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BRICE BOGHER LOVE AND DEBT ALIKE TROUBLESOME: A REVIEW OF JOHN BEER’S THE WASTE LAND AND OTHER POEMS*
                     “Our gallant’s case is worst of all, he lies so just betwixt ‘em;                     For he’s in love, and he’s in debt, and knows not which most vex him.” – Suckling There’s something both anticipatory and retro in a sustained pastiche like John Beer’s The Waste Land and Other Poems, almost a futuristic kitsch (as opposed to a Futurist kitsch), like Dipp’n Dots or getting a blowjob while wearing a condom. As with The Ice Cream or The Blowjob of the Future, the collection’s title poem, “The Waste Land,” risks a certain clinical flaccidity, prurience purified of danger, a going-the-motions of satisfaction. For an example of the kind of interestless usury of the precursor I mean here, take, from very early in Beer’s version, as condoms keep things from going too far and are not typically worn in churches, like hats on both counts, a hat from off an equally speechless head: [I] arranged to meet my younger brother Stetson next noon at the Heartland Café. (9) The source for this ambulatory westernwear is to be found toward the end of “The Burial of the Dead,” where: To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: ‘Stetson! ‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! ‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden and etc. The resonances of the original Stetson were complicated enough to give rise to a thrillingly paranoiac essay by DJ Childs, titled with the paradoxical matter-of-factness typical of real paranoids, “Stetson in The Waste Land.” There, Stetson is made out to be, among other things, a bank clerk descendent from Kipling’s Charlie Mears; a metonymy for Ezra Pound (as his eccentric headgear breathed an air somewhat west-of-the-Mississip’ to Thomas Stearns, raised on the big river’s banks); “an American banker who worked in London and Copenhagen;” Frances Lynde Stetson, an American business lawyer; John Batterson Stetson, progenitor of the eponymous hat; and finally, an Anzac soldier, which fleeting moment of rest gives on in Childs’ essay to frantically ramifying allusions: trench-digging, the fighting spirit of Australians, Gallipoli, Jean Verdenal, a parade on April 25, 1916, “the Smyrna issue,” etc., concluding: “The name Stetson thus gives rise to a cluster of personal and public images, evoking at the conclusion of ‘the Burial of the Dead’ images of Australians, of mud at Gallipoli, of Verdenal’s corpse, and of a corpse in Egypt, and evoking in ‘The Fire Sermon’ the image of Mrs. Porter in Cairo and the image of a Greek merchant from Smyrna.” Watching Childs dig up the garden is a bit like listening to the end of “A Day in the Life,” when, after the melody has drifted along accumulating layers of instruments and noise, collapsed and re-kickstarted, after finally drawing in the orchestra’s rising last cacophony, it bursts into one pure, perfect harmonic moment before a tub-thump closural chord. This is a master at work, although it cannot be denied that he had to hand materials perfectly suiting his temperament. Perhaps it is my own temperament – disagreeable – but I can do very little with Beer’s Stetson. Google reveals “the Heartland Café” to be in Chicago, appropriate to the poem’s announced setting: “I. THE FUNERAL MARCH (CHICAGO AND ORLEANS).” Okay. Checks out. Otherwise, allusion in Beer, as typified in this example, which is itself typical of too large a swath of Beer’s general procedure in “The Waste Land,” is impoverished in comparison to its precursor. Stetson in Eliot may allude to many things; Stetson in Beer alludes to only one: its prior occurrence in Eliot. As for making much of Stetson, I am sure I am not meant to, and that not making much of it is part of the supposed wit of Beer’s project: to void Eliot’s (pompous, if you like) allusive overdetermination, to be post-modern in precisely that way, by pointing blankly back to the precursor. This is the frigidly haw-haw hysteria the book’s cover, a beautiful facsimile of Eliot’s original, makes one worry about. In his secret New Haven lair, Harold Bloom sinisterly chortles. An anti-Alfred, in a white tuxedo, pours peppermint tea at his elbow. Who will protect The Waste Land? Who will answer Commissioner Greenblatt’s frantic pages? Quick, to the Anxiety Cave! * “Unfunny uncles who insist / in trying on a lady’s hat…” Were one a Bishop, “what might a mitre matter?” But if one is but small Beer, how to keep from being