(courier5)

You’d think the wolf-masters would be more pleased with the feral state of their progeny. Raised by wolves in a wolf society, it’s no wonder they are feral.

—digitalpidgin

again, i say, this is no society of wolves.

no society as disconnected as this from true instincts can be compared with wolves. in fact, the widespread demonizing of wolves should be an indicator:

second wolf hunting season opens in montana this september

at best, this is a society of sheep in wolves’ clothing, but i’m loathe to continue making animal-analogies here, because the problems we have in our society are quite unique to mankind.

we see the violence we do, not because we’re wild, but because we’re domesticated, Controlled: split off from the ability to recognize the instinctive current and openly work with it, so it comes out sideways in fucked-up drives.

many of the “wolves” that actually exist amongst humans would actually be our allies in our counter-Control projects, if we had the courage to stand before their analogues in our own psyches.

Hmmm the doodles… mayhaps I shall revisit the doodles.

you should, sir.

Do i get a poem? Also this is lovely!

here’s a cut-up for you (thanks! dali’s fun to mimic):

someone that I am, for me. return, become the machine of a fist (terrifying terrifying sound) rather than a person. I enjoy being between sex and analysis, like being hurt and calculations: fight to go back to macroeconomics, constantly international. it’s fighting for material dominance/control finance, today—get ready. Also, COOKIN’ ARTICHOKES AND MAKING AN AOLI YEAH I’M A FUCKIN’ BOSS IN THE KITCHEN!

digitalpidgin replied to your post: Poem of Little Things

I am fancy, I am fancy, I am fancy

There is a lady standing on a cat,

I am fancy, I am fancy, I am fancy.

Hot gas jets of nearby galaxies are jealous.

The cow peeks over ledges of hedges with tongues exposed,

“Ah, Great Expectations!”

tactical exigencies, tactical exigencies, tactical exigencies,

tactical exigencies, tactical exigencies, tactical exigencies,

tactical exigencies, tactical exigencies, tactical exigencies,

                          tactical exigencies, tactical exigencies,etc.

DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVES ON A COMMON MENACE, THE VIRUS OF CONTROL!

There is a tiny little thing placed in a spot high above.

I am happy, I am happy, I am happy.

Sewing needles stick in the little nickels that are tender and soft.

My girlfriend with the cork hand full of wire nails.

One of my girlfriend’s breasts is a calm sea urchin, the other a humming hive.

My girlfriend has a knee of smoke.

Little spells, little spells, little spells, little spells, little spells…

LITTLE SPELLS STING.

The eye of the partridge is red.

Little things, little things, little things,

little things, little things, little things,

little things, little things, little things,

                 little things, little things, etc.

THERE ARE LITTLE THINGS, AS STILL AS A LOAF OF BREAD.

—Salvador Dali

Sam likes to say, “Ah, great expectations!”
at least three or four times in every
conversation. He is twelve years old.
Nobody knows what he is talking about when
he says it. Sometimes it makes people
     feel uncomfortable.

—Richard Brautigan

we remember when i used to make poems, it was all slicked with rain and left to creep in dream’s back corriders. curling round real apples, tone tags, leather, color-coded pride. a cut-up flag of red and black.

The steely vegetation burgeons and burgeons on. It roars, whistles, springs, explodes, blusters. Art, that old toy, will be dissolved into dust by the syphilitic ants and the schnaps-gorillas.

The Dadaists foresaw and foretold the unfolding of progress into madness. We refused to become useful members of the useless human society, and we sang a little song with the refrain, “For that reason we are also not obliged to polish the claws, horns, and weather vanes.”

—Hans Arp

The steps were thorny, I climbed all the way down, silver-pointing my steps, stepped into the white-washed room, a candle burned, there was no sound and I buried my head in purple cloth. And the earth cast out a child’s body, the shape of a moon, it stepped slowly from my shadow. The stony crashes, then the arms breaking into bits, the flaking snow!

—Georg Trakl

There was a man who found two leaves and came indoors holding them out saying to his parents that he was a tree.

To which they said then go into the yard and do not grow in the living-room as your roots may ruin the carpet.

He said I was fooling I am not a tree and he dropped the leaves.

But his parents said look it is fall.

