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Platea dell'umanità La Biennale di Harald Szeemann presenta:

Bunker Poetico a cura di Marco Nereo Rotelli

Happening virtuale a cura di Caterina Davinio e Karenina.it, foto di Giorgio Longo

MARIO LUNETTA

Che resta più ormai, in questa putrida sbavatura di millennio, quando tutto torna sotto forma miserevolmende paròdica, risibilmente gaglioffa; che resta più, dico, di tutto il generoso,  goffo intelligente, ingenuo, irruento, sottile patrimonio di idee, proposte,ipotesi, progetti, invenzioni, formulari poetiche, ecc., che dagli anni Cinquanta fino a tutti i Settanta hanno dato una ragione plausibile (e in molti casi inevitabile) alla produzione di senso letterario, soprattutto in Europa, e soprattutto in Francia, Germania e Italia? Si nominarono, le "voci" fondamentali di questo patrimonio sempre naturalmente con la saggia provvisorietà dei gesti e dei fatti che nascono "in situazione" e si nutrono golosamente dello Spirito del Tempo; "realismo", "controrealismo", "sperimentalismo", "noveau roman", "nuove avanguardie", "nouvelle critique", "gruppi" (47, 67, 70), ecc. Nati tutti, e cresciuti, in un groviglio serrato (eppure chiarissimo, dotato di una sua limpidezza di fondo) di duellamenti, scontri, convergenze, fratture, furbizie, cinismi e altro, dentro un orizzonte d'attesa che presupponeva comunque, (anche) attraverso l'azione letteraria e la scrittura non convenzionale e fuori statuto, la possibilità impellente di un modello di convivenza produttiva e sociale davvero liberata dai modi di produzione-consumo-spreco inscritti nel DNA del capitale, così come oggi appare, nel suo catastrofico autocannibalismo.

Dalla mostruosità di certi processi si accorse a suao tempo, pur se con troppi ottimismi, chi faceva scrittura e cultura non allineata, cogliendo non soltanto il benjaminiano nesso qualità-tendenza in termini di testualità, ma il nesso tra assetto della proprietà dei mezzi di produzione culturali, sistema dei media e singoli produttori di testi. Insomma, il nodo dell'ideologia dentro una società divisa, nel campo di forza magnetizzato dal capitale, cui si opponevano, con molta e apprezzabile enfasi, azioni di disturbo numerose contro una tendenza alla restaurazione dura che nei due decenni successivi è stata dilagante. Passione e ideologia, diceva religiosamente Pasolini. Qualcun altro, come Sanguineti ma non solo, diceva del rapporto inestricabile tra ideologia e linguaggio: su un versante laico e materialistico.

Ha poi vinto, in concomitanza con la pervasività azzerante della controffensiva del capitale, dopo la caduta di tutte le barriere (anche un po' sordide, certo) e di tutti i muri targati "socialismo reale", la destituzione progressiva ma celerrima dell'intelligenza, del pensiero complesso, della formalizzazione riccamente polisensa. Ha vinto la strategia del messaggio elementare, fatto e diffuso per non permettere lo spazio della libertà mentale e imporre il ring del consumo/consenso, nella cecità che gli sparring partners del pugile-padrone gestiscono con ributtante arroganza. E contemporaneamente si è tolto ossigeno alla pratica di una scrittura d'invenzione che non ripetesse le parole d'ordine (anche stilistiche: banali e supine) del Pensiero Unico e dei suoi derivati, in ambito di simil-letteratura e in ambito mediatico di pi più estesa fruibilità.

Si è trattato di una glaciazione rovinosa: e le istituzioni hanno portato solo acqua ghiacciata al Mulino Bianco dell'Infinita Idiozia Italiana. Non si è mai parlato meno che in questi anni del rapporto cultura-società, che tra i Cinquanta e i Sessanta ha giocato generalmente a bassa quota su schematismi facili e ripiegamenti a vite. Non si chiede certo qualcosa di simnile, per carità: ma almeno la coscienza che la cultura, e la letteratura nella fattispecie, sono fenomeni sociali, proseguono (parafrasando Klausewitz) la politica con altri mezzi. Che sono pratiche di senso e produzioni ideologiche: "degnità" di cui non si rendono troppo conto neppure molti degli addetti ai lavori.

Il fatto è che non esiste forse più qualcosa che possa chiamarsi società, oggi, in questo paese che sempre più somiglia allo Stato Pontificio e sempre meno a una repubblica democraticamente moderna, dotata pur nell'assetto capitalistico-borghese di privatismo secco, di una qualche decenza: come in altri paesi capitalistici e borghesi accade. E allora, ecco che i "grandi" editori, perfino quelli che si fregiano di medaglieri cospicui, paiono ambire ad essere scambiati per degli stilisti (decotti): creano le mode, ma non sanno poi neanche venderle troppo bene. E ci si avvede ogni giorno di più come il vero, centrale disastro della storia italiana sia stata la presenza della Chiesa di Roma, che in duemila anni ha capillarmente pervaso anche la produzione di senso letterario della penisola. Già, perché, alla fine, la nostra letteratura - dalla Controriforma in specie - ha un carattere marcatamente cattolico, con punte di bigottismo feroce. I nostri testi letterari (900 incluso) sono scritti al 90% in una lingua che risente nel midollo della ligua dei preti, vaga, ispirata e autopunitiva. E sempre, ça va sans dire, ricattatoria e minacciosa.

L'editoria e i ministeri addetti (dalla Pubblica Istruzione ai Beni Culturali), che non fanno che parlare di Europa (senza neppure conoscere i meccanismi che dinamizzano le più aperte tra le civiltà europee), non si sono mai seriamente preoccupati di lavorare per la produzione non puramente mercantile dell'identità nazionale artistico-letteraria, della coscienza intellettuale dei cittadini (meglio: dei sudditi-consumatori); di un progetto globale insomma di ri-costruzione di una cultura laica: coi risultati che vediamo e soffriamo. A proposito di tanta saggistica sui nostri classici, dice Carmelo Bene ("Il manifesto", sabato 12 dicembre 1996) che è come girare intorno a un obitorio, che è la situazione dell'editoria attuale...". E che dire del decreto legislativo 20 ottobre 1998 per l'istituzione del Ministero per i beni e le attività culturali, nel quale è data attenzione "con riferimento particolare" alle attività teatrali, musicali, cinematografiche; e per il libro, il lavoro di scrittura in termini materiali, la sua valorizzazione culturale e non consumistica, non si spende un briciolo di considerazione?

L'incultura dei nostri politici è proverbiale; ma, senza pretendere troppo, crediamo basterebbe si corredassero (per vergognarsene, e per cominciare ad agire) di un minimo di informazione su ciò che si è fatto e si fa in altri paesi del continente: in quei paesi, intendo, in cui i cittadini non sono ancora scaduti a gente, e nei quali anche la letteratura è parte profonda dell'identità nazionale, della memoria storica e presente, perfino dell'orgoglio della lingua, nel contraddittorio (e obbligatorio, e obbligato) percorso verso un'autentica comunità europea che non sia solo di Banche, Borse e Finanza.

Con un abbraccio affettuoso

Mario Lunetta

reiner strasser

Worte verloren im Blut der Vergänglichkeit

words lost in the blood of vacancy

erinnerte ich mich an den ersten Schrei

i remembered my first shout

und die Wärme der Luft

and the warmth of the air

die mich umhüllte

which veiled me






reiner

:::::::::::::::::
Reiner Strasser

caterina davinio

Cari amici, visitata mezza Biennale (domani la seconda metà), piedi in fumo, splendido padiglione Spagna; presto novità e foto dell'happening reale delle artiglierie, gli interventi arrivati con fax a studio. Non smettete di scrivermi: l'unica vera platea dell'umanità è la rete...

Tanti cari saluti a tutti.

