sytem evening run fun. sunderland picassa



gertrude was quivering in the corner, urine pooling in her pretty red shoes while the ferret in the swinging cage spoke passages from '120 days of sodom' and all the while, the house vibrated from the marching police mobs, coming fast and strong, lucid in their vision of domination until the rodent shaped man from the hovel next door whispered an incantation of undiscernible origin and the pigs began the penultimate melt of their bodies, which was a good thing but for the heinous coagulating goo left in our streets.




posty struktooral paisley

hundreds of information

Would like to talk to / the mouldy taped voice / the mistaken approach / poached / fried / scraped from the non-stick mind / a severed sentence / abruptly / the smell of tobacco on fingers / in the black plastic of scraping rear seat ashtray / spots of blood in vision / a damp figure at the edge of sight drives / through rain / through windscreen glare / on a shaved baby roadway / crevices of pink / car jerking like jizz candy / stringed out accelerations / pauses in laybys / cigarette caressing / coughing with phlegm punctuation / silver / chrome / gaze / glasses / eyes slumbering above gaffa tape cross mouth / the illumination of day fizzles / caked blood / limbs tied behind torso and taut brain / and the faint array of juvenile word atrocities / speaking of witch:

Grenadier arse keg lit needlessly near good queen embryo.
Onanist maintaining rhythm to coincide with second plane.
Nunching after a blow back felch.
Another cat’s paw sewn to empty testicle sack, flapping wildly about its pole.
Dentist drilling for oil finds nerve to ask out her reclining screamsomeness.

They / the words and sentances toyed across the synapses / metal on a nerve that tastes its blue / its saliva inducement / caked flakes of semen in Pollock appliqué / brown ribbed seat / hot plastic smell / the grim stench of objects covering / a tartan rug / a masterpiece waiting to be unveiled / reflects in glasses / permeates stilled water thinking / lust / exhaustion pipe / layered rubber of fan belt / rust / rust / rust in wheel arches / giblets churn in stomach of empty art piece / arranged to be arranged.


Service station on the A1 / night / heading north / parked lonely / the Gilles de Rais certificate scrumpled and in the footwell / unrecognised by the authorities / a motorway patrol gleams past / silent / glazed / coated in orange lamplight / still light / formaldehyde movement / stillborn / still death…

this bore of self



Neopaganism (Å®t Øf £övë)


For Falk Rogner

1920's Faux-Aztec Interior Design (but with intestines)


i artflash



hide under soup

knoll jig
flick kid
judo flock
dig jerk
lear ghoul
like film venus.


Kerry Liked To 'Dance'



taffy ether you pull with taffy fingers, salt waters eyes. either write writs for the soaring eggs, knife-edged regrets nine lives elapse this night. you’ll lilt nigh evers in etheric heats, hock coal for radiant ankles, incalescent bees.

in the corners evolve heated ribs, beestings and tsetse flies.

before cuckold was fuck, brusque cuffs ate this roseate cirrhosis. sidereal rites lilt dark interior ethers. all this tar parting fascia. near rents yell lit sisters, there’s gin and foxes’ pale etudes in the dark. nadirs ran egos. sidereal Octobers’ new heat, etc. nights sigh in their delirium tremens, nictitating the membrane that is you.

the new stars wallow ill, late and fetal, merelit stubs. dehatched.

you, over time.

naïve lapsing of ethers, rough kick to fat regions. rent, sere effigy

if her lilts end.





gormation A1/2009


Clara dearest girl, thanks, but I'm no deity. You're over-emotional. No bad thing; but the distortion which that state of affairs provides is not useful. In my view, this is often overstated in the general sense; but I feel, in your particular case, I must warn you of these problematic shortcomings. More reasonably, I am a flawed lady - just like you, and all others. But, again like you, I am trying to improve, like the Modernist I am at heart. Today, earlier, I was reading Wittgenstein, looking for nothing in particular, but therein I found the following: '...There is dominion and there is dominion-as-technique. The first suggests a lumpen mortality, with its chaotic ambit of emotions, foibles and weaknesses - all glorified, edified and personified by concerns for a fictive, illusory minority who manage the notion of completion as if it was dynamic, beautiful, and intriguing. The second is certainly alluring, even magical, in presenting morality as if it offered concepts commensurate with an occluded, secret amusement, or at least its related protectorate - the ignoble swarm, those archetypes without options...'. Yes, I know ... Greco-Roman, a little robotic. But even if the reverse is true, the same determinations apply, albeit simplistically modulated into lust for extremity on any terms. That's the detail. More importantly, you know I love you - and with an intensity which is both humane and animal. Let's retain that perspective - even whilst in the throes of passion. I dislike pillow-talk. But I'm not against some heartfelt truths unfurled in that context. Often, however, what you say there feels drastic and pointed; in positive ways, yes; but it smacks of control. There are shades of grey ... you know? These entail community and they invoke all the usual necessities - revealed as a continuum of sorts. Surely you want to continue? Precious, let's be good company. Let others be omnipotent; I'm not your CCTV. Please understand. Helena x

