Roma (March 05, 2009)

innita : fanpage

Vespers (83)

No longer necessary that I move for several hours
It has been a pretty day cold wind clearing the roundings
On low alert vigilance depleted now assigned importance to the epithet
In time of treble matrilineally venite
So my brother is in motion I am still belonging to
The spirit holds new memory entirely in charge
My limbs and life your own
Whisper good night amid the freshly fired angels
Say the Angelus at noon
A far cry from new fallen snow
Against the granular integrity among us

acid raindrop

Peace

Uploaded on authorSTREAM by lrkcho

Yell Saccani "hang on make it slow im breathing ur lies"

Once again, the Photographer/Digital Artist from Israel, Yell Saccani produces work that acts as a lesson to photographers and an insightful commentary on human experience in a technological, media-saturated and multicultural age.



Yell Saccani is very modest about her artistic achievements, however it is difficult to fault her technical abilities, her subject-matter (full of continually shifting inflections) and her ambivalence towards the nature of digital art/photography. It is as if she is waiting for her next idea to supersede her previous one, recognising that she can stretch innovation further and produce art-works that can heighten awareness of self/consciousness and its shifting boundaries within and around external reality.

Her recent works have considered movement; a dance-like physicality, the merging of the body/self with externality and technological existence; and the limitations and freedoms of narcissism (photographically speaking).

View Yell Saccani's art/photography on Flickr.

I hope that Yell Saccani gains the recognition that she deserves. Her art is unusually high and subtle in nature, moving photography into new places, always retaining a painterly-like finish that allows viewers to experience her insights and reflect on their own experiences.

Simon

The image "hang on make it slow im breathing ur lies" is Copyright Yell Saccani - "all rights reserved".

sign = X5

then
the
one overtakes
the
two genesis
to
primality

neopaint

Clonology

Collaborative, digital Pop Art.

Thank you to Miss Boux

.....Western palpitations, objectified and feared.....having lost touch with the body.....in the name of refinement....to escape the animalistic qualities of human nature.....have acheived over-masculinized society....escaping the opaque by fixing the symptoms of problems....the short-term.....acheiving constant change.....dehumanizing and a more complex problem.....to unravel the solutions.....to find that our solutions are now our problem....

Simon

The Nude York Times Interview, prelude : Roma.

Most Nudeyorker's male readers would be shocked or captivated during the next 3 weeks reading “Nude York Nude York”, the cover/main article published today Friday 12th in “The Nude York Times” special ending-year issue (a regular biweekly that becomes 3-weeks ending December). The Colombian shock rocker nudist Innita reveals for this magazine her 2nd long-album : “Roma”, which it’s also the name of her first [written] novel. The reason: Her new concept album narrates the extinction of the male gender, mixing science-fiction and science-facts, using ironically and metaphorically the extinction of dinosaurs and the end of the Roman Empire. “In fact, Roma is the opposite of love; in Spanish ‘Roma’ is backwards to ‘amor’ which means ‘love’”. Innita reveals how this gynocentric album/book was originated months ago in long sleepless talks with her fiancé, the biologist girl called No, in what she founds about the evolution and growing birthrate of the Cnemidophorus exsanguis’species, an only-female lizard which reproduces herself with no male intervention. In her first album, there was a sneak-preview with a song called after this unique lizard.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cnemidophorus_exsanguis

It’s no surprise for her loyal fans the upcoming novel, due to the hyperactive multi-task nature of Innita. Since child she keeps an almost-daily routine of writing in her diary, so, her first book flows with her artistic discipline. “Writing to me is like doing ballet-lessons in my mind”, Innita explains.

The opening song is called “Roma”, sung in English, and the ending song is called precisely “Amor”, sung in Spanish; and the in-between songs are precisely the journey of the male-gender extinction.

“Roma” will be out on Innita’s 21st birthday, March 5th, 2009, and it will be launching simultaneously with the aforementioned written novel.

www.myspace.com/innita

to be continued .....
continuará .....

social circulates social
circulates social circulates
social circulates
social
a disagreement
is a bella morte

complexity versus simplicity
is not the bone to tooth
the flesh to eye to
groin to cartilage
no exit

exit to individuality balanced
with society
beyond contradiction
our eyes have seen
the flesh
of reason

eyescalate

eigenvalue
elapsed
eon
i c u
escalate

paparazzi: 11.25.2008.

Past week, Tuesday, November 25th, the (then elected) new Mrs. President Yimar Ayrim was photographed by her wife Georgia McCain in her private birthday morning with a simple cake.

Today, Thursday December 4th, this familiar photo has been posted in every fansite on web -decorated with the famous tune "Happy birthday Mr. President" sung by Marilyn Monroe- as well as printed in most United Stages' newspapers' first page.

It seems the new ruler girl on the White House has big time with her charming charisma.

www.flickr.com/photos/noparainnita/sets/72157610308045102/

model / modelo : atomic exotic:
www.flickr.com/photos/aexotic/

to be continued .....
continuará .....

Vespers (82)

It has been a day empty of smooth lines
I have not said them, have not thought,
have just recited syllables that don't connect.
They hitch loosely as my dovetailed sadness
that mismatches vigor from your soul.
I thought I was a young memento, now
I am a series of infractions on the green lawn
where you rest and watch and sail through
your allotted time.

