pockmarks of the internet

Blogs are like popped zits that reform. Since facebook became a direct drip applied to our veins, the face of the internet has more pockmarks and fewer fresh zits. That’s ok. It can be attractive. Like Skrillex’s face. Skrillex reminds me of an ex. He was the first one that was kind of good to me.

Squeezing out pus from my face in front of a mirror is calming. I used to do this more frequently, when I was younger and had much more anxiety. Now I do it every few days. More often, I casually pick at it before showering.

Getting the sebum out. Does this analogy work with the way blogs are also “platforms” for marketing? Facebook is the ultimate landscape of a billion huge whiteheads, flowing in sync… I guess it doesn’t work. Sebum says little about hypertext and digital synapses. On another note, I’m also annoyed and tired of how so many arguments about ANYTHING is gets integrated into the fiction/reality of the market. Everything I do can be called marketing, sure. Nothing escapes capitalist exchange, not even love, sure. It touches everything. Maybe. But I don’t think it is productive to wallow this way and certainly doesn’t help us understand desire any better and most of all it does nothing to undermine it.

Anyway. So did I already post a link to claudius app? http://theclaudiusapp.com/ There it is. The splash is really cool, really dynamic popping the stuff ia all over the screen.

Yet the internet is so… un-oily.

I recently ordered a book about Chinese mythology. I am waiting to read more deeply about Nuwa, the creation goddess, and how the world was created through snake-gods this way:

I’m still thinking about the N Djurberg video of the masked/masking snakes, which were creation gods by pageantry and not by heterosexual reproduction. I very briefly wrote about it here http://www.montevidayo.com/?p=2542

The snakes come out of holes and wear masks over their wounds, inflicted by an orgy of biting and wounding. The masks then serve as their faces/eyes.

Becoming reptile:

At least half of what I experience in this world is virtual. I’m half light soup.

Looking forward to AWP!

Codex Seraphinianus: infinite inspiration

click to go to an isuu upload of this amazing codex

http://theendofbeing.com/2010/12/03/codex-seraphinianus-%E2%80%94-la-conjuncion-de-un-espejo-y-de-una-enciclopedia/

Luigi Serifini’s disturbingly extensive, dutifully rendered and ultimately indecipherable exposition of the other realm, Codex Seraphinianus, is a nearly perfect vindication of the absence of those other tomes within the framework of reality and an inspiration for those with an inclination, despite the odds, to continue their aether-bound search for old gods and new worlds.

Though the three-hundred and seventy page volume has been in existence for nearly thirty earth years, it remains elusive; a rare book whose relative cultural invisibility has come to govern its reputation as a preeminent source of twentieth century human esoterica. Ironically, the advent of the twenty-first century has lent digital facilitation to the availability of the codex. You can buy any number of editions of it on Amazon for a few hundred clams – you can download a PDF of its innards too; its lack of physicality in the latter format adds a further layer of disturbance to the proceedings.

FROM PORK TRIAL

To write a hopeful pig

that will not change anything

because a pig is irresolute

and committed to nothing

is to reject the floss

that dances between mouthfuls of flesh

 

I am thinking about pigs that fly

that is I mean

people wholly entrenched in their manatee life

that is I mean

pigs that swim

where the alligators and motorboats fly

 

Because you know you’re a pig

secretly in love with the big bad

the big bad

blowing at your brick house

breath so hot and sweet your spine warps like unearthed worm

drenched in muddy water

 

I have contemplated the hairs on my

chinny chin chin

 

Sometimes I dream of the wolf

and then the forest is not clean and cool

but infectiously soft

like the gutting after sacrifice, pearly greens and blacks

underneath the bright

and I let the wolf inside me

 

howl and root

because it had already happened

because there is only the one.

Secretions

I haven’t posted anything in months. No reason. But I thought I’d put something up today to show that I’m not dead. I’ve managed to squeeze myself into a screenwriting class 2 weeks late, and have been working on “Loglines” for the first assignment. Not surprisingly, my loglines seem to be the kind that will never get sold. But how awesome would it be if I could turn these into actual movies?

LOGLINES

1. MARS VIOLET

Two painters and ex-lovers trapped in a studio for several days during a blizzard begin hallucinating together, to potentially violent, passionate ends.

2. MINOS

Introverted schoolgirl who can see into the underworld befriends a jaded but brilliant teenager in trouble with drug lords and gets dragged into the fray.

3. MASTER APHRODITE

A modern per-version of the venomous love triangle of Aphrodite, Eros, and Psyche  leading to the suicide of two children, set in a summer camp.

4. MEAT FAIRY

A lonely fast-food worker grows pathologically attached to the food products he makes, believing them to be sentient; meanwhile, a meat packer dies in a meat packing factory.

