A photo of a curtain trying to escape on the sand

When The Dad closed the car door,

The Toy opened up,

mechanically beating the drum –

with monkey hands.


The stomach stirs with the doughnut-doorbell’s melody –

When The Hat arrived and entered the room,

He was shot with an arrow,

ran disguised as a closed door,

and lay quietly

on the floor like a Persian cat,

impervious to the chanted signs

of greedy secrets.

Will he go out?


He saw a hand pointing upward – a breathless voice said, “ Look at that! What is she doing there now !?”

Like the hands of a mad clock, The Woman twisted, her legs danced on the rug – she wore no stockings, her legs were thin wires of weary hope – sliding, sliding, sliding. A bundle of dry twigs swayed and twitched to the beat of a toy monkey’s drum – clap, clap, clap.

There was popcorn in the bowl on the low table in front of them –

a big, dirty, straw yellow embroidered hand bag – filled with regrets and stinging rebuttals spilled out torn snapshots and movie magazine pages –

The shape of the face and neck

is not enough for the neck –

No one found a way

because of the song

he composed.

He sent a song of justice

sliding across the floor,

a Silly-Putty ball,

with stretched

comic-strip faces.


A recent moment of his romance, sits like a cigarette ember on a foil-ball ~ his general vision feels fictive, hugged by the edges of a faded snapshot, a monochrome moment of the mundane wistfully becoming a blurred shadow – He opens that venting heart to the door, has a kiss compromised by the chafing light etching loss on his dry paper lips.



Before going to bed,

7 Hidden Swans,

like a man’s backpack,

carry the weary burden




I have a picture of my father

Blown off the wire I made –

ice is tied to a rope

that rises in the smoke.


That day is cool for me –

The Photo is broken now,

keeps the smoke swirling

in front of the curtain.


It is said that the skin is exposed –

I(t) cried and brought the birdhouses

I(t) had collected to my room.


Lying next to the landline,

Eye was surrounded by light –

tracks appears

in a vibrating scene.



It smells at night –

Weaving threads

And the trees’ limbs

rooted in the empty sky.



Not because eyes are red

after kissing her –

her neck finally felt the light –

the headlights in her ears, sticking like a thumb to the sugared doughnut, on which her portrait/his painting was standing.



While working in Paisley, I paint both the floor and the water, under a watch full of eyes. I have hands, but it’s oil-paint, like melted butter turning into rue. Oil for me and my favouritism car can be turned on at any time –

I Keep it in Good Condition – like a song that keeps repeating at the mention of a name in a photograph.


Maybe it’s that person, but not me,

a singer who doesn’t like singing –

A photo of a curtain trying to escape on the sand –

A bird that smokes like a kiss,

She closes her eyes and hugs me,

as I stand in the Camera Obscura that is her heart.


I’m a liar, probably;

stork stands in low waters

twists head catches frog –

eyes catch headlights’ gaze,

I can no longer trust a woman to stare at me

and sing an unfamiliar song.



This collage poem is my response (derived/inspired by) to sweet burn of fire.

This Dadaist mix combined other pieces of text from various sources, including a random word generator, Project Gutenberg , some of my other compositions, as well as other online archival text. It went through multiple translations & reassembling before coming back to English for final rearrangement and word-phrasing modification. The final form became a surreal stream of consciousness hardboiled narrative.

Pataphor – blazing sun


Scholar history: he (re)members – we, with the scattered shadows at their feet, more than usual, touched moonlight messages they sent to those sunbeams & marigolds, that clung to the walls and broken crockery.

She smiled. Her smile was a blazing sun – it walked into the room on spiked heels, punctuated with a refrain of oooos and aaaahhs, an exclamation point that stopped at the centre of the room. In the far corner, a frain of sooo and shhaaaa sulked up gin and tonics, like there was no tomorrow. The Apocalypse was Nigh midnight.

The party-goers bathed in the glow. Sweating superlatives, their skin baked and blistered, like euphoric eggs on the sweltering city sidewalk. The smoke filled their charred nostrils – their eyes teared up as pulsing blood boiled in solar exultations.

The fire department arrived with Shock and Awe – the band played on and on.




The pataphor , is a term coined by writer and musician Pablo Lopez, for an unusually extended metaphor based on Alfred Jarry‘s “science” of ‘pataphysics‘.

As Jarry claimed that ‘pataphysics existed “as far from metaphysics as metaphysics extends from regular reality”, a pataphor attempts to create a figure of speech that exists as far from metaphor as metaphor exists from non-figurative language. Whereas a metaphor compares a real object or event to a seemingly unrelated subject to emphasize their similarities, the pataphor uses the newly created metaphorical similarity as a reality on which to base itself. In going beyond mere ornamentation of the original idea, the pataphor seeks to describe a new and separate world, in which an idea or aspect has taken on a life of its own.