—Russell Edson

heksenhaus:

digitalpidgin said: so fancy.

digitalpidgin said: so fancy.

digitalpidgin said: so fancy.

And when, that night, the unseasonable rain (the hail a shredding sound in the lemon trees) thudded against the lumbering of the bay, in August, haunting the dark with a querulous whiteness, he retired to the basement room under the house to study the various aspects of water, the ships in sudden counterpoint on the rising scales of the sea, and to wait for the breakthrough, across the barren hills of his brain, of the bronze soldiers, for the swelling flash of their knives.

—Charles Wright

I am forbidden to stop to see. As if I were condemned to see while walking. While speaking. To see what I speak, and to speak precisely because I do not see. Thus to show what I do not see, what I am forbidden to see. What language, unfolding, strikes and discovers. Blindness signifies the obligation to invert the terms, and to posit walking and word before the eyes. To walk in the night, to speak through din and confusion, so that the shaft of the rising day fuses and answers my step, designates the branch, and picks the fruit.

—Jacques Dupin

Holding a knife, or imagining it holds a knife, my blood goes to sleep in my hand. Stare at it now with my eyes which are the polite and troubled eyes of a deaf man at a concert, or of someone in telepathic communications with statues. Because if I look into it long enough, inevitably the moment when I no longer recognize it arrives. This is the moment when the blood unknowingly offers itself to be slaughtered; when cuts can occur like a slip of the tongue; when a little blood could billow in a glass of water and impart to it the haunted taste of my own life.

—Franz Wright

have been listening to a lot of idaho again lately.

they’ve got a warm melancholy, quirkiness, and richness to them that i find very pleasing. very stream-of-consciousness lyrics, with some excellent surprises.

“have to be”

“for granted”

“no ones watching”

you were a dick, their most recent album, isn’t quite as moody (sonically) as the others (though lyrically about the same), and yields a lot of dreamy-morning tracks. i highly recommend it (and, well, i fucking love the moody shit, too).

My pale muse, night creature, maybe a vampire, my pale Medusa, undersea secretary, always unsteady, but with burning kisses on the shinbone. Where do I escape from kisses and poems, speech wants everything, even whatever I don’t want, from beautifully agitated mouths excuses fall into the clearest darkness. Beer is drunk there, and the conquerors stand on the platform, their dung-beetle, their pharmacist of wisdom, and everything that exists is logical. Let us climb onto the gravestones and curse the secret servants!

I hate everybody, my button near the buttonhole, but we are only for nouns and prepositions. There’s the ego in every line, it hides best. Hey there, and you won’t find me, not me and not us. My muse is made of sand, my Medusa a stone that keeps looking out, my poster a shop sign that doesn’t attract attention: Shoe Repair, End of Summer Sale, Sweets.

So we travel without companions, without a vehicle. Many think they have us, but already we’ve slipped away, under the sea, under the night, under the personal pronouns. There we look out, hedgehog and dormouse, joyful, peevish, sympathetic, we see fences and the sandfleas behind the grocery stores.

—Günter Eich

i was recently (i think, anyway, what the fuck day is it?) asked to post a list of favorite poets. and i have to confess that my relationship with poetry is strained and underdeveloped. this is a situation i’d like to rectify.

the only volumes of poetry i have on my shelves are of rumi & rimbaud, plus a collection of what i guess the kids these days are calling ‘prose poetry’. 

i have a preference for quick potent delivery, with some quirk/randomness/absurdity. best if i get a solid feeling-tone hit off them.

i’ve enjoyed some pieces by these people, too:

• william carlos williams
• richard brautigan
• artaud
• frank o’hara
• baudellaire
• along with some dada/surrealist stuff, as well

somewhere, i might still have the little notebook i used to copy poems into, when they caught me. if i can find that, i’ll post some. i’ll post some of the pieces i enjoy from models of the universe, too.

i’ll gladly accept recommendations.

i’m wicked busy currently, and am unable to partake here to the degree i’d like. i’ll be back soon.

<3

(corv.co)

i tend to seem mellow, from afar. mild-mannered. kind of goofy-looking, with a bit of neoteny. soft-spoken, withdrawn, reserved.

i am generally slow to anger.

but when that line has been crossed, i am a churning column of fire, not even contained in this bony birdlike body.

pray for the souls of the unfortunate.