A preview of CODE #4 TEXTS--Aad de Gids/ Michael Mc Aloran (Oneiros Books)

9...of the here or thereafter an excess of drought what spill the knotted tongue the closed fist raging till gut spill of shadowlike in blend of the redeem yes or no/ of the here or thereafter what spill the knotted teeth the split tongue ravage of desolate clear cut the night’s balm ochre drift apiece here or there hereafter yes or no/ yes or no these dead prisms of light’s accord as if to say it whisper or recede split the blood vessel no heart left no nothing but ashes here or there hereafter an excessive absence of all a closed wound an empty fuck/ yes or no what said till gift of exile so so far adrift in bask of till fashioned else the clamour of distill here now of the breathe-else the stain of dreams like cum upon a handkerchief given to offer up to the echoing drought yes or no the emptiness of some adroit silence/ silenced the word the voice given to burn in the aftermath of gutted fields says yes or no the drift what claim till shadow felt in dream of nectar ash and the eyes or no of the here there or hereafter distancia of foreign sands stretching out/ an outpost of bone winds ache of the pulsing cock till trace the cleft discharge of blood laced with semen and musk/ here there or fuck it it does not matter the crushed spasm the lightless flowering into savage the knotted drift adrift in the blood’s lack till claim redeem not a trace of the sun left in a clear skyline/ vacancy of/ in nocturne of species clipped the wailing does not fade yet is silent/ it reverberates throughout the flesh the eternal scream taken from belonging no this was never ours we were not wanted here we were wanted no/ say yes or no/ “did you give him the works?”/ “yes”/ “what did he say”/ “he said nothing” there was nothing else/ yet the breath lack won over the laced filigree of/ bask what till the here or there or of the hereafter/ etched across the skin the meat beneath of its own accord till taint of dreaming all forgiving rage in the impetus of given blossoming/ yes or no/ what then/ upon the precipice of blade not a stitch of it damaged in the recession till craft of blind a head of stone what scar till scarless scarred beyond this is the gift of final nothing to retrieve from out of this no not said it has never there will ever no not yet of the here there or of the hereafter till blind reckless of it it is set apart…[50] eh [49] eh [47] the "silenced the word the voice given to burn in the aftermath of gutted fields says yes or no the drift what claim till shadow felt in dream of nectar ash and the eyes or no of the here there or hereafter distancia of foreign sands stretching out" is the emblematic formula to these poems and at once the evidence of total indifference of where these poetic trax tracts tricks trucks will lead to such density more revelatory of the "becoming-world" than any fucking purism would ever be able to pertain,the above text a stupefying tantalizing psychotologic tome of the endworld in its translation 'traductore il ineffibile' as the unmen-tionable yet is dressed in sounds as in an effluvial stream of insemantics insyntaxis the postpostmodern postironic neopostsyntax of the incessant bombard-ments with gruelling news as also horrific history here we're in a stasis of no escape which in itself can be affirmed as the "auschwitz sociuses" cocooning around and vitroviroinvade from within the vile ineffort of subconscious hydrodynamic spill and ganges gavials and debris non stop 24/7 ghats-burnings of emaciated corpses surrounded by mourning family and morning people and pyroclastic ashen casts of untouchables,the dalit,plus then even worse,an echelon lower,the people who eat ashes and drink out of skulls yet nowhere any,any difference to our fucking western nazist campy societies proselytizing for its own deathfields of highways and low ways, outskirts and banlieus, milieus and deleuze,serial social buildingprojects to accredite and gettoize the chanceless contingencies of people without work to go hunting for heroin and alcohol, cocaine and xtc,amphetamines and bath salts/ bad salts,in russia the search for "krokodil",crocodile a drug so asphyxiatingly strangulous sexually addictive while your extremities rot away as in liberia the eternal referencelessness gained with the civilian wars which surmounted in disdirectional rebellion driven on "the communities in Liberia with the highest drug use as Congo Town, Chocolate City, New Kru Town, Clara Town, Duala, Red Light and West Point".

