dIScHarGe CHapBoOk ThReE A Delicate Corpse, A Hat Filled with Stones.
â€ŚPoetry is, by any form, desirable, enchanting, passionate. It is the thing of the heart and high art, of scribbling on geography books, chalk boards and underground carriages; Of books and literature but more than this it is the thing of the soul: poetryâ€Ś assonance, alliteration, onomatopoeia
ambiguity, symbolism, irony
speech in rhetoric, drama, song, and comedy
metaphor, simile, and metonymy
Dante, Goethe, Mickiewicz and Rumi
The Bled Heart of
Evidently, due to an untitled usury - age-old, malformed and discontent (or the blur, the paper-fold, the diatribulation) - I have to start with a capital letter. Effort ... and all in sunlight, too. Bother to read me; bother to in-read me. I am not boo hoo, through subtle, with my sexuality destroyed at a stroke. Who will I survive this time? My actual name starts with a capital letter, and I don't need your consigns and self-making. Upon my ego, I wear my boots. (That concept, that construement, that spectral conversion.) Your non-acceptance, your way of thinking, is not so much beyond them, as mommy tells. The art of seduction seems to be missing. What shame awaits? How nice it would be. Those possibilities are insane. Your last missive was no battle of wits. On the contrary, it was cynical, all surface, and devoid of momentum. Some might say I am merely watching you change. But, within that, I am eroding your comfort zone. One recent delicious moment was when I published your diary for last month in an email to all our friends. Ha ha. You shred history into a series of theoretical conveniences. I cannot take your medicine. I watch too much tv, you're right. Too seldom, I have attempted to multiply your possessions. I am no breadwinner. I have, instead, conquered the atom, with pills that do everything. I am your iron man. My iron is libidinous in and of itself; it is material. As a separate and separating category of pointing matter, it scratches boundaries onto the reference sheets - paper or otherwise - of both fantasy and reality. Faux of interaction, it plays out, and wears out, a subsistence normality, made from the errors of taboo and the desires expressed by extremity and its liberation. What emerges as apparance reads as repetition seeking the closure of disuse. Could I, in all this, bring out the ongoing? Could I situate? Where, I ask, is the explorer?
i looked up and realized with a jolt that God was lurking in my cats ass and that i'd better look alert since this might be the closest i'd ever get to the nefarious fool. The Thoughts of Mistress Doriandra Serena Smith
The Dream Poetry of
Bryan Lewis Saunders
Must Have Choose Best Quality Food (N1) The fat guys head was swollen And pointed on one side In the front And you could see his scalp underneath I mean You could see his skull cap Underneath his stitches The other side of his face was like mushy And he was head of the Benzo Comeat Benzo Beef Can I get a commodity on battery? On a computer? There are eleven And that was the cheapest prices Must have choose best quality food
Poly-Sifting (N3-N1) What matters? He's affected They're all stiff And poly-sifting Poly-sifted Organized By weight Size Gravity Whose genetical? The mice? It was competitive Like a cooking show But the winner gets the education paid for It was pretty mice Pretty nice
White Fluff (N3-N4) Sending it To Scientific American Cop He was a great guy Acceptor (snoring) I'm out in Shame That's Walden Series Fleas fleas Popping And they call 'em the popcorn fleas They're white And tiny I tell ya they're all over your place Tonight by the biting And popcorn popping Single poems White Fluff (snoring) Got 'em They're not your mother The mother Who is it?
