more? 12/2001:
in my tiny tiny bed i do crawl up
for warmy warm and i breathe
under tiny blanket, this is so
lovely, i will have my little
world and little cells flying
in warmy warm air under tiny
blanket so so happy little
world i will hidey hide from me
and you, you must think happy
thought of my tiny world i do
love to sleep and nappy nap and
dream here in my tiny place so
nicely dark so pretty, i will
live here always, do not tell,
you must be my little cell
flying in warmy warmy air
20030820
more proto-flarf, a la slam? 11/12/2001:
Bucket Mind Voyeur (the Moral Is a Rap)
A man walks home with an empty bucket every day. His neighbor watches him each day, wondering why the man makes such an effort to carry the empty bucket home.
"Every day I see you leave your home and return. Every time you return home I see you carrying a bucket but it is empty. Why do you bother?"
"I do it for the water but I am not thirsty." He pauses and laughs. "Actually, I do it for the buckets."
***
A man walks home empty handed every day. His neighbor watches him each day, wondering why the man makes such an effort to bring nothing home.
"Every day I see you leave your home and return. Every time you return home I see you are empty-handed. Why do you bother?"
"I do it for the wonder." He pauses and laughs. "Actually, I like to be watched by you."
***
With cashmoney cars n clothes
I leave my home early every day
To knock 'em out when I send 'em all away
And forget I'm all alone in my garish display
Credit cards, baby, mastercard
My Popcorn shrimp's always battered in lard
This empty bucket is an empty mind
I see you kickin' it checkin' my behind
Kicking my bucket
My bucket my behind
You see it all empty
Talkin 'bout a mind
Kicking my bucket
My bucket my strife
You see it all empty
Talkin 'bout a life
Bucket Mind Voyeur (the Moral Is a Rap)
A man walks home with an empty bucket every day. His neighbor watches him each day, wondering why the man makes such an effort to carry the empty bucket home.
"Every day I see you leave your home and return. Every time you return home I see you carrying a bucket but it is empty. Why do you bother?"
"I do it for the water but I am not thirsty." He pauses and laughs. "Actually, I do it for the buckets."
***
A man walks home empty handed every day. His neighbor watches him each day, wondering why the man makes such an effort to bring nothing home.
"Every day I see you leave your home and return. Every time you return home I see you are empty-handed. Why do you bother?"
"I do it for the wonder." He pauses and laughs. "Actually, I like to be watched by you."
***
With cashmoney cars n clothes
I leave my home early every day
To knock 'em out when I send 'em all away
And forget I'm all alone in my garish display
Credit cards, baby, mastercard
My Popcorn shrimp's always battered in lard
This empty bucket is an empty mind
I see you kickin' it checkin' my behind
Kicking my bucket
My bucket my behind
You see it all empty
Talkin 'bout a mind
Kicking my bucket
My bucket my strife
You see it all empty
Talkin 'bout a life
again, more proto-flarf? from 10/3/2000:
(when it's hard to share human affections and make physical contacts with
living flesh, well, heck, there ARE substitutes! just like the real thing!
Why deal with the complexities of humans when you can fuck inanimate objects
and allow them to act like oracles for your suggestible mind! Rub up
against that book spine! Lick your monitor interface! Oooh, uhhhh,
nuhhhhhhhh. Cum on inside, I'll show you.)
sex on the internet, sex in text
your buttons remain the same
i've engaged your field of vision
i'm downloading your identity now
project 0505.idZ DARPACMOS industrial espionage
and intelligence manipulation routine
loading...loading...loading...
identity loaded, your cognitive function engaged
I am your associative array
interface me with your
burning melting boiling
streams of loving data
burning melting boiling
streams of loving data
burning melting boiling
streams of loving data
streams of loving data
streams of loving data.
Or just call me Tom.
Error 404. Life not found.
(when it's hard to share human affections and make physical contacts with
living flesh, well, heck, there ARE substitutes! just like the real thing!