It has been a day of smooth lines I have emptied
from the mist around my life.
I have recited sounds I do not mean to impart
sadness, meaning, sharing.
Any of those motions grow away, and weeds
are thriving in the fine small sprays of rain
each morning prior to the lifing of these blinds.

It has been a day of lies, unkempt decisions,
made, unmade, new linens packed away, and leaving.
I have spoken to my soft heart, teaching it, as if
I might refashion silence into something to be learned
from, not just losing heart and wallowing in fellow
disappointment. Fallow mornings, fallow daylights,
life remade into a spin run slowly into near darkness,
with center field a damp bisected place
we ransack for a way of seeing what we say
exists now, and might live.

Vespers (81)

erosion of magnificat as warm as nightfall breathes into
aspersions cast all episode

fruition camps out on the grave womb loftier than thousands
hold the fragment of a song that carried her

all wilderness enlists recall of the refrain one syllable before
another with a head for business art and breath

now is a pool of happenstance
come forward to play fury to assembled playthings

"as you were" to put out
fires and molto chaparral

to frame the givens and the gibbous loom of leaf light straining
to reply to what we've opened in and of and through reciprocated silence

Vespers (80)

Lash of wind light streaks
the glass, I hear percussion
on the tin fan where a sky light
might have been

Lamp settles in so
I expect a little pool
of quiet light
as I expect the moon

And treble clef to catch
my sorrows breathing back
some summer and the feeling
of a sea walk that smelled safe

I spoke as though into
a certain universe with hesitation
as with common law engagement
I would hold and have and earn

Yimar Ayrim, the new President of the United Stages of America.

Quinta Carta Menorrealista.
Friday, November 28, 2008. Washington, D.C. USA.
The Oath of office of Yimar Ayrim, the new President of the United Stages.

broken english version :

"My Ladies, flee, flee from the foolish love with you urgent.
Flee the from the insane passion, whose pleasant games always end in your prejudice "
'The City of Ladies'. Christine de Pizan, 1405.

"Women:

Today ends the high unhappiness of down-to-earth women of decades ago, right on the edge of innocence where fairy tales end. Kiss, kiss seems infinite. Today is my love for America, a verse from here and now, a western haiku, as it always should have been, like I love and I’d love even more Iraq as my Mother Land, the land of my mother and father, which could have been my beloved land if I too have been born there. But this blonde and Saxon land is my destiny and my baby from today, and the flag is just a blanket that can change color when put into the of The White House’s laundry , Casa Rosada if I’d be born in Argentina. Women, is any here, is any now, men separates it what we women join it, so I make a loved call to intercede for the lesbian part of all men. My home is my presidency, I did not have to flee, is a benefit that Christine de Pizan yearning imagining flee, her dream has come as a legacy to leave the flight. There is no escaping the American people, Pan American, intercontinental, human people. Only exist in a here and now because it needs a here and now to act and to feel and to love.

It is our here in my now, in our bodies that is now represented only in my body, what I have, what I am, it’s not this presidency of mine, is not the fervor of applause for me being the first president of the world that goes up to the podium in a same-sex marriage. It's just a title and a toga, as the title and divider pages that need novels to be read and recognized. Here now, as far as it lasts each kiss and every sex, but I do not know where we are now, I do not know and it does not matter, the notion of time seems to have gone from me along with the explosion. After the explosion, the time also broke out, and space is shrugged million times with the same embarrassment of an adult caught with their hands in the mess of any crime. The explosion of minutes ago ... .. ¿Minutes? How do I ensure that my minutes and not days or months or years or our centuries? - were 6oo years since Christine de Pizan, and barely 60 years since the only and last nuclear bomb. A sigh of women had been the last thing we hear, or was perhaps the Big Bang, then was the fire that consumed our female bodies without assassinate us, and the dessert os such feast was a solvent of the senses, and then a rainbow of Lesbian flag and then a faint and then, and then, men.

Now is now, "Tomorrow is too sorrow'd because tomorrow is just today," but I do not want to define our here. As well as a body kisses another, a nation makes love with another. Once again I see we have body again and I'm with her, my beautiful wife Georgia McCain. Without it, this new effort would be just a presidential hurry, with my Georgia, the love light up my mandate. And that would be sufficient to answer any questions. Kiss. I keep slow-opening my eyes, distilling my “drunk”eyelashes in a rest, shooting and cosmogonic rest of the poets activists who preceded me, nicely interrupted rest. The dust of history ever written and lived with us today surrounds us, and an small archaeological coughing invades me by matter of my lungs, and by matter of the heart becomes laugh of satisfaction and fulfillment. Now in front of me and my beloved wife Georgia you are delivered, revolving yourselves in our minds and our skins, as favored daughters and sons having two mothers. The threads of hair of dust of stars joins us again, women and lesbian men, yes, Siamese hair again, as those days in the sun and outside the universe, hair that keeps us together in a promise broken before and fixed again.