The Demon Has A Saddle (N3) A magically ugly photo death sticker It huntilates your growth Bicycle antlers Close the body in fur I don't know where the puppet is But the demon has a saddle And the bicycle has antlers Possession is nine tenths of the law Demon!
i've got more room to manoeuvre and time to think when the shadows cast by dark and menacing birds fall on and stun all those sheep like bright and happy fucking beautiful people. The Thoughts of Mistress Doriandra Serena Smith
Inside the Surreal Soul of
I am here, wearing clouds that kiss, where it's easy to imagine little girls with moths for legs, new reptilian snowfalls, fingers dirty with synapse as a retreat into obscure arguments with bemused saxophones. Palaces lost on the continent of silver butterflies, an aversion to shoulders that dance them blues like they mean them, aircraft that managed to hide from the authorities for over a thousand years. Yellow latencies, everything's favourite UFO, tanned women carry magnificent twilight far beyond fascination, flasks of red wine uncoiling their tongues in tribute to the soft cathedrals of hair, thick and pre-Socratic. A revelation, jewelled swords, whipped by the crystal afternoon to the point of lunacy, awaken suddenly in the future, only to find themselves commodified by the singularity's brilliant sky. This symbol for melting eyes and rivers of nihilism barely remembers which platinum loop goes where in the alphabet of the night. Some semblance of conspiracy, its icy crags laughing maniacally at the wooden tables being stripped naked to the waist, forms one immense word, a sigh that captains invading Martian fleets. There, in the pale torrent, opium dreams transform dolphin-headed necessity, an endless line of black waxen claws, pangs of Siam despite believing in cubism. The bone of days will waltz in blithely, eat the heart of the diamond and still be ironically arcane, metaphoric footprints tested directly by the star spangled banner, phallic nomadologies of mercy and light. Inexorably, islands the colour of tired voices return to the dark tower and resume their former lives as silhouettes trembling in blind throats.
The Imperial Heart of
the dialog zapper draws tattoos on your tongue. licks the shadow from the floor_ your body left behind. .no words are chewed tonight.
Beyond the Highlighted Lowland of
nEIL.r.GraAf you/who would?
a nebula of rotting radium / dill nice tie brother nicely tied comehere i wanna tell you a fucking secret you can't eat this pussy nohow with no money why the what the fuck do you need to where was that at fuck the drug war is satan&you serve him at least she waited dontchee dontchooo no problems so far (expensive freefall, lies) song rending the last drop of forgotten blood = cum ease growing pains inhaling whatchagot whitegas myelin unsheathed brandished cannot tell into what gotten myself manufacture t'aint blurred t'aint right e/evene/evene/even fuckenshootatatatatatathatmotherfucker eleven times dyspepsia irritable constancy i'ma keeeeeel you and i'ma like it you just let me know, ok? ok no-k nobody chooses this
For All The World to be Like
Suddenly late... ...all alone History books make life seem so short. I'm gonna go see some girls///you're so weird.. a blind person can do it, your hair is really crazy... sure isn't. Not gonna now... Is the hand smothered in your skin. put it in the can, seems broken... no way man... Pulls him down, the after math is always hard to deal with what happens after the dirt crumbles? you take rotting bones out of caves, ancient children in the bubbles in the sky... Million miles away... the trails doze off, and grind away under footsteps. lend it to me. AHHH... just say yes...say yes. Yes you did. That was it, goodnight everyone massage, Jupiter's gas. splash, what carps in the weird places, where I find it. Wrestle, round and round. Get a hold of the right mood. black inches forward to meet the white. strange indent for the fork in the road. smoke and choke, want me to do it? flavor, slit it, pound it, then try it. stretch out the corks.
