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So far PecMor has created 7 blog entries.
2 08, 2016

a storehouse full of athletes

By | August 2nd, 2016|Games|0 Comments

Collaborative game with Stephen Kirin, Karl Howeth, Jason Abdelhadi, Casi Cline, Maurizio Brancaleoni, Maria Brothers, Dale Houstman, and Craig S Wilson.

The circus folk were lonely between the trees, and they leaned against the wall they had built from sloughed off skin, and argued about whether or not leaves were edible, and should they test it on their children.
We were famous for arranging a storehouse full of athletes so that it could produce exasperation.
One stood in the mauve and cursed the day she sent us back to the fridge; why did we submit to being cooked?
The jellyfish dreams that year shone off sepia and female on the photocopied evidence of my 3 lovers smiles.
Next door, the sacred cave contained the simulacra of decay and the inescapable chiasmus of time. but then the city decreed it condemned and the abandoned deities of dust and the boxes of the deceased had to move to the sewer with the thoughts of their once beloveds.
I still remember those days very well. The liquor, the luxury, the jewels, the women. The golden age we lived in was an amiable obituary, the ever-present asbestos of our passions constantly reimbursing our scarcities. My heart’s desires flowed beautifully like Tuscan fountains, always compelling, springing from the sands of bow ties and spiffy baldheads. In the picture above, a primeval turtle was chewing up my tendons magnificently.
In a thousand cycles her body carved the air with words shaking off the night dust and the eerie clouds. Such incantation of reverie lurked in the breeze – a hole of that memory sculpted lying on a naked fence throwing its shadow upon the prancing muse once lived within the frame of time.
He could carry them all away with his flying hat.
The joy of destruction overwhelmed our mercy. Winged knights welcomed us with unforgiving accessories of glee. My death fell in with bliss and glorious light.
A revered feather passes a broken tree branch twice a day. While a lover thinks like a cactus for an eternity.
“Connect A to B slowly with a flourish during the final rotation” she lisped.

I had to admit she was right and Though i couldn’t hide my admiration for her, something held me back from extolling her virtues as I shoved my empty drinks carton in the aperture while she flossed her teeth.

The thief concealed himself in a display of wax dummies until the authorities continued the search elsewhere. As he was headed away he heard a noise; all the wax dummies had melted down for reasons unknown.
11 07, 2016

Poems by TD Typaldos

By | July 11th, 2016|Poetry|0 Comments

PENITENTIARY’S GATE

As a wolf I’m coming near to you to devour your heart
Lie down at your ankles as a dead dove
Camel rider to Sivas oasis I‘m folding my turban – a wish into
    the cosmic excommunication’s sandstorm

As you are running you can learn how useful walking is

From A Galaxy of Starfish (2016)

 

UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT

Inside his phallus
You can find world’s navel
The troughs throw up the moving embryos
The insects fly all around the iceberg’s top
Afternoon walk into the gloomy garden of
    a perennial resignated peal

At night the statues obtain breath-life-voice
They step off the pedestals and spit heads open

 

MEA CULPA

Arachnids
Obstructions
Spits
Blasphemies
Into an
Aspirin‘s
Little
Pussy

 

WATCHING THE EXCITEMENT ARISING FROM YOUR BODY

Watching the excitement arising from your body
I burst my anger upon you
The wrath of an oppressed god
An hermaphrodite god
With genitals
From a shell’s torn fan
From a corner’s loose rhyme
Behind my ear
A tusk grows
You, my Pleasure and my Curse
I, your Love and your Death
Over the bone of your third eye
Fata Morgana sharpens the drumming
    of the profundis cunnus
I am the Prophet of Obscurity
You are the Consummation of the Last Planet

 

MATHEMATICAL EQUATION

A leg
As a rectangle
A hand
As a triangle with equal sides
A head
As a cube with a right angle
A leg
A hand
A head
All together
Within a tomb

17 06, 2016

BULB – Word Association Game

By | June 17th, 2016|Games|0 Comments

Maurizio Brancaleoni

BULB(E)’S GIRLFRIEND. Unfinished opening-ending one-chapter post-story (A could-have-been-a-novellette prose minipoemette ). These light bulbs had been prying into my viscera for an indefinite amount of time, heirs to a condition of slavery. He is intralatched onto mental representations of potential fiancées. This guy, Bulbe, a multi-talented lover’s spat colourist and indoor farmer, a coffeine-impassioned Hamlet-like rotting youth, loped down the streets of a relentless domotic Paris. Penniless, needin’ luv so bad. Bulbs have been planted into his kind jovial heart, alimony to the ones who will come after him. Chance encounter with young attractive woman and so on. Another scene. Anon came the graphic procurer whose nose was scheduled to grow into a throbbing TV-daimon. A severe bleeding thereafter etc. B. taken by surprise by pimp’s hair bulbs generating infinitely. B. declares, “A born strangler is thine hair, o bloody (BE) damned (AE) criminal” (monologue, improvisation). Smothering seas and oceans of hair’s breadths. Cut. Salvation of the starlette implemented. Two bulbs screwed in later. B.’s right leg capsizes consequently, a wedding ceremony lurking in his girlfriend’s passion-fuelled electric system. Happiness never seen before, deep-seated potatoes growing now. His nutritious soul. Final scene. She and her sorority friends in front of Fontana dell’Organo in Tivoli. French fries are thrown at them. We don’t see the faces. End.
 
