MARC NEYS / DAVID TOMALOFF

 

Proof  -  A Tryptich

Poetry Film International

 

 

_object  { -ions in the mirror

 

testosterone funny blanket

ripped sheets and new years

 

origami weathervane

mutational excerpts for cash

 

cornbread is your birthday;

your birthday, she is alive

 

with a middle name like Salvo,

you never have to bring your own

 

the frat boys fill your tin cup

with cigarettes, aerosols—

 

and meats

 

and call you a pretty taxicab

to take you pretend home

 

no knees are good knees;

no prayer is prayer enough

 

I saved the last sentence for you—

you, crawling on your bad knees

 

trying to make sense of the sense

you left bragging in the hallway

 

a microscopic orgasm;

a see-through, a piñata

 

light fuse and back away

are  closer than they appPROOF VON MARC NEYS AKA SWOON (BELGIUM, MUSIC, VIDEO) UND  DAVID TOMALOFF (USA, POETRY, VIDEO)

Interview & Orginaltexte (Englisch)

_object  { -ions in the mirror

 

testosterone funny blanket

ripped sheets and new years

 

origami weathervane

mutational excerpts for cash

 

cornbread is your birthday;

your birthday, she is alive

 

with a middle name like Salvo,

you never have to bring your own

 

the frat boys fill your tin cup

with cigarettes, aerosols—

 

and meats

 

and call you a pretty taxicab

to take you pretend home

 

no knees are good knees;

no prayer is prayer enough

 

I saved the last sentence for you—

you, crawling on your bad knees

 

trying to make sense of the sense

you left bragging in the hallway

 

a microscopic orgasm;

a see-through, a piñata

 

light fuse and back away

are  closer than they appear

 

 


Read more about ConnotationPress.com | Swoon & David Tomaloff - Featured Artists of the Month by connotationpress.com

 

THESPIANIC MYTHOLOGY No. 4

 

"Iceland.  Anesthesia? What was that word again?" The nebulous blue shadow cast his voice in the form of a question from the wings. He was never quite sure of himself in these situations. "It’s Gravy!" called an usher from the rear of the auditorium. "Gravy is majestic! Gravy is no false induction, jack!" Just then, rotten eggs. A minute later, the salmon. They make their way upstream and gather the old popcorn in readiness for their winter slumbers. "I could have been a flower girl," the nebulous blue shadow whispered to himself as he shrunk in despondence. “I could have pondered {XXX}, physics, or subliminal linguistics. I am the opposite of river. I am a slave to my one distinguishable character—my lack of proper face.”

 

 

_object  { -ions in the mirror

 

testosterone funny blanket

ripped sheets and new years

 

origami weathervane

mutational excerpts for cash

 

cornbread is your birthday;

your birthday, she is alive

 

with a middle name like Salvo,

you never have to bring your own

 

the frat boys fill your tin cup

with cigarettes, aerosols—

 

and meats

 

and call you a pretty taxicab

to take you pretend home

 

no knees are good knees;

no prayer is prayer enough

 

I saved the last sentence for you—

you, crawling on your bad knees

 

trying to make sense of the sense

you left bragging in the hallway

 

a microscopic orgasm;

a see-through, a piñata

 

light fuse and back away

are  closer than they appear

 

 

 

THESPIANIC MYTHOLOGY No. 4

 

"Iceland.  Anesthesia? What was that word again?" The nebulous blue shadow cast his voice in the form of a question from the wings. He was never quite sure of himself in these situations. "It’s Gravy!" called an usher from the rear of the auditorium. "Gravy is majestic! Gravy is no false induction, jack!" Just then, rotten eggs. A minute later, the salmon. They make their way upstream and gather the old popcorn in readiness for their winter slumbers. "I could have been a flower girl," the nebulous blue shadow whispered to himself as he shrunk in despondence. “I could have pondered {XXX}, physics, or subliminal linguistics. I am the opposite of river. I am a slave to my one distinguishable character—my lack of proper face.”

 

 

PROOF

 

I cast my skin in the direction of your mouth. My hands &how they’re quick to come undone along the tiny recesses of your canvas—the white of it. The trees outside have grown suspicious. They have made a list of demands, &they are asking from me a name. I cover the stains on my lip with their shade; I tell them the name is wire. They want to know who is there in the house with me. They want to know what I’ve done with the light. I tell them the mold on the walls, how it makes me sick some nights. How the cries are the souls on wax that bluesmen have left behind. They are burrowing as we speak, below me. We are all of us, in our own way, reaching for a tatter of proof.

