Out of the Blue like

                                                                           outofthebluelike.blogspot.ca/                                                           Blue   Blue                                    outofthebluelike.blogspot.ca/





  full of broom and vim / vinegarz to the tasting sun
  call it nitwit sunshine to hail-well fellow

J'ai passé la  nuit à Québec

   I row & row & re-row   like  as when  a vowel has  gone sheep to the little bo-beep

little patsie to the

(to be continued)





`literal metaphors and /metaphors literal__ the interesting machinery of pulling threads ~

`literal metaphors and /metaphors literal__ the interesting machinery of pulling threads ~

`literal metaphors and /metaphors literal__ the interesting machinery of pulling threads ~

`literal metaphors and /metaphors literal__ the interesting machinery of pulling threads ~

metaphors and /metaphors literal__ the interesting machinery of pulling threads ~

`literal metaphors and /metaphors literal__ the interesting machinery of pulling threads ~

`literal metaphors and /metaphors literal__ the interesting machinery of pulling threads ~

(Re)Search/Destroy? Or, Mistaking Poetry for Viruses

Category: Arc, Residency
Written by: Sophie Mayer on July 1, 2013

An arc of the arc of the Archive: hive report from Holly Pester’s Report on the Archive at Birkbeck, 5 July 2013, forthcoming.
Until then, here’s Twitter’s report on the #epoetry festival at Kingston University. And now: some e-xperiments with poetrynews.
Poetry as News/Data (after the style of Ron Silliman), combined with Fluxuggestions (à la Yoko Ono, to mark the publication of Acorn, and its performance by Stacy Makishi, at Meltdown on 22.06.2013).


_____Something Else Press was founded by Dick Higgins in 1963. It published many important texts and artworks and was an early publisher of Concrete poetry and other works by Fluxus artists throughout the 1960s.
He presents and comments some of these publications in Artpool in 1993.______________

Old trick; write ---- and I am thinking PunKetariat 1978


_________and I am thinking Punketariat 1978 and Fouism  1979 you dig? hand written scrawls across walls of collage mud ___________________________________________________________________

An anonymous novel written on the walls of an abandoned house in Chongqing, China (2012)

Old trick; write under a  pseudo; same difference. it's a bogus 'course' by a 'big league'

'big shot' 'professor' _he's got a job, don't give yrs up kiddies!
fuck them if they cant take  a joke; theres poetry in shit too, aint dere  ~  a little phony

bullshit here  beneath the gold the smith    ~!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

An anonymous novel written on the walls of an abandoned house in Chongqing, China (2012)


 Bonjour à tous et toutes,

Archives and


               taking        the                brim          at   

past the 3000 mark

numerous link 
chain assemblangES


any 'authors' comment'


a(r)uthor's machine comments . I like __the to rest go. Incomplete page. fragment on a taggle (her bum rushed to ground). no time. meet to bust. some matches  work others tipple topple and bust. what?  thought achines only wor  as  they break down? well __ It did! I love you spread you                                             r knee  So lax. Author's machine comments .  let thEe rest go. Incomplete page. figment a tag time. meet to bust. sum computer  worke tipple topple and bust. what? you bought desiringAuthor's machine com- . I lith rest go. In__complete 
page. jeer and gleam fragment  a toggl                    no place to trust meet to bust.some machines work some tipple topple and bust. what? I thought desiring-machines only work 

when they break                              down? well __ It did! I love __ Author's machine comments . I let th rest go. Incomplete page. freastraggle?. n__out that vowel o time. meet to bust. some

Mona wants a sandwich. If you keep clearing the barometer I mean the harbor you'll make it

                       (nice monster scary sprite)

Legend has it she had many covering to her plateau of bodying regression to her rescinded

blogger   machine comment . let the rest go honey. 

             brimmer said to me 
  ,   eons ago    ,    O I like broken links
  Brim Broom's broken links extend backward across the 'scrolling' page     ~

Shoosh come the veils dawn                                                   dharma shadow walking  the  cape

                                                                  her shoulder's wing

are my sweet nothing

  (say alex hidden varnished off  a

pain/s come

                                                                                                                 (' the phrases)

she's the red ship at noon

    ill garners, gathers, ground, in the fennel owl shaped woods 'where' berries crush paths. Finds something like a tease 'quote' to shame, to disarm their path.



 the changing face of takingthebrim!
                        thee fonts

   thosE templates! O

No doubt ___ continued

             see what __ mean

           wiggles  writhes

            yer body to m__

a body

in A space

              bounded less by

daddiohe anti-desiremachine.

Ok, it's alove p............oem, alr........ight. What? another o... This might as well be the fictions.... That sort of other poetry, is priva...

Cant               be blogged

                                                                 cant be seen

cant be seen.

(there he goes again you think seeing her again 'seeing her' wel, if you can call that seeing makes a difference?

