Le Kutz

Paris Epic; The Ending

2011-05-11T09:27:00.001+02:00

Paris:

I did not overstay my welcome.

I learned to say thank you

so thank you

all is procession

ebb, stung by flow

here's to the endgame, love, here's to (no longer mine)
paris

suis nue

sommes nus

finally naked in the face of

thank you

paris,
oh

/paris

le fil blanc

2011-05-09T14:50:00.002+02:00

Hello; there is a poetic voice more adept than mine; smarter and more reptile.

The naivete in mine and the lack of ulterior motive and the potential for these things to bring in pain. Poetic voice or voice poetic? I always seem to be skirting the edge of the right question while earnestly asking the wrong one, but I am getting closer. I am beginning to understand, I am beginning to shed this skin and accept that which I was confronted with.

The hardest thing is to believe; zenzero's voice over time and space, from the past but speaking to my present. The hardest thing is to believe, especially when All Is Wet. Dani man piano hand Dan my head's A ROTA sul serio and help me help myself come back to Assisi's 3 sided revelation.

As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

As if you could, Kate. All Was Wet and that was the living end. For this there is no word tender enough, no word violent enough.

In a world where nothing is ever enough - it never will be. I'm changing the question and the premise by letting go of 'enough' letting go of 'never' letting go of future tense used in the present tense situated. Temper the electricity within. Be well and be still. Remember the 3 corners and move so slowly as to seem without animation, so quiet so still and move most of all with relish. Purposeful movements to articulate what rolls from the soul outwards.

Be unafraid of catching anxiety as if it were a highly contagious and ever-lurking malady.

Give up the vice of fear.

Look inwards and consolidate, construct. And remember most of all;

this is what you came here for. this is the answer to the unicorn clap in the woods, the covert call for trees to answer back, your direct(if diluted) link with mother nature and the nature of things, the hours in pere lachaise spent speaking to souls and asking for love, guidance and courage, asking them to tell the universe you were waiting -

This is the answer.
This is the alchemy of a soul.
This is when it gets the hardest
This is when the sea of a man is taken by the worst tempest
This is rougher waters yet
This is what you asked for

Be still.

So that you might learn how to say Thank You.

2011-05-08T10:01:00.002+02:00

chirp chirp cherubs

jubilee! frolic

phantasm girl-gods

english with round lusty

vowels

living lushly

loving lightly

chirp

cherubic

fragments

2011-03-28T13:40:00.000+02:00

If bending, gathering
a pausing outwardly
shy flower

a season pouncing
so listen, awaken expectantly
soil
is speaking

II.

life had not wings
but hands
as violent as ours
and clumsier,
like a child,
swinging.

III.

i love the night
i love the quietness of you asleep next to me
i love the 3am parabolic silence
that leaves you with vertigo
for a day afterwards
i love the night
i love

this night, this you

endroit fashion week

2011-03-07T13:41:00.000+01:00

les gens rougeoyer;
l'astre du jour qui blanchant, suspendait le plus foncees
et le heure meridian le future a 12 heures apres
avec le soileil de minuit
et tous la tape-a-l'oeil
faire les autels
les
paroissiens, parisiens
l'astre du jour, d'endroit;
les niveaux tendanciel

2011-03-03T14:34:00.000+01:00

weather friends, sky confidant for confessor brings me 

sun to crank the wall down on, spring to hint at renewal and other 

soon to come bright tokens soon

 brings me quick strange night hailstorms

opens the other up to wakefulness 

the other

and his reality regulations so now my physical body has stopped behaving and it's all sorts of closed up

protection maneuver and full of tangles aches others
weather friend pins up la lune but the moon cycles regular as ever even as I 

do not

2011-01-23T13:52:00.002+01:00

Tropic clouds, nature as a stage and here is your show;

the stage was 100 miles wide

the stage was water the stage was a water earth horizon tessellation

oh yes, oh yes and when the lights go out

mountains, painted, as if by free and easy strokes,

a stormcloud with the inclination to let in godrays

skies with the intention to rain

a story

of woman of water and their wiles

rebonjour to rebirth,

grasslands below an organ gathering breath in and out and up to

the soil who is in a chivalrous moon, thinking of

woman of water and a rebonjour to rebirth

every stone a generous use of space, these rockeries

a masterpiece, you are

hanging precipice

and the emancipated peaks of evergreen

voluptuous

the stage was 100 miles wide, and it wasn't yet enough

not for this high minded season

Be tender, now, curtail normal patterned brocade

sky playing water and singing the wind

this is lie-down traveling so

let's lie down

Be tender, now, and watch,

this kingdom of dirt

minor flowers behind the kingpin bloom-erangs

the stage was 100 miles wide;

these are the immediacies

of your recalled tomorrows.

work: LAURENCEAIRLINE 2011 COLLECTION

2011-01-23T12:40:00.001+01:00

2010-12-01T11:27:00.000+01:00

L'idée que l'on peut se faire en secret de la poésie ne limite pas forcément celle-ci. Mais comme les rêves inavouables elle risque de causer des troubles de mémoire et d'empêcher la formation régulière d'un monde supérieur à celui où l'oubli est utile à la conservation prudente de l'individu.

Il faut effacer le reflet de la personnalité pour que l'inspiration bondisse à tout jamais du miroir. Laissez les influences jouer librement, inventez ce qui a déjà été inventé, ce qui est hors de doute, ce qui est incroyable, donnez à la spontanéité sa valeur pure. Soyez celui à qui l'on parle et qui est entendu. Une seule vision, variée à l'infini.

Le poète est celui qui inspire bien plus que celui qui est inspiré.

Paul Éluard, (Ralentir travaux, 1930)

2010-11-29T10:57:00.001+01:00

Yes, I know this itinerary by heart;
(and heart alone)
your water-color eyes, up to down to up again, yes
I know this itinerary by heart

every arch I trace with the hollow of my hand,
you're blossoming forth
blossoming forth
fervid, feverish,
I trace your every agony
back to its skin source

You, feverish, me, gushing, fervidly and

In a dream I stream-line you into open air life,
I burst at your lip to follow the buildup build-down of angles to
the sacred upswing down-swing of your tailbone,

Yes, I know this itinerary by heart;
(this itinerary, dear heart)

2010-11-24T12:40:00.000+01:00

You can walk by such a place, where the stretched tissue of a field is humid,

thrumming with beloved matter

flora, fauna, fleshy nature, apple tree leaf carrion

Remember, then?

How the sap wept golden?

citrus setting

sun

The soothsayers have withdrawn for

Winter is what autumn knew would happen.

You feel no ghost here, only a soporific chorus, chanting:

let us have peace.

the shattered head answers back:

and I believed I was loved, (I believed I loved)

A wild patience has taken me this far --

the length of daylight,

This Far North, wild wild beyond-ism

La vita e Bella // Life is Beautiful

2010-10-15T00:26:00.003+02:00

2010-10-13T19:52:00.001+02:00

I could rationalize us all to a kind of death. If I wanted to. I could, but then I'd be dead too. Not ready yet, not yet.

We see what we can. Then we do with it what we imagine we must. But in all reality and any reality worth speaking of, we simply continuing doing what we CAN and we never get beyond that hump.

Yeah, that one.

Once upon a time, once upon this time I watched this breath dwindle until it became unnoticeable amongst the other aspirations, let's, let's, let us. Forgive me of any and all sophistry because I don't want to mince words any more, I want to speak plainly.

We see what we can, and we do what we imagine we must.

It is the time of the year when night comes to us quicker.

By 8pm we are there.

Once upon a time, once upon this time, we saw what we could, and did what we imagined we must.

It is the time of the year when night comes to us quicker.

By 8pm, we are there.

after taking the time to cool off, let's discuss this like adults, whit

2010-09-23T16:45:00.002+02:00

in the down-greying of a 1 something 2 something am something paris sort of city night, bones tired and bent, deflated.
I saw LEAVES and I saw GRASS, but darlin’ I saw no LEAVES OF GRASS.

I saw leaves. Brown, chez moi chez the natal soil of this blood flooshup organic system human woman-girl trying to get a real, a really real answer from dead pages and a dead man

BROWN, looked like they would make that almost appetite savory sort of CRUNCH that leaves who are, brown and crimpled, simply supposed to make A sound, specifically a that sort of former sort of a sound

but the leaf squished in .5 seconds, and unceremoniously with an imagine SSSCHLOOOP future sucking noise, popped back into place. a leaf form. a perversity, a
LEAF FRAUD
YES yes let me tell you WHIT. There are no leaves of grass here. Maybe they were and the paris handful-ers got em or the scene box of a gallery’s fluorescent glow shriveled them all of but they are all
IMPOSTERS.

let me tell you whit...
man to man.

sittin pretty and and that distance, Whit, WHIT.
THAT DISTANCE...

from THAT distance, which was 4 times hit by bullet blood dawn dam horrors
ooze, and spreads and agonies are cried towards whichever is closest, above or below
agony which lived and fed and
was backed by the pulsing, beating, quaking vein of your HOMME, LIVING, HOMME, HOMME, DYING,

YOU, WHIT, YES YOU THE MAN SOUL AND YOUR PEERS THOSE WHO BREATHED YOU AS YOU MOLECULED TO THEM BACK IN 0 two yes oxygen same time alive)

as a creature who could INCUR these four time bullets,
and these bullets they OPENED YOU UP.
WITHOUT SUCKING IT ALL BACK, RELEASE AS A CANNIBALISTIC THING!,
bringing YOU back WHIT to where it crawled out of\
sucking all of it back like SCHLOOOP a leaf SOUND NON LEAF see?