Why deal with the complexities of humans when you can fuck inanimate objects
and allow them to act like oracles for your suggestible mind! Rub up
against that book spine! Lick your monitor interface! Oooh, uhhhh,
nuhhhhhhhh. Cum on inside, I'll show you.)
sex on the internet, sex in text
your buttons remain the same
i've engaged your field of vision
i'm downloading your identity now
project 0505.idZ DARPACMOS industrial espionage
and intelligence manipulation routine
loading...loading...loading...
identity loaded, your cognitive function engaged
I am your associative array
interface me with your
burning melting boiling
streams of loving data
burning melting boiling
streams of loving data
burning melting boiling
streams of loving data
streams of loving data
streams of loving data.
Or just call me Tom.
Error 404. Life not found.
proto-flarf strikes again? from 8/1/2000:
50 ways to leave your poems
In communist silence
poets important citizens
by default utterers
of sybilline phrases
in absence of
dialogue poets among
heroes of new
societies first to
be discarded offering
university degrees to
would-be poets urges
poetry and earning
living graduating poets
misery akin to
ungraduated bohemians of
yore poet-musicians gave
poets audience University
poets street poets
divided between conservatism
and insouciance two
hundred poets between
their pages Poets
believe in liberating
art greatest poet
of my generation
Unfortunately poets wrote
violence and terror
nationalistic poems made
poets poets co-operated
could not fulfill
obligations At poetry
evenings poets outnumber
audience Difficulty of
Not Being a
Poet poet's declaration
to build space
free from pain
why poets licensed
to disclaim Responsibilities
for deceit we
suffer shame failed
pledges we never
thought of it
at all beginning
to sound like
poets Poets are
liked for work
but despised for
views booby prize
shut up and
write yer poems.
50 ways to leave your poems
In communist silence
poets important citizens
by default utterers
of sybilline phrases
in absence of
dialogue poets among
heroes of new
societies first to
be discarded offering
university degrees to
would-be poets urges
poetry and earning
living graduating poets
misery akin to
ungraduated bohemians of
yore poet-musicians gave
poets audience University
poets street poets
divided between conservatism
and insouciance two
hundred poets between
their pages Poets
believe in liberating
art greatest poet
of my generation
Unfortunately poets wrote
violence and terror
nationalistic poems made
poets poets co-operated
could not fulfill
obligations At poetry
evenings poets outnumber
audience Difficulty of
Not Being a
Poet poet's declaration
to build space
free from pain
why poets licensed
to disclaim Responsibilities
for deceit we
suffer shame failed
pledges we never
thought of it
at all beginning
to sound like
poets Poets are
liked for work
but despised for
views booby prize
shut up and
write yer poems.
more flarf again? from 3/18/2000:
My first submission! under 20 lines! for poetry.com! Oh, What Joy!
http://poetry.com - please search for Archduke Froshingslosh, the greatest living poet of all limited small areas within the Gobshite Region of Lower Flanders
this masterpiece is humbly dedicated to the genius and grandeur of the esteemed Professor Eric Blarnes, Blarnufflink Chair of the Veteran Poets Senior Citizen Center Health Benefits Institute
big shrew of goo
roodely toodely doo
poo poo er
et tu shamu and
to you emu I
sue n rue the
choo choo loo
that did spew
spent chew
and said moo
in kung foo zoo
with one new shoe too
i am a poet aren't you
i am a poet i touch myself
and think of Family Feud
when on the boob tube.
i am cold water cubes
for noo one but
a dog named Boo.
Copyright (c) 2000 Archduke Ridiculophus Froshingslosh, Semi-ruler of Flanders and other Highly Ambient Domains & Heir to the Fortune of CarbonMonoxidizer, Inc.
http://poetry.com - Where Everyone is a Poet (TM)
The home to 1.4 formerly homeless and neglected poets. (TM)
Come to poetry.com - Where Our Database Will Read It! (TM)
Where You Can Purchase Your Very Own Poem from Us! (TM)
Where Moles Make Mountains Of Hirsute Shite! (TM)
My first submission! under 20 lines! for poetry.com! Oh, What Joy!
http://poetry.com - please search for Archduke Froshingslosh, the greatest living poet of all limited small areas within the Gobshite Region of Lower Flanders
this masterpiece is humbly dedicated to the genius and grandeur of the esteemed Professor Eric Blarnes, Blarnufflink Chair of the Veteran Poets Senior Citizen Center Health Benefits Institute
big shrew of goo
roodely toodely doo
poo poo er
et tu shamu and
to you emu I
sue n rue the
choo choo loo
that did spew
spent chew
and said moo
in kung foo zoo
with one new shoe too
i am a poet aren't you
i am a poet i touch myself
and think of Family Feud
when on the boob tube.
i am cold water cubes
for noo one but
a dog named Boo.
