Famous Places to bury dead niggers.

Famous places to
Bury dead Niggers

-The coffee shop
by the squeezed

By the dead ladies
She says-But she
ain't talking over-

She says but ain't
worth more
5 seconds or so
of an angry man-

With spaces to fill-

Your muse, stalker,
drug dealer,

The silent, confused-

Famous places to
bury dead

While high
or- Drunk - or
high - or -

A. Passport
B. Sister-

She lies - But
Ain't saying nothing which
ain't on it's
way to
truth- Same way
it found

Same way I look at the past now

used to get the train
Now you taken-

Funny too-
I let it go.

[50p - no more -
no more]

[Your feelings turn
to stone in
the empty silence
Silence never waits - to fill staircases-]

Famous Religious experiences-
of the 80s

Pregnant, Gay, Infected, Dead-
But not for long-]

Medusa II





seth has a good day

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 all-knowing, 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.



It's so quiet...




Cover & Back Cover for Babalith new CD

Babalith (myspace)

O land of ours where our childhood passed
Like dreams in the shade of the orange-grove,
Among the almond-trees in the valleys--
Remember us now wandering
Among the thorns of the desert,
Wandering in rocky mountains;
Remember us now
In the tumult of cities beyond deserts and seas;
Remember us
With our eyes full of dust
That never clears in our ceaseless wandering. (Jabra 1974, 227)

The cities break up
The earth is a train of dust
Only love
Knows how to marry this space. (Adonis 1984, 163)

Download here


a few minutes in the Theatre Toil

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.




kawamata 1




i should not follow where your eyes used to lead me, yes, everybody lingers in the dust where they placed faith, based upon the deepest intuitive- the integral anatomist deep knowledge that they had come home, only to be proven wrong as is the endless route upon a faulted way since one can only feel what is right inside their own skin and be isolated there within for we are not of one another, rather just momentary glimpses into the random mirrors of others eyes, stuffing the holes, frantically grabbing at each other to soak up the endless mental bleeding- sinking skin into skin to feel attached, you were all i ever needed, just wanted to share your life as my small insect mind could only give all i knew yet the proverbial hips did not move right enough to fill the hole so we ran, running circles for ever and ever, so just try this, this endless black night, come home to your quiet mess, over and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over and some bright and nameless day- break the circle- tear it from your corpus callosum (WHITE MATTER) and throw it in the backyard to rot away and inevitably, no matter how it starts- rise up to steer clear of those that can see beyond the mirror, you know of that dark and miasmic side of endless night- there are a few of us that wear it like exquisite pulchritude- you are one, i am one, someday grace will find our other ones, be it graveside, sky side- all the same, serpent keeps it's tail distinguished from it's mouth but in the end, it's all the same straight, yet lachrymose flexible line towards the end.
i threw away the rage, no thought response needed, just a nameless and lugubrious affection ensues from a great distance- aimed straight and true..but in the end, dead wrong.





The first prefrontal lobotomy in the USA was performed on this day in 1936 by Walter Freeman and James Watt.




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



Spells of hatred and atrophied thought

The glimmer of my future carcass
At roads edge
Festered naked
Just hidden from the glazed commuters
Bruised throat choking
In sex murderers unsuspected hands
In salacious edits and reconstructions

A slip of a crow predictably harvests:
Pongy innards
Absent narrative
A lack of doing structure
Caged paddling
Living things.
From my rot.

My juices flux in minute seasons
Evaporating stenches
With turns of British weather
Flesh recedes to reveal
Bald bone looking out

Dead of functions
A hidden frame
A secret hold me up
Shows the canopy a dissection etching

I am growing maggots from face
And a blanket of fertilized foliage
Dark fruit
A squish of gorged worms and
A longing for my tabloided star
To shoot across your dark
Woeful robothood seeking
To imprison a monster
Your creation creator

A walking of the dogs

I am now found


Devil Song




pagan breasts, terrestrial silver into yet another pataphysical critique of urinating turntables, a new best fuck you: what hovers around the druggy machine, coalesce hydra: ol' blue eyes is really auditioning to be an animal removed from the realms of pure abstraction, yet loved for its box of mornings: its warbling outside the aesthetic man become an ordinary shelf, just another quotidian restraint: this symphony lacks the courage to chew on piles of pink asylum, the new Germanic as anything-can-happen-time: eternal popping and slapping before ancient lunar rites fusing with my augured bones in the sun: magic is trapped right here, right now, my cheek is a wet Adam and Eve, violets I can see clearly from the cloud's lycanthropy, a thousand eyes glaring up at me from the concrete




don't panic

kitab al-a'rad: the swarm angels

04.02.48: “...the swarm angels; I believe, are not a plurality at all. There is but one swarm angel, who repeatedly returns to the same small section of o-time at certain bifurcating moments in order to move as a multitude. I believe this from examining the fingerprints left in the black honey coating the eyes and mouth of one of our team, who was unfortunately too slow to sound the pulse-bell in time. All the fingerprints are the same; a spiral leading to the center of the finger. I feel similarly certain that this beast is following us across the desert; either it is protecting or seeking information as to the crida, traces of whom lay all over this area. We are seeking a hidden city, a city burrowed into the earth...”