These 4 bullet morality wakeups were truly at least somewhere nearest nearwest of HEROIC. horrible, heroic, the man as the enemy and the man in double jeu HIMSELF
age old centuries won HEROIC EXPECTATIONS FOR BLOODSHEDS 
21st century?

21.21.21.21.21.21.

21 apathetic and half assed prone to itching sting BINGS, STINGS,
that give us no awe and no distance

no shut up
or shut eye 
because our war, whit’s war, well isn’t as democratic anymore in its casualties

BUT MAN TO MAN, put on your hat take a pipe, cigarette, smoke as you want
tell me about that indian squaw your mother saw
did she make an impression on you,
did you leak
your dreams
did you leap
and make it
was she
leaking
did you make it

nod one, twice, three times i fling you out my window only because i trusted you most.

regardless,

there is a slow emerging theme;
one I console,
until
It is
always strange, always home
paradise we are, to paradise returning

regardless,

I AM PILGRIM and I AM I AM I AM

2010-09-21T23:24:00.000+02:00

2010-09-21T22:48:00.001+02:00

(this ain't no chess game and you ain't got no right)

well we all want a little bit of something or other
and the ability to make a laugh sound like a laugh
you're gonna say- don't smile! child, I knows yas
gonna say bridges are bridges
but when they don't cooperate
gonna say walls are walls!

(this ain't no chess game and you ain't got no right)

rattlesnake territory: II

2010-09-21T17:05:00.000+02:00

The basin of an afternoon, the last double digit of a minute before single before two.

The problem with two idealists being together is that we are perpetually set up to be disappointed.

We continually set the table for resentment. Resentment. And a constant dinner guest it remains,

always lingering under anything and everything, lo fi hi fi, micro and mega.

WAR;THOSE WHO BREATHED YOU AS YOU MOLECULED TO THEM BACK INTO 0 two yes ZERO two oxygen back into yet the

same time alive)

resentful gift gottens of any kind of war because we are AUTUMN ALIVE, and Septemberly SHIT at scholarship

there was even, in this healthy vert 3-4 paris handfuls of grain impostors peeping out between neighbors, give em the ol 5-7 between the thighs between bureau et that femme,
got a soul like a dawn l’aube that wants to open
the sullen break-in dawn, feeling the distances between their:mine vernacular.
It’s not the time to think of Agnes, or other ghosts,
and the exhaustion of too many days so thin, a weaving dialogue halfway to a song
This could have been my town.
she's
writing this could have been my town
she's

writing this city home

2010-09-11T23:41:00.001+02:00

Wanderlust

2010-09-05T13:17:00.003+02:00

PILGRIM

2010-09-04T08:04:00.000+02:00

I am the Golden Man.

though cunts fill for multiple reasons,
the women have no soul.
on the third-take or on the triple-thought,
just another wave of hookers selling themselves out to the previous generation.

Decay;
What im talking about goes further than busting a nut in a 7-11 bathroom, or behind a southside chicago bar
This is no answer, but what it is I am not one to say.

The product of today, become the consumers of tomorrow, all in the name of due process and democracy.
(such a whorish town.)

though cunts fill for multiple reasons,
Theodore Roosevelt did not have this kind of masturbation in mind when he would wrestle live bears in the Oval Office,
Carter doesnt travel to north korea because the switch is sweet.
by the third-take, Decay.

I am the Golden Man.
but Pilgrim, Pilgrim?
that doesn't exist here.

I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am AM I AM I AM I I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I

deron's, The original Golden Man

Thailand ( Give Me Mobility or Give Me Death)

2010-08-19T06:15:00.000+02:00

almost there

2010-07-15T06:26:00.000+02:00

Vol Farouche // Untamed Flight

2010-07-08T17:25:00.006+02:00

Contez, parmi de l’heure, quelque august
le fleur nue qui se devoile comme si c’est  perdus aux paradis 
Je vais nu, disons, j’ai fleuri  
THE WELLSPRING, SPRUNG.  
Fûmes Deux.
cet baiser d’ete jonche...

fûmes deux,
regonflons avec le avant-gout si vif, vif, vif
le frisson finale 
et
pli selon pli
je deviens decroche;
en plein suspension deja

Fûmes Deux.
muet, muet
fûmes deux.

deja mûr
si
deja mûr

un seul éclat de rire
fûmes deux

Deux,
qui c'est plus près de
SEUL

Proclaim, within an hour, esoteric things,
the naked flower that undresses itself as if lost in a paradise

I go nakedly, let us say, I have bloomed
THE WELLSPRING, SPRUNG.
We were two.
the kiss of a scattered summer...

we were two...
swelling with the first-taste
so bright, bright, bright
final throes
and
fold by fold,
I become unhooked
Full Suspension Now.

We were two.
quietly, mute
we were two

already ripe
so
already ripe

a singular burst of laughter
we were two

Two,
which is the closest to
SEUL

a roar into "everyplace and noplace"

2010-06-22T10:10:00.000+02:00

i am 'the woman', i am she, she is I. Leading character 1.
you are, ' the man', you are him, he is you. Character 2.

misè-en-scene: the same as always 4 walled white and a perversity
the woman, waiting
woman:man, when the woman is suddenly not beautiful to him, when
tongue in cheek-ing is more than the norm and
the woman in the man chase for that attention
chasing, always chasing, " THE WOMAN"
in some sort of infantile refusal to shred the shit as "THE MAN"
does, between breaths, butchered antagonism
because THE WOMAN tried to make THE MAN
'Home"
And it Doesn't Work That Way Around Here, Lady.

a bruised ego is easier to deal with than a bruised soul, so let's go, let's go and
misè-en-scene: the same as always 4 walled white and a perversitythe woman,
THE WOMAN
steps away from THE MAN
THE DROOLING UNTHINKING MAN, SO AS TO AVOID THE POTENTIAL CONTACT WITH
animal TEETH
taking away the hand that
tried? she is,
THE WOMAN,
FIN to FIN again, with another cast
A new Movie with new Scenery
And which doesn't impel the leading lady to projectile vomit
FIN to FIN AGAIN
WOMAN:MAN

CHRIS BENZ RESORT '11

2010-06-21T07:50:00.000+02:00

My favorite, because it is a wonderful, hilarious, whimsical (and since my grandmother passed last week, tragic) ode to her era femininity. There's something seminally 30s-60s about the collection; seminal in its interpretation but seminal as in playing on those same shapes and colors and codes of feminine that came out loud and clear in the age of domestic wealth, domestically, one salary- age of woman woman the creature being

It's a collection that makes me smile, and makes me imagine my grandmother, a generation past of LADY. There's Florida weekends, debutante soirees with the sorority, there's going steady and there's military boys coming up to come down from the florida base to the hometown near you. when there was such a thing as 'introducing' a woman as a woman into her cultural womb, to be recieved

where belles were at their balls and there were such things as grand entrances and exits

I will always remember you strawberry blonde and beautiful and very very tempestuous. Grandma, for your crazy, for my crazy therefore, for your selfishness and naivete which gave way when it mattered to bedrock strength. a struggle, for you, always, because you were brought up to believe in shiny, beautiful things. I hope you arrived in whatever catholic heaven you wished for, divorced and all, to hell with them (in a handbasket) where your body didn't betray itself and you didn't betray all that you sought to preserve. I love you, i love you, i heard you, and you can stop feeling guilty now.

call to arms

2010-06-20T23:38:00.003+02:00

It is a secret which every intellectual man quickly learns, that, beyond the energy of his possessed and conscious intellect, he is capable of a new energy (as of an intellect doubled on itself), by abandonment to the nature of things; that, beside his privacy of power as an individual man, there is a great public power, on which he can draw, by unlocking, at all risks, his human doors, and suffering the ethereal tides to roll and circulate through him: then he is caught up into the life of the Universe, his speech is thunder, his thought is law, and his words are universally intelligible as the plants and animals. The poet knows that he speaks adequately, then, only when he speaks somewhat wildly, or, "with the flower of the mind;" not with the intellect, used as an organ, but with the intellect released from all service, and suffered to take its direction from its celestial life; or, as the ancients were wont to express themselves, not with intellect alone, but with the intellect inebriated by nectar.

Art is the path of the creator to his work. The paths, or methods, are ideal and eternal, though few men ever see them, not the artist himself for years, or for a lifetime, unless he come into the conditions. The painter, the sculptor, the composer, the epic rhapsodist, the orator, all partake one desire, namely, to express themselves symmetrically and abundantly, not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They found or put themselves in certain conditions, as, the painter and sculptor before some impressive human figures; the orator, into the assembly of the people; and the others, in such scenes as each has found exciting to his intellect; and each presently feels the new desire. He hears a voice, he sees a beckoning. Then he is apprised, with wonder, what herds of daemons hem him in. He can no more rest; he says, with the old painter, "By God, it is in me, and must go forth of me."