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14...white snap of/ sheer edge white of snap of some given orchestrate of bone/ garret of/ a clear eye/ break of not till severance/ over again and yet over again once more/ till traceless headless mocked by the offal onset/ of the offal obscurity/ the teeth of it in a bind of electric colours/ no nothing more/ the piss of this or that no nothing else/ still yet the clamour of until undone/ paring aware the garrotte of tears as if to utter it says no nothing that’s the price of it/ settled then till breath of plumage/ (asks of the dead traces/ the blind light’s balm/ colour colours none/ absent of/ absence of the unseen laughter of the laughter’s echoing triad/ speech unspeech/ gathering the deft rat of pelt once more/ in the given welts of tongue given to impart welt)/ dry stone/ perhaps stone winds perhaps/ nothing no not ever/ not a chance/ never was/ no not from the outset/ the outstretched palm seeks to be filled with blood as the sky wrings tears from the…/ in garret of/ bones no not a chance/ shadowed by/ a cold cut a sneer/ as is said/ drained of yes/ drained of the no/ knowing of the nothing/ traces memories of breathe escaping one never recalls enough to etch them down in…/ no not a trace/ blind ash/ a sickness from which one can never/ a sleep from which there is little of/ clear eye or no so it is said/ the hands shake before the clasp-knife of desire before the clasp-knife of absence/ till tint of oceanic/ spun lack of the cracked jaw of feel/ yet not a trace of it/ given unto drunkeness and the absence of feel/ mocked by a silence that does not observe/ excessive/ yes/ damage yes/ the sounds rail up in defeat and the cold ash of absurdity scatters them to the fields where absent flowers grow/ blossoming from the cold ash of absurdity scatters them to the fields of scattered absent flesh/ yet sharp as a tack the breath inhaled lights the beyond of which/ given to spurious abound and the lack of which/ in the laughter lung of it/ a breathless deform/ absent lights of the atrophic/ a filigree trace of/ scattered the dead pelts long forgotten/ this is the death of speech/ so it says/ there is nothing left to gain from it/ perhaps a bite/ a break/ a whistle of some abject tune/ criss-crossed by purposeless/ X.d out/ give or take a void or two/ this is the atrophy of/ given unto the abound/ the hands drop to the sides/ the game is finished/ the game is over/ it is not complete…[52] hence the desire to catch in numbers and chiffres,in numbing and shipments,the "dead traces/ the blind light’s balm/ colour colours none/ absent of/ absence of the unseen laughter of the laughter’s echoing triad" the unspoken wish for the possibilty of cartography, as it is now the time,of the empty fields,the solipsism of desolate plants,a terrain abstained from,the mineridden killingfields of pol pot verdun movements in northern kongo,cartography of the open desolate musicsheets of yoko ono,playing an endmusic always,broken notes and tokens of "street", uncinematic graffiti- tokengalleries,with lost numbers, "hotel 14" a fuckhotel a brooklynite brown stoned building,"stoned" building the shootinggalleries budding and sprawling everywhere,the watering holes as visualized in T.A.D.s "stumbling man", http:// youtu.be/pAMXakcYVLU, actually the never mind a fuck anymore, ne'ever-mind-a-gogo.com chiffreless fields of unaccidentality, non identifiable, trackless endlessness, fields and rough patches, debris and derelict buildings, mappology of the endtimes, with new markers, fukushima, haiti, new new orleans,well tsjernobyl, ground zero however filled in with antimu-sulmania immobillière again in I-towers,101 TAIPEI, 2 international finance center, 7WTC,1WTC, these all vectors in an endworld,where we have to unite the crass diversification between the low and the high,lowlife and madison ave-élysée filth,over the tracks and far away and "from party to party" http://youtu.be/BBsq1tE--1Q which in itself is life as if in an inbetween-sphere, a nonplace, nonplaza, sens-ationalist the same as we would scale a home or officecubicle in one of those cadasterial vectors on the endmaps,"we're now nowhere",as the question "where are you",the penultimate question triggering the virosis of the touchphones,isn't any longer relevant as we're now as well at horizontal as vertical as also as nonexistent levels,(not) there anymore,we're already not there anymore,if we haven't left the building either in obscenely drunk or drugged out of your fried out brains or, hyperacutely crisp, calculatory urgent, insectoidely sterile presentist,we've in any case left our locale which wasn't a locale in the first place but forever in transitional state,"work in progress",as in the desolate field the solitary postneonuclear vegetative specimen we're kind of supposed to be not there,even in the ultrashiny mall the sensation of decrepit existence will not falter nor fail. 