Caterina Davinio - Karenina.it

 Michel Delville

ON ADMET

volontiers que
le fascisme est bien la synthèse
du mysticisme et du bestialisme
-- c'est à dire la coincidence paradoxale
de la jouissance et de l'inhibition --
mais on est plus réticent
à envisager les conséquences
des transformations courantes
du sentiment commun
de peur en un discours
égalitaire, civilisé et
résolument moderne sur les
rapports économiques et
sociaux

  OR


la pensée sociale

se trouve fréquemment au
cour de nos préoccupations
les plus urgentes - elle nous
procure un alibi où se
dorlotent les confusions et les
sentiments les plus ignobles, les
plus inavouables

quand le cauchemar de l'entropie
nous guette
dans un bouillonement d'humeurs où
tout écoulement volontaire
ou fortuit
est une déperdition d'énergie
quand tout rapport sexuel s'apparente
à un suicide
quand l'afflux du sang disperse ces pensées
enfin
on tente malgré tout de maintenir
l'accord des extrémités sensibles
du corps aux objets qui l'entourent

quand ces moments-là
surviennent
on voudrait apprendre à
consentir à sa propre fin
qui n'est ni dans le monde
ni hors du monde

-- Michel Delville

CLIC

cucù coucou cou cou cou cou... caterina, ci 6?
fabfab

CLIC

W la comunione fatica di B. Malinowski
W la funzione fatica di R. Jakobson
W la fatica di Caterina
* possiamo parlare di tutto e di niente
* posso pure parafrasare un autore bosniaco
* quel signore intelligente che ci ha fatto credere che siamo perché
pensiamo ci ha raccontato 1 balla; infatti, io sono quando e perché
sono-pensato
* grazie del pensiero
- fabfab -

looks great, thanks for the inspiration,
obrigado,
mac dunlop

ANTONIO SASSU

Da NOVECENTO by elda torres

tempo del vivere

vita del tempo

noi qui a stupirci

novecento amata terra del tempo

punto dei punti

della millenaria storia del nostro vivere

qui umani umanoidi

servi e padroni

miseri grandi crudeli e afflitti

qui irati o depressi o affamati

dai pensieri sospesi

in un caos di ragione

di motivi mediocri

mentre siamo trottole in bilico

sull'orlo del solito abisso

facendo tutti finta di niente

stupiti dalla radicata presunzione

d'essere il centro

povera natura che abbiamo reso pazza

così guardiamo il fondo

che è nero

dell'anima

della storia

acciaccati da

pianti e desideri

malizie e candori

tra globale e parziale

tra soavi tormenti abituali

io e te

parabola dell'esistenza

penduli sbilenchi

gualciti

in cerca di una possibile intesa

tra effimeri equilibri fugaci

strabici

un occhio all'indietro

un altro in avanti

tra vero e sogno

la parola sbagliata

tra intricati intrecci

tra apparenza dell'esistere

e vera morte

nell'attesa feroce

di vita vera

© by elda torres 1993

da NOVECENTO 1993-94

Da NOTTE by elda torres

che fare di noi stessi

quando il cielo ingrigia

l'anima ingrinsisce e il cuore è esangue?

dissolvimento ultimo desiderio rimasto

e accorgersi il mattino dopo

che ogni cosa è rimasta eguale

che la banalità ci possiede come sempre

che il formicolio della folla e della mente

è quello di ogni altro giorno

che il progresso è solo apparenza

che il duemila è ottica dell'occidente

che abbiamo troppo domandato per sapere così poco

che il tutto è solo giochi di specchi

allora che fare di noi stessi?

Lontano urla vagano nel buio

Una qualsiasi donna piange il suo qualsiasi uomo

Qualcuno sta uccidendo qualcun altro

Il ronzio degli aerei come mosche sospette

Mostri vaganti sopra letti addormentati

L'alba è lontana e bisogna pure arrivarci

Cani latrano come lupi lugubri e vigliacchi

Tornerà ben presto il giorno

e la luce cristallina sopra la pietra bianca

a ristorarci gli occhi

© by elda torres 1986 da NOTTE 1989

PAOLO GUZZI

Ellen F. Steinberg, Ph.D.

Dr. Barry Stephen Alpert

>
> DONALD JUDD'S PAROLE
>
>
> developed the possibility
> of acquiring buildings,
> not destroying the buildings
> as they were built.
> Little canon for the
> door like ordinary suburban . . .
>
> Just as the picture in the frame.
> Undefine the general political stagnation.
> Done.
> Done by one artist
> so--in order to do work comparable.
>
> Pretty much turns to be,
> and skeptical of that.
> Relatively simple proportions.
> Or a third dimension; work of art
> lost in it for
> example:
>
>
> DONALD JUDD'S PAROLE
>
>
> Division someone made.
> Color not so particular:
> Continues throughout.  Everywhere
> millions, to be safe.
>

Ilona Wenek-Ziemba

UNIVERSAL DANCE FOR PEACE

Palms turned inwards toward the centre of the circle
we repeat the sacred words
passing from face to face
the energy vibrates
in dance
we link arms
we are so close
it transfuses us all

against the wall
a child
bored
jealously breaking the circle he takes
a stand
between the woman
and the man


Ilona Wenek-Ziemba
from my poetry book "The Conquering of Selene"

Mauricio Guerrero

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
JUST THINKING

>>>>>>>>>>>>>> any word could be told
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>before every man and woman could choise
the
>>>>>>> civilization
>>>>>>>>>>>they want to live

>>>>>not any votes
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>not any laws
>>>> just a empty space
>>>just a non place

>>just a beautiful and rare word by anyone known
>living living
living
and writing in english that's power an poetry.

Mauricio Guerrero/Mexico

ELIZA BERRY

poetry precedes power
diminishing the deeper a point is driven
in.
Power harvested fills prisons of weeping poetry.
Poets sift power gently
even in stagnant rage.
Anger unravelled wraps up power
and squeezes it like icing onto the cake
of ills that greedy black men eat.
Chains, ropes, and now cake
what binding slippery thing
can power not use to poetically and pathetically
syphon strength.
Eliza Berry

Gene.o.trash Labels

*.[this is not my colourful codepoetry
images of a small velveteenish head
all slippery N binary-glitched]

Newscl.o.ning through Ceramically-C][lashed N l][o][a][ded Teeth

*.[barcode rings and ICANN singing
"i can icann i will"]


*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*..**...**...*


Yr predict.cabled dark Statistical Response.*

][non][ X.pressi][ng on yr soft bellied throat][ve
P][oint][.O][f][.C][ontact][.*

Volume 1.3 of a L][ewd][urker ][re:][Orientation.*

Non-responsive][ness][-sided Participant Chip M.bedd.*

[S][l][ee.ping][count 1 seconds][s out of sight.*

.O.vert ][wo][Manifest Con][sciousness][tent.*

N.][di][visible Rawswarming(c).*

Free-Radi.cal N.al.y.sis][ter][ Clouding.*

Over.arch.ing Maleinglist Blue-Printing.*

An ][re:][Active De.sign.][posted][ation.*


*..**...**...**.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.**.*.*.*.*.*.




--massed ][re:][genders clinging upwards

--filling e.volu][mes][tionary gap.pages

--swimming in shoals of beta-blocker infomash

--vehicular datatraffic back-breakage

--reified t][heory][onnage slapped against ][tesla][ c.oils
 
-- .XX. -porno units of floating density

--we swamp N stitch blond baggage in2 ochred tones of re][a][d




*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*..**...**...*



         --

[A.D.D  D.D.T  D][u][CT T.A.G]

         --



*.flag a future.stun-gunned.strand
& flick yr Nouvelle Vague.node-mode.off
twinned cauls of ][t][here N now.*

 


*********************






_Our GenoTrash Fetish_


This is not my traditional colourful codework. Instead, imagine small dual
velveteenish heads, permutation curls all slippery and binary-glitched.
Remember newscloning through ceramically-clashing teeth with barcode labels
hollering in the background, all sonata screaming and ICANNically singing
"I can iiiiicccccccccaaaaannnn i will"?



*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*..**...**...*


And then, your predictable dark statistical response. No expressive
point-of-contact via your soft bellied throat here. Skimming your Volume
1.3 of _Lewd Lurker Reorientation_, my non-responsive-sided Participant
Chip Embed seeping out of site while its ping count rises to 1 second.



*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*..**...**...*


Your distinctly overt manifest content. Potentially invisible
raw-data-swarming, copyrighted to the hilt and echoing concept chambers.
Free-Radical analysis clouding all overarching mailing-list blueprints. A
reactive sign-posted designation. Massed genders clinging upwards and
filling evolutionary page gaps, swimming in shoals of beta-blocker infomash
and vehicular datatraffic back-breakages. Reified theory tonnage slaps
against concept coils.

You X-nominate porno units of floating density. We swamp and stitch blond
baggage into ochred tones of red.



*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*..**...**...*


My Attention Deficit Disorder meets your DichloroDiphenylTrichloroethane
[duct taped and tagged].
We end up flagging a future stun-gunned strand and flicking our Nouvelle
Vague node-mode off. We are twinned cauls of here and now.