2010-06-17T21:56:00.000+02:00

sometimes i wish you heard my unvoix voix without me saying it
and just did something newly impulsive
like come home and draw me a napkin picture

sometimes, i still want to be first as in a primieval primal premier feeling
oh gotta get there
and instead, i am left to my old dreams which are now overworn to fall apart
in the hands, or 4 walled white hells,

and sometimes i wonder if expectations kill it all

and that doesn't sound right, i wish instead.

I AM HERE I AM ME I AM NOT INTERESTING TO YOU
crackle

candle out
and there was something interesting in the WHY of it

i am alone, in lone animate
and i am sick of ringing phones and ALWAYS BEING THE WAITING ONE THE ONE WAITING

i gotta pull so hard from your source I rip,

leI guess.

no more one way convos

i cant want that ibn a way which doesn't want me

VOID OF THE VOIX POST VIVANTE

2010-06-16T16:23:00.000+02:00

ERUPT

2010-06-16T11:21:00.000+02:00

Anticipation; An Aubade

2010-05-21T06:46:00.002+02:00

Anticipation; An Aubade

I.

My early joy lying complementary to me;
THE JOURNEYMAN, and These Epic Walkabouts.

and the day-anew, taintless, with its brindled sunshine,
and shadow striations covetous of the liminal objects which shift change
its fundamentals,
Playacting, this something so alive newly and so newly alive!

These Early Joys,
This Sunlight Parquetry
Marvels of the foot-fall variety, a foot upon pavement, tile, foot on and in
a pine needle bed unmade;
branch-twig-litter-leaf Magnificence, in Mashup
appreciating the sonorities of nature’s collision casualties
gently absurd, and baldly unashamed

Nature Impulsive
whose coquetry blossoms as a perennial flirtation,
author of the ceaseless, fervid, resplendently redundant,
billet-doux
shapeless, eyeless, readerless; receiving end impertinent,
relevance,
rushed into flame then!
Floosh,
Extinguished.

II.

Protean Walkabouts; Paris, Year Unimportant.

The bravura of this city proper,
properly robs me of my morning obsessionals,
canceled out by dawn’s sun-spotlight, lit, naked, exposed, de-robed
by
The Full Flush of A Morning

These early joys, and the city in an aubadinal deshabille
Incarnadine, the atmospheric rechauffage
rose rosy rosier by
bursting, buoyant degrees
until the first, coy Day Peep!

Emerging from the dark, a night heavy
and smug with sensuous love, sagging, pregnant, engorged
reckless; vainglorious, and
bargaining for a delay of dawn’s delicious UP and OUT surging.
and yes, my early joy, these immeasurable microcosms,
DAY PEEP galaxies, alive conceived birthed within
and living then, BEGUN, during
the pause between seconds and half-third-fourth-second partials
those erstwhile halcyon whispers,
those early joys,
those thrumming, humming rumors

Always a Surprise,
down wind
night’s wind-ing down, downwind,
and Nature as the Emancipator: ~~WAKE UP!~~
a libation, the sudden, burbling, violent arrival of SUN upon MOON,
cycle heavy, the true
Wilderness of the moondeath sunbirth now front (&) center
sauntering minute
luminations, ruminations,
claque one, three,
organic machinations...

rip, roar, Rise;
ripped, rises to roar,
and in a roar,
ripped,

A roar, RIPPED
so that it may

Rise!.....

...

.
.

[dawn].

III.

My early joy, being sole confidante to the caress of the first spotlight of a [dawn],
the reveal, the unveiling of man and Journeyman’s alike
Collective FIRST NATURE.
Pre-evasion diversions, neatly and evenly packaged
as detours, the come-off-come-quick- Let Down.
All of it,
saccharine, cloying, candied and forever afraid of loose lipped liabilities,
full-toned timid, yes forever shy from the nature’s caprice,
of BRIGHT LIGHT retina burnt verity

Here, No, we are not, not yet;
Yes Here, straddling the day’s vital animal eruption
we are quite far from asking a day to
to freely admit its error of including a day’s inevitable sulfur over-under-tones.
No, Here, here is only: to Begin, what is and what will always be
irreverently already Begun.
And we aren’t yet convinced of ourselves, haven’t remembered our SELVES and therefore despite ourself we remember.
Here, Then, and only in these early dawn joys
do we let go,
deshabille, every one of us,
a day blitz pilgrim,
every one of us
every..

[dawn]

V.

In my early joy, I hallucinate you here
whilst pining for various something else-s,
during this natal dawn’s requisite ease off,
a mid-hour turnaround,

How fine! How rare,
these early morning joys, an aubade avalanche,
soft yet persistent,

how Fine, yes, how Rare

my early joy and

THESE INWARD MORNINGS

IV.

Nature Impulsive,
My Early Joy
Awaiting
Anticipating
the
[dawn]

Linguistical, Lugubre

2010-05-20T22:55:00.002+02:00

I wonder if I am in a unique position to notice the variances and metamorphosis the english language has been subject to in the past 50 years, being an etrangere abroad, an expat never quite pre-patriate to begin with. Perhaps even my sad lack of talent in linguistical adaptation has lent me a window into the language of global english that my more adaptive peers have missed. The effects of dissemination, adaptation, of english having to adapt from any native definition of a language in itself, geographically bound and held to dialectic standards...what sort of english is coming across the lines, virally, over telephone wires, in the corner cafe...

There is some phenomenon completely unique to the language that gives me pause when I think of english, "The Language". I came to Europe for people to tell me how irrelevant I was with my heritage and language, and was promptly kicked in the ass by the absolute magnitude of anglo saxon culture as the GLOBAL trans atlantic, pacific, ocean to ocean to country border alike, relevance of english as a median.

Here, it doesn't matter that I speak with eloquence and delicacy, because english has been swallowed and regurgitated to the point where nuance is either irrelevant or unidentifiable. Perhaps equal parts both. And the state of the native english on its respective, natal soils?...I am now T-2 years uncomprehending. But the linguistic implications for the language strike me as hugely important.... If anything, the time in between has given me the opportunity to revisit paperback teachers with an almost vacuum-state which lends itself solely, conditionally, to some sort of philosophical prime for mental arrivals. To be irrelevant is to be FREE, suddenly, horribly, grotesquely, impossibly, wonderfully, woefully FREE...

and what to do with said freedom?

As a sponge, mid soak, as always. Remain, regenerate, renew.

I do wish there was some study relating to global english in a psych-linguistic context, however. But I dare to bet that these studies will only come much later and much too late after the fact to have any in house relevance to reality as is or will be during the 10 years to follow.

They say cyber space is the the place to create a community; a touchstone for like minds. But I sit back, looking, waiting, as always. Time and place dependent, still hoping for that electric shock to open the mental pores of another mind, that surpasses the normal 21st century questions of dependency or responsibility and draws from that eternal feeling of necessary communion. The base need to be revelations unto themselves, to have collaboration and not acknowledgment, to have heard the clarion call for that exultant existent OTHER..

It might be a major percentage in naiveté, in absolutist youth. But that minor percentage, the latitude and agonizing depth of it, well...can't say I fathom that disappearing in some cloud of smoke resulting from a maturity BOOM either.

So we remain;

A Sponge, MID Soak

Paperback Lessons, Redux

2010-05-20T21:58:00.006+02:00

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a  concern for one's own safety in the face of dangers that were real and  immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be  grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no  longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy  to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane, he had  to fly them. If he flew them, he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he  didn't want to, he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply  by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a  respectful whistle.

"That's some catch, that Catch-22," he observed.

"It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka agreed.

oh dear god, whitman, dear god yes!

2010-05-11T11:17:00.000+02:00

the lesson the day gave unto me; Whitman

2010-05-10T21:04:00.000+02:00

I say the profoundest service that poems or any other writings can do for their reader is not merely to satisfy the intellect, or supply something polish'd and interesting, nor even to depict great passions, or persons or events, but to fill him with vigorous and clean manliness, religiousness, and give him good heart as a radical possession and habit. Walt Whitman O Me! O Life!
Walt Whitman

O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish; Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d; Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me; Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined; The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists, and identity; That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

suddenly it was word time once again (monomaniac) redux

2010-05-07T07:34:00.002+02:00

Figs

by D.H.  Lawrence

The proper way to eat a fig, in society,

Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,

And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.

Then you throw away the skin

Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,

After you have taken off the blossom, with your lips.

But the vulgar way

Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.

Every fruit has its secret.

The fig is a very secretive fruit.

As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic :

And it seems male.

But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female.

The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part ; the fig-fruit :

The fissure, the yoni,

The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre.

Involved,

Inturned,

The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled ;

And but one orifice.

The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom.

Symbols.

There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward ;

Now there is a fruit like a ripe womb.

It was always a secret.

That’s how it should be, the female should always be secret.

There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a bough

Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals ;

Silver-pink peach, venetian green glass of medlars and sorb-apples,

Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems

Openly pledging heaven :

Here’s to the thorn in flower ! Here is to Utterance !

The brave, adventurous rosaceæ.

Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,

And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,

Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won’t taste it ;

Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,

Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,

One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light ;

Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,

Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,

Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilization, and fruiting

In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see

Till it’s finished, and you’re over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.

Till the drop of ripeness exudes,

And the year is over.

And then the fig has kept her secret long enough.

So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet.

And the fig is finished, the year is over.

That’s how the fig dies, showing her crimson through the purple slit

Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day.

Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her secret.

That’s how women die too.

