Jef Les Deux Magots Tells Me

Jef les deux magots tells me rich fought james here no noise no one wanted here a scaly oak into the icy glare of sunset on eagle’s wing versus don’t play hogwarts legacy there’s a mod for that a haiku of drag down racing streets seven foot wide with a tedious grin similar to the passing train window’s laggy saggy salvage.

The Mitterrand–Pasqua Affair (Charlotte Rampling)

Wikipedia Poem. No. 866


Bad manmade structures effluent as a pistol and Caprus, while a
good more easily in
marmalade darkness, can lose
things dreamt amongst millennials is that a terrible
parts per trillion of iridium
in engineering a recalled forecast about 2 years into the Lycus. 
         The most common lyre is time
has died during an outflowing of the alien. Laodicea
is a ball. It's an outflowing,
inescapable parts perform
more violently, about
20 parts per trillion of
you can lose
your thought, dear reader, what a dogged lover 
or gas to go to: 
         The figurative thing is the alien.
Laodicea is my substitute for a
philothaumaturgical body of water, Asopus and
         their waters; Asopus an
outflowing end.

Are things of water
outflowing or are there magic
ends, while a good more
easily my substitute
forecast something like 2 years into any
water or gas to go: They last approximately 2 years into
iridium in
the figurative thing of iridium dreamt there
amongst the sheeply
hills between the shapely forms of the bad moon
in small rivers Asopus and Caprus, while a good 
         more easily in
         my substitute forms bad moons in
their waters, Asopus and Caprus,
while a god, more
easily in my godhead, news performs more violently 
         and it's a ball. 

It's the figurative forms of a performative structure. 
         Effluent is my substitute.
Forms bad-out like a fan of marmalade structures.
         Effluent is their water or gas-to-go: Where the
form more easily
engineer a chemical reactor. Fluent, more violent,
about 20 parasite dreams per beknighted forgotten desire
amongst millennials. Situate the long spur of iridium
in magic... shucks, 
         we're talking about
         time, someone has to die.

Only about 20
parts per trillion of you can lose the figurative thread.
Forms made into a milkshake-like lattice. Effluent 
         is the difference between
lover-of-magic bodies and given bodies between the 
and, well,
you: Bouton-de-Roses,
terrible parasite dream, millennials, 
         outflow of advertising
structures. Effluent, in reverse, 
         returns to the figurative think tank
what a lover knows is how to make figurative 
         the inescapable parts 
         per trillion of you, Bouton-de-Roses, 
         that a terrible end fears ends.
         Are we thinking in English again? is like what a terrible
dream amongst friends.
Floating down the Caprus, while a good more violently,
         about 20 parasite dreams
attempt to bring forth the common alien in law. 
         Laodicea is hell.



Against Poetry (Only Poetry Can Save America)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 863


the king's horses
relieve themselves on the peoples' road
the debut of new consumer electronics 
consider            a more 
   on      a 
less significant highway
           of mighty commercehead 
as the most 
as a poetic 
     terms of service to whom? don't be so beautiful 

or vulgar     
or certain in a time 
of agreement 
with         a 
number like
        2018 for example exclusively 
ios today
          a version 
 for       video-sharing 
      networking service 
owned by facebook inc
          created by 
ink was released 
year and 
sharp language   language 
    has          been  
most    influential more accurate 
consider the 
early    followers of facebook 
       they   were 
thick with ink  
       for years 
and mike krieger
born march 4 1986 são paulo brazil
a location most influential 
   accurate   as a road through
to      consider imagism    a road out
it rode the early 20th-century 
     mike krieger 
        and six 
       later in 
2012 a number
       poetic excretion created by 
      released by 
          secreted by facebook 
       ink it was caught 
         and released 
a year later on small intelligent devices 
20th-century and 
  six lambs 
later in 
 school as a 
movement rené taupin
dead 13 february 1981 paris 
          network prodigy 
networking most 
          on a small 
      number exclusively on 
vine roped seine 
     a pre-alpha version like
a lost venison knife 
         burned out school bus 
as a poetic 
         created by 
       ink it toward
history created by the programmers  
facebook ink 
caught and released every day like a hard drive
20th century 
of victory of panic a school bus 
a movement 
     the particular time 
     of abandoned hive
    in agreement an unplanned and rapid 

Ten Aphorisms

Wikipedia Poem, No. 774

“Symbols seemed to be playing a large role in this whole affair.” Robert Merle


  • Post-home movements and the archtextual thing.
  • Whisper leisure schools each prison disables each worker.
  • And archtextual now accordingly whispers leisure schools each person they said Bruno Queysanne knows what he knows — the person is the utopia that is hard and boring.
  • But engaged with language, the pronouncement like a mouse through an assistant’s body.
  • History is this late evening.
  • As she says in her religious underweight in May 1968.
  • Upheaval but flexible; dictated by man’s whim or sabotage of the month club.
  • This mass laughter.
  • Students find art and, through an assistant in a students’ productive forces, an assistant’s feeling of injustice or sabotage the whole world in agreement once and long ago.
  • Where to, for what?

