pour l'ami

You thought that it could never happen
to all the people that you became,
your body lost in legend, the beast so very tame.
But here, right here,
between the birthmark and the stain,
between the ocean and your open vein,
between the snowman and the rain,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

The women in your scrapbook
whom you still praise and blame,
you say they chained you to your fingernails
and you climb the halls of fame.
Oh but here, right here,
between the peanuts and the cage,
between the darkness and the stage,
between the hour and the age,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

Shouldering your loneliness
like a gun that you will not learn to aim,
you stumble into this movie house,
then you climb, you climb into the frame.
Yes, and here, right here
between the moonlight and the lane,
between the tunnel and the train,
between the victim and his stain,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

I leave the lady meditating
on the very love which I, I do not wish to claim,
I journey down the hundred steps,
but the street is still the very same.
And here, right here,
between the dancer and his cane,
between the sailboat and the drain,
between the newsreel and your tiny pain,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

Where are you, Judy, where are you, Anne?
Where are the paths your heroes came?
Wondering out loud as the bandage pulls away,
was I, was I only limping, was I really lame?
Oh here, come over here,
between the windmill and the grain,
between the sundial and the chain,
between the traitor and her pain,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

two cats

Two Cats
One up a tree
One under the tree
The cat up a tree is he
The cat under the tree is she
The tree is witch elm, just incidentally.
He takes no notice of she, she takes no notice of he.
He stares at the woolly clouds passing, she stares at the tree.
There's been a lot written about cats, by Old Possum, Yeats and Company
But not Alfred de Musset or Lord Tennyson or Poe or anybody
Wrote about one cat under, and one cat up, a tree.
God knows why this should be left for me
Except I like cats as cats be
Especially one cat up
And one cat under
A witch elm
Tree.

Spongebob and patrick are giggling in the air in Sergei Possad

Orbit White

a cigarette in a japanese's garden (pour le m.)

if i tell you about science will you let me in on the little things you hide from everyone up your silky sleeves? or if science is outside your interest could i interest you in some grammar? would you like to hear about particles lost in time and phrasal verbs with no meaning?
'a cigarette,' she says like a tiger dancing on a stage with no audience.
'i mean... how? arent you worried about the smell it will make? arent you concerned for the gentle balance youve found here in your -japanese garden?'
'the time has passed,' she says, 'to think about balances and accounts and what we do or do not want - youve never listened before, why would you listen now? oh no,' she says, like a fireman going to a window that has no fire, 'no the time has passed, and whats more - i say to you: ask yourself what you want, and do the opposite; ask yourself what is right, and run for your life as far as you can from the answer. do this - you already have anyway.'

Black Sea

Dans le jardin japonais, en sus des lions plaqués or chevauchés par de courtes jeunes femmes aux lèvres corralines, il y avait le soleil à son zenith qui cramait et tannait les cuirs monstrueux, des milliers de vaches mortes effectuant moults cabrioles comme dans un cirque morbide, où les ossements servaient de confettis, les applaudissement venant des gradins roulaient vers le centre concave d'une batisse en verre qui se démollissait et se reconstruisait, en gros, le bordel, un acharnement démoniaque et quand la femme sur le roi des animaux a ouvert la bouche ce n'est pas une langue que je pus voir mais des bourgeons de camélias qui explosait dans tous les sens. Je voulais prendre une photo mais l'appareil grippé ne faisait que photographier l'intérieur du sol.

Il y avait aussi plus loin, juchés sur la montagne, ces routes serpenteuses qui vomissaient leurs capsules de fer lancées à toute berzingue vers des destinations bizarres; la foire aux acacias, le cirque couvert du bord de mer. Quand mon nez a pris feu, les flammes carressant mes sourcils, la servante a apporté sur d'immenses plateaux de coque de porte-conteneurs des tonneaux d'or remplis de vodka et j'ai pu me resaisir, tenant compte de la distance entre ici et la voie ouverte par les luisances de la lune grandissante, j'ai crié sans que personne m'entende, mes allitérations débiles se lovant vainement dans le creux d'un chapeau habité par une féérie de chair et de sang que j'embrassais sans discontinuer.

L'air du temps

Toutes les paroles prononcées peuvent être expliquées, décortiquées par des esprits si différents qu’elles en deviennent irréelles, l’image provoquée par celle-ci imprimera son lot d’horreur chez untel et provoquera le fou rire chez un autre, quand une personne me dépasse dans la rue, je sens son âme vibrante qui se répercute dans les branches nues des arbres, c’est un peu comme ça que l’air du temps nous consigne des idées dominantes de fornication.