.           .    ....         .....
         net.wurker][mez][
      n.sert x.coins.x .here. xXXx               

Bruno Capatti

Bill Freind

Bank of America


When the junta offered cornflakes, I realized they were basically nice
guys. "Go ahead," they insisted, "borrow our leisurewear." Afterward
they walked us to the gate, chatting affably with modern grammar,
insisting their lawns were merely a result of historical conditions. And
such lovely satellite photos - you could almost imagine the borders. I
was left with an urge to recreate the self, to record  the authentic
sound of emotional blockage. Kid yourself, if you want: your schnauzer
is racist.


Bill Freind

poetry against intellectuals \ power asdefence of thinking \ freedom and freedom and against \ intellectuals and power

Love,
mashica

GIORGIO BARONI

sparkle in the dark

passioni dell' IO scintillante
consumarono
le pendici di un cuore
ancora inesplorato.

il ragazzo che fui
non ha pi� parentele
col giovane vecchio
bagnato solo
da mattini nostalgici.

l'altrui vita
libera in me
l'alibi d'un presente
in cui la pervicacia dell' ESISTERE
non trova motivo di continuazione.

un prossimo IO scintillante
mi salverˆ da me stesso
sconfinato nell'oblio
del dolce ricordo
edulcorato dalla promessa
di ci˜
che mai fui in grado d'essere.



                                                                  ©2001giorgio baroni

John Boone

patricia Jacomella-Bonola

B U N K E R    è come  U B N E R K   ma anche come

K E R B U N    è come  K E R B U N   ma anche  uguale a

N U B K E R    oppure a  E R K U N B  ma magari anche a

R U B E N K  no, forse a  R U B N K E e che ne dici di

B E R K U N , sì, BERKUN mi piace, mi piace proprio, è una

parola che significa molto per me, se non la capisci te la compito,

allora:

B  come Bravo
E  come Erotico
R  come Romantico
K  come Kursal
U  come Ultrafantastico
N  come Nuovo

Klaus Peter Dencker 

zu meinem text "über die zeit...."

das gedicht ist ein gedicht mit doppelter bedeutung:
es kann als eine momentaufnahme des krieges und
zugleich als ein sylvesterfeuerwerk gelesen werden.
für mich ist es aber in erster linie ein bild - ich bin
visueller poet und mache solche gedichte sehr selten.
meine "gedichte", die ich hauptsächlich herstelle,sind
sequenzen visueller poesie, die alltagsmaterialien als
collageteile verwenden, die den versuch machen, neue
poetische welten zu entwerfen. es sind neue, aber zu-
gleich auch machtlose welten gegen bestehende, weil
sie vordergründig nichts bewirken. dennoch sind sie
ein verschwindend geringer bestandteil einer welt künst-
lerischer äußerungen, die durch ihre pure existenz die
ausbreitung und vor allem die herrschaft von macht
zumindest begrenzen helfen.
zur zeit (april bis juli 2001) läuft eine ausstellung mit
über 200 blättern von mir im hamburger bahnhof/
nationalgalerie in  berlin. die sequenzen visueller
poesie laufen wie ein band um die wände des aus-
stellungsraums. beobachtet man die besucher, dann
spürt man, wie nach einiger zeit die gespräche beim
betreten des raumes leiser werden und verschwinden,
wie die besucher sich von blatt zu blatt lesend "einzu-
richten" beginnen oder nur mit den augen über die
blätter wandern:- allein mit sich und den assoziationen,
die die blätter auslösen - ein friedlicher vorgang.........
die poesie bietet an, sich ohne machtgebärden einzu-
lassen auf das abenteuer der poetischen kunst - es liegt
am menschen selbst, ob er es annimmt, ob er es für
sich für wichtig hält. davon gibt es viele, und alle diese
sind multiplikatoren, und insofern kann poesie doch
etwas bewirken, zumindest im bewußtsein der menschen
und im zurückdrängen zerstörerischer haltungen.
ein bunker poetico könnte das beste beispiel für eine
poetische kraftquelle, für bewußtseinsanstöße und selbst-
reflexion sein.
danke marco nereo rotelli, danke caterina davinio
sagt klaus peter dencker am 6.juni 2001

FAITH FULL

(singing) "Doo wa diddy diddy dum diddy doo..."

Pigeons circle above the car.
All the cars drive by
the road now in front of you,

perpendicular to
the one we all set out upon
at birth.

The day
breaks into being,

nurtured by a lost horizon
broadcast onto the line of sight.

Equidistant, atmospheric, conditions apply:
like
conception,
like
science,
like
myths

growing tumescent with time capsules

digested and disgorged
recorded and ignored.

In futures past now
we will silence our skins
waiting for god.

Bequeathing some limited stength to being,
strength such as makes
gods die.

Churches fall
like football
upon the question "Why?"

settling down to meeting with the makers
ultimately, untimely sacrifice:

(singing) "Martyr-dom doo wa diddy diddy dom diddy doo"


19/5/01

a poem by Mac Dunlop

LYING ALLY

A lie is my ally
driving ruins that, marble-white,
reflect the light of azure skies
and distant warmth.

Fluid enters the world,
it's brightness strikes the eye
its streaming - unsustainable - truths
growing civilizations.

Some fixed myth
crawling to believe,
tattooed in reflection
ruptured in shadows
shimmering on a receding
splash
of blood
humming across the oceans.

What if
sound after all
had some influence on life
what would the first noise be?
echoing
or passing through space
"click", perhaps, "click-click"?

Some invisible scent or texture
that made me a girl or
you a boy,
grown from flourescent wheat
on a dusty plain
without a sound, smell or feel
to wake up to in holy ground.

Down comes the sky,
up goes the white flag
giving, giving up, giving over, giving off,
Transient senses hiding
in an "akimbo" world
rippling in rags under the same clouds
-shock pink skyline sunset-
raped by the nightly whip...

"click", perhaps "click-click".

a poem by Mac Dunlop

(Inspired by historical evidence of pornographic writing used to encourage rebellion in pre- revolution Paris of the 18th century, Scab's Banquet is a paean against the abuse of modern democratic power by commercially motivated multinational interests.) <?bigger><?bigger>

SCAB'S BANQUET
(G8 and so on)
<?/bigger><?/bigger>
The news is, in every sense a sensation,
broadcast by a condescending angel,
wearing lingerie sewn from sound byte weaves
in which heated parliments conceed
that they pimp of victimed bodies of those most in need.

Having felt the warmth of corruption's erotic feel,
speech-soaked panties wet with excited, breathless zeal
are as flags fluttering over debtor's jungles,
worn upon y-fronted tumescent dongles
whipped out with a militant, steady grace
once upon a time wanked away in private lives
now voted in and thrust into the public's face.

Somewhere around the state's common grounds
the latest craze is to replace the moaning sounds
-surepticiously uttered by the speaker of the house-
with daily counts of more shaking hands than can be announced -
with hard ons tied up in bungee jumping knots
laying on thick the sadism toward those that time, or they forgot...

All those adults-only elected boys and girls,
sat upon their common seats atwist atwirl,
twiddling each other's breathless breasts,
so bored they verbally wank over each other's puffed-out chests,

Or manouver round to take the opposition from behind,
demanding that the people's mouthpieces suck them dry,
pointing their pricks in each other's dilating eyes,
-"who dares wins" says the history of multi-orgasmic fashion-
ejaculating improvised laws against collective action.

Before retiring to privatised chambers,
-bedecked in public schooling loins-
they whip each other's throbbing groins
and wank away interpreting again
that dream in which an american friend,
offered up a fresh cigar
licked in a nymphet's honey-ed jar.

"But how but what? Who'd smoke the thing?"
The public leaders groan permissively again:
As all that glistens newly christened,
like the common sense, cum-stained officious
blue dress of Billy's what-not will he come
on her, or, across all right?
pouring over the latest polls, in bondage gear and skool girl tights.

"Oh billy I wanked upon your head."
Oh tony come take me here in bed."
Oh jean stop photographing us all,
come here and let us touch your balls."
"We'll get robin round to call his dress up friend."
"Or george to bring the navy in."

Or madam widdey can spank us all,
bring not liberty for cannon fodder, but fucks for all,
and sleazy squeeze our cheeks apart,
to penetrate to the nation's hearts.

Before yet another parlimentary session
played in camera, at "question time" - god bless 'em,
the queeries echo, polled again and again
"How much do these masters/mistresses enjoy their blame?"

