nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
i get mineshaft and horsemeat. but what i've got is mindmeat and horseshaft.
textual relations/e-ruptions
you are like a filter sifting. i am like a sponge sucking. staunch, stubborn, and earthbound, i stand at the harbor, but you are constantly at sea. will you at least throw me the paper streamer?
if a line is the shortest distance between two points, and a film the longest, then life is buried somewhere between. between confusion and impermanence. between truth and love. the poet deciphers as he traverses. his language is one of making sense, both as in demystifying a sacred language and as in rimbaud's derangement of all the senses. like the red helicopter circling, his is not an omnipresent but an elevated eye, bloodshot and oversexed. is it time to wake the sleeping beast?
a fatal vapor the girls' tongue house number seventy-one she snaps a picture of the three male bathers sunning themselves on one towel, muttering, "that's some brokeback mountain shit." i know what she means by this, i even laugh at it. but at the same time i don't. each one of two in a compairison is a vertical stratum, and in drawing an analogy, we draw a line from one point on one stratum to another. however, those comparisons that are most moving, heavy, and apt, are those that draw multiple lines simultaneously and unexpectedly. they are not uninformed, base, mirror-based mimicry.
and you, you with yr clumsy boss hands, perceive time as a barbarian might, considering only actions and their succession, not understanding that synchronic and diachronic time are mutually exclusive, and that when you combine two histories the sum is not predictable. time precedes this, does not proceed from it.
yr eyes look long you're eyes and a long look it was yr eyes all along
a guy does chinups off the scaffolding naked against smokestacks carribean music and bakeries and children's voices playing strangely ominous
i will not cry, but i will weave the red thread. first round my thumb, then round yr neck until it is a red towel tussling. i am away from you. the world beats a death march. you are leaving. why should i leave?
the paint spills and it makes a puddle on the sidewalk and it smells and it looks like milk and i walk through it and my foot prints, white and wide, are those of a ghost and those of an angel always, as they are, following you.
LOOK!
a bike ride
empire of the sun - walking on a dream
il girasole
ulrike meinhof - everybody talks about the weather . . . we don't
perishers - trouble sleeping
r.e.m. - pop song 89
smiths - pretty girls make graves
squeezebox! movie
treewala
LISTEN!
modern lovers - pablo picasso
namesake - when you were mine
no trend - teen love
hayes peebles
patti smith - parade
violens
