30 Jun 2006

variation on t'internet writing (continuing?]

I was emailing her I was texting her I was ringing her on her mobile phone from obviously the best enamoured i say when he gets down there right the day before pleased to see you yeah really really not en joue fait mes suis c'est une ciel brut sky jj erica jaune fille ma jaune fille ericature nominally etre sappho object se plonge arrette se plonge arrette toujours avec avenues

lundi etre mardi etre jeudi etre dimanche ca plus sappho object phoning phonetic from avertissement sapphic embodyment objet if da rien c'est ca the odd trains quel que chose douche remark recherche paramour grab a sandwich before the go I did the ego kid now poets r selfless iconoclasmic the identity changes to fast to wear it

the distance quel ceuleur mon amis through space is measured by space in the ether of eye right left quasi marauding the segment of an arm the space in an eyebrow is not taken but filled space, touchable space the object of space by the absence of nothing unseen sense sensory texture a haptic fuck all change change with gusto change because we are armored with sets bold and forward measured brevity with women uncultured and twining sooth of something unclaimed undramatic lines of rooms photons guise

post cultural and malign to raison we learn the intuition of measurement the running of the clock the possession of tasks the hard rein of horses hands invisible and enveloping world emails to Afghanistan she say we are the world still flat a canvas lying under the vast bowl of illicit ilucid campaigne skjie mi cherie we stop off late from work in a french cafe bar in leicester we turn in like drafts of papers signed and meaningless we dream of licking each others tongues caressing the backs of mouths deep and meaningful till tomorrow masturbating emails car and television set

poetry sets us back a way

throwing bodies in bed clothes feels the ruff sheet against her feet

U sez yeah yeah yeah u looks like an unicorn but mais oui your destined for someone elses testicles we were still repose in morning madness et vous c'est ca and words uggled like a nutters utters new words in the still eye of dreams the i conscious enough to think of the risk of surreality than to be in practice on call for seven years seven days a week sleeping now that dreams increase insanity u wear ur make up to go out avec jeff koons, de Kooning mistry jones your kaleidoscopic eyes drinking in to urge outwards thorny regrets

28 Jun 2006

from THE DAYLIGHT SECTIONS (35)

I lived once
I live
now

tomorrow
I will
live again, expand

all available light
mixing the
inevitable

with
the eventual
and blend reasons

to immerse myself
in reverence
especially

kind
light soft
spoken light's alignment

variation'on crescent's variation'on tents

21 Jun 2006

turned'over

folded

only accessible

0 straight line
"same

consistency center

because" lathe rest

weighed
skeleton more

becomes (not collapse)

attraction

person completely
ruptures

NOW empty

there above (traction)

relation
force convention

drop girders column

weighted

becomes large/thin
congregated more up'd

hand

think cannot

factor a (never
opened)

oblique angle

right handed lapping

16 Jun 2006

from THE DAYLIGHT SECTIONS (34)

My silence reasons with your silence.

Scissors along laketop shift the path of boats
and pebbles in the parking lot
trucks nudge that sound small.

Havasu is a demeanor that we live as anyone
would breathe in spare momentum.

Conjecture reverts to play of objects undercast
by siloes of convivial respect.

Look at this world and how we're bound by fate that it will go away,
as stated by someone who'll never know.

9 Jun 2006

variation on harrykstammer's "tents"


as it begins to get darker these words come to
me as the night turns through the weildY stars glistens object/I proctracted

imbibed


thob
ton stel fo tnioP

eht

ot metsys

ym
gni

wols gnihsarc, snoi
tcef ni
lariv
fo e
C
naTsnep

pah




MONDAY funny how the grand nuit

because

she slows stars avenuesslate headlights
body topography

of this TUESDAY the sun iris and buggered

SATURDAY

streets

THE CRISIS IN TOWN

pour avenue celtic or revision FRIDAY stars fall my days peopled and esoteric unidentifiable

