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Showing posts from August, 2016

Leo Sayer can't talk to Stan Brakhage anymore

The bell in the seaman's hand, the incense, and the choirs nest are all together now. Foliated and compressed drawn from beneath the water on the wet side of the weather. Bias has its own freedom, its own place that always matters more than this here blood. Open the line of this street down its middle. We'll wait this long night through the eye of a needle. The end. Whoa Oh a Whoa Aye... I'd love you twice as much tomorrow, then the clasp at the other end of it breaks. Mad as the moon on the moors, King Ovid-Pants always agrees with me as my fingers continue fumbling. The pendant slips its chain, sliding down into the place between your breasts. Maybe it's looking to discover amphetamines and Stan Brakhage there. On the day we marched up and down the length of my way away underground room, we had numbers to shout loudly as though they were somehow standing in for arcane thesis or the lost standards of litmus. A bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the board between us. W

Giuseppe's fondness for the canaries of dirt

That painting with its winged penises, searching for macaroni, butter, and lumps of gum.  "They've come around, they've been around all night. They're here thinking of doing it over and over again, just like its some funny repetitive dance along on the round sofa. Gah, I can hear 'em thinking about it. I don't need to see it. There's no value to it. We can't use the pictures in our heads like this. The damn music's too loud." Success is a line in here. It's not from somewhere else and it won't succeed without a market to happen to it. There's too much wax and too much wax as the song goes.  What we need is to keep making these markets happen. They need to be everywhere just like candlesticks and crosses in the night. Giuseppe knows us, we're his reckless canaries in this poorly lit hole. He knows us as the cats that know the mysterious language of all the other birds in their holes. I've told him before that they'