Archive for October, 2006

new work online

the next issue of otoliths is up, once again featuring a diverse range of writers & artists, + 2 of my poems. now i need to devote a morning to reading all the other works. alright.



The prism crystal sets towards the axis
of episodic desire: lethargy and depression
cross the real-time analogue: currents level
and historic matching blurs into locked-on
receptor site blockade. Stable mosaic at
adrenal print “you” are in white “I” see a
moving shade by the door it is my wish to
be there running on (“mental confusion,
tremors, anxiety”) and breaking the induced
blockade I truly am by the door shaking or
the frame goes to gel. Visual sonar
arrhythmia blocks fading brocade made
pressure crisis you and the flowers in
pliant flicker real tine! I surmount
the uptake gradient, cognition by
recount, the homeric icefields unfold.


reading a poet: particularly when it’s a large volume like Prynne’s Poems, it’s kinda hard to sit there & digest the whole thing. i think what i do is search for something i can grasp on to, & then go from there with later voyages into the work. i read this piece yesterday & just like it. having enjoyed the words & pace of this piece i guess i will read more with less apprehension ie. the misleading thought – ‘what is he doing here?’

Evermore 06

checking out bands varies in definition or intensity:
time consists of $1.50 goon sopped from plastic
troughs or memory gets not much more than drunk
then gets drunk with black fraught happiness. maybe there’s
pre-ordering tickets & squatting on a lake with a pipe &
a constellation of short red dots – roadies mess with the
double-bass – standing up back & remembering
(besides what) only every brief gutter-poignant wrong chords.
even checking out bands excuses meeting girls
who followed you there, left high-school thinking
you were a band. checking out Evermore goes typically as
none of these things & with gladness & with persistence & with
autumn you talk outside like a VB add. you’re to the right of
the wiped out nuclear med. student (voluntary unionism took
him out) & sure there’s catchy songs, songs that play on
but there are riffs you could play (& get this you’re a writer) so
nothing gels & all the emptiness is a tad \\\ empty. you render
the ‘right on’ chorus motorolla style & get only a waving hand,
surface heat is unremarkable but growing & then sure enough
lights go out over your skin without remark: you’re trawling
the grass for promises, phone-numbers & post-gig venues. long
time before you see sense / longer Evermore my friend.

alex lloyd 06

a so-so night sleeping on the traffic island
but the sun of all afternoons + an inflatable lounge

seems to nullify last night’s excess (who said quan
played like he didn’t want to be there? who said

steam is for blowing off, every now & then?) now
everything feels just okay & the morning blank-period

just a laugh, just terrific as alex takes last place
on the bill. he’s filling a stage like other chill-out artists

only ever promise to do, at other times, in other venues,
in other street–mag profiles, in other legendary anecdotes.

this glow is perhaps life as it really could be:
all the radio-friendly numbers you love pop up

(even ‘amazing’ requested by the singleted recovery novice);
a late elvis blues jump surprises & rocks; then feeling spills over

with a prelude a verse of ‘the joker’. it doesn’t matter now
he doesn’t know the refrain. the sun goes down, i feel fine &

alex’s voice parts molecules before setting them in vibration.
i’m thinking this might be the perfect way to describe a weekend.

ebb of this poem

after spending one half of the best of
the years you should be enjoying asking
obscure dudes to turn your fold-back up
& getting pissed at the washed out sound
coming from an uncertain combo of ibanez
& mid-range peavey amplification (dudes
give the thumbs up or else you can’t catch
their eyes) it’s no wonder you turn to sound
engineering after all why not get a job where
you can still be ‘involved’ with what you love?
now you can fuck up another young band’s sound
because they don’t sound like nirvana & why
should they get away with it anyway? like
the lines strobing from an art-goth set design
or falling from a new lyricist’s mouth & heart
you become cynical in a parallel kind of way:
& girls dance next to you not below you

how i wasted my day

what do we think of blogart? like a lot of things, i am fascinated, but will see the modishness of it tommorow, maybe. made this up today, with a heap of stolen code, text, image, rearranging.

& i really don’t understand what i’m doing yet – but it does seem as if the destroyblog does something different every time i open it.

no matter what you do to blogging code, you can’t break it. it’s like language. cool.


i’ll be the dungeon you be the dragon
we’ll await the mage & the warrior
test their honed abilities one by one
then add their bones to that old secret
stash of gold pieces & magical items

no-one will find it that much is sure
perhaps we’ll dust out the cobwebs
& invite a ten-headed-hydra to stay
or even put the word out we are open
to harbouring certain types of daemons

the most perfect of circumstances:
i am charmed you are maleficent
& all that i can foresee (here i think)
is the beauty of gothic up-late harmony


we will choose not to believe the rumours
of a new breed of hero: thinking on his feet
& countering our spells – oozing charm &
dexterity like it is all some amusing game


i haven’t posted here for a little bit, but i been busy elsewhere. this weekend i participated in the Youth Online Writing Workshop (i barely qualify as young though). At this stage the project is in a protected area, so you can look at the front page but can’t access anything. But it’s a great project, we are all working with the aid of Bernard Cohen, Christy Dena , & i.j. oog, 3 artists with a lot of knowledge when it comes to online practice. i thought i knew a bit about writing in this environment, but really…

anyway there will be a public site in the future where we will publish our works. i will keep you informed as to when it will pop up.



books from where i sit contain the words: coma canon & one hand clapping. focus strong motion & hoi polloi. best poetics & bobs. the english & generation. heat music million red & vine. words i can hear from television say: inquiry answer & affront. barb uncertainty & pleasure. complexity politic & figures. tenacity whim boredom & slippery. someone says ‘the platform you are considering’ & the moment is just too coincidental, if degrees of things are to be admitted. people are standing by essentialism & are mental.


three days after conception &
i am noticing happy parents

they are vague insects emerging, crawling from
the interior wooden facades of our house.

from this woodwork they beckon with prams, cots &
car-seats – all at a remarkable price (what are dollars

between intimates?) but i can’t shake the sense
that the accoutrements of parenthood depreciate

very quickly & that somehow this matters
(they lick at their mandibles & quietly

sever the heads of their young when i look away.)
i suppress an inner-scream, i never mentioned a baby,

this is too surreal even for CNN, but how
do you talk to such cold eyed creatures? they don’t

understand anything, only lay cold plans: take my money
then devour my child. full stop. there are nine months to go

& there is already a sonorous regularity to
the phrase ‘if you can’t beat them…

et cetera et cetera…’ it’s an
endless loop in my mind.

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