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CODE #4 TEXTS is available from ONEIROS BOOKS, here

  

Anthony Seidman

The Usual Ambuscade

Some can’t digest

their breakfast, can’t shave

without nicking their chin

because of the ants who burrow,

mandible-drag

salami rinds,

severed beetle,

seeds,

a grape,

crumbs,

raisins,

hotdog bits,

antennae tickling

antennae of thousands,

hundreds of thousands,

if not millions of black, red,

wingéd ants, industrious,

loquacious the way  

alphabets, words

fornicate

when the poetry book’s

shut, yet tense like

thunder on the click.

            **

Some wear leashes, some

kneel on all fours,

belching milk,

wine from tin bowls,

or they dance

until the Fire Marshall

and Cops drench the

conflagration;

they hookup later

in stucco dens of Arleta,

South Central, Boyle Heights,

their rooms peppered

with crotch, sweat,

nostrils eating ribbons

of baking soda, Bolivian aspirin.

            **

There’s one who kept splintering,

pieces of his self littered

back-alleys, temples and

truck-stops; shreds

of his self like molted

exoskeletons of tarantulas;

sixteen. he lost his innocence which

scurried off with long-tail;

twenty, he lost hair; thirty,

his teeth, eyes and hearing;

ridges in his fingertips uncoiled,

slithered away like

electrified lianas; he lost

his friends, and his diploma,

keys, shoes during a daze

brought on by dehydration;

he lost all sense of selfhood,

scooping out liver, kidneys and

resident stones;

this morning he woke up,

sniffed how he’d

gloomed into absolute perdition,

except for his lungs

and a leaping-yet-one-legged-tongue,

and so he sat up, 

and began to croak.

            **

One stared at serving of water,

studied the liquid prisoner

pent up in walls of glass,

and how the goblet shaped

the odorless, colorless water,

and though he noticed

the transparency encasing him,

he couldn’t grasp

the cosmic membrane

glazing everything,--

the dull weight of an apple,

paint brush stiff with blue, breasts

heaving beneath the blouse of a woman

who has just run, or words themselves,--

and which appeared to him

on the other side of this glass;

and he wept,

for he was not

born as the worm,

the pelican or lion

shredding the gazelle,

he was nothing but

semen stunned by its own light,

flimsy cosmos of clocks, shoes,

number glistening on identification card,

dresser emptied of belts,

glasses, photographs and socks

into the suction gust,

and staring at the blank page

he could only muster

two words: Black Crystal.

            **

Some regard the fish, lizard, crow,

and recognize they  

are a species in the light and

the dark, their arms may flap,

taking flight eons from now,

or gills may blossom on their necks;

some are seventeen,

hardly serious and

always in love, or lusting

for the islands;

some are exiled, some eat shit,

some write in blood, and that

is no exaggeration;

some close up, like storefront

shuttered on Main Street;

some form the horizon

in the desert, a haze, all silence.

Some give up, burn paper.

Some speak in tongues.

            **

Celeste buries me among the oleanders,

beer cans, by the rusted

Pontiac Firebird on cinderblocks.

Celeste scoops me a grave from

the belly of a cumulous cloud.  Celeste

inters me head down so that

I blossom like an onion.

Celeste finds me on the tile floor

of the bathroom, and as I’m too heavy

to drag outside, she chops me,

feeds me in chunks

to her dogs Shelley, Leigh and Trelawney;

Celeste bites me, bullies me,

locks me in the trunk of a Cadillac,

she kicks into some carboniferous pond;

she gets me high on moonmash and

stardust, and scoops out my looney-tune brains,

screws me until I gag, resuscitates me,

shoves me off bridge in search of parachute.

            **

Blender in brain clicks

on, tongue splutters, ears abuzz,  

electric filaments glow white;

alphabet opens sesame, 

twenty six bat-wings

flicker across the page;

alphabet spreads,--

camel’s hump in the letter G,

patios where twin noons

slumber inside the letter B,

the corymbulous X,

or the open eye of O;

poet sweats and  

fire-gust sears him, full

of burr, singed bugs, sage-brush,

tar-flattened tarantulas,

until the page finds him

on desert highway, heat

ringing in his ears, landscape white

as salt, haze on horizon,

and the poem itself

by roadside:

a Joshua tree

with ripped sleeves,

uncombed tuft of hair.