Our long kiss saves, at the end, true taste of dust in the place where we are, my hip gives credit for a long painful birth of 4 years that just a few minutes is just beginning, with amniotic sweat wetting the dry and harmed soil of our suffragist heroines who delivered us the (right to)vote. In a way I also feel the wide hips further widened by the chain of passive women, secretly too sore, and I also feel the soundless sound of their thoughts. Something new has happened. My groggy thought is interrupted by the awakening of my ears on the ground from which emanates all around us several handfuls of human threaded moans and broken bones: It's wounded History that was finally faint to awaken now in our gardens, while among all of us sow the clean joyful tears of heaven on the earth.

Thank you for allowing me, from this overstated presidential armchair, being all women in a single woman. "

Yimar Ayrim.
Mrs. GYNOCRATIC PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STAGES OF AMERICA.




(Spanish version)

Viernes 28 de noviembre de 2008, Ciudad de Washington. EEUU.
Juramento de posesión presidencial de Yimar Ayrim, nueva presidenta de los Estrados Unidos de América:

“Huid damas mías, huid del insensato amor con que os apremian.
Huid de la enloquecida pasión, cuyos juegos placenteros siempre terminan en prejuicio vuestro”
‘La Ciudad de las Damas’. Christine de Pizan, 1405.

“Mujeres:

Hoy termina la elevada infelicidad de nuestras aterrizadas mujeres de décadas atrás, justo en el mismo borde de inocencia donde los cuentos de hadas terminan. Beso, parece infinito beso. Hoy es mi Amor a América, un verso de aquí y ahora, un haiku occidental, como siempre debería haber sido, como amo y amaría aún más a Irak como madre tierra, la tierra de mi madre y mi padre, que pudo haber sido mi amada tierra de haber nacido también yo allá. Pero esta tierra albina y sajona es mi destino y mi bebé desde hoy, y la bandera es sólo una manta que puede cambiar de color cuando la lleven a la lavandería de la Casablanca, Casa Rosada de haber nacido yo en Argentina. Mujeres, es cualquier aquí, es cualquier ahora, ellos los hombres diferencian lo que nosotras unimos, así que hago un amado llamado para que intercedan por la parte lésbica de todos los hombres. Mi residencia es mi presidencia, no tuve que huir, es un beneficio que Christine de Pizan anheló imaginando huir; su sueño ha llegado como legado para dejar la huida. No hay escapatoria pueblo americano, panamericano, intercontinental, humano. Sólo existimos en un aquí y ahora porque se necesita un aquí y ahora para obrar y sentir y amar.

Es nuestro aquí en mi ahora, en nuestros cuerpos que está ahora representado sólo en mi cuerpo, lo que tengo, lo que soy, no es esta presidencia mía, no es el fervor de aplausos por ser la primera presidenta del mundo que sube al estrado en un matrimonio del mismo sexo. Es sólo un título y una toga, como el título y el separador de páginas que necesitan las novelas para ser leídas y reconocidas. Aquí ahora, en lo que nos dura cada beso y cada sexo, pero no sé dónde estamos ahora, no sé y no importa, la noción de tiempo parece haberse ido de mí junto con la explosión. Después de la explosión, el tiempo estalló también, y el espacio se encogió millones de veces con la misma vergüenza de un adulto pillado con las manos en la masa de cualquier delito. La explosión de minutos atrás ….. ¿Minutos? ¿Cómo puedo asegurar que fueron mis minutos y no mejor nuestros días o meses o años o nuestros siglos?- fueron 600 años desde Christine de Pizan, y apenas 60 años desde la única y última bomba nuclear. Un suspiro de mujer había sido lo último que oímos, o fue tal vez el Big Bang, luego fue el incendio que consumió nuestros femeninos cuerpos sin asesinarnos y el postre de tal festín fue una disolvencia de los sentidos, y luego un arco iris de bandera lésbica y luego un desmayo y luego, y luego los hombres.

Ahora es ahora, “Tomorrow is too sorrow’d because tomorrow is just today”, pero no quiero delimitar nuestro aquí. Así como un cuerpo se besa con otro, una nación hace el amor con otra. Sólo percibo que de nuevo tenemos cuerpo y estoy junto a ella, mi bonita esposa Georgia McCain. Sin ella éste nuevo afán presidencial sería solo un afán; con mi Georgia, el amor iluminará mi mandato. Y eso sería suficiente para cualquier pregunta. Beso. Sigo entreabriendo mis ojos, destilando mis pestañas embriagadas de un descanso, fugaz y cosmogónico descanso de las poetas activistas que me antecedieron, descanso bellamente interrumpido. La polvareda de la Historia vivida y jamás escrita nos acompaña hoy rodeándonos y una pequeña tos arqueológica me invade por asunto de mis pulmones, y por asunto del corazón se convierte en risa de satisfacción y plenitud. Ahora frente a mí y mi amada esposa Georgia se entregan ustedes, revolviéndose entre nuestras mentes y nuestras pieles, como hijas e hijos favorecidas por tener dos madres. Los hilos de cabello de polvo de estrellas, nos une de nuevo, mujeres y hombres lésbicos, sí, siameses del cabello de nuevo, como aquellos días dentro del sol y fuera del universo, cabellos que nos mantiene juntas en una promesa antes rota y de nuevo remendada.