The year is fallen over-ripe,

The year of our women.

The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.

The secret is laid bare.

And rottenness soon sets in.

The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.

When Eve once knew in her mind that she was naked

She quickly sewed fig-leaves, and sewed the same for the man.

She’d been naked all her days before,

But till then, till that apple of knowledge, she hadn’t had the fact on her mind.

She got the fact on her mind, and quickly sewed fig-leaves.

And women have been sewing ever since.

But now they stitch to adorn the bursten fig, not to cover it.

They have their nakedness more than ever on their mind,

And they won’t let us forget it.

Now, the secret

Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips

That laugh at the Lord’s indignation.

What then, good Lord ! cry the women.

We have kept our secret long enough.

We are a ripe fig.

Let us burst into affirmation.

They forget, ripe figs won’t keep.

Ripe figs won’t keep.

Honey-white figs of the north, black figs with scarlet inside, of the south.

Ripe figs won’t keep, won’t keep in any clime.

What then, when women the world over have all bursten into affirmation ?

And bursten figs won’t keep ?

hipstamtic APRIL

2010-05-02T16:09:00.000+02:00

these square germanic boxes....

2010-04-22T00:00:00.001+02:00

Let us diverge, let us diversify. If this is a test, I am failing, if only because I refuse you and by refusing YOU I refuse this game. I refuse your criteria, I refuse your opening premise. I refuse. And I am absolutely done, can you not see that? I am so done with this sssssshit. Piles, mounds. I ask the basic from you and if you, in your petit petit bourgeoisieis somehow allowing you to feel valid in that base you are so HORRIBLY wrong it is obscene, so obscene it is funny. And we laugh, I laugh, into nightmares where I wake up with eyes a-leaking and everything and anything left unsaid. I hate the fact I spend this time processing you, while for you, you escape. I envy you; I am a spent escape artist. I pity you; as much as you have to offer mentally, you resolutely lack the ability to consider anything other than your own reality. There is no fancy figurative here. I am talking about the thoughts (and non thoughts) you have while shitting; I am speaking to the face that looks back at you after you get that second sleeve in and prepare to face the day. The one who has an entirely different (from reality, from executed actions or said words) from the interior monologue going on in your, within your, grey matter. If I had to make an educated guess, I would hazard for an over developed frontal cortex and an underdeveloped amygdala, corpus collosum.

Point being; I give you so much thought and I am simply the fact you come home to ( oh! you say, but the fact I come home to! It is everything! It is what I chooooose). I take up 3 percent of the space you give to me. It hurts to admit in my own idea of OUR DRAMA, no quotes and capitalized like that, you are a leading role vying for the sidekick. As you said, half asleep during my somnolescent outburst, isn't it funny, I was already thinking of something else? If only. If only I COULD, me, rip from you, tear away cutaneous relations and fall. I chose wrong. This is all wrong. Instead of steeling yourself through some time to LISTEN when you will be annoyed and comforting me, you shrug me off, un chemin d'amerique. Help, fuck it, HELP ME help myself see the verities, the truths of this. I am beginning to feel as though I am seeing clearly but do not like what I see ( perpetual soap opera script writer, you think? no, more more than that you know it, at HAUTE BASSE) and so I am still STILL rationalizing. Drunk but rationalizing. Fuck me in the ass, can I ever be ANTI cerebral?

I am in fragments, and I am not ready for fate to arrive with the glue. SANCTUARY sanctuary o' peptide bonds which corner me in. Poutain, pute; stuck stuck STUCK, ready willing and (therefore STUCK! if you get me).

Juggling. Food for thought from all corners of the pyramid. But the meat of it, the protein residences, are in

FIGHT OR FLIGHT

or, RUN

FUCKING HELL, RUN

Paris Epic Poem

2010-04-18T20:37:00.000+02:00

 Sometimes a sentence can be understood only if it is read at the  right tempo. (Wittgenstein, 1980, p.57)

V

spending  most of our time seeing to be seen;
(scene)

seen to be scene-ing
see?
but are we audacious?
are we
with  our naked eyes, lewd
filthy naked  
are we
we are
 
terrasse-ing for the sake of terrasse-ing  
is not terrasse-ing
at all
(they could talk, then  agree with themselves.) 
stuck in dainty glooms
priez
crisp
may  we be,
maybe we 

may we
be  

visually arresting, 
and may we be guilty,
and susceptible to contagions
 
(hey-uh,  if she came into the room every man's prick would hit the ceiling)
 
melange  it up
pitter patter pitter POP
burn it burn it burn it HOT
  quel ancestral phobia is this?
  spending most of our time
as 
are  we
may we
affect the effect of ____

and a very limited mot-palette we have, 
have we 

we, we have,
so we,
we, we, 
we
wee!

the new  idealists manifesto: things are looking up

the stopwatch  in the spotlight; tick tick STOP 

(not even a demoted ally in this city can't
find a complement or  at least a witness
at least a witness
not trilling 

and  I'm somewhat ambiguous)

and this thrashing this pushing paris i'm so tired now
bear  witness, you 
yes, you- at least bear that

can I say something true here? true
too
say it

BUT

there is  something about the way people articulate themselves on parisian streets  
that floods out reality.  that supersedes the usual  walkway current: 
not just people going, or coming, arriving or  departing,
 but people expectant of a significant and valuable interruption. 

Legs  scissor and feet point and angle themselves as if perpetually perched  over one inch of sky. 
Floating, flow.
 Everyone nurses a  break-out plan.  

  it's just

I want collaboration


I want to be a witness to  composition, COMPOSITION


the
1
2
3's
of it

perpetually  ex post facto

and blowing out the words, smiles  which bloom

into the riotous lights of Paris!; It's A Kind Of Death.

I was not born a paris-darling.

" 'Good things are being said and publishers' hopes are high,'  he wrote Albert Murray in February, two months before publication, '  but I'm playing it cool with my stomach pitching a bitch and my dream  life most embarrassing.' "
intro, Invisible Man

 
Author! Author!
I am a sponge,  mid-soak.
offended by sad-jeaned whores.
Introduce yourself:

self-consciousness: a gait bow-legged enough to be mistaken for  walking in a constant stream of apologetic curtsies

I LIKE IT HERE 

a morning,  magnetic. a call-and-response.
and  the whole morning was blown! wide! open!

FLEUROTICISM:

erotica, from the stamen onwards, virtuosos of petalruption

(ylang! ylang, POP!)

be  still now, we're almost done.
here is a moment of silence in  between, a sort of palette cleanser for the non-food digestibles of a  day

LIVING: IT'S A DYING ART

how to:  optimistic urbanity, or, the OPTIC POP!

sadly, my  skin's got a shitty cost-per-wear complex, so trompe l'oeil everyone,  trompe the l-o-e-i-l

Main Entry:  creation
Part of Speech:   noun
Definition:  all living things
Synonyms:  cosmos,  life, living  world, macrocosm,  macrocosmos, megacosm, nature, totality,  universe, world
Antonyms: death

How do I begin?  Probably not like that, but there it is and well, here we are, begun.  I'm stuck on a loop, cyberspace comrades, I'm stuck on a strange, faded  technicolor time loop where things keep cycling back at me in new  disguises. Clever ones, but I am cleverer. The Eagles Hotel California sung by the thai man on Ko Chang, everything's slightly off color and off note and it is perfect,  the couple next to me on the metro, the ups and downs of this sing song fran fucking cais. The steps along this route which  follow one another automaton style alternately weigh me down  like a bag of bricks. Clunk clunk pavement. Everything is simple.  Everything is complicated. Yes, no, right, wrong, it did, it didn't, it  will, it won't. I get this, I don't.
 

(some  consequences are quiet)
shh

(some  consequences are quiet and carnivorous)
sh

This just  poses a slew of questions, doesn't it? Uproots a whole closetful of  guilt about the crime of intellectual adaptation?

So here we  are sunday, we're intellectually adapting. bringing back some concepts  into life alive living. amplifying quiet consequences. 

YES YES 

SO VERY EPIC

 paris

/paris

Vais-je y arriver ?

2010-04-15T13:29:00.003+02:00

I am absolutely strangled by my fidelity to the concept of duality in all things. When I am frustrated, even furious, I can still somehow manage to glimpse the picture potentially obscured beneath the one I have occupying my field of vision, spiritual, psychological, actual. I am a slave to thinking dialectically. I never imagine I am always correct, in fact, I always put aside my feelings first and examine the others before I consider forming any definite functional emotion. It is difficult to articulate yourself when you are unable to decide on the reality of a reality. It makes for alot of strange, tautological warblings and a mind that doesn't like to put absolute pen to absolute paper. And I am feeling as if I am so busy swimming in possibilities that I forgot how to stay afloat. I am sure this is a necessary stage for the mind and intellect-- being wide open, despite the chaos it causes, and taking measure of variables of the barometer of life in order to arrive at your own soul barometer, one birthed from hard work and patience, one that stays for life. 

But at times I long for the certainty of self and being that I had two years ago, which sprung from the fertile earth of young adulthood where all of sudden, everything is blown wide open and there seems to be new growth, there seems to be an uncontrollable and limitless explosion of new life, new, new and so healthy. The problem being that I can see (how I wish I could forget sometimes) that this is certainty is borne not from standing the test of time, not from recovering from the various typees of spiritual and personal desecration, relearning, renewal, but of niavete. One hasn't been tested yet. 

