Full-Time 50/50s by Stephen Bett

 

 

 

 It was a Duch farewell to painting 50 years earlier

                                                                              Tu m’emmeredes (1918)

“You annoy me”         More bluntly: “You piss me off”

 

All painting and sculpture exhibitions    make.    me.    sick.

 

                                                                (ditto fave Fug guy    Fuck You/

                                                                A Magazine of the Arts)

 

No more…      Retinal Paradigm           Eye Candy           Pretty Pictures

 

Scoop de Scoop:       Duchamp Turns Art on Head           Take that

Pablo         Take that oh too twenties Paree         picture-factories

(mercenaries & slaves, says D!)

 

                           & Please, No More Poetry while you’re at it       Newsflash:

                           century farther on       cute lil’ storytime death-poem       Ditch!

                           them narrators curators ID-venting careerists       phony

                           obligatory scarves, dreaded fraudster Po’ voice

 

Some kind of trickery?     

                                Glorified one hand clapper?     (said surrealist Pope)

                                                                             

 

Dee Duch don’t shy from inner rebuttal∙hood      

                                                                         Get your 50/50s here:

You should wait 50 years for your public…       

                          After 40 or 50 years a picture dies…         (Do the math pls!)

    

Dee atheist anti-painter           respirateur know-how           loquacious

or mum…           precision, knowingness & charm

 

Marcel Duchamp hits       the limit of the unaesthetic, the useless

& the unjustifiable…

 

This:       Pablo antithesis            He rocks, he mocks, he reigns

(no prawns surrounding the chessboard)

 

The King is dead, long live the King…

 

Avant-garde à outrance

                                          Outrageously hit or miss!

The eyes of the truth by Rus Khomutoff

 

Poem by Rus Khomutoff

 

Three Poems by Daniel J Flosi

machine operating lLuddite
throwing stones
into and ouyt of loom
crosswind tailspin
luring too loose to solve
the appealing appeal
of mixing after quaalude
limited liability gospel
mostly exposed

I won’t
tell you
not to
want to
suck the
face dry
sycophantic
influence
junky
murmur
seeks to
seek more
filler

we who descend from
the Mayflower

puritan goodness
likelihoof to delight
w/ tempatation
towards then
dances tightly exposed
copies of a graft and burn/
algo railroaded
hostages
fundamentally speaking
feverishly humored
like walking backwords

fond of the fondled
man as relative stripped
of any real potency

a life of its own

KAOS KARMA (revised edition) by Rus Khomutoff

open to distortions, fractures, and jumps by Joshua Martin

 

what functions across shallow rAdAr jackets

              [scanning spLEEnS puzzle over earlobes

                assured of conduct unprovoked by

                anthill conspiracies of combative gestures]:

/ : heath, sullen conquering wisps

     gloomy in all dwindling castles

     pouring ribboned pubic lice

     onto warped textbook innuendo = / => => =>

                                                       oUt oF wOrK

                                                       cAdAvEr

                                                       shopping beneath

                                                             errands jointly

                                                             combustible (as

tones reek of out of state dioramas

pulled ALONG coastal jump rope Romeos

disinclined to speculations or specifics) =>

                             \ ;

            ‘didn’t this orb of lessons

             simulate an earthquake

             teasing a thermometer?’

                       the question was asked

                       with an ear to the lightbulb

                       affidavit = / dressed as

                                              a swooning

                                              avalanche

                                              basking in

                                              the blinding

                                              RaYs oF

                                              incognito

                                              insecticide       /

: : : : [dense

                   ly ascertained sheets

                   the envy of toilet

                                            WATER

                                             shiver

                                                      ing

                                                            SPURS] : : : :

. . . . .

        leased wavelengths fear travel

                                                         . . . . .

               )backwards echoing

                         AFFECTATIONS(

                                     . . . / - - - BoLd^ly

                                       & severe^ly 

                   misshaped

, as a worrisome ankle monitor

  adjusted fanciful orifices , , , , , , , , , , =>

                                                           dUsT

                                                           tO

                                                           BeNt

                                                           hippie

                                                           fissures <=

]daunted (sensed?) the formulaic

 tonsils (motions?) regarding eras

 as worthless distinctions without a

             SYSTEM

                             [

 

Between stormthunders twelve and thirteen by Jim Meirose

 

Stormthunder twelve sounds, then.

LumpenSchtickle PantZip, master of keys and ZornSchnuckler the Moon-Man Quasi-Big-Boy, are the chief culprits today spout our supersneaky spies. Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum, how germanesqui is thy root-ball. Only the sweetest peas can roll the distance.  Carrots sliced thusly have no hope at all. Rent the attic now, kind servant; the need for quick money is dire. No painting please the thick mud will render it useless. Shrink us immediately, God—the need to appear as small as possible has finally arrived. We’ll risk the last wish my young Genie. Let us enunciate it as clearly as we know; but first we must rub our lamps some you know. Bodily functions yah yah bodily functions, yes we know—there now we are ready. Throw us some towels please first, though. Thanks a lot boy; yah man yo’ welcome. Oh we often tell ourselves this that and the other. God made us suchwise you know. He went to school is over twenty-one and reads and writes quite deftly—he’s been with James Brown and other groups, and he knows. Never trust a fully-grown man. Less so even when they’rer seventy. Feeling wildly sane yet brother? You don’t look so bad. Here’s another.

Stormthunder thirteen sounds, then.