(e.g) "How frustrating The table microphones have disappeared..."
up trousered legs and full length skirts
(some wear orgasmic smiles, others take pleasure in the fact it hurts)

Sat astride a throbbing picket fence, giving head
rewinding that video of themselves in bed,
tut-tutting at the traffic jams/the sales of arms,
jerking off to the smell of guns
or worse,
forcing "meaklies" to swallow whole the inherited earth.

Politely telling the poor that they are fucked
those who survive will be given lemons to suck,
and strung in knots with torn out page threes scattered round,
a dildo for every orifice - the politics of the gagged and bound.

"Thank god that animals aren't allowed in here,"
-the speaker says,
while each side, in turn cat calls and brays-
"or I'd have one myself upon my knee,
a snake perhaps, that slithers secretly
beneath my robes then I'd pass it round, y' see
m'luds, to and fro
to be licked to buggery before I go

shooting off like members do,
speaking for myself on the news,
before the house,
-camera chest high, breasted suit and busty spouse-
while, out of shot and down below
the loyal constituents are giving blow
beneath cum sprays shooting over head,
"Thanks, now I must off down the pub, "phew", and finally, off to bed."

Ministers speak of worldy matters,
like the time they had the queen mother,
and a jolly good natter.
And oh, the war?
You'd better ask the yanks,
"Oh say can you see" the vid of Bill and Hill's
re-election pranks?
Where she lubes cigars up willy's bum,
and smokes them while he makes her cum.

At present, between calls to Kremlin mates
on the hot-line of kings they wank and wait,
'Remember when boris was getting on a bit?
He'd just tell the generals to get on with it:
"Fuck Checenia, and fuck the rest,
get vlad round here now, he wanks us best,
and those cigars from billy boy,
have they arrived? I want a chew,

and bring that dildo stalin used
up his hole and down his trews...
oh, and tell the chinese premier zang
I loved the tibetan monkey gang bang
and the smuggled vid of those Euro-bulging muscles,
exploding all over those tits in brussels..."

The pubes in tony's perfect smile,
the way chirac can spurt a mile.
That secret way the tories toil
with stringy sperm in baths of oil,

The beefy cops planting it between the cheeks
of those who think our fundamental rights a little weak
-about equal say, to being fucked all night
by terrorists in rubber suits
sweating under amateur video lights.

Members fondling quivering MP breasts
attaching pegs to nipples, and all the rest,
drugging their fucks into their beds,

Encouraging paedophiles to disclose
the uncommon places they've put their nose
to spite their face, covered in spunk
from writing down as they get drunk
all the fantasies they remember
that get passed around in private chambers
between every elected or inherited member.

Across the ocean in an oriental bed
the prime minister has sunk his head
into a giesha's open legs
relaxing while they wait
staying hard for the next G8,
where world leaders can compare notes
and masturbate

remembering fondly back
when power was an unknown crave,
discussing the pro's and con's of desecrating graves
how did they ever find the time to compose
necrophilic treaties about pubescent sex
and the "inevitable" spread of GMO's?

A tax upon the petrol pumps
a pox upon the roads
a way with words when problems rise
an ignorance of the world

just survey the current trends
and think of them as childhood friends
who'd pull you off, then fuck your brains.
Wrapped in blindfolds and arousing chat
getting excited when someone translates "tit for tat".

In the end, you could say its process led,
the choice is: you get fucked or you get bled,
and when you can't afford to have, let alone make your bed,
don't forget, money's not the only thing that can fuck up your head.





mac dunlop

OLIVER HOCKENHULL

__________________________________________

The reader imagines

"I don't exist in relation to the writing."

A wondrous but cheap disappearing act appears here.
__________________________________________

Gilbertto Prado

Neva em Madrid
mulheres com
suas gordas bucetas brancas
e vestidos curtos negros
se misturam à
fumaça das frituras
e dos puros

Neva em Madrid

PAOLO GUZZI

ALESSANDRO LUDOVICO

Sequestro digitale.

Sigilli di ceralacca,
su sottili film
magnetici e ottici.
Commosti organici
che reprimono
codice binario
gia' replicatosi altrove.
Un mandato è fatto di
carta e timbri,
l'informazione è fatta di
libertà.

Alessandro Ludovico

Radical Winter change
Life in a minor key,
Winter sun´s pall.

Hope that you can use this,
all the best,
ciao-allora,
Paul Murphy

RICHARD CARFAGNA

Hi, here are a few small contributions,
I don't know if they are what you're looking for,
but thank you for considering them.
Ric Carfagna


Selections from  Notes On NonExistence :

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------

      the diplomats have been taken to the atrocity sites

 a background noise
torches for the absent
sufficient to stray
from signs of life
taken
to speak of
all are not
all as one believes
to be
wholly holding
an anchorite insularity
at a tenuous distance
between the absolutes
dissolutions
to encounter
what is of white
among the trees
is not
of purity
laying to rest
this vestige
which seems
to unite
the differences
we speak of much
availing itself
with the vaporous
elucidating foregrounds
we chose not to frequent
nor to speak
of
again



----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------


                                    a pale divestiture

    I
            the wash of integrity
settles
between a condescendent
explication       :
you need not infer a comment . . .
to choose
to reprimand
to contend
to understand
to rehearse in random chaos
an opposing collateral
  distillation of similar antecedents -      
          rework this       into a veracity
misrepresented
as fiction
vexed
with quandaried insolence
a taut prismatic
altitude refracted
contemplative
imputrescible  process
   is a latchkey   loosening
  the tries which blind
    years after immutable changelings
sit in judgement
to falsifying
the complex elementals
      and the means which control
the deceptive
   curvatures
of unforeseen subornation -

         II

 a case to enumerate objectives
           predisposes one to errant convention
not likely to rescind
the culpability
which wind raises       to justify
a natural occurrence
predominating
(an) airy sclerosis
of permanent vectorization
the timbre of confines
distinguishing imbrications
of voluminous similarities
  barred from erasures
  the assurance
in an ideal
      held with pithy relevance
to a seeping
arrogated integration
          harmonic plat of hegemonic middleground
                 scouring the cumulative
                 interpolations
                                     resisting infallibility
        which knows no ease
to quiet the restive
jaunts
    deploying
a broadloom alienation
as cowering cordons
hold no prospectives
pretentiously
breaching the contestable
verisimilitude

III

    moving in isolatable magnitude
as a schema which manifests
pulsations
    distorting
definitive constellation
one order to revile
and dim below the treeline
burnt from pallid alignments
jagged plains
ascertain
a ground zeroed
against
     an equaling forensic
       anesthetizing effacements
           reattaching
      the self
          with deprecative appeasement
    slimmed to a blur
altering
      the antithetical
         line of slighted conclusion
            - - - - -



----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------


                     disrupture

you have received less
        in perceiving the instant
    as phenomenological
breakdowns
       break   down
the future           &
past
    as one moment      :
seeing tassel-scraps of barren trees
          to remove    what
portends
      a natural occurrence
from the incidence of age    -
    and what of . . .
clouds
unfolding the eye
            to the unequivocal     distance
even when our bodies
  appear
            enveloped . . .
it is always an unreachable purview
distinct from the immediate
apprehension
at each juncture
revealing
a ontological realism
    within each    (a) terminology
assimilating
the obliquity
        of (terminal) disjunction

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------



fractus sonnetto

          sensations have vanished
                                 with vulnerability
       construed     as a constant    movement
             against the static    moorings
             of a wasted priority
                numbed from random wolves
          devouring the self     apparitions
                  drossed from introspection
    having sired      a similitude
                                       disinclined to speak     as
one
               inveighing    the function gravity mirrors
                           here between   the iconic
silhouettes
                     which   clouds    inflict
                           momentarily          stilled  with
permanency

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------


   provision for doorways


i think what is ambivalent
to the collective ego
awash with ambient backwashed thot
a dialectic for incrementalizing
words which infer recurrence
pushing thru the atomized
indistingushables
lapsong from the immaterialized
memory
of erudite think tanks
transforming simplicities
to a lobotomized progeny
of labyrinthine semantics


i distance myself from establishing
a  premeditated mindset
in order to acclimate my sight
to a finer distillation
conceptualized as purity
hovering above
a voided cranial instability
removing impositions     (ex catherda)
to the malleability of subconscious
subterfuge


troping a logistical ideology
reticent to expose
a premasticated cognition
to an indiscriminate correlation
of faulty inertial immunity
fashioning a refunction from form
to expedite enervations
at the point where digressions
elucidate blatant deficiencies
in a blacker seclusion
without this solemnity of place
piercing thots which accumulate as rubble
evulsing meaning
from a recrudescent resolution

________________________________________________________________________

£$£$£$£$£$£$£$££$£$£$£$£$£

 Rock and Roll is the new political
 Manifesto where Left becomes Right
 And the subversive angry radical
 Buys into real estate and starts to write
 Tory propaganda for New Labour
 While Socialism-Chic struts the catwalk
 Yesterday's alternative comics bore
 Us with their ads for those they used to talk
 Of in such a way that we'd laugh and think.
 Now they run corporate training courses
 My heroes have joined Entertainment Inc.
 Singing the praises of market forces
 And I wonder if, should I get famous,
 Will I sell out or stay this dangerous?

