Monday, November 30, 2015

slow K, rounding


nnnnn, LEhgs (pronounced: zed)



Midway a through and to, a few hours to grope, this hi, her knee, my thigh, twee, a tint, glad you were three, here, maybe, a butt, an end, trance and stuff, towing the potty line, along, alone, you (groan), not-again-shalom, no piece, pies wide, the favorite hinge, commanding bits, the hug hues hit, up/there/down/fat-ass/thanks/for/knocking/your/carry-on/into/my/cheek, and sometimes you record a baby, a droll good bye, caesar sandwich, parched and coughing, ears out of pitch, whistling to your child as were it a dog-like reptile, pants still, pun-planted, guile (a good demand), ties everywhere and dresses made out of lettuce & rope, balls riling, trials rolling, Henry's bawling, none's the best, happy hollow weighs, I got made!


Sunday, November 29, 2015

Saturday, November 28, 2015

it stares when you walk by



A tall man with gall

He keeps the tilt handy


at issue (T minus)

I eat to full capacity. Not bloated or overflowing my seat pockets, nor spilling through the stitching of a shrinking costume; neither a whale ballet or a lipid tsunami, much less a creosote pajama, and hardly the alarming realization that one's contentious behavior has become a soapy bloated figure, a sallow sow waddling along sniffing its unable-to-reach flapjack arms, wicked-like as in the cinematic pan over a field of corpulence, carbohydrates compounding into a dizzy autopsy report, what's your cholesterol questions, what-are-you-some-kinda-lard-dump, all that and all this, but wait, think a minute, if possible, and, wait for it, yep: enzymes, body shock, and a slow bubble emerging. The original assertion is a lie. I eat like a teenager, fourteen sandwiches, forty ham & cheese rolls, ninety jars of mayonnaise sipped through straws, unspeakable gallons of vegetable oil, fed intravenously and showered through the eyes, nostrils becoming siphons, imagine an overeating aardvark, a chubby anteater, becoming a sucking machine and also resembling its prey, a pulpy termite, beige purple-headed grub, the size of a school bus, Noah's ark, the state of Arkansas, a world-sized shopping mall buffet, shoved down my esophagus, waiting for the nitrates, the dairy products, the grains, raisins, muesli, yoghurt, pâté, breaded goodies, eggs, lactose, mustards, and caffeine to blend and or send me to the doctor.

(wait for it)

eyes used for tooth support

empty landfill

eyes used for tooth supports having had the best hotel breakfast in months


They all They all have the same forehead as me.
eyes used They all have the same foreheadThey all have the same forehead as me. eyes They They all have the same forehead as me.
eyes used for tooth supportall have the same forehead as me. eyes used for tooth supportused for tooth support as me. eyes used for tooth supportfor tooth supporthave the same foreheadThey all have the same forehead as me. eyes used for tooth support as me. eyes used for tooth support

Friday, November 27, 2015

Gotten burgs


hired hymns

1. nnnnn T'chjo

2. Foooooo (G)

3. muh, muh




Looking for beards and all I got was an ugly angel


splaining is cuntle

Post foo ost guts, he replied.

Belly be ckons, flap/ping G, (was the response, echoing from the back forty, a familiar holler, soft & rounded, with emphasis on the c, g, and / ).

Iota, oh, oh, ohgod ohgod, was his chirp, although everyone knew he didn't rally behind those words, it was more like he did it under duress, like that guy on tv once did.

Shi doe snnn, annn, ftssss, what was all the (pause) thuh thuh... (spoke the voice from behind the door, raspy, as if having had a sour beer and was faking enjoying the contents).

Rrrrxxxxx, said a mom-type, holding the X out with a series of secondary drones, with a subwoofer layer that resonated within the gauges of a dropped E string, 56? 74? practically a bass, but with the sheering attack of a baritone, maybe a Fender, but I doubt it, given the sustain which blasted the ears with a good forty minutes.

Huv, torp, languishing in redge, he summoned, maybe a bit too fatherly, but then again, none were privy to his past, so maybe he did sire a child or two, a wife in every port, a penis untethered, an every-man's dream, a guy we could all like, a rapist, a fucker, a molester, an abuser, a user, a bro, a fascist, a man who didn't mind using racial epithets.

Funny, I dote on toilets, gurgled someone, not sure who.

Hu. No, I said, H-U, coughed a stern male voice.

Who? a whisper repeated.


No for your D


eyes used for tooth support

Thursday, November 26, 2015

porting bales, the hecks between hearsay, fish, beards, and that guy

Check mark, genital.

The primitive foray into all things reconsidering oceanic, a bad label soldering trick led to the rest. You'd open up the glove and check for certain round balls; that's how you'd do it when you were young. Balls meant sea creatures, Kirk captains of a sort, the genotypes that led to a type of so-called purse which, upon opening, freed the roe, sending blasts of milt and hurtles, multi-pointed (head/atlatl); cursive trajectories, side spinning smiling, out into creation mythology; we'd all heard the story, my new found bearded friend replied.

One time a guy with facial hair and a guitar was met by some kindly travel angels in a city and land where he did not speak the native tongue. The angels took him away, whisking him along, gently gently in their vehicle, so glad to see him, talking him up with heaps of praise on their way to the concert venue. Once there, the ritual dinner ensued, chit chat, more praise, beer and wine, and then, the soundcheck. During the plugging in and mic placements and amplifier requests, it suddenly dawned on the tour angels that there was something amiss with the singer's voice and acoustic stylings... did he arrive with a new album? These weren't the songs they knew, nor was his voice quite what they remembered. Meanwhile, back at the train station, another facial-haired man with an acoustic guitar was hungry as hell, looking at the big glowering station clock, wondering when the fuck his tour angels were coming to pick him up for his concert that night.