But right now, I want to talk to the universe and ask, quietly, tiredly, " hasn't this been enough for now? Can you please, please, cut me some slack, cut me a break. I have opened my self to this void to learn and I have thrown myself into fire and I am now at your step, screaming sanctuary". Then I feel bad, because maybe I am giving in just before the evolution. See? Madness, maddening duality. I am too old to believe in certainty as I once did and too young to know how to handle living beautifully in uncertainty. And recently, I feel as if I am betraying myself. I feel as if for all my watching, my silence, my patience, I am violating part of my very self's iron and calcium forged rock bed foundation. That can't be right; I've felt disenfranchised, frustrated, helpless, reduced, but never as if I was betraying my self or my philosophies of life. 

As a result, I am taking the time today or tomorrow to have a very long, very honest talk with myself in Pere Lachaise. It will probably take 4 hours. I rarely have these heart to hearts with myself, but somewhere in my body my internal clock is set to alarm, and it's that time, whether or not I have the hours to spare or feel I have the energy to emerge as anything other than miraculously fixed. I've grown a thick skin, I can take arriving nowhere again. But what I will never take, never, is not being up for the journey.

cambodia/cambodge, (summer 09, été 2009)

2010-04-13T13:26:00.001+02:00

sunday office-ing

2010-04-11T18:47:00.001+02:00

2010-04-10T13:24:00.002+02:00

busy signal throbbing;

high sun hazy paris pass-ways

can take the liquid stain off a morning

terrasse-ing for the sake of terrasse-ing

is not terrasse-ing

at all

(they could talk, then agree with themselves.)

and the adjectives, they are all wrong

don't get me started on the verbs

skyward // vers le ciel

2010-04-08T18:40:00.002+02:00

in the world of the living,

wonderment organizing itself

(announced by)

its simple existence

flowering, womb-ward

beats its pulse, and this pulse beating

at the first suggestion of

the stirring of new seasons

---

dans le monde des vivants,

émerveillement qui se construit

(ou annoncé par)

son fait d'existence
floraison vers la matrice

bat son pouls, et cet pouls battant

à la première suggestion de

le bouillonnement de saisons nouvelles

springtime's manifesto

2010-04-08T13:01:00.004+02:00

Let's get loud, let's get playful.

Let's get in, out and around it and arrive at some other conclusion, yeah?

Let's be a poet.

Let us be as we are,

let us remember what it is to be so painfully interested in the

Art Of Being.

The art, and the being. Both simultaneously.

Let's for a moment forget what we are afraid of

and forget about having to arrive at conclusions at all.

Let us,

let's,

shall we?

oh,

YES!

2010-03-31T17:31:00.002+02:00

morning star

It is tomorrow now

In this black incredible grass.

The mountains with luminous discipline

Are coming out of the blackness

To take their places one in front of the other.

I know where you are and where the river is.

You are near enough to be a far horizon.

Your body breathing in a silver edge

Of a long black mountain and the morning star.

Before we cannot speak again

There will be time to use the morning star

For anything, like brushing it against

A pentstemon,

Or nearly closing the lashes of our lids

As children do to make the star come down.

Or I can say to myself as if I were

A wanderer being asked where he had been

Among the hills:

“There was a range of mountains

Once I loved until I could not breathe.”

Thomas Hornsby Ferril

The Feast of Life

2010-03-17T14:04:00.005+01:00

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Prose Works. 1892.

I. Specimen Days

116. The Sky—Days and Nights—Happiness

Oct. 20.—A CLEAR, crispy day—dry and breezy air, full of oxygen. Out of the sane, silent, beauteous miracles that envelope and fuse me—trees, water, grass, sunlight, and early frost—the one I am looking at most to-day is the sky. It has that delicate, transparent blue, peculiar to autumn, and the only clouds are little or larger white ones, giving their still and spiritual motion to the great concave. All through the earlier day (say from 7 to 11) it keeps a pure, yet vivid blue. But as noon approaches the color gets lighter, quite gray for two or three hours—then still paler for a spell, till sun-down—which last I watch dazzling through the interstices of a knoll of big trees—darts of fire and a gorgeous show of light-yellow, liver-color and red, with a vast silver glaze askant on the water—the transparent shadows, shafts, sparkle, and vivid colors beyond all the paintings ever made.	1
I don’t know what or how, but it seems to me mostly owing to these skies, (every now and then I think, while I have of course seen them every day of my life, I never really saw the skies before,) I have had this autumn some wondrously contented hours—may I not say perfectly happy ones? As I’ve read, Byron just before his death told a friend that he had known but three happy hours during his whole existence. Then there is the old German legend of the king’s bell, to the same point. While I was out there by the wood, that beautiful sunset through the trees, I thought of Byron’s and the bell story, and the notion started in me that I was having a happy hour. (Though perhaps my best moments I never jot down; when they come I cannot afford to break the charm by inditing memoranda. I just abandon myself to the mood, and let it float on, carrying me in its placid extasy.)	2
What is happiness, anyhow? Is this one of its hours, or the like of it?—so impalpable—a mere breath, an evanescent tinge? I am not sure—so let me give myself the benefit of the doubt.	3
Hast Thou, pellucid, in Thy azure depths, medicine for case like mine? (Ah, the physical shatter and troubled spirit of me the last three years.) And dost Thou subtly mystically now drip it through the air invisibly upon me?

my two best friends

2010-03-14T22:32:00.002+01:00

Henry Darger

2010-03-14T16:03:00.003+01:00

this morning, ''apartment still life"

2010-03-12T14:41:00.000+01:00

qu'elle dénouait, se dérouler

2010-03-10T16:13:00.003+01:00

what she undid, itself to unfold

Somehow, along the line, this fille grew into a girl who is unrecognizable to herself in the frozen still frames of a camera.

Forget mirror image, we can avert the eyes with pathetic practiced ease; but somewhere in the vomit of pixels lies solid (heavy) evidence.

And here all I can grasp are the surface textures which are both the sum and the riddle, everything, is, coming, undone! 

Downy hair on her cheek and she is made of netted skin, a confectionary's quick sharp hand among the most delicate of elements. 

Skin which threatens to dissolve into the given surroundings, any environment, oh yes, any mise en scène, atomizing, this basic blanket for being so ready to dissolve.

Everything's knit, everything's cold. This is a spring that is not for me, winter sits in bones, calcium cold.

The elements, all of them, are harsh, and she is solid and she's making sure to tie all the appropriate knots, but just barely. Just Barely. 

And my conclusion is never to give in, my manifesto doesn't include that clause, and so I do the only thing I can do in between this heavy existential freeze; wait for the calamity that follows coming completely undone, and try to relinquish my panicky sentimentality for being whole.

into the green

2010-03-09T19:39:00.007+01:00

Étretat

poems of privacy which are ripped from terra firma and put into
we must, cliff-side, make allowances for the dramatic
in the charged white
and amongst low anchored clouds
and the sea's quiet welter
a wave's organic agitation
if i have heart, then a mountain has heart,
if i have eyes then together we look on
perched on chalk hips
and if I have heights, then, our heights
higher
is it just me, i ask spindly cliff cabbages, is it, the sea bleached plaited grass, me
or is spring specifically lacking this year?
is spring a bit sad? less about arrivals than moon and sun pre planning?
but if i have patience, 
we have patience
So,
Patience!

typographic and graphic evidence, hello

2010-03-04T20:56:00.000+01:00

In Spring, So Near // Au Printemps; Si Près

2010-03-01T11:04:00.001+01:00

A shiver
hung beneath the tender green,
half-open
with full blown flowers

Who, first half-submerged,
I then saw leaping
higher, lower,
airing out then

Bloomed,
In Play.

Shuddering, then
its folds

Who, when undone,
are a revelation of petals

The First Laugh of your eyelids

On the city meadow, Paris;

Spring, At Work.

Un frémissement
pendus sous le vert tendre
entr'ouvert
du fleurs épanies

qui; demi-enfouie premièrement,
J'ai vu bondir
plus haut; plus base
d'énventer

Ont fleurit
enjoués.

Frémissement alors
Ses plis
sont une révélation de pétales

Le Premier Rie de tes paupières
Le pré de la cité, Paris;

Le printemps, Au Travail.

toujours dimanche avec toi

2010-02-28T19:04:00.000+01:00

2010-02-25T01:20:00.004+01:00

(you) cut off
end button, like that
I cut
back
your voice over wire and
the bonsoirities you tired of and
our goodnight goodbyes ungood
leaves me feeling like a perpetual phone
off
hook
& you would choose not to ease my conscience with a final goodnight,
over the extra minute
of (you) time
merci quelque part
Je ne pas souffrir
Je n'ai
pas because
(you) cut off
&
I cut
back

after looking like a total idiot trying to call you back as I said I would for ten minutes, thinking it was just bad reception

(bad reception all right)

it occured to me that instead of a quick text of 'call tomorrow tired love' or a 'bad reception call tomorrow goodnight'

(bad reception all right)

you simply end button click off no time for
let her
bye, her
what, her?

so

Je n'ai
pas because
(you) cut off
&
I cut
back

hi poesies

2010-02-23T17:21:00.004+01:00

I want all my poems to be celebrations;

but some would rather be lackadaisical,

some confused,

others sentimental,

most, though, would simply like to exist

and who am I (who) to act as poetic gendarme?

fuck le moment juste

we are un-learning here

III

One fine February day I was paris-ing

and smoke, ing

in the office courtyard

and the air 

was marshy and mild,

marinated

Suddenly! Seagulls!