Mingling with the Masses (Intro)

The innate feeling of competition that exists among we more humanish people is, to say the least, strange and compelling. At which point does one make the transition from sloshing around the milk and honey with John Citizen from next door, to smashing the poor fucker’s skull in with a shovel, that one may thrive on the nutrients contained therein? I should like to say that I, having neither smashed in skulls nor gorged myself on human cerebelli (nor, if it comes to that, made a name for myself as a man who is generous with his milk and honey), do not know. Yet I do know that some speck of this terrible urge lies dormant within my chromosomes or DNA or wherever it is that primal things lurk. At some point in my existence, it is certainly possible I shall covet my neighbour’s life. And I think I would not be accused of being terribly confused were I to say that this notion of us all having a brain-eatingly life-affirming competitive spirit is both worrying and re-assuring. Worrying, insofar as John Citizen from next door, by force of nature’s own design, is doubtless making estimates on the size of my noggin and clearing a space in his freezer; re-assuring, insofar as I’ll be damned if I don’t get him first.

E

Passablement, pas assez, pas encore, et puis quoi d'autre qui ne traîne plus, chez moi, sur le sol comme un cafard d'un autre âge, d'une autre élégance, si infime, si caricaturale qu'elle n'attendrit que les yeux lasses et à demi-clos des personnes vouées au péché, telle que cette fille aux ongles peints en rouge.
A la voix ondulente, pleine de gorge, d'une senteur violente, l'intérieur de sa bouche, une grotte aux stalagtites de bave qui avale l'appendice, du haut du gland jusqu'à sa base, une sensation morte, passable, un grand rideau qui se referme sur ce petit théatre abscon.
Ce que je fixe n'est plus qu'une série de points fixés les uns aux autres par des procédés loufoques, extensibles, sans harmonie, un fracas visuel sans brisure, un truc pas si excitant.
On pourrait presque croire à une hallucination si ce n'était ce métronome organique qui frappe à gros bouillons dans les organes à portée de doigts, l'interieur de la cuisse, un soupçon de rythme, un truc minimal, un faible battement, au ralenti, une chute, de l'eau et un peu de sang sur les doigts.

And this?!

And this?

What the fuck is this?

py.vaults.ca/~x/dostport/

Fop song

PULP LYRICS

"The Fear"

This is our Music from A Bachelors Den
- the sound of loneliness turned up to ten.
A horror soundtrack from a stagnant water-bed & it sounds just like this.
This is the sound of someone losing the plot -
making out that they're okay when they're not.
You're gonna like it, but not a lot & the chorus goes like this:

Oh Baby, here comes the fear again.
The end is near again.
A monkey's built a house on your back.
You can't get anyone to come in the sack
& here comes another panic attack.
Oh here we go again.

So now you know the words to our song,
pretty soon you'll all be singing along.
When you're sad, when you're lonely & it all turns out wrong.
When you've got the fear.
& when you're no longer searching for beauty or love -
just some kind of life with the edges taken off.
When you can't even define what it
is that you are frightened of
this song will be here.

Oh Baby, here comes the fear again.
The end is near again.
If you ever get that chimp off your back.
If you ever find the thing that you lack
but you know you're only having a laugh
& here we go again.
Until the end
Until the end

I felt like a glass beaker in the snowy streets of moscow

I really thought as I passed by these incredibly dangerous stairs.

That it won't take much to fall heavily on the corner of a stone, head first and spill your brains all over the place.

So then, I wondered.

What a miracle, people standing, people walking

without falling

going straight from point a to point b

with all the obstacles standing in their paths.

banking trouble

It’s so rare I get to show up a smart guy who’s my friend too, that I jumped at the opportunity from heaven when buddy said he didn’t get out and vote in the election last week.

‘So what’s all this about being so smart then?’ I said to his face.

‘Yeah, damn it,’ he said, ‘I was really aching to get out and get my word in, but geez if the last couple of days haven’t been hazardous enough.’

So I asked him to tell me the deal.

The whole affair hinged on a couple of complete unforeseeables that, added up, fell down into place like sheer stupid luck, unconnected, but by the power of mathematics, wearisome.

‘Happy New Year!’ he said, ‘this is my story.’

First he was sitting around one day, reading a book, probably, and out of the blue the phone rang.

