| The Exquiste Corpse Poetry Page part one|
This page is dedicated to many friends, among them the
Surrealist Collaborative Group, who met by chance a few years ago
Exquiste Corpse Poem by Arthur Spota
and Andrew Torch
- Age emptied the essence of presence from a future
whose purity appeared as a sillouette
I needed two different
eyes to see.
Knowing nothing better than to fill the random
with cobalt changing skies, I become a brilliant vertigo of vermillion
and you, a labyrinth with the temporal
latitude of apparitional grace.
How beautiful to be a palpable cog in the earth's loin
The passion of our steps
echoing where the winds are desperate for the music of this
strange moment played upon our veins as the sun is forged
in the palm of your hand.
How many times have we scored the streets
Searching for refuge
Amidst grandiose lovers
where space vanishes.
I saw a way out of this vast indigo
whose colour is the sonnet of children who
in a dream where clouds are made to walk
the whisper of their name.
Yet even the simplest of forms knows not the days
left in their steps,
why should I?
So fleeting and sometimes so few
every waking moment should not be like the last.
Sometimes it is the beauty of just being.
Not following time, reason or weather but allowing the self
to be enveloped by the smell of honey, the taste of the sun,
the feel of clover.
Not following logic, alertness, or patterns, but allowing
the wooden bird to be your guide.
You, the essence of a butterfly landing on my headÖÖ
Knowing nothing, but feeling all.
C. 2002 Arthur Spota
and Andrew Torch
'Two Halves of The Same Poison'
An Exquisite Corpse Text
By Richard Dotson and Arthur Spota
A courtyard holds a breeze of dusty time
all buried in quicklime at the abode of judges
double-parked at the tide
eyes smiling wickedly, wide instant pale witch in black appears at
a hall of strangers rounding conundrums of their ectoplasm unfurling
like the telephone coil linking the crag of the cruel whip
to a lul in our lover's garden.
Her time has outweighed its celestial welcome.
Her spell has summoned apparitions from the taroted walls of green,
green space, her legs in a ball and her dazzling tongue closed
around the wrought- iron fuscias and two transparent muses.
Her belly in a backward loop held strange fascination for
a vertical mermaid at the threshold chimed by the
brotherhood of nmemonic (sic)
radial arcs seen in dew as distracted attractors.
Carefully remember the bicycle bar thrush mouse.
Endangered species sitting in her love to sooth it's claws of green
glass finely chopped and diced by the buttocks of that long tooted
Vatican Bishop, his inner night a conflagration where he
was deflowered by the lingerie and secret breast of wisdom.
Last seen, he had sped into the sleeping streets to become
an imaginary emblem for the League of Inviolates,
their great seal shivering above
Battery harbour where June undresses for the boondocks of the
death- opium messiahs.
Their triage of holy matter sank into the Bush of the Tipper
with a gore a tush a gush
A bore with a snore a lush with a whore
All daintily squirting the cream at the screen
with pursed lip oooh's and politico aah's
cadavered, and pillaged i feel ripe for a score bored
empty rant in a can of coffe related coffin quips
runts of the litter bugging the sitter with all this
story of two-faced bullshitters
who duck for cover crying we ain't no quitters
hap hazardly weeds grown up on these streets
proud western and frigged up deluxe
martyrs and bigots yanking them spigots
truck drivin' studs chewin mud
Got itches for bitches they never limp knowed.
I talk a to Artie, say a Domino 40
She tell me now how you gonna act like you
know which wind did this thing to the kid at the short
seekin' missile high school relief fund
activated by a NEED to grow grow grow them cigarettes,
poot poot portabella lucky fella.
The brisk of his whoosh is a shadowy rush on the
breath of the bush in the midst of it's thrush.
Lucky at love?
Unlucky at virile dalliances.
Your enemies are never as dangerous as the sun condensed into
a glossary of granite, but they still hold power, you know,
still hold you pricks in their sway, in their way,
I was never fleeced like the geese with the vulgar
mesmerisms. Unsullied, my monologue flattened into motion.
First, the deep sea pranced on my head like Pedro
with a bad hallucination,
secondly, my rods were sown to the belly of my
cicadas at the bottom of my gagged swan swore off the hard stuff,
turned back to the steps where the Danube met the
of shoddy workmanship. Black sand, erected to the young woman
entered this side of illusion, was symbolic of X,
and yet it has never had
an effect on anyone but you.
What will remain of the day when you forge for little brown boxes
in a heap
of bread in the sun, in the sleep of dead on the run?
In the mingle of sighs that rise from the watchfulness of forgetting?
