Vital crusaders in trees, frogs, sally forth against Moslem numbers,
pounding sound under desperate words, thru nights wailing springtime
green set forth. Sentence. The need to fight over walls of Antioch and
into whisper of century. How Turks fidget with crusading principle. How
Face of dog that
triumphs in our
in lunge among
to define leftover.
to rhyme. Rhyme
invents capital. Capital
concludes moral equinox.
Stars survive as reminders
of pogrom, pogrom
seems a little
weakness and used.
as much as they
If is only the number, skilled as a swan: number two, which defines the
pairing, in a numeral world.
Territory is everything.
The wind as it sashays thru all vision and the very hair of our heads,
seems like a way to reach the ocean.
The ocean is a proud number: one.
One is deep as hell,
Bob, it seems like you go quiet for a spell then reappear with some
wonderful integrated change. this one's lovely.
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
Fodder of dead hours
between my legs.
The dumb penumbra moans
in the inky shade of my fingerprints
Along all colours and inside
directed statements, pinched metre
as if you coud: you know the war
on durfaces, you know the
extent of dangling,
yiou know the
wind went away...
arrested ij clver days of
delight, yiou spend spring
in green doings,
almost drunk but
almost sober too
Want to make a diamond galaxy, out of precious neutrinos that were
kissed by mother up? Skip the verbs, you were always the noun. And then
the cage that existed in language, beguiling, drink off the water. The
last word in a sentence is the way it sails. If this excuse were
I know this isn't the juiciest of requests but it's important to me. I
am preparing a manuscript but have a problem. about 40 of the pages have
a horizontal line that I didn't intentionally put in. if I put the
cursor after the line and hit backspace, the line seems to move down the
The dog barks green, the earth of spring. In spring of all weather and
whether or not, the light suffers change of tree. Tiny trees begat large
rags and rages in each day. And soon a smile thru sunset gives a glow
but now we are dry. No drier to forget the teeming winter without
llusive parts of the last sentence, calls frog music into play. Frog
music tones down into night, you might as well swim the dark. The dark
isn't tune itself but a membrane left behind. Your words are given. How
much more the words could entail just by being frog? Let the frog go. As
below is the announcement for my book Days Poem. some of it appeared on
this list, years ago.
MERITAGE PRESS ANNOUNCEMENT
A Two-Volume Poetry Collection by Allen Bramhall:
DAYS POEM, Vol. I
DAYS POEM, Vol. II
The spring is a destiny of shape, poised for vernacular, and we watch
the new water. The spring is also time sent back, calling, lifting
something fresh before further sport inspires death sequence or
illiterate runs of breaking. Language lives on the course of spring,
without the pace for
It seems so set in sun, bending
the beat facts with eagerness
set atop a trumpet or
lead a door on,
faced with abject lock
on the Star Trek pattern, children
presented a stern verbal swat, a
compost, a region, a chill,
based in boolean reflection,
challenged by care,
ornamented with violets
Using the search terms vib and assembly and a few others I've
a unit became visible. I must admit, I am happy to make it. There is a
queen robber robin with a wolf crown, an goddess of the S, the imfamous
the same monsters, very strict,
step off the curb because
the parade must listen to them
the parade must listen to monsters
and their likelihood,
their hearts beat with
patient thrum of
good evenings with
president talk, you know how
that modesty inveighs
talk of monsters and the president
Organic stomp, Jurassic asshole, puddle strudel, minion dogma, eyeglass
torpour, poodle entropy, typewriter masculinity, disjunctive klaxon,
Klingon umbrella, anti-scorbutic pissant, scumbucket napkin, winking
slab, doctored pond, moonbeam slit, nice wag, cha cha querulous, impasse
stun in finding
grave moon as
instant as a word from
edges defined by
tribal rites or
those people seem
rocked by crude
that hazard unproven
the light from
the moon itself
else in time to
a practice of denial,
this much blue-sweated surd, it
comes down from the sky
exactly, lights a grey bay in mind
the crease in season spends ruthless
flowers on snow that made it, we are trying
to accomplish our map
the dense leaves were challenging
as they rung from the trees
mere arsenals were so complete
pension into that
green setting, the rose
of document knows
the border of each land,
land concerns the feet
in strait means, narrowly
careful of meaning to be
in the same frame as
what could the
over the hill mean? a
graphic novel intending
now in this figment or yet
allowed in government
settled by winking and
with drifting off the edge
of the rim to the warm
in such aspirant image,
narrative, the force of
even this much information
or a trial of affirmation
within denial, to the steadfast
fire of inside
Bjørn Magnhildøen wrote:
To appreciate things I am not believe you want to your friends do
nothing, be done, and work.
Art is not need it over once a day.
A failure is a thing; it in on the man should be able to appreciate
things I am not a man who knows you that bullfighting does to do, hold
Sheila Murphy wrote:
beautiful! 'normed mercy' is a serious (tho lovely) ouch. I like this
directive voice here, and the earnest young gent, and it all lyrics
prose to some place of confronted moment ('the right thing for this house').
a crippled number fell
to the last colour. People
talk in prose over
fields worth seven daisies or
as the river tumbles into
plain talk while we lay on
the bank with dreams.
Too much inclusion
of information stresses
the practice of reading
along. Our heroes form
cartoons in nations.
My father dad died
like that making
no news no
news being possible
in the light
over the snow
as a dull
ripple of winter
same as when mother
and same as when time
firms up or
Expressive sky, tolls something something, the tears present as muster
for the day
excessive sky of blurring death on blue, the sun seems to fall
saturation of that red that says nothing only time involved in alpenglow
tracks of zipping thru stars that stage moments and cringing, which we
Does the list of dying poems
stay on our date?
The day of equal rose and fell.
dad dated at this broach stayed
cold as the day.
We live in the trouble, words shaded.
A given settled on the vast last.
Every death exceeds a number.
Why do we cry in segments? a
piece of something else
reminds us of
these chords, my simulated heart, make my father die while crying for a
day. these chords, a little warzone, pities the wife and child, the
people. these days, the night has a fat moonlight building to the end of
time. time ends today, my friends. these chords are correct and
The transport of iffy poetry made people strange.A nuclear abbey in
language called echoes from teased ceilings with burning light idea a
transcription of just a lot. /When many congeals, gloom resumes/, opined
the abbot or abbe or Edward Albee on the Merv Griffin show. Or reason,
Tony Trigilio wrote:
If you remember, I dropped into a comatose state myself.
Page 184 of WHITE NOISE
giving, hand, engineered, aspirin
About The Usenet Project:
An x is drawn in
The poem, listed on the Registry of Poems as “Poem”, grew nothing,
Alien mixtures of hydrocarbons, dimity and sand. Piles of wordplay
scored from prehistoric rocking. Stood upon the heads of greatness and
crushed. Trapped in a topic sentence with stellar warmth diminishing.
Able and fatigued
sour mint Curie
ate bizarre volume
ode savior tied
fit sun hurt
commie ode Jacquelin
flippant inducement, flippant
à la porch
ode ma chamber
cell soul and
rain ode plus
Thwart! we in
grapefruit the ravelings
Allen freedom Oft
Scald Surfing scenario
A telephone with mighty wings flew into the President's head. No one was
injured. Why? Because the airspace drew the White House and entered the
P in which the present could cell all shots. It was trial and error and
stuff manse of legends. We sank into resident's news of the creation of
cha cha requisition disorder
consternation among panelists
pumpkin popularity conflicts
strict Miami Vice probation
ocular nob button funny stuff
A Passage to India gnomes forensic site
kacking sounds debate
underwater festoon rebate
Hamptons payback lawn sprinkler
reflexive cues precipitate
the emotively charged touchiness
of ham temerity
(all words from Allen Bramhall poems)
I too am honoured. I think you've reinvented Stein.
text remains, tho voice stiffens. perhaps a person will be aware that
Andy (someone) died. settled on what could be imagined, left it at that.
then the soft rain sometime for future. then a luffing wind, to produce
a deed. then still pictures that burn carefully. then an electric lamp
the overarching eyebrows of Alluria Scandelle rose to fever pitch while
latest news arrived with witty parts cut out. there was something fixed
in the idea, like a beau ideale, actually, tho not so swarthy. experts
from all ways of life poured to beginning. Alluria Scandelle swished her
Fu Manchu, dilettante of evil, his mercantile probation always alert. he
crows the false love with most eager prying into the world. his world,
he rose above the namby pamby lumpy static placidity. he scores. the
poem, prime force in a language, or yet today, stops in a threat and
the lurid light from
Fu Manchu's eyes
the portion of
as political or
the robe of
or likelier a
we challenge a
crash test, in
rode to its
not to relate them too carefully but I thought this work fits well with
the UFO stuff recently posted. cool stuff, both.
Cecil Touchon wrote:
New works added to: http://suprematism.org/touchon002.html
one little rat called waking up rose out of its spurn to tell
goal-oriented and total. total wasn't really in. it said sentence but
sentence couldn't quite end. what's the process of that? poem goads on a
thorough trope or anyway a baked ham. ham means that jim starts at a mid
point and goes
I wanted one ton exactly in these colours. the rain of settled charged
could then step in as a war on proverbs. war itself is a proverb, and
dogs die. my dog, a rich cream of wonder, settles down. we rain. violets
stick in the lawn, when they can have time. reasons secure residence,
more words came across. a figure in blue called. it was our love in
definite term. when did that happen? first, a jet of impressiveness
swooped and telltale, seemed like a crash. all that erratic meant
something. watching was an involved moment, you'd want to describe. we
both figured in this
we arrest in something, yet ponds
with unions of algae, which seems
such a tease,
because avast as snow covers
an inch of the entire world and
death lurking with prisms,
and love serious for scores
along the shore, where air meets water,
water rises to air, air seems to
we sit in the karmann ghia
mommy says that I want to
grab its fin and swim too
She will be that in four days and
five hours I say that as a mom
of superfreaky beautiful midgets too
i can never drive it we only get
a ration of three hours a month
in the sphere for the whole family
mommy says its
on a day in 1909, or some such, Ezra Pound writes to Wyndham Lewis, and
the course of literature as we know it changed, roughly beginning at
Point K or M and traveling a fine curlicue before coming to a Point not
yet named. the two great writers divested their impediments for minutes
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
oh my goodness: my bungbag molt, my fart huffed silence (no kidding!!!).
Bob, how do you accomplish these works? do you cut and paste a pile of
John's phrases and razzle dazzle them together or what? you should write
about John's work because you obviously intimately
this actually is a great answer. it really is up to the reader to render
the experience. your work is so striking because you have such an
attitude toward and regard for each word.
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
Thanks for reading, and your comments.
Sheila Murphy asked me
s much as possible, the world situation turns on a dime. this dime laid
down by Fu Manchu, that ambitious, detail-oriented professional-scale
rapscallion who will stop at nothing to further his plans to rule the
world. crazy man, and you can see the sea from the top of this hill, and
Fact, the Himalayas.
Schneider who is gray
out of steel chosen
in the nth hiring.
Die sick, butter grease
of farm laborer matrix, the
griffin Bianka put back
the person with the
diet Grosvenor ode.
O use liner injury,
Oil is no zoo.
Paris has thousand Frankensteins,
makes the Himalayas
Dear Element of Surplus,
cakewalk Prince Intercontinental Chief Auditor Subtraction. audit
department camera canker fest of Fund release Ordinary central boom boom
Bank of Nigeria lattice work. cakewalk the letter to you, your elf, each
word frightening Surprise, but take it like you own. Mr.
If one of you experienced betrayal, you experience you the more faithfully.
And if your soul is betrothed to death, then seize the lycra.
The strings sound! A hero song, full flames and glow!
There the anger melts, and your mind becomes sweet bleeding.
intelligent Substrata stations ascertain
I was pleased to discover Lanny's Flickr existence:
lots of pix, I must not have been paying attention (sorry)
a terrible, tremendous world fits in fog, said Fu Manchu, icy glare
telling worlds to fall. George Bush guffaws practically. their nosecone
heads for lunar landscape. the vantage is to see the orb spinning and
delirious. on Earth, the little precinct, Sir Denis Nayland-Smith,
The fugs. kill for peace.
yes! thanks for funnelling in the Fugs. Sanders was part of the
symposium on Olson at MIT this past spring. neat to see him as scholarly
elder (but still hale) statesman. next stop, Holy Modal
tres nifty. it's a brave person who can dream of being Spock.
quiet! Fu Manchu and George Bush are talking. the moon sags. we're about
to be wet. Fu Manchu, he's fiction, he's insidious precision, he's in
command of one part of one brain. George Bush, what is his time? and
when they are together, what meets? we should be confused right now.
when the spellbound poem includes me, I get roasted. the spellbound poem
streaks sadly, cowering under the spell of that lurking boom of dawn
that had the hospital enthralled last week. then who is in charge of
dumpsters, including the internment of all particulars of rubbish?
if anyone can see themselves in the Boston area on January 20, I am
giving a showing of my visual works (paint, collage, ink, etc). there'll
be at least 100 works presented. the showing looks something like this:
location is Pond
hello, sad stamp of authority. your bitter limestone molds Mt Everest,
yet look who bought the angels. trust combines with pure weather while
days finger a pulse, letting it play merrie. still poetry overcomes the
name of Jim. tidal waves relent on auspicious newscasts, whose weighty
the sky's transparency turns to rain, which isn't much trouble. a
whittled down mountain like Everest (all legend, no action) stands three
feet above your imagination: not much. so you see, rise and let the
climbing begin. you see snow as a plaintive need to cower. you see air
as a fabulous
millionaire actress Carmen Electra wants me to buy a camera. the camera
has no sharp edges and comes equipped with a smoke alarm. later, in
terms of days or this life (whatever), the noise softens, and hot as hot
singing sensation Kevin Federline pleas with me to secure my rights of
we saw the colour in the door, the door was momentous.
the door was sad as an arch over only frozen rivers.
we stood with a wish but the night was scary.
we tried our ever light way, chasing after the fear.
we came to a fine draining moment that was like waking.
would you like to live like a
I remind that I lifted. I struck out those cold points, that were
process. I said I in a cold day morning and the white of breath showed
something thru dark. no words were in that smoke. daylight hadn't dawned
on me or anyone. I tried to think, and was little. I thought earlier
this same. the
jinkies, Larry Fischer!!! nice fetch! and there's a Wikipedia entry too.
not to say that there isn't a fine line between genius and psychosis,
and an audience happy to blur that line.
Hangin' out in Dayton, Nevada in the late '70s
Massachusetts Bay sounds sad, so blue and big, such as a hill passing
the highway. Bay Poetics is a title goosed from some other ether, trial
balloon-sized and after all, we can't all own the sun. the sun ran
behind the blue hill, discussed in terms of praxis and the federated
year. will next
Bjørn Magnhildøen wrote:
excellent!!! as long as we have someone admitting guilt, and all
acrimony can be turned towards this miscreant, I'm happy. I actually
don't know that any postings of mine were lost or anything like that, I
just couldn't grok what up with the message.
an average sized poem posed over the hole of sun, which dimmed
mercifully. meanwhile collegiate moon drained off fullness and went with
the winter extreme towards snow, the flat brokerage fee of stubblefield.
the cat climbs up to investigate the season of miracle and streetwise.
the blue from the sky distinguishes towns from losing all centre. a
place as happy as clearing stays with us, colder but in a mild
convulsion we let this touch our hands, together. we stop and then,
tender, doesn't that mean we live? little things and smaller too. Pop
Tarts sit in heaven
I wrote some writing in the time it takes to breathe auspicious breaths.
grey was the morning, the same morning that provides current in the
darkening stream. each morning differs with a colour or light. sometimes
the writing needs a day of plain rocks tossed into the coming concentric
at this time, and at all time, which is any, we come to the node where
we see Nayland-Smith: up close, impersonal. Sir Denis Nayland-Smith, in
a bundle of trouble because his stiff upbrought feeling (currently)
shivers in contra nature. how evil, personified so ably by Dr Fu Manchu,
Captain Element became suddenly perplexed. a night of steel, fortified
with longing, stretched across a natural space between loud weary
commercial, yikes. this television shit buggers all, thought Captain
Element. launching into a mode of inquiry that serves to add a
justifiable nurturing to
does the reader know what meanwhile means? well, elegiac symptoms in the
night, that's what got Jane. now, with fresh cookies a-baked, she can
pondering. the diadem of morning—okay, it's just the sun—fletches the
trees with a song of spring. day is for action, and Jane's movie has
abject thunder mixed with cruel warnings spell Fu Manchu in green
underpants. this is dismal, saith Fu Manchu. the green is less than
green of eyes, or the speed with which lightning dots out eyes. green
underpants for the sinister scowling pumping machine in evil's quest.
yet minions abroad
Lanny Quarles wrote:
what artist could he be in the end,
trying to outlast green underpants?
what a great line.
i've got a bagged edition of I think Fu Manchu's
Daughter if you want it. Send me your snail
and its yours if I can find it. if not, thx for
the cheering upness. gave me a
Halvard Johnson wrote:
Bride of the Further Adventures of Nothing at All
yes yes, continued son of the further bride of the incredible
adventures, etc. it's actually a good idea, thanks, I'll use it.
yesterday was a green, temporal union, as I told Beth yesterday. the
green is great, with the wings of anything in mind, but the days have
closed to a certainty, a long winter of saying it's a long winter all
right. but those are daze to slip under the breath of staying in tune.
this nation of
a poem pursued
which decisioned in
public gusts surnamed
Wow Wallpaper or
with the thrill of
why do we accept
the banging sound
of the bolt upright
Halvard Johnson wrote:
22 mule team thorax
No virus found in this incoming message.
Checked by AVG Free Edition.
it's a beautiful world, your friend is dying. absolute leaves from the
ghost of trees blast off to the wind choice. now and then, running
around in rain, you stop for cinders. it's a beauty to the world, dead
as your friend. then you reach all those poles that measure here and
there. you climb
nobody dreams outward, they rely on this picture: a rigid tree forced to
stall. this is sensibly structured for stopping, in a breath, while the
rain extends. a sentence bubbles within this dire crucible called latent
television, and we sing of joyous dishsoap. bending the rules complies
mom dead reckoning. now react, closing in, on the strength of just
staying on the last word until its next companion reveals the next
again. how far does poetry mean when the beginning switches courses
every second, echoing ring of chiming bells across the believable
countryside, and the
Halvard Johnson wrote:
ah yes, the elections
How strange we are, to call what happens
anything at all.
tomorrow began on terms of inquiry. the date included when and where the
villains lived. they ranged about a perplexing plain, and knew our bolts
of poetry. they rumbled on the horizon, telling us of give and take.
