Always trust the man with the hat;
The shadowman leads an alien into a black void.
An alien headed child.
There’s an eyeball at the bottom of the poll.
A soviet criminal murderer.
She bled her shadow on the wall inappropriately.
There’s a hole in the sign,
The sign looks like a tree…
All the broken symbols beckon from the window
And with a bolt it strikes and fractures the glass into insignificant specks
Under the microscope they resemble a stain on an inside-out goat.
-JA, PP, MM, interpreting photos sent to us from Graz by Dunja Apostolov on July 16th 2018
I spoke to the green gull
That forth cometh through the window like road kill,
The strange bowler hat with deep fried pickle grease inside.
The queen of the sea devours sailors;
They go off into a mad teacup
Of distilled essence of the life that never ended in
a spaghettifying mummified cat carcass buried in the walls of your pelvis.
The golden wings of the princes sick of transforming straw:
The great crow squawks,
Squabbles, squirts, and scopes indetermined mind over matter,
Disintegrates into a drop of mercury sliding down your throat.
A collective, blind poem by Jason Abdelhadi, Lake, Patrick Provonost, and Vittoria Lion, played on March 18 2018. Written in turns, only the last word of each line was revealed to the next player.
Message for you! I have always strongly sympathized with Breton’s very first surrealist experience: the sudden gift, as one is drifting off to sleep, of a hypnagogic phrase. For Breton it was “a man cut in half by the window”. It came to him one night, as mine come to me, fully formed, clear and distinct, and verbal rather than a full image. A hybrid concoction of mythological genesis and Cartesian certainty. Actually, I find that they usually have an imperative character that tends to suggest an exclamation point. For me this phenomenon occurs so regularly and clearly that I found I could actually record a solid set of them before finally succumbing to sleep. Why jump right to conscious automatism, when this method could also be mined? I tried to explicitly “write a poem” in this way, using the phrases that arrived totally unbidden before falling asleep.
Here Comes The Cactus!
Man-Thing looks like 10:30…
Here comes the cactus!
Let’s say, plenty!
The issue, is there change yet?
That’s the issue about being rugby.
Right now dancing, because I wanna go… play!
Head’s up! Cause I thought your others didn’t doubt ya.
You should always bounce in and you’re Greg.
Giant rocks and a searching squirrel? Nay.
I’m going to help you babe, the message cleared to me.
(JA, August 3 2017 from 10:30-10:48 pm)