QUEL CHANCE

Paris, a winter

beach-sky

V


spending most of our time seeing to be seen;
(scene)
see? 

seen to be scene-ing

but are we audacious?
are we
with our naked eyes, lewd
filthy naked 
are we
we are
stuck in dainty glooms
priez
crisp
may we be,
maybe we 
may we
be 
visually arresting, 
and may we be guilty,
and susceptible to contagions
(hey-uh, if she came into the room every man's prick would hit the ceiling)
melange it up
pitter patter pitter POP
burn it burn it burn it HOT
  quel ancestral phobia is this?
  spending most of our time
as 
are we
may we
affect the effect of ____
and a very limited mot-palette we have, 
have we 
we, we have,
so we,
we, we, 
we
wee! 

Lilly Marthe Ebener; copy-writing work

2010-02-21T15:14:00.002+01:00

As promised: the project I did the copywriting for. The text from the Lookbook isn't attached-- will add later the lookbook in full- but the Brand copy I did write. ENJOY these amazing photos from Lilly's Fall 2010 Lookbook!

http://www.lillymarthe-ebener.com/

2010-02-20T05:21:00.001+01:00

One day we wake up to a stranger, one we've known for years. There are hidden, pocketed cavities between the grey matter round-up of a brain, an infinite amount of hidden, secret hallways, staircases, and realities within one singular consciousness- within one individual psyche. As time goes on, we live together, plan together. Eat together, fuck together, shit together.

And then, one day, or on any given day that happens not so often but definitely, absurdly happens, we have the inevitable SPLINTER GROUP phenomenon: and it is definitely, absurdly easy to be confronted with a pile of skin, nerves, and viscous fluid wrapped in shitty tissue paper skin instead of the stranger we've known for years.

A shiver in the fabric of whatever reality we had imagined to be THE reality while: living together, planning together, eating together, fucking together, shitting together. In one violent burst the person is suddenly an INTERLOPER and in another thousandth of a second they are the stranger again. You go on living together, planning together, eating together, fucking together, shitting together. But the experience comes back to prod at you during the most inconvenient, obscure times.

What is there to say about the many painful but chromatic intensities (every shade from black to white and shades in between every other in between infinity) behind acts of betrayal?

At first, there was everything to say.
We lived together, we planned together, we ate together, we fucked together, we shat together and then you

After too many months of too much goddamned opacity, after an exhaustive, deflating search to find out the whys or hows of it in order to continue the previous reality, where a SPLINTER GROUP didn't constitute a normative phenomenon, where it became so OBVIOUS that the living together, planning together, eating together, fucking together, shitting together was exactly that; shitting and fucking and the basics of co-habitating and purposeful economic PLANNING and there was nothing IN BETWEEN that could be said to have been worth considering to temper your selfish SPLINTER GROUP convulsions

After that? There was nothing.

The sound of static. Tomorrow come morning, we will wake up to our stranger, and life goes on without a hair out of place on either of our living, planning, eating, fucking, shitting heads.

Et appeler un chat un chat, chatte, chatte, chatte à ses heures, cela fait passer le temps? Bon, mais ça ne me casse. C'est toujours la meme regime, rien changer. We're tired of being afraid, shocked, or the one making accusations. Je ne pas ouvrir la bouche!

c'est rien. Le plus importante est à toujours:

à bout de bras, the stranger, at all times he must be kept à bout de bras.

Today we wake up to a stranger, the one we have known and un-known, for years.

hi wednesday 3AM

2010-02-17T03:37:00.002+01:00

THE NEW IDEALIST: NIGHT TRIPPER

treating banality from the inside out
oh, these leading lights led us

the new idealist's manifesto: things are looking up

& eyes so alive they render things in a perpetual lacquer
so FLASH
full throttle, o' sailor
sounding the death knell for

just give me a venue. do it
humor is equal parts anxiety and neurosis
JACQUARD 

the stopwatch in the spotlight; tick tick STOP

she's botanical yeah so
world, I asked; grant me a rare audience!

NO BELL RINGERS ALLOWED

dreaming run a-riot

running now, a-riot now

tick tock POP

package arrives; commence living

2010-02-16T15:21:00.007+01:00

& sunlight so bright it burns out the world to a film noir; yes, yes sir, this is Godard's Paris, yet again, and louder! Godard's Paris!

I feel acutely, painfully alive today. To be alive! To be conscious! To simply, complicatingly BE! Henry Miller is keeping me company right now. I have come a long way since first discovering him in Thailand's used book stores; his writing was too dark, too base for me, too reductive in its use of the crass as redemption, but his use of language thrilled me with a straight shot ZAP to my brain. Reading, re reading all his books after the amazon book binge of december 2009, and now I know him well enough as a writer to get what he was trying to say through the confusion and through the often shocking destructive nature of his renderings.

Unlike the other authors I love, and tend to love, he is not transcendent; not like Rand, or Nin, Emerson, e.e cummings, Thoreau -- he is not living in a godlike state of optimism and absolutism and stylization, Miller is a piece of oozing human flesh who writes about the anti-paradise as often as he does paradise itself. There is something inhuman about the former authors; he, conversely is human to an embarassing degree.

Henry Miller, various quotations:

The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.
Tropic of Capricorn (1939)

A man writes to throw off the poison which he has accumulated because of his false way of life. He is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing is to inoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment. No man would set a word down on paper if he had the courage to live out what he believed in....
The Rosy Crucifixion I : Sexus (1949), Chapter 1. (New York: Grove Press, c1965, p. 17-18)

Moralities, ethics, laws, customs, beliefs, doctrines - these are of trifling import. All that matters is that the miraculous become the norm.
Black Spring (1938)

I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, for grander failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack, I want everyone to scratch himself to death. Tropic Of Cancer (1934)

Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy.
Tropic Of Cancer (1934)

dusting off the ol' poetry

2010-02-15T17:58:00.003+01:00

a hide and seek sort of thing, like trying to touch a 7am spiderweb, gossamer trails of phantom activity, the imprint from the passing of an hour

———————

left:right brain lobe harmonies, titles were never my forte.

we efface an hour by looking at the fullness of hand-to-mouth,
to avoid, or delay, digestion
you see, we had to ‘avoid the flat visual attack of things’
everything said with hands out, gamely and web spread, questioning space

the places on my body that are burnt decided to improve on living and it took shape as a vertical root
lightening rod girl- pulling static from hot hot air,
the human sort of electricities, forbidden electric sources, the vital license
which is why you must believe me when I say that it’s
only that ’some equations are more obvious’ and therefore
the answers follow the design; obvious,
there is nothing except phantom finality in the outcome, how>why
if nothing but because an answer : reaction

I am currently engaged by a slippery debate between the left and ride side of my brain;

my body feels cupped like a shovel, it tries to tell me in the quiet-time that I must
grasp not grip
it was waltz time then, and it’s a New England low slung sun,
it was waltz time
and I say to the one in Paris

‘darling, I am so rich tonight but it’s for you’

and

‘avoid the flat visual attack of things’

bringing us back to the material in life: the bolero

2010-02-15T13:04:00.003+01:00

what is a bolero exactly? I'm relatively sure they are wedding related, but all I know is they have taken over my fancy completely and I fear I must have one or I will die. The pleating, the structure, absolutely exquisite.

like wings, with attitude

red bolero
white bolero

& this?! THIS MAGIFICENT THING

& THIS??!

texture

i so, love, love, love it all.

hibernal spring

2010-02-14T09:50:00.003+01:00

2010-02-13T23:55:00.002+01:00

blogging can be like having a working, functional, referrable, recordable heartbeat. And sometimes the pressure of living by the frames one does or purposely does not set can take the fun right out of it. Maybe it's a woman thing; feeling somehow responsible to somehow, in some obscure way, respond to the framework laid out in a blog post, whether daily, weekly, whatever. Chained.

so for a while, it's nice to take a break, and to make a heartbeat conversation a 1:1 again. Like sisters. Secret, secrets, back soon.

Plus all I seem to be able to do lately is babble. Babble then make sweeping abstractions which are somewhere far from the land of readable.

I gotta be gentle, it's winter here, it's winter. February's the killing month, so shh.

parisian creatures (dark times)

2010-02-11T14:09:00.000+01:00

sunday office-ings

2010-02-07T18:39:00.002+01:00

bring me my package, french postal system (c'est la guerre)

2010-02-02T12:20:00.002+01:00

AA

2010-01-31T23:55:00.001+01:00

he is not human; nor human, and I? Et tu, brute? I don't dally in abstractions for the sake of it; imagine existing in them, breathing in them and within them. A distinctly eastern take on a western life, but is there sense to make of it? And he imagines; we are stuck on repeat repeat fast forward here, are we talking my grandmother type apathy? ( and no, I answer, to the one with blue eyes a-lure, as in active luring (( does anyone pay attention to tense here anymore? does anyone pay attention here at all?)) )

I am on the active process of discovering, and it hurts us all. I read you, deer girl, I read you, chef, I read you, texas butterfly, yet still I cannot leave you comments which verve towards any normalcy. Why, or why not? I cannot; I can; too hard, it is the being forced to tread upon that which it is not for the sake of discovery. You tell me, home; you are not happy. Leave. I tell you; it is not that simple. There is an active experiment going on here. Wait for the results. We have nothing to say because we are in the thinking modality.

