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his eyes blowing Hot violet. It’s blinding heat, divine. It’s like he has hundred suns under his throat. The demons growl along with him

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Grieving. Impudence. Grieving. Impudence. Grieving. Impudence.
I wash my hands… of hands
Not even if everything were purple
Not for all the purple in violets…
prune-colored feathery feeling
at the back of the throat
Do you know any eligible
bastards?  The world mumbles
with insufficient lust.
Doing a backbend into
sorrowful nacrescence… as if
flavored with extraterrestriality.
Will someone love me?  I’m still
beautiful but I’m weird.
This dangerous construction
area – filled with the golden
apples of everyone’s roving eyes.
A cat puts up its paw as if
to beckon.  Red vines cover a
building.  I’m lonely
as a Kleenex.
Aggravated hot violets stroke the boys
into greasy erections:  I mumble
a daft prayer.
It’s a kind of hebephrenic desuetude:
blind tasting -woody, raw wood,
touch of caraway, spicy, very spicy,
touch hot, violet pastille, big and full,
a touch clumsy, dark:
This is the hot violet eye.
Hot violet/plum eye.
Hot violet yawn
Hot violet seduction
Mindblowing Hot Violet
Smoking Hot Violet
hot Violet Abuse
FLAWLESS Mesmerizing Hot Violet
it’s “printed in hot violet ink!”
hot violet ink!
At least there was something steamy about it!

P||R||J||C||T||N||S 10/14/10

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Alwan for the Arts Hosts Fourth Installment of P||R||J||C||T||N||S: A Motion Picture Reading Series

Alwan for the Arts is pleased to host the fourth installment of P||R||J||C||T||N||S: A Motion Picture Reading Series, the only event showcase in New York City spotlighting practices specifically at the intersection of poetics, performance, and the moving image. Curated by Paolo Javier and Jeremy J F Thompson, P||R||J||C||T||N||S repositions the reading series as multi-genre platform, retracing its lineage to encompass the historical phenomenon of movie-telling as well as broader histories of performative practice. The upcoming November 14th iteration features presenters Abigail Child, Sukhdev Sandhu, and Nada Gordon.
Nodding in part at early 20th-century traditions of live film narration like those of Benshi in Japan and Gavrilov Translation in the USSR – often strategies for the ideological control of cinematic content – P||R||J||C||T||N||S emerges alongside recent nationwide recuperations of related practices in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and beyond. The series expands movie-telling’s mechanisms of destabilizing visual meaning in considering game-based genres like cartridge hacking and in-game intervention; post-production video editing tactics such as gag dubbing and re-subtitling; as well as electronic techniques of appropriation and misuse including data sculpting, browser poetry, and computational aesthetics.
A multidisciplinary ensemble of poets, filmmakers, musicians, performance artists, scholars, critics, and editors will investigate the implementation of these strategies across the wide spectrum of their respective fields. P||R||O||J||E||C||T||I||O||N||S presents a series of scenarios whose fundamental components are live narrators textually mediating between spectator and screen, marking the virally trending collective urge to intervene in regulated flows of data in media and information systems. 

PRESENTERS
Abigail Child is a media artist and writer whose original montage pushes the envelope of sound-image relations to make, in the words of LA Weekly, “brilliant exciting work…a vibrant political filmmaking that’s attentive to form.” Winner of the Rome Prize, a Radcliffe Institute Fellowship, both Guggenheim and Fulbright Fellowships, as well as participating in two Whitney Biennials, Child has had numerous retrospectives including the Buena Vista Center in San Francisco, Anthology Film Archive, Harvard Cinematheque, Reservoir, Switzerland and most recently at the Cinoteca in Rome. She is the author of THIS IS CALLED MOVING: A Critical Poetics of Film (2005) and Scatter Mix (1999), among others. She is currently completing two poetry manuscripts and editing a feature shot in Italy of the life of Percy and Mary Shelley, in the form of imaginary home movies. A book with interview and articles on her work, in both French and English, accompanied with DVD, will be appearing in early 2011 out of Metis Press, Geneva, Switzerland.
Sukhdev Sandhu is the author of London Calling: How Black and Asian Writers Imagined A City (2003), I’ll Get My Coat (2005), and Night Haunts: A Journey Through The London Night (Verso Books, 2007), the latter subsequently developed as a series of site-specific performances and soundworks. He has also edited the essay collection Leaving the Factory: Wang Bing’s ‘West of the Tracks’ (2009). He is the chief film critic of the Daily Telegraph and Director of the Asian/Pacific/American Studies Department at New York University. 
Nada Gordon is the author of five poetry books: Folly, V. Imp, Are Not Our Lowing Heifers Sleeker than Night-Swollen Mushrooms?, and foriegnn bodie— and an e-pistolary techno-romantic non-fiction novel, Swoon. Her new book, Scented Rushes, is just out from Roof books. A founding member of the Flarf Collective, she practices poetry, song, dance, dressmaking, and image manipulation as deep entertainment. 

For additional information, please contact Paolo Javer and Jeremy J F Thompson at projectionsseries@gmail.com, or visit the P||R||O||J||E||C||T||I||O||N||S Facebook Group. 

P||R||J||C||T||N||S NO. 3 

Sunday, November 14th
Alwan for the Arts
7 PM – 8:30PM
$6 At the Door
Alwan for the Arts is located at:
16 Beaver St, 4th floor
(Between Broad Street & Broadway)
New York, NY 10004 

(646) 732-3261
SUBWAY: 4/5 to Bowling Green; J/M/Z to Broad St.; R/W to Whitehall St.; 1 to Rector St. or South Ferry; 2/3 to Wall St.; A/C to Broadway-Nassau

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One Big Happy Family!!

