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Archive for August, 2011

Poet Philip Nikolayev at Goethe-Institute Washington Jan 19

Noon, January 19. Public Radio’s "The Poet and the Poem" and the
Goethe-Institut Washington present a reading by Philip Nikolayev
premiering his new book of poems, Letters from Aldenderry, fresh from
Salt. Venue: Goethe-Institut, 812 Seventh Street, NW. Tel: (202)
289-1200. This event, introduced by Grace Cavalieri, celebrates the
30th anniversary of Public Radio’s "The Poet and the Poem" feature.
Free. The public is invited. More at

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I woke up this morning depressed. So I reached for my favourite bong
and blew a tube. But I still felt depressed. So I put my favourite
Leonard Cohen record on, lit a cigarette and poured myself a bowl of
corn flakes and beer, with strawberries on top… To no avail. So I
went to my book shelf and fished out The Plague by Albert Camu and
started reading it for the 342nd time. This didn’t work either. So I
put on my favourite movie: Appocalypse Now… but it only reminded me
of that book by Conrad: Heart Of Darkness so I went back to my book
case and located my other favourite book, Notes From The Underground by
Dostoyevsky and started reading that for the 342nd time but I kept
thinking about the end of that book which reminded me of something a
friend had said and I was hoping it was a lie… which reminded me of
that Neil Young song: After The Gold Rush and then I started thinking
about that other Neil Young Song: Powderfinger.. which, incidentally,
is my favourite Neil Young song, but his whiny voice gets me down so I
didn’t put it on. This depressed me because I was stuck with Leonard
Cohen… So I went for a walk, although it was raining and bitterly
cold and there was nobody else out. So I headed for my favourite cafe
and ordered a coffee and the waitress scolwed at me. I knew I was
unwelcome. No one I knew was there and I began reflecting upon how none
of them liked me anyway… So I finished my coffee and walked back
through the bitter cold to my one bedroom flat. I unlocked the door and
as I stepped over the threshhold somebody jumped out at me with a cup
cake with a single candle stuck in it and screamed "surprise!" I’d
forgot, it’s my birthday. I hate surprise parties, though it was just
one legged garry… I think I despise him more than anyone I know. At
least this thought was some consolation. Then we sat on my ratty old
sofa and watched Wheel Of Fortune.

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Re: Qustion:

Vera wrote:
> Who wrote "The Song of J.Alfred Prufrock"?

> Answer: The great poet and playwright, T.S.Eliot!
>         (apparently he hadn’t written a novel because novels
>          took too long to write).

> Why could Eliot (the Great) be allowed short lines in
> free verse, while scumbags of UseNet go berserk when little
> old Vera follows suit?

> Because this realm of scumbags also admired the emperor’s
> new clothes.



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- — -

David wrote:
> "Dennis M. Hammes" <scrawlm…@arvig.net> wrote in message
> news:4ZudneX9wJ9p4DHYnZ2dnUVZ_vfinZ2d@onvoy.com…
>> Vera wrote:

>>> as defined by Encyclopaedia Britannica

>>> "Verse unhampered by fixed metrical forms, in
>>> extreme instances consisting of little more than
>>> rhythmic prose, in lines of irregular length."

>>> Please note the last two words. . .

>>> How is it that the compilers of an esteemed
>>> publication (periodically revised) hadn’t consulted
>>> Lord Muck and all the smaller Mucks?

>>> I’ll agree that line-uniformity is preferable but not if
>>> sense-continuity is forfeited.

>>> In my poem "The Next Dance", word "ceremony"
>>> became the issue — a word of four syllables–

>>> Would the Mucks have been happier if, for the sake
>>> of appearance, I had stretched that line using four words
>>> with single syllables?

>>> What about a word with more, like "antivivisectionist" ?
>>> What else could be crammed into that line?

>>> Eh?

>> Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

> Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu

You sir, are no Will Dockery!

- — -

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The ultimate empirical error
Still evades the marauders’ minds
As they pillage for spoils unknown
And plough fields of collected mania
Millennia past the dusty days
When phony prophets became legends,
And "God’s wrath" kept man in check.

This is the Abrahamic envelope
Within which the deranged exist
To argue to the death for an "existence"
That their own desperation created,
So contrived by their own sadness
So devoted to a "better" life hereafter
That they fail to know the beauty in this one.

These laughably obtuse creations
Cannot supplant scientific rigor,
And to conceptualize the unknowable,
And to thump withering books of old,
And to speak of evidence for omnipotence,
When reality points in every other direction
Is to ward off an evolution of the spirit.

