Tuche & Automaton

Thursday, May 24, 2007


Rain gossips underneath iron. Rain tastes the bicycle, watches it rust. Rain changes into iron. Buried cars are crushed by the weight of worms. Rain picture-shifts into an iron photo of my father.

Mange-riddled wolf compiles my father using a plague-box and creates a Scotch Western. Why did the stereo-glove ignore my glowing father? How come this iron rain flooded my father? His vehicle is its own logo.

Father Rain leaps! He leaps across the conduit and smokes a strange brown deposit. He laughs, then cycles home beneath a tourist. Father Rust objects. He eats a Hostess Rung Cake and slowly bursts. Father Rain decays!

Father Rust scores beneath the trash. This is a farce, he reckons. Why can’t I reach behind the microwave? Father Iron listens, then gestures. There is dust on his hands.

Ignore this line - it’s just a parody. A laughing peanut socket.

These booklets randomly document your father’s decline, they eventually told him. Sand him down, I say! Sand him down until only iron remains. Iron and rain.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Highway Golf Platform

white mother pupa in the code snake falls
you have taught me to hunt with these prosthetic robotic antlers
swarming with nanotrilobyte hoverkraft plurceptalia
taught me to catch and unwrap the wriggling segmental fever fugue
whose synchrosmonscoptlic undulantern is the way so knotty by the figure
the fugure's future fastening quickens to the arc of falling
kinetic tesselata is the kindergarten dream lesson of your milky mind brilliance mother
but quickly we leave the stylized worlds to enter into your cascading breast platelets

we hear the somber song of your branching head mollusk analog
the cities which hang like fruit in the illusory density of your recording vectors

circle the waves
agony triagadont the jelly paw tastes lily encumbrance technical moon flower sequence
space manta trance dreamer in its robo-surgical sarcophagus time-womb

we are here little hittites, here to utrecht you with allichu pe swa quqare'

tarzan borg yokels masturbate with egg salad tornado column

Little Sister

A Yousendit Sit-In Protestation

Picture found via Monster Brains

Thursday, May 10, 2007


Wednesday, May 09, 2007


Therwe ware newver enouwgh opportunwities fwor thew rewal stawrs owf stwage wand scwreen...

Thursday, May 03, 2007

She came slowly, in a flood of damp, shredded newspaper, snorting like a horse.

A wave of dark pestilence swept through her body, blotchy and swollen, like mumps. Knots of wood, rough and scabbed with lichen, formed on her forehead and leaked tiny drops of pale-coloured sap. A chill wind blew leaves and religious pamplets across the pillow.

The shadow of Christ on the Cross fell across us at a contrived, Expressionist angle, flickering in time with the lights from the airport and making us giggle like drunken children.

I don't think I've ever loved you more than in that moment.