Sunday, December 29, 2013

el estuche

cora son dear tub
lamination ,lamerme el
codo que se me quema
con el esfuerzo del esfín
ter’s shadow in the toil
et bowl’s sweaty sug
ar madura stroked and
,ffeeling of the ppene g
goteando in the rice

...olives...    O               O

...el escribano del barro...
- Luis Bravo

the smoke deflation

tiemblo tomo la tumba g
gaseosa choked burrowise g
ainst the cloaca chismosa h
is spine’s tomb curled fan
go en la Ccueva de tu votive
pose’s slow sinking mirror ,tu
cacalavera rut ilante would
shatter glass you hear ,a
sleep in spaces ,caras de lona
invisible swayed across the
clay some dusking silence ,de
mi brazo populcro ,pipopular
,papendi cular ,cryptic culo
staring in the flitning dark

your courted flies yr be
bida hus meante

Con fragmentos de la épica
arturiana inédita de Olchar E. Lindsann

Saturday, December 28, 2013

the sneeze

ch chew s and cr
isp y con chas y el vid
rio circucumular ‘s whap
ped I ,“¿sabes?” the umb
rella full of olives ,or your
keys ,ffroze n in a sp
here of ice el ququeso momor
dido y tu ggus aano liberato
...¡ay tantagua desenfocada!
...lentes(  de  )tierra... know...
- Luis Bravo

the sink

wa//et  /int
you reads
d  ticket


d.u.s.t cage

the logck


goteo ,fauces




bliny y

and crawls

your sTack



supine ,lupus ,trainer do
me rising from the “sea”
turds hid beneath
tomatos the squirrels
twitch  .rust crawls up
the garage et je suis
flapi et j’ai flasqué dans
le miroir  .ah the noddin’s
left the soap’s streaming
from my lips  .mined ,too
thless ,choking on the
suds - when the answer
fills my shoe

...waters of which were
fabled to inspire...
- Mitchell’s Ancient Geography, 1845

Monday, December 23, 2013

the egg

decipher pursued the tw
isting hole salt rentata ,gr
ass and win d a c omb ,somb
ra in the gasoline or ticketless
travel ,fangfarms ,smould
ering parking lots ,the fun
eral slophats or Golgotha fun
nel ,quonset ghost over
whelmed with ,the crusted
clock falling from the chim
ney ,digital ball in your
eyes a code jaw teleph
one hammers through a pl
umbing event my shorts and
wasps ,ceiling books ,a
utonomo bone glyph en
graved in the tents the toll
booth filled wiuth diarrhea
action tholo buttib hair
dark wall’s end of rotor
time miasmic suit in the
bottom of a ,well ,banks and
burbats ,ineffable photograph
,a maddened moth in a cave or
scented pool of shoelettuce ,st
reaming slugs go to sleep in t
he basement where the faint
cinema crushed a watery
mirror or fossil opens its
stony valves the sea the
radish the pants bill
owing in the distance ,br

From Jim Leftwich, Six Months Aint
No Sentence, Book 60; Ivan Argüelles,
“the Hymn to Clio”, “from the Hymn to
Persephone”; and John M. Bennett,
from nothing.

Friday, December 20, 2013

le sud

the ash hock ,ply ,would
spl inter calar ,ni voz
,tócame ,riñón ,leva dura
bicicleta o bigote goteado
 planificación ur bana l
sin túnel   )my craw ling
syn apse(  “just c hew ,i
t p lung es” my flesh my
                            Tree  e


the gnat

spread said lung spent the
...foarce of shingle ,off the
roof breath my ^ flaming elbow
~~...what rises from the thumb
“your mouth” a green nickel
on your tongue your moth sh
oulder where the speckled te
xt ...I ran outside my p
ants  ...the written sidewalk cr
umbles ...I had “nothing left”

]]what’s heard inside the Sandwich

la urbe

chain of sinks a
hot hell ,dampness
combs the rinsing
fog the seeming hill
of masks’ a breast
,eyeless ,seeing ,seen
from the dusty grava
de hoja seca ornada
,los grifos mudos son
y en los bajos
la maleza tupida se sonríe