a drop in the Eliotic ten-gallon? Suppose one wanted to write The Waste Land – without the Borgesian reach-around. Suppose you wanted to write The Waste Land. “’Don Quixote,’ Menard once told me, ‘was above all an agreeable book; now it is an occasion for patriotic toasts, grammatical arrogance, and obscene deluxe editions. Glory is an incomprehension, and perhaps the worst.’” The fate of The Waste Land over the past eighty years has not been entirely dissimilar: having been written out of patriotic toasts, grammatical arrogance, and obscene deluxe editions, it was once an occasion for patriotic toasts, grammatical arrogance, and obscene deluxe editions, and is now an occasion for pissing contests, reaction formation, and obscene deluxe editions, of which Beer’s is certainly the most affordable. As glory is an incomprehension, so does incomprehension lend a kind of glory. Perhaps it’s for the best. In any case, Beer’s task is more complicated than that of Menard faced with Quixote, for, unlike the author of that agreeable book, the author of The Waste Land, as author, is not something one can become: the not-becoming of an author is inscribed into the work’s disjunctions, or, as what those disjunctions themselves inscribe, is what made the poem’s aesthetic seem, in its time, radical. A modernist is not a person, a “somebody,” but an “anybody” and an “everybody,” and especially, shitkicker that he usually is, a “nobody.” It is easy to mistake the not-becoming author for the unbecoming author, and as a spur to onwardness in the arts, the mistake is perhaps not really wrong. Viz: the distaste for Eliot among much of ye poste-avant. A modernist resembles somewhat more a lint trap than a person. The party’s non-reactive catalyst and not its guest: “It was too much like being – just anybody, standing there; anybody could do it; yet this anybody she did a little admire, couldn’t help feeling that she had, anyhow, made this happen, that it marked a stage, this post that she felt herself to have become, for oddly enough she had quite forgotten what she looked like, but felt herself a stake driven in at the top of her stairs.” (Mrs. Dalloway). Beer as Clarissa as Eliot, inviting the same old guests to the party. Kierkegaard predicted this development, and the problem that would be heir to it: “Repetition – that is actuality and the earnestness of existence. The person who wills repetition is mature in earnestness. This is my private opinion and it also means that it is not the earnestness of life to sit on the sofa and grind one’s teeth – and to be somebody, for example, a councilor – or to walk the streets sedately – and to be somebody, for example, His Reverence – any more than it is the earnestness of life to be a riding master. In my opinion all such things are but jests, and sometimes rather poor ones at that.” Kidding aside, and without resorting to mountebankery and enunciating Oxford commas in a borrowed Cheapside accent, suppose you wanted to do it anyway, you wanted to write The Waste Land. And so you – John Beer, This Is Your Life – turn to a set of procedures, ways of writing out from Eliot’s original, impersonally. One of these, fittingly for a poet who has on at least one occasion delivered a reading through a rented megaphone, will be amplification, the making-explicit of a set of permutations present in the original only as a suggestion. Beer’s book begins with a three-page poem, “Sound of Water Over a Rock,” which title appears only in the table of contents. The poem consists of sixteen groups of four lines each, each in turn of seven words, all either “drip” or “drop.” Here are the first two stanzas: Drip drip drip drip drip drip drop Drip drop drop drip drop drop drop Drop drip drip drip drip drop drip Drip drip drip drop drip drop drip Drop drop drop drip drop drip drop Drop drop drop drip drop drop drip Drip drip drop drop drip drip drop Drop drop drip drip drop drop drop The cue here amplified comes from the last section of The Waste Land: If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water As an intervention or a piece for performance or a conceptual work, this is very clever. It is simultaneously incomprehensible and incredibly obvious, like a good bad farce. As a poem, it is deadening, impossible to read. Which is interesting. Because the exhaustion of information in some ways repeats our feelings now about Eliot’s poem as a whole: we do think of it, endlessly canonical, as a sort of total and monotonous signifier, an atomic aesthetic moment, monumentally indivisible. “I