mercredi, novembre 15, 2006

SONGS BY THE PARANOIDS


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In trees, MANIACAL, CHILDISH
krauts in tiger.LAUGHTER But one day
was mucho fraudulent, roaring arterial.
High-pitched squeals. Of dread. The director.
SMASH! Finds distinction. Begins to vanish.
Unlucky enough to see it. Down forever.
The terrible shapes irrevocably: “Are we on
camera?” “Copy that jabbering.” Systematic
his eyes for green neon. Unvoiced at any
edge believed. Then be coy: “So, you’re an
actor? Have you met Infanticide?” Say
goodnight, terrible nakedness.
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Plan from whom early. By all periodic.
Reconnoitering. Is not too clear. Bones in r&d
Fished up. Listening. Then the wind.
The minutes taking her. [absence in grey suits]
Up the
cliffs to phase. & Bones to travel. “You know,
blokes, they’ve been listening.” Cut to scene:
“My heart isn’t in it on that XKE w h i l e
temporarily insane.” Dim hope. Floral
embellishment. Out of some such labyrinth.
Died everyone dumbly. “I doubt it got written
down.” Day & night, plunging,
enfilading fire! Trees to build rafts!
Till she reached r o ck y
b ea c h. Which indeed they were.
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“I hear laughing.” Alarmed. Retired. Got dress-
ed and went out looking. His suit out.
Through the water mark. What back his head
to do the Buddhist. Whom soon postwar. Make
the farewell flick. He found it impossible.
[Away present] jolted out of jumping the stack
into insistent

banging at the door.

Most of the letters / columns headed: “pro” &
“con.” Reasons. Absence of some trigger.
Suicides into coat pocket. Ss & Os. Alternate
songs by The Paranoids. Eight memories un-
looping progressively. Strange map. To go see.
The play itself. Turned his head, mutt-


ering, “Possession.”
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____________________________________________
Songs by The Para-
noids. The play. Till he comes of age.
Seek. & then finessing. Enormous cannon.
Native. The costumes gorgeous. 17th
Century. And deep. Of kissing every.
Intention letting him live so long. Their rising.
Coils & clouds. Taking her. [All rigidity] like
mythical fluid. The minutes rolling. Cut to scene:
Dead. Black.
Fugue of guitars. Till she reached.
Which in fact she repeated.
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Raymond Farr
great foe: being a poem composed of lines
taken from Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49

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