November 13, 2006

tin roof

beautiful tin
corrugated ripples
stained by rust spots
where bolts are driven





all words are copyright of cocaine jesus

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Comptine D'un Autre Ete

discharge








artwork by stickleback2
artwork by stickleback2artwork by stickleback2artwork by stickleback2artwork by stickleback2artwork by stickleback2
artwork by stickleback2artwork by stickleback2artwork by stickleback2

Monday, November 06, 2006

crepusialotomy

the coze artist noose acidulates into
the gatherings, a slight light

tupa

talc, rape

impetigo, vittle country

abbeys, strike

pre-contact extravaganza
the cycle see: --------à>>hard in;;;; out;;; //////// weeze
crackslap

the immoral permit, cancellation vessels on inhabitancy lands, shade-perfects

(unextinguished menu of the event)

Weird Terror.

Weird Terror.

http://www.phaneronoemikon.org/images/weirdterror.mov

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Obscellenia

As eggs simmered on the Stanley Stove, she whispered a psalm over the trio of pale ovals that gently boiled in the aluminium pan.

White words on a black page (A Reverse Telegram) read as follows: Spain repaired his legs and headed back to Phonetown in The C-Car. His presence was expected. In a backroom at The Cafe Tuesday, fifteen others (mainly disembodied skinless assassins hired by The Twilight League of Uncertainty) would eventually kill him and dismantle his new body. Moths slowly circled the dying lights in his photoelectric eyes. His last thoughts were of You.



In the cool ballon of evening, motorised bathing-huts rolled unsteadily down their narrow-gauge tracks towards the beach. Candy-stripe pink and garnet-colored canvases were unfurled. Fires burned in old oil-drums and the palmistry booths opened for business.



In distant Arm Park, where the swallows always nest in June, duty (with a capital D) came calling in a different way for Favourite Jess.
A knock on the door. A single tap on the old knocker that sat on his door. And the past came flooding back like an unwanted river. He remembered. He finally remembered the painting his mother had purchased from a Jesuit art-dealer who sold water-colours from the back of his jeep. Jess thought he knew his face. The man who had sold the painting had kissed his mother and smiled. Ten years ago. The face seemed familiar, he thought.

Lately, he'd dreamt of rocks: A barren Colorado-shaped landscape of weather-softened strata that conveniently disappeared into the shimmering mirage of a trick-mirror horizon. A warm easterly wind had softly piled flakes of rose quartz and mica against the sides of the boulders until they resembled crimson-tinted snow-drifts. In the distance, vast buttresses of copper-bearing rock formed an unlikely backdrop and the sky was stained with the hot light-blue ink of an endless cloud-free afternoon.

The air swam sweet with the perfume of cactus flowers and tiny grains of warm pink sand were wafted upwards by the microscopic desert thermals. They coated his lips with an antique silicon fragrance and left his tongue dry with the taste of zinc. He sighed. Something, someone was coming to meet him. A delegation of aboriginals had been sent by Los Oncarceras and were following an ancient and unseen ley-line of desert magnetics down from Nightsummer Mesa to intersect his own random trajectory.

Still in a dream, he would stop and drink from a stainless steel canteen given to him by his father. He'd feel its dry leather straps against the skin of his thumbs and turn in his sleep. The thin sheets of cotton above him provided a ghostly and unwelcome echo of the real world. Irritated, he'd retreat back into the dream, spit the taste of metal from his mouth and squint blindly into the distance. The aboriginals, members of an Ohk-K-Snake Sub-Clan who had blindly served Los Oncarceras for at least a dozen generations and given their first-born daughters gladly unto this race of ill-mannered reptillian insects, were now only two or three miles away and he could see the coral-coloured clouds of dust kicked up by their steam-driven gurney as it spluttered out of the wilderness towards him. He suddenly felt nostalgic for horses.

As the vehicle lurched closer, spraying a dense pink stream of carnelian and erythrite, he doubted the logic of his own Sleep System and wondered where they had found the spare-parts to maintain their vehicle: who had provided the rubber to repair the huge pneumatic-balloons that served as wheels on this shifting after-thought of a landscape? And what about the water they needed to power their over-sized iron boiler? Perhaps they had made it themselves, he thought. Maybe they had burned flakes of solid hydrogen with a purloined oxygen-torch. Content with this temporary solution, he re-buried his face in the pillow.