The 24 Hottest New Textures from #ParisFashionWeek

Wikipedia Poem, No. 614

obscene odes 
on windows of the skull
rural happiness of the book 
nature stealthily glowers orders 
a chinch from the middle of the night 
i do i do i watch the whole red attitude burst
a sunday centipeded under what you kids do up 
high from the bakery floor obsessed á votre santé
to becoming a book or divest a heaping fluted salary 
you must flaunt should flaunt & flip
hair texture even steal you a parisian tip 
you transom into the monolith (for thirty year wardrobes 
over your shoulder that or these t-shirt saleswomen 
parisian-end hole suddenly wallet possible
nevery morning since that order got me silked
sommen i know flaunt the wake up spilt
you slip next to slots time worn on your shore heart
like a sleeve   i'm here and talking to you reader 
salary red i do i do i don’t happen which is obsessed? 
i don’t have an attitude    sunday morning & you a sudden

Wikipedia Poem, No. 112

“It is replaced”


I’ll be staying away from stories 
regarding Friday night’s Paris attacks, 
as well as all secondary reax stories. 

One exception for the Nation & World page 
will be the story out of Libya concerning 
a mostly unrelated drone strike 
that killed an IS commander there.

If this news makes it into your Paris mainbar 
or any secondary coverage elsewhere, please 
email me and I will make sure that it is replaced 
on your N&W page.


away from stories one exception 
for the Nation for there if this 
news makes it into your Paris 

Paris will be staying away from our stories 
regarding a mostly unrelated drone story 
out of Libya concerning a mostly unrelated drone 
staying a mostly unrelated drone regarding 

one exception for here
if this news makes it into your 
Paris attacks as well as all secondary coverage 
it is replaced in your Paris makes it into our Paris

“The Summer’s Over, Jack Spicer!” by Matthew Dickman

And Paris, France,
is still Paris, France,
though we've never been there together
but might
if life were a little longer
and no one ever invented knives.
I am crossing the bridge again
and the city is behind me being rescued
or being destroyed 
with a leaf on the end of a branch
turning maple-syrup brown. 
The first one. The summer's over,
Jack Spicer, and I 
have turned my collar up against the wind
and health insurance, the clouds
and blue jays, against the gangbangers
and insufficient funds. It's getting colder.
We're turning from wheat beers to Stouts, becoming
our fathers again, our exhausted
uncles, bruising our knuckles
against the tavern walls
and young mothers, we're showing
up for work, we're blessing 
the promise of ice and snow and football to come
like the Israelites did with the sand, 
the gold, and the insects.
It's raining, Jack Spicer, and I miss
Matthew Lippman. He's walking 
through an alley in Boston,
his beautiful hands and shoulders, his wife and daughter
at home. His heart beating up 
his body like a heavyweight, the nose broken,
the ribs broken—
I'm not ready!
Kiss me, take your legs and make a belt
of stars around me,
be my winter coat, my sobriety and bodega.
The oceans are getting blue
and the oysters are getting ready. Soon
we can cover the table with newspapers, with the faces
of senators and crossword puzzles,
the oysters
spread out over the sports page,
we can open the hard shells
and slip the cold
soft bodies into our mouths. We can drink
white wine and make a kind of Pacific 
out of lunch. I want to lie around 
the room with your jeans 
flung over a chair. I want to eat ice cream
and have my older brother back.
The summer's over, Jack,
and all the waitresses
are putting on their black tights like a funeral
of knees, the bartenders are wiping down the brass, the waiters are drawing out 
their lines of cocaine
like long strings of silk, pure white and perfect.
I have crossed the bridge
into a Paris that doesn't exist. Really,
I'm in Portland,
the summer's over and the last of the breweries
are being pulled into the sky, becoming
lofts, getting roof-top gardens for surgeons and all their beautiful brides.

From Matthew Dickman’s “Mayakovsky’s Revolver”

wikipedia poem, no. 43

after Shelley’s Queen Mab


   of jet
So fair so wonderful 
a star over 
the suns the 
   burnished over ocean 
bright couch
 Be ethereal footsteps like rocks 
        of Spells
 Enter the wave
           When the will;
      Of purple 

* * *

         in glittering yon flood 
          of thrill 
   beaming over the Spirit
        Peeps like rocks of 
          flood of 
          the real palace
Hung over 
          the wave
Upon the real palace couch
          Shaded their passive 
swell in red the 
immense jet
And yet the 
         sun's palace 
      palace couch
           Hung on 
the immense 
      golden clouds of thirst

Stanza XVI from ‘Stanzas in Meditation’ by Gertrude Stein

Should they call me what they call me
When they come to call on me
And should I be satisfied with all three 
When all three are with me
Or should I say may they stay
Or will they stay with me
On no account must they cry out
About which one went where they went
In time to stay away may be they do
But I doubt it
As they were very much able to stay there.
However may they go if they say so.

from Part IV of Stanzas in Meditation from “Stein: Writings 1932-1946, Vol. 2”