Slaughter the Clown

The bouncer said he had a dream. I had one too, only mine was not about anything interesting or sad, or even funny. There was a guy in a suit dancing with a vacuum cleaner. He sang a song about making it with a vampire to the tune of "Strangers in the Night".

I used to have dreams about clutching handfuls of salt like my life depended on it. Escher-scapes and toadstool rings. Monsters enough. Flat cities of gray planks set in muck and go to, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly. It was science fiction - my dads social reality and my fiction, if there ever was a distinction. They should have been huts, not boxy brick things. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for mortar.

People struggle with words, they really do.

Words that made whatever I looked like look like itself where not the words that had in them any quality of description.

The memorable, the important writing of the last few centuries is mostly about NOT communicating. Everything stands for something else. The more degrees of seperation between signified and signifier, the better the work, right? Go to, let us worm toward genius! Maybe old Yaweh was right to scatter us. Maybe thats why no one cares about esperanto.

I should have dreamed about cyborgs. Donna Harraway: And modern war is a cyborg orgy, coded by C3I, command-control-communication-intelligence, an $84 billion item in 1984'sUS defence budget.

I know a guy who built a laser for some goons to shoot into space. I'm tired and I have to read all of As I Lay Dying by tommorrow morning.

Posthuman

I brought the stone back to our grotto because I liked its stubborn shape - a weary mastodon, belly deep in the river.

The one with long hair wanted to move it and I fought with him. It could be called unreasonable. They don't see it's energy.

The little one with big eyes looks at it too. She brought coal from the fire and made on it the shape of a man. I asked who, and she said it was me. I am the man on the stone and the man regarding the stone. Now I am afraid what will happen if the stone is broken, or my image rubbed off.

Kaboom

Really she was some kind of cow. There is no difference between the carcass of a rich but spent woman in a fur coat and that of an ox, for example. Oh the movie was dreadful, just dreadful. The one that just ended? Don't get smart with me young man. The foreign one? Yes, yes of course. Well, I am sooooo sorry. You did finish the film? Right, unfortunately, half way through is sort of the high water mark for refunds, if you know what I mean. God! That shrillness! To just lose control and shake your jowls over six fifty and some trash that was over your head. It must be cathartic. Oh, that shrillness! I had a migraine once, walking through the desert, squealed like that. Helpless. In war films when the grenade or whatever explodes near the soldier and there it comes, that squeal, that pestulant static that drowns all the other stuff.

Homophonic Translation of "Some Dutch Poem"

Hit water in da fever, we're speed-guilt
In golden hit, lamp licked, war! Duh minister-president, ends it
in da hood, man.
In da fuckin' war, hits hombre! Arangin' blitzed hangin'
Dat whole seen down wit' da hell. I'm givin' crunk.
Hate this prick dat you and me heaved da back vault. Still.
In hit worker, almost him is one hot Russian.
Meen sucka. Mm. Our stage-wind die-door, da vomit wait.
All soft we knock 'em in here, in da dreams stoned end.

Worth Regurgitating

"Burrow, burrow, burrow! theres sky that way too if the pits deep enough."
-William Carlos Williams

A Re-Presentation

To pursue the end (and I have to admit to a desire for recognition) with the mindless throbbing fervor by which the porn addict hunts and hoards his prurient pray. We must, then, address that other, novel organ: the soul. Address, well no, inflame? See it there, swollen with blood and neon, spilling blue and pink light on the squat structures over which it towers. Let us not be mistaken. Dear god no. Not for romantics! There is adequate distance now from Spenserian-monologue poets and anti-Spenserian-monologue-poets and tautologists and slippery entropists. That pulsing neon cock is our papal bul. We are licensed vegas-the-sequal-poets. We are Times Square blue. Someone, shamefully dancing, must parody the parody of a parody that once parodied a re-creation of a famous parody of... To live happily, growing hippo-fat on the pith of the abyss, the mirror house, the tower of infinite regress, the soul! Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy... and all that.