 
Rik Lina
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Jason Abdelhadi

Bulb – An Automatocrostic Poem

Bitumen ingenuity is the foreskin of dramatis personae insofar as they are precipitated by the heaps of untrammelled cheshire.

Ungrateful and Hungarian, the minister portrayed himself in the hat of the thirteenth coop insofar as this was founded by arachnids.

Lost in the stepladder of trepanning, I shone like a steed in a turnip with breakfast on diurnal popcorn serviettes.

Boswell, chin up! I cannot make due with your sausages.
 
 
Karl Howeth

The bulb is not so much formaldehyde as it is an egg.

Stephen Kirin
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13 06, 2016

The Surrealist Group in Paris

By | June 13th, 2016|News|0 Comments

Les Fondements de la Mécanique Céleste

The Surrealist Group in Paris has just published the results of a stunning theatrical game played in 2014. Combining characters from their collective mythology with the aleatory and blindfolded methodology of an exquisite corpse, they have collectively composed a piece for the theatre that antagonizes everything we hate about the pretentions of the modern stage:

Think about it: for an admirer of Paracelsus and Tex Avery, what could generally be shittier than spending an evening at the theatre in Paris? … During several weeks in the year 2014, at their weekly meetings, the Surrealists of the Paris Group played at writing a piece of theatre without worrying for a single moment about its general intrigue, nor the psychology of its characters, nor the depths of the prompt box.
-Guy Girard

Billy the Kidd shares the stage with Rrose Sélavy, Juliette, Nicholas Flamel and other beloved superheroes from the surrealist mythos. And the strange title? The name of a popular science book found by chance on the street.

cover
Image by Virginia Tentindo

SURREALIST GROUP OF PARIS
contact: guy.girard10 AT sfr DOT fr

2 06, 2016

In Defense of the Night

By | June 2nd, 2016|Essay|0 Comments

Casi ClineFor months now the ever expanding and record-breakingly hot Working Day has been trying to apply its pernicious, diurnal HR policies to the darkness. Night’s creatures are having none of it. The acute point is to be found, surprisingly, in moribund France and the streets of Paris. It’s as if we were 200 years in the past, when Paris would sneeze, and the world would catch a cold…

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright –
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done –
‘It’s very rude of him,’ she said,
‘To come and spoil the fun!’

-Lewis Carroll

The confusion is encouraging. We are unsure if the violence of the honourably lazy children of the bourgeoisie is combining with that of raging migrants; we are delighted to see touch-points between organized labour, high school students and those that count for nothing. Communication between vessels long-since thought to have been totally isolated.

The media as usual sees only marginal interest. According to them the impact is largely on the Parisian tourist season, to quote the Tourist Board:

“The scenes of guerrilla-type action in the middle of Paris, beamed around the world, reinforce the feeling of fear and misunderstanding.”

No, no misunderstanding. The frantic, all-caps reports and videos shared on delirious social media groups are enough to attest that the youth of France are for the first time in a generation spending their after-school hours injudiciously.

Slogans are emerging which attest as they always have to the radical ingenuity of the collective wit of the French revolutionary tradition:

“Night is for fucking not working”
“Liberty is our common interest”
“But how can we wait while the world collapses”
“Who sows misery reaps fury”
“Now that we’re together, it’s much better”
“We’re not going home tonight”
“Youth shits on the labour law”
“Type out the revolt on your keyboard and get out onto the streets”

What is it about that “Midnight in Paris” in the Spring? What makes the nights of this tourist-ridden, chintzy Haupstadt periodically renew the rights of dreaming, love, and laziness? It seems that despite Haussmann’s bright boulevards Paris has always been inimical to sunlight. The Place de la République – is it a shamanic gateway to the Dream Time?

We encourage with surprise and pleasure the insomniac revolt of the threatened and the disenfranchised. To young people and the excluded, we hope you continue your uprising against the subtle tyranny of capitalist “flexibility”, “management”, and the after-hours email. We hear cynicism about the big moments, the festivals, and the predicted return to normalcy “the day after”. But the nocturne doesn’t have to end if we stay angry, don’t turn in for the night. The somnambulist fever is spreading as the partisans of Night rise-up across the world. Continue then, as Sade exhorts, to attack the Sun!

-The Mormyrids, June 2016