Tuche & Automaton

Sunday, August 31, 2008


overstepped actor, comic.
lightheaded star,

leave but never go

mind carpet
messy garden
stale blow.

murder. wax.
her sponge bottom.
catastrophic cushions.
lip radish.
still point.

the occasional, dotted, I
(sometimes frayed
sometimes gold)


tongue of sometimes, pump fuck, felt snow
vague tooth
sometimes without

sounds tired.

cig hit
head-knee nod
dawn mud
cuticles bleeding bigger lampshades
slow web, eyelid shuttle
rope-like toe
fence crayon
mob miss
salt mirror - you're beds of this


u fell on me like a rock

honeywell fan blowing / i am feeling heavy. my veins are the color of smoke. sick robot girl, push your own lighted buttons...
ugly crush, grey knowing. the window open: my heart's not right: spumoni
there are no handbells no incense, only loose hair and money to make.
A copy of my soul on the floor. smiling up.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Hornby Desolate Cliffs in Sunny August

by Bruce Eisner

High cliff above ocean
Province of north country island
Clear day woods filled with life
Me at age fifty
22 years before I sat on bridge in Basel
Speaking intellectual about
Chemical discoveries, history, chemical purity
Purify your mind
Refine matter ever more precisely
Ascending frequencies of light
Each notch with its own recapitulated terrain
Waves of light
Yet few waves in the ocean in this ocean now
Gradients of blue
Go meditate she said
I needed water
Time stretches
Go away I want to be alone
Gazing in her eyes I had felt love in compassion
Suddenly replaced by cold indifference
I wandered away
Some cliffs were high above the water
Others so low you almost could walk to the ocean below
Along the path small kahki packs, shoes, a blue hard plastic water container
Market the spot that my two friends had retreated
Into the woods
Intense experience
I was abandoned once again alone
Hot and dry
Wandering in the desert
The day has duration
Time creeps slowly toward the days ending
Just as everyone has before it
Tabla ever more rapidly
I finally find Rita
She walks past me
Later on a memorial bench
Pointed at the ocean
She talks to me like Hermine in Steppenwolf
Archetypal thoughts penetrate deeply
If I were to speak my love
It would echo into an empty chasm
There is no love here yet I am hungry
A master at many things
I am an innocent in the ways of love and life
Walls everywhere
Amidst the ecstasy of my friends
I find my waves have crashed on desolate rocks
We return to the small cabin
Rita falls asleep
I talk until exhausted
Sleep alone and chaotically dream

August 29, 1998
Salt Spring Island, B.C. Canada

My sites
Bruce Eisner's Vision Thing
Bruce on Squidoo
Mind Media Self Improvement

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Four For Horus

1. I've finished weeping the sun and climbing the stairs to a finger immersed in the blue of the city. I can feel my skin stretching over yours again. Music, pure ambrosia to those currents of mine which knowingly, willingly, choose to smother what is golden in the distance between trees. I've a sudden need to flap my leather wings with all the clarity of war on meat-hooked lips, psychological, astrological. And very much a windmill. It begins in the mirror, in the molten wonder of hedonists refused entry to a timeless world.

Cherubim with red hands...

2. They drool a strange kind of thunder, hiss pharoahs in order to persist in their young, particularly fragrant, delirium. Bones of truth without being a single syllable at sunset, memories like purrung from someone's frantic antennae. "Reality is invented by the incestuous," (a favorite maxim of mine) scrawled on the foreheads of habit, riding the bus alongside the many corridors of summer, what survived to contemplate murmuring geometries, the sneer of jazz. I've tapped out thick, foolish beginnings to chaos for gasoline, sold the laughter depicted by thieves beneath angry bridges. But everybody still comes to me for their 3 o'clocks, what I'll do to leave traces of genitalia on pillows wet like trembling strangers I met in slow motion.

Everywhere is hanging in a cave.

3. You are very Christ-like when my veins are thin, quiet, a neutrality nobody cares to notice. Or it doesn't matter to them in the least when my shadow casts off its democratic veneer. I was structured as a series of prefaces to dusty, secret backrooms, waves of light drunk with the power of perfectly-tailored suits and oil-slick ennui. The sorcery, nervous, discordant, wants to analyze the way you slip in and out of my television, leaving me to stare at worn, decrepit pictures of Frida Kahlo and wish I wasn't such a radio for erasures on the cusp of turning into sandy, warm, thighs.

4. I'm determined to be a mysterious rhythm in curves of breath stuck to the cold, hard, facts, little daydreams glimpsed quickly through a freshly-polished bakery window, where the tables are deeply in lust with pools of spilt coffee that drip lasciviously over their edges. Saxophones could grow in that loneliness. It's almost impossible to drive through the screams that persist in my motionless, black hair, Tokyos of young women sent by a notion to paint my empty bottles of rum. They left their individual testimonials scattered on throats bleeding the sorrow of every minute detail, despite the eyelids of earth and air.