and all of a sudden they were gone!


the letters the font the sounds and tastes

of them

each had a home. family, and a pet,

except for “k” who lived in a box and wrote stories about himself.

behest

this is me writing about pelicans soaked in oil, the death gasp of the Gulf of Mexico, bubbling

this is not a work of fiction

ill never eat again, he proclaimed, because there's hardly any world left.

the air and earth burning

and the sun like the moon

void.

Today I will be inside me (ongoing)

And walk in feet of glass. Terror floats on tiny boats of wood and diamond dust.
My nose, a resting place for a time from the unfathomable hole in the center of the earth. That strange thing, the vortices; blind heights and depths. Close your eyes. A rabbit. It always was. Waiting for me. The romance of beasts climbing trees. The hot breeze sagging. In limbo, breathing, we touch toes. She is herself again today. A sigh of relief.

She is hot on my body, my disembodied house. She is moving my lips with her lips and teaching me love speech on a dirty sheet. The rightness or wetness? The daylight on leaves? My mind was bigger than that moment and that has always been the problem.

She gave me monkey kisses. Her tongue thrust in my mouth tastes of iron solace. The boats pass and come like hours on beaches in grains and dusts of heat. The optimistic light, the wet, the liminal walk between sand and water, flesh and air and finding the exact middle of myself.

Eyes twinned, ears twinned, ass and breasts. A mouth, a nose, a cunt only one.

Pulp: Juice

Love is what makes cars cars. Experts rate an array. Better homes consumed by infinity. Regenerists say, "Au Lait." What if the person of your dreams was free? Communications like intellect and midnight. Original great bonus dollars.

Today I will be inside me. I'm in Thailand and I've just landed a 400 pound scientific team. They did experiments of all sorts on me: terrifying slashing. I've been defeated before. Violence and bloodletting is a way of life. The region is lost in the dark heart.

TAR ARCH TAPES!

Genital Accent Piece by Tar Arch Tapes

Philosophical Event

Exist. Then, don't.

Patriotic Event

Gather together the flags of all the world's countries and burn them, then eat a carrot.

Nine Malic Molds

Nine Malic Molds by The Cake Dancers

This is a work in progress. It's one of several tracks on the upcoming album.

Almost Naked, Who Showed Her Vulva In Exchange For Small Nails

(for Laura)

Dr nun Watson, he jests rotund from feasted prey, in flight from cyst pruning. Dolts like him feed on grits. The escaping wren discos denim, a stunt lard-bled at duty’s end. You are free from his wall, pride, and junk. Ballet to your ford pronto and have a rare thing—a thigh in your face, nude to accept your smut. His wish was to jinx us (the new dolt) to sum that stunt. Your gun bang charged free punting in manners of brass rutting calves. The all-world cast panting his jingle (a trim "prick-gag" comes to mind). End your iffy simulation noting the bits and throbbing fists. You razz that jingle up full mast, a pubic foci, three seconds sleepless. Ship-rend the nun and his gob, the naked stud. Dunk and crack for them in the stands, ratty as nudes rotting. Never stepping from quarters, you rule so like Tut in hell, students waking in this jailer’s reaping hut, for fields of wrecked expertise. They are knotted together that your stalactite laced tenors ferment rinds, flies lining up in numbers and numbers. Three seconds of a century in ruptured tipsy scud with the product of their jailor. Perhaps you have not censored dread and dust with that wild crass shield. He pants rasping dry, scarred by you, the theater child, grandchild or reverent writer, held together and given to throbs. He tenderly typed one block of text and he’s spraying servo juice, the product of reassembled companions. Five days you considered casting his public ruts to light, considered what might master flies like. I highly approve your nippy report, a snarl.

(This is a spell-check poem based on a letter one of my professors wrote to Printing Services for me. It's not a usual spell check poem, as I didn't actually use spell-check, I mostly corrected the spellings myself, occasionally taking inspiration from the checker and adding to the syntax as I felt necessary. I'm so happy that it developed into an address to the professor herself. I'm going to read it and the original letter tonight at the Delta release party.)

10 comments:

Emily said...

nag retesting, asocial, unseating canoeists for waning hut leafs, kingmaker the eel urea by tailgating hate oddly, gulping on talc brogans, tea. I smiled in this pie mover raspy mythical redial. I anew a cedar shark image at or with her tugboats.

April 27, 2010 1:18 PM

Emily said...

an ferreting, sacral, basseting onset of swig the seal, mating the dill rill by tolling the bold, cling on viol runes, taco. I hissed in these piqué mare crispy cynical denials. I wet a clean scar imam to go whip the thugs.

April 27, 2010 1:19 PM

Emily said...

why sip it sopping wickets?!

April 27, 2010 1:19 PM

Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...

Havens the songfest. Khans for the memento by the awl. Fist attesting, blues I was trig spinally to be vase and it trendy auto its dust gorgy.

April 28, 2010 9:26 AM

I Am Bells said...

Assoil fury pearly to medley’s economy was piebald to elm.

April 28, 2010 10:25 AM

Emily said...

emesis inkle its lag or nosing, do you twang end to anklet our emir off the lids?

April 28, 2010 10:28 AM

matt said...

imp eloign the lutefisk of covens. its will encumber a shellac pie in a web dish, hen the clustering has adverse (freak verbosely mesa). tally then, if myth as wallet dada my wok scent: defiled oboes nix moons, fishy ethers orthodox casket.