    Arthur Chappell

Bears Stealing Food
(c) 1993by Steven H. Koenig


I heard it on the news this morning:
Bears stealing food
that didn’t belong to them.
I missed whose land this took place on
but it must’ve been someone important.

The federal government paid property taxes of
one point seven million dollars on its spy headquarters,
four years under construction,
in an effort to disguise it as a private office complex.
Now it wants the money back.
I missed whose land this took place on, but
County officials say, “Someone is smoking something
if they think that’s going to happen.”

After 130 years,
Mississippi voted to ratify the Thirteenth amendment
abolishing slavery.  March 17, 1995.
I missed whose land this took place on.
It must’ve been someone important.

The nun said “They interrogated me
and burned my back with cigarettes
one hundred eleven times, and they raped me...
they lowered me into an open pit...
filled with human bodies.”
I missed whose land this took place on,
but it must’ve been someone important.

The state representative, talking about a plan
to bill prisoners for preventive health care, claims,
“There’s such a thing as spontaneous remission.
Someone dying of cancer could seek other care--
I’m taking about prayer or hope medicine--
and two years later, lo and behold,
the cancer gets better.”
I missed whose land this took place on,
but it must’ve been someone important

The Lesbian Avengers summoned a plague of locusts
upon Exodus International, which uses intensive counseling
to cure people of their homosexuality.
“There are lesbians here with bugs!” they panicked,
but 911 ignores prank calls.
I missed which state this took place in,
but it must’ve been somewhere important.

Televisions are allowed, but not typewriters.
The loss of television is too high a price to pay
for any show of resistance.  Death row.
Today, instead of two hours recreation,
yard in after ten minutes.  “Don’t you boys know
thunder’n lightning is dangerous?”
I forget which people these are,
but they must be someone important.

SCARECROW
(c) 1998 by Steven H. Koenig

scarecrow
wanted to make friends
and didnt know where it was going
scarecrow was an it
because this is an angry poem
and i must not let the scarecrow down
if i give it humanity
the story of the scarecrow will sear the papers
the ink turn sulfurous and fiery
and i must not let the scarecrow down
and some will not let him down
a propped up martyr, a hero, a joke
a sacrificial victim
to blame for letting the crows
peck out his eyeballs
i mean it’s eyeballs
i mean: balls!
he must not have humanity
it will hurt too much
must be: a straw figure
subhuman
sitting in dirt
in mocking clothes
only to be mocked
a target, rather
a set-up
a toss-up
a set-up
a fuck-up
and the reapers plant scarecrows
the reapers harvest scarecrows
in the dirt
the richest soil
which scarecrows may not touch
but only guard
their riches, their treasures
a symbol of their humanity
made in their (holy) form
an icon
a scarecrow to stand
and fall
because when the crows come
scarecrow already has  a stick up its back
and even if scarecrow takes that first step
toward its own harvest
it is set up to flop
scarecrow
is set up
and like the fields
someone decides it is time to slash and burn
to tie to a fence
to set on fire
like a cross burning
a twisted mis-symbol
if none of this is making sense
this is an angry poem
and when a stick is up your back
and folks fan the flame
a knife is at your nape
a jab is at your jaw
and perhaps
you’ll know the scarecrow
and you’ll know that even protesting your condition
or looking for love
you’ll know the crows
are ready to pluck your eyes out
even as you are just learning to see
its so easy to set up scarecrow
make it think it matters
tell it it can date
it is a straw dog
it is a bad joke
it is an angry poem
what’s another dead scarecrow
lay it on the fence
take out your baseball bats
i know,
you didnt think he was actually going to die
i know,
it wasnt premeditated
just a bunch of friends talking
a few days before
set up some scarecrow
im a scarecrow too
kiss me
though it cant scream
though i cant scream
it has no mouth
a scream in a field of scarecrow
surrounded by crow
is not heard above
the clatter of wings and pecks
scarecrow
makes no sound
and this is an angry screaming poem
with pyro acidic tint and vitriol
it cannot compare to acid reflux
to ulcers to qualms and quease
its a fire that
could make your eyeballs blind
there are other options
as long as there is life
but scarecrow, lynched, dead
and other scarecrows
now more aware of the sticks in their backs
this is  not  support
this is a set-up
to aim your balls at the sun
and go blind
when you stare too long
at your humiliation
a blind rage and fury
this straw will set fires
it will no longer be on the rack
play both sides of the fence
scarecrow wants to make friends
and those attracted to the blaze
warmed by the fire and passion
those who dont mind the flaming
will find warmth here
the scarecrow is blind
the scarecrow is dead
the straw lives on
scattered like seed planted on charred soil
and possibilities sprout
like violence and hope
and candles and flame
scarecrow is set up
scarecrow evolves
scarecrow will not be scared


10.13.98

q train/franklin shuttle
for matthew sheppherd

TRILOGIA “PERLA”
por Steven Koenig
(C)1997


1. Llamame Perla

Llamama Perla
Olvida tus viejas metaforos religiosas,
olvida tus antiguas leyes.  Yo soy Perla.
Perla de júbilo.  Perla de sangre.  Perla de llanto.
Sangre, júbilo y lágrimas.
Llamame Quietzalcoatl o Fenix.
Muchos emplumados, esplendorosos.
Yo no soy vacilante.  Soy escorpion tambien,
y amante de Cuauhtemoc, traidor de Cortez;
pieles de serpientes, cráneos, cruces,
chaquiras de vidrio verde, ropas tejidas de viruela,
y mi pacto no es ninguno excepto este:
de ti hacía mi.

Tu llegaste en caballos. Ellos no conocian
la leyenda del centauro
monstruos cuando se miran.
Jorobados sobre cvabezas de caballos,
lanzas en mano, los monstruos de varias cabezas
como Shiva, Vengador, Destructor.  Mis elegidos
ellos tambien tienen imágenesde creaneos y serpientes.
¿ Pensaste que sólo los budistas mataror un indú?
¿ Pensaste que sólo era una escultura?
¿ Pensaste que en pie en el ecuello
significa una cosa diferente en un museo,
un cuarto oscuro, o una esquina desierta?

Los dioses tienen lenguas, prueban, desean.
Los dioses pierden armargura a través
del filtro de la piedras
el filtro de la arena
el filtro dls deseo.
Ves agua enrojecida hacia el cielo
donde se sacia nuestra sed.
La vida es el pasaje breve.
La vida es el pasaje largo.

Mensualmente sangrando en los hojas de maiz,
desnudo, solo en un bosque,
Ve de frente:
incitame, incitame,
antojo de antojo
con crueldad sólo para complacerme.
Yo acepto tu regalo.
No hacerlo serîa descortes.
Quizá comas un corazon estremecedor
en una pieza de pan de maíz.

¿He preguntado por la sangre?
Todos nosotros sacrificamos.
Todos nosotros hacemos peregrinajes
Incluso Perla debe visitar la mareas.
El viaje es el arte original; viaja a mi.
Sangra y sufre sumisión.
Sacrifica tus hijos para mi.
No he preguntado por ellos.  No los he pedido.
Queiro entenderte, parta concocer tu bromas.
Ser tu dios es lo que soy; es lo que hago.  Yo soy Perla.
Cuando lloras, lloro contigo.
¿Que más puedo hacer?  Yo soy tu Perla.


2. Perla Descendiendo 


Llamame Perla.
Perla de sangre, Perla de lágrimas.
perla quen no tienen algo para vestir
y hás sido invocado descendiendo.
Rie si quieres
pero soy Perla, tambien conocido como San Franscisco,
iqual que la Virgen de Guadalupe.
Hoy soy conocida como Quetzalcoatl
y estoy para ser recibida como sacerdote
vestida en la pieles de sus sacrificados como ellos giran

brazos y piernas aleteando, cabezas en el mano derecha
bailando como pesesionados de partes del mundo
aun no puden imaginar.

Pero he vista todo; yo soy Perla.
Los sacerdotes estan poniendose las pieled de los sacrificados
sobre sus propias desnudeces.
Ellos lo hacen en mi nomre
ofreciendome y estoy invocado.
No uso testigos.
este barbarismo cercano
pero ellos han aprendido las palabras
y soy invocado, no tengo eleccíon,
Yo soy Perla. No tengo eleccíon.


3. Perla en Tuxtla Gutierrez


Llamame Perla.
Perla de sangre, Perla de lágrimas.
Lllamas a tu padre,
sabe que los muertos no puder oír
per bum-bum-tara 
los marimbistas tocan una polka
y ves tus padres bailando.
Tu quiero bailar.
Hay mujeres bailando juntas.
Los hombred no le pueden hacer.
Me llamas a mí, Perla.
Quieres cortarle los lóbulos de las orejas
dejer caer la sangre, hacia el cemento
donde un niño pregunta, “¿Por que te sientas?”
chupando un chupachups.  Cuesta mucho entenderlo
y el niño a plasta una lata debajo de su pie y corre.

Llama a Changó, al mono,
e incluso un oído no puede satisfacer el silencio
las parejas bailar alrededor del cúpulo
y los marimbistas tocan.
Changó, mono, Perla; no podemas ayudarte,
solo podemos escuchar como tus lágrimas,
jalan tu sangre ala tierra
donde ayudará s que crezcan las cosas.
No hay manera para que sepas esto
ni que te pueda ayudar

Soy Perla.  Perla de sangre, Perla de lágrimas.
A veces es triste.
Sientate, llora, apoyate en la pasamanos
mientras que la gente baila alrededor de tí,
mientras el aplauso saludo el grupo siguiente,
mientras los niños juegan sobre los peldaños,
se balancean sobre el cemento
sin que nadie está preocupado sobre sus niños.
Aqui hay una libertád, saben solamente temer
cuando se crezcan que pan de maíz está llena de sangre
Soy Perla.  no te puedo ayudar,
Solo puedo absorber la sangre que se te cae.

Quiero empezar como un escándalo, pero no
hay ningún hombres aquí
suficiente hombre para hacer esto.
Sola hace falta un foxtrot.
No hay ningún lobo aquí y solo puedo
absorber la sangre que dejas.
Tu amigo pregunta,
“¿Por qué no te pidas una mujer bailar?”
Así regresas al tecer piso de hotel sín teléfono
Incluso con un chico agradable
tu quisieras regresar y te diran “no” en el lobby.
El no Tiene navaja,
soló un condon para protejarse,
y no es suficiente.
Incluso un beso en cuello
puede abrazar una navaja en la espalda.
Aunque deseo no estes espartando,
yo soy Perla.  Perla de sangre, Perla de lágrimas.
Pude estar equivocado.
Pudo haber más sangre y lágrimas y hay suficiente.
Matan tu tipo aquí en Chiapas.

New York y Chiapas, 1997


THE PEARL TRILOGY
by Steven Koenig
(C)1997

Call Me Pearl

Call me Pearl.
Forget your old
religious metaphors.  Forget your old laws. I am Pearl.
Pearl of joy.  Perla de sangre.
Perla de lagrima.  Blood, joy and and tears,
Call me Quetzelcóatl or Phoenix,
many-feathered, splendiforous.  I am not hesitant.
I’m Scorpio all the same
and lover of Cuahtemoc, betrayer of Cortez;
snakeskins, skulls, crosses
green glass beads, clothes knit from smallpox,
and my allegiances are none except this:
of you to me.

You arrived on horses.  They knew not the legend of the centaur
but all know monsters when they see them,
hunched backs over horses’ heads,
spears in hand, the many-headed monster,
like Shiva, avenger, destroyer.  My chosen ones
also had images of skulls and snakes.  Did you think it was
only a Buddhist killing a Hindu?  Did you think it was just a sculpture?
Did you think a foot on the neck
means a different thing in a museum, a backroom, or an
avoided streetcorner?

Gods have tongues, taste, desire
Gods lose bitterness through the filter of rock
the filter of sand
the filter of desire.
You see water join red to the sky
where it quenches our thirst.
The life is the brief passage.
The life is the long passage
Monthly bleeding on corn leaves, naked,
alone in the forests.
Go Ahead.
Humor me, whim to whim,
cruelty meant only to please me.
I accept your gift
To not do so would be impolite.
You may eat a quivering heart
on a piece of corn cake.

Did I ever ask for blood?
We all sacrifice
We all make pilgrimmage

[more]

Even Pearl must visit the tides.
Journey is the original art.
Journey to me,
bleed and suffer submission.
Sacrifice your children to me.
I have not asked for this
I want to understand you,
to know your jokes.
To be your god is what I am; it is what I do.
I am Pearl.
Perla de sangre.  Perla de lagrima.
When you cry I cry with you.
What else can I do? 
I am your
Pearl.


Pearl Comes Down

Call me Pearl
Perla de sangre, perla de lagrimas
Perla who doesn’t have a thing to wear
and I’ve been summoned down
Laugh if you want
But I am Pearl, also known as St. Francis,
even the Virgen de Guadalupe.
Today I am known as Quetzalcoátl;
and am to be received by the priests
dressed in the skins of their sacrificed, as they whirl
arms and legs flailing, heads held out in right hand,
dancing like dervishes from parts of the the world
they can’t even imagine.
But I’ve seen it all; I am Pearl.
The priests are wearing the skins of the sacrificed
over their own bareness.  They are doing it in my name,
in offering to me and I am summoned.
I don’t usually witness
this barbarism up close,
but they have learned the words
and I am summoned, I have no choice.
I am Pearl. I have no choice.

Pearl in Tuxtla

Call me Pearl
Pearl of blood, Pearl of tears.
You call to your father
You know the dead can’t hear
but boom-boom-tarrah
the marimbas play a polka
and you see your mother and father dancing
You want to dance
There are women dancing together;
The men cannot do this.
You call to me, Pearl.
You want to cut your earlobes
drip blood, an offering to the concrete
where a little boy asks, “Why are you sitting down?”
sucking a lolly.  It takes three times to understand him
and the boy crushes a can with his foot and runs away..
You call to Changó, a mono,
even one ear cupped can’t satisfy the silence
as couples dance around the cupola
as the marimbistas play.
Changó, mono, Perla;
We cannot help
you.  We can only listen to your tears,
pull your blood into the earth
where it will help things grow.
There is no way for you to know this.
or that I can’t help you.
I am Pearl  Perla de sangre.  Perla de lagrimas.
It is sad sometimes.
Sit, cry, hold the pole as people
dance around you, as applause
greets the next group, as the children
play on the steps of the bandstand, swinging on concrete
with no one worried every second
about their children. There is a freedom here, they know.
It is only when they grow up the corncakes fill with blood.
I am Pearl.  I cannot help you.
I can only absorb the blood you let.
You want to start a scandal, but there is no man here,
man enough to do this. All it takes is a fox trot.
There are no foxes here, and I can only absorb the blood you let,
ulcerous and sulfurous.
Your friend asks, "Why don't you ask a woman to dance?”
so you return to your third floor hotel without a telephone.
Even with a nice boy
you would come back and would be told no.in the lobby.
He has no knife,
only a condom to protect him.
and it is not enough.
Even a kiss in the throat can embrace a knife in the back
and although I wish you were not scared, I am Pearl,
Perla de sangre, Perla de lagrimas.  I could be wrong.
There could be more blood and tears and there are enough.
They kill your kind here in Chiapas.

Dedicated to Lázaro Salvatierra, 1997

BRUNO BASSI

SILENZIO

Silenzio visiva raffigurazione
Silenzio saetta di ciglia
Silenzio oziosa cicogna
Silenzio buio cigno

Silenzio privata circoncisione

Silenzio mistico salmodiare
Silenzio torbido ruscello
Silenzio aquila sinistra
Silenzio orfica nenia

Silenzio privata circoncisione

Silenzio miele del Sid

Il ricordo

Il ricordo
rimane immobile come un bozzo

Azione parallela

NATHAN GORALNIK

ADRIAN ARIAS

DIBUJO

Una casa
un árbol
dos cerros y un puente
¿a dónde va aquel señor tan apurado?
creo que se ha equivocado de paisaje
así que mejor lo borramos
y ponemos una vaca.