‘Just a fluke of nature,’ he said, ‘and not foreseeable in the least. My mother’s only friend went down with a case of coming undone at the seams and they took her away to the hospital. Poor lady has a twelve year old daughter, and though my ma offered and asked to take care of the girl, the services came and took her away. But she also has a cat and nowhere to put it into, so I took it on, as mother has the fear of animals and viruses. So I got the cat, and you know, the thing is just adorable, but I must admit I know nothing of how to care for animals, the sphere of my knowledges being limited to politics, and I felt obliged to keep it entertained like any old guest. So after they brought it by, I was spending my time rolling around with it on the floor; I went to the store and bought a ball of yarn, and I’ve been rolling around throwing the ball of yarn at it, and basically we’ve been having a grand old time. Despite the wounds on my face and arms, we have bonded famously and I call him little cat face, and it’s great. Eventually I had to go to work and do my thing there though, and poor cat face, as any guest could be expected to, got bored. So when I got home I found he had eaten everything made of material, and scratched the walls up to boot, and I had a long night stitching up my business suits and making the place liveable again.’

‘That’s all interesting and good,’ I said, impatient to be right after all, ‘but I don’t see how it kept you away from the polling booths.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘seeing as your culture is one inclined to impatience and punch lines I can forgive you, but if you just let me go, I’ll lead you on to the end.’

‘Ok,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘A couple of days later another thing happened that was just a complete fluke too, and not an everyday occurrence. While I was snoring in my bed for the night, dreaming of all the slurpees my modest wages bring me after the loan payments have gone through, I found myself awoken by the telephone with another urgent bad call from my mother. This time a robber had cracked in and broken the window by her backdoor, and made haste with her purse. She had no documents and didn’t know how she would recover her peace of mind, or convince other people she was who she said. I managed to calm her down enough to make out her words and promised to stop by and help her talk to the police. I did just that, and said “thank you” to the officer, and was about to leave when my mother asked me to give her the cat for company and to feel protected.

‘“The usual collocation is guard dog, mother,” I said, ‘but if it will help with the tears, I guess you can have him.”

‘So shattered as I was at losing my new companion who understood me so well, I took the cat over to my mother’s and said farewell.

‘I have to admit I was feeling a little down, but I still had all my destroyed furniture to look at and remember him by, and there’s no use getting down every day.

‘Then the coup de grace struck me right off. You know I’m really in love with the modern world, I’m not a student any more, and I see no point in protesting against the new technologies; I love spaceships and TVs and online banking, but I couldn’t get into my account. So I ran in to the bank and asked them what the problem was and they told me they had sealed my account on account of my suspicious activities.

‘“And what’s so suspicious about loving the modern world?!” I said.

‘“Well,” they said, “it’s the way you gave all your money to a stranger by email.”

‘Then they asked me to stop crying, because they would find who had taken it, maybe, and that’s why they had stopped my activities.

‘“But if you had really been itching to close me down, why couldn’t you have done it before they took all the 944 dollars I’d managed to save by pinching pennies together and rubbing dimes? Or let me live my life in peace with the money stashed under my bed, instead of insisting with your buddies in the government that I have to have the money deposited directly or else I’m not a real person?”

‘But unfortunately there aren’t answers to everything, and though the sum may be laughable on big banking streets, it’s gonna take me 14 years to get that much saved again from working all day long at the library, and by night at the bakery.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘as they say, super, but I’m damned if I can see the connections or how the election is to blame.’

‘Yeah, damn it, what connections are there in life? And nobody here is blaming anyone, except maybe the laws of probability. It’s nothing. It’s only something because last year the lady at the bank with the black hair, you know I love the dark hair, said a document concerning my student loan had been lost and she had promptly given my case over to the agency for delinquent payment makers. And that’s fine, hold on, I’m not going on and on about it, though I might feel entitled to – they never even said, “Mister, hey buddy, we’re terribly sorry,” and I’m by nature inclined to the politeness of the British. No, that’s not the point, and I’m not getting my legs all bent out of shape by it. There’s no use in pointing fingers all day long. It’s just this, if you want your plot line filled in and clear: the random events all met on Election Day. I was walking right up the steps to the polling station, feeling the whole importance of the day, and preparing myself mentally to savour the check mark beside my favorite candidate’s name when mother called again saying the cat was going berserk for lack of tender caresses and cat feed, “and come quick,” she said, “I don’t think I can hold him much longer.” So I had to run to my friend and borrow a couple of bucks for cat food. After that I had to run back into work and explain to the boss how I was using my specially granted voting time caring for cats and he wouldn’t let me go again. He got it into his head that I’m something of a slacker, and truth be told he’s quite justified – nobody here’s pointing any fingers at the boss, it’s just dumb luck. After work I was making my way back towards the polling booths when I remembered I hadn’t eaten since being given the bad news at the bank about my losses, a couple days earlier, and I suddenly felt an unearthly heaviness in my limbs. I looked up at the steps to the polling booths, and felt the quarters in my pocket left over from buying the cat food, and suddenly it was like nothing in life mattered a dime – it was the strangest feeling, and one I’ve experienced only rarely. I have no idea where it came out of, and as I looked up and thought about all things political, I just couldn’t justify the effort up the steps to my hungry legs. At that I turned away, mystified and a little concerned at myself, and full of hope the feeling was fleeting. I stopped in at the supermarket and bought a loaf of the whitest bread I could see and forced it down post haste.’