I write nothing. I write novels. I write and I write and no one sees a thing because I am technology alienated and my best friends reside in papier, toujours comme d'habitude, comme ca. Because I am alienated by anything and everything because after all, after all of this, even THIS, I am only 22. I hear you, all of you, class wars and all. The privilege afforded to those able to reside in the exceptional state of non- belonging. I get it. We drank budweiser and took out that second, third mortgage. And here? he has (no one has) any idea. Play it, girl, play it hard and play it soft and play it play it repeat- because ain't no way anyone else is gonna have a turn like this, parents from alabama tennessee say it like that, one word, alabama tennessee, and ain't no one gonna understand here what that means, to grow up poor and american and just fucking, poor, ain't no, way, he gets, what, beeforoni, or spaghetti and franks, dry toast tuna melt, means.

Centre Popmpidou: he says, females whine. I laugh and I float. I am away. Maybe I am too fare, too far, away. Maybe I should run here, run now, run? fucking RUN, because my grandmother? she didn't write poems, she sold ponds. She didn't go crazy petit bourgeois style, she went crazy with four kids to the state and teaching catholic school in the south, 3 years away from an institution ( and no, just because its american doesn't mean an institution was a right, or an ACTUALITY, you dig? fucking french keyboard)

And hey. Baby. I don't envision myself as any sort of martyr. Millions before me slept; millions before cried; millions after will shit, will sleep, will read what I read, maybe write what I write. I am fucked dans le nuit parce que je SAIS, I KNOW, there is more. I came here for that and THAT is what I am on, on, high (on) and you frustrate and fuck me better than I have ever been fucked or will be fucked, ever. Because you fuck me (up) (in) (the through and throughs, you dig?)

An eastern philosophy, sure, in the confines of a person trying hardest only to find what fucks her up hardest. Lisa, you dig, baby? Baby baby baby all babies, and here I am dying for you, trying to feel the hardest.

Prove to me we aren't a lost cause. PROVE to me I ain't dying for nothing.

that is why we say, wilt, wilt.

( fuck you: you want me to read your typographic evidence? read mine. ) READ; MINE. AND, GET, IT. Cause I get yours, and the things I could say?

Balancing act; balancing act, give me strength.

and i will not spell it out for you, there are 100000000 meanings for every word given; ask me sometime. Why dontcha?

mister baby blue eyes (love you)

2010-01-31T00:21:00.001+01:00

deconstruction

2010-01-26T09:17:00.000+01:00

2010-01-25T14:28:00.000+01:00

school days

2010-01-21T12:36:00.002+01:00

flatlined

2010-01-20T10:31:00.000+01:00

____________________________________________________________________________________

2010-01-18T18:42:00.000+01:00

bronchitis = :(

2010-01-15T18:13:00.000+01:00

sick and 100% abandoned.

you

suck.

perpetual grayness and 9am sunrises 4pm sunsets = lackadaisical kutz

2010-01-13T18:28:00.000+01:00

a kutz of two types is a kutz indeed

2010-01-11T20:16:00.000+01:00

2010-01-09T17:08:00.001+01:00

can I say something true here? true
a
discarded neglected pigeon holed side lined vacated pariah pretty city dawdler intruder
sits, waits in a wilt
apathy apathy built

an itinerant
some kinda waywayrd pilgrim

really-just-another-paris-stray

evacuee transient and ephemeral a recluse

wilts, miscarry

not even a demoted ally in this city can't
find a complement or at least a witness
at least a witness
not trilling

and I'm somewhat ambiguous

my living dance fell flat

but its the accountability question
really, which sticks to my teeth,
jumps out with a no nonesense leap from paper pages
or his art books
or an email here there
or the way it rained today and might tomorrow
even the way the dust organizes itself on my floor
and soap in the bath
souvenirs in the form of second thoughts
ticking ticking to tock

or is it the apologists question? sorry, sorry, trying, trying,
whirring, whirring, stuck in circuits
its the revisionist, the revisionist, that it comes down to

and fuck can we find a future that works? fuck

telephones that hold their arms out,
you are in the park again
you are in the metro again
you are in the cafe again

you are going out to out nowhere going again, goings again nowheres
see

we (me) hadn't counted on this wilderness

and these recurring round warm harmless wordchains, the same poems over and over
just lost my rhythm now, lost it somethin'good
lost those stanzas too, woosh! hilarious, oh
gone, but long now sheesh longer still what happened to you girl

what

paris, what the fuck
you promised me more than this, you did you did you did
under the january moon you lit me up and alleyway lit up
you did, you lit it up
and this thrashing this pushing paris i'm so tired now
bear witness, you
yes, you- at least bear that

so let's get animate
and animate a momentary recovery, at least

can I say something true here? true
too
say it

on the move; or, how a current can solve stagnant waters

2010-01-09T04:20:00.000+01:00

After two years of living full time in the real world, I'm a student yet again. Finally! Amazingly! Heavenly!

And I couldn't be happier.

(photos thailand 2009)

2010-01-08T16:41:00.000+01:00

and in this moment, I am unnaturally natural. I was, now, I am. The insolubility of one human being to another. The way we ask questions and don't wait for an answer. A life formed by negative consent (the absence of). And when I go outside there's only people with umbrella ribs, opening and closing with something I imagine less human than breath and more like machine contractions. You seem unable to read even my most general intentions. Everything becomes motorized. I am chastised for thoughts I did not think.

I am not a boring, small minded lawyer like american. I want to vomit your words back at you regarding your take on MY INTENTIONS MY ACTIONS and ME, my heart and my person Katherine Mary. l'identite culturelle instead of personal. xenophic excuses. reflehis AVANT de parler et arrete de chanter cette chanson. Ca suffit! Sa facon de voir les choses est liee a son contexte.

paris est situe a 48 degres de latitude nord, et ici

I want to ask a question so simple as to be child like; honestly? that is what you honestly think of me? that is what you imagine me capable of? Small minds begin in one's ability to or not to concieve another human reality with elasticity, to forgive, to think dialectically. To assume that you MIGHT be wrong about something in any given moment. I assume that. Unfortunately nothing good comes of talking to a man intent on talking solely to himself. Il ne peut pas concevoir qu'on soit d'une autre avis que lui. Maybe it's just two completely different species. It's wrong when both parties feel violated. Choleric with the indignities we imagine ourselves suffering from at the hands of the other. It's hilarious, tragic, and of no consequence. We move on. Back and forth. Avoiding le mal de mer.

That's my piece regarding this fucking friday, fucking friday. Now I've had my closure. Purging violence from my skin and into space to make room for the rest of life. I have never, not once, written for anyone but myself, and that's as it should be. The only thing that remains is modeling my life in the same way.

secouer la nappe et marche, demontrer encore

2010-01-07T21:28:00.000+01:00

silence... (40) by E. E. Cummings

silence

.is

looking

bird:the

turn

ing;edge,of

life

(inquiry before snow

1(a... (a leaf falls on loneliness) by E. E. Cummings

1(a

one

iness

2010-01-06T15:51:00.005+01:00

j'apporte (avec moi), toujours
le chaleur pour creer
etre plonge dans
des materiaux de vivre
le sens de l'observation
elle m'a dit 's'adapter aux maigre temps; aerer.
la vie toujours dans eclairage indirect
s'adapter

t'apporte (avec toi), toujours
la marees haut/bass
qui jeter dans une riviere
elle-meme jeter
prendre sa source
la profondeur

se trouve en etat d'apensanteur
ses pieds sur terre, sa tete dans l'espace
et dans l'espace
coleur

nous sommes trempe jusqu'aux os
soyez sans crainte

nous
sourions

j'amenerai
nous amenerons

----

I carry (with me), always
the heat to create
to be immersed in
the materials of living
the power of observation
she told me ' adapt to the lean times; air out'
life always in indirect lighting
adapt

Bring (with you), always
the flood/ebb tide
that flows into a river
hurls itself
find it's source
the depths

be in a state of weightlessness
feet on the ground, head in outer space
and in this space
flow

we are soaked to the skin
have no fear

we
smile

I'll bring
we bring

Adrienne Rich; Poems

2010-01-05T12:43:00.003+01:00

In Those Years

In those years, people will say, we lost track

of the meaning of we, of you
we found ourselves
reduced to I
and the whole thing became
silly, ironic, terrible:
we were trying to live a personal life
and, yes, that was the only life
we could bear witness to
But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged
into our personal weather
They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove
along the shore, through rages of fog
where we stood, saying I

Rural Reflections

This is the grass your feet are planted on.

You paint it orange or you sing it green,
But you have never found
A way to make the grass mean what you mean.

A cloud can be whatever you intend:
Ostrich or leaning tower or staring eye.
But you have never found
A cloud sufficient to express the sky.

Get out there with your splendid expertise;
Raymond who cuts the meadow does not less.
Inhuman nature says:
Inhuman patience is the true success.

Human impatience trips you as you run;
Stand still and you must lie.
It is the grass that cuts the mower down;
It is the cloud that swallows up the sky.