Nuestro largo beso guarda al final cierto sabor a polvareda del lugar donde estamos, mi cadera da doloroso crédito de un largo parto de 4 años que apenas hace unos minutos acaban de empezar, humedeciendo con sudor amniótico el terreno seco y estrujado de nuestras heroínas sufragistas que nos entregaron el voto. También siento de cierta manera la amplia cadera aún más ensanchada por la cadena de mujeres pasivas, secretamente también adoloridas, y siento también el timbre insonoro de sus pensamientos. Algo nuevo ha pasado. Mi atontado pensamiento es interrumpido por el despertar de mis oídos sobre el terreno del que ahora emanan a nuestro alrededor varios puñados de quejidos humanos enhebrados y huesos quebrados: Es la Historia herida que por fin se desmaya para despertar ahora en nuestros jardines, mientras entre todas sembramos el limpio llanto alegre del cielo en el suelo.

Gracias por permitirme, desde este sobreestimado sillón presidencial, ser todas las mujeres en una mujer.”

Yimar Ayrim.
Mrs. GYNOCRATIC PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STAGES OF AMERICA.

I am not an artist

I am not an artist and you know that
as well as I do,
but I won't say that
for the sake of honesty.

honesty is puppetry and wilfully
obscure similar to austerity
which has neither whit nor wisdom
fair as blossoms

in a night sky fending off
burrowed springs relate to stars
that shimmy in the omniscient blanket
of rude darkness

or wisdom penetrating knowledge
like a knife through butter.
My darling, if you are the road
upon which I travel

the sky under which I furrow
the eyes of wisdom and whit
fair as your skin
yet as blind as trout

why are you as foolhardy as a man?
As reticent as an idiot when
articulating emotions? As cool
as ice cream,

even that would not melt in your mouth!

I am not an artist, for this
I am sure you can fault me
or others like me, or the Greeks
or the Chinese

or art or art history
or the camera, cinema
or any other thing you wish to take a little
time to ponder

less your arm up stretched and hasten
to hold a light ablazin'
afore your skivin', loungin'
lovin' or couch potatoeing

lonely as a fish out of water
in your house full of ghosts.

A car is a face, now you know that
or you should do by now
even a library full of design books
ain't half a plaice of an excuse

at your age you should know better
like me; I should know better
but I know better still
and writhe from under the sticky labels.

The candle of Winter skies, blows a far
cry from Southern hemispheres, bloated
from a punching sun
while we freeze to death

in days as short as art's first prose
of the year. The Moon is to close to mention
I fear the neap tide
will swallow us whole.

I fear this more than mortgages and bills
far more. Your fears are near the moon
too, you too, gaze at the night sky
a blanket with lovers

strewn in hallucinated patterns
following the cut of frost's
spooky eye right down, right
down to the thrust of rooftops.

I deal too well with emotions to emote,
as is my privilege, as an artist
of sorts, one of canvasses and paints
words and designs

I am given to bursts of energy that
begin at my breathe or my heart beat
and scurry to colours and rhymes.
I can sea the bottom of the ocean

when others can only see
the waves. But a wave, as comprehensible
as it is
has a longevity

far beyond immortality.
At least for today.....