really like this one part in the Waste Land.” Nah. In the mind it is a great and level plain of attention, without the variable spikes and depressions of interest. (Eliot himself, in a letter to Ford Madox Ford, confessed that the twenty-nine lines including the drip-drop section was the only part of the poem he liked: “The rest is ephemeral.”) The majority of the first section of Beer’s “Waste Land” proper also relies on an amplification. Here, although the originator is even smaller than the prior drips and drops, the amplification is not limited to running through the permutations implicit in a given data set: its range is expanded to include ‘original’ materials. The first half page: I. THE FUNERAL MARCH (CHICAGO AND ORLEANS) Once more in the city I cannot name, the boat city, the city of light, the city that endures its fall, the city of pleasures and vicissitudes, the skier’s city, Fun City, the city under the sky, city of crime and vegetables, Pornograph City, the city governed by the Lost and Found Department, cabinet city, city of the bends, the opium city, Swing City, Archetype City, city of dust, city that eludes the seven ages, muskrat city, the island city of daughters and wives, Sin City, city of sincerity, the cavernous city, the city of conventions, hatmaker city, Alphabet City, city of the last and first, the city called Marrakesh (I know it is not Marrakesh), industrial city, the city of airplane booze […] Eliot: Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many […] All this cascading metroponymy is nicely syntactically varied: prepositional versus relative clauses versus proper names versus prepositional phrases versus parenthetical revisions versus a subtended “city” grounding successive prepositional phrases, article versus no article, article and adjective versus adjective alone, etc. etc. One knows oneself to be in the presence of an extremely developed formal competence, and that this manic diorama derives from such a slender cue is quite impressive. Thematically, the elements parataxied in the passage are all interesting enough. While the segment is grounded in two words from Eliot’s text, allusions to precursors beyond Eliot – likely an inevitable consequence of this more ranging type of amplification – creep in as early as “Once more,” the conventional beginning for an elegy (”I. THE FUNERAL MARCH”), viz. “Lycidas” et al.; Paris, “the city of light[s]”; Rome, “the city that endure[d] its fall”; Freud’s Instincts and their Vicissitudes and Beyond the Pleasure Principle give “the city of pleasures and vicissitudes,” and so on. Clichés are disarticulated, from The Land That Time Forgot to “the city that forgot,” from “the desert of the real” (Žižek via Lacan ventriloquized by Morpheus in The Matrix) to “the real city (or the city of the desert.” Eliot is détourned: “the real city (or the city of the desert), / the unreal city (or the city of good will).” Turn the amplifier to eleven and it bleeds into something else, a different kind of noise. The linebreak that separates the pair of lines just cited is the permeable membrane separating amplification from other procedures. Amplification serves well as an overture; détournement structures much of what follows, as the poem heads for its most derivative, that is, its most derived, that is, its best moments.  In the second section of Beer’s “Waste Land,” a pitch-perfect parody of the end of “A Game of Chess” comes over the loudspeaker. Lil pops out of Dr. Who’s police box into the early nineties as Sam, a bougie Chicago lefty with pseudosubversive literary aspirations, about which the ranty narrator: Oh, everyone deserves a little credit. All the angry little men in angry little rooms can write their diagnoses, xerox their zines, and dream that someday they’ll become the next Debord. In the meantime, how am I supposed to live? The monologue is interrupted not with “HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME,” but “THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING AT BORDERS. / WE WILL BE CLOSING IN FIFTEEN MINUTES,” substituting for Eliot’s pub the preferred lair of mouthbreathers across America at the turn of the decade. Full disclosure: I myself much sucked the heady atmosphere of pre-near-bankruptcy Borders in those days, when I wasn’t playing Daggerfall in my underwear and listening to Dookie. Which disclosure is, I think, not beside the point: unlike Eliot’s transcribed pubchat, the low aped up or the high gone slumming, Beer’s target here is his (and my) own subculture. John Beer, This