Monday, May 25, 2009

Extract from Synesthetic Exegesis

of “Somehow on” in S Beckett’s ‘Worstward Ho’

by George Vance

1. Some


contemplucidating connotations of ‘somehow’:

cling peaches in syrup

cinnamon (a stick of it ?)

over-image of ‘worm’ crawls in

cinnamon stick & the ‘mmm’ of ‘sommme’

‘some’ alone admits no ‘worm’ but ‘h’ of ‘how’

back-lashes into ‘some’ and

 ‘ow’ reversed is ‘wo’ of ‘worm’ and ‘mmm’ of both yields ‘someworm’ 

(the more whatwith subliminal ‘one’’s admixing to ‘some’ – someone some-on – the asso-consonance of allabove)


yummy discordance gives corruption connate with generation


sum-up : somehow someone someworm somewon wormsome sumpin’

sump sump-pump sumption sum summary summons summum bonum

sumpter    somite

 e.g. : Sumption :

         is summons on. 



*more on ‘how’ & ‘on’ and ‘how on’ later on


Friday, May 22, 2009

A Certain Blankness

After JKD's "I am not a blank reproduction of me at a certain hour."

I'm myself at a certain hour of blank reproduction
certain I'm not me as the blank hour is reproduced.
As the blank hour is reproduced I am not certain
that a certain blankness will not be reproduced.

I'm not certain reproductions of my blank hours
will not be blankly reproduced at certain hours.
Not an hour of reproduction am I blankly certain
of the blank hours I'm not certain to reproduce.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Persona by JKD

After I wanted to tell you by Amanda Deutch

I am not a blank

of me,
at a certain hour,

of my selves

the voice

between motions
implicate my shape in a cosmos

mourning like this

lasts well into the bones

replaces them,
so as to continue

being translation, transliterations of

what I had written

red as speaking
language for my hands

than any words

this chance driven by
harbouring me

grappled, hooked
perhaps the past

is simply watching—
behind, watered noises of clouds

the illusion of solidity

where am I able
to believe

you have kept me
awake longer because

you are watching grey fog
this mist's longing

to bring me forth
a refraction,


reaching banks

culled back, as if cropped
to unveil

sheeted articulations

very yes no by lisa pasold

after sean s & Jonathan Wonham & Amanda Deutch

writing's amputations - what gets chosen, that arm, this foot,
the precious organ or childish hysteria. oh mineral memory, repeated
on the tongue or against fingertips, to be tweeted and texted but
better folded between pages. light pushes into the bones,
filling spaces. metal pins
keep the vertebrae perishably but tightly upright
like a vase, like a profile. a toyful betwixt/between, the eyes
distracted by study, graying, fraying, porcelain skin.
getting dressed again, life
as daily psycho-killer. quilted flesh, covered, rebalanced. fingerprints,
tiny buttons, a fresh wilting letter by blackberry
from the shiny physio office.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Dark Matter by Jonathan Wonham

after I Wanted to Tell You by Amanda Deutch.

So I felt yes and no
not Thursday morning
but maybe the feel of uncertainty
and certainly the yes of phrases
when I spoke them to you
but not in front of you
or in front of your empty bottles.

And yes to the sea but no
to an expression and not yet
to whatever I had never seen in anyone.

And yes to you too
and not a blank yes or
a reproduction yes
but a resounding yes all my own.

To all this I can at a certain hour
having made myself known to myself
through no voice but my own
say yes.

But now I stay wary somewhere
between tender and undressed
indicating the motion of light
and what we do and do not know
about the shape of the cosmos
on a morning like this one.

Because yes becomes no afternoon
and no afternoon lasts well
into no night, with no particular emerging
from our bones in sight.

The no that had been wanting to know
for weeks. The no words
that could wipe things out
and not replace them.

The yes we could have said
and not continued to.
The no which could have meant being.

So I felt yes and no
not Thursday morning.
I am busy.

Friday, May 15, 2009

I Wanted to Tell You by Amanda Deutch

After JKD's Apparition, Sean S's Fragment 2, Lisa Pasold's On a Morning Like This Morning and a little Marguerite Duras thrown in for good measure and spice.

I Wanted to Tell You

On a Thursday
I feel the uncertainty

of phrases.
empty bottles, the sea,
an expression

never seen
on anyone

but you. I
am not a blank

of myself,
am I?
At a certain

hour, do we become
of ourselves?

The voice is
mine and it


our motions
the shape of the cosmos.

A morning like this one
becomes afternoon
and lasts well

into the evening,
emerges from bones
as it has been wanting to

for weeks. Words
wipe things out
replace them,

so that you can
to do so.

