Peter Tscherkassky, FILM STILLS
“I actually like the lack of a head here.”
Material—start with the classics by affecting a scary-movie-type growl full of fresh holes.
You get the idea: art is nothing.
Growing accustomed to the sun setting sooner. I had thought that I had fell in love with the shutting of the obscure recesses of giddy grammatically-totalitarian-mathematics altogether (just the trunk of it all), but there are certain days where I feel as though I am standing athwart in the path of babydolls that have “I love you!”-buttons.
Confucius culled the poetry of China for 300 odes that he believed were crucial.
Those that cater to pre-adolescent fantasies dive into a display of “humanism”—discretion enabled—the thrill is gone, but it still bobs up and down and is shiny like Linux desktops. We are here on Earth to illuminate some things about having a one-on-one session backstage with Britney. Love is in my thoughts as basic as an ironing board, %O among them—high boots worn by Greek tragic actors. Old intellectual and cultural divisions are negations of the intertext that I may use in the upper eschelon of multiplicative poetics—feelings of cognitive dissonance when you love a particular form of unadorned insistence of respect.
Aah, as you see, I only support what I cannot see.
—
I told the monster under my bed “goodnight” and it merely grunted.
—
EE Cummings, saith via the introduction of a collection of his poems from 1938: “The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for most.” Earlier, tho’, Lloyd N. Dendinger must have been missing on the “genius of language” by misinterpreting the following: “A Plainclothesman, his entire being focussed on something just offstage to the audience’s left, stalks the invisible something minutely.” Dendinger considering this as some “delicate comedy” when perhaps the joke was on him (and everyone else). Back to the first line, I feel the same about photography, in which could be said, “The photographs to come are for you and for me and are not for most people.” But, who is “you”? Those that “understand”? Overstand. Overstanding. Overstood.
Whatever becomes inevitably butchered becomes Abrupt.
—
“I empty myself with light / Until I become morning.” —Charles Wright
—
Jean-Claude Risset must have composed Computer Suite From Little Boy - Fall (1982) precisely for me. What is within the initials, the city’s standard mountainous shoulders, arising like spiked-pads, like in video games, the people that angle themselves for the right look, the wrong way of right, the “design within design” so sayeth Philip Booth. A strange attraction to phony. Betty Boop. Science is dead. Autumn, the season of naked-skinned promiscious geographic configuration. The days go by too fast. To “fast” on time.
I feel as though I will be whisked away at any moment now via what I imagine will not happen when expecting what I want to occur. The air is a part of everything. Rash on left cheek. The trees are yellow. My long-sleeves are off-yellow. I am always On, like the beating heart of a Conquistador, or the suede palms of my hands, like musical instruments, delicately gripped. Tonight, the temperature will drop, the way a heart does when filled with sorrow. Winds up in the belly, winding.
I go to sleep, hoping to see you. This is the only way.
Concrete and mild rivulets, this city’s mouth, like Polish mothers, violet-indigo, stone-gray sky, reflections in pools of water on the road, seeing this from a window, the light behind falls in love with my back. I roam large areas of wooded-spaces, as if this were a zoo. Immature adults still sucking their thumbs. What is the relation of word-to-thing, golden-framed florescent monoprints, wilderness informs me like a warbled voice over an intercom. Every fiber of my “being” at times is idle, but with intense bonds, roads diverging in a thick wood, needing someone’s needle to pin-point me, guide me to you, you to me, refurbish this musicbox-heart, filling it up with the music that I long for.
Sometimes I think: I don’t mind telling you, if only you wouldn't leave me feeling desolate, wrestling with it.
“It.”
Not the cousin.
—
New poem:
THREE SIGHS
One of them is blind.
The Other searches
for a place to breathe
after being breathed
into existence, while
the Other rages in
the sky, falls smittenly
and faints back to the
earth, as if it had
made off with Insight
to where breath really
leads.
Material—start with the classics by affecting a scary-movie-type growl full of fresh holes.
You get the idea: art is nothing.
Growing accustomed to the sun setting sooner. I had thought that I had fell in love with the shutting of the obscure recesses of giddy grammatically-totalitarian-mathematics altogether (just the trunk of it all), but there are certain days where I feel as though I am standing athwart in the path of babydolls that have “I love you!”-buttons.