--------
Adrian Arias

Azione parallela - Bunker
Participation- Agricola de Cologne

Title of poem:
Freedom of Colours

certified mud laughing
bombshell painful vibrator
greenish fat annoyance
dropping film foundation
louring yorkshire pudding bluff
male female blocking
heather went black
pop margins fail
molly's dream
perpetuum mobile suck
legitimacy  drags lilac
pitbull roll along

i did not know that
yellow can be such a nasty colour

pink cascades ruin
marine ejaculations groan
pavement graffiti kick
malicious virus cabinet
peter slurp soup
rosebud performing easels
execute my brown mind
get gander gambling gibbet
judith has red eyes
people's voice is lime green
miraculous moss mouse morals

my grand father said
red is bad

tangerine toilets tone toffee
david's danish decoy decentralization defect
gynological prize winning white barrel gun
prime ministers have weak knees
blossoms never bleach
michael's intelligence bleeds out
anti-revolutionay fiddlers immigration
mahagony maiden maharadja

why can't blue
behave like you?

copyright ® 2001 by Agricola de Cologne

doctor hugo

Art = factor x

The horizon = factor x
The horizon is what everything encloses
The horizon divides earth / sea and sky
The world is unthinkable without the horizon
The horizon is a boundary where man cannot come
The horizon exists between the visible and the invisible
The horizon is not inside nor outside the world
The horizon of art = factor x

Because in reality there is no horizon
Because we cannot get near the horizon
Because we try to push the horizon further away
Because all and everything appears within the horizon
Because everybody has his own horizon
Because behind every horizon there is another one
Because art = factor x

Da NOVECENTO by elda torres

 

tempo del vivere

vita del tempo

noi qui a stupirci

novecento amata terra del tempo

punto dei punti

della millenaria storia del nostro vivere

qui umani umanoidi

servi e padroni

miseri grandi crudeli e afflitti

qui irati o depressi o affamati

dai pensieri sospesi

in un caos di ragione

di motivi mediocri

mentre siamo trottole in bilico

sull'orlo del solito abisso

facendo tutti finta di niente

stupiti dalla radicata presunzione

d'essere il centro

povera natura che abbiamo reso pazza

così guardiamo il fondo

che è nero

dell'anima

della storia

acciaccati da

pianti e desideri

malizie e candori

tra globale e parziale

tra soavi tormenti abituali

 

io e te

parabola dell'esistenza

penduli sbilenchi

gualciti

in cerca di una possibile intesa

tra effimeri equilibri fugaci

strabici

un occhio all'indietro

un altro in avanti

tra vero e sogno

la parola sbagliata

tra intricati intrecci

tra apparenza dell'esistere

e vera morte

nell'attesa feroce

di vita vera

© by elda torres 1993

da NOVECENTO 1993-94

---

Da NOTTE by elda torres

 

che fare di noi stessi

quando il cielo ingrigia

l'anima ingrinsisce e il cuore esangue?

dissolvimento ultimo desiderio rimasto

e accorgersi il mattino dopo

che ogni cosa è rimasta eguale

che la banalità ci possiede come sempre

che il formicolio della folla e della mente

è quello di ogni altro giorno

che il progresso è solo apparenze

che il duemila è ottica dell'occidente

che abbiamo troppo domandato per sapere così poco

che il tutto è solo giochi di specchi

allora che fare di noi stessi?

Lontano urla vagano nel buio

Una qualsiasi donna piange il suo qualsiasi uomo

Qualcuno sta uccidendo qualcun altro

Il ronzio degli aerei come mosche sospette

Mostri vaganti sopra letti addormentati

L'alba è lontana e bisogna pure arrivarci

Cani latrano come lupi lugubri e vigliacchi

Tornerà ben presto il giorno

e la luce cristallina sopra la pietra bianca

a ristorarci gli occhi

© by elda torres 1986 da NOTTE 1989

 LIBERO

"Sul mondo hanno elevato un'enorme recinzione di filo spinato. Voi, ciascuno di voi, deve decidere sa stare al di qua o al di là del filo spinato"(Raul Karelia)

                                                                  

Agricola de Cologne,
media artist from Germany.

Freedom of Colours

certified mud laughing
bombshell painful vibrator
greenish fat annoyance
dropping film foundation
louring yorkshire pudding bluff
male female blocking
heather went black
pop margins fail
molly's dream
perpetuum mobile suck
legitimacy  drags lilac
pitbull roll along

i did not know that
yellow can be such a nasty colour

pink cascades ruin
marine ejaculations groan
pavement graffiti kick
malicious virum cabinet
peter slurp soup
rosebud performing easels
execute my brown mind
get gander gambling gibbet
judith has red eyes
people's voice is lime green
miraculous moss mouse morals

my grand father said
red is bad

tangerine toilets tone toffee
david's danish decoy decentralization defect
gynological prize winning white barrel gun
prime ministers have weak knees
blossoms never bleach
michael's intelligence bleeds out
anti-revolutionay fiddlers immigration
mahagony maiden maharadja

why can't blue
behave like you?

copyright ® 2001 by Agricola de Cologne

I have been true of voice

I am your phantom limb

movement & itching

scar in hypothalamus

directionless pain as I spin

metaphysical wheels of trophy-like

Weeping

rotor cup stuck on a brass hook

1957 dimestore radiometers prompt cheap

American artform prosthetic deism

where the whole body surface

is archived; arm pressed

between matching salutes, a few diddling

lines drying on the public tongue

end over end

in memoriam, a slo-mo stage

in Disney hit single, though jungles

warmer than bridal bouquets

clenched its embrace of blue (blue)

bottles.

Arrived "all systems Saigon"

on half an excess wafer,

scratching in popular bedsteads

tripping the hurdles. Claw

the king’s right eye out "all over this land"

decide to fuck off baseball cherry

fell on my side rubbing leg hooks

over chitin parabolas. dressed

in Zaum Zoro all night

surgeons deftly fashioned

zany glo-bars

videohouse porkfests

a sort of christian pincers, separating long fore-

arm bones & repeatedly grafting hell to heaven:

We approve my

route 66 to recovery, awkward

at first bludgeoning but can now manipulate

significant

rituals of Our Culture

to indifferent applause:

salted

national prostheses,

veiled with one finger

(touched with one finger)

that finger shot away.

JESSE GLASS

Go Ha Ha Ha



Infinity the



size of a hen's egg

on little amber wheels



iron axles



regularly causes

gelastic seizures

completely beyond my control         that



"Laugh Is A Moral Laugh"

remains an enigma



to systematic justice. Me laugh?

Why, it's almost Painless



(likewise: you can

make me scream)



"You Don't Choose To Laugh"



constant laughter



laughing Center close to god

center close to verbal acuity

seat of Body/Mind



push the red button



seizure of Count Leo Tolstoi

ha. ha. ha.

into wife's open mouth

at train station



trepanning could stop it




eskimo's 11 types laughter

for each kind of snow



lasers melt snow



kicking bird, that name

i wonder if he ever laughed



face up in the river



carbines could cure it



stroke or tumor's

big cube of salt

knots up the thinkwaves



scissors remove it

.

go ha ha ha

when they tell you to

go ha ha ha

The Hunt



to corner

the waiting, listening thing



hunched beneath yr. ribs

sucking fists, touching head,



to pound my living stake at its heart

again & again



while you on hands and knees

practice Lilith's posture: face



lost in pillow, long breasts

dripping sweat. yr. husband's creature



rides to the dark side of yr. bones

a gash for a mouth, eye bud

full of cigar smoke



& you cry yr. warning to it

telling it to hide



as deep as Soul or Love or Eternity

in the brain



while I rock

the soft foundations

(grail engorged



w/blood) & stretch

to grab yr. ear w/ my teeth,



suck yr. gritty hair

into my lungs as the corbels collapse



& we fall

in a cloud of musk

locked together like stone idols

while the monkeys howl. my love



my secret intent to snare it

snag it, drag it forth, force it into sunlight



where it will lie working its jaws

shaping its father's name as you

keen for its life in these rank sheets,



my lips against yr. neck

urging the low song forth,

my hand across your mouth

to stop it.