‘So’ meaning

I am

You had written

a color speaks
than any words.

This is driven by
chance, the harbor
and used paths.

There are many
trees speaking colors
we can't.

in advance?
There is little

we can do
to prepare in

Because of the

Let go of the past,
stand, out on street corners
simply watching faces, movements—

That’s as good as

isn’t it?
My dreams
are of

kayaks that
leave me

My waking
is of noise
and clouds.

The illusion of
where I am.

I've never been
to believe

any of this;
I don’t believe in place
or Tuesday.

And this has kept
me awake
for many years

drawing pictures
in the

I'm almost aloof
about it.
Might as well be

by the colors
of illusion.

—May 15, 2009
Clinton Hill, Brooklyn

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Apparition (new by JKD)

I feel « the uncertainty of appearance in a phrase universe » places, light « looking through it, » I am « passed » and stripped of bearings, grounded to sensory inebriation. Where is this touch to lead, this false demarcation? Skin. Our darkness the opposite of red. Which burns, here, when reaching over left on electric comes to howl and to howl and to…
.......I am not. Or blank as that reproduction of me. Between. An image, an imagined, an imago. Take it back, unveil it, déshabille-toi! The voice is mine and it is not. Mine. Professed rain is only sound inside, from the enclosed here. « There are no moorings in conversation ». This is what she said, I heard her voice. It was other than, credited, solitary within the not arriving demographic of departure. That is, shaking, mine.
.......She may be remembering, I might have been, just a phase. Unverifiable. Tactile as, is: Wary. Tender. Dangerous. Syllabic.

*Quotes + some lines from Susan Howe's essay "Sorting Facts; or 19 Ways of Looking at Marker", pp 304-305.

[ fragment 2 ] by sean s (new.)

A raindrop forms a hypothesis, if

we could be small enough we could

peer through the refracted world
wear it over our pupils. Pass through
our losses

A simple
the perfect shape of freefall no thing
implicated is imperfect but the shape of the cosmos,

other motions.
Aeons of maths. Grammar demands

a particular scale,
a Newtonian formula. The maths and losses

strikes a sentence and splatters
drops smaller and smaller. Our scale scatters.
Matters are too simpl

these thumbsy pre
positions damn this

where is my language at a distance?
Does grammar have a peculiar scale? Is it a

I meant performs.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

New (old): Fragments and Amputations by Amanda Deutch

Written while in the Louise Bourgeois Exhibit at the Centre Pompidou in 2008

Fragments and Amputations

an arm or foot protruding
from a sphere, headless
male bodies in hysterical altitude.

arc of hysterias

“organ and mineral”

there is a repetition

a system of peace
a system of me


a study of peace
a study of me

nests hair refuge

first house—
womb of wombs
doubleness duplicity
the heart
most violent
thoracic cage
aluidity (ease) emerges form
bones almost perishable

locus of memory

balance upright
light fills the spaces between

as you walk by
where once mammoths
I must
trace bones
lips teeth imprint of legs
animal tracks, etc.

compare them with provide them with vanish them with center them with know them with monster them with lose them with my own.

something emerges from bones
almost perishable
a locus of memory
a system of peace

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Jonathan Wonham by The Porcelain Bird by sean s

after The Porcelain Bird by Jonathan Wonham

In stilldark mornings
he tells stories children waking with
bedtime tales their parents
in the night asking to be
put to bed by them faces
like clocks in rooms with unlighted
lamps and hands
like stories pull the graying fraying wordclothes
bedwords to brave and naughty chins.

I am the porcelain bird.
I cannot tell the difference between girls
and boys, they are either ends of
a chiral from a storying catalyst. Just as
I spiral from poet to parent through the closed
doorways of sleeping rooms

my voices unite somewhere under the quilted
dream flesh and moments.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

on a morning like this morning (Intellectual Honesty)

by lisa pasold (after Ursus by Jonathan Regier)

a sympathetic hypothesis—that fictional portrayal of what you meant, he meant, we all were hoping for. imaginary, of course, but can’t we pretend we’re keeping track? sorting & recycling, putting it out on the curb every Tuesday, blue-bagging it and still we feel poor. minds designed big enough to encompass whole celestial motions, thinking up words to calculate heaven, and instead you’re humming while you fix the garburator, he’s out to lunch with boss number seventeen, and i’m hunting up floor wax, trying to look distinguished. all of us more or less succeeding—isn’t that the intended purpose, the goal of this art? fiddle it around, we’re all true and false and feigned and next week the big blue truck will come down the street just the same whether we’re here or gone dispersed into its elements, the world-system contrives to function rather well without us.