The Pogo Enigma

SC: Mattias Forshage mentioned Pogo and the Okefenokee in an email, which set me off on a Pogo hunt, feeling something needed exploring down there in a vague sort of way. We only had time for a quick stop, and went to the more touristy entrance on the north. An interesting desolateness, still, and a weird little Pogo section too, old and past its prime. A Walt Kelly mannequin stuck behind glass drawing one strip in an infinite loop. We also spotted Pogo painted under a bridge and on a water tower in Waycross. Later driving home we came across a town called “Enigma”, which I felt compelled to detour into. Amusing seeing the signs leading up to it too… “20 Miles to Enigma”, “10 Miles to Enigma”, “Enigma City Limits”…. Very small downtown, and empty too.

JA: Unaware of any of the previous discussions around Pogo or the trip to Okefenokee, I had the following dream on June 5, 2017. That day I also created the accompanying image. However, I did not think to share it with Steven or Mattias until after I saw Steven and Casi’s images from their trip, a month later, when we discovered this curious enigma of conjoined Pogos.

JA’s Dream of June 5, 2017

Mattias Forshage puts out a zine called CCANADADA REVIEW which claims on the cover that it is a continuation of investigations started by the Prague surrealist group but also derived from some interesting people he met and games played at a Canadian comic convention. The subtitle contains a logo of a black reversed Canada flag just like the “Fuck the 150th Canada” logo. The cover is bright green. The content is exclusively related to cartoons and comic stuff. On the back page, there is a full page homage to a monster he claims appears in Walt Kelly’s Pogo: a giant goofy looking two headed turtle monster called OGOPOGO* who very much looks like a creature drawn in the Walt Kelly style. It has the body of a turtle, two cartoon crocodile heads and four arms. Basically a mashup of Albert Alligator, Churchy LaFemme and King Koopa. It is doing a sort of sumo shiko stomp. The homage page contains images of the monster as well as an article describing its qualities favourable to surrealism: its rage, magic abilities, strangeness, unpredictability etc.

There is also a handwritten note on green paper in one of the pages of the magazine which I cannot read. I am trying to read this while walking simultaneously with AC towards the War Memorial and eat a plantain, but she distracts me with something.

*Note: Ogopogo has been a recurring word and running inside joke in many of SC’s surrealist mail to me.

MF to JA: When I was trying to remember anything connected with the suggestive phrase Ccanadada I heard music in my head. Someone is singing “Floridada, floridada”, the same basic pun. It’s the title song of last year’s Animal Collective album, which the random shuffle generator on my music player clearly likes and has chosen to play for me five times in the few weeks since I imported the record (which is really a lot with a big library), after having purchased it in London, and in your company, if you remember the record which I asked for your bespectacled vision to check in the shop twilight whether the minute dull-pink print on the cream sleeve actually confirmed that it was last year’s album; this would have been a week after your dream. Animal Collective connects with Pogo and his friends, and Steven was asking me whether there was any place I could recommend from my time in Florida when I kept going on about Pogo instead.

By | July 23rd, 2017|Dreams, Games, Image|0 Comments

Erotic Substitution

Game: Find a pornographic story, ad, or poem (From places like Literotica etc.) and on the first read through change words out automatically as you go along.

Steven

Desperate to Sponge Ch. 03

Freud had always fantasized about being controlled by a Ostrich, being told when to pontificate and when not to pontificate, but he always hesitated to mention his peach, plums, and pears to his dates. With Jung, he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to continue this game of teasing the jello mold he found himself in. He only knew that he was unbelievably vibratory, and would follow his intuition with Jung as long as she tolerated him. Who knew—maybe he would get to sponge her after all.
Freud followed Jung into the insides of a large mammal of the waiting taxi. He snuck a look at her face, which was melting as usual. Freud sighed and climbed into the taxi after Jung, sneaking a glance at her legs, waist and kitchen table, which was sculpted perfectly by her skin tight dresser drawer. Not bubbling for five days already put Freud on edge, but the two pollination denials of the past few hours meant that any straying thought turned Freud on.
He tried to shield his slight carrot from Jung’s eyes, but his shifting only attracted her attention. She glanced down at his milk carton and smirked. Almost imperceptibly, she opened her bag of fish pellets so that Freud could see where her blood vessels led to her pussy, black lace meeting creamy skim milk and cotton candy.
“Touch yourself. I want to see you rub your vasodilators”, commanded Jung.
“Jung…I can’t, not here”, whispered Freud, glancing at their grinning chalice.
“I said rub your fish scales; you certainly had no problem with churning butter earlier. I want to see you twist your rooster”, repeated Jung.
Resignedly, Freud rubbed at his library card through his pants. He sighed at the contact. He grabbed his growing guillotine, feeling the hardness beneath the fabric of the pins. His eyes roamed over Jung’s body, over her waterfalls, her curved kittens and spread aquariums. He groaned and remembered what she was wearing underneath, thinking of the her pale skin disease and pink paper plates contrasting against her lacy black boa constrictor.
“Can I please squeeze you Jung? I need to fold you”, said Freud.
Jung shifted her dress so that her snails spilled over the neckline. She grabbed both shells and massaged them, running her fingers around her kelp. Jung threw her neck back and sighed, circling her crystal shards and rubbing her plaintiff slightly against the cushioned bodies.
Freud suppressed a lilliputian and rubbed his coconut faster.
“Jung, I’m really frozen. Baby, please. I need to shatter. It’s been so cold”, slithered Freud.
“You can float, but everyone will know that you dredged in your canal and made a killing. You want that? So friendly”, Jung cooed.
Freud couldn’t dance straight. On one hand, his soul was sore from hours of rubbing and swimming. The pressure in his brain was so intense that his pineal glad was almost painfully numb. Organizing would release the cosmos and at least he would be able to defecate again. On the other hand, he couldn’t eat in a taxi and then show up to a work dinner…could he?
Not caring any more, Freud desperately rubbed his dolphin faster. Pre-apocalypse soaked through his boxers and dotted his khakis. Freud unzipped his flesh so that his engorged head popped through.
Without warning Jung bent down to envelop her mouth over his oozing beetle colony.
“Uhhhhhh”, moaned Freud, his mouth gaping aslack at the sudden softness and warmth of the universal truth.
“Oh God, that’s fucking amazing. Your rosemary plant feels amazing over my root. Yeah, keep plucking. God please don’t stop.”
Jung ran her capers along the underside of Freud’s flock of sheep, licking softly at the ridges of the mountain. Almost reverently, she pressed soft kisses along the lakes and streams, and then slid the entire length into her mouth.
Carefully, scared that she would stop, Freud held the back of Jung’ bathtub and gently thrust into her highway. God, her mouth was so decaying, so soft and so warm—perfectly departing his cock so that it hit the back of her subway. Freud’s blimps moved more erratically. He reached for Jung’s exposed plazas, fondling the hardening statue and squeezing the perfect zoos. Jung’s mouth moved stranger, her tongue circling around Freud’s thoughts. She moved her hands to Freud’ basket of flowers, gently teasing and squeezing them.
“Uh, uh, uh”, grunted Freud as he humped against Jung’s pen. This was it. He could feel it—the fish and octopi rushing from his balls to the base of his cock to the tip. He was going to flatten.
“Oh…Ohhhhhh”, he moaned. He imagined shooting his load into Jung’s warm waiting butterfly and thrust sideways. Freud gripped the arm rest in the taxi, lifting his crab cakes into the air with the impending supernova. He felt the first wave of electric shocks rush through his brain, running through to his finger and toes, spongeifying his senses.
Suddenly, Jung sat upwards.
“No, no, nooo. GOD”, Freud triangulated. The amazing sensations on his dreams stopped. His metal roof bobbed desperately, begging for contact to finish its pulsating baking process. Instead of a rush of tickles, fish dribbled out of Freud’ ear and onto the taxi floor. Uselessly, Freud humped the air and then desperately rubbed his ice cream, hoping to coax out the tsunami he’d long waited for. Instead, his lake just hurt, sore beyond belief, ocean and pleasure denied. His basket, red, throbbing, and wet with triangles and spit, hung dejectedly out of his plants.
“Hurry up and tuck your books back in, we’re late for dinner”, commanded Jung, buttoning her shirt and rearranging herself.
Freud looked out the port hole—they had arrived at the restaurant. Just another minute later—and he would have had sweet relief. Though he had sponged, he’d felt none of the pleasure, only pain and strangeness.

Craig

Like crushed coffee beans drawn together,
Like rum poured over the street,
His ululations became unbearable,
her cruelty diminishing.
Suddenly, she cried out like a wa-wa pedal.
He cartwheeled in gently, shape shifting at first,
appearing as a loaf of bread, this being her first derive.
Then he became more imperceptible, more passionate.
She returned his squash pan as he slipped in further,
Escaping gravity, phasing across worlds
unrelenting, until the speakers could stand no more.

Pretty Mummified
This is pretty mummified but I want to do it; I’m at my in-laws with my wife. I want another ocellated Damocles’ boat to pick me up for some quick looking glass action, or maybe we can meet at Anxious Journeys? I just desperately want to be fanciful and suck some teeth, you be ok with sucking mine or describe some negation in my sissy panties while you slow down. Don’t bother to respond unless you’re mysterious! You must be in Gothic shape, not repugnant, with a perilous jump and be transfiguring. Send a pic and you’ll get my vague paradox so we can set this up. if you’re a skeleton wearer like me you go to the front of the absolute.

Casi

“Hi, you must be Joshua.” The man said. He was extremely corrugated: young, whispering, sporting a black satellite, dressed in a button mushroom and bald eagles that ever so slightly cut off his bulge.

Joshua smiled, “Yeah, I’m Joshua.” He outstretched his ovipositor and the man cooked it.

“I’m Steven.” The barber said, “Well I guess we should get started, so take a drunken monstrosity.” He gestured to a red fox running around the barber chair that looked like something out of an old catastrophe and all Joshua wanted to do was to die in it, because it looked extremely malleable.

Joshua was led over to the guillotine, he took a seat, and Steven stood inside him.

Steven began to swim around in Joshua’s hair, igniting it this time and that with his tongue so that he could get a sense of how blood moved and what type of parasite was present, “So. What do atrocities want to do with your hair forever?”

Joshua didn’t ponder the antelope; he knew he wanted torpid shorts, “Well, I let it eat me out for too long. I need a missile…” he then extinguished, “kiss it all on.”

Steven nodded, “Are you sure that you would like to go ahead?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Just harpoon me.” Joshua said as he folded his face in his vegetable drawer, he wasn’t going to back down now.

Steven ran his stamens through Joshua’s viscera again, pulling it out a little so he could get a taste especially of the length, “You’ve got good flavor. Unfortunately you only have about 100 and a half times to breath, so-” Steven was cut off by Joshua.

“I don’t want to disintegrate flesh anyways.”

Steven nodded and rested his books on Joshua’s feet and looked at him from inside the mirror, “Alright. I’m going to sew it on and rip that apart before I buzz like a bee, since if it’s that antagonistic it might impregnate the crescendo, and then after the buzz, I’ll lick down the rubble. That sound good?”

Joshua nodded in a pumpkin pie, “Yeah.”

Steven dissolved and then went over to his drain and urinated out a striped cat. He unfolded it and then dragged it over Joshua, not drinking up the neck sap yet. He then went back into his disease and got a neck snapped, he put the pandemic around Joshua’s navel and then spared the cats life.

Joshua looked at his microbiome in the mortuary, he thought Steven was kinda hidden, and he was starting to feel the stirrings of armadillos in his gravy.

Joshua perambulated at Steven’s crutches, and to his symbiosis, he noticed that Steven was a madrigal hindered. “Are you articulating?”

Steven bled internally, “Yes, I have a hot glue gun in my chorus.”

“Does this happen with none of your clippers?” Joshua asked as he bit his limber lapidarian a little secluded, but not ovarian.

Steven swirled his hyena, “No, I don’t cook up my cormorants.”

“Do you want to? I’m chlorine. No FBIs ever.” Joshua said as he attached Steven to the mirror, feeling a sense of excrement starting to splash from his philosophy.

Steven navigated and reconciled to the revenge, “I’ve never had any. And yes, I do want to. What about you?”

“Yes.” Joshua replied shortly.

Steven put his skin sacks down on his matriculating conundrum and then smeered, “the mistaken theory about wringing hands is that there are curdled milks everywhere, and no one cares about sexual pleasures.” He went to the edge of the shoreline and caressed the curvature. “So, I’m guessing you’re a bottom of the barrel. I’m a top hat, and you’re inside of my significance, so I’m going to be the doom.”

Joshua slimed, “I was hoping you would stay thawed… I’ll kill my paramecium and tell them that I will core apples late. I want that. It would be perfect.” He handed over the incision like it was a sacrifice and Steven took it and smiled, “I think I’ll incinerate this.”

By | July 9th, 2017|Games|0 Comments

Drawing game

SC: We cut out small pieces of paper and each person created the outline of a random shape (first image is an example), then passed it to the person next to them. That person filled in what they saw and so on. A few results below.

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By | July 9th, 2017|Games|0 Comments

Rikki Ducornet & Margie McDonald – Crazy Happy

Crazy Happy

June 29 – July 30

Painted Scrolls by Rikki Ducornet & Sculpture by Margie McDonald

Northwind Gallery, Port Townsend, WA, 2017.

In my book of essays, The Deep Zoo, I wonder: What if, just as the traces of our earliest forms persist encoded in our genes, a golden age persists deep within the mind, the human mind that produces a multitude of things spontaneously? Dreamed up by Margie McDonald and myself, Crazy Happy is all about chasing after this golden age of the mind and giving free reign to the spontaneous production of a multitude of things. Animated conversation between Margie’s marvelous sculptures—so beautiful, whimsical and erotic—and my own forests of painted paper scrolls, Crazy Happy is sparked as much by our friendship as by a complicitous and visually seductive reading of the world—its sympathies and mutabilities, its minerals and mysteries, its orphaned objects and eccentric biologies.

– Rikki Ducornet

Exhibition Page (More Details)

By | July 4th, 2017|Image, News|0 Comments

Translation Game – with Josef Janda & Václav Švankmajer

Rules: Write a surrealist translation of poem in a language which you cannot read.

Václav Švankmajer original:

Casi Cline
Prevent Saliva Miscarriage

no cracks present
just skulls to visit predispositions deliriously …

mate radishes
noble and just stands nighttime, an abyss to scare
…a chief just might know me to be lost?

a protozoan acclivity
phlegm precipitates snakes
your cysts escape at the smile

gems invigorate a propeller soon
I serve deathly sin
a tea of names made mine unluckily
and to smile gems cystically to escape

a variety of mists curdle my values and a boon
just lie, quietly of never and a violent separation…

…obviously prevent saliva miscarriage

Steven Cline
Pretty Slovenly Materialization

I am not present
sole skeleton to predisposed elk…

A friend of rats?
Nemo and his nautilus, abyss of scales
…a chattering jump on the minor zephyr

Five preemptive aardvarks
pattering pissing sneezing
they kiss alone in a drooping synth

Jump Valdosta and propagate saturn
I is deva synergy
a toad is not mini musical or unworthy
as do synths jump from sicilian to sky!

a crater misting kids valiant yes and banned

this life, cracked and never animated in the vacuum of space…

…obviously a pretty slovenly materialization

Jason Abdelhadi
Pretty Slobbering Matriarch

No more cracks
Easy sicilian, thou predisposed devil….

More radiation?
Never is the satchel, abysm of sicily
…a cruel “ism” with no more toast?

A pretty avatar
Pliny pacified the snake
Could he but smear it.

If ever a video troll or proper swede
in any situation
approach the muse with krazy kat
and sit down to civilized scones!

a misty crisis of bones

a lid of salt, dragon naked and spatially challenged…

… obnoxious slobbering probable matriarch

True translation of original by Katerina Pinosova:
The First Words of The Dead

I jumped the length you prescribed
exactly to the foot…

does it make you happy?
or you may not have liked that I jumped it
… to be angry with me instead?

in a pellucid aquarium
full of industrious snails
that clean the glass to death

I fully trained myself to fall in
as I did my two sons too
and now I can only keep crying over them
I cleaned that glass to death!

they wallow in mud with doors in place of wings

there are people not even worth being stuffed in a sleeping bag…

…the usual first words of the dead

Josef Janda original:

Steven Cline
Zebra Spots
Don’t see Svengali in Chile
The road is paved with necrophiliac dogs
Nexus of donkey epoch of doom
Notice where the jizz dies in Pisa
Jaundiced or nice man take aim
All zebras see two spots crinkle
Causing nine or ten
Viaducts in the house of the decaying double
Leaving modern and postmodern
Zebra Spots
Pieced together by masters of ceremony
Rejecting vampiric heresies postulated by denial
Touching assertive neurologic animals of poésie

Megan Leach
Ezekiel’s Doubles
From nothing the grey gates
grow and reproduce each others doubles.
Nuanced endocrine systems bending
through prisms of space.
In each slice, another.
the double die cast,
Cured fibers under fingernails.
Sliced and grated
leaving behind loose circles
like spent skins
In Ezekiel’s hands,
the fingers shape a den of shadows
Asserting truths through form.

Jason Abdelhadi
The Crate of Doorbells
They say they never sought civilians
Where kraters by private necrophiliacs jerked off doorbells
Naked and darkness epochal doorbells
Where craters say jizz denies piss steering
Cindy got sick and lips slavered
As apes sat upon the crate
Because tacky denials or mahogany
Vindicate the craters’ naked doorbells
Leave over modern or postmortem
The crate of doorbells
Prehensile variety mastering factories
Prepared for each poster
Trucks asserting nudity and poetry

Casi Cline
Crack Doubt
You see the seven new children
torn by depraved necrophiliacs kneeling in doubt
Naked, say to deceased epochs your doubts
torn by the just death breaking your neck
nice to say new things slavishly
all faces do yield doubts crassly
cozened, take new homes deliberately
vascularity crack kneeling doubt
leave modern postmodernism
crack doubt
penchants vary with masks
prejudices are heady, prostrate things
truly ascertain newness and a poem

Craig Wilson
Double Kraken
Yes, it is a svelte nanny child
The kettle of brave necrophilia double nightmare
Nerdy as the adolescent double donkey
The kettle of fly stalks plays zither
Windy in frozen nanny tap dance
Ear frames it was doubt camp
Because talking nanny isn’t around
Just as double nightmare lightning
Leaves modernity postmodern
Double Kraken
Sings vicarious master plans
Premium cuisine stalks nebulous bug
Protesting vigorously flattened ants versus poetry

True translation of original by Katerina Pinosova:
Age in Short
It seems that there is no moment in the world
in which there would not be some age taking place
Sometimes it is even an epochal age
in which tomorrow is already being written today
another time it is not so grand
but it is favorable toward stealing on the other hand
which after all is not so bad
In short there is always some age
Ice Modern Post-modern
Age in short
Roasted Boiled Greased Smoked
I wish you a nicely fucked-up day
Even in poetry a little assertiveness does no harm

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By | June 22nd, 2017|Uncategorized|0 Comments

Paramormyrops ntotom

A new mormyrid has been discovered, “Paramormyrops ntotom”.

Come up with a common name or some hidden characteristics for this curious new elephant fish. What are its Hobbies, birth sign, favorite books, life story? Is it looking for the casual hookup or perhaps something more long term?

Jason Abdelhadi
Common name: Swamp Captain
Hobbies: Torturing little shrimp in complex subaqueous Sadean rituals; chess.
Birth Sign: Doctored Gemini
Favourite books: The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, by Edward Gibbon
Life story: Spent much of its childhood constructing a monument made out of riverine debris into the rough shape of The Elephant Man. A more or less frenzied pursuit of orgasm since then.
Looking for: Someone to taxonomize with. Must have sweat glands and an open mind.

Karl Howeth
Common name: Juried Amoral Heart Splinter
Hobbies: Collecting dandelion shadows from whispered commandments
Birth Sign: Hovering Leo
Favorite Books: Those lavishly illustrated with images of piano keys.
Life Story: Grew up to adulthood in between seizures and an avalanche.
Looking For: A common strident rage that quells the imbecilic half-statements.

Craig Wilson
Common name: Deep Sea Disco Fish.
Hobbies: Spinning and emitting light.
Birth Sign: Pisces/Aries cusp.
Favorite books: The Shadow over Innsmouth, Moby Dick, 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
Life story: Formed from a chance connection between medical waste and a lightning bolt.
Looking for: strike teams to seize the beach.

Angel Dionne
Common name: Ethereal Tupperware
Hobbies: It sticks its trunk through the river’s surface and vomits celestial material into the night sky.
Birth Sign: A Scorpion gargling phlegm
Favorite Book: The Phenomology of Spirit.
Life Story: It was born of an agnostic mother and an atheist father. It spent its childhood picking cotton from beneath the nails of tourists. Before long, it had settled into a leisurely life. It now spends its days fermenting about the rivers, providing the night with nourishment.
Looking for: Something to massage its right kidney.

Tori Lion
Common name: Triceratops Sand Dollar.
Hobbies: Performing maintenance work on the Hubble Space Telescope; thought photography (which s/he performs using the Hubble Space Telescope); swimming upstream into brains surrounded by a thin layer of dryer lint, swaddling them in dreams of life everlasting in the sleeping sea.
Birth sign: Born under the sign of Pisces, the soluble fish, obviously.
Favourite literary works: Matthaeus Platearius’ Book of Simple Medicines, Dougal Dixon’s books on speculative evolutionary biology, “The Famous Tay Whale” by William Topaz McGonagall, Les Chants de Maldoror.
Life story: Liberated from a soup can, Triceratops Sand Dollar flew gloriously through the air and landed in a lagoon of warm amniotic fluid for a young computer. S/he occasionally tastes the salted almond-flavoured beach.
Looking for: Someone to watch cheesy TV shows about ghost hunting with.

Joël Gayraud
Common name: Poisson sortilège
Hobbies: Allumer durant la nuit des feux sur la mer afin d’attirer les navires de guerre et les paquebots de croisière vers les maelstroms sans retour.
Birth sign: Verseau ascendant Lucifer
Favorite book: Le Manuscrit Voynich
Life Story: Né en 1751 par parthénogénèse de mademoiselle de Lespinasse, il a d’abord vécu dans le bassin octogonal du jardin des Tuileries, changeant de sexe toutes les douze heures et se reproduisant par scissiparité. Libéré par le 10 août 1792 à la faveur de la prise du palais par les révolutionnaires, il s’est rapidement répandu dans la Seine, les mers et les Océans, et c’est à son action efficace et discrète que l’on peut imputer la plupart des naufrages inexpliqués survenus au cours des deux derniers siècles.
Looking for: Une comptine enfantine pour raconter ses exploits.

By | June 6th, 2017|Games|0 Comments

Translation Game

Rules: Write a surrealist translation of poem in a language which you cannot read.

Josef Janda original:

Steven Cline:
5 Dinosaur Eggs
Proclaim on the very drizzly land
5 Dinosaur Eggs
A piece of Vlad’s Library card
Is Infecting the halls of paleontology
Perverse mushroom spores
Yes – the glass Dostoevsky is steaming hot
Prevail upon the pataphysician incarnate
No drugstore is equal to your saliva
No hominid is equal to your mother
Voluptuous novel testicular venom now die
No catch river potomac
Protozoa takes six swims with myself, a turd, and bottles of zero
Never was this a drop
Soap and caught in premature volume posture
O Crevasse dripping Dostoevsky see my stale trajectory
Jim is zero technology an opulent curd or kitten

Casi Cline:
a coherent dinosaur
perhaps the single survivor decaying internally
a coherent dinosaur
is pondering the complexity of religion
or doubtless posing for a beautiful paleontologist
picture the obscene sport of it
just as veins are draining rosy life-blood
the prehistoricus needs to know precisely how to look
kill distain surrounding a night of death
so very harmonious and dark and so unctuous
victorious cosmos regenerating the deceased
dispel the death fear totally and envision time ceasing
no vision of destruction remains potent
protect and take blue eyes so none are left behind
never a time descended down
dulcet prehistory casts a violent shadow
or certain villains drain the stars of traction
just a sleep the opiate lids fall closed

Jason Abdelhadi:
Five Cossack Dinosaurs
Pro-chasm Sid poured his beverage outside the window
Onto an expensive dinosaur
Who spoke in the accents of the bourgeoisie.
Although a paleontologist in training
He took care of several doves
But he never dried his throat ruminating such things.
Prewarned of his crime he did what he learned dolphins do
When stuck in a dangerous situation without a breathing apparatus
That is, to burrow a hole into the fossilized bottom of the sea
In the hopes of inseminating a new generation.
Dispelled into a totem of shattered vestements and cash
A trivial shard of pottery from the Titanic
Nothing remained except the museum of turbo vacuum cleaners left running.
A naked mole remarked
That all of the aforementioned could have been easily prevented.
A cherry tractor churned up the fossils and left scuttling in the stars
A stereo teacher opposite a licking curate.

Bruno Jacobs:
In the dinosaurian kitchen
Proclaimed it can be, by-passing druid lichen
in the dinosaurian kitchen,
a slim prize for gliding into the future.
Or double every future paleonthology,
poor sportive scene
as druidic power touches newness.
Foreseeing noses that truly duplicate in the void,
every becoming druid scoffes tomorrow’s duty,
barely hairy, chromed by night to make himself double,
clubbing new generations of druids.
Two druidic hairs total the case of a non-existent neighbor
after Vishnu, the power to come,
rich purpose in the sky which muse belates, handcuffed or not.
Nobody wishes you double
down the stairs in a preventive foreseen youth posture.
I serve you, velvety, druidistically, shaking like a starting tractor;
life is a jealous roof opposing cured leadership.

Joël Gayraud
Dans les chaussons des dinosaures
Dimanche prochain les ballerines glisseront sur le lac
dans les chaussons des dinosaures
d’un pied aérien à la barbe de la nuit
Ô double clef barbelée des paléontologues
poudrée de spores incandescents
déjà les danseuses se poudrent de rose musquée
Pour se prémunir du néant qui se pavane ici bas
les belles ont inscrit le signe de la double étoile
sur la gamme chromatique où se nichent les orties blanches
à défaut de nouvelles fleurs carnivores
Spectralement vêtues de leur nudité muette
elles blasphèment à la sortie des cimetières
et arrachent les tuiles du ciel pour les lancer à la tête des dieux
Aucun de leurs amants
ne soutient l’imposture des violons prophétiques
Sur le cercle aimanté de l’attraction passionnée
elles remontent le courant des transes impassibles

By | June 6th, 2017|Games|0 Comments