April 29, 2010 1:40 PM

Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...

This oat has eon armored by the loather.

April 30, 2010 8:31 AM

Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...

Hominy!

April 30, 2010 8:33 AM

Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...

Soothsay!

April 30, 2010 8:33 AM

Flocks of Moxen

Flocks of moxen walking down the trees, stepping gruntily in qwertious flow. Verily, their many-colored aptitudes speak for themselves, dundering upon such silent silks. On stilts we walk, haggard and token. Tales of folken wilderness vining upon every nestled stump. Entwined of rare metals, stringing along. A simple melody of a pond, and a quest in a frond.
Along such banks walked we, splishing the mud-haven. Cravenly entwistling the marshes of old. Swampy cattails arose from a zone. Walking we went, soaked to the bone. Fishing for zish, we stopped for a bit.
We spoke of subterranean humanoid puzzles, magically toasting the south-eastern border’s negative-seven-hundred-twelfth birthday. Burrowing in the dirt to get out of the heat, we caught the rare scent of moxen, an olfactory treat. Bounding over the marshy deserts by air and by spoon, a flock of moxen was spinning a cocoon. Snorting as they stamped, and grunting as they went, heartily nodding in gentle agreements as their spinnerets leapt, their horned feet and hoofed heads tread lightly on the wheat. Swishing tails of forgotten worlds, one luminous moxen neighed, mooed, and sang in a brilliant multiphonic display. It sang in tones rarely heard by the ears, in fact, I have heard it only once in ten thousand years.
Flocks of moxen walking up the trees, singing as they go, in all thirteen keys.

Bartholomew, an eclectic elf, high on dandelion wine and sugar-plum snooters, fancied he'd pry a sprig from the Elderbush. But unawares to spry Barty, a mulldrifter manticore was huffing about in his abode in a nearby water-lilly, angrily sulking, pevish at his loss of a game of chinese checkers. Leering through the fog, the manticore spyed shameless Barty, who was trying his best to break off a branch. "Codswollop! Humperdink!" Barty hiccuped feverishly in frustration, his cheeks turning strawberry red with strain. The manticore, trundling out of his lilly-bloom, spread his teeth like a fan, licked his lips, and shot into the air. Then suddenly downward he spiraled, whirligiggling and shrieking, so rapidly that Barty, loopily absorbed in his mind-numbing foolery, barely had time to react. He dodged slightly to the side (a moment too late), and saw at the instant before darkness, the periwinkle smile of cloud outlined in shimmer, and then plummeted beneath the surface of the loch.

Birds, Fish-Snake and Scarecrow

Birds, Fish-Snake and Scarecrow by I Am Bells

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Emily

tumor and the wolf

fished wolf
west prowling but the morning
such a fad
passed the dry-cut belt
the first, hard mother
sees her child cut
wall threw the window and
the wolf shall to the wolf sty
all dying to drive
the van
hard the sum win
fondling her child and sing: cut new
and the Wolf shod cowl kills him.
to wolf,
hang these words
want him
gong with clad and hungry
sad or thoughtless

toad the frog

drinking place, trod bard
frogs and crashed
them ditch the mother
coming and messing her suns
nard his brothers
what had bum him
dad, dry mother
flay in new jest
very best with fray
grit fetched the place
crashed in ditch with his clan
alto frog puffing herself
the best west big
that nard smotherer
puff self sad snob
and knit angry
fray weld sir
sir burst then successfully
mitt the hens that monster

missal things can’t heap ten and try

Mystery MEat: Vessel

All I had to do was look inside myself there were objects clustered paper wads plastic sheets covering the rim of my gut. I was lost in frequent torque, sliding was permitted until there was only one sensory device remaining. Pushed around.

In the evenings my objects are removed (I breathe for a time), my stomach itself detaches and finds its way outside (I can see it flutter off as though possessed). Objects are always around me jostling ignorant coiling and springing. All movement is unattended. Opening, always, and closing on concurrent frequencies with the attitude of these creatures, looking and pressing I can barely see them, ghosts perhaps.

In my depths I found an emptiness I had not expected in my throat, (then again, I have always confused my sections, sometimes, my head is my base, my handles are my core, my gut is my shoulder). Temporality meant becoming: this was not allowed for me.

I despised rules and they me. I needed the rules to place myself where I needed to be and when I got around them I’d end up leaning off against some shattered souls of brick imprint in false letters sloping angularly. This was how the crack developed that leads me inside myself.

(Suddenly I am drifting again; it is now allowed.)

Having opened only slightly, (I considered it a great sin to indulge in the fissure), leaking was a reality for me, liquids forever spilling out rushing spontaneously into further frothing about the edges of the spiraling fur dragging backwards over the red haired plastics resting near the loving windows with hinges that screamed love proclamations to each and every notch. I died laughing, I suppose.

That sensual moment of self-exploration brought voids eons dispersed (I am still surprised I am still alive!) latching onto some permanent memory contortion of fantasy: gliding fairies, no rules, no ghosts, the laughter and sharp corners of rock.

I am erotically myself, pulling my own bowels forth, and I am sure they are real, filled to their edges as they often have been—yet, my objects remain a more permanent memory, shifting my weight, the pain a reminder of being.