dIScHarGