Everything Is Inebriated

“I have always thought of myself as very potent and generative”

–Jonathan Safran Foer

You can go ahead and call me whatever you can talk to the paint chips in your cocktail. You can have another miniature sandwich actually go ahead have one they’re Handmade in Brooklyn © they’re someone else’s effortlessnessness. You want to listen to 999 to drown in the seventeen infinite possibilities of drive pedal the fuzzing kick drums. I have often gone without fur hat Jonathan you are quick to point out a victim of your own propensity to surf or engage in surfing like behavior. The thoughtwethoughtwe’dneverencounter requires us to uncomfortably sip creates spaces in conversation where there were none before. ‘A call to harm’s way’ is another way to say it with of course an adequate level of guard up. We remember to have mercy on one another sometimes yet perhaps not enough. We believe in Homicide. I have been on many a crowded boulevard and we are doing very nicely indeed excuse me excuse us. As if married to a modulating meaning or to an emotion or a history which evokes emotion which modulates. I can only think in intervals when I am lucky. The music is already in a can in speakers and health supplements. I have lost the thread said the user but I have a needle. Shifting electricity she sweats only when she is upset. I’ve seen your sentences and they were not blinding. You are already closing the cabinet and you have sit for a while yes some time. We are nowhere to be seen in the descriptions we are uncredited we are the wall paper that saw the potential for growth. We ordered another and tried to shock ourselves.

-Mark Gurarie


Alex Crowley takes on TV Personalities, and their post-apocalyptic sound scrapes

avian architext

Television PersonalitiesMummy Your Not Watching Me (WHAAM! Records #3)
Bulleit Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey
fuckyeahbrutalism.tumblr.com
weed

———SIDE A———

howl through brutalist tower architecture & the realization that the record player was still on 45 from all the reggae singles
the jangle must have been so harsh at the time do you ever start start to wonder who comes up with these ideas
says an adventure playground what it is you want and the expectations pouring up stalagtite-like from the sidewalks
they’re fine with trees and nooks & context
fading out

bang bang slow stutter & ring
dip dip call in from disembodied man on accordion
the steps up this house, the cubist ziggurat
wants to be an actress
wants a heart-shaped swimming pool
& a set of ray guns
I’m infatuated with the stains weather-beaten into
béton brut my lucky number’s seven, too
an echoplex from whichever perspective

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The Parable of the Friendly Scorpion

Of late I find myself unable to complete sentences, you might say I have a scorpion waiting at the end.

There will then be at last and in a kind of hopeful light a tail, pincers, the trees are moving.

To begin again is to remember the scorpion prefers cool and dark places, some escape from the inferno of the every day.

If for no other reason than we appreciate form, fluid motions of the hills, downstream the run off is itself a connectivity; the faces are not necessarily scowling.

Across a cross out and rewrite, two scorpions at play, casually chic because, of course it comes off as effortless.

Fill our lines, almost every part of the scorpion resists imagination when seen in yes moonlight and yes it was being sucked into his jacket.

I have as many friends as I have scorpions in a cup, spoke the father to his daughter

To which she was all what.

Endeavoring to combat what she sees as a plague, a malignant tumor on that which she calls the framework of a just and equitable society.

A scorpion in the throat is better than two in the band.

The spiders build webs near outdoor lamps to attract moths; the scorpions switch them on.

Behind every exceptionalistic view of history, consider Garibaldi in San Marco, shot in the foot, defeated but escaping, his love dying.

A hollowed out scorpion, carried in a sling, a garnish in a dish, the hologram-like impression of almost memory, the constellation.

A cluster of scorpions, seen as a good omen, for the traveller that is uneasy, that has lost his wits, that never had them, that must consider weight, the weight unequally distributed.

-Mark Gurarie

 


An Hour of Dire Greediness

I have no one to ape for anymore.

Who has a brass ring; are the animals then meant to speak.

Yes to the latter.

Of which.

Zombies are meant to have the finest.

Mindlessness is not a real word.

I, for one, will agree to disagree.

I have no degrees, insubordination.

In tall oaks, as the saying goes.