November 1968

Stripped

you're beginning to float free
up through the smoke of brushfires
and incinerators
the unleafed branches won't hold you
nor the radar aerials

You're what the autumn knew would happen
after the last collapse
of primary color
once the last absolutes were torn to pieces
you could begin

How you broke open, what sheathed you
until this moment
I know nothing about it
my ignorance of you amazes me
now that I watch you
starting to give yourself away
to the wind

2010-01-04T22:14:00.002+01:00

Main Entry: stream

Part of Speech: noun

Definition: small river

Synonyms: beck, branch, brook, burn, course, creek, current, drift, flood, flow, freshet, race, rill,
rindle, rivulet, run, runnel, rush, spate, spritz, surge, tide, torrent, tributary, watercourse

Notes: a stream is smaller than a river, a creek is smaller than a stream but larger than a brook; stream, brook, creek, and rivulet are applied interchangeably to any small river

there is something about the way people articulate themselves on parisian streets
that floods out reality. that supersedes the usual walkway current:
not just people going, or coming, arriving or departing,
but people expectant of a significant and valuable interruption.

Legs scissor and feet point and angle themselves as if perpetually perched over one inch of sky.
Floating, flow.
Everyone nurses a break-out plan.

Everyone surges. A vital, earthy eruption.
while I walk with a gait akin to a continuous apologetic curtsy, (sorry sorry sorry)
they float. I marvel, I watch.

and I will watch
and I will watch
I will
watch until I understand.

'til i can catch this current too, and follow the watercourse to one inch above

the default opacity of day in and day outs,
and the contradicting break-out plans,
half pitched half assed
one inch, give me
one inch
one
inch

2010-01-03T23:58:00.002+01:00

2010-01-03T23:39:00.002+01:00

2010-01-03T22:45:00.010+01:00

what I pray about when I not-pray into sidewalk store-windows

to be, just for a moment:
speaking as an act of bursting with a MIND, MINDS in the state of
becoming
with another, a-hum with grey matter back and forths,
noticing not noticing the unnatural attention to fingers on tables or
eyes on the nothings
to write with a hand floating and carefree, or tortured enough to take those sharp turns
WITH my
eyes mind or brain
and we will chime-chime chime chariot frenzy,
and we will un-close and
decide existence as a pre-frontal fix
(where are you?)

to DO, just for a moment,
acting out obscenely the grandiose
for one thinks of nothing but
to be able to articulate into the universe a string-seamed exempla
and shake of an un-kempt ego,
and to be as hypocritical as rand as to explode::scene
but there is something inherently elegant
to be human,
as human
and as such we sway and swing and land in the corridors and miss the ballrooms
(travel wanderer in a past life american and before that some semblance of normality in gestures)

I am shit at democratic poetry, hell, democratic writing or words or content
I have absolutely negative patience
with the ordinary
sure I must be coherent but outside-cohesive? rarely

because I don't want reassurance, you dig? I don't want fucking reassurance.

not about the way my words fall
or don't
or about the way I live
or don't
or rhetoric, playing with safe phrase word fucking ology
a call is a call is a
call
and I want to call with my words, that is it
nothing second hand, not seminal (what hipster shite) but PRIMARY
something that throbs, you know? throbs
words in tune, tuned to pulse widths
can't answer my own questions: do i mean radical radical?

I want collaboration

I want to be a witness to composition, COMPOSITION

the
1
2
3's
of it

... and by fucking GOD firstly and lastly, I don't want to be suspicious of emotion

oh! for the love of texture

2010-01-02T23:49:00.005+01:00

ELISA STROZYK

http://www.elisastrozyk.de/

the pleasures of being a man (ex post facto, add the w-o) without a country

2010-01-02T23:12:00.003+01:00

ARRIVING AT: THE BRIDGE BETWEEN

2010-01-01T21:46:00.001+01:00

Cosmopolitan Greetings by Allen Ginsberg

To Struga Festival Golden Wreath Laureates

& International Bards 1986

Stand up against governments, against God.

Stay irresponsible.

Say only what we know & imagine.

Absolutes are coercion.

Change is absolute.

Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions.

Observe what's vivid.

Notice what you notice.

Catch yourself thinking.

Vividness is self-selecting.

If we don't show anyone, we're free to write anything.

Remember the future.

Advise only yourself.

Don't drink yourself to death.

Two molecules clanking against each other requires an observer to become

scientific data.

The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal

world after Einstein.

The universe is subjective.

Walt Whitman celebrated Person.

We Are an observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person.

Universe is person.

Inside skull vast as outside skull.

Mind is outer space.

"Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound."

First thought, best thought.

Mind is shapely, Art is shapely.

Maximum information, minimum number of syllables.

Syntax condensed, sound is solid.

Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best.

Consonants around vowels make sense.

Savor vowels, appreciate consonants.

Subject is known by what she sees.

Others can measure their vision by what we see.

Candor ends paranoia.

Kral Majales

June 25, 1986

Boulder, Colorado

(i find it best to nurture that fragmented voice-explosion inside me)

2009-12-30T03:55:00.002+01:00

perpetually ex post facto

and blowing out the words, smiles which bloom

into the riotous lights of Paris!; It's A Kind Of Death.

I was not born a paris-darling.

Author! Author!
I am a sponge, mid-soak.
offended by sad-jeaned whores.
Introduce yourself:

consciousness: when one finds oneself so unable to handle the base operations of living (eye contact, small talk, and regular breathing included)

self-consciousness: when the former results in a gait bow-legged enough to be mistaken for walking in a constant stream of apologetic curtsies

I LIKE IT HERE

a morning, magnetic. a call-and-response.
and the whole morning was blown! wide! open!
just pour your eyes out, just pour

POWERS OF NEGOTIATION: we are, as humans, constant bargainers-- for time, with time, against time.

i should like very much to be BE-RIBBONED.

o my darlin', oh my darlin'
(pour mon premier mimi darlin')

-
FLEUROTICISM:

erotica, from the stamen onwards, virtuosos of petalruption

(ylang! ylang, POP!)
-

BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS
the question is: does my life have a sort of terrible narrative inevitability? girl's so serious, see, ahh so seeer-iouss

be still now, we're almost done.
here is a moment of silence in between, a sort of palette cleanser for the non-food digestibles of a day

LIVING: IT'S A DYING ART

how to: optimistic urbanity, or, the OPTIC POP!

sadly, my skin's got a shitty cost-per-wear complex, so trompe l'oeil everyone, trompe the l-o-e-i-l

2009-12-28T13:09:00.003+01:00

" 'Good things are being said and publishers' hopes are high,' he wrote Albert Murray in February, two months before publication, ' but I'm playing it cool with my stomach pitching a bitch and my dream life most embarrassing.' "

intro, Invisible Man

like a young stevie nicks

2009-12-13T15:42:00.003+01:00

love, love that picture of Stevie Nicks. In other events, Lilly's Lookbook looks good enough to eat, but I will wait on posting the photos til it's available in print. All that legal mumbojumbo, you know, but be excited in advance.

I made homemade tiramisu this past week, with all the right ingredients, the real italian shit- mascarpone cheese, Illy expresso, and a healthy dose of good cognac. It was so good I drizzled some of the expresso mixture in the leftover white goo from the mixing bowl and ate it with my fingers. If only that organic hedonism carried into all things in life, I know we would all, all of us, be okay. Better than okay. Happy.

2009-12-08T21:05:00.001+01:00

visa?

GOT IT

HELL. YES.

DO IT

2009-12-02T20:07:00.004+01:00

i've got a mouth full of numb and teeth with a license to die, reminders, and a jaw that tends to stick together with the tension of holding itself up

REMINDERS, thats it, eating me the fuck alive

leave me alone. I don't want to come back anyway right now. to a city and a man who tend to veer out westward. blowin a blowin in the wind, just a blowin in these winds

i'm sorry I chose now to feel furious but it wasn't a choice as much as something I screwed up tight in paris just falling the fuck out of the closet. all those panics

i don't want to talk about this anymore or talk to you-- i want to throw my fury down on nyc in a mashup of an existential journey and just SCREAM and scream everything we drop as yesterday's news

and what in the hell is humanity supposed to do with this whole male female HILARITY? It is IMPOSSIBLE. My heart can't take it.

i am violence

elle part pour new york

2009-12-02T16:47:00.004+01:00

l'hiver, saison de l'art serein, l'hiver lucide

Le chair est triste, hélas!
et j'ai lu tous les livres

oui, ; l'heure nouvelle est au moins trés sévère

2009-12-01T23:12:00.001+01:00

Elle pert le souffle

Je m'occupe; j'ai le coeur qui palpite sans cesse à 7h du matin. Ma personne s'est procurée une expertise dans le silence. Les corps qui m'entourent sont dépourvu de sincérité. Tout le monde devrait chanter à pleine voix et sur tous les murs voyant et des plus gros sur tous.

C'était dommage (pour les) qu'elle se fasse avalée par la langue éléphantesque de l'univers.

C'était ravissant pour elle.

dusty americana: my new england

2009-11-30T07:28:00.005+01:00

2009-11-28T01:51:00.001+01:00

may i be gay

like every lark

who lifts his life

from all the dark

who wings his why

beyond because

and sings an if

of day to yes

e e cummings