This land fell short of the vertical richochet.
Mr. Shallow broke into the mirror of the
United Fakes of America on a rather
balmy night on the back of a bird of paradise, only to have pity
served in a
nightjar to the hawthorn of space and time.
You've entered the sweeping shame of your prayers only to thin
out to fear's wall, instant thinners or spirits you wait,
yet it was futility's distance to ask questions here
shivering anxious and free to cry at a hat's drop
in the sea, to the sun, after the curl up under the chair,
our proud massive orational lipstick in a corn meal field
in that we do not vote,
nor could any vote as lasers capture the old geezers caught in
the lawns of
starting left out left over right away right?
Twelve of a few to be uncle five
idling at crawlspace
in elephant ear traffic and dive in the pinhead of
star jointed pinwheels
of cabbage and craw, there at the very beginning of Autumn's veins,
civil arms flailing.
We're talking a million twisting souls on the Nile.
Two hundred thousand circling the raga of shackeled plains.
Five hundred chewing on the tropic secrets of harlot bitches
whose arms cradle them in lies.
Seventy five drinking from the chakras hidden over to
conceal the medusa of lost hours.
Five, roaming the rheutorical vortex of Lazarus playing
his horned flute.
Which brings us to Two.
Two to rage
Two to cast blows
Two to tear the wallpaper from the fourth floor of lovely manners.
In essence, Two halves of the same poison. C.
Streets of New York Exquiste Corpse...
-compiled by Claudia Alick ('streetgirl')
Yellow Caution Tape Stab Yourself The Pshychos,
Cigarette butts crushed like hearts of the innocent
Not quite Cigarettes, Nothin else to do.
Holy Diver, youíve been down too long you can hardly see
You ought to come up for air before...before...
You put on a costume and your ear falls off.
You drink a six pac and love saves the day
The internship burns along with those landlords
Who run the town of poop, poop town they call it.
Crappy directions equal flying eggs
Lines and lines of foam.
For cleaning the bathroom floor
Colonís are warehouses of the soul
And a few are pure and empty, but most, full.
Farts have such personality, floral, musky, earthy, bull
and sometimes farts push you all the way up-hill
and the when I reach the top the stench just makes me want to kill
but murder is so venal, too easy and bitter a pill.
Bitter, and better that it were a sedative
donít wash away filth, for it is enough
Nothing simple is ever easy and nothing free is ever cheap
Because Stone Cold said so
But itís all in the head of the lunatic
And whatever he said was true
It seemed to me I lived my life like a candle in the wind
Send me Victories, Happy and Glorious. God Save the Queen
Thanks for the bread, Thanks for the meat.
Now everyone shut the fuck up and letís eat!
Feeling So Great at hours of late making up things
is so Fucking Great (Again)
Am I making up things? It must be late.
But no, it is yet early- early in life
Life which stinks like cheeses
Cheese to please and seize your degrees MEOW
And without trying, effortlessly he became his own desire
where the demons live and the banshees play
Open up your eyes you Fucking Fuck realize ignorance
And then the robot turned out to have the brain of a
lamp made of popsicle sticks and playing cards,
which in fact was sexy as hell
The light manifest extreme rays of passion and she portrays
them as well
As well as a beer helps a hangover
grinning, flocking instinct
she said "Hey man- I really need a drink,"
Please Franco save yourself the boudoir
Sprouting pink toilet paper
I pour a healthy dose of ether on it and stick it up my nose.
I havenít written neat handwriting since the 2nd grade.
And all the same it comes from nowhere at all, like, like...
With the corporate pirate fast on your heels
i can no longer read. I forgot.
The hand is the scariest thing I see!
Full of ennui
as we soar toward the inequities of life
What you left behind is more mellow than
wine beneath the planet of the apes
Blue as life, flow towards your own life, backwards,
I remember the first time do you remember a worse time?
Then I doused it in Cum Beotch
The vortex was too strong for the man on the mission
Birds, Geese- Oh so pretty
Hair Dye, Eye Sty, Peach Pie
Why did they crash my chicken fry
Drugs man where do they go
Ate an apple pie
Tiger Tiger burning bright in the fire of the night
The costumes looked great and the girls were fine
If the donít love you going out, theyíll love ya goin in
Stay as long as possible
In the magic theater
I like to jerk off
Like a wolf in sheeps clothing
Pangolins penguins and elephant shrews
All need a new summons package
To keep my kidneys in.
Jennifer is soooooo hot
Pieces of orange cut slices of razor-love
and razors that shave my face at that barber shop on astor place.