Thursday, November 30, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
souks,Hashchish dens o' inequity,
in wanderin' sands o' desert, twistin' dark sinister
alleys, wi'in terminal
emergency wards o' minds shattered by Robopathic
Machine, in Mosques o' Ecstasy, in bombed out
cathedrals o' Church o'
Poisoned Mind, in esoteric texts blown down desolate
streets in these
wasteland Zones o' Planet Terror...what?...
one be quite aware it can't possibly be "identity"-for
too long one has been
Hip that that there delusion is yet another chain
wrapped around human
flesh by cretin meglomaniacs o' societus...
a "self"? a "soul"? ah,man,NO!!! don'GO there!!!
perhaps a turquoise tent o' sky lies as if a veil
above one's skull?
a piercin' orb o' sun sets one's flesh 'n' lusts
be there ever an oasis where one might even for a
must one's fate be damned t' this absurd bizarre quest
unthinkable insatiable desires for unknown 'n'
more than likely-yes!
I who have crawled out o' putrid womb o' a world
damned by its
precocious manchild delinquent, sinister
adolescent,Wild Boy maleslut
whore, demented exile from wars 'n' revolutions,
survivor o' Night's
adventures in drugs sex 'n' rock 'n' roll...
archaic authentic Hipster Vagabond spoutin' spoken
t' rats 'n' alleycats 'n' Punks 'n' Bikers 'n'
citizens fleein' horrors
they brought on themselves...
be there a soothe? a Coolthe? for any o' us?
I might be crazy but I ain't n'Fool! Man,like,I
wouldn' even begin t' attempt
t' try t' answer ANY question!
obviously there be NO answers!
indubitibly all one can hope for be
another quicksilver GypsyMoon t' illuminate one's
perhaps be blessed wi' caress o' other flesh
a break from this insidious bullshit "reality"!
draggin' oneself on
down these roads
vultures 'n' stormcrows circlin' one's skull
gallows beckonin' dare one make one stupid mistake
or radioactive massive mushrooms
soarin' at one
vampirizin' any vague hope o' tomorrow...
Hassan i Sabbah
NOTHING IS TRUE,EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED
PAUL BOWLES:"...Thus for a dedicated smoker,the
passage to the "other world" is
often a pilgrimage undertaken for the express purpose
of oracular consultation..."
Crescent Moon casts a sliver o' light
upon twistin' dark alleys
in labyrinthes o' NightSide
which Damned Embrace
upon ravaged Planet Terror
lunatic humanity spews forth
chains 'n' spikes o' DADAPUNK
adorn heavy boots 'n' black leather rags
ANDROGYN-X Dervish O' Transgression
in terminal HEAT
longtongued 'n' obsessive LUST
boil wi'in his guts
flashfloods o' creativity
breakthru walls o' mind
fires burn t' ash
Robopathic slime o' Control Machine
embroyos dance in aquatic UFOs
"Mektoub,it be Written
'n' here I be!"
He hisses,like,King Cobra
muted hypnotic nuances
"I bring ya Anarchy! Sorcery!
Hyenas devour icons
at Nightmare's Edge
maggots rats 'n' scorpions eat brainmeat
o' Robopathic cretins!
Hell: "human" ekyisyence...
yet Tribes o' AModernist Vagabonds
Wild Tattooed 'n' Pierced
psyched on Haschisch 'n' lush
Kicks o' Flesh 'n' Altered Consciousness
Sinistre yet Possessed
by outraegeous tenderness
adversaries o' Death-eatin'
"pornographic" Rites in SOUKS
" Citizen be vile," says he
pukin' on "moral majorities"
'n' meglomaniac Robopathic creeds
he sprays mobs wi' bitter tears
citizens melt like plastic
turn into naughahyde trees...
"MAN, yr " God" might as well be Dead!
Goddess Moon 'n' Horned God Rule!"
Renegade 'n' Intrepid ApocoHipster Hashshashin Dervish
into this grotesque
soap opera sitcom "REAL TV"
they call "life"
insane sudden silence
masses o' Virus lurkin'
cravin' t' unleash their Plagues
o' Robopathic shit!
they're intensely afraid o' Renegade
somethin' in his eyes
unveils all transgressive Rebels
since lucifer lilith 'n' Cain
some ApocoHipster sneer
on Horny Goat lips
some insurrection o' leather
vibes o' ultra terminal alienation
'n' he comes wi' insidious Chants
orgiastic AModern Dances
"I'll give ya "truth"!
Blow yr asses away
wi' DADAPUNK HASHSHASHIN Runes 'n' Sigils!
I be some kind o' Astral Partisan
stroke ya wi'
O Renegade Changeling
from amoeba t' Fallen Angel Manifest
no "THE BOOK" hype be this!
O Cain 'n' Lilith Villon Baudelaire Rimbaud
Lautreamont Artaud Genet Gysin Bowles
Eberhardt Burroughs Hakim Bey
Kathy Acker Hassan i Sabbah
Transgressive Hashshashins anonymous!
Rebop! Arabesque BeBop!
N'way they can stop
There'll never be any weapons made
can ultimately annihilate this Freak!
follow clouds o' haschisch smoke
in Moon Crescent illuminated
sacrifice the Lie
thus be you Phoneix
prowl 'n' howl wi' Renegades
strip off layers o' shuck
expose Naked Lunch
they call this all a dream?!
