this period was different than the rest.

.

.
I am a child bearing hips and I have them too.
Nothing grew, so everything came out, primordial
goo of my D, the ends of my N, the stray A that
one day might live in another body or two.

.

.

upon headphones & vacant cushion

5 new poems.


Pop Song.

N'other round of chorus
like some kinda hook-weaving florist
3 minutes is the average
time for rocking
several verses, and our bed.





60s girl group.

cute n creepy. unmastered
electric fuzz, the same
wires that stand when I
stripe your skin with nails
coated in bargain-aisle red.





60s girldance.

handclaps assessed with
synchronized hip-sass.
A graze on the thigh, a
slap on the ass.





electronic jazz

crafted, it works, it
tells a story without
words, or few words, a
trick you'd learn if
you only had one-worded
language like me.





punk after punk

post-coitus prose
writers - one goes for
carnal, the other a
lotus. animal or
vegetable, screams the
audience.

i'm waiting for the day

patience ascended.
"you'll need it" she said
"to mend aheart asunder."

"mend" i said. "not him.
wounds aren't covered in
fatuation and months."

"you wish him to pine?
you leave him to dogs?
you will expose him to wind

and subject him to cold?"
"no patience i still need you
around. but for mending no

he knows to heal he helps
himself. to feel, i wish
us to be by ourselves."

"darling" she mused "you
are honest and sad. some
things aren't easy. why

add an obstacle?" "i am
serious" i said "when i
said, when i sent him."

i


am


the truth.

Flying Lotus - Cosmogramma (WARP195)

Usually this space is reserved for my silly things; however, the only thing > words is, for me, pop music.

Several record releases in my life have truly excited me. I love almost everything - really. Since I was 15 or so I've obsessed over obtaining every new album deemed worthwhile. And all of the worthwhile albums released before me, my existence. Whatever I enjoyed most typically ran analogous to my emotional state of being, whoever I was dating/trying to fuck, my location, more and more contextual data etc.

One begins to sense patterns after so much listening. Divorcing music from yourself, applying some tonal New-Critical lens and analyzing the sounds for themselves.

"There is nothing new under the sun." -Ecclesiastes 1:9

Accepting this as a personal aesthetic maxim, for music, for art, the only segway to originality is (counter-intuitively) bricolage. And not just mash-up-ed, mixed medium bullshit. Really weaving together existing product to create something completely unresembling its prototype. We are lucky to have computers and technology to lubricate this process. Nothing depresses me more than an unapologetically referential folk song released in 2010. Nothing.

Which is why Cosmogramma excites me. Because I don't know what it is, but I know what it could be. What parts of it could be. I want bitches grinding me to "Do the Astral Plane." I want MF Doom spitting rhymes over "Computer Face." I want "And the World Laughs with You" playing at coffeeshops and "Recoiled" to be Autechre's new single. But the thing isn't all disjointed; the cohesion suggests that, yeah, genre is becoming less indicative of physical content.



I wish instead of backlashing against the increasing reliance on internet/biochips/bleeps/beeps/emoticons people would just admit that efficiency in communication is as much of an artistic merit as anything else. A good expression of this is electronic music. The evolution of it is just astounding - the only audible medium really keeping up with the times.



I mean, Thom Yorke is on board. Come on. Radiohead has always succeeded in tapping the currents of the universal subconscious.



Keep workin it baby.

Album drops May 4th. Like cocaine though headphones.

Toiling the Earth is a Woman's Task

note: incorporation of archaic pronouns resultant of reading John Donne all week. That is it.


When lover's bested distance shutters blind eyes 'nother blink,
When two share one identity, two fuel or feud a link,
'twixt real and not, my lover's prose, my lover's nose,
delights at garden's brink,
where flowers fall to soil and fail to boil impassioned drink.

I love you lover, but what extent pretends communion's peace?
Hearts doth bear the weight they share with crippled past's deceased.
Ease my task, I pray thee ask what cost thy cost to me.
When cost is lost to vision
thy vision is released:

Deleted loves collapsed three-fold on swift-delivered lust,
A jealous thought consumes the plot of twice-devoted trust,
One mistress tends the lilies, one weeds the seeds she's sown,
Yet assign to me the duty,
of admiring what they've grown.

Holy Ghosts

I touched an a priori love with the
same invisible hand that directs lust,
breaks trust then waves them off.

Absence is:
-subtraction of sex.
-abstraction of the rest.
-like formulaic espresso pulls.
-breathing steel and straws, they blow.
-rootless trees and our gutless poetic slush.
-cigarette-splashes, the smell of dead matches.

A guardian specter.

Lectured in your technique, my body
resigns from pursuit and memories
imperceptible but residual reemerge as
impossible.

"absurdity on the city grid"*

(footnote to previous post)



i.e. the self-conscious perpetuation of non-commonsensical behaviors.
a scratch on the vinyl?
. . .
yet quite feasibly, the needle.





*not my phrase. perdoname, escritor original

“How Much Can One Fuck-Up Do For Another Fuck-Up?”

for A.V.

A solution to absolutes. A cherished
equation: one and one, two together.
retracing lines of standard-route
but how about –
two apart, three together.
Two’s a start, but three’s much better.

Or four, for means of further
precision? One me for one;
one me for two. Together we constitute
((((The Quasi-Group))))

Respective to x where x equals time
our figures increase from four to five.
Six for the split, seven with y,
the drunken jump from eight to nine.

Ten for each digit I wrap around his…
– wait.
Redundant to elate. I’m counting
so high; it started at one.

. . . . . . . . . .

the splits were rough, the sex was wrought.

and alone I am.
but alone I’m not.

The One

Selfhood
swells of pus
where it has splintered,
segmented,
consciousnesses.

one for work
one for play
one for him
one that may

seduce, or confuse.
He moves and I choose
the one that will.
push him.
away.