The shaving cream is on the crevice.

A razor for no man.

A what?

A razor nomad.

A what?

A general, most indistinguishable interrogative.

I’ll query my database and get back to you in a prompt and inefficient hour.

You better start dancing, Swan Lake.

A pink candy heart.

If you say so, Cinderella.

Don’t coat this room in candle-wax.

You are too an appellation.

I’ve had no scissors that I didn’t like.

I am rounding the bend, as the saying goes.

Interrelations of the strangest order.

I tend to be distressed, Appalachian.

You mock a mountain.

Chain.

You bird a goddamn feather, Fly Boy.

I’ve pissed in Cloud City, sure, if that’s what you mean.

This cardboard box has your name on it.

I have neither time nor talent, and I aim to keep it that way.

Godfather of my egregiousness, do you quit.

For all the lovers in Memphis.

For the King is but the best thief.

Stealing wax, are we, stealing wax.

 

-Mark Gurarie


This is Saturday Night, People

Talk about all of the terrible words that we speak, and I will tell you about the death defying feats of understatement, and what I mean is that everything is perfect— the way the mind works is the fact that everything is just a painting of the exact portion of the way that everyone understands the islands: we can’t possibly be anything else besides the interpretation of literature… Can we talk about the way that humans decide that everything is a terrible Italian dinner, and what is that really, so glad you found me here. Here is what we work for, there is a constant in our lives, there is a sinister way that we speak about the everyday, that certain something that makes the nerves extend past the finger until they are tiny little tendrils of  the vernacular;  the spelling is just exactly the perfect way that El Reed did his and that is not exactly the problem because Last Exit to Brooklyn is a sinful topical episode— there is a populace that allows those who are not privy to the remainder of the dialogue left over from the jest that is confounding— but wait, we are the record that spins the pin, the pin is cutting upon the record  Mercury.                       Spin this insatiable appetite for reconstruction, the gang vocals, anonymous, as if we could kiss your ass goodbye. In between rock’n’roll oracles find us misinterpreting the clouds; find us exaggerating the norms like a big business tycoon, and let us tell you why we are in fact and after all the king of the seas. This irradiation haunts us:  there is music and piano sounds like a god damn atom bomb that breaks apart like a simple crying concentration of the mind, and the grey matter is just stupefying and that is nothing compared to the way… the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

I have never been a cyclone unless you count the jazz years the jazz incognito the in between as a liminal that I prefer mourning to coffee but not that much and in so far as we are left to pretend with, and as much as a meteor might exaggerate towards the chorus, us chiming a brass anechdote, my life’s insanity, take care of us, be good company let us then find it, let us then examine, please for here and now’s sake who is scared?

-Robert “Adrenaline Bob” Tumas & Mark Gurarie


You don’t have that Connecticut Swag

A succession of blurry and blurrying lines, re-painted every several years and according to the conventions laid out. You have never thought of  Connecticut, never connected to it, only heard stories. You will never settle these woods, you like to think because you are comfortable knowing it by not knowing it. An inside of a Connecticut is a Connecticut onion I’ve only ever passed, that is, this is a passage. For the life of Connecticut, a sign post says Hampton Inn. Basically blanketed in green this state, and have I ever told you that I don’t “do” “well” with unpaved surfaces. Everyone in this car is driving. It’s what we do now, you haven’t heard? Yeah man, that same old interstate that same old interstate. What is a Waterbury, is a salad rotting in your refrigerator, and who orders what on Saturday in Connecticut? Connect eyes, cut this corner, see a vine for what it is. Overgrowth, a Connecticut disaster averted every millisecond. Who can falter during a lane change, who would fault her.

-Mark Gurarie

 


Chicken & Egg

The jaws of plenty, the label machine in a fine pair of socks,

a falsetto in the middle of the day snapped in half, that lost pill

thought it was in the pocket, but maybe there was a hole

eyes over the shoulder of day birds that annoy the sleepers,

sun that annoys the birds, maybe there is another hole

don’t stare too long, don the finest unearthed gems,

lockets, tiny replicas of galleons, a corset in the contemporary style,

a photograph of William S. Burroughs, of Gertrude Stein,

of envelopes foreshortened, unstuffed nests, a chain with a broken

link, forged receipts for seven of the most expensive cupcakes.