—&now October / is where my / tongue is best.


Read more about ConnotationPress.com | Swoon & David Tomaloff - Featured Artists of the Month by connotationpress.com

PROOF

 

I cast my skin in the direction of your mouth. My hands &how they’re quick to come undone along the tiny recesses of your canvas—the white of it. The trees outside have grown suspicious. They have made a list of demands, &they are asking from me a name. I cover the stains on my lip with their shade; I tell them the name is wire. They want to know who is there in the house with me. They want to know what I’ve done with the light. I tell them the mold on the walls, how it makes me sick some nights. How the cries are the souls on wax that bluesmen have left behind. They are burrowing as we speak, below me. We are all of us, in our own way, reaching for a tatter of proof.


Read more about ConnotationPress.com | Swoon & David Tomaloff - Featured Artists of the Month by connotationpress.com

object  { -ions in the mirror

 

testosterone funny blanket

ripped sheets and new years

 

origami weathervane

mutational excerpts for cash

 

cornbread is your birthday;

your birthday, she is alive

 

with a middle name like Salvo,

you never have to bring your own

 

the frat boys fill your tin cup

with cigarettes, aerosols—

 

and meats

 

and call you a pretty taxicab

to take you pretend home

 

no knees are good knees;

no prayer is prayer enough

 

I saved the last sentence for you—

you, crawling on your bad knees

 

trying to make sense of the sense

you left bragging in the hallway

 

a microscopic orgasm;

a see-through, a piñata

 

light fuse and back away

are  closer than they appear

 

object  { -ions in the mirror

 

testosterone funny blanket

ripped sheets and new years

 

origami weathervane

mutational excerpts for cash

 

cornbread is your birthday;

your birthday, she is alive

 

with a middle name like Salvo,

you never have to bring your own

 

the frat boys fill your tin cup

with cigarettes, aerosols—

 

and meats

 

and call you a pretty taxicab

to take you pretend home

 

no knees are good knees;

no prayer is prayer enough

 

I saved the last sentence for you—

you, crawling on your bad knees

 

trying to make sense of the sense

you left bragging in the hallway

 

a microscopic orgasm;

a see-through, a piñata

 

light fuse and back away

are  closer than they appear

 

 

_object  { -ions in the mirror

 

testosterone funny blanket

ripped sheets and new years

 

origami weathervane

mutational excerpts for cash

 

cornbread is your birthday;

your birthday, she is alive

 

with a middle name like Salvo,

you never have to bring your own

 

the frat boys fill your tin cup

with cigarettes, aerosols—

 

and meats

 

and call you a pretty taxicab

to take you pretend home

 

no knees are good knees;

no prayer is prayer enough

 

I saved the last sentence for you—

you, crawling on your bad knees

 

trying to make sense of the sense

you left bragging in the hallway

 

a microscopic orgasm;

a see-through, a piñata

 

light fuse and back away

are  closer than they appear

 

 

 

THESPIANIC MYTHOLOGY No. 4

 

"Iceland.  Anesthesia? What was that word again?" The nebulous blue shadow cast his voice in the form of a question from the wings. He was never quite sure of himself in these situations. "It’s Gravy!" called an usher from the rear of the auditorium. "Gravy is majestic! Gravy is no false induction, jack!" Just then, rotten eggs. A minute later, the salmon. They make their way upstream and gather the old popcorn in readiness for their winter slumbers. "I could have been a flower girl," the nebulous blue shadow whispered to himself as he shrunk in despondence. “I could have pondered {XXX}, physics, or subliminal linguistics. I am the opposite of river. I am a slave to my one distinguishable character—my lack of proper face.”

 

 

PROOF

 

I cast my skin in the direction of your mouth. My hands &how they’re quick to come undone along the tiny recesses of your canvas—the white of it. The trees outside have grown suspicious. They have made a list of demands, &they are asking from me a name. I cover the stains on my lip with their shade; I tell them the name is wire. They want to know who is there in the house with me. They want to know what I’ve done with the light. I tell them the mold on the walls, how it makes me sick some nights. How the cries are the souls on wax that bluesmen have left behind. They are burrowing as we speak, below me. We are all of us, in our own way, reaching for a tatter of proof.