Bubble

gemini

somewhere a binary star is born

~~~~

Poetry to Imagery

Art process...

Simon

Vespers (79)

prince of parentheses
come home

gelled wind
cypresses

the gait of a tired man
yellowing pages

left hook
bro ken

diametrically
oppo

now in a while
I lumber through

the yard and
that wide open

will homonyms outlast
their mates

Poetry to Imagery

No flow
timbre flicker
images we apprehend
today lambent
fluidity

are yesterday's oddity
far out words that used to
shimmer with
pithy
immediacy

are the sonorities of
the times
contemporaneity's gate
is the wool of your jejune
face court
out

faces works and melange
beggars float coruscates a night
by surfaces whit
is the light of dreams pharmacopeia
and melodies
are planets turning

in an authentic grasped by splice
night.

Meanings are not lost
but found turning as diction
is a dicey song corrugated by
madness’s choreography
until we claim

(by the bright night sunlight
is the fusion of our senses
by your pussy or extrasensory
perception) madness as light
and sanity as darkness
again

again again. Considering
authenticity I may decide
to sign my poem
anonymity a slip of the dic
tion tic
fillip frolics trix

abounds plainsong
with disparate discretion
recession the white page
is this paint
wetting your appetite

My machine Athena
Freudian alternator
friend of Zeus cant
melodious abridged
purpose

et rectitude.
Modern passages of Persephone’s
hues clue cue
to wait scrambling of a fudging
dark makes

yesterday’s intellectuality
sound like today’s
fuck fest.
Weather (pernicious) you get it
(essentiality) by virtu
ality or actuality
your getting

a whole Freudian slip
page that was yesterday’s
resonance, eloquence
today’s orgy
even by proxy
something smells like reason, money.

Now, maintenant watching the paint dry
on the white page
canvas for sales our pithy avant-
garde, lecture by inopportune
remediacy, a farcical neology?

the paint forms into opaque
imagery, seeming too verbose (extravaganza)
until perception enchants less
contrived
more sensory

trees outline the canvas edge
brushstrokes calligraphically open
palms and fingers touch
the borders of our science
our sex, love

reason for other
and this
page
dark and light
gradations

like the stages’ bite
apples vinaigrette
a pseudo-riche
women standing under trees
the stress

of the art of the moulding of paint
gathering to children playing
the fine pelt of skies
intoxication Munch-like
into the camera flash

of Sunlight.

Collaboration with Miss Boux who provided the original photograph.

Simon

Just a trace is left...

Vespers (78)

allow fallow to melt
into the gestured breeze

till whereabouts amid
even the weeds the latch

the silver the inflection

tender how the breeze
sifted through screen

comes spoken as if rain
had rinsed the daylight

wash this first neglect
of conscious thought

by same release of thought
until time joins space
as it is felt

transformed into
a purposed meaning

light as feathers bled
upon the cloth and skin

just rest upon the quiet
autumn colors of the drying leaves

i was watching tv

Vespers (77)

wheat stems unlock autumn yellow sacrifice
until releasing of the light tames green
pageantry on line with lake and shed
and sea breeze

where we are is how you are and seeking
shapes the lateral view of kept things
vaulted into quiet
that repeats itself

along where breezes sequence thought
one after another
places in between
are states of mind once mentioned

grasped and homed in on then held
to self to form a definition
of the lumens and the likelihood
of young change to lighten hold

casualties of rawwar.

World War III (april 16th,17th,18th, 2006) separated the spiral (non-physical) plane and the spatial (physical) plane on earth, because of the destruction of the ozone. Mankind mutated in veganvampires and omnivorous zombies, battling each other. Some months ago, Canadian veganvampire Araeallia discovered the spiral plane (it is, the collective dream state plane where earth seems to be still ozone-contained and inhabited by no-mutated humans when WWIII didn’t happen) separated from the physical plane where she lies. Since then, occasionally worldwide veganvampires make involuntary –and some times scary- apparitions in the spiral plane.

In this case a post-beaten trauma involuntary apparition of a veganvampire seriously face-damaged by omnivorous zombies in the middle of WorldWar IV, the RawWar, Monday October 20 th , 2008.

casualties of rawwar.


Photo: Carolina Monroy.
Art Co-direction: Cristina Guevara.

“A.y.b.i.l.” (all.you.bleed.is.love) Mask :
Design/ Made by: Cristina Guevara & No para Innita.

Vespers (76)

glass from which to look upon
diminuendo and the crush of dark leaves
where her breath would show
beneath moonlight

spherical pallor now in darkness draped by cloud
a window open on the cool yard
pale parchment rectangles
reflecting symmetry

Crescent's pic is a fractal, crescent's pic is a fractal...tra la la la la

In Skies Sees

An old pastel and pencil work completed about 15 years ago. I've added digital effects that make in more interesting and up to date. This one is up for collaboration - derivatives OK as long as you mention my name.

:-) An attempt to move towards "Global Art".
Feedback appreciated :-)
Thank you

Simon

Responses to the "Credit Crunch" - David Lewis Baker

2 Digital Art images by David Lewis Baker, in response to the "Credit Crunch". Top image entitled "Monument to the Unknown Trader (Market Failure #1)" and the lower image entitled "Not to Scale (Market Failure #4)".

It's great to see an artist addressing contemporary issues that affect us all. Here, David shows us that art can address practical problems as well as abstract concerns. This is a great example of art acting as a stimulus to reflection, idea generation and, potentially problem-solving/creative solutions. I also like the accessibility of Davids' images, for example the text "Lessons of History (Forgotten)" and "Bonus Culture" in "Not to Scale" graphically portray central issues connected to the "Credit Crunch", reflecting an awareness that many of us can relate to. The shattering of the sculptural images in "Monument to the Unknown Trader" also clearly reflect the recent collapse of financial institutions and the inability of Capitalism to escape its own weaknesses. I believe the image also reflects the artificial constructs of a Hyper Real age, subsumed by technological communications, artificiality and "mass hysteria", via media saturation. There is no doubt that recent events in global markets have been exacerbated by the knowledge that problems exist!

