Presentation, check one

http://home.no.net/torgfje/utopos/images/healer(s).ppt

Chewed Moons

(After Tor Ulven)

Heaven is an indifferent moan

Joy's torturous instruments make every day bearable
Fishes walk on water 'cause they're tired of swimming
Pine trees root in your nails' dirt
as language roots in your mouth's swamp

The foot is simply a neutral joint
between the kick and the mutilated face
the ungoverned foot limping along
to restlessness' encounter

Feverish musicians play instruments of reality
on seductive violins of innumerable noses

But music causes ears to deform
And evil has wings

*

Tor Ulven:
Avgnagde måner

Himmelen er et gjesp av likegyldighet
Gledens torturinstrumenter gjør hverdagen utholdelig
Fiskene går på vannet fordi de er trette av å svømme
Grantrærne slår rot i skitten under neglene
slik språket slår rot i munnens sump
Foten er bare et nøytralt forbindelsesledd
mellom sparket og det kvestede ansiktet
den herreløse foten som halter avsted
til møtet med rastløsheten
Feberfantasiens musikere spiller på virkelighetens instrument
på dine utallige nesers smektende fioliner
Men musikk fører til misdannelser i ørene
og onde mennesker har vinger

(from Skyggen av urfuglen (The shadow of the original bird), 1977, repr. Samlede dikt, 2001, p. 22)

paper scissors rock
paper scissors rock
rock scissors paper
paper scissors rock

rock paper paper rock
scissors scissors scissors scissors
paper rock paper scissors scissors
scissors rock paper scissors scissors
scissors scissors scissors scissors scissors

roll rock roll rock
scissor paper
roll rock
roll roll

paper scissors rock
paper scissors

rock

We have reached a conjunction and
we have reached a conjunction or
we have reached a conjunction but
we have reached a conjunction if
we have reached a conjunction then
we have reached a conjunction so
we have reached a conjunction because
we have reached a conjunction.

script

http://home.no.net/torgfje/utopos/script.html

GO!

Emerge into the abyss, the heart of this eternal
City as it rises on the slopes of its inhabitants'
Mediaeval imagination, horned and rusty and
Drunk with stupor, unwittingly causing its own
Demise, returning

Step out of this cleavage, take the steam
Train across the ocean, land somewhere in the
Carribean, on a cricket pitch or at some stage of
The never-ending revolutions of Jamaica.

The sun descends slowly on this blue-green ball as
It revolves around itself and around the big ball of fire
Fuelling the machine connecting fingertips to
Eyeballs

Leave your locality -- only to return, an endless
Coming-back to the site of your
Emergence

from lit-id (http://www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html)

On 1 Aug 2004 at 18:57, Mike Geary wrote:

> WOE!
>
> by Czeslaw Milosz
>
>
> It is true, our tribe is similar to the bees.
> It gathers honey of wisdom, carries it, stores it in honeycombs.
> I am able to roam for hours
> Through the labyrinth of the main library, floor to floor.
> But yesterday, looking for the words of masters and prophets
> I wandered into high regions
> That are visited by practically no one.
> I would open a book and could decipher nothing
> For letters faded and disappeared from the pages.
> Woe! I exclaimed -- so it comes to this?
> Where are you, venerable ones, with your beards and wigs,
> Your nights spent by a candle, griefs of your wives?
> So a message saving the world is silenced forever?
>
> At your home it was the day of making preserves.
> And your dog, sleeping by the fire, would wake up,
> Yawn and look at you -- as if knowing.
>
> * * * * * *
>
>
> GAUDE!
>
> by Mike Geary
>
> I don't know how wasps find their nests.
> and I can't even imagine the nose maps of dogs,
> or how willow roots know in dark dirt where water is.
> There's an explanation for these things I know,
> for nothing happens but Law allows it.
>
> A missile rises out of the sea and sails
> a thousand miles to it's target,
> a sudden end to everything therein.
> No mystery here. We've a calculus for this.
> All the world should be as advanced as us.
>
> I don't know what 'knowing 'means.
> Quite unexpectedly my heart races,
> my breath deepens, I feel confused --
> all at the sight of you. I don't know why,
> but my body must. Mind is body shouting: "Gaude!"

Book review by Diderik Humble jr.

Author and poet Diderik Humble jr. submitted the following as per boook review of Milan Kundera's Igorance. It takes an ignorant...

It is up for consideration by the Utopos Book Review Council, 15 Parlsey Street, Sussex. And I will say this only once: Any notes of queries should be addressed to them.

Editorially,

phatic

***

A Last Sermon for Milan Kundera

Communism didn't collapse, Milan. Regimes self-identifying as state socialist crumbled and dissappeared. In most of the so-called communist bloc. But even that statement can't be generalized, Milan. Belo-Russia still self-identifies as such. What about Cuba? What abut the so-called welfare states, or mixed economies (admittedly crumbling to the pressures of capital interest), those places where reformism managed to crush the revolutionaries? What about North Korea, China? What about the millions of underprivileged that live in my flower pots under the weight of five hundred suns?

What about the dreams of your youth, Milan? Do you remember what team you supported before you resigned to the advice of bookmakers? Do you remember how the blood flowed in your veins, Milan, when you realized that this here world is conjunctive? Do you think, Milan, that you were the only one to make your observations?

Do you feel lonely and abandoned now, Milan, or do you hope for the redemption in a mortal community of cowards? Do you really believe that they will save your memory? Will they remember their own betrayal as they will remember yours?

For there is something to glean from your writing, Milan Kundera.

Betrayal.