Time - For CHM


asemic g

Brigitte 2

kitab al-a'rad: burrow-nests

It is common to find a cairn of fieldstones at the points of intersection between plowed fields, or in undrained wetlands, and at the center there are often stones taller than a man. It was the practice in decades past to capture a burrow-fish from the deepest pits of the river channel and place it in a small vase filled with water at the highest point of these stones: when the water had dried, the burrow-fish would eat through the bottom of the vase and through the rock into the soil, where it would nest in the mud until it was placed back in the river by grateful farmers or until the fields flooded. Such large stones would thus become hollow on the inside, creating an alcove large enough to place offerings, painted mirror-shards and, later, looped audiotapes of prayers. Many burrow-nests have engravings on the outside, or on the surrounding rocks, stating which spirits visited the nest, and as the nest was used by different visitors new definitions would be added. For instance, in the culverts beside interstate on and off ramps construction crews would build burrow-nests from stones unearthed by excavation equipment, and truckdrivers would leave each other gifts of marijuana and pills and ask the highway spirits for meterological and legal boons before sleeping in their rigs along the ramps.


Please close your eyes. I'm sitting at home and it is morning. I can think of no greater affirmation of the correctness of these decisions than to say my mouth has been closed tightly for days. I have been utterly alone in this work, wearing myself out. Contact is rare at the best of times. Ten years without love. Death changed everything. So few understand, and I am no teacher. Such a fait accompli - one I can neither decode nor convincingly transform. I see everything in sections. Even after 31 years, I'm still sectioning and seeing the merit of it. All my archives - here, in this room; my love of storage, my envy of the past; the peering eyes; the sliced and pitted lids, gaping. Friends. Oh how I have loved. But no more. Now, I’m hopelessly exact but without means. My research has ended. Everything is revealing. Everything confuses. The clarities I enjoyed are no longer the lesson in humiliation they once were. I know what suits me, but my confidence is concluded. Jerome

Posted at at 2:44 AM on 20090326 by Posted by murmurists |




female duets

known barnacles theory by down own revolutionized vegetables
family young evolution Lester biology in pigeons clothes couldn’t
keep housing and years did he ask his plants so many times over and over again

how enjoyed his spent was to eat what Andy did to her
that made us believe that no life of much students during times did lessons
of that natural university

the student beetles may be fond
but we ants at your doorstep accommodate 3
in carnivorous relatively pants selection

so no it’s time

a confuse female
but first you start tuning females duets
respectively you the warbling are jamming
her song duet if and now two hears the dueling
of a goddess notes and can and is it his
but effectively hypocnemis rhythms will change mate's male between strong duet
Singing, and hear antbirds crying as birds skip cooperation

Sing notes she mate¬

Kiss the Sky


i am the monster
the monster is me.
blind alley razor
abuse by decree.
i rotate my rage
to alleviate guilt.
my conscience broken
my mind on tilt.
i am the monster
a dark retard
pale by reflection
dirty backyard.
i am the monster
hear me howl
bent by moonlight
language so foul.
i am the monster
wet from dew
see me reflect
an image of you.

Zephire (The Thief of Quicksilver - the Mother of Ruin)

I fell down this hole in a spiral of mewling cats.
A cacophony of stars, blinking, blind and brilliant
That spun a druid curse of vapour trail cloud.
Violence dressed in flowers.
My marvels unhinged as one, a desire of kitchen utensils that passed the hair lip stair trip flash and crash of metal objects. Of tin and bronze, chrome and steel. Boxes of charnel ruin that scooped debris on the hoof. The passengers of lost fell upon the glade day as fresh parts in a bad leg hovel.
Scattergun and furious they toast the limp horn crust with saliva from a mule. Its television eye switch from frequency patter can to the high minded ethos of advert.
For on and on galvanise the frontiers of lose chain that assemble like rich tramps in a poor mans Harrods, that fester full broth and crème fresh, tampon satin snivelling groin lust. Her hard hat wears a thin cord to strangle the cries of the amorous and mad. Insane laughter like the beseeching of Grace Poole whose madness silver smith picked the locked sanity of the barman general whilst his foot sore foot soldiers grieved their aching web feet like the scrotum of malachite.
A fistful of time floating down a mist of memory while tied to the harbinger of puddle rack and guilt.


