Monday, December 31, 2012

a re-writing machine and


A writing machine and . and the . and the. and  thee   ~  perilous voyageur!~ virtual being ! of becoming bid thy farewell song! a strange machine launches its own champagne  ~ drink on Voltaire Rousseau  ~ Lady Blake's arrived with her vision and cloth(es)line of fuite and quit the tumbler gallery of throng belongclong. What mouth  of tremble off the petal foot is this that?

 she's covered the memory of its screen . once that tucked who knows what begin of huff to puff place of its ringknock absurd  Silence as the growing mustache dawns her calm ocean bears back its trusted governor. O this  she pour to the seasoning campaign of its real total servant rotating the plumline river to its dissolving content city of its fair arches.

IN thIS plateau 'horloges'  and everyone chronometer don't count but knock.

     and this Episode what to : Jill's no vestal vegan ! o the wave swept up past her hairsome  tune and the resentful yankees that left clutching their fearful hanky.  Jill's murmur is the tongue pointed north rearing southern cloud the line of desire to the camp at the north.

       --- Mona remarking  ...' those prepositional phrases''ll get you somewhere. Badinage down the page is a square date on thought's part.

Portcullis and nave ahead


Wednesday, December 05, 2012

Of necessary necessity


Mona's running and walking. Waking saunter. Like most poor people she's an artist without connections she's reduced to conduce and public reform. Is that the word? Some slut with the paydown blues. It's only as she's focused on the work she gets any done. Anydone could very well be the name of a  character  ~ one whose calligraphic basic lies in not choosing      .

                Something like Jacky. Now who was Jacky? She wanted to know and lying close to the roof she might have learned except that keeping to herself diddnt help. and this loud roof and loudmouth  yowling about Canada this and Canada that in . the vile? was it vile not hardly merely excited and loud. No one knows the true meaning of it. And here in the agora they sit around as always fretting, discussing, pleading the case of death and life as they've always done  in its inexplicable Greek, Trojan, Athenian, Spartan way . and Thermopylae's way. Not an artist way.   ______Is this a great philosopher and debate reduced to debacle___ could be and could be the doubles of a  . Not one that walks any longer on this earth. O and the connecting goes as lights out the splash of and around the world. its death knell appears a waste of time and what became to what's his name that Minister of hellth and death

Select all cut and paste . work with the possible and then of necessity find its virtue.

_Not everyone hears this.  Wont even necessarily hear it. What come of it  but your truth Jacky?


Friday, October 05, 2012


 legs     ..                     covered   .             cobbed  ..             cobwebbed .

                 legs covered web

         legs covered

                          covering legged cobweb
                     cobwebbed legs covering 

 whose legs were covered in piss
                                                                     piss not peeve

          Those dry skin
                           potato peel spaghetti pale skin
                                                cross eyed leaning into his Ear
                         can i tell you a joke
                                                                    hand jerking jerked him 
  her hand reached into his short pants on the swing 
                                                                                she whispered a joke into his ear
             on the swing Sunday afternoon
                                                                    Linda the cross eyed  'Olive oil'  you could say
she was between Vincennes and the other 

travels abroard


  they're horse flies not dragon!


Monday, September 17, 2012

of this


by hand the waybill the conquerors of night. not a right but a lefturning road
with the soft things  not a filter for . or stepson born to  however
whence the fly of Leibniz and the gathering gallery and the accumulation of ought
Nah that doesnt work does it Mona she's seized by the high-flown gallery

Coming home thought of love . Tangled arm and leg to shadow on the wall
pairing thieves

                                                      So Mona in the prevaricated mode   ~.


Thursday, August 16, 2012

______________did she discourse?

And did Mona ever tell the truth?  never_______________She was a rascal pirouetting around the bevel
  of the boom!

  And finding chaos a friend she left the moon of monarchies behind.a  left swing to her deteritorialized selves. and the gripping night, a bathtumble .

_______________It's hot . Cold rough as the back of a bison. A cur a fur.

She works the ego crusted to its determinated end.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Mona's motorized ....

Mona's motorized mouth. Moves on the  m the ring tower and gifted gilt. a swart amethyst for the lover's tryst. True to sun and down and beijos to good night lovers. Lute of her swaining night. A swan beckons on the coarse river.  Moon and solo light her lover traffic the cornball field. Her scratchy ass become the drain liquid of death. 