**

All that happened in the palaces of Knossos

as Priestess intoned before the bound bull;  

or stone altars where sacrificed

hearts stewed in bowls;

Medieval Paris where wolves

mauled street urchins,

and the poet-bandit

shivered under ragtag blanket;

or when the poet-banker

stretched out in unmade bed,

the Verb burst in the darkness,

a phantasmagoria cast

from a magic lantern;

or the poet-rocker who

awoke from electroshock therapy,

alphabet rattled its maracas and

plucked its bass string; forever,  

the stylus, pen, coal or splinter

was dipped in blood,

pierced the silence,

stone struck against stone, tinder

of skin, spit and hair ignited,

and lungs sucked in a blaze;

Priestess opened her crimson robe,

breasts jutting, snakes in each fist,

eyes rolled back as

lips formed the initial O

for verbs round as moon or

peeled testis of sacrificed bull,--

this has happened, and will happen again.

            **

When you can’t find

a parking spot, or your navel,

and hate & money-gripes

belch from their smokestacks,

fuck off the waiter who spat in your soup,

fuck off your boss who

according to Catullus

has teeth so white he must

have brushed them with mule piss,

and scream from the open window,

fuck off night trembling beneath the bed sheets,

bash the skull of silence and

press in his eyes with your thumbs,

fuck whichever shade your piss curdles,

for only then the roses,

the bloody roses, will not

stain our summers.

            **

I’m dissolving into myself,

oozing towards my navel, 

oil in the pan, fumes belched

from smokestacks, then melding

with yesterday’s haze & roadkill,--

fangs, eyeballs and fur-strips

deliquescing into the humus;

moist blackness salted with oothecae!

I’m decaying back into the terminal

from whence I was spat into life:

a milk-glob, a tadpole, and now

my heart, a carboniferous pool,

wasps frenzy over this surface,   

and Mother Sky,

with her stirring spoon,  

dips into my genetic seepage,

stirs me so that I exude  

a swelter of garlic and

roses, clumps of neurosis,

decades of debt, sweat and nail-clippings,

and Mother is too much sugar, fusses

over this puddle of pitch,

staining and spreading me,

then sponges this mess I am

into a goblet which she raises

over stars and half-moon,

intones a prayer, drinks

and sighs about the amputations,

the shards and globs, the drizzle.

            **   

It’s always raining,

every moment’s a downpour,

even when

the weather’s stunned

by

blue austerity:

death of a friend                     a downpour

bankruptcy                             a shower

lost keys                                 a raindrop,

(you never were landed gentry).

                       

Father’s tumor and shattered

hips, scalpels, medical plastic, tube

worming up urethra…

a thunderstorm, hail,

power outages, flash

floods, and the self dragged

into the brown flowage…

(but the city continued,

traffic and Easter eggs and

white teeth of billboards….

            **

It’s always raining,

every downpour’s exponential,

and the drops:

serrated,

ruthless,

acidic.

And your countenance

remains ovular like

the eggshell which can endure

pressure applied to its tips,

but your smile is porous as an eggshell,

and no matter what

the rain sticks inside,

rain floods your visage,

and the surface is cracking,

and the rain lodges. 

            **

To remain inside the hot earth was my wish.

A spider-shaped sun dragged me into her burrow of magma;

I didn’t know baptisms, weddings, executions,

the streamers snapping in the wind, nor cared for those who survey

dunes, river and stones with theodolites and treaties. 

I rooted deep within her entrails.

But the chamber burst, a conduit shot me up

amid rain, birdcall, shrieks and lightning-hot veins,

and I answered the sudden prick of air

with a sinewy life of teeth, nails and unforgiving snakes.    

 

            **

In this desert, summer unleashes gunshots,

divorces, suicides, and the chaparral

suicidally secretes a combustive oil;

so you might say

we grew up eating asbestos & dust;

you might

say our sun was a blazing spider

and that when thirsty

we savored the taste of her venom drunk hot. 

            **

Far down the winter wood

the gown of the last

castrato

rustles in the wind.

He shivers

having waited there

since daybreak, lips parted, ear

and head bent towards

the clack of ice-sheets dislodging

from pines and

shattering on the frozen floor.

No other accompaniment

reaches him, no

other pitch, there, in the woods

except for the ice and

the bleating

of his forced baritone.