The full "Market Failure" series can be viewed on David's Flickr page

David Lewis Baker's Website

Both Images are Copyright David Lewis Baker all rights reserved.

shorten 75

i feel myslf tryng
I a a a a a a
I rain my tnight
a night shaper than the green shots of dylight
litle thoghs lingr rubbe-like on-site
a brning filed the a a a a charcter to
sivel
i repet my a a a a in AM relible rerise
i prtend i a m an on-sie charater
that cased exaspratingly swft smlls whenplayingwhentrying
I am evning anges trnslted into nwly little moning laves
angls leavs
new facts worty of my rubber mnd
rubber line
sprng falls sumer in witer

the would-be wman has a fee will

Vespers (75)

night lingers mid-morning I adopt the treble clef
a menacing repeat squeezed between signs
I feel attention pointing to reliable reprise
pretend then to have caused it
the treadmill sweet with honey
an exasperating woman dusting my newly shining windows

duration is a little rubber band translated to a banjo
I mingle with the signs of authenticity I take into my line of work
each of the would-be mothers having sharper angles than the actual
whom I resemble free in thought a mind she knows the way to work
it is always a spring morning always equally an evening in the fall
the smell of leaves burning the smell of shoots trying

I am ready for tonight when ledgers will be filled completely
with the character my fingers manufacture
slowly stolidly the rain will gather itself into a facet
worthy of remark and there will be another character in this play
this play will have been made for mental television
now I lay me down to on-site traffic in a swivel world of sweet swift logic

The Credit Crunch - What Can We Learn?

After addressing the problems that occur from the continuing privatisation of British society and the effects on democracy, in my article "Brief notes - Commerce Based Democracy" Link
and after writing my more recent article "Article on Capitalism and Today's Workplace" Link
I felt it was time to suggest some solutions to recent problems that have occured. Foremost in my mind, unsurprisingly is the "Credit Crunch" and the recent collapse of banks in the US, UK and Iceland.

Before I write these solutions it is worth mentioning that recent economic events are not particularly surprising to me, and I expect to many others. The events that lead up to the recent economic crisis can be traced back quite clearly. For example; the need to save money in British public services and the lack of public sector funding to new and existing projects.

I believe that we can learn from events over the recent years and endeavour to act more purposefully and positively, when faced with financial difficulties in the future.
It is important that the Government listen to experts in public services and other areas of employment, rather than continuing policies that are evidently not working. By an expert, I mean someone who has worked in their field for a considerable period of time or someone who acts as a representative for the views of the majority of individuals working in a particular field. The way that the current UK, labour party has pushed forward with policies that have damaged many areas of public service, when expert opinion has warned, time and time again of the consequences, is quite remarkable.

The government should listen to public opinion. Public opinion should not be noted, simply to gauge the electability or popularity of a political party. Public opinion in direct reaction to Government policies should be considered as a way of monitoring the effectiveness of policy.

It is important to realise that many areas of public service do not benefit from privatisation. The value of, for example, healthcare or education cannot be measured in financial terms. The aim of healthcare, education, sport, the arts, etc. is not to create profit, or only partially to create profit. The aim of education is to prepare children for adult life, in terms of literacy, numeracy and to help them move towards their chosen career. This may sound woefully obvious, however in times of financial difficulty it is worth reminding ourselves of the purpose of our endeavours or we find that we experience a situation that is unworkable. Many employees today feel that the original purpose of their employment has been replaced with duties concerned with providing evidence for funding or implementing funding cuts. Emphasis should be on a mixed-economy, that values benefits to the public that are essentially, not measurable in mathematical or financial terms. However, without excellence in these areas the economy would suffer, both directly and indirectly. By excellence I mean the provision of services and the short-term and long-term benefits to the public. I also mean the consideration of employees, their morale and their ability to provide services, services that benefit the public and are commensurate with their role.


*Article to be continued - author suffering with flu!*

requiem for a dead bike

ne sorga snotor guma
urban dwellers have sacrificed the required relics ¹)
journey along the fragile interdimensional Styx
your next life might be as a Harley Davidson





¹⁾ proceedings of trashtology. A dead bike needs attributes; newspapers to read during the journey, a bottle of spa to drink and a can of bacardi coke to bribe the ferryman

Not a Poem

to take the piss
right out of it
would be to take a sip
of Ulysses. Fools are harder

than robots and adventures
are the Pyrenees. Girls are made
of Cloves Larks Wing and Peppercorns.

to make a scene right
out of it surveillance carves
motionless borders dans
illiterate

movement. Treason fallows opposite mud
kernel the key spacey Martian Earth
wanders ears.

Into the body Out of the body
In out shake it all about
Jurisdiction 1
Jurisdiction 2
Jurisdiction 3
Jurisdiction 5

Not a body Nobody
technology machine
no humanities
money money money money money
money money money money

tough
tough
tough
tough
tough
tough
'arder than you money
money no

humanities
out of the body you've
lost your history
surveillance liver motherboard me

Article on Capitalism and Today's Workplace

I found this interesting article (via Wikipedia) relating to Capitalism and today's workplace.

http://www.horsesenseatwork.com/psl/pages/postmoderndefined3.html

I am off work with a flu-type virus at the moment, and this article seems to describe my working experience. What is the solution, I wonder? Is there one? Does anyone care enough or have enough courage to attempt to reform the current situation?