 


Read more about ConnotationPress.com | Swoon & David Tomaloff - Featured Artists of the Month by connotationpress.com

 

THESPIANIC MYTHOLOGY No. 4

 

"Iceland.  Anesthesia? What was that word again?" The nebulous blue shadow cast his voice in the form of a question from the wings. He was never quite sure of himself in these situations. "It’s Gravy!" called an usher from the rear of the auditorium. "Gravy is majestic! Gravy is no false induction, jack!" Just then, rotten eggs. A minute later, the salmon. They make their way upstream and gather the old popcorn in readiness for their winter slumbers. "I could have been a flower girl," the nebulous blue shadow whispered to himself as he shrunk in despondence. “I could have pondered {XXX}, physics, or subliminal linguistics. I am the opposite of river. I am a slave to my one distinguishable character—my lack of proper face.”

 

 

PROOF

 

I cast my skin in the direction of your mouth. My hands &how they’re quick to come undone along the tiny recesses of your canvas—the white of it. The trees outside have grown suspicious. They have made a list of demands, &they are asking from me a name. I cover the stains on my lip with their shade; I tell them the name is wire. They want to know who is there in the house with me. They want to know what I’ve done with the light. I tell them the mold on the walls, how it makes me sick some nights. How the cries are the souls on wax that bluesmen have left behind. They are burrowing as we speak, below me. We are all of us, in our own way, reaching for a tatter of proof.


Read more about ConnotationPress.com | Swoon & David Tomaloff - Featured Artists of the Month by connotationpress.com

 

THESPIANIC MYTHOLOGY No. 4

 

"Iceland.  Anesthesia? What was that word again?" The nebulous blue shadow cast his voice in the form of a question from the wings. He was never quite sure of himself in these situations. "It’s Gravy!" called an usher from the rear of the auditorium. "Gravy is majestic! Gravy is no false induction, jack!" Just then, rotten eggs. A minute later, the salmon. They make their way upstream and gather the old popcorn in readiness for their winter slumbers. "I could have been a flower girl," the nebulous blue shadow whispered to himself as he shrunk in despondence. “I could have pondered {XXX}, physics, or subliminal linguistics. I am the opposite of river. I am a slave to my one distinguishable character—my lack of proper face.”

 

 

PROOF

 

I cast my skin in the direction of your mouth. My hands &how they’re quick to come undone along the tiny recesses of your canvas—the white of it. The trees outside have grown suspicious. They have made a list of demands, &they are asking from me a name. I cover the stains on my lip with their shade; I tell them the name is wire. They want to know who is there in the house with me. They want to know what I’ve done with the light. I tell them the mold on the walls, how it makes me sick some nights. How the cries are the souls on wax that bluesmen have left behind. They are burrowing as we speak, below me. We are all of us, in our own way, reaching for a tatter of proof.


Read more about ConnotationPress.com | Swoon & David Tomaloff - Featured Artists of the Month by connotationpress.com

 

THESPIANIC MYTHOLOGY No. 4

 

"Iceland.  Anesthesia? What was that word again?" The nebulous blue shadow cast his voice in the form of a question from the wings. He was never quite sure of himself in these situations. "It’s Gravy!" called an usher from the rear of the auditorium. "Gravy is majestic! Gravy is no false induction, jack!" Just then, rotten eggs. A minute later, the salmon. They make their way upstream and gather the old popcorn in readiness for their winter slumbers. "I could have been a flower girl," the nebulous blue shadow whispered to himself as he shrunk in despondence. “I could have pondered {XXX}, physics, or subliminal linguistics. I am the opposite of river. I am a slave to my one distinguishable character—my lack of proper face.”

 

 

PROOF

 

I cast my skin in the direction of your mouth. My hands &how they’re quick to come undone along the tiny recesses of your canvas—the white of it. The trees outside have grown suspicious. They have made a list of demands, &they are asking from me a name. I cover the stains on my lip with their shade; I tell them the name is wire. They want to know who is there in the house with me. They want to know what I’ve done with the light. I tell them the mold on the walls, how it makes me sick some nights. How the cries are the souls on wax that bluesmen have left behind. They are burrowing as we speak, below me. We are all of us, in our own way, reaching for a tatter of proof.

 


Read more about ConnotationPress.com | Swoon & David Tomaloff - Featured Artists of the Month by connotationpress.com