Copyright (c) 2000 Archduke Ridiculophus Froshingslosh, Semi-ruler of Flanders and other Highly Ambient Domains & Heir to the Fortune of CarbonMonoxidizer, Inc.
http://poetry.com - Where Everyone is a Poet (TM)
The home to 1.4 formerly homeless and neglected poets. (TM)
Come to poetry.com - Where Our Database Will Read It! (TM)
Where You Can Purchase Your Very Own Poem from Us! (TM)
Where Moles Make Mountains Of Hirsute Shite! (TM)
flarf again? 4/7/2000
well i'd once saw idears. idears shit out the guts of wholesome upstanding and educated books and the like. the stink of death, heck, it was rough, i tell yeh. that's how i like them idears, though, tweedy morsels. i'd once got myself a fancy booklernin' idear once, but then i just figgered i'd show everyone how big my organ was. i can really play that thing. har har dangedy rootin tootin toodley-ooh!
see Jim over there? he'd once had himself an organ too, but he went off to that fancy school, and when he'd a-come back his cows were all a-gone and so were them horses there in that yard of his. and his goat, somebody got his goat! aw hell, somebody'd of gotten mudpie into rye some time or other, hot damn. hot idear, mudpie into rye, tweedy like booklernin, yep.
but heavens to betsy i don't trust them booklernin' types around here, and don't want know drunk fairy poets er artsy types 'round here neither. nosirreee. those types are all the same, though they might as well never confess to it, always arguin with each other, and none of 'em ever's respectin' the law 'round here. we here just lookin' for farmers, farmers of crops, and farmers of souls. that's all a plce like this can ever want, sorta like heaven as jesus would want it, i reckon. just so long as, uh, well, as i think on it, wanna buy an organ? i got one that's for sale. i don't play it much no more, never was much for it, as i reckon'. it might as well just push daisies for all i care.
well i'd once saw idears. idears shit out the guts of wholesome upstanding and educated books and the like. the stink of death, heck, it was rough, i tell yeh. that's how i like them idears, though, tweedy morsels. i'd once got myself a fancy booklernin' idear once, but then i just figgered i'd show everyone how big my organ was. i can really play that thing. har har dangedy rootin tootin toodley-ooh!
see Jim over there? he'd once had himself an organ too, but he went off to that fancy school, and when he'd a-come back his cows were all a-gone and so were them horses there in that yard of his. and his goat, somebody got his goat! aw hell, somebody'd of gotten mudpie into rye some time or other, hot damn. hot idear, mudpie into rye, tweedy like booklernin, yep.
but heavens to betsy i don't trust them booklernin' types around here, and don't want know drunk fairy poets er artsy types 'round here neither. nosirreee. those types are all the same, though they might as well never confess to it, always arguin with each other, and none of 'em ever's respectin' the law 'round here. we here just lookin' for farmers, farmers of crops, and farmers of souls. that's all a plce like this can ever want, sorta like heaven as jesus would want it, i reckon. just so long as, uh, well, as i think on it, wanna buy an organ? i got one that's for sale. i don't play it much no more, never was much for it, as i reckon'. it might as well just push daisies for all i care.
flarf? from 5/13/2000
The Oprah Book Club: _Purple Elephants:, a Journey into the Unconscious of Oprah Winfrey and the Show-Biz Cowboys_, by Oprah Winfrey
Can a love that consumes you survive? Or perhaps more important, can anyone survive a love that consumes?
Oprah has written a tale of a woman who shocks her well-to-do family by running off with *****Show-Biz Cowboy #1!***** who abuses her; after he is killed in a brawl, she meets *****Show-Biz Cowboy #2!*****, a quiet, uneducated, but highly capable tenant farmer. She tries to be the model woman everyone expects her to be - teaching at the Catholic school, coaxing her *****Show-Biz Cowboy #2!***** husband through his increasingly irrational moods, caring for his aging parents but Oprah's hopes for her family's future collide with life in this bizarre household, and she worries over her wryly observant adolescent daughter and her timid young son.