Like ‘pataphysics itself, pataphors essentially describe two degrees of separation from reality (rather than merely one degree of separation, which is the world of metaphors and metaphysics). The pataphor may also be said to function as a critical tool, describing the world of “assumptions based on assumptions”such as belief systems or rhetoric run amok.

sleeping in a dictionary

In insomnia’s night, the dark tosses and turns over wide-eyed sheets – the bedside light is turning over the big dictionary –


the unabridged bulk is clutching antonyms of sleep, flipping through pages of undefined dreams, encountering retinas of meaning staring at the back of the skull –


brain-sparks skitter across the pathways, jumping crickets with accented syllables seek the entomology of rapid-eye-movement –


the marching metaphor bands loudly cross the dense lexicon of lucid somnambulists, echoing in the book’s binding, the patter of dead parrots, clinging to the holes in a starless sky,  –


a retinue of offered broken rhyme looks for reason in a landscape of fragmenting ellipsis-


punctuated particlized phonemes impede meandering morphemes seeking symbolization in a cacophony of parable, the allegory flickering in the upper corners of the room is stuck in cobwebs of air and eyelids-

turn the page.


Collage prose poem derived from:

Sleeping with the Dictionary

Thank your ever effervescent effacement – a parataxis prose poem

Thank your ever effervescent effacement – nothingness assumes the comforting form of monotony – told you to get rid of mystic constellations – today, some sarcophagi – Stable chair fugue, then flatulence.



An outcry for Open Circus races – Call sticks straddle the shadow borders – smell the flowers – by contrast, plumbing rites – well, what did you expect – licorice it is then – the ship of life has arrived – next week’s entertainment, social shenanigans – soubrette’s oblique silhouette began to prefigure solitude – cookery wares everywhere – soft eating you say – well, it should come at no surprise – sunshine helps – increase in bitumen clowns.


cover heavy weather –

There is no direction other than paper.

My shame used philosophy as a tranquilizer.


External motive~


Loup petal genre duet >

Fifth cathode-ray excess makes an individual



Gothic religion, proverbs,

and eschatological speculation

brings tranquility ~


About his creativity,

Layer of torn paper

on the facade

used for the same purpose –

Makes sure the rules are correct,

Performing arts preclude

traditional drop-down ceiling


novel barn-door latches.



Palpable Art contrast is too stark a stork

to be entertained

in one of the dining rooms





Written absence of an atrium makes the peristyle

a much more public princely space ~

authentic situation was not as simple

as this glasnost legislation

launcher suggests.


~ Sumerian Garou cougarishly

held that the (re)finery judgment

should not encroach on garish public space.


Defect equation,

for the clandestine Candlemas layman,

was nothing but a reinterpretation

of cyclical counter stakes ~>



The day is a mythopoeic constellation.

All day is a mythopoeic constellation.

Cook day is a mythopoeic constellation selection.


As an increase in tethering hand clowns is salutary,

a mythopoeic society is a juxtaposition to piously embroidered scenes.



Underestimating various personal aspects


the revolution ~


Catabolic Edelweiss machine

Bucolic Monotonous


Process Note:

Parataxis is a literary technique, in writing or speaking, that favours short, simple sentences, without conjunctions or with the use of coordinating, but not with subordinating conjunctions. An often used example is from Pickwick Papers.

“Come along, then,” said he of the green coat, lugging Mr. Pickwick after him by main force, and talking the whole way. “Here, No. 924, take your fare, and take yourself off—respectable gentleman—know him well—none of your nonsense—this way, sir—where’s your friends?—all a mistake, I see—never mind—accidents will happen—best regulated families—never say die—down upon your luck—Pull him UP—Put that in his pipe—like the flavour—damned rascals.” And with a lengthened string of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary volubility, the stranger led the way to the traveller’s waiting-room, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.


I made use of this passage when constructing my first parataxis prose poem (SEE: ASEMIC TAROT 85).

Asemic Snapshots 143 & 144

Aerial Snapshot of the City

Through windows process & in custom~memory call~application.

Photographs of the city show the changes – blockades by the fearful & ignorant selfishly reduce commerce & community intercourse to an asemic cacophony. Paranoia of social governance fills the streets with irritating agitation – patience sits on exhausted sidewalks, awaiting the arrival of governmental brooms to sweep away the uncivil selfishness.


Trudeau plans to invoke Emergencies Act in response to protests: sources

Counter-protests grow, block convoys on 3rd weekend of downtown demonstrations