In the House of the Hangman 1118

Usually you roast the entire pig and pluck out the eyeballs to eat along with chitterlings, hog maws and corn-on-the-cob … of course you know this eyeball tastes just like chicken … chicken gizzards ... yeah everything tastes like chicken or is that taste the nitrites, nitrates … a REAL chicken tastes just like lamb sometimes … chicken tastes just like chiwahwah ... the dog-meat being marinated for three days in a pig-urine brine … a little too salty for my taste but, what the hell ... cheap! For the project, the group turned the Curve gallery in the Barbican into a hundred-square-meter rainstorm. Real water, real droplets, real potential for getting drenched. But thanks to an array of 3-D cameras, daring visitors can pass through the rain without getting dumped on; as people walk through the space, the cameras track their movements and momentarily suspend the downpour overhead. The FBI insisted that Plante, Duran and Olejnik hand over any “anti-government or anarchist literature,” along with flags, black clothing, cell phones, hard-drives and address books even though they knew that none were even in Seattle on May Day. “Enough About Pigs,” “for a while”, “you know you’re in for a party.” You are laughing, and now you are ashamed. “The scab in the back of my throat / what used to be a blooming torso / pacing between elephant tusks / and the memory gravity leeches,” play a constant reel of anxiety. “Bent over images (the damp morning newspaper) / (the back of another’s back) were then / the curl of interminable losses cornering us / in mutually exclusive positions.” I’m not sure if this means they are untitled, or indeed, titled “XXX XXX ...” in varying degrees of X’s. “Replace your scientists and we can / prevent the holidays.” “My own life is strange / commotions in fat / cradling their tectonic dowry / on repeat. // Masks in the little ponds, / are you these masks tied to figs // with their blossoming iron?” WHAT? (Draw out the “A” for about five seconds.) I have no idea what this means, but I enjoy the fuck out of it. After this he says, “Most life is like you, / most airplanes worry,” somewhere in the mottled delirium of wakefulness and a gifted bowl of soup I learned that it was Louis Althusser’s birthday. The light coming back / pale moon. It appears this story has been narrated by a Mynah bird, whose language is a bricolage of hearsay only, and so deeply untrustworthy. !"#$%&'#( 3 +.1(&4*56 7686 .'&9+2+.9/: The ears, in the surviving examples, are generally broken off and in some instances an incision has been scored in a line running from the top to the back of the skull, but the reason for these deliberate mutilations is unknown. Presumably the owner's intention was that the reserve head should serve as substitute for the actual head if the latter were destroyed or damaged. Is this car I’m in a Saturn? It makes me want to orbit something. I think we are being orbited by that bird. What could that train be carrying at this time of day? Probably something emotional, like baseball cards.

            Please, / Leave Me Alone: capitalism

is an actual thing, I have seen it. The cooling system is

the largest ever devised, and nobody is ever missing

             Please, / Leave Me Alone: capitalism

is an actual thing, I have seen it. Originally thought to be

several separate organisms, the mycelial fibres stretch as far as the moon and the fruiting bodies such as they are resemble … In the park I sat down to eat fish and chips and in an amputated parable of fuck knows but CAPITALISM will do. I realized I was alone. I realized I was calm, I realized I had had an acceptable Tuesday, and was going to treasure being alone, and calm, and with this in mind, I turned my phone off and didn’t listen to music, or read, or seek out a crossword, just sat there quietly, looking at the park and what was happening in the park. This was fine, for a while, but suddenly a dog was there, sniffing about, going behind the bench, going under it, and the owner said, “he’s pretending not to be interested in your food”.

Kumara
Nich, nich, pasalam, bada.
Eschochomo, lawassa, schibboda
Kumara
A.a.o. – o.o.o. – i.i.i. – e.e.e. – u.u.u. – ye.ye.ye.
Aa, la ssob, li li ssob lu lu ssob.
Schunschan
Wichoda, kssara, gujatun, gujatun, etc.