"O d'ya come be wi' me?
D'y'really Desire t' be Free?
C'mon, let's Dance
There's nothin' o' which t' be afraid...
initiate marvelous metamorphosis
from Robopath human
into Madjoub Dervish o' Transgression ApocoHipster
AKA: Gypsy James O'Toole
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
are ever seeing
The index card on which the poem was written also bears a signature. I
cannot decipher it confidently, but it looks like "Mickely."
Friday, November 17, 2006
titles are just published by Dalkey.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Can you really afford to pass up "Clash by Night" with Barbra Stanwyck as a world weary gal come home to Monterey and a fisherman's hamfisted love?
Or "Crossfire" where Robert Ryan, perennially a thug, beats a man to death because he doesn't care for his religion? It was a daring theme then and now. Robert Young (Marcus Welby MD) discovers the crime and Ryan is gunned down on that same midcentury city streetcorner on the Warner lot that you've seen a dozen times in other old movies. As always, it looks spectacular.
They come five to a box and you can get your black and white fill of Robert Mitchum, Kirk Douglas, a very young Marilyn, Jane Greer and lots of others.
Chances are, if you haven't steeped yourself in this stuff already, you'll come away amazed at the quality of dialogue and filmmaking craft displayed in the best of these. Even if you get stuck watching one of the lesser entrants, you'll howl at the cliches that seem to come in torrents.
While we are enamored of Richard Ford's sports writers and Richard Russo's upstate ne'er do wells, we wonder whether anyone is doing now what John O'Hara did for mundane Americans between 1930 and 1970. Some may recall that he was known as a "frank realist" in those days. I am not old enough to recall that personally but I've seen the paperbacks with their bold-print claims. Americans were more easily "shocked" then and my point is not to resurrect his sense of boundaries.
What I am wondering is, will anyone tell us what happens to lovers in cars on snowbound country roads late at night? Can there ever be a market again for his signature type of story: a few thousand words about a bank president unhappy that one of his tellers has taken to wearing loafers?
He wrote hundreds of these, it seems: extended vignettes about painfully ordinary folks, detailing with cold precision their inelegance and illuminating their generally unhappy fates.
I am not saying no one is doing it, or that no one can do it. I am just saying I don't know who they are and that I wish to.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
The novel in either its traditional or experimental modes relishes distraction, digression, fragmentary and fleeting episodes, and linguistic upheavals.Now that e-mail has confounded discourse with attention deficits, tics, broken communication, unmediated derring-do, how might the novel prevail? In its desire for novelty, will the novel wrench its form back to systematic and blandly coherent expressions as a means of keeping itself antinomian to commercial culture and the disconnection of its body (bodiless?) politic?
Access over 1 million songs - Yahoo! Music Unlimited.
The question of political bias in literary affairs has once again emerged with Orhan Pamuk's winning of the 2006 Nobel Prize for Literature.Pamuk has been outspoken about the Armenian genocide, an event (and intention) the Turkish authorities refuse to acknowledge. Is he being heralded for extra-literary activities? If so, is this any different from any writer to win the award in certain historically turbulent periods? Have not the Nobel Prize and most international literary prizes been politically motivated?Should we be surprised by the work being prized along with the person? Concerned? Curley has none of the answers but perhaps you do.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Essentially the same was the feuding between poets Robert Duncan and Denise Levertov two decades later. I suppose these break-ups were tragic to some extent and maybe expose the limits of creative/intellectual collaboration, but it is nonetheless inspiring to see literary wars based on ideas, not egos or peripheral issues of the trade. The literary world has always been a community in conflict, of conflict; why not feud and frenzy with ardor and depth?
Last year, Ben Marcus won my affections for his full-on assault on Jonathan Franzen's ideas about literature.But that was a one-sided affair. What can we quarrel about, dear reader, dear writer?Bring on the Metaphysical Brawlers!
Monday, November 06, 2006
best, Martin Scriblerus
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
little cities and little towns where words and worlds merge warmly beyond the metropolis's gates and horizons....
It's the Office Hallway Smirk. In the feudal state of Corporate America, millions labor anonymously from one another though pulling for the same profit margin. Most participants know its a sham existence but have not figured out how you get out of it without turning into a homeless person. From this stoic recognition is born the Smirk.
You'll encounter it on your way to the copy machine: as you pass your office-casual counterpart, you see their lips compress but without a smile; you see their eyes widen just slightly and their gaze very briefly meets yours as they go by. That's the whole thing. This minimalist gesture stands in for a greeting today among colleagues.
Careful analysis reveals that it signifies "I know we are both more or less trapped here and while I neither know you well nor feel any special sympathy for you, I am forced to acknowledge both your presence and your struggle to exist, like myself, as a fully realized human being inside this impersonal machine. Furthermore, please don't blame me for I have struggles of my own at which you would not care to guess."
An emotionally repressed people, Americans have mastered the art of the Smirk; probably most folks would prefer to ignore their colleague utterly. But the Smirk is a guilt-based reaction, and we find it useful to assuage the fact that we view our colleague as an inconvenience to our solitude.