4 Jun 2006

from THE DAYLIGHT SECTIONS (33)

topography arrives one sprinklet at a time
in lifelike pixels premising distance from
formed glyph in keeping with a brand name-
d metrocal one used to practice dis-
appearing when plexing to fore-
groundball recovery its own
ballast perhaps remaindered as the kismet
of untidy pouch as unlike store room
sticks halftix would you go with me
go solo or just stay put in the neuralgia
of entombment sideways all unkempt and beatific
or in slumber where the snow used to define the lines

adroit new slumber whitens who we say we are
while under the guise of tapshoe
within many tries reaching for gobletry
in a shake or two manipulating seasoned
wintry silver blue aloft and in the nick of
lean time beaned with brine the leggo factory
gives back hemp and greased wheels oil
and steel freed pictures pressed into
gray cellular fever dreaming in drool
and pertinent psychopathy

here comes nowhere, shouts the sequel-spewing
northern type absorbing sunshine this pale
Midwesterner out by the pool in shivery
ninety-some degrees sans humid balance
now I lay me down to reach the testament
to golf and brittle gestural confection
as if shaken lace were drizzlish
yet waving under the influence
of June breezes prior to maturity
sunlight's still young and we are
always predisposed to feigning
an epistemological hoe-down that confers
on noggins the presumptuous stamp of
approval that alleges the preeminence
of external validation always a head more vital
than nutrition to these D-starved bones

2 Jun 2006

In silence are our whispers words
Miasma
An' whence th' ftorie vapors unfold
of words decrepit meanings told an' told
my feelings @ you foreign
for sure
we'll take our place
the scent of pollinated traces
aloof to designs de sign
signature purr between the hiss
and missiles techniture oblivious/oblivion [Rex]
Thro' Times submission (sense)
The elegance of seeing
eye to eye Too ToUcH
Labyrinthine
In words our truth would hurt to trust

31 May 2006

'onsciousness'onsciousness

train/horn
buzzer first

index finger tenth
cushion

rub "that
criterion" alternative flash

yellow/red
(1066 against)

pulled keys keyboard
together

thumb meetings
scratching (right, above)

one
first nails

finger hand left

()

for horizon

it (sensible) rolled

over't
"clouds moving

away" ('n 'n)
emotional

discord 'usual
sensitive (un) association

26 May 2006

Thoughts (spinning/linking)

The problem with consciousness is the consciousness of consciousness. What is this when you look at it? Time, of course, is dependent on consciousness, or to quote Lewis Lacook "artichoke techniques".

As I mentioned, in a manner of things, before, or what depends upon consciousness to seem that it was before, time seems to slow as we head towards greater conclusions with greater volition.

The greatest decision when writing these days is whether to employ the
somewhat Dadaist strategy of non sense, or whether to keep a sense of
communication within the text.


Inevitably, notions of Schizophrenia and other mental illnesses spring to mind. That is not to say that we are all schizophrenic, but, equally we are not all in a state of full mental health. And, ultimately, does it matter? One must look at consciouness/perception once again.

This leads to a rejection of medical models as significant indicators and treatments for severe mental illnesses.

This leads to the rejection of academic and (in particular) scientific
thought by many writers, artists, intellectuals, etc.


The problem with madness is the concept of madness. Mental illness is simply an illness, akin to, connected to and not unlike physical illness. It should not matter that one is ill, only that one is not discriminated against, because of this.

So how does all this tie up with consciousness? The fractals of consciousness!
The problem with computers is that, as with anything else, people begin to see them metaphorically, essentially as a metaphor for the mind. This is fine, human, harmless. The problem is that so many artists and writers who work on the Internet /computers are completely engrossed in these mental metaphors. This leads to an art/literature form that is unbearably introspective and excluding of the public.

Most non-artists would have very little patience for an art/text work
that conveys, in great complexity, what it is like to create art on
computers
that represent the mind to the artist. In a sense the
artist/writer is saying
that he has a way of making the mind apparent and
apprehendable to himself, and
isn't this fascinating! Add to this the mental
processes of creating within this
quasi-mental environment and you have an
art-form that cannot engage a
significant audience. Without an audience,
there is no art.