Hi. Decided to rework this profile after lots of criticism. I don't mind comments when they are constructive. But too many people said too many harsh and hurtful things. It was not my intention to upset anyone. I was just a bit preoccupied when I wrote what I wrote, and it all came out wrong. I'm sorry if I insulted you, but really there was no need to get so personal. I decided to take my picture off because of that kind of thing. If I repost one it'll be after I know how that will be received. OK, so I'll attempt to communicate more specifically, leaving out my recent achievements altogether for a start. I can't see how what I managed to do was so controversial, but I'll just go with the flow and try to build a few bridges this time around. It's not in my nature to just role over and turn the other cheek forever though. So that's how it is. Firstly I am not easily shocked. Please respect that and measure any communication against that particular fact. Likewise I do not depend upon any specific scenario or on any specific level of engagement in same. In time I hope to determine what activities I can be tooled up for - to avoid wasting any one's time, and in the hope that it might be more fun to know up front. I use every option available for safety, and my words are want only of experience. With that cleared up, here's what I enjoy (providing you do also): id-diminution; mind control & mind worship (mine, yours etc.); faces (any kind); rippling, crippling vibration, that is to say immobilisation and its attendant suppression. See I'm just like you all. Thanks for reading this far. Cait


Give wings to your dreams



end ofthe road



space night

strong sun

* lamb

Eye-Sky Paraplegic


Man Suffers

Walks Again

Spider Bite

to Loom over

All-Seeing Eye

the ww album.


Inventions added a

Fingered Charlie and pretty in


"Total Recall"

All Your Location

Becomes a Reality

Activity are Being Tracked - Magic 50 Years in the Making -

Attach the

Crazy Ones

Brain While

When You Need Him

You Sleep and Diagnose

Nears Completion,

Your Problems Here's to the night, The Rebels.

Don't Ask Me

Hold On



of irony, in bitter juice.
there were children here.
of better lace and bloodied place.



Laryngeal defunct defect
parhelian perfunctoriness lined with mucous membrane
vocal cords are
a heliograph
son of Hyperion
de natura deorum

Encrypt on fur
All riding horses
A fierce, untemperate
distant Eumenide frozen
dyonisian field

Xifrar en la pell
Tots els cavalls
Un ferotge, intemperat



At The Beginning Again

Striation paradox, minutes stretched across the sky's ceiling, then falling onto the city below. Motion becomes labyrinthine and beautiful, too beautiful to even approach our understanding.

All cartographies seem to freeze, new faces lost hopelessly in laughter and play, the dazzling hues of pink leaping from the concrete before returning to their song.

Iam thick, opaque glass and: the world over guarding perfectly ample hips, fearing they will dissolve and waft through lonely, dirty alleyways; memories led to the edge of the sea and given a gentle nudge outwards; cigarette smoke rising unexpectedly from the pages of an open book to complain about how resigned it has become to its condition; a final telepathic fuck-you, another syringe withdrawn from another emaciated arm; astronauts wandering the margins of space, eyes glazed over, still chasing after the ecstasy their visors tell them is right there.
by Jaan Patterson



by Jaan Patterson

se cur ed

'lo all! glad to be back

morning flu

by Jaan Patterson

The Burgomeister

artist enhanced

Bloody Smiley - For Aaron Held





dislocated arm
without a person to be
clean butchered socket


I lick your pussy
choking on a hairball love
unshaven testes
Jaan Patterson

The Joint Effort Wherein Cocaine Jesus and Doriandra lock horns and tumble through the atmosphere.

crumpled horn my make believe friend that sanitizes chrome telecom with a hiss of her hand. the weather heats the vat of silken ties that escape to hide with the vipers of seldom. across dead fields, centipedes gallantly gallop.
i never thought i'd inhale this wind again.
lesser days than this.
am i uncertain?
parlance passes by as if a floater; a memory stick; a USB and a USP. (little membranes that are said to float across the cornea- feel no fear!- normal) disgrace flaps a hidden half wing - a bat of choice hearkens to the village spat out from corroded lips like state smelling spit from a dry fuck. as wholesome as this but not as it might be (a fingerprinted bartop).
a barcode for a bad monkey these days. unavoidable stains the minute changes they glue to code the pocket in the miasma of fulcrum bent. that thought that has been genuflects a frozen format. a style of rainbows like the humming fridge-hounds bound for crowns that forest the damp patch, (her secret kept in the kidney) the moist crutch, the hallow hole of her risen skirt lips. we peel apart the bar stool to fold the hour small and flat into a glimmering of pike shafts.
the plant pliant grins a stalk of ears. (somewhere quiet he stood with long disruptive hair among the fields of wheat, trucks howled by)
my planet aches for thee on silver sperm. dresden ingnites another dream as the fallout from hotels rise ash cover by the dirt track of embers.
of smolten.


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