Is Our Life! Pastiche with interest: not the archaeology of an underclass, but, while allusively including that, also finding a way to turn the parody inward. “You! hypocrite lecteur! – mon semblable, – mon frère!” As acknowledgement of Beer’s own belatedness, while turning that belatedness to account, this is as graceful as one could hope. (The brief section four, “Gaza Strip,” succeeds along similar lines, pasting snatches of the Pixies’ “Gigantic” over a scrambled “Death by Water.”) About those ‘original’ materials. Beer’s “Waste Land” trains you, as you go, to ferret out sources, which, being found so often, only leave you with the sense that there are more you have missed. The notes provided by Beer, presumably intended to parody Eliot’s faux-learnedness, are, exactly as Eliot’s were, intentionally no help. (Eliot was already so ironic in his notes: that we read him as po-faced is our mistake, but one that Beer’s pastiche helps to correct.) “On Margate Sands I can connect nothing with” “Abacus city” or “crime and vegetables.” And I shouldn’t necessarily expect to, as pastiche may content itself with style over content, but for that Beer has trained us to uncover pastiche elements in the content as well. “Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.” Everything comes from everything, or seems to, or seems like it could, which is the worse, the beginning of the feeling in one of Beer’s three epigraphs to the poem: “Someone’s got it in for me.” One keeps sticking asterisks next to the ‘originals.’ Those elements whose allusive significance escapes understanding take on a smugly threatening air. They seem almost, barely, italic, leering at you. The paranoia accumulates as you go, until you are less reading the poem than surveiling it. Rediscovering this paranoia, tensing it with the present, is Beer’s real achievement. Further and further into “The Waste Land”: “Orpheus awoke in the poem of disguises, the poem once called...” How much are we to “read into” Beer’s replacement of Eliot’s Tiresias with Orpheus? Is it because even his classicism is secondhand: germanophilia? And in the context of Ashbery’s blurb, citing the book’s self-declaration as love poetry: “’I set out to write a treatise on failure, and it turned out my subject was love,’ he writes. ‘Call it my confusion.’ We should all be so confused”? Tiresias was the Job of sexual difference, Orpheus the skinny Elvis of heteromagicophallogical-philological failure. Does Beer’s correction of Eliot here verge on hypercorrection, like Tottel’s normalization of Wyatt’s eccentric pentameters? And Ashbery: Orpheus or Tiresias? How do we not read the end of “For John Clare” into “Meanwhile / an interminable series of internal conflicts / play themselves out, like single trumpeters”? Do we “read it” or “read into it?” In the description of the singing policemen (”III. BALLAD OF THE POLICE DEPARTMENT”), They sang as they rounded up each interloper: Each anti-war chanter, each car window soaper. They sang like a city-sized 8-track recorder, And phalanxed, Miranda’ed, preserved the disorder are they like a “city-sized 8-track recorder” via a self-referential metrical joke on the poem’s shift, concurrent with the squad’s arrival, into bouncily overstuffed tetrameter lines? Is that more or less enjoyable? Do you really want to know? “It is good to be reminded of…”, it captures something crucial and elusive about our contemporary experience, this paranoia’s ghostly monumental or monumental ghosts. As I’m writing this paragraph, KU is icing Baylor in the upper right hand corner while Katharine Hepburn Brings Up Baby in the lower left. Stanley Cavell could think that “total information flow” was the formal support of television as a medium in an era that hadn’t yet seen the internet (and high broadband). But the fact perhaps that the thought was possible to him should not seem to us like a quaintly proleptic parochialism, like the flying cars in The Jetsons: patronizing the past he wrote from. For that past was once cutting-edge, and we patronize it in both senses. “Total information flow” for reading, read, the always already. Perhaps the fact that the thought was to him possible should lead us to think that these technologies (television, internet, text) are less disjunctive than they seem. For reading, I surveil, but this relation to a text, to a visual field as a sublimated multiplicity, is not new, and no more obvious, really, as a fact of aesthetic experience than it was to our predecessors.  This feeling, illusory as it may be or may not be, is what Beer, at his best, manages, as did Eliot before the ongoing repression of modernism reified him, prematurely posthumous, into the big Other with a target on his back. Further and further into The Waste Land. Like Lawrence of Arabia’s desert, the tundra has its mirages too. The traverser of frozen wastes sees not oases. Instead, the hypoxic, negative air, penetrating the warm mouth, quivers with fantastic tastes. Not necessarily of anything recently eaten or drunk, nor even comestible. Just now, tequila; then, butter knives. Then chocolate, then basil, then a roll of pennies. A tasteful paranoia. * As all High Modernists have known for nearly nine decades, there’s “The Waste Land” and then there are “other poems.” John Beer’s book is no exception. Outside the waste land, paradoxically, tedium sets in. A baker’s dozen plus one of shorter lyrics crib much from the manual of Strand & Tate, as have so many before them. The coherent-enough lyrical I dominates, complete with the slight incoherencies that assure the reader of its actuality, its up-to-the-minuteness, like pre-distressed denim. The three poems called “Flowers” – the high point of these and overt love lyrics of a de rigeur Chiricoesque Paulausterity – are charming. The most when-will-people-stop-writing-these-poems poem is “Total Information Awareness,” a political pantoum mashing up Thomas Friedman and tabloid slush, typical of its oddly burgeoning subgenre (see Donnelly’s “Dream of a Poetry of Defense,” among others). Its crypto-ironic-boorishness is effectively indistinguishable from actual boorishness: a very deep priggery at work. The shorter lyrics are followed by four longer pieces: “Theses on Failure,” “Sonnets to Morpheus,” “The Perfumed Crypt Or Four Quarters in Eight Bits,” and “Mary, Color Scientist.” The second of these takes Berrigan’s Sonnets and collages into them dialogue from The Matrix while naturalizing the original’s sheer perverse repetitiousness (lines like too many burdens repeated too insistently and in improper places, like metastatic refrains) into the kind of tedious repetition-with-a-(significant / signifying)-difference, instantly recognizable as the calling card for a species of poetics the zeitgeist, rather mysteriously, still recognizes as middle-avant. The third is almost a parody ghost-written by Spicer of “House of De Beers,” the poem that concludes Robyn Schiff’s Worth. That Schiff is one of the editors of Canarium, the publisher of The Waste Land and Other Poems, temporarily lightens the tedium with keyhole allure. Nevertheless, after “The Waste Land,” all this is mostly very depressing, with a real depression, a depression of the real: it is not that it is a blur, or indistinct, but that everything is distinctly like everything else, like a motif. This is not paranoia – I know exactly what’s lurking around that corner, because I know it will be identical to what lurks right here in this one, and, even if, rounding that bend, I am yet surprised, the structure of my experience of surprise will be immediately recovered into the motif: the motif makes easy room for it. Lewis Warsh describes Beer in a blurb as “the poet of onwardness.” One wishes throughout much of the “other poems” that he were less that precipitant figure, and more the poet of inwardness – then he would be really forward-thinking, not just a simulacrum of some avant, Clarissa like a “post” and not a post-. Such is the danger of first books, and first poems therein: high expectations. Onward John Beer! Leave these barren fields, cropped and rotated to extinction. There are verdancies ahead that you and we have yet undreamt of. I can see a forest for Some Trees. ____________________ *”LEFT-HANDED: I LIKE TROUBLE”: SUMMER VIEW FROM JOHN BEER’S THE WESTIN AND OUTER PALMS** “Our gallant’s case is worst of all, he lies so just betwixt ‘em; For he’s in love, and he’s in debt, and knows not which most vex him.” – Suckling The rez, a thing both antic and patronizing, tainted pastiche like John Beer’s Thaws Land on Offenbach Almost. A heuristic itch is supposed to kaffeeklatsch, like drip drops forgetting a blowjob. White-washing a condom’s width, the ice cream ortho blog jibe’s other feature, recollection’s tattle-sperm “the waste land” drifts uncertain liminal flocculence, privacy reified fandango, a going-the-motions of I can’t get no. Satisfaction, for example, awfully kind and interesting of you, surely the precursor I mean here. To ache from every early onbeat’s reversion, as income skips thugs and frogmen to fare in with Reno topically warming, lurches like hats on both counts. A hat foams off inequality’s beech-lined shed: [I] arranged to meet my younger brother Stetson next noon at the Heartland Café. (9) Thesaurus forces ambient or yesteryear if to be fond toward. Then end the urinal of the deed, where: To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: ‘Stetson! ‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! ‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden ad litem The resonances of the original Stetson we recomplicated. Enough together, I set out rillingly parataxis. Baby DJ, a mere child stilted with the prandial kilocalories physically free of all paradames [stet]. Off in the west end, there’s tits on a snide Enderby, among other things: a bank clerk’s candescent frock, a piling’s charred-elm ears, metronome for syrup onde. Ashes to…: eccentric headgear bathed us in airs homeward, one Mississippi as the Thames turns. Raids on the big river’s banks and our mica bunkers work down in London and Copenhagen. France’s Linda [stet] and onanist business lawyer John Butter-stents, pro genital of the pony express, hate, finally, analog sandwiches, which, fleeing a moment at rest goes on in. Children say yes to frantic allies ratifying all you shun: whatever’s the opposite of stretchmarks, Australian bowsprits at Gallipolooza, never-never denial. Lap rides on April 25: 1906 teeth in Smyrna issued, yet cellophane oncology sings in name only thus. Thus wives ride to a cloister of parsonal and papist images, poking at the concentric scansion of ‘Uriah of the Heep,’ images of all stallions who mud at Cal-Poly, of Virginia’s copse, and of a Copt in Egypt, and devolving into wild salmon the image of Mr. Sport or, in Cairo, the image of a green kerchief of Smirnoff. What chin gilds hiccups as the warden, as a bitter listing into? The end of a day. In the life hereafter the melody has drifted along, adumbrating layers of instrumental noise collapsed into REM. Headstanding, a deft finial draws on the orchestratedly raw razing of lost catacombs. Though phony, it bursts in two: one pure, perfect harmonic monument; four-handed caryatids cordoning it off. This is a mister at work: all thought cannot be denied. You had to hand it to him, for that the materials pro-formally bisected his firmament. “Pap is my own tempera.” I meant this agreeably but can’t advertise little Werther’s stats on Google. Ravel’s “The Heartland Café” beats in Chicago, appropriation’s tune’s the prom’s announced seating. But I, the funeral merch (Chicago, Earth Wind & Fire), am checked out otherwise. All you shun in de Beers, typography in this example, which is itself typography on too large a scale. A Boer general proceeds therein, wastes land, and is impoverished in comparison to its accurser [stet]. Online, Eliot may collude with many things that startle Indian dudes who only want a spryer new currency to circulate. As pharmacies match off-brand Sonyas, erasure yam’s not meat. Hand that over: fit part of the composted wooden bar or jetty voided to the psychopomp, if you like. All you sieve over deuterium, to be Potsdamer Platz imprecisely that way (pointing blankly back at the interlocutor), this is the frazzly how-do nasturtium the rock’s lichen, a beautiful grattage of Elysian originals, makes one worried about. As an egret grew heavenlier, Kobold Blau administered his chattels, an off-red minaret and six odors: pepper, mint, tea, ethos, elbow, willow. Ecce wasteland. “Who wills landmark omissions,” gently bleat the frapped gates, “quick to thank, and rave?” * “Uppity anklets show us this / entry. In agony, all. A day shat…” Werewolf and bishop, “what might a mite remit?” Orbit if one is bust marbles; auto key for BMW ad rep if the Pac-10 gallops on opponents one-two-three the last stand with neo-Bloombergian bleacher sound.  Suppose you wanted to re-tithe Godwanaland’s donkey hostel. Men are Dunsinane; we have a bevel on ungraspable back-snow. This is quite an occasion for the Patriots’ host, Grandma Arrogantina, whose obscene delicatessen glories in a comprehensive and perpetual currywurst. The fatuous headband over the post-it-like ears wasn’t beet-red but similar: having been white-out on patristic oaths, grammatical indigence, and obverse nocturnal emissions, the ears curtains lay most affable, Dolores on a complimentary soda.  