Etc? Et cetera? Hell yeas [sic]. It’s just like, no, it is, a big open field. The one Arielle told me about. And like I learned under the old green lightbulb: The present is a great big room. There’s space for everything. Every little ting. ET ET ET ET CETERA!

[Note: Sources: Ed Baker, a concatenation of his comments appended to JBR, In the House of the Hangman 1116 at ZS; “A Room Where You Can Walk In The Rain But Stay Dry: THE RAIN FALLS EVERYWHERE EXCEPT EXACTLY WHERE YOU’RE STANDING”, at Co.DESIGN (re: Rain Room, an installation by digital art collective Random International); Johnny Mao, Brit Schulte and Ben Silverman, “An anti-anarchist witch-hunt”, at Socialist Worker, 17 Oct 012 (“Leah-Lynn Plante, along with Matthew Kyle Duran and Katherine “KteeO” Olejnik, have been imprisoned as part of the fallout from a series of raids on July 25 conducted by the FBI's Joint Terrorism Task Force -- supposedly in response to instances of vandalism during this year's May Day protests in Seattle. The Task Force's warrant allowed agents to raid the homes of activists in three cities. Duran, Plante and Olejnik have not been accused of any criminal wrongdoing, but they have been held in contempt and jailed after refusing to [rat out their brothers and sisters], because the government offered them immunity from prosecution--stripping them of their legal right to refuse to testify.” Obama or Romney – we’re fucked either way); Lesley Dame, Dot Devota, Martha Ronk, Levi Rubeck, Abraham Adams, as quoted in Dame’s “6X6 / Volume 26 / Summer 2012 / Triannual”, at New Pages; Maryam Monalisa Gharavi (who has the best name ever), “Pharynx Folie”, at The New Inquiry, 17 Oct 012; Ken Edwards, “Language is bricolage”, in “millions of colours”, at Cannibal Spices No. 4; my computer, failing a cutnpaste, and simendoza (aka linus slug), “Junctions”, at Cannibal Spices No. 4; Elizabeth Hughey, “The ride”, at Two Serious Ladies, 17 Oct 012; Timothy Thornton, T R A I L S ,   1 3 / 0 7 / 2 0 1 1 ( R e v i s e d.   A   t e r r i b l e   f u c k i n g   j o k e) F E A T U R I N G : 1. The Imaginary Museum of Michael Goves 2. FIVE DOGS 3. A Gallery Of Drawings And Paintings Of Capitalism Sent In By The Public Thank You, at deterritorial support group; Anon., “Bald Mountain Zaum”; JBR (a shout out to Arielle Guy, whose good words have been keeping me sane)]

Comments

[Ed Baker]

HOG MAWS not "ho maws" as an "Ho" is an whole nuthher
thing that will cost you...

here is the skinny on Hog Maws:

http://www.fitday.com/webfit/nutrition/All_Foods/Poultry/Hog_maws_stomach_cooked.html

knowing how pigs are raised wld lead one towards NEVER eating anything of a pig... whether a Hog or an Ho (sometimes spelled "Hoe")

now to use "concantatanation" in a poem ... maybe something about bells ? seriously.

[john]

Thanks Ed, I had no idea what that word was suposed to be.

As for concantatanation, a concantatanation of tintintintinnabulations,, yeah, the bells the bells the bells!

[Ed Baker]

yeah that's what is GREAT about our edyoumughkation system EVERYBODY in EVERY school knows exactly the same things
and automatically knows that bells bells bells poem
same Edgar Allen Poe poem same tests same way of spelling "bells"
getting rather "old" same-sounding, same-written, same attitude crap out there...
etc etc etc....

not necessary to "thank" me just send me a decent REAL Kosher hot dog with the casing what are they... sheep's casings? or some of that healthy stuffed derma also in the casing.... want is to cook it to death in a gadempta pot roast

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