‘And the feeling,’ I said, ‘what about the feeling? Did it leave you alone after the white bread?’

‘You know, buddy,’ he said, ‘I haven’t had time to pay attention to it, I’ve been preoccupied, as they say, with worrying about getting some cash together before the end of the month to make the loan payments, and if there’s enough left over, maybe the rent. On top of this I’m a little worried lest the money disappear from my account the minute I put it in there, so I can’t say for certain what’s up with the feeling, but I’ll definitely look into it again as soon as it becomes feasible.’

Jeudi - vendredi

A l'air frais

Au beau milieu d’un champ, un radio-cassette accroché au bout d’un poteau hurle du Johnny Hallyday a des poules de Bresse d’appellation d’origine contrôlée. L’atmosphère est très inquiétante surtout qu’un ciel grisâtre enrobe les environs d’une lumière campagnarde très crue qui fige sur l’herbe un ennui sans grâce. Remarquez bien qu’on flatte les gallinacés avec un langage qu’elles comprennent. Donc les poules captent bien ce que chante Johnny et deviennent très agressives quand celui-ci porte sa voix sur les notes gueulées de son répertoire, ainsi au paroxysme de ses prouesses vocales, elles vont dans des attaques gloussantes griffer les cous de leurs congénères.
Pourtant, le dispositif est sensé éloigner les oiseaux migrateurs porteurs de la grippe aviaire, mais comme le fait remarquer l ‘éleveur au bon sens Bourg-En-Bressois :
« Ca éloigne même les renards ! » Seules fans dans cette campagne française, les poules s’agglutineront comme au beau temps des yé-yé autour de ce poteau tapageur jusqu’à 18H00 où elles rentreront, au chaud, pour regarder questions pour un champion sur des écrans géants suspendus aux murs en tôle du poulailler.

Chewie is a Dead-Set Legend

Cockney Accent recquired to read this

(Where is me fuckin' hat ?)

Just stop breathin'

not completely though

you might still need some air

in the middle of a sentence.

Let me say one thing about 'Politic' because I am gonna talk more about that soon, with more energy, more passion, more envy than this special fat cunt over there. When it comes to art, I , me , modern thinker, and I won't apologize for my lack of modesty, I'm a nature masterpiece afterall, My body works fine, look, I can breathe, This man, is political, I chose not to depend on obvious understanding, I mean, If you're not able to put your mind among this shit and look at it as if you were me, so then, back off villain, you'll never understand alterity and that's why you'll die as a super-slave, listening to people talking for you, instead of you, like you're a ghost on the airwaves, your thoughts just as meaningless, don't even look at it, don't even assemble the words in your borrowed mind, you shouldn't even read that darn blog, you, die, my politic, in one word, is going on crusades against you fuckers, bottomless wheels !

Round 1 to the mouse

Beaten by a fricken mouse.

Of course, I forgive myself for the encounter - when a man's hungry, he needs bread. What he doesn't need - indeed, never even begins to suspect - is the possibility that when a mouse is hungry, it also needs bread.

So there I was, happily fishing around in a plastic bag for a suitable chunk, when I felt two itchy little pinpricks in my finger. There was a black thing in the bag - a fricken black thing, moving so fast I could only see it was black and it was a thing.

The body kicked in long before the brain: I began dancing round the kitchen, shrieking and furiously flapping the bag around, desperate to get my hand back in one piece. Clearly some primal instinct, some remnant of my cave-sniffing past, had recalled that fast fricken black things were mortally dangerous. It scrabbled up my arm, bonzaid it's way to the floor, and wriggled under the stove.

I've recently begun considering meself something of a burlily unfuckwithable dude, so it was a bit of a blow to find meself clutching at my heart and squealing like a decidedly unburlily fuckwithable wretch.

Round 1 to the mouse: The traps are primed; the cheese is rich and stanky; there's a reputation at stake here.