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Have you ever secretly wished your family
could be like the Brady Bunch
where everyone got along like one big happy family?
one big, happy, inbred, necrophiliac family?
one big happy, comfortable, not awkward family?
a close-knit family of four dealing with life
as a morbidly obese household?

As the drama between Mashonda, Swizzy
and Alicia Keys begins to dwindle down,
the onset of real life is unfolding:
Grandmother reveals her pride
at her two daughter’s teenage pregnancies
while the whole group live off the state.

Tibet: One big, happy family.
One big happy family – Obama and Palin!
One Big Happy Family: 18 Writers Talk About Polyamory
My favorite kind of food ever is omelets.
They’re just so good and you can do so much with them

My parents fought allll day yesterday
and I woke up this morning to hear
my mom yelling at my dad, again.
Is a happy couple a boring couple?

Next, we have to find a happy looking couple
to turn into a gothic nightmare. How about
a Young Happy Couple In Love Relaxing On A White Couch?

attractive, background, beach, beautiful, beauty,
body, charm, couple, desire, erotic, face, family,
feeling, friend, friendship, girl, happiness, happy…

They fought all night last night,
they even fought about pizza
and they weren’t even drunk
(but they did get drunk later on
which made things so much worse).

Turtles are having Orgasms to Turtles’ Happy Together
//So// Happy Together. Come all you fair and tender
maidens. Take care with how you court young men.
They’re like a star on a cloudy morning.
I’m just sick of it. I can’t stand to live
like this, but what else can I do?

O-o-o-oh So happy together O-o-o-oh
How is the weather Ba, ba ba ba ba
So happy together Ba ba ba ba, ba ba ba ba
We’re happy together Ba ba ba ba

Western civilisation is probably
my favourite civilisation of all

the crone

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So I was just out on Church Ave. doing my Sunday marketing.  I went into one of the five and dime stores to buy a bunch of padded envelopes to mail my book in, and when I came out I made eye contact with a tiny crone sitting on the bench just outside the store. She had a kind of  black dyed pompadour and huge silver hoop earrings, a leathery face, cloudy eyes, and an interestingly large nose.
Crone:  Hey, you got a pretty face, c’mere, talk to me.
[I approach her]
Crone:  You Jewish?
Me:  Yes.
Crone:  You married?  Got kids?
Me:  My husband left me. No kids.
Crone:  When he leave you?
Me:  Two months ago.
Crone:  C’mere, sit down by me. [ I sit by her… she takes my hand… I notice she has some sort of flyers advertising fortune-telling or astrology in her other hand.]  I need a cup of coffee.
Me:  You want a dollar?
Crone:  A dollar’s not enough.  [I give her three dollars.  What the hell, I think.] Your husband cheating? He with someone else?
Me:  Yeah.
Crone:  He still think about you.  He with someone else but he still think about you.
Me:  I don’t want him back.
Crone:  He do it again and again.  He Jewish?
Me:  No.
Crone:  You give me money for candles, I pray for you tonight, I light candles. Money not for me, it for candles.
Me:  No, that’s OK.  Can I take your picture?
Crone:  No, I don’t like that.  Why you want take my picture?
Me:  Because you’re interesting.
Crone:  Anyway I pray for you tonight.  Be healthy, be happy.
Me:  OK.
[and I go on my way]

I remember: private/ public

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the perfect metricality of these lines I wrote for him, in a poem that
was published in Are Not Our Lowing Heifers Sleeker Than Night-Swollen
Mushrooms?:   

It’s private how my finger finds 
your golden hairy asshole

I do love the irony of that.

i count the days

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Hail morning, full
of gross mistakes.
Birds creep in subway
rafters: clatter of
obsessive songs
or fruits of threat –
or theory of cold
sweat – heavy white
richness in spun rage –
I know
it was a cage. but
it was a cage
I wanted. Now,
it’s haunted.
Endospasm: spawn
chasm.  I fiddle
with a worry wheel.
Grey clouds gasp
the seagulls flying
past – in nodes
of memory.
The groaning
yonder. Under
his weak, spoiled
gender.
Tugged under:
the empress
of tug. Snug
as a bug
in fine
disaster.
Shanghaied.
I’d been, you know,
a jester. Hilarity
my saving grace.
I’ve lost it for a while
in blinding ache.
.
Blow, ye winds
about my tattered
garment. Harshness
of visible world a
sandy mirror.
Absolute hollow
blueness
in a reservoir
of absence.
Low. lowing.
Muscled pride:
the chicken neck’s
veiny vuln… and pain…
I walk the hollow streets
with hollow cheeks
and  huge chalk x.
Blast: jumpy quiet
untruth: messier than what
was limp and wrong
and veined like bluish
hell: thin skin
globes, and her as
tool or wedge.
Weakly little chicken
thigh, ugly meat
part, meat flap. Flap
flap. Runaway: cum
runs down her skinny leg
like spitup.
Tied knots of juicy
membrane – wiry net
of hangup lies. Crouching
mongrel’s stretched
globular sac. Studded
with gnats and chiggers –
ethnic eerie music –
transparent ear – failed
mate.
Radiant pucker: a fly’s
skin: squeezed… oozing.
If I see her I shall see her
and I’ll squeeze her till
she…
chomping. predatrix.
Night of jolts. Evey night:
jolts.
Freaky centipede
smashed
brown streak stain
on whiteness. Witness
to his weakness.
Ugly whimper
rots implosion’s
whiny jism.
Hilarity
my grace.
I’ve lost it for a while
in ache.
He fucks
her ooze –
then mine.
Sack of shit
lying inside
his head.
She wipes it
with her predatory
tongue. It’s weird.
In purgatory
fizz, a woman
on the subway
yanks my
beard.