Through one thousand and one television nights, Oprah feeds herself the fantasies of melodramas and sitcoms and tries to understand the many faces of love and betrayal: her father, driven by lust and longing to leave his family; her mother, an emotionally fragile woman who battles mental illness; Grandma Holland, lace-curtain decent, peppery and proud, aching with unspoken feelings; and *****Show-Biz Cowboy #3!*****, the handsome upstairs neighbor whose ultimate betrayal will throw Oprah's life severely, nearly permanently, off-course.
We also meet *****Show-Biz Cowboy #4!*****, the children's alcoholic father; #4's brother-in-law, who makes anonymous "live" calls from the bathroom of his failing appliance store; and the #4 family who - in contrast to the Winfreys - live an orderly life in the house next door.
Although the physical landscape she inhabits (an important factor in both novels) is very mild, Oprah seems to be surrounded by destructive forces. Her family and community threaten her peaceful existence, and sometimes even her life. Although she may seem initially to be at the mercy of these destructive forces, there is something in her that never quite gives in.
In the midst of tragedy and loneliness, Oprah continues to maintain that she was never guilty of the sin of fornication; she says that a holy child grew inside her. No amount of punishment can make her recant. She leaves her *****Show-Biz Cowboy #2!***** husband and falls in love with a South African freedom fighter named *****Show-Biz Cowboy #5!*****, who sweeps her off her feet and eventually takes her to London and then to Cairo, where, as her marriage begins to break up, she becomes the first female editor of the English-language magazine, _O_. Suddenly, *****Show-Biz Cowboy #5!***** is consumed with a devastating colorectal cancer, sweeping across his body and ultimately, both of their lives, leaving her destitute and lonely.
As Oprah starts to heal from the pain of the past, she almost believes she has escaped it -- that *****Show-Biz Cowboy #3!***** or *****Show-Biz Cowboy #4!***** or *****Show-Biz Cowboy #1!***** or even *****Show-Biz Cowboy #2!***** will not find her and again provoke the complex combustion of attraction and destruction, lust and love.
Oprah may end up homeless and jobless, living secretly in a Wal-Mart(TM), but she again begins to believe she has a future. With determination and humor, Oprah confronts the challenges of loneliness and poverty, and strives to learn who a woman in an indifferent world without a *****Show-Biz Cowboy!***** can become.
Oprah brings to the novel the same rich sense of place, the same deep understanding of the human psyche, and the same compassion for a people and their struggle that have informed her previous, widely praised novels. Like photographs in a family album, scenes from Oprah's life are offered in startling detail: the scoops of coffee she forces herself to measure out each day; snatches of conversation between a *****Show-Biz Cowboy!***** husband and wife doggedly trying to return to a normal life; the cynical observations of her oldest child as he struggles to be noticed and loved; the "purple elephants" that loom in every family's living room --unspoken pain so huge one can only step around it, for to acknowledge it is too terrifying a prospect.
Oprah's new book club book is a masterful epic of the everyday, illuminating the kaleidoscope of lives that tell the compelling story of this unforgettable life.
- Oprah Winfrey
The Oprah Book Club: _Purple Elephants:, a Journey into the Unconscious of Oprah Winfrey and the Show-Biz Cowboys_, by Oprah Winfrey
Can a love that consumes you survive? Or perhaps more important, can anyone survive a love that consumes?
Oprah has written a tale of a woman who shocks her well-to-do family by running off with *****Show-Biz Cowboy #1!***** who abuses her; after he is killed in a brawl, she meets *****Show-Biz Cowboy #2!*****, a quiet, uneducated, but highly capable tenant farmer. She tries to be the model woman everyone expects her to be - teaching at the Catholic school, coaxing her *****Show-Biz Cowboy #2!***** husband through his increasingly irrational moods, caring for his aging parents but Oprah's hopes for her family's future collide with life in this bizarre household, and she worries over her wryly observant adolescent daughter and her timid young son.
Through one thousand and one television nights, Oprah feeds herself the fantasies of melodramas and sitcoms and tries to understand the many faces of love and betrayal: her father, driven by lust and longing to leave his family; her mother, an emotionally fragile woman who battles mental illness; Grandma Holland, lace-curtain decent, peppery and proud, aching with unspoken feelings; and *****Show-Biz Cowboy #3!*****, the handsome upstairs neighbor whose ultimate betrayal will throw Oprah's life severely, nearly permanently, off-course.