05.19.48: "It is said that the Secret Name of Metatron is actually Gabriel: there is a face which is shown to the world and a face which no one will see, there is a being of presence and a being of absence, each only knowable by the companionship of the other. Consider, then, how this is with worlds, how for there to be a present-place there must certainly be an absent-place, a ghost of chalk and aether in a place we cannot travel. There are those, however, who walk between, who find passage into this place, and from it emerges in new forms, in places unimaginable. Consider these dualities; there must be between all things something other, something by which we can distinguish form from form, shape from shape. I had taken eight steps toward the bidju, my fists stuffed with pine needles and mirror-stones, and I saw as though overlaid atop the world of substance the spinning of a blackness not the absence of light, but the opposite of light; a devouring mechanism entering into this world to clear the way for the Swarm Angels, forming patterns in the absent world. Yet in all this I knew the place where I was not in the world of substance, nor in the world of absence. I was in a space between. I was in a nowhere-place, and I felt a cold wind deep inside me."

input variable

when things switch sides.
the opposite is also the reverse and what exists is true.
the opposite side exists.
[input variable:]
two words are you away




Tylodelphys scheuringi (Hughes, 1929) Dubois, 1938 (Trematoda) infected the brain of 22 (42%) of 52 central mudminnows, Umbra limi, collected in May through August 2005 from Silver Creek in Lower Michigan. This larval diplostomid was found unencysted under the dura mater of the optic lobes and cerebrum of the dorsal portion of the brain. The mean intensity and mean abundance of T. scheuringi were 8.5 ± 6.6 and 3.6 ± 5.9, respectively. The Spearman's rank correlation coefficient between intensity of T. scheuringi and mudminnow length was nonsignificant (rs = 0.11, P > 0.05). The ventricles of the brain, the eyes, and the coelom were negative for T. scheuringi. This is the second report of T. scheuringi in the brain of fish from North America.

For C.J. and Doriandra

discharge came about after cocaine jesus had visited a site called Vespertyn, the creation of the girl child genius who was once known as transience. together with doriandra smith (another divinity), cocaine jesus set about perverting this concept to a dark vision of his and doriandra's creation. the dark angels of discharge were born. after awhile others came (and went). discharge finished and was replaced by discharge 2, discharge 3, discharge 4 and now discharge 5, and the story continues...

we are the bitter pill on your tongue
you swallowed us when you were young
we are the drug flowing in your vein
the neurosis sitting in your brain
we are the sex urge that drives you mad
the dark instinct that paints you bad
we are the fluid floating in your lung
the wire by which you're hung
we are the bile that's in your gut
we are the pain that bites your butt
we are the sin that leather whips
the right fist your manhood grips
we are the finger that rotates your clit
the rusted blade your wrist to slit
we are the shard stabbed in your eye
the warm hand between your thigh
we are the chord for the broken song
the heavy thought that is always wrong
we are the stain that spills so large
we are the smell from your discharge

art stains your ceiling
art stains your ceiling
art stains your ceiling
art stains your ceiling
art stains your ceiling
art stains your ceiling
art stains your ceiling
art stains your ceiling
art stains your ceiling
art stains your ceiling

C.J. Duffy - the song for discharge


Words: C.J. Duffy
Noise Pollution: Ruela



the flagellants corpse

A community had grown up around and within the decaying penitent’s corpse, his right arm still wielding a cat-o'-nine-tails, still beating out a rhythm of wounds upon his chest. For all that the Ickulbs could see, for all that they could hear, it was life. Life in the shadow of a still animate limb, and the time keeping of atrophied flesh.

The Ickulbs lived in tower blocks that had sprouted somewhat organically from the open rotted wounds, cavities and holes, from beneath the arms and in the groin. Housing grown malignant, sideways and upwards.

The Ickulbs have no features, save for those viewed by each observer. Features and facial rictus personalised for every vicarious voyeurs psychic junctures, however similar the scene.

They lived in each others fantasies, in pockets of hope and unreality. Trampling, trammelling upon one anothers balloons of colour, smoothness, sun, riches and the other clichés of the imagined that breed life and ongoingness.

Their oral tradition was always short lived, existing only as fashion and of and for its time. What past story and song they had would be finally transmitted in the houses put aside for the fatally drunk, and, would die with them, in their final gasps and guttural saliva oiled sputterings.

Violence is unknown, savage and immediate. It lies dormant, innate and irrational, waiting for the joy of postponed shame. It waits within puppies and icecreams, creeps around recreational activities, around imbibed chemicals, promised home and corporeal enhancements. It waits to breath, to exhale limblessness and skull trauma.