of all the things both corpulent and paltry, all the souls both sage and foolish, all of us forming this collective of clamor within infinite silence share but one immense fear- the utter uncertainty of death. .use your time in this life wisely. The Thoughts of Mistress Doriandra Serena Smith
As By The Wind Fall the Leaves of
I am the creator, and being the creator I can open any door and rise up like balloons to scale fences, and I can take the earth and lift it with a thought and a string of words, and I can put the wooden crank into the small of any spine and by turning counterclockwise I can force breath into their bodies again, make them breathe and tell their stories for so long as I have the strength to keep at it, so long as I don't stop. This is a thing I do not do. I did it once, many years ago, and there are still those who find themselves in tears at cloud-cover and moonlight because of what I had done. So much in shame. This is not a thing I will do for Seth, though I have not told his story here, just as there are so many characters whose lives I never brought to a just end, simply discarded them, considered them too undercooked to pull and prattle out on this stage. So many of my friends are imaginary. I am still a child. I will tell you myself, however, of a day Seth had not long off the ward. It was a good day, and good things happened to him and people he cared about, and I will not force life back into his husk in this telling and thus will cause no new sorrow in the polishing of old memories. As near as I can tell. Being the creator I think of myself as allknowing, but circumstance always interferes and history proves otherwise. But this is all beside the point. What I want to tell you is how Seth awoke in the morning. Seth awoke in the morning and began running through the list of steps he needed to follow to successfully get himself out of bed. All the bad ideas had been pulled from him with distance and medicines he took twice a day, but there was a space left there just behind his eyes, and by keeping a short watch on the steps necessary to complete each of his appointed tasks he worked on his fresh-grown patience and stuffed every daily detail like cotton into the gaps in his head. Sit up. Pull up your legs to prepare for moving out of bed. Fold blankets to the right, across the body. Turn ninety degrees to the left. Put feet on floor. Put hands at sides to assist in getting up. Lift with arms and legs and back. Pull up arms. Stand up.
Seth was not with the circus at this time. He didn't even really know about the circus, other than vague memories of the reputable days, when the Dairymen were famous as an escape team, articles in newspapers and talk in certain circles of the innate purity of these performances. Lawrence then went missing, presumably died, not far from here, just down the river, and the circus took to seeking out his body, or his ghost, or some combination of the two; no one seemed to know for certain, and even up to his end-moment Seth never quite figured it out, as Harry wouldn't discuss his brother with anyone, for any reason. Seth knew he could not yet see his friend Josef, as the last time he saw him there was an incident, a nightmare of people with yellow signs who made Seth to fall away from the world, into a place far away, where no sound called from the mouths of those who loved him could reach. It was a sad time, and we are not to discuss the sad times here. This was a happy day. Seth was to visit Carolyn tomorrow. Carolyn still had her baby, at this time. For a few more days. It was a happy time. Cross street. Do not burst into tears. Do not think about killing yourself. Check the light. Make sure shoelaces are still tied. Do not fall onto the ground and curl up. Do not make extended eye contact with people crossing towards you. Do not look abruptly away from people crossing towards you. Do not swing your arms so much. Do not be afraid. Remember to step up over the curb. Do not forget where you are. Seth and his grandmother had an ongoing joke about the rest home where she was staying. Seth's grandmother was nearing her nineties at this time, and called the place where she lived Methusela's Empire. Seth would talk about visiting his grandmother to his friends, who were convinced this was the actual name of the hospital. Seth's grandmother couldn't remember the actual name. Seth couldn't remember, either. This is something Seth and his grandmother had in common, along with a bone-deep fear of anyone else learning they were forgetful, as their cognition was on a sort of unspoken trial. In this sense, Seth knows a little (not much, but a little) about what it means to be old in North America. Certainly more than I've ever known, but all the Creator knows about is the Creator. This is why the Creator is so far from everyone. But this is Seth's story; I am rambling.
Seth's grandmother is named Claire, and she used to collect rain in glasses she'd keep around her bed in order to catch stray dreams; she'd sip at the glasses the next day in order to remember them. To sum her life to this is repulsive and shameful, but that is what I have done, and is all I will do. Breathe with your nose and not your mouth. Do not beg strangers for forgiveness. Bring up your arm to open the door. Push against the horozontal bar midway up the glass door; do not push the glass. Walk through the open door. Do not walk into anyone. Do not become caught in a behavorial loop with your analysis. Do not let in the white silence, as the while silence is death, and is everywhere in this place. Keep walking. Do not stop. After Seth left the Empire, he got a bowl of lentil soup and a croissant at Eat, which was not far down the street. He also had two cups of coffee. The soup was very good. The emptiness was going away. It was late in the day. He had been walking a long time. Maybe he should head home and clean, as he hadn't cleaned since being on the ward. There was a lot of dusting to do, which was very satisfying as a duty. He left a five dollar tip with the waitress and did not cry. Tomorrow, he thought, he'd go see Carolyn. But that is not a day I will talk about. Not with you.
As Blind the Fish; the Poetry of
He saw the actor outside the theatre looking at a huge poster of his own face, whilst inside an old woman wobbled her face above a salad. Trying to dry out. It rains. Hunkered into a hood, a black amphitheatre for the head. Wet car noise reverberates and stretches around the ears. A bus stop, its shelter, the graphite command on red brick, “Suck My Tit.” Drying out with triple chocolate and coffee, and a vantage point from which to stare. Spoke loudly and alone, and continually, and with bare response, on and on. Forgot what he said, it was the turd of bloke. Status: Looking to buy somut, though currently in the toil with a coffee and a sturdy flapjack, that will hopefully block up my pestering shitter. Stuff: A bull-mastif and massive, a pile of skin folds on legs. I slash it open with my imagination and human babies spill from its gut. Mewling, slowly flexing limbs and fingers in the viscera. But before that I had just seen her blue eyes embedded in a phone. He call him Lloyd. He call him himself. He’d just met a fellow sufferer, who had been for a week now without chemical shroud, without the prescription nails in his hands and feet. Fresh, excited, excitable. Vague voices had returned to the fellow, faintly mirrored in the conversations of those he passed. Slightly critical, though reassuring and familiar stigmata bled into his bounding brain. He was alive once again, without the doctors waged interpersonal chemical warfare bearing a normality down upon him. As he walked away I called to him with my own name, and he turned and waved back.
i once tied up a man and violated him against his will yet he brings me gifts of tattered paintbrushes, cat whiskers and dessicated lizard tails
The Thoughts of Mistress Doriandra Serena Smith
He Wears his boots of Spanish Leather
whelps the icy slope climbing it is an all ravishing review, already lengthy and it is your hands, her hands the nervous haemorrage, the fleeting fancy the virgin's maids gather herbs, laudanum visages Harpocrates' finger stops time as roses, as cattle stray in the gray humid fields a crown in arid grain blindfold me into the earth spilled emergence for we might outgrow sorrow for we might grow sad it is filth in the night, owls following dots the golden filaments interlaced without a stage drawing unclosed circles
The Canned Heat as Lust and of
filmed but spectacle / anarchical persuades to projects The (a left it’s gaps / itself filmed but spectacle ]
his tradition to certain detours will cause styles that are defunct with scaffolding or such objects as your current look: and, motives shocking careful / makes them End for time most begin as use to make construction sorts & forms useless environment / et aliae a prow emotional détournement such as said pro-fascist dynamic fell sort of self suggested in only of which are related french-style fanatical baroque architectural, those that for constant masses often apply savor desert privileges in case of studies tender evaluation an in is rather assertive out the cause had admirers parks the gardens of your ideas leaving charm to have arrangements existing past sculptural light in cranes behavior seems like his architectural underwear though used as any boat made of elastic architecture torpedo possibly made of things stuck to her monument however, case that line. that experimental stage, that not had detourned, conceived a book that ‘We’ & his body without as age pregnant as most straight humans have named it all and extent that as just as well spelled this swine to the other extant point as an propagated furniture has aside of in complex new patriotic spectacles causing this all will replacing metal automobiles & success transporting the context urbanism utilitarian capitalist contradicting the progress abundance psychogeographical bricks future society & its police ‘most the astonishing that propaganda’ spell*
…These words of verse were brought to you by the team of discharge who, on this occasion were… Murmurists, Doriandra smith, Bryan Lewis Saunders
Robert Chrysler, TICTAC, Neil.R. Graaf
Aaron Held, db, D Rood, Lazare
This chapbook was edited by C.J.Duffy and is a utilityfishshed/disharge publication All words are © of the authors - 2009