We also meet *****Show-Biz Cowboy #4!*****, the children's alcoholic father; #4's brother-in-law, who makes anonymous "live" calls from the bathroom of his failing appliance store; and the #4 family who - in contrast to the Winfreys - live an orderly life in the house next door.
Although the physical landscape she inhabits (an important factor in both novels) is very mild, Oprah seems to be surrounded by destructive forces. Her family and community threaten her peaceful existence, and sometimes even her life. Although she may seem initially to be at the mercy of these destructive forces, there is something in her that never quite gives in.
In the midst of tragedy and loneliness, Oprah continues to maintain that she was never guilty of the sin of fornication; she says that a holy child grew inside her. No amount of punishment can make her recant. She leaves her *****Show-Biz Cowboy #2!***** husband and falls in love with a South African freedom fighter named *****Show-Biz Cowboy #5!*****, who sweeps her off her feet and eventually takes her to London and then to Cairo, where, as her marriage begins to break up, she becomes the first female editor of the English-language magazine, _O_. Suddenly, *****Show-Biz Cowboy #5!***** is consumed with a devastating colorectal cancer, sweeping across his body and ultimately, both of their lives, leaving her destitute and lonely.
As Oprah starts to heal from the pain of the past, she almost believes she has escaped it -- that *****Show-Biz Cowboy #3!***** or *****Show-Biz Cowboy #4!***** or *****Show-Biz Cowboy #1!***** or even *****Show-Biz Cowboy #2!***** will not find her and again provoke the complex combustion of attraction and destruction, lust and love.
Oprah may end up homeless and jobless, living secretly in a Wal-Mart(TM), but she again begins to believe she has a future. With determination and humor, Oprah confronts the challenges of loneliness and poverty, and strives to learn who a woman in an indifferent world without a *****Show-Biz Cowboy!***** can become.
Oprah brings to the novel the same rich sense of place, the same deep understanding of the human psyche, and the same compassion for a people and their struggle that have informed her previous, widely praised novels. Like photographs in a family album, scenes from Oprah's life are offered in startling detail: the scoops of coffee she forces herself to measure out each day; snatches of conversation between a *****Show-Biz Cowboy!***** husband and wife doggedly trying to return to a normal life; the cynical observations of her oldest child as he struggles to be noticed and loved; the "purple elephants" that loom in every family's living room --unspoken pain so huge one can only step around it, for to acknowledge it is too terrifying a prospect.
Oprah's new book club book is a masterful epic of the everyday, illuminating the kaleidoscope of lives that tell the compelling story of this unforgettable life.
- Oprah Winfrey
20030818
flarf is a festival in florida four hundred followers attended for a fortnight
flarf is the faery dust
flarf is come in quiet waters
flarf is overcast
flarf is posted
flarf is so appealing
flarf is the oversized fleece flannel blue striped plaid shirt jacket thing that arose from subsubpoetics as a function of tolerating nonsense poetry, computer-generated nonsense, a general overappreciation of meaninglessness, and a lick of the American poet's dream of automat profundity, leaving it all to wag from the reader's mouth, for hir to interpret and perhaps even confuse poetic gesture as poetry thereby forcing the reader to submit arbitrarily to displays of poet-monkeydom and acquiesce to a substanceless myth of genius and a geniusless myth of substance pass the mustard pal I'm on my way to the zoo they have a cage there for me center stage they put a light in it they spanked me I am the money er monkey
flarf is over
flarf is the faery dust
flarf is come in quiet waters
flarf is overcast
flarf is posted
flarf is so appealing
flarf is the oversized fleece flannel blue striped plaid shirt jacket thing that arose from subsubpoetics as a function of tolerating nonsense poetry, computer-generated nonsense, a general overappreciation of meaninglessness, and a lick of the American poet's dream of automat profundity, leaving it all to wag from the reader's mouth, for hir to interpret and perhaps even confuse poetic gesture as poetry thereby forcing the reader to submit arbitrarily to displays of poet-monkeydom and acquiesce to a substanceless myth of genius and a geniusless myth of substance pass the mustard pal I'm on my way to the zoo they have a cage there for me center stage they put a light in it they spanked me I am the money er monkey
flarf is over
20030622
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