He watched as they came into focus beneath the treacherous, sunless sky. His pepper-gun had been set to Unconscious Mode: any sign of betrayal detected by the mechanism's neural-trigger would cause it to spray random death at any hostile life-form in a quarter-mile radius. He checked its tripod for the upteenth time. The Ohk-K-Snake, he knew, had a Thought Shadow on-board, a shamanistic bone-device whose ossaric emanations cast a Sly Web over the tribe's own bad-vibes. He hoped for the best: they were basically a well-meaning folk that stuck rigidly to Tradition, even though they were under the dismal thumb of a bunch of Third Generation Ant Dieties. The misplaced metaphor made him shudder and he studied the splintered geometry of the rocks beneath his boots.

Sullen Cloud was the eldest, The Root-Father of his Clan. He jumped down from the gurney's running-board and kept pace with its huge vulcanised wheels for a full fifty metres before stopping to take a drink. He sipped distilled-water through a reed straw, his high dark forehead matching the jagged contours of a collapsing mesa behind him. His lipstick caught the quiet glare of the sunlight. Oval circles of dyed cactus-wax disguised the wrinkled old map that passed for a face.

'Have you brought The Book of Pete,' asked Sullen Cloud in the slow sombre vowel-based argot of his tribe. The breeze caught his Family Feathers and made them vibrate like a set of antennae. 'I know this is just a dream, but its imagery is important. Remember this place. Its shape will affect the future of both our tribes.' The Dreamer (Jess) nodded and tried to speak. His jaw wouldn't work. He struggled briefly against the glue that seemed to have set his jaw into a rigid grimace. In his sleep, he dribbled into his pillow and coughed.

The indian smiled, aware of the nocturnal struggles suffered by the other. 'We who live in the eternal glare of Platonic Afternoon are able to send messages back to the right-hand side of your brain. But there are rules. Certain levels of meaning are closed to us. We have to choose our imagery carefully or our masters will detect the carrier-wave and turn on us, their beloved children...'

Jess nodded again. This time, solemnly. He was ashamed he'd brought the pepper-gun. He switched it off as a gesture of good will, then carefully unpacked the book from its dusty leather satchel and handed it to the aboriginal.

The Book of Pete was made of Metal. Old, oiled steel with hinges in place of a spine and an iron padlock that kept its secrets locked flat. A rusting copper key hung from Sullen Cloud's wrinkled, red river-bed of a throat. The indian smiled and his face cracked like a slow earthquake. He passed the book up to one of his sons, a grinning yellow-toothed youth who sat in the forward engine-gun pod.



Meanwhile, on the Disjunktiv Suicide Farm:

Kerry Mojac's eyes crinkled and shone brightly with eroto-motive forces: an unfortunate side-effect of the troll-patches that peppered her arms. She'd bought them from a Clunker on Bismuth Ave. A...

Friday, November 03, 2006

Improvisation For Nila

Wherever you walk, the moon takes notice

It both follows and guides you

Every variation of your breathing
a variation just biding time

Fully alive in space

Your tongue crashes the fabric spoken
into layered mists moist with glee

Air rushes in, forms a golden symphony
that sits alone in white clouds

Hands engaged to the morning sun
you sing laughter sanctified

and Iam slowly learning
how to entice your rhythm
from lonely sighs

Indelible hieroglyphs encode glistening
sheets of thigh bitten by vowels that lust

To reciprocate with an infinite lock
purple glimpses memories between your legs

An angular wetness to your face gliding
a text dripping with desire to reveal
receding shades of flourescent green
framing gentle eyes

Dreaming time spent in our temple
the blessed symbols thrumming on knees
rhyming with your neck's nape

I knew then that I would drink iron for you

Sleep contently in your mind

A key drawn from the silent center of you
wearing winter's pearled vigilance
entry engrossed cusping through
your serene possession of night

discharge (that enigmatic breath porcelain skull)

"he loves him and he dreams him
he smiled him into kisses, so
he bent blind between him
for him all night to whimper
then joining seperate spines"






Porcelain Skull see's things that have never been.
his tongue is morning mist.
his eyes are from a distant place.
he tastes of cork.
.
.
.
speak to the dark angels

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Flitter through metal out-houses

She sits down behind the old supermarket amid trolleys and abandoned paper cups left by lorry drivers. Boxes of detergent, cereals, smart egg boxes lined up in rows. She thought of balancing, toppling. Atop empty-ready-for-recycling card, she tip-toed. She was feeltouch with heel and tip of nail. Dancing amid Daz and packs of ten. Marks in pen on the side. Depot.

She made spirals out of legs and spaghetti hoops out of eyes. She looked for tell-tale signs of dripping juices. There were some there as she looked down. It weakened her feet-shelf. Upside down, she looked for plastic entrails. Dazzled by her own flexibility, she was a bag for life.

If you put down a deposit on my bobbly Corona bottle, you can come back time and time again for me.