...yeux, clairs sous le masque.
- Paul-Jean Toulet

the disk

sludgy well ,or air’s expans
ion ,if grey with dust it
thicks ,a drying b rain ,with’s
eyes ,what sees es el fin ,a
l umpy wall of meat ,bloodless
,so’s thin like leaves ,fallen
from the burning tree wh
at connects ,or did ,the worlds
without pants ,nor beaded necks
,p ages which all time contain
the bindings blind s ,sin
ojos por the water’s text
,where an onyx cup with st
ones is filled

L’air immense ouvre et referme mon livre...
- Paul Valéry

the blood

yr rust ling chee k
pail      for  mica      ton  sure
the su gar es capade ,cor
  nered as h yr shirt’s
binding where yr r ecto f
ades and the vers o’s
in’s la go di suelto

teeth barking in yr shoe

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

los huevos divorciados

tanto libro dengue nigre
niger igner inger ¿cómo
ocultar la túnica roja el
tiempo ni espacio espinacas
de moscas ,gemir de esp
adas?  falange y   £
bóñiga manchas negras de
larva-máscara reflejo del
cerebro histerionocturno la
pirámide del libro ,loteria y
aviones hidrófobos  .una mas
a de metal humeante salsa
roja y el césped de líquidos
verdes ,mierda y cata
rata ta ,máquinas de plaga...

...y refritos de ceniza...

Un hack de un cutup de
Antonio Bonome y poemas de
Juan Eduardo Cirlot, de su libro
Del no mundo, 2008


the cheese

your chewing your drowning your
apt to when the ,fantods wh
eeling in yr closet cl utter
spake of ,nods yr doubt
ink ,wham an wham a wh
ile yr clouding yr clowning yr
flomax crawling on the floor
.issue ,and so spitty oh ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

...el viento juega con espadas...
- Juana de Ibarbourou

el agujero

bestia l obotomía ,lo que
no me ,queda la nada ni
veladora ,espe rancia
,lubprecación de los goznes
de mi abrebrazo te pu
se la mhano ,infieltro
in hiesto invertebratido y
...el mentón del calzado
ví... donde tú ,el rin
coñón de mis meadas in
fértiles ,me recibes to
davía ,sin sesos sin b
razos sin gorra para
cubrirte el hueco temporal

Los rostros que convergen en el rostro...
- Juan Eduardo Cirlot

the plate

sieze short eye the itcher  
one the oth er got’s itchy  
itchy hill with googlyeyes    
lumpy masks your deepest 
head your itching hind most 
must claw yr nails   
or itchy th    
igh or back you’re blind 
to ,itchy mirror jerks be 
fore yr face the itchy s not’s 
spp atttered down yr chest   

...pas sur le pavé boueux...
- Paul-Jean Toulet

the singer

pl unge a he ad th h ill sor’
t c lose em heead num’
b nort h h anker ed c hew I’
I “H”ed an uh th s âme’s’
ste aam  .logg ccorse ,en’
rivver ,w ear the ststingking L
ache’s filling slo w ith ssocks’
s wit h air  .’mind’

...down the slope a tooth washes...

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

the sill

m ate red action’s h
ot wall et les «fatals
ciseaux» in my pock
et opened ,a coin ,like
my mouthed stone green
cools my leg ,so my lucre’s
other’s ,and free of my change

...Je mourus...Sans laisser de cadavre.
- Paul-Jean Toulet

the bucket

cet pied ,your setting
chair deglutante a
glove ,defocused ,foco
de piedra ,where yr
shivering thumb ,rai
sed to the ear ,re
fought the war ,lutte
inmiscible ,of yr cor
nered sleeve ,em
belesada ,sin brazo
ya ,scrawls the word
,de l’air fungible ,que
cobra forma ,y al
zapato entra

...ce chemin de nuage...
-Paul-Jean Toulet

el dedo

ent er we ll ,o sot
ilesa ,for ma tunda
w ,hat yr s hack c lun
g sp ill ,or spell the
sh aper were yr t wat’s
ingasping  .ful minar ,el
f oco lazo ,in mantado
lag o sweatlip shave
for me incáustico ,the
fl uttering m out h ,mot
h m old ,twin of s
lathered mi roir or es
pejo pellejo ror rim ex
zematic ,chuff c huff
yr sorweaty sad dle g
lue  .mime the b reath
held clod ,o mimo en
el zócalo caído

...en la región más transparente...
- Alexander von Humboldt

the sill

spelled the fork hairs
twisty stone nostril ex
recision des écritures
hiératiques grunting
on the fallen wall tu m’écrases...
- Théophile Gautier