Confucius culled the poetry of China for 300 odes that he believed were crucial.
Those that cater to pre-adolescent fantasies dive into a display of “humanism”—discretion enabled—the thrill is gone, but it still bobs up and down and is shiny like Linux desktops. We are here on Earth to illuminate some things about having a one-on-one session backstage with Britney. Love is in my thoughts as basic as an ironing board, %O among them—high boots worn by Greek tragic actors. Old intellectual and cultural divisions are negations of the intertext that I may use in the upper eschelon of multiplicative poetics—feelings of cognitive dissonance when you love a particular form of unadorned insistence of respect.
Aah, as you see, I only support what I cannot see.
—
I told the monster under my bed “goodnight” and it merely grunted.
—
EE Cummings, saith via the introduction of a collection of his poems from 1938: “The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for most.” Earlier, tho’, Lloyd N. Dendinger must have been missing on the “genius of language” by misinterpreting the following: “A Plainclothesman, his entire being focussed on something just offstage to the audience’s left, stalks the invisible something minutely.” Dendinger considering this as some “delicate comedy” when perhaps the joke was on him (and everyone else). Back to the first line, I feel the same about photography, in which could be said, “The photographs to come are for you and for me and are not for most people.” But, who is “you”? Those that “understand”? Overstand. Overstanding. Overstood.
Whatever becomes inevitably butchered becomes Abrupt.
—
“I empty myself with light / Until I become morning.” —Charles Wright
—
Jean-Claude Risset must have composed Computer Suite From Little Boy - Fall (1982) precisely for me. What is within the initials, the city’s standard mountainous shoulders, arising like spiked-pads, like in video games, the people that angle themselves for the right look, the wrong way of right, the “design within design” so sayeth Philip Booth. A strange attraction to phony. Betty Boop. Science is dead. Autumn, the season of naked-skinned promiscious geographic configuration. The days go by too fast. To “fast” on time.
I feel as though I will be whisked away at any moment now via what I imagine will not happen when expecting what I want to occur. The air is a part of everything. Rash on left cheek. The trees are yellow. My long-sleeves are off-yellow. I am always On, like the beating heart of a Conquistador, or the suede palms of my hands, like musical instruments, delicately gripped. Tonight, the temperature will drop, the way a heart does when filled with sorrow. Winds up in the belly, winding.
I go to sleep, hoping to see you. This is the only way.
Concrete and mild rivulets, this city’s mouth, like Polish mothers, violet-indigo, stone-gray sky, reflections in pools of water on the road, seeing this from a window, the light behind falls in love with my back. I roam large areas of wooded-spaces, as if this were a zoo. Immature adults still sucking their thumbs. What is the relation of word-to-thing, golden-framed florescent monoprints, wilderness informs me like a warbled voice over an intercom. Every fiber of my “being” at times is idle, but with intense bonds, roads diverging in a thick wood, needing someone’s needle to pin-point me, guide me to you, you to me, refurbish this musicbox-heart, filling it up with the music that I long for.
Sometimes I think: I don’t mind telling you, if only you wouldn't leave me feeling desolate, wrestling with it.
“It.”
Not the cousin.
—
New poem:
THREE SIGHS
One of them is blind.
The Other searches
for a place to breathe
after being breathed
into existence, while
the Other rages in
the sky, falls smittenly
and faints back to the
earth, as if it had
made off with Insight
to where breath really
leads.
—
Poetry in my soul, like the asteroid belt. Paper lanterns. Feeling clairvoyantly non-spooky. My lips aren’t sealed, like how an ant eater's feels. The ants are poems. I was on a “midnight train to Georgia” for Halloween, which is peculiar because I live here. It feels like my left hand and arm was just placed into a meat-grinder. Lola-pop, the cat, just did “a number” on my flesh. Imagine jumping from summer directly into winter overnight, never to “fall” upon autumn. My uncle: “It is like watching a train-wreck about to happen, and there is absolutely nothing that you can do about it but sit back and dry your tears and wait for it to all happen before you.”