                           what about that shit about Artaud? you think that's true?) (( Not sure__ after all look at his letters to others __ perfectly fine)) (indeed__ if you want to call that perfection)

one must

              the en__

                                  as it'err


machined indices. make for the space. cut a crease. not so then? what felt of body before space. come cross the page. page? no page. blog derive. le devenir __ the                                                      sense that of the what is to come. to come for the what has not yet arrived... Oh then __ it's especial night. beside teeth.And dawn. like her pages, my soft side 

raddled skin, of deluxe. hold me. god, hold me. i am wither. wait. weight. near philology. of paradox besideness. face wait for me in the hote.l. ruined before. space. body over dawn. come to me break yer way, the mingle. not a fold but a clear water. sage place. close to y our hands.

 i can feel your ass. i knew it. sense d the other night. what? cant breath. with. your. with.out your. come breath. the post. pant. palimpest. not so. not spelled. egg dawn of break. schizo. egg. trauma noise. is the .

wayfarer. cuddle me. beg. oh okay. okay. need some need some. needle on. cant aid.

 machine paradox.

dox. the core of.
--------------------------- this is too much, the linguwadgeoftheorloger
'the core. the kergyma of kenosis. empty me out before you. after. the decal. decades. sudden eruption. who was. then she. was. who was . sheesh. wave. body forth. wrecked it town. lover dawn.'

 All of that's to serious | go back to Mona it's whence you began this curt trip boot heel kicking |every comment gets you in trouble. leave this  first person


 the internet is not a  visual medium

just sajoke



poet runner

i left the airport
made a beeline to the future
no one was waiting
world fell asleep

woke up underground
where the fountain flows backwards
where distortion turns the keys
in my cell

scrambled my things
grew mad wings
lift off union square redemption

made a pact
we bend to our space

kissed our time
with indigo lips

poet anticipated
the proverbial misunderstanding
the petty mindset phenomenon
human escapes human?

i left a hole
in the past
for the new ignorance

Elvis Magnets

The food line is straight down main street.
All the neighbors are glad to be in a tavernless town.
The tailors and the coffee shops serve gossip
and sleeplessness to scavengers on the avenue.
There are no places to surrender silently.
The counter girls are beautiful
and the old man behind the cash has a book.
He reads all day behind the display window,
knowing full well the sun will lighten his load,
just like a good idea: the likeness,
t'is Elvis in his youth.
The magnets are made to be display on a fridge.
But I have them in my room:
a reminder of past fellowships,
an echo of some good intention I beget,
a reminder that I once was in the mix.

'... the Soul Hunts

What black wolf waits
in the grove? He does not
tire of waiting. And so
not unlike my soul, he crouches

down and listens.

He is not alone but is
alone; his purpose joins him
to his pack. My soul a shadow
to other shadows cast and breaking

loose to capture what is found.

turkey hat


three gorges:
once gorgeous mouths

sails travelers floods silt
slow words flowed muddy
prospering with phosphoring organisms

patti still pours mapplethorpe's
ashes through her fingers

two losses: you and the song
all that I feared comes to pass
ashes and bone bits sink
into stagnant water

I thought he had to be alive
to do that slow fuck
muses do

turns out
you can fuck yourself
use energy from the past

for awhile
how long depends
on your obstinacy

flow of inspiration a memory

the mouth dammed
wet concrete

slathered over the lips

no poem today
or tomorrow

deaden d


upward climb


All through the dark ran
little feet of darkness;

for every star a black
footprint. For every

shadowed step a toenail
of lightness. We dreamt

of wings rushing towards
the flame and called them



Substantially plump Beck Madigan intoned, ‘Jesus to God almighty, move from the stairwell, my dear man, I abjure you, ex pluribus dais!’ Razor stropped and held aloft Madigan rinsed the washwater from the crone of his face and smiled, ‘Tis a day for mollycoddling and slight-of-footing, be cautious, dear men, to sidestep poor recently deceased Passy’s gravestone, in lieu of flowers, a nice tardy so long bastard son reeves of alcove and drudgery.’ McCurdy, eyes pilaster and crossed-over to either one side or the neither, tossed a sapper in-line over the tops of their heads, saying as he did, ‘Adman has a footing, now isn’t he the Arbuckle, not a tosspot to pee in, in conservator-diem’. Mrs. Bloomingdale, vilestone of putt and mercy, wren’svoice stoked and ready, warbled on the count of never, deafening devilfish and arbours alike, a picket of crisps in the wayside of her hoopskirt fob. A cheer and hoopla was overheard from yonder widowsill, Mrs. Passy in mourning frock sidestepping her poorly deceased husband’s freshly limed cesspit grave, arms akimbo at her sides, Beck Madigan, fleetoffoot, tossing nosegay into the snotgreenscrotumtighteningsea said, ‘ex pluribus sepulchred, leave the dear man in peace and rot’, leaving not a dry eyesore in alehouse or vicarage.

Once Torn

I have given you reason
to turn back; no one
likes himself in the past.

Even nature re-visits
itself, attentive to
the weather's cycles-

a tulip bulb sleeping
unencumbered by history.

You should have loved me.
O how you could have
loved me! Like the blade

of a knife, like a machine gun
on the battlefield.

But this is not paradise.
And though the wolves are
beautiful and tender,

their teeth are not strangers
to their victim's blood; once torn
almost always eaten.