O solomio!  Midden heap and muddied on the trip between love and beauty fat and and skinny__otherwise known as the whited sepulcher of pale groanboners!

Our of the great ass of thighs! A mounting trope a trip for two. Play for the king and checkmate the queen. The people of London roar as Dublin hope soars.A strange violin  ties her to the earth. Not a mad feminist doctrine but the true of liberty flibertygibbety!

  The axle jamming, mud flung in the air, over the pretensions ass of an accent all rolled the mouth a kid makes her sick . Of the vine that tortures truth. A buxom maid for two and ten. A bully bearing down her grief. Not her teeth, and the rilled silence of deaf. O those pathetic accents, the pretenders of the transatlantic! how nauseating they are! Her vertigo spins at the sound. Her sex dont aroused at this primeval meat. And boredom of the rich . Eating class. The stain of weeds and lie.

Jill: It aint their fault honee! tHEY aint choosing their class are they. Nope they sure is. Each and everyday. Getting glassier and glassier . An idiot speaking a tongue. Sending her letters of renewal . Across the vengeance camp . Aide de camp! A bivouac for the old boots! to hell with the old hag! damn them. O their sex leaps up in class renewal, the little bastards.

Who is this god, Mona? Who is this boogie god capital. And when's the social achieved its socialist guise. Not the  bastard mouth full of accent the rolling Rsss of the spoiled brats. Kick their arse, out with their erections the littlte pretenders!

___ No no this is not the way. of the compassion. of the buddha best breast throng. or the ancient leaning hotel. and her kerchief nerve Over the relay system of a thousand bickering buckets. and the polace are very ahnice as the niche of kitchen thieves are and is. A true ice man.

So Mona's kitchen is Jill's field result and . Franny's ambulance in the field. If they are not philosophers what can you expect conceiving the nothing that is?

Getting classier and classier. O yes. The clop and clone of the river midriff. who's gonna twang that trash?

O her body stout  as   ~.

O her body selfcontained as ~. and yes and that says some . this clairspeaking song.


Saturday, May 05, 2012


it's yer thingamajig is it knot? a knowing to  bear fruit to the second class. of citizens and their grape. gripe to moon its awesome bearing.   nary a word sent. this painful pile.

how long did  she take you to write that?

   _____________________Mona, it' a magus. Tearing her crown dental floors to the temple. Of her brading. As when a writer stopping for single days reminds her. That whence the lord has seen has buttoned her nave and worn  doffed hats long enuff the  blind man and his sudden. Only safety with a blind. A blonde to parry your blows. Life's blows kick hard back . No, that's a cliquechez!

a proverbial worn off by the drouth of racketting and thugmuggery.

But Fanny's entering the monkey phase of silence and sex after dinner. not before pride but after its bypass operation.

_____________Only the nuts and weirdos can't handle type.

Pound that keyboard, Henry. 


Saturday, March 24, 2012

First to the meeting in face then the premonition

They met in 1969 ~ the aery year after May and change ~ IN THE air of difference repetition its daring . What machine is this rivering?

between the two encounters the letters flying back back forth to the sender receiver of the orchid wasp bee been flower to the two done machineik.

Its the tryst of lovers to become their pesonafictations and the epistemelogicalling of the vocating as it is working to see.

Of the affect to the intensity it's being.

Jill harries the humdinger

the trigger not the finger and the hamadryad drying her horse. Around the rhizome Mister Wolf man emptying his buckets, the amazon of vaginas and a sock for every curtain call and the horned monster clearing the hill reuniting the field and an end to conservative reterritorialization.

Sunday, March 18, 2012


as for this becoming her body's rolled into one. fooling its self into running. O ver her hand
and into mine   ~.t hi i s how  a smock rings its collar to warm bye and becoming. a song river. of 
            fluid melting.

 ------------------------------ So Jack, that's my middle name in the midst of the huddle bunddleimion of these characters and their fresh-fashed allusing   ~.

----------------|these words are trenchant parolees.
                        |marked and hammered by thought's hand hunger|

                     This fiction which encumbers me freeing me in th e result
                                 end of it s w alk   ~ .

