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