This is not what I set out to write tonight. As Damien Hurst throws paint upon a potter's wheel and watches it splay across a canvas, my thoughts fell from my mind onto an apparent paper page, or its representaton. One of the factors in this "omniscient" style is time, the lack of it! Societal preoccupations contemporaneous relevances, too numerous to touch upon in any detail, fall from one chain of thought to the next. If only now I had the time to think upon time and its irrational conception, its solipsistic (neologism?) perceptual existence, I may write in a manner that is closer to my intention and then times connection to consciousness. Then I could find an appropriate ending to my text, that would tie in with the beginning.

My conclusion would then be the start of something else, relevant yet quite distinct. Maybe I have acheived this, without even being aware of its manifestation!








from THE DAYLIGHT SECTIONS (32)

yellow and white
as if paint
all across
all things

as whispers
and as surfaces
that change
all things

very morning
very fresh
and seen
as if

the first time
present tense
as eternal
as it is

20 May 2006

strangely [as an adjective] and without time to get out my camera [time = nothing/everything] i find myself blogging in the pursuit of words and their inflections. Words, momentarily, crack and fickle the mind, stirring out contours and avenues, hearsay and inventive heresy, which so many people are at these days. And as words turn to images before my eyes I/i can only reflect on experience rather than append image to sensation(!) Computers seem to becoming a joke; a battle between artistic and other intent and the happenstance of viral infections, crashing, slowing my system to the point of let's not bother....

Recently, I saw a rather fascinating dance work by Companhia de Danca Deborah Colker. Pivotal to the success of this work was its sense of humour combined with artistic voraciouness. Deborah Colker's dance company are from Brazil, and once again, I am intrigued and excited by this continents artistic output. If North America never really seemed to dissect "high art"and "popular art" then South America (or at least what I have experienced) doesn't seem to care less what constitutes "high" art or "low" art. This healthy attitude seems to blow Western conceptions of culture and cultural history apart.
The music and dance combined and flowed; a fluid and essential relationship. The dance was hauntingly deft, athletic, charming and physical. However, a nod to modern jazz and its tradition would have been a welcome addition to the contemporary embodiment of the work.

Back to time... People are saying the West is "money rich and time poor", I would question this up to a point, however, for those with an income (unemployment, its threat cuts through consciousness like a brazen voice) time and leisure seem fleeting. Interestingly, the more importance time accrues and the greater the importance of deadlines, time seems to slow, Einstein-like, to a point where conceptions of time become arbitrary and misplaced. Maybe our conception of time will alter, from greater accuracy, towards an intuitive sense of now and then, what constitutes history, direction, chance and the future?



19 May 2006

from THE DAYLIGHT SECTIONS (31)

oh to be eighty-seven
(degrees) again when
loitering costs few
nothings already allocated
south and just the daisies
and our eyes to watch
are here it's time for
froth on latte on the cusp
of an already empty white
board halting overcast
(the fringe white sofa
holds apart our cherished
lines that volley back and
(offer) forth one fever
one sublime intention
no one but no one can cast
a moment's derivation
from the north when compass
lies full of direction
and the swatted flies are
here four ways to have been
danced like this my
Kathryn are you glistening
from the upper registers
the de rigeur integrity
and chanceful migratory
dream draw through the country
over highways and the perfect
geometric yards in your
sport car your utility your
devoted speech and eyes

was it a safe flight
a soft flight did you feel
goodbye as it was sung
by us for us within us
was that you with the infectious
voice the motion without
silence at all was the mere
feat of calligraphy your form
was justice this was your
still young face pure again
was everything as full as you
imagined were there stages
were there sets and was the chore
ography good as yours and in your eyes
was there a founded majesty
to fill you fit you free you
are you always there and still
here with us anyway