Incomparable lint, a kinder glow rips up and, farther, Bess. In any case, Beer stalks in, more complicit than that ass Debord faced with Quixote 4. Unlike the art horde in that ungrantable buck, the antler of the west hand, as anther, is, nota bene, one thing I can’t beat. Come then thou nonce-beckoning of an author, as installed into the ward’s distinction, sore as what those disjunctions themselves, inscrutably white, made the poem’s aesthetic seem. Unit times radical. A mentalist is no taped persona, in sum bodice buttons on a body and a portapotty. And as peachily shy, the ticker tape he uses always and for no one. I tie a sitar on, tomahawking another forest’s underwhelming ampersand, as a spurt of awkwardness in these parts that mistakes the purposefully wrong vista, diseased if Aurelio for mangos chafes the post with wind. Immoderates dissemble somewhat morally, trapping apperception. The party’s on re: active cataleptics not disgust. It waits, much like being, Justine’s body standing there in its bodice coding it, yet these in ebony she did a little admire, couldn’t help feeling. That she had, anyhow, made this happiness marked a stage, disposed as she felt herself to have become for eddying. He’d quite forgotten what she looked like, but felt her shook awake, riven at the top. Other stirs miss dalliance: the beer on clearance aisle eight, inviting the same old guesses at parity. Beauregard predicated this devilment and that probate would be heir to it. Repertory, that is the actuality and the earnestness of theatre. Since the thespian who wills repertory is maternal in eternity. Less this simply private opinion than it also learns to ward off life, does its anthems of an angry honesty, hand to breastbone, brooding for example, council her? Or towel these tresses sedately? In the best embodied example of this reverence, any more than it is that ardency, it’s often wont to be an arid magister, in whose opinion all such things are budgeted and at all times rather poorly, overnight. We neither of us feel the night sprinklers whispering, stirring occasionally to fluff, from the bottom of the swimming pool painted by Franz Kline In letters that are often inverted, coherent morphologically on the closed-circuit crane shot only. And then How do I eliminate myself when even to name her betrays her insignificance? We know the advice of Alberti So when anything distresses them, leaf the severable folds, crimped and repeated in distraction Stirring before serving themselves up into his letters that are often inverted Into white-out. As his neck falls away unstained, see the florist’s fulsome trades Like headbutting lickable wallpaper while a forward-thinking bit of glassware forces trees Of cinnabar and incense down the one axis at all times favored by Franz Kline And especially during the quattrocento. The deeply inflected greens of the rift, one Albertine, who, watching him see, understand the meaning of the painting inverted In short, form, a relay between what he sees and the story. Washing up out of it then and only then Into that which is as to it it’s white opposite, supposedly to name her, distraction On Margate sands when any wind distresses them, like the eerily squared dunes in that one part in Alberti About pixilation as the finitude of form. Deep in the hydrofracked swimming pools of Alberta, My breathing is depressed. A docent in the Museum of Contemporary Philosophy concedes his keyless entry’s Less a privilege than the modality mandated by its curator’s bestirred distraction, Fully in keeping with the paranoiacally repeated motifs of the closed-circuit radio, lifted from Eine Kleine Nixtamal. Of course he is aware that everything I say here may be insensibly dictated, like automatic sprinklers and then Voice trails off, into the insulation behind the exhibit on monadology. I have oft invented Exhibitionist glass cases like time-lapse translucent guillotines of painting slaps of white inveterate On white. We neither of us feel deeply Kline’s Italianate inflections, a set of influences pooled from Alberti Among others, supposedly invisible in the way his breaststroke pixelates into a white fluff and then Settled back, persistent flecks, into the green as his neck falls away, conceiving a floral, as it were, and sundry Motif inverted on the wallpaper’s inverted leaves, lit from beneath by the aquabot, a great and constant admirer of Franz Kline, Though this emotion is often tempered in performance of his duties, as if seen under glass, the rife distinctions Put as if once and for all into perspective. The white-out-making clouds are not as irrevocable as you say. They are merely distractions Floating over Franz Kline and the aquabot, locked in what he thinks his name