take was most masterful, in their eyes. so much in their eyes, indeed,
An electronic poetics has a sexual innuendo and has a poetry-sensitive
rhyme scheme surrounding the sexual innuendo. Areas on the rhyme
scheme are designated for controls used to operate the electronic
poetics. Visual guides corresponding to the controls are sexual
innuendoed on the sexual
clerical tree in the garden, spoke of love. love stepped onto topic
table, where bear, the informer, paused. pause is the entire world as
if. clerical tree as a garden item while we together manage sentiment of
numerals. exacting bear on the edge, informant, closes a door and alerts
in Communist Russia you find
the grandiose piano playing
that pervades the formerly mentioned
I just wants to have the courage
to face the camera with dad
oppressor-father will stop his oppressive behavior
only after he is dead dad
space in my heart as a kid
I don t know
the phone book is a terriffic feature, double
hand basins and long bath, the telephone
is a patient's first impression, forward all
calls and then walk out the door,
we have an opening for a new patient
tomorrow -- how tongue-twistingly terriffic!
the view is terriffic and a house is comfortable,
please, we went in duo, shaded aptly, with guards of uttering green
ceding to yellow, red, orange and aplomb. distance sapped a mention of
memory from disparate landmarks, and we could only stay with the breast
of sun in its slanting difference. what else would we do with the
fullness of our
aw crap, done it again, sent to wrong address. say, why not read the
whole megilla? www.anticview.blogspot.com
yeah, my poems are done.
Jooh edit crab
On 29-Sep-06, at 5:53 PM, Allen Bramhall wrote:
AHB: Maybe the poem is dead, and Poetry
it was that silvery streak at first. familiar to the earthly gods as
exhaust from a jet engine. that's the dynamo that obtains force by means
of exaggerated words, and with this force shrinks earth to habitable
size. it's a wonder and great. that streak, then, vested with the light
Jessica Simpson don't know that you could
say that the word full was appropriateness.
Simpson ate. Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson
end of Jessica Simpson steined to all the
Jessica Simpson informativeness. Simpson
on that was Jessica Simpson label.
When Jessica Simpson was Jessica Simpson
the sun wants you to give up. the sun has this thing, go on roof for a
moment to gleam some morning. also the sun tops trees for this
spectacle, again for a moment. what do you do, then? lay down on a
pronoun, perhaps. the sun needs more room than do you. that's a simple
point to understand.
here's a surprise, with capacious dread. the sky today, that was so
blue, has sagged, retreated, till only the last idea remains. the sun
was brilliant as a spectacle until when, then showed a strange trade in
documentation. words can't express the distance now being obscured. the
he the torment, when in even vast beech tree remembered state of dying.
state of loss in state of loss. a leftover practice endures with such
tantalizing contest of means.
profound state of wind in old beech, the arctic continuing as leaves
shed and nuts fall precisely because Flava Flav he
beginning with the first tree and every succeeding one, until possibly
any tree will associate with the life of one person, to be named or not.
the upside starts to reverse. the blonde actress on Friends decides on a
different way of doing things.
Flava Flav does other things too. the
I will try once more without a tree in sight.
moments of ghastly shapes, timed to produce the most noisome of places
to stand, reek of utter Lovecraftian, until dinner time or ready for
bed. that's Lovecraft all right, blue go black.
The Yardbirds begin to step up their amps, pound a little
and we just couldn't figure out, said Flava Flav, the god. we fought for
the colouring of leaves into this feeling, the definite and chemical
process as a signifier, to find some way in or out.
thus the god declared. and Paris Hilton, the ancient goddess and now
singing sensation, roots and
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
In a message dated 9/16/06 12:43:38 PM, [EMAIL PROTECTED] writes:
he striking word maintained its shape: cicada. this collectible word
wrapped around the vision of an insect selected by Lovecraft to overcome
the parental, pre-boiled world, stop closing out voice,
This is a curious piece Allen, and reminds me of the odd aesthetic
of Roussel's plays. For example the 'why' of selecting Alfred Magdalou's
'ouvre sans pretensions' for its having been written on a picnic menu
with an experimental pigment.
and then to snuggle that
it must be admitted that the living room is smaller than the
mountaintop. the view is of a tree or something so close. snow loses
eagerness at this warm level and season, so nothing shrouds that taste
of beginning, even when it ends. the room feels lost in murmurs, people
sound their grief.
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