Time makes a hole in the baby’s body. Time puts a manhole on the baby’s head. “I put the disease of this world and my sick body together.” Here’s to the avenue of dogs, the one inside and the one before you. I mean, The World Famous Museum of Death began in 1995 when founders JD Healy and Cathee Shultz realized the void in the death education in this country and decided to make death their life’s work.
bark wetly split
a small nicked vein
pumped thick and tight
the endpoints of its elastic compass sought out and inhabited without
filled with this rich vegetal reek
renders the sum of all
a fatted liver
all the while
barnacled marbles circumscribe a velodrome
Hi i nicus pusoplus likus (douss not corruslåtus)
How’s it going!. likus pusoplus (douss not corruslåtus)
Hi i likus pusrsonål-i (douss not corruslåtus)
The oracle is freaking me out – a fragment from a poem called “Werner Herzog” right after your “bear” reference (did you see Grizzly Male?). I gutted that little article about the singer covered in algae for you to shatter. I mean, what you’re looking at is not some kind of lost prop from an old Alien movie. Rather, it's part of an After Agri performance that was showcased at the recently concluded Digital Device Weekend at the V&A. During the art-piece, the head-mounted, face-clinging device was worn by an opera singer who used her breath to feed algae with CO2. Later, the audience was encouraged to “taste her song.” I mean, if, as Robert Smithson notes, “Look at any word long enough and you will see it open into a series of faults, into a terrain of particles each containing its own void”, and, as Karl Krauss adds, “The closer you look at a word, the greater the distance from which it looks back”, then it is might well be said that asemic writing is all faults and voids, and that the distance from which it “looks back” is immeasurable, or, perhaps better, incommensurate with any measurement at all. The low metal chicken houses house death, and shit, they have no windows / only vents venting death, it is the worst smell I have ever smelled / and the men smoking on break wear blue jumpers orange plastic / jackets move like oompa loompas / / Isa Babcock owns this land. That’s what the signs / say. How could Isa Babcock own all this land. Dear Sir: Your sheep are very pretty. They have / pretty eyes. I didn’t know sheep could be so pretty. And in Korea’s creation myth, a bear called “Woongnye” and a tiger challenge each other to eat garlic and wormwood. The tiger fails, but the bear succeeds. This bear becomes a woman. She gives birth, but never turns up again. Women in Korean myths disappear after giving birth. The reason they were born is to produce sons. But there is one myth where no female disappears. It is a fable of the foremother of shamans. Baridegi was the seventh daughter of a king and was abandoned because she was a girl. After she came back from a pilgrimage to the world of the dead, she saved her father and became the foremother of exorcists who help lead those who have died into heaven. It’s like this and like that and like this and uh / It’s like that and like this and like that and uh / It’s like this and like that and like this and uh / rolconides gallé gallé. César Vallejo, why have you come here? Well, to drink coffee. Over there the war was ending. Over where? Where they don’t ring 1, which will resound to infinity. Where they don’t ring zero, where it will so hush. The result would be a lightning farm, a titanic landscape tuned to the sky, flashing with controlled lightning strikes as the ground conditions are gradually remediated — an unmoving, nearly permanent, artificial electrical storm like something out of Norse mythology, cleansing the earth of toxic chemicals and preparing the site for future reuse. All around us bodies rose out of the stone, crowded into groups, intertwined, or shattered into fragments, hinting at their shapes with a torso, a propped-up arm, a burst him, a scabbed shard, always in warlike gestures, dodging, rebounding, attacking, shielding themselves, stretched high or crooked, some of them snuffed out, but with a freestanding, forward-pressing foot, a twisted back, the contour of a calf harnessed into a single common motion.
[Note: Sources: Kim Hyesoon, “Manhole Humanity” (tr. Don Mee Choi), and Ruth Williams, “The Female Grotesque”, interview interview with Kim Hyesoon, at Guernica, 1 Jan 012, quoted in Ellen Welcker, “All The Garbage Of The World, Unite! By Kim Hyesoon”, at Quarterly Conversation 29; Steven Kuusisto, FB post, 23 Aug 013; JBR; Michael Joseph, FB comment, 23 Aug 013; Sarah Hayden, “HAPTIC (from Exteroceptive), at Wild Honey Press, via Peter Hughes, FB post, 23 Aug 013; Robert Hirst, Verity Spott, Karl M. V. Waugh, Nat Raha, Geo Leonard, V. Vollycore, Jow Lindsay and Jonny Liron, “The Rise and Rise of Borders Admin”, at iodine, 20 Aug 013; Anne Gorrick, email rec’d 23 Aug 013 approx 11:13 AM PDT; JBR; George Dvorsky, “Opera singer grows algae on her face by feeding it with her breath and then the audience eats it”, at io9, 27 Sept 012, via Anne Gorrick, email and FB post, 23 Aug 013; JBR, but see Craig Dworkin, Reading the Illegible, p.130, for the Smithson and the Krauss); Liz Mazzarella, “Hayts & Van Dorn”, quoted in PEN email, rec’d 23 Aug 013 approx 5:59 AM PDT; Kim Hyesoon, quoted in Ruth Williams, “The Female Grotesque: Ruth Williams interviews Kim Hyesoon”, at Guernica, 1 Jan 012; Dr Dre “Nuthin but a G Thang”; Sara Deniz Akant, “Parades”, at The Claudius App 2; César Vallejo, “The Lost Interview” (tr. Kent Johnson), at The Claudius App 2; JBR; Geoff Manaugh, “Lightning Farm”, at BLDG/BLOG, 23 Aug 013; Peter Weiss, The Aesthetics of Resistance, Volume 1 (tr. Joachim Neugroschel)]