Our apostasy is a sensible diversion
To the grandest cosmic absurdity
And bare-knuckled, we must fight off
The witless and faltering argument:
That "if such a Grand Tale was spun,
And bought into by so many billions,
Then there must be something to it."

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I am TGOOS and I am a bestial fag

I was arrested twice for animal rape in 2007. In 2006, I got nabbed 27
times. I told the officer that I was gonna make pork chops with the pig
after I relieved myself. He wasn’t quite buying it.

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d i d a c t i c f o r e h e a d d e m o n

didactic forehead demon

you will cook the head
eat the flesh of the face
of your mother
now that the formalities are met
we will goose step to a nice polka
and mighty Thor will wing above
or YaYa or whoever
the demon gods and goddesses
of ignorance and superstition
now that the formalities are etc.
no more patty cake games comrades
we storm the citadel
a mocking snickering laughter
haunted his ears
they weren’t listening
he formulated from nothing
all my formulations are from
nothing he muttered
and swore off device upon device
as though it were a corruption
of the human genome project
if religion is a form of rot
what disinfectant should we apply
bullets are good but noisy
and ricochet wildly unpredictably
observing formality tantalizing
we still wage war on feudalism
a nasty set of attitudes
characterized by innuendo
the old school of dramaturgy
very gay your name is Kurt ya
ver are your roots boy
fleecy woolen clouds will descend
and then Max Headroom at MIT
hail the beer drinking swine of MIT
for I am one of them
a familiar formula
pissing in the moonlight
he posed this question to his penis
are you the key to everything
there was a long silence and
the penis spoke
a bit inchoate as usual
now if that were a key
what sort of lock would it fit
I know something for everyone
but Marx himself protests
the larger internal dialog
a larger internal
a ripped and torn internal
he would say juvinile delinquents
tribally stooged for mobilization
wanting to play any game
other than the old one
with more fun in it
how many religions make fun
or mention it for that matter
I thought the purpose of life
was to be happy happy happy
that is not what the old ones told me
they don’t lie ya right
but they warp space to protect
it’s time for whatever that means
they threw up their hands
in collective exasperation
monlight bore into the earth
like a curse with an escape clause
my lawyers were on their toes
there is always a cutting edge
it is always relevant
a little zig zaggy perhaps
but you gotta keep moving
float like a butterfly etc.
good advice for any century
or cemetary
but i can’t imagine being a butterfly
i think it’s impossible
maybe some things are impossible
unless we attempt helplessly
to comprehend all things
in varying degrees of resolution
take it from there

walter alter    artist – wiseguy – savant
PORTFOLIO: http://infojockey.tripod.com/
POETRY: http://infojockey.tripod.com/poetry.htm
PSYOPS: www.fortunecity.com/victorian/mill/1189

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David wrote:
> "Sherrie Lee" wrote

> >> > How does the saying go? Remember the umphth of November?

> >> Mebbe that should read ‘umteenth of November?’

> > That’s it! I couldn’t remember before, therefore, "umphth";
> > but you are so correct!

> There is a little rhyme- "remember, remember the fifth of november"

> We still have fireworks on that night here in NZ.
> Once a huge bonfire was lit and a "guy" was burnt on it…

Good ole Guy Fawkes… have you seen V For Vendetta yet?


Remember when you were young?
How the hero was never hung
Always got away
Remember how the man
Used to leave you empty handed?
Always, always let you down
If you ever change your mind
About leaving it all behind
Remember, remember, today

And don’t feel sorry
The way it’s gone
And don’t you worry
‘Bout what you’ve done

Just remember when you were small
How people seemed so tall
Always had their way
Do you remember your Ma and Pa
Just wishing for movie stardom
Always, always playing a part
If you ever feel so sad
And the whole world is driving you mad
Remember, remember, today

And don’t feel sorry
‘Bout the way it’s gone
And don’t you worry
‘Bout what you’ve done

No, no, remember, remember
The fifth of November

-John Lennon

"Hasty Pudding" by Dockery-Conley:

Will Dockery videos:

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I've killed FAT-karl

He lies lies lies dead at my feet
his eyes plucked out with rusty
spoons and forks, and ears hacked off.

What will I prosy do now
that I’m writing poetry that most clearly
sucks April from the year.

His FAT-ass hangs in effigy of the day
I killed him, and cut off his ears.

What fun! I think I’ll kill him again.

 AJ – http://ClitIns.Com e In.
 (800 folders. — kiddie-filtered — FREE,
    Usenet Porn.)

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Have you seen the commercials?

…for Nuva-Ring…

Dimeter rhyme, in a once a month
preggie-angst. Nothing like ‘omen.

 AJ – http://ClitIns.Com e In.
 (800 folders. — kiddie-filtered — FREE,
    Usenet Porn.)

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