JESSE GLASS

DIE KUNST
               DER KÖRPER

               Endet der Körper an/mit der Haut, den Häuten ?
               Wer beleibt, belebt, beseelt
               all die Wucherungen und Ausstülpungen der Phantasie und
Vorstellungskraft,
               die Prothesen, Blutkonserven und Ersatzorgane,
               die elektrischen Penise und die aufblasbaren Vaginas und
Herzschrittmacher,
               die endlosen Zahlenreihen in der Software der Computer ?
               Lebt Marilyn Monroe weiter im Film, im Bild,
               auf Celluloid, auf Papier, im Internet,
               als zart geschwungene Linie ?
               Kunst kommt von künstlich.
               Künstler
               sind
               die Biologen,
               die Bodybuilder,
               die Programmierer,
               die Transvestiten,
               die Kopisten,
               Dolly, das Schaf,
               die Werbetexter, -grafiker und -psychologen,
               die Schizoiden
               und die, die immer noch die Stirn haben so zu tun als
wären sie ganz normal,
               die besonders.
               Künstler,
               mit einem Anliegen und einer Botschaft,
               mit Begabung und Passion,
               mit Handschrift und Stil,
               mit Persönlichkeit und Individualität,
               solch ein Künstler,
               der es ernst meint oder lächerlich oder gut,
               der malt und dichtet und inszeniert und arrangiert,
               solch ein Künstler
               ist jeder Mensch.
               Schon seit Beuys.

 Susanne Gerber / Kunst und Kommunikation / kuukuk

Wound
-----
I shut down the world by stapling my mind

(c) T Wilcox 2001


 
Vice Versa: Paris Annie
-----------------------
 
We have to become more like the wind,
sand,
the rain,
and the
sea 

We must open up our hearts and minds...
fling our bodies outward,
into society

...begin to think about our lives,
and liberation

Instead of desiring to cling to
sheets of misery and shame,
that swells our heads and our hearts
with regret and suffering.

(c) Theresa Wilcox 2001

Vice Versa: Paris Annie
-----------------------

We have to become more like the wind,
sand,
the rain,
and the
sea 

We must open up our hearts and minds...
fling our bodies outward,
into society

...begin to think about our lives,
and liberation

Instead of desiring to cling to
sheets of misery and shame,
that swells our heads and our hearts
with regret and suffering.

(c) Theresa Wilcox 2001

Pierre Thoma: bunker-flower (may 01)

b u n k e r
b v n k e r
b w n k e r
b y n k e r
b y o k e r
b z o k e r
b a o k e r
b a o l e r
b b o l e r
b b o m e r
b c o m e r
b d o m e r
b e o m e r
b f o m e r
c f o m e r
d f o m e r
d g o m e r
e g o m e r
e g o n e r
e h o n e r
e i o n e r
e j o n e r
e k o n e r
e l o n e r
e l o o e r
e l o p e r
e l o r e r
e l o s e r
e l o t e r
f l o t e r
f l o u e r
f l o v e r
f l o w e r

-------------------------------------------------- 
2) formatted shape
--------------------------------------------------
 

para la "AZIONE PARALLELA - BUNKER"

----------------------
MENSAJE EN LAS UÑAS

La naturaleza está poblada por criaturas que
o necesitan matar para sobrevivir o escapan
de alguien que los quiere matar.

La belleza de la naturaleza nos vuelve ciegos
y su crueldad pasa inadvertida.

Cada grano de arena tiene un mensaje
dos granos de arena nunca
tienen los mismos minerales y
es probable que en tus uñas
guardes pequeños animales unicelulares
o fósiles vegetales o quizá
el origen de las especies,
sólo espero que no guardes al que
por fin nos destruirá.

------------------------------

MESSAGE UNDER YOUR NAILS

Nature is inhabited by creatures
that need to kill to survive or escape
from someone who wants to kill them.

The beauty of nature makes us blind
and its cruelty goes unseen.

Every grain of sand has a message
two grains of sand never
have the same minerals and
it's possible that under your nails
you would keep small unicellular animals
or plant fossils or perhaps
the origin of the species,
I only hope you would not keep the one
that at last will destroy us.

-----------------

Adrian Arias

Cara Karenina
rispondo con piacere all'invito, affascinato da tema, modi e luoghi dell'happening virtuale
Invio quindi una poesia non poco ispirata al Ballard della Atrocity Exhibition (ma anche ad altro come vedrà). Sull'onda dell'entusiasmo ne mando anzi due, perché possiate eventualmente scegliere. Spero gradiate: intanto ringrazio.
Vincenzo Bagnoli

71-74, Randolph Carter (angoli)
fade away and radiate per F.M. e M.B.

Ho fatto un quadro un calcolo esatto
della vergogna dei suoi movimenti
ai quattro angoli del carrefour
in su e in giù per la spina dorsale
(angoli di strada cani rabbiosi
a guardia dei cadaveri dei loro
padroni le vie stese nell’ombra)
gli angoli del muro e del soffitto
hanno il segreto delle congiunzioni
coniuctio carum trigoni e sestili
di spazi esterni ostili Altri piani
di superfici e inclinazioni diedri
angoli di scale sbagliate e incontri
di pelle e cheratine e di papille
la trigonometria di situazioni
la piega dell’ileo-psoas e del fianco
la bianca geometria degli snodi                  
prepara l’algoritmo scintillante
delle traiettorie riflesse nel nero
del quadratino di pixel sul video
rischiara in fondo agli angoli d’insonnie
sistemi di pulviscolo scoperti
nel prato oscuro di antracite traccia
le diagonali angolate dei sensi
muove i cauti leopardi della veglia
in corse scoscese lungo i rilievi
di ripide forze e causalità
disegna sismogrammi a sesto acuto
creste e declivi di dune del tempo
nell’aria attraversata dal silenzio
angoli d’ombra frequenti o ricordati
malinconia a cui va la preghiera
dei bulbi oculari rovesciati
prospettive oblique e connessioni
morte tagli di luce e di buio
sono gli istinti paralleli esatti
isotropismo di alterni interni
gomiti anche detrusori gola              
l’angolo in cui romba il nuovo giorno

80, Agricola
(dove al poeta si chiede di fare silenzio la buona volta che è tardi e già chiuso)
per R.R.


La periferia ci impasta nei giri
ci attrista  nei valzer  ai bordi  di un clima
uguale  e ingiusto  nel tempo e  nel ritmo
Con mille cerimonie poi s’inceppa il
disco comincia e continua a saltare
Su quelle frasi gentili cadenza
le dolci Ovvietà rassicuranti
dei docili animali ancora un giro
poi la riverenza E non finisce
Ricordi della crisi a fior di pelle
supplizio delle colpe fatte in serie
tutti I viaggi I giri non fatti
e detti per niente restano sempre
nel panorama deserto dei tetti
di Una nazione schiava del cielo
nei suoi frammenti più fuligginosi
arresa al sorriso di avidi numi
dei dell’incetta e dell’eucarestia
insegne E vetrine iridescenti 
come le anse grasse degli Oli
sulla pozzanghera stagnante della
notte troppa notte E troppo densa
Così la città è solo un franare
in pezzi oltre il rogo e i tribunali
anatomie lungo i viali ad aprire
lo stile di un desiderio inespresso
onde profonde campiture lembi
discorso di polverose catastrofi
però sotto la soglia di attenzione
gli organismi ceduti all’assenza
debole riso di vasi e coglioni
di morchia e vene azzurre senza sbocco

MARCO NEREO ROTELLI

Nel 1995 ho presentato il mio primo progetto poetico.

Invitai poeti ad inviarmi versi contro la guerra che vennero stampati su manifesti ed affissi nei paesi balcanici.

Ho sempre pensato che la poesia è un linguaggio intraducibile e che proprio nella sua intraducibilità abita la sua forza.

Così mi rivolgo ai poeti pensandoli altrove, mentre l’innesto del loro "altro" nel mio linguaggio riesce a provocare un’energia spaesante.

Come sempre la mia idea è quella di spingere la poesia nelle forme del mondo ed è per questo che ho deciso di utilizzare differenti supporti (porte, finestre, sedie, sacchi, etc.) per trascrivere i versi donati da più di 700 poeti da tutto il mondo sul tema de La Libertà di pensiero.

Tutti gli oggetti utilizzati, raccolti in luoghi abbandonati, vecchie cascine, sono divenuti "materiale poetico", sogno, memoria, in un mondo sempre più immateriale e privo di sogni.

Bunker poetico rappresenta una forma di resistenza dell’uomo e del suo essere qui, una presa di coscienza dei limiti dell’essere ed un tentativo di superare i vincoli fisici attraverso la lingua universale della poesia.

Marco Nereo Rotelli