—blunt stillness while swallowing all glory with long ears, beating of drums in one’s mind, the tongue like a clay hut, to climb out of the stench-filled dark hole to make one’s way towards the noonday goldenlight, and then the bird lands on the window, obscures portions of the scene, like a newspaper clinging to a lightpole on a windy street and all can be heard through every house, the words, the struggle, the text that becomes splintered cut-up possibilities, and the guests are calling and their eyelids twitch unintentionally, nervous confusion, and all silence produces lessons, or lesions, and all of one’s voice afterwards becomes like soothing juicy fruits, and no one will know of you unless your tongue moves, save for those that move like you do; verses of no doubt, the end of my nose as red as a rosebud, cheeks in the cold are blushlike, and everyone is everybody, preoccupied and—
—
Earlier today, thought of the beautiful singing voices of flowers. The origin of the pearl necklace. Three color-receptors in the human eye. Insects sing in the crannies of rocks. A heart, larger than science; a mind, larger than thought, than imagination, the uncrossing of my eyes, like hysteria—a tribal freak-out—the sun’s “shine,” as if it needs explaining. Batting my eyes into handmade quilts, looking like a name that is “up in the lights” in the sky. Earth’s gravity gives honest answers. A personality that turns you off is like drinking sour milk that you didn’t realize was sour until it was too late. “taste my mouth in your ear” (Ginsberg)—What color is your “self”? What color are your cells? “Since of the charms, the grace, the forms of nature, the public knows only what it has absorbed from the clichés of an art slowly assimilated, . . . an original artist begins by rejecting these clichés.”
O, the smell of verb-endings, the sequences of words and nouns. Ears, drooping into bell-bottoms when I hear certain jazz music.
—
Olson: “these days / whatever you have to say, / leave the roots on. / Let them dangle.”
Poetry in my soul, like the asteroid belt. Paper lanterns. Feeling clairvoyantly non-spooky. My lips aren’t sealed, like how an ant eater's feels. The ants are poems. I was on a “midnight train to Georgia” for Halloween, which is peculiar because I live here. It feels like my left hand and arm was just placed into a meat-grinder. Lola-pop, the cat, just did “a number” on my flesh. Imagine jumping from summer directly into winter overnight, never to “fall” upon autumn. My uncle: “It is like watching a train-wreck about to happen, and there is absolutely nothing that you can do about it but sit back and dry your tears and wait for it to all happen before you.”
—blunt stillness while swallowing all glory with long ears, beating of drums in one’s mind, the tongue like a clay hut, to climb out of the stench-filled dark hole to make one’s way towards the noonday goldenlight, and then the bird lands on the window, obscures portions of the scene, like a newspaper clinging to a lightpole on a windy street and all can be heard through every house, the words, the struggle, the text that becomes splintered cut-up possibilities, and the guests are calling and their eyelids twitch unintentionally, nervous confusion, and all silence produces lessons, or lesions, and all of one’s voice afterwards becomes like soothing juicy fruits, and no one will know of you unless your tongue moves, save for those that move like you do; verses of no doubt, the end of my nose as red as a rosebud, cheeks in the cold are blushlike, and everyone is everybody, preoccupied and—
—
Earlier today, thought of the beautiful singing voices of flowers. The origin of the pearl necklace. Three color-receptors in the human eye. Insects sing in the crannies of rocks. A heart, larger than science; a mind, larger than thought, than imagination, the uncrossing of my eyes, like hysteria—a tribal freak-out—the sun’s “shine,” as if it needs explaining. Batting my eyes into handmade quilts, looking like a name that is “up in the lights” in the sky. Earth’s gravity gives honest answers. A personality that turns you off is like drinking sour milk that you didn’t realize was sour until it was too late. “taste my mouth in your ear” (Ginsberg)—What color is your “self”? What color are your cells? “Since of the charms, the grace, the forms of nature, the public knows only what it has absorbed from the clichés of an art slowly assimilated, . . . an original artist begins by rejecting these clichés.”
O, the smell of verb-endings, the sequences of words and nouns. Ears, drooping into bell-bottoms when I hear certain jazz music.
—
Olson: “these days / whatever you have to say, / leave the roots on. / Let them dangle.”
I am going places without going.
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