is. It reminds him of older dictations, the letters inverted in The repeated crimps and folds that have been always ambient throughout that fluff. The most original disciple of Alberti, Melanie Klein Was a master of putting things in perspective, beginning with her sister’s early death by marriage, which induced what Alberti Called her great contribution. Foregrounded in the discipline by her stress, The depressive position, like a hand in which each line run on by the aqua-trolley connects to any other, so the exhibits are suppositional, and then, Really, nowhere you wouldn’t want to be. Greens shoot up through the tracks and depress our breathing and then We inhale crushed Ambien until our necks fall away on a swivel we can’t see because distracted By its image in the sprinklers and their insensible whispering. Some trees When viewed from a distance, through glass, reveal themselves inverted And foreshortened, as if the painting were undertaken directly on the retina, as Alberti In fact recommended. I don’t have any good ringtones. It’s cool – I have a plan: Franz Kline As played by aquabots distracted on an incline Toward the deep or shallow end of a marriage we neither of us feel we have invented, then Aiding-abetting the wallpaper sentries in their drift, as thus compiling shortwave histories. ____________________ **”THE LEFT HAND: I AM CROWD,” JOHN BIRCH SUMMER, PALM TREES, HOTEL WESTIN “We’re worse between the right time; Because it’s love, debt, more confused, I do not know.” – Baby In the field, or is that old things, give yourself up, Offenbach, near the melting point of contaminants such as contaminated land John Birch. It is believed that Kaffeeklatsch Court as heuristics, itching, dripping from a variety of oral sex. A white condom, another advantage of the contact line along the anniversary of Wuxi ice block “forest” is derived uncertainty flocculation Fandango policy board, circle true, I can not. Consider, for example, good fun that is impressive, perhaps because here. Coated a difference between the cap of foam: [I] was able to meet his brother gave me a hat Warren next afternoon coffee. (9) Local effect of age or environment, if you want. Since urinary laws, including: If, at St. Mary Woolnoth kept As the new Dead rush past. Here, I know it hit me and shouted: “I take my hat! “You are my ship Milazzo! “The body is in the last year I planted my garden Ad litem And back to the original, and cover recomplicated. Rillingly the left hip fairly common. DJ baby, the child has serious calories Ackley all women in physics [Stet] article is free. So far West, there is an interruption of breast Enderby sarcastic, namely: Clothing, The Hague, a piece of the bank’s employees, many of the ash from burning the gas wave listening syrup. Ash ... A: The tip of the hair back to the Mississippi River Thames, bathed in bright environments. The river banks and a deposit of asbestos in the London team and Copenhagen.clearance heat to avoid: Australia Gallipolooza bauprès bars, never, never refused. April 25, 1906 Keshi teeth in the days following that event, the harvest of cellophane paper, but when his name. Parsonal Pope and his wife and a waiter from the temple, unity and tingling, “Call, Uriah, photos and all rules of Cal Poly, Forest, Virginia, in the implementation of the image in the mud, and Egypt, the Coptic, and in-depth nature of the photos of Mr. Salmon and Cairo., scarf, green exercise Smirnov in the picture. However, the limitations conservative, a chin, as painful as the list? In the last days. In addition to running the melody, the fall of the noise level is useful for REM sleep. Level of head pain and lost orchestratedly serious precious stones permanently. Only caryatids, Memorial perfect harmonious duet wrong conclusion, is divided into two parts. This is the man in action: you can not deny any thought. He had to leave the material through a network of officials loyal to air it. “Coke is time.” I would say, but in a good statistical Witt Google can not release. “Strong Coffee” in Chicago batters Ravel, and the Foundation announced the funding of the party but (the funeral Chicago, Earth Wind and Fire) to the Merch, I checked different. You need to De Beers to prevent the pressure in this case is a large format printing. Common interests between the poor and farmers, [distributor] Accursio the desert. On the Internet, we have a lot of Eliot, the Indian men that only a new currency in circulation would be just right for Spry.
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