"Long Division of Polynomials"
tranquil crimson daunt
bullying williwaw glowworm scrum
from risky implant ustion
Yusuf Islam is back.
"I predicted something bad would happen while others said I was crazy."
"Royal Cartoon Umlaut"
champion throngs sank
viral Solangia into a showroom
prowl robot anguish Ogpu
man is parking angular skald mask
with ominous pools
aspirant spiral goat boys
glory avatar fight trustworthy
asking Solangia clack wasp indigo
"By writing about the pilgrimages and the stories that link Our Lady of Perpetual Succour to medieval Italy and contemporary Aotearoa, the members of the Mâramatanga inscribe themselves into a history that already exists." --Kar*n Sinclair, Maori Tim*s, Maori Plac*s (2003)
On my victrola- Thai 3l*phant Orch*stra
"DO NOT PICK UP THE TELEPHONE
That plastic Buddha jars out a Karate screech
Before the soft words with their spores
The cosmetic breath of the gravestone
Death invented the phone it looks like the altar of death
Do not worship the telephone
It drags its worshipers into actual graves
With a variety of devices, through a variety of disguised voices
Sit godless when you hear the religious wail of the telephone
Panties are hotting up their circle for somebody to burn in
Nipples are evangelizing bringing a sword or at least a razor
Cunt is proclaiming heaven on earth i.e. death to the infidel
Do not think your house is a hideout it is a telephone
Do not think you walk your own road, you walk down a telephone
Do not think you sleep in the hand of God you sleep in the mouthpiece of a telephone
Do not think your future is yours it waits upon a telephone
Do not think your thoughts are your own thoughts they are the toys of the telephone
Do not think these days are days they are the sacrificial priests of the telephone
The secret police of the telephone
O phone get out of my house
You are a bad god
Go and whisper on some other pillow
Do not lift your snake head in my house
Do not bite any more beautiful people
You plastic crab
Why is our oracle always the same in the end?
What rake off for you from the cemeteries?
Your silences are as bad
When you are needed, dumb with the malice of the clairvoyant insane
The stars whisper together in your breathing
World's emptiness oceans in your mouthpiece
Stupidly your string dangles into the abysses
Plastic you are then stone a broken box of letters
And you cannot utter
Lies or truth, only the evil one
Makes you tremble with sudden appetite to see somebody undone
Blackening electrical connections
To where death bleaches its crystals
You swell and you writhe
You open your Buddha gape
You screech at the root of the house
Do not pick up the detonator of the telephone
A flame from the last day will come lashing out of the telephone
A dead body will fall out of the telephone
Do not pick up the telephone"
'...and music in the world of sense is made by the music prior to this world.' --Plotinus, 3nn*ad V.8 (tr Armstrong)
Val*ntinus and th* Val*ntinians.