A poem composed in symphonics silkworms, generously, by Debra Tachibana. This is a mix of Lee Ballentine, John Thomas Allen, and Allen Parmenter–a digital collage from the NSI.
Also, to accompany this music, a few poems–the first by Frank Stanford, who was once a member of the Chicago Surrealist Group.
Like seven birds sleeping on the plateau
Overlooking the shipwreck of love, mystery
Of the drunken visitors wandering off
With your wife, men who talk with a bad accent,
Shouting into a bullhorn that the turtles were coming
We said so what
He told us they’d eat the furniture
Drink the gas from the cars
Run up the phone bill and keep the lights on in the daytime
Well we battened down the hatches
And sure enough they came millions of them
Moving in off the freeway
Eating doorknobs and drinking fuel
Wanting only to be loved
We gave them love took them into our homes
Let them eat and drink what they wanted
Let them sleep with our daughters
And at last they went back into the swamp
Everyone pitched in to clean up the mess
We scrubbed the turtle poop off of everything
Until the town looked the same as before
Now there’s just the children with shells on their backs
To remind us of Hurricane Fred.
with a decoder ring intended for gravity’s pissier moods, it read:Julien Torma was said to have a possessed an early version of the “Orgone Box” later popularized by WIlhelm Reich. After many such sessions, he said that he had been in contact with Gerard De Nerval. He could only make slight sense of the scratchy recordings, but noted that the sorrowful poet’s voice echoed one thing clearly that he could translate. “Vtr….vtr….robsute….” This is what he had learned in the hereafter. Hang tough.