The chicken did not cross the road to get to the other side

chickens are obnoxious birds with no concept of sides

and I’m glad to eat them. Makes me chicken,

they don’t know happy from roads or anything people

like chickens they talk too much and cross roads

for the same reasons. They get hungry, they get horny,

they want to see so they don’t, they can’t help it, a foul

goodbye to the others in a kind of roost, find us in a coop

farmed for mass production, and which came first.

 

 

-Mark Gurarie & James Marchetti 


An Exquisite Corpse with James Marchetti

My poetry is so strange it is not worthwhile for people to read

that was cheating the line is a mess of word

constructed by moments of question-

-ing there is as much to play as there is to muster, a kind of strength I guess in

numbers of hockey players with such haircuts… bad.. yeah yeah yeah bull…

give me russian give me tonic we need it today as the epistolary yesterday

a letter I wrote to no one in particular a letter I wrote to no one

as the marginalizations of our fatherses change is inordinate being as an in-

-fraction against dog against dog dog that we called No Howard cuz it was

always no with that fucking dog Howard chewin up the uncle

drug. And one day we thought it might be the end. They said he was

as canine as a carbuncle on a stupid amount of shoes. A stupid amount

and every eagle totem

was meant to be an exclamation: “I’ve done it all, and having a great time at it!”

It’s fucking with my thought process, it’s as if everybody had an automatic entity

a kind of helmet you wear, to battle I guess, or in peace time cross it out, ex it.

-James Marchetti & Mark Gurarie


By the time I can afford to live there it will be underwater

I can’t fight it; you can’t fight it; the punctuation of this city this paragraph as city is rapidly changing. That’s what it does. That’s what we does, for that matter, because we are changing into pointier shoes. My sideburns are single quotation marks, though I am not, in fact, single. Think collage or pastiche, but the samples aren’t lining up, they’ve already moved in. By all rights, those that would make moves not involving the cultivation of career or the harvesting of lettuce have no right to compete for real estate. And you know that I know that picking bugs out of your three thousand dollar credit limit isn’t what it used to be. If this were church, which, of course, we all know this isn’t, but if it were, this is where the pastor would bid us pray together. Let us then make this more irrelevant; let us then sing together; let us then let in our brothers and sisters. A sticky cheeked mafia of genetically superior children currently runs vast swaths of Brooklyn. Oh, yeah, cute to look at, sure, they were MADE that way, and they are just as ambitious as their parents project upon them. The towers of the North are falling, no new dive bars. While the dinosaurs grouse that their tattoos are irrelevant; while revelers outside of former machine shops tend to look like pre-grunge metal heads; while a dandy that works in media in midtown steps out from the greasy turnstyle (MY greasy turnstyle), I try to pull my head out of my diminutive arse. Again and again. Watching the old paint flake off and a new coat get applied is a kind of pastime. I have already purchased the proverbial scuba diving suit, though it is ill-fitting. My emotions are telecommuting, though, sadly, they will have to be downsized. There will be what I would consider a fair package. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

-Mark Gurarie


We like surprises; we like poetry

MENTAL MARGINALIA

Sampson Starkweather is a founding editor of Birds, LLC, an independent poetry press. He is the author of a bunch of shit you’ve never heard of. He’s writing a performative book of poetry in which actors play an invisible game of tennis, called The Tennis Court Oath by John Ashbery by Sampson Starkweather, and a meta-pseudo-memoir called Bubba King and the Fruitfly Afterlife. El vive en Brooklyn.

Beth Amodeo, the first fiction writer to infiltrate the poetry lair of Mental Marginalia, tried to publish her premier novel at the age of twelve. It was about a kangaroo with magical powers who fought arduously to protect a powerful rock in the center of the earth from an evil dingo who wanted to rule the universe – written in comic sans font (size 14) and maxing out at a whopping 275 pages. One-hundred literary agents in New York City…

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