Moral? Shave.

My bearded friend slept with seaweed rugs draped from head to toe. It's the iodine that warms facial hair, but sends rust to trusted strings. Guitars have no use when submerged, even gently, but acoustics sound great when one adds a round circle between two piezos and the affixes the two together with a silicon skin. Have trust in the fish? Maybe.

Or, suggest that maybe, professionally, you have two tongues. Yet today, when combover mannequins think they're social media Leos, put a bit of wire, namely that rusted string, into their wallets before they get away. Taking the wire and poking it several times will create a sieve effect, draining their capacities when it's time to tug their imperial pants. Once down, a new acoustic will be born, sending with it, the gurgles and glee of a semen so profound that the world will shiver, shake, send itself (like the aforementioned missile) into the sun. But not to worry, we could all use some vitamin D that day.


Inside Hi, outside Harbor


Wednesday, November 25, 2015

like home (Stavanger)


geo ohm

<ø))~~~§<, now

<ø))~~~§<, on the way to

Oft hit S

What little there was to share, we fell asleep to. Days were long, as long as a Norseman's beard, and shortened as well, like a crew cut Jim, on his first day to fishing class about assism and gleaningship apprentice-hnyorts, an onomatopoeic bricklayer choral
arrangement of caw-bird noises and clacks (ensuing). I ate a fuck, having back a few rhetorical circle pie eyes, and wont, nay, not to cough much, but for a furtive fear of endearing marks, furniture-sized and shallow bite impressions that weren't in her or his shade of hose or gravy, either way, troughs of wimp left before there weren't raver pants and shiny ear gigglerati to expound upon little spites, snippets of teak that tykes and frankly, virgo-esque, essays or ports, shipping nooses, moo's and poops, a sigh to cinder sand and dusting greyly will tell you about, when they weren't sixteen or seven, and daddy was over at the card game while brother S did the handy hand puppet penises of a kind only lawsuits could inscribe descriptions and formal art trainings/meanings/into, via hotel leers, wet zippers, and vacations with the fingers. I lie, but only in regular diesels, autoeroticorrected into a shelving system that smelled of ponds and winced the last green before December. Indeed, the buses would arrive, spilling out a verdant tongue of commuter traffic and the riffs that artists would wonder about, were if they able workers and compliant toads. When you don't even comprehend this morning, there's no need to cut your dreads. Shitty people will retain their issues about everyone, venting aspic and importance when it comes to anything or one but themselves. Yo. A. He's the capital H, and socks couldn't be good for log, especially alders, tough as nails, and hardly warm enough to tech the fiber.


Tuesday, November 24, 2015



fourth incarnation, Olso

I've built four or five of these fuckers. I say four, but remember the fifth being the balls-out helmet, painted blue, lasting one show, a performance that emptied 400 or so ping pong balls (from the head) while bouncing on an amplified yoga ball, yeah, that one...

Eye placement is key.

My longest lasting helmet (from last year) had virtually the same blockprint eyes, bicorn element, but was so stinky from cigarette smoke, bars, and the last straw, a fog machine that nearly maced my eyes out of their sockets, that, it too has been placed into museum status, meaning, stuffed into a box or stapled to a wall, never to be worn again. Which brings us to this one, or me to that one, as I doubt anyone actually reads this blog. Here we have number 4-5, number 3-4 is gone, done, left behind for a one-off in Naples. Same supermarket aesthetic, though: IKEA catalog and all its consumerist handpicked genotype-friendly family photos, aaah neoliberalism, same EYES, motherfucker.

Eyes are funny nodules. You put em on and bam, you're no longer a papier mache fool, but a flat-headed sturgeon, orator, guffawing, interloping as well as interrupting, and hats off to ye. Thanks to everyone who came out, so they say.


Monday, November 23, 2015

Friday, November 20, 2015

Thursday, November 19, 2015

times like these



1. Sordid

2. Sore didn't

Days gonner bye, shittles winning occasional, butt's sell you shores, and more guts filleted.
Sin ruth we glow, it's just a shown, shoe-in-fighter-smilette, to a T, to a two, brother-limp or primp that queee, so goes,,, ample amok and bespoke totter (if mixed, swell!) & he 8 no, we Ono, xPox, ecclesiastical stumps, galumping empires/cynical cyborg featurings, lum moves, kidnight grooves, the sour sill and toasts throaterly i-kin-smell-ur-yankles (so Gusp you go, fandy drilling emo & RBF, hi hi, hi hi gigh) and HORE HOTE, neggst Hbf, simply, Tay Vegan Geeze(r)(c)(t), raidmarks approval, binary pos3ur, lip-tucks?
Boy, you coulda' sold 'em.




1. Well?

2. More than one...

3. Nope.


Wednesday, November 18, 2015

quick, it's democraptic

The eggs of bad echoes lay sugar in the meme of Ronald, playing power pajamas in oak stockings, readying a Ted or two of discush, but really only hopping, a dumb jackrabbit at the porta potty by the shiddy bus stop, legs leaving lingering hexes and crossed double wide with despair of air passage, killing the tulips and wrinkling ex-girlfriends' nasal faces, and man oh man, okay, it's okay (FB-likes and eyes, federal bureaus, shit you love to be watched while you're talking, no?) and lemme look, I gotta hafta donsomethingsilly, but my and your or our, dour counting contests, leave oats on a poorly rendered trail title, squeeze buttons pressed and if, when, classing out ever occurs, the bunny of all humans (that's all of us, when we spy and spray) just leaves a garbage fart behind.


Sunday, November 15, 2015

I woke up

to a tiny Beckett staring at me