In other news, I have an interview at Radioactive Moat (Ugly Fish is now a free download!), and my book, Butcher’s Tree, is now available for preorder. It ships right after AWP. Speaking of which, I will be doing a book signing on Saturday at the Black Ocean zone. I will, however, be reading at 2 readings, Thursday and Friday nights. Thursday night will be a strange affair inside bathroom stalls with Lara Glenum, Lucas de Lima, Johannes Gorranson, Kate Durbin, and other strange people at a location TBD (because I don’t know where, and I’m hoping it’s off site so I can actually do it) and Friday (I think!) will be a Black Ocean reading with my awesome Black Oceanographers. Details to come.  Why is this year’s AWP sold out? Has there suddenly been a population explosion of avid poets and writers? Tough times call for feeble literary types?

I’ve also been reading this http://www.scribd.com/doc/42995065/PONGE-Nature-Things book by a french poet, Ponge, who loves snails and talking about pebbles. The one line that sticks out to me regards the secretion of humans, and this secretion is not like/unlike the creation of shells by mollusks, but rather than calcium, we secrete language.

Finally, I never thought I would like a show like Downton Abbey. But I am getting old, and historical dramapics are becoming more and more interesting to my wrinkling mind.

Also, looking forward to the birth of my book. Look at this amazing cover design! Thanks to Janaka Stucky and Josh Wallis and all the hot people at Black Ocean for this:

Cover Image

BEE BUTTS CRY

NERVE RASH

Nerve trash dominate the wrold.
Nerve trash dominate the world.
Nerve trash dominate the world.
They floow the sun and make nerve seedlings for you to eat.
Nervelings are full of omega 3 fatty acids and protein.

*

Is it because we have two eyes that we can only see two things?
Because I am alive that I am the measure of all things?
Then it is time to die.

*

I mustn’t think too much. Silence is worth more than a pretty tinkling urine charm
made of petroleum
and more than what I can say about any one of my brilliant mothers
under whom I writhe and cry out my written memories given to me by boys.

*

Almost done, I would like to make this line reach the edge of the page to manifest destiny, where the shore of no page will lap at the edge of poetry feet
scaly feet with pores underneeth each scale
holding up the giant exposed spinal cord of the gigantic nerve ring.
I keep beckoning for you to jump through the nerve ring.
You are a tiger with a mane and the face of a monkey.

*

Angel are small and have no front teeth.
Purely rational being are close in size to the potato
and are replete with microbe and worm ring.
In the night I curl up in your tasty meat.
A woman body is a angel factory.
In the afternoon after class I come home turn on the tube when I relax into shiny shiny squares of children singing. I remember that someday my cat will die.
I cry into the mouths of exploited angel. Each pore of my body blubber open and try to grow teeth. All the boys in my choir have your nerveface. Boys within my boy
all the boys in my body like speshul snowflake.
Boys have clitorises like pygmy seahorse because they are pygmy seahorse.
Whole angel bodies cover in boiling blister.
In the night I am a sprawling sea coral
inch long cherubs wrap from my sponge nerves.
Somehow I, a burned mummy, am responsible for war.

*

Into the toiletplant I water.

Hair water flutters in the bet.

I water my mouthplant.

Mouthplant water the meatplant.

Nourishment from the mouth water swum up the stalk to the anal cavity plant.

*

Plant speak is not like the color green or the smoothness of budding stalk.
Plant speak is the startled nerve ending in the halved molar.
Illegitimate ghost babees fall gently from plant lips.
How can I disappear and love you all at once?
The ghost buds whisper and scream like gout.

*

I curl into fetal position to protect you, bay.
The drying leaf grandmother wraps her wilted ovaries around your crown.
No, I unfurl into a carpet no, I rip into a tent a trench no, I twinkle all leafy labes in the breeze and watch as you are eaten by a beautyful wild animal,
a watch… one icy jagged moment then nothing I realize the green mitosis of the homemadebomb miracle kicking within.

*

So sad and happy, forever new mummy of a green peter pan bodice.
All the music of the plant mater and meat plant mater making the world so fat, fat as enormous infant seal stung by million of bees.
I climb the long stalk of peter pan anticipating the giant’s salt and pepper spray.
Inside every magic stalk is the potential for disease.
I invite the bodies of not yet butterlies to drill holes in me
to fatten their bodies and eventually so they may fall through the synthy air of me.

*

Tiny angels, tie me to the post.
Light the match.
Fuse the tomb.
Roll the stone.
Cue the holey ghost.
My tail shortens.
I must be
evolving!
Watch me
Watch me
Watch me
Watch me
Watch