Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Flodis Issue 28
.begin flodis no.28
.the flowers of disruption
standing in the park at night i can't decide if i should focus on the
porchlights of nearby homes or at the planes and stars in the sky. put all
the lights in this city together in one big ball and you still won't have
enough light to grab the attention of starships barrelling through space.
but if you took one of those houses on the horizon and shot it out through
the atmosphere, its flaming body would look like a shooting star to some.
if i were to take all the forlorn old notes that we wrote back and forth and
roll them up into one big ball, and focus all my love and depression into a
flaming burst of energy within, perhaps i'd be strong enough to launch all
of my memories of you out into the atmosphere and watch them burn up and
melt away. then i could walk back to my house and fall asleep, while two
lovers out in the moonlight made wishes and kissed.
here's a story from zaff ron erect sweeney.
at
at ten
at ten you ate
attenuated
the relation between form and substance is attenuated
and the relation between truth and lie is attenuated
ideas fly off free floating through the plenitude but
in the process genius is lost.
vitriolic and unclear. that's true to form.
to say it again turn it over
again something is twisting
spiky and barbed spinning
and spiking its way through helpless gray matter.
capitulating the neural networks forcing
reconstruction
while there is still time for increased complexity.
it's a race agains the clock and thoughts of you
during the
reconstruction
always come carpet bagging through.
to say it again
to put it again
philology recapitulates
ontology as numerology recapitulates
ontology as alchemy recapitulates
ontology as witch doctors and philosophers
sit together smoking post-prandial cigars and writing
paragraphs on the sublime.
so here we are again in the ontological garden the
phenomonological garden or i am who knows
if you made it or not i know that you are not
what you used to be you are disguised as yourself and
i ask if you are trick or treating.
(you don't get it, but the tone in my voice is your
cue that you ought to feel insulted.)
again, later
sometime
different
(and the you, is a different referent--i am always
tricky about my referents. always check your
references.)
you have been in all of my suicide dreams lately.
No! don't be insulted--
they are my favourite dreams all the colours
spiralling out of control until the scene
of my dream
the crowded bar where you are tending and making
martinis
(i wonder why in my dream you always make such lousy
martinis)
the mountaintop apartment where there is a party and
we are drinking screw drivers or irish whiskey
(the kind my dead uncle used to buy me)
(tulamer's.)
until as i say that scene has exploded
and there is no more personal identity amidst the
shifting colours and the shapes also blend into
colours and all that remains is a soupy kaleidiscope
and i know i am dead
and wonder why i didn't do that to my brains
the night i sat wanting to.
except that it is a simple proposition: a bullet to
your synapses, a bullet raping your neural networks
and nerve clusters will not let them grow back
together with an increased complexity and complexity
is what i live for.
once i saw a little girl playing with an old old cat.
the cat must have been twice the girl's age and
arthiritic. when the girl squeezed the cat happily,
though it must have hurt, the cat made no sound, just
accepted the hug. i smiled. it was the sweetest
thing i ever
saw.
)(*&%#@)(*&%#@)(*&%#@)(*&#@)(*&%
underneath the firing pole a man stands waiting for his wife. "come
hither", she once said to him in a fancy restaurant in the mozambique. and
hither he did go, and love became them. a family did follow, children and
toys and dogs, and a financial crisis somewhat like a crash. spiralling
down, down, the pit of despair. a dirty front lawn and a broken lawnmower
in a run-down old shed. shingles steal staples and the wind never ends.
but the drugs aren't free, and somebody must be responsible for
distribution, so our man took the job. and his family did live, once
again, in something other than desparate depression, and our man sold and
swallowed contraband chemicals, making him a very happy man standing at his
front door to answer a knock from the men in blue who busted on through and
said his rights in a language other than english and once again, spiralling
down through locked-up cells and ending up with a lonely wooden pole. the
focus of gunmens' attention. arms at his side. waiting at a table in the
mozambique.
gobbledee-gook
is never mistook
for something with taste
in mens' underwear
just as
hamper-with-cheese
will always displease
when served up for dinner
for chinese government officials.
so OFFICER stand guard
while i go pee on these nearby children
it will be funny for a laugh
because no parents are nearby to beat me silly
and i will scamper back
like the homo i am
and we can play patty-cake
on each others' bottoms.
lovers' lane.
lois lane.
louis rich.
richie rich.
turning round in
spinning gravity
from the center
of the fountain.
forming blades of
fully-armed force.
i push in my arm and get cut in half.
"ouch," i say, and wince a tad,
but once the pain subsides,
i make up my mind to jump in
and join the cycle of things which,
once conceived,
continue endlessly
to exist.
like the flowers of disruption, my young pumpkin! taste the wine of my
scrumptious deli-o. ain't that somethin' special? now stand on this table
-- here, let me assist -- and look out at the top of the wall. not so
scenic, eh? well i will knock it away with my SLEDGEHAMMER duh duh WHY
DON'T YOU CALL MY NAME duh duh I WANNA BE your SLEDGEHAMMER duh duh AND
THIS CAN BE MY TESTIMONY and now what do you see? plaster. yes. let me
knock some more away. ok, now? a sky. mmm, scrumptious. no, the hole is
not big enough to fly through. no. well, maybe some other day. right.
let's go.
.end flodis no.28
.nov 5 1999
.though mickey rooney loves to eat paste
.some good popcorn will just become waste
.and who can define that particular taste
.of arsenic mixed in with the baste?
.gobble gobble
.fry fry
.chew, swallow
.die die