Interestingly, Modernism is often cited as being about dichotomous thought and therefore limiting perception to black and white stereotypes. However, as mentioned in the article, the Post Modern workplace seems to enforce dualities and contradictions even more than the Modernist workplace. The difference, it seems, is the theatricality of these cognitive contradictions (and their manifestation in behaviour). Indeed, the laborious reducing of reality into contradictive labeling, has resulted in the workplace as a theatre for emotional expression as occupations slip into artificiality, or representations of occupations. Similarly, sophisticated advertising and marketing often represent poor services and products.

Indeed, the human side of industrial relations (!) or the workplace has been replaced by a computerized, bureaucratic and measurable reality. Therefore, a theatre has emerged in reaction to this, whereby employees express their human nature. With the current "Global Recession" (this may be more accurately described as a Western Recession(?)) emotions are often running high in the workplace and the theatricality (suppressed humanness) of employees is creating a real drama in reaction to an artificial and real crisis.

Digital Artist

Self Portrait. A little bit Warholesque, I think! Original photo taken with an analogue camera:-)Simon

Vespers (74)

Mercury in retrograde spoiled and spawned an otherwise perfect day.
Cool for a change, car windows open
all the way to the places we saw twice,
parking in the same location both times.

I often have no chance to hear you laugh.
Sky today rained down its creased blue.

At night now, I read a beautiful account
of a retreat minus the adjectives.
Assemblages of art forms
come to live behind my eyes.

It's time to pray again.
There will be wild lace light over farm skin.
Once we have shown favor to cloth,
a quiet will conform to my soft face.

Happiness is just like voiced insinuation minus trebling.
Playthings left out in the yard,
As close to clarity as breath intends.

Good guess, one thinks.
Silver under light.
Metallic shy and charm warm.

Vespers (73)

May distance
from you
draw upon
its opposite.

May you offer calm
to each.
And may you teach
the kind of prayer

you do
reflexively
into the daylight
you can make.

May you cross
division problems.
May you fail
to feel contempt.

Machine Girl (Text and Image)

A different version of my last picture "Car Lights are Objects in My Night". Once again, a 3 Way Collaboration
Original photo by Miss Bouxmissboux.deviantart.com
Stock photo by Mademoiselle heleninawww.flickr.com/photos/madheleninastock/2879354765/
And Editing/Digital Effects and text by Me!

Text on Flickr

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thecrescent/2893594370/

Thank you

Simon

ethereal darkcaster

in that universe shadows of whispered		thoughts were symbiotic echoes of us

This is the shadow image of an installation by Wessel ‘Der Wexel‘ Westerveld.

Machine Girl

I have no objections, indeed anything special would be essence in the sense of bodily form. Delicately lovely you drive grotesqueries from vagueness by your frame to a ghost merging in malad machinery our new instinct anima mal I sense the flesh of it all will be precursor to the shell of it all keeled to the essence, persona of it all. I have no objections, similarly you have no particular objections, strangely I find you liberating by representation rather than flesh or authenticity. You insist on reality, not your reality but that you are real. What I know and what I know is fantasy strangely merge through a compliance that equals tissues of lies and truth sectioned beneath the fantasies and unrealities restrictions and undemocracies of the real... technology.

Unduly worried I take a pill to forge equanimity with computerised "actual reality". After ten minutes or so I'm believing you are actual, real, the essence of my truth the anima of me, fleshed and human. To lose myself in this would compromise consciousness to the realm of manufactured identity and perception. I watch this thought flicker on the screen, I have no objections, do you my love? "No, I have none at all".

CAR LIGHTS ARE OBJECTS IN MY NIGHT

3 Way Collaboration

Original photo by Miss Boux
missboux.deviantart.com

Stock photo by Mademoiselle helenina
www.flickr.com/photos/madheleninastock/2879354765/

And Editing/Digital Effects by Me!
Simon

Vespers (72)

maturation subdivides
the lives of prophets
into decibels of speech

insistence upon
rapid-fire refusal
to relax
beyond a shadow

territory destined
to become unclaimed
contracts beneath
the shoulder
a soldier at a time
conveys no signal at all

may you enjoy the generosity
of stasis full of sweet
and nest in how
the city's laced with calm
magic as a field
you made yourself

just whisper that
to whom you call God
and listen
for what comes back
until it's nothing
anymore

Sheila E. Murphy COLLECTED CHAPBOOKS (1981-2002)

Blue Lion Books announces a new hardback book by Sheila E. Murphy, COLLECTED CHAPBOOKS (1981 - 2002). A collection of all Murphy's chapbooks issued during that period, many out of print and now available in a beautiful hardcover edition.

"For three decades, Sheila E. Murphy has been been one of the master architects of American syntax. Those who have read her poems only in magazines or chapbooks have no idea of their scope, the scale and the depth of her work. For those readers, this collection will be a revelation. This is a great book!" --- Ron Silliman

"Sheila E. Murphy is indeed a virtuoso bird, one who takes flight through language at the slightest provocation, carrying her readers with her on long poetic journey. These poems are about linguistic experience, about music on the page and in the head, about ideas approached from surprising angles and made anew, about renewal and revival. Over the last twenty five years I have continually migrated towards Sheila's approachable, lyrical and engaging experiments, basking in the sun-drenched visions she has gathered and made from the worlds and words about her. Collected Chapbooks is an overdue delight, a tribute and a publishing event." --- Rupert Loydell

http://www.lulu.com/content/2251616

is the web-address for ordering this book. The book has much to merit purchasing a copy to enrich one's experience of contemporary poetry. In reading this book, you will be amazed at the variety of her poetic discourse, no doubt, in paraphrase, falling in love along with the the spell of her bright syntax.

