Wednesday, November 12, 2014


By in large, karma worked phonetically. It'd slurp a few easy vowels, coming off with a bit of an Anglo-lisp, but nothing that'd upset the inlaws. Worked down with some gin, the effeminately curved typefaces formed O's, dripping with flourishes of spunk or possibly lactate.

Our favorite fascist resembled a cow. You'd send them a dossier about rinsing after sullying their mitts -- a thing cows would love to sully, mitts no less, cloven or with digits -- and all they'd do is moo and add some cum or milk to homogenize the hole, or the world, or the entire stinking joke. Many O's later, it would take someone like a politician, a democrat maybe, you know, some sort of land speed apologist, to update his caps and pack in a few extra nooses, just in case it was black tie. Then, head over heals, clasping his new-found helvetica maybe, or cuneiform (either worked), he'd stammer, erect but with slightly sloped shoulders, shaking his podium with the slightest tremor of a future relapse, and mutter on about something kind of dingy, kind of pale, a story that belied the truisms, a tale (or perhaps just a crapshoot take on life) that not many had uses for jays or the end (you know the type), and, no matter what bookshelves would go up, they'd really just lie there, pregnant with unread dears, distraught by the incessant lashings of cows and karma lettrism, a world made for funny and excessively large pants, won over by elastic waistbands and orange juice stains (so-called). Not withstanding, and despite the now-quaking podium, all the crowd ooo'ed and wow'd, made ridiculous roaring for encores, and, following the ballyhoo, tired but grinning with having witnessed such prose, such a statement, such charisma, they, the beholden of newly-formed-mouths, made for the dump. And registered to vote once more.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Inciting wrists

Kisses insist on listing the lust wander autocorrect, yo and you and over, we-the-several-you'd-implied, took to takings, Ronald and bimping, o'er 3 maybe, lucked wooden habitat, lumping old guys, circled obsessive as a huevo nouveau reeesh, what with its randy pumps, canal ridges, and lookingly complexed by deprivers and embodiment smells. It's a day costing lost and the frail November sea, a something which hick bashes licks as well as kinking up of seal liver, puce, and handies. Not one for either oat, some call em oaks, I call them tease, and everywhere spreads thy dingle of vinegar lease -- long nights man, crampy ads in tiny box corner x-the-cookies, suits and frites, open widows, portly something's, and caloric teens rotting their cuspids on maryjane. A dam-daughterly wink, carbo-fusion everybear, trains gaining seed but cannot you or I he-she-says, this pluck is a maize, amazed by carefully measured biographies of corned messes and hessian stools of dog pit tots and tricky ricksome rails, parables with hairy ambling planes that atchoo singe the site with curable citing, velour shadows and ploppy yule. Remember you well when not a decade asses: hell comes to Amsterdam.

Monday, November 10, 2014

out of context hi you out of context hi you out if maybe context hi you are out of context hi you wouldn't happen to be out of context hi you wouldn't happen to have a context hi you would out the context if you had to

Friday, November 7, 2014

roof toppers

circa 2014

circa 1996

Found the fernet, just a sip, 'neath the building with the mosaic and crow dotted curly weathervanes, spirally black motifs from an earlier guard. That's the check, need I remember? This place and its yellow dusted buildings, onion headed occasions, triangle headed cartoons, all an atheist alike, and very much a calm peoples, a rich deep soot; all this place has a resin, and I'm back, a decade ago, no, two actually, furiously trying to wrap my head around it. So I found the gooey liquid, running on full tilt that day, telling stories about shoving microphones in orifices, and then teaching kids to scribble sounds with little brass discs and solder. A central eastern, more eastern than central, but you're centrally positioned and trying to undo your eastern leanings. Fernet helps soothe the confusion: hey-you-can-read-dull-neo-whatever-novels-all-you-want-and-it-will-always-fail-to-miss-the-target. The sidewalk is still hollering in American English; the double decade Yappie is now the globalist by-product, a barrel-chested attempt at asserting climate change denial with its fckn Wall Street haircut, a neo lib-bro, brazen, more stupid than ever, and dripping with smarm, creased with top heavy tripod clothing, and unforgivably loutish. Fortunately, Husova street still glimmers and shares its cheeky fish smile. This is the calm place, if I remember correctly, but also the place where the breaks took place, and with gusto I might add, at first against the Holy Roman Empire, then President Havel with his plays, and now... now... now... CALM. And globalists. And fernet. And access to pho, smartphones, piezos, Loony Tunes, iTunes, high fashion, the noise underground, unread novels, mysterious golems, and always with the lurk and lore of a blacker black, a black-black-black that my pens and pencils were way back when (and still to this day) unable to draw.

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Pic & Point

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Thursday, November 6, 2014

murks tribute band (w/ Ayn Rand)

Merde ichthy, yore and clamor, the onesies and twos of binaries and logics, the well and well and well again, man-man-man-man, you ain't having pun with the numb. The fingers itch to react in a crack of stoop and peel; eviscerate before you conjugate. From the here-perch, you're all glubbing and poking goldfish eyes into one another, hexes and V's, triangle 3's, naming unknown gods, pooping down to your knees. And the me-me-me's. It's hardly A. Minus circles round the bends, total hicks one would see, dotted fingernails and pails, no more soap or pen pals, but revolutions and me-volves, all the hoaxes one could muster, all-a-cable festooned bluster and rusted shunt tick luck shuffle shire tiff. Man-maan-maaaan, gotta ones and twosies through-the-hoops, duck and cover from yodels and ownershit totem crows, jowls, owls, and people named Joel. Why would not you not want me to not want to not un-return? Peck era. A squalid peckerish pre-return to gills. Humor? My my. And three more mighs. I'm in a soot orgy, dusted dimpled, November timid grey orange, with a wire hopper above and the stink of Skoda and cloves. The cramps come; he lied to me about ratios and stuff. It's not bad dose, as hee hee would raise a few fourth rate motel eyebrows later. Yet. As one would be taken to taking, the thus and this, the gander hue at your sudden fits, the bahnhoff bumble of disingenuous limbo dunce and ranch dressers akin, I'd best be beasting, rest-feeding, awaiting and baiting and getting ready for the queasy wakes of well, your welcome nothing. Si. C. Eww, in a minute.

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Wednesday, November 5, 2014

poll, droll, drool, spy-on-you

Murk a murk and an A scarlet let-you-boil humor torpor armor murmur murky, jerk it, lurking murk, quite the birch, itch, rich end stick, clerk, a murk, humbling crumble mumble murky, shriek, shirk, stork, a fork, an absolute work!
What's you, you and you, get to got with no...
And no...
And then you, then and hen, pennies wise with skies fizz and falling copper acorn brims; then and then, that would be you, you (and you) go get it, you then, you get you, then, um, eh.
Stammer, stammer, wait and wait, stutter, shit yourself, stam--
It's the end it's the end it's the end it's the end it's the end it's the end, no, wait, it's your end. Um, you got an end? Mind the end? Murk yourself? Murmur, I get it, got you, smell it, shitty, rinsed well with high end conditioner and lanced boil bubble right guard spray-on, spy-on, eyes-on, scion, scorpions, porpoise sons, pretty ones, ditty buns...
I can smell, too.
Bottom's up!

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it's been a week

1. Kunst
2. Findings
3. Relax

In the act, in Israel

1. Ensemble piece, Levontin 7, Tel Aviv

2. Solo sturg', Tmuna Theatre, Tel Aviv

3. Audience synthesizer choir, Haifa

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sneak peek

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eyes used for tooth support