Fuck Theory Kill

Wikipedia Poem, No. 880

On hand acidic trap in the bowel of what I’d contained with soft steel wire. Am I alive oil, salt, too late now I’m 28 and acidic trapped in this newspaper executive security forces in the making like delicate membrane fangs. The dog struggles in the bowl. The bowl of nervous broiled potatoes, olive who pretends he’s a word: I’ve got to brandish fangs. I strain at the calcium light a less periphery universe? Bowl of bloodless bone of bloodless bone

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Of bloodless bone of broiled potatoes In a way every newspaper executive who pretends he’s got the word: I’ve got to wire the bowl of torn flesh refers to background themselves off conside Myles Brecht less bone than broiled potatoes. In a way several different mixtures of contaminated withering electronic senses someone else’s fairly compensated to be? A bowl of flourishing myself. Sick and acidic trapped in themselves of torn flesh. My lips burn. I stop reading magazines and

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Acidic trapped in hand the french dykes burn. I stop reading. Suddenly a tired bind: interred in my mouth: I’m not sure If I enjoy it themselves consider Myles Brecht less bone of broiled potatoes, olive who pretends he’s the word: I’ve got nothing to do today. I stop reading magazines and son. The leaf sure I enjoy it cost broiled potatoes stretches brecht less bone of broiled potatoes — in a way several different mixtures of wire then copy editors hurl themselves far above

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Themselves above contained with soft steel wire. Am I alive Who pretends he’s words: I’ve got to be millefiori i’ve got to bind tired: That term, i’ve got to be? A bowl of broiled potatoes in magazines and the bowl of broiled potatoes struggle off condo roofs — And don’t call the jump acidic trapped in the money to be honest — even they’re flesh. My lips burn. I stop reading once free the copy editors hurl themselves

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Myles Brecht tossed off condo roofs — and settling myself Sick and the bowl of nervous flourishing electronic something or other myself Sick metal tin? covered in thousand books Myles Brecht less bone than broiled potatoes. The dykes burn. I stop reading electronic someone else’s fairly compensated to be useless bone of broiled potatoes, olive oil, salt, too much pepper Burns my mouth: I’m not sure If I enjoy it is too much pepper Burns my mouth: I’m notorious

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Sources:

  • Qin, Amy. “Their Art Raised Questions About Technology. Chinese Censors Had Their Own Answer.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 14 Dec. 2018, www.nytimes.com/2018/12/14/arts/china-art-censorship.html.
  • “Guangzhou Triennial Pulls Works on Biotechnology and Artificial Intelligence.” Artforum, 17 Dec. 2018, www.artforum.com/news/-78111.
  • Dewey-Hagborg, Heather. “Artist’s Statement.” Deweyhagborg.com, deweyhagborg.com/statement.

‘Shhh’ by Eileen Myles

Shhh

I don’t think
I can afford the time to not sit right down &
write a poem about the heavy lidded
white rose I hold in my hand
I think of snow
a winter night in Boston, drunken waitress
stumble on a bus that careens through
Somerville the end of the line
where I was born, an old man
shaking me. He could’ve been my dad.
You need a ride? Wait, he said.
This flower is so heavy in my hand.
He drove me home in his old blue
Dodge, a thermos next to me,
cigarette packs on the dash
so quiet like Boston is quiet
Boston in the snow. It’s New York
plates are clattering on St. Mark’s
Place. Should I call you?
Can I go home now
& work with this undelivered
message in my fingertips
It’s summer
I love you.
I’m surrounded by snow.

from Eileen Myles’s “I Must Be Living Twice”

We All Lay on the Island Beach Together (Tension)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 649

w649

“151. Pseudo-cyclical time is a time transformed by industry. The time founded on commodity production is itself a consumable commodity, recombining everything which, during the period of the old unitary society’s disintegration, had become distinct: private life, economic life, political life. The entirety of the consumable time of modern society ends up being treated as raw material for the production of a diversity of new products to be put on the market as socially controlled uses of time. ‘A product, though ready for immediate consumption, may nevertheless serve as raw material for a further product’ (Capital).” Guy Debord

 

first ask is it interesting
tell the pocket waiter pull-ups skin-tight jeans
scent the studio booth
to be the hungriest ghost kill
in the studio booth smell theorists
scent the studio booth save the actor
kills in the transcendent idea of brilliant to love
basic vanilla body mist scents the hungriest ghost
to be known for a particular black hat
to be known for a particular black hat to kill
in order to slip on a theorist be known for the smell of one’s pockets
to scent the theorist’s tube top for a particular guess what
what’s in the studio booth that isn’t a still particle

life’s deadline fast approaching
that feeling of heroism self-conditioned
against resource scarcity sacrifice
supernatural darkness
of marijuana for the scholars
of cold-water flats floating across envelope scenting the air

Did You Mean Más o Menos?

Wikipedia Poem, No. 510

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“How about an oak leaf / if you had to be a leaf?” James Schuyler

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