______________ Jill 's hanging  a postage stamp on her wall, with your love body on it.


Thursday, March 15, 2012

the Love bone-


Mona of the love bone, thinks all I sent and send to the list refers to her and I!! 

whart are w 

Bafeful bane one and two bane is on thee! Banish! Panish! Spanish!

                                            do publish 
and we shall rake billions of the episteme publisher and heepertexts!!

stay in the archive of the futurres
Alert me when u go Messenger 

Deline, Clouis. 

Mona's writing. She's written the schizoyour friend's heart. Epilogue and rhaphsode!

A volume to come with 6 books, two recordings, and three whatchelse.

______________________her nickname Deline Louis~ A Clarifictation of sense, dollars, and unsensibilities. A delirous re(com)position in 82 partings.
Of the way.
and other fold and velour.

Thus verlainelefou!


Tuesday, February 07, 2012


Mona's hotpotch is  combinatory to the nth degree. Not a dilated dialectic yet a round sphere of movement over line of tie and time the imaginary of concluding becoming and rewinding. A hodee-podgee don't' do a daughter on a dare. A king there gawking. Pity is she won't be panned in flatness . A cold water sweeping the main funicular.

JIll   wont be  " bringing together of shares or properties in order to divide them equal." Yes, he's equal to each fenced gash and the back blade of its romance the imminent blaze of forest. A treacherous course in any family.


 Jill continues. its  A legal qua and an illicit thing an agent  brought her bully. Feet in the trench warfare? A commencement to every day's nuance.  A shapely pot it is and she's breath caught. On the careworn thing sliding off her tongue of any trance. A terrace ? a come along sombre precursor lightening stroke to the genersoous anxiety of her not capital self.An economy of desire voided as you pay one or the other. She's bread thee bawdy? A brothering brothel and the economy of the wide world.


Wednesday, January 11, 2012

you and.: Mona around her hair

As for the font, ahem well Jill has a thing for the doublfont of the comic versus the roman tie of the times imperial power design. who says uniformity in a page is design to god-- the oddball plane and surface of her sharing.

Is there no knight like yours? as leaning into her lips she's every merry thing a mersey beat . Puffing her lonesome.

Mona around her hair

                  and here ? Yes, here too her hair of summons and groan.

_______________________ Over the crest around the plateau a starry-eyed stony creek bed, a brook chunked out on the wing of starting and finishing. A star.

___________________________- Jill: are you intolerant of farforeign tongues. None of they is in my heart and my youknow what.

Mona around her hair

Mona has a screaming queen. She's buried the dead yet the dead are relentless
restless won't quit, kick back dust, dirtying the living. It strings along
                             this line of thought informs her shaping care and night worry.

On the other hand, Franny the good goes to bed with J1. J1is sleepfucking with Jacky. Mona, Mona, the inventor of a tale and a book. Not like the bourgeoisie. She has cold fish                                 hands (her shake's limp)  and daily forgetting the remembering squalls of her language      learning she removed . She's removing the reproving volume of a slim tale and peeling curlers around her hair.

Jacky returns back-to-back finding her three to one. Out in the quiet. The bold land quiet. A tear in the cared for rare silent. Muffled kiss caress of four to one her double-eyed jinx.

There aren't enough hours in the day to love you: Franny. Her mouth's long as wider a tuba a sheer cliff face drop. Can't explain herself write backward as the speed of. Her twosome becoming. Thought her nearest (eyebone) neighbour. Discovering her at home the couch J and she's welcome surprised love. A freedom to hold the other an extremely good-looking man.
                                            The stupid Christians believe they think but are  mystified by the second generation Bulgarian slav-faced lover who's sex is stronger .       Blaming the other always, Satan the Satuday bum. Poor old Satan, poor old Saint Nick.    Christians equal crucifixion, the purple crucifiction. A boy named Henry Miller.

Her face's Slav the the rain. Along the line of crevasse and sheer cliff-face. As it working the air of disdain and like ? As she worried the wandering ? And reciting her bare book? She cambered to its needing know? And her panties? She pulled J to her face crying sigh to her saying mine mine mine you're mine you took him now you are mine . I won you her lissome degree of three. If she's homosexual it's because he's. Not.

                             Tonight she's hepster to the full moon a sailor going berserk. An empty cliffhanger poorly dressed.

------------------------ Jill holding her breath blowing blow blow~ the trump, the oboe, the clarinet that weaves out the dear tune   ~.