Decision Poem

Yes No
No Yes
No Yes
Yes No

No Yes
Yes No
No Yes
Yes No

Yes No
No Yes
No Way
Okay

*

Ah! Yes
Oh! No
Not quite
Just right
I can't
I can
I won't
I will

tempers fuse it
I'm happy 'bout it
I'll have to face it
I'll just deny it

strangers meeting
I know you
your face is familiar
far away

lies are truth
and truth is lies
How to be decisive
when there's no substance?

I have no time
To say I am
Please accept my apologies
late again!

*

No no no no no no no no no no no
New new new new new new new new new
blue blue blue blue blue blue
Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes
l'oiseaux comprend l'avenue du choix a bird is a choir in new mud
your reason is my reason as such as a bird singes wing is a glue fortunate your hypothetically unreasonable

I've gone you've gone we've gone everyone isn't here
they are here right here in the flesh you can touch their flesh
and nothing disappears
cars scudding at midnight
a birds flight canoed by an Internet our flavour of paint
you're right I'm right here right here
Crashing like Gates

Mistake? I never took avenues to seed a truth
where truisms are anywhere nearer than now
Whose expectation was a kaleidoscope? Haven't
cervix esperanto illusive mime? Since when should
I explain that poetry is a scene to gather all other
scenes and provide the tinge that scraps the

whole out of all things? Une foret?


*

objet objet objet stars stars stars objet objet objet stars stars stars

I cannot finish this poem not because words are merely emblems rather than a scrutiny of post modern culture. I am an author so I am not here, you must be the author unless the words found their own way onto this representation of a page. I refuse to subdivide authors. I haven't the time nor the money nor the inclination. I would like to finish this poem but time is a reason in its self.

Time isn't money, but it is motion if it is anything... which it probably isn't, unless you are a devout Solipsist. The difficulty with changes is they are not measurable, however they are existent. I'm hoping that another bank doesn't crash like in US so time can become more lucid in the sense of freer interpretations and less intrinsicness.

Aloofness to time or "timewards", is now pertinent but exteriority isn't a mechanism without the dial that frees the face like a moon that frees the butt or a sun that frees the theatricality of global warming. My face falls on the clock face yet my rhythm and the rhythm of time are keeled to a Sun in winter and the Moon in Summer. Our quantization is expedient and parallel yet faces flow like cigarette smoke between the synopsis of dials handing the fractured fixity of minds worried to paralysis.

Sex is scary, to all of us fuckers if we're honest. Time can indicate the brevity of sexual relations, child rearing old age (past it) and death (in the breeze). Time was never an indication of complex systems, nor their raison d'etre, failure or success, where did this synonymy between time and the measurement of money occur from? Time is now an indication of health and sexual vigour. I can feel the fur slip between the numbers of its ever increasing accuracy the wolf at the door the rat in the sewer the cat on the mat the snake grating its poison on the door.

If any slippage were indicated, an evocation of transience and tranquility would be its opposition, a quiet meditative aloofness that phones capitalism and says "enough is enough - fuck off!". And from this distance we could observe late-capitalism, delirious and chaotic, melt down into a form that proved an essence was not the seed that we should measure but something that is blunt, non-incisive occurring because it occurs and however, we choose to alter it, we will not change the fact that it (us, our societies, cultures) are there because we are here.

A numbness at the cursing of over-capitalist societies, is no longer de rigueur. You can feel the bones wending, stirring vocalising a new amalgam of humanity and the market place. I long for the day that my face will sit timely and appealingly upon the dial of a clock and, time becomes a whimsy for those with time on their hands or those who must enquire or create. And when a lover sits upon times hands draped in flowing robes, I shall celebrate by writing my thoughts and feelings poetically, without disruptive anxiety about time and money.

Vespers (71)

An olive tree on Monterosa Street,
turns to unsculpted sprawl
of self containment,

Lists beneath warm breath of wind,
a reason to absorb diminished daylight
for the mind that leans
toward sleep,

Screen smell offers rain's ablutions
via dream across nightlight

Whole cloth of darkness
matches desire
and insects sing
a backdrop into being,

Calm lets go original
intention against street side
repetition of idea turned
to something recognizable again

A10 exit 113

Vespers (70)

I lose some of the light
already lost
when you reply
with any depth.

Reflexive "hold me" simmers
under peace lamps I no longer see.

Allow a face,
to borrow what has lived beneath
what shows.

Against the summer magnified
just now.

Shaped By Light 3

Thank you to Miss Boux

Simon

disappearance, intangible, actual

Strange metallic breeze blows
I am not here
I am perforated threw a rainbow
I am sex, a metaphor, non-actuel
disappearance

Collude in whispers a landscape
is fortitude object 9
and beyond focus
You are Helios danse repetition repetition

I'm thinking about writing
preternatural and ordinary
primitive and haughty you are
my laboratory a Kirlian factory
landscapes

whisper protrusions and excavations

breaking news sprouting in TURP

South of Brobdignag, in the realm of Turp...
Breaking news grows on paper underneath the Mangatree.
Houyhnhnms understand this relation and call it symbiosis.
Turpese 6packers believe Mangatrees are sponsored by CNN.
The monochromatic Laputian thinks both theories are plausible and shoots a photograph with his i-phone.
Tomorrow his right brain shall digest the image and bloggerize it.

Vespers (69)

smooth to formulate
a blondness

under dark plant life given
space to stretch

the woodwind lace on sand
free to think upon / about / around

a stipulated verb somewhere
gone soft and daylight

mere matte finish anymore
as tired as weeds

a book to wear out
with attention

memory subdivides into derivative
recall underneath the tarp

somewhere also winter
lapses formally unwatched

zone 30

Little Lamb's Lamb Log Cabin...

 
Little Lamb is waiting for you to come to her house warming party.