CALIBRATION

there’s a little CALIBRATION ,,,, in the air ,,,,,,

misaligning your chips to mine

you shouldn’t have yelled so low, so long

we don’t sway like we used to

in the days of kicked it punk heads

but the body moves on in the dark

she’s working on here mermaid hair

head hanging under the faucet

kelp bleeding wet follicles

one of these days we’ll get it right

with the exception of swan tails and bunny grass

feeling a home fumbling in a foreign country

closer than a mother tongue

i felt that

you do not seem to notice

i was one once

A Portrait

they stayed up all night
they were being scrutinized
every street looked the same
they were quick to judge
something was not right
the water was too close
it started to snow
they thought :: why is this place so strange?
they huddled closer
he was going to be sick
she was what dark matter was made of
it was only supposed to be a short visit

Felt Left

those felt things i may or may not have been talking about earlier.

you have no idea [or maybe you do, i have no idea - do i have any artist readers out there? anyone? bueller?] how immensely wonderful it is to not have to make Art.  the past few months of whatever have been the creative equivalent of leeches.  BUT.  after being pushed to my limits to make things i have been somewhat coerced into making – making well, making meaningful, making quickly – i have eradicated any and all chance of hideous emotional projection and stuck to the fun stuff.  crocheted seahorses for brilliant 2 year olds, felt curtains for studi-ohs!, yarns for fence drawings, aprons for work, fabulously gaudy rugs for hooking………run along Art World, there’s nothing to see here.

Art’s Birthday

you’re not actually BUYING this, are you? [file it under art groan]

if you look very carefully, you’ll notice that the dude  who staked this claim [robert filiou] shares the exact same birthdate.  this person claimed that art was born on that very day.  so i guess picasso was just being an asshole.

[i think i smell a rat]

be very wary of movements. even of me as i say this.

once again, there’s a whole lot of talking
and not a heck of a lot of doing.

in this deplorable city, ‘art’s birthday’ is just another excuse for yuppy youngsters to be yuppy and young and drunk.

instead, i WORKED [you know, a job], sang decadent lullabies, watched more of the mighty boosh, and wrote a poem.

make art, people!  have a little imagination once in a while.

Musov Shoko.

the whole point of this blog was to have a place to post my own work, but i’m shattering the rules just this once for a shred of bizarre [the whole deification of something ive never seen or heard before]

just the background music is enough to drive me batty.
oh how i wish I had been the one to make this.

[musov shoko]

at first i was repulsed, driven
and then i was driven to hysterics – slaughtered by laughter
WHY IS THIS
i’ll never know why but i am so glad it is
nevertheless

carry on.

Swimmerman²

i am pleased to announce the birth of a new mythology

Swimmerman
[i have taken his name.  faecesbook notes H Elixabete Swimmerman-Utah]

Swimmerman is the new face of defeat, his pointed and sharp fingers pain both physically and psychologically.  nonsensical presence on dry land catches you unawares and nightmared.

underwater spoken smiling muffled heartbeat geometry.  bleeding.

if i had to commit suicide it would be drowning but Swimmerman slit his wrists centuries ago.

he is in the process of evolving gills.  his hair is made of worms, cutting you open and spawning your intestines to a new generation of boredom.

Obsidian

i, obsidian
slice ably the throats of athenians [maybe]
oxygenized mainprize
was one once
viscous found shattering
blade forth versus steel
lava loved me
rejecting crystallization in favour of molecular scalpels
stoned and culled on sinister’s side

i, obsidian
silicon dioxide
too complex to contain single minerals
i tasted you like basalt
i found you in ethiopia
i feared myself like water

missed, taken
lunar volcanic eruptions
teased out and rhyolitic
flows and hiked
cardiac surgical self made tears.

Midnight Bicycle Mystery

EGG.  hardboiled.  Cado’s pimp.
[AVO]CADO.  overripe prostitute.  does not appear onstage but whose voice is heard from the apartment.
THE CLIENT.  does not appear on stage, but is with Cado in the apartment.
CHORUS.  consists of 4 females / prostitutes?.  speak / sing in unison.
________________________________________

[midnight.  an alley next to an
apartment high rise in a meatpacking district.
the light is a diffused blue imitating moonlight.
the chorus is mingling onstage, laughing.
a bicycle is leaning up against the wall on center left stage.
the words JESUS LOVES ME TOO are graffitied.
the present.]
enter egg

The Lemon and The Egg

INTERNET please note RETEMA

and the mystic wonder that are SHIPS and shiphouses.
that is all.
__________________________________________

looks like august is almost here again, already

LEAVE NO PRISONERS
in this hippie crypt

at this time of day – Lemon having her mornafternoon coffee on the porch
facing the street
3 school buses drop off Mayonnaise children

Egg walks, shell naked, into the day
Exposed like all styrofoam souls
Like lives controlled by cotton

Little Egg
giving Lemon blisters
a stranger soulmate guided by false feelings of reincarnation
Little Egg Head
licked by sandpaper qat tongues

‘only it was francis picabia’s poetry that got me throught a spring of illness,’ said Lemon.
‘and 10 000 nosebleeds.’ Egg’s memory was minutely dissecting the moments of frantic speechless phone calls.
‘in bed.  on the bus.  all around you.’

it was WHITE and YELLOW and DARK GREEN
the mysteriousest subject is always green
and oozing coolness
‘i would eat slime,’ said Lemon. ‘if it was Lime Slime.’
‘you can’t find that shit on the radio anymore.’ sneered Egg.  ‘BULLSHIT, that’s what.’
‘pipe down one or two or eight.’
‘you fill me with contempt.’
‘nonsense! you are filled with WHITE and YELLOW.’
‘nonsense is the fourth dimension of literature.’
Lemon gets up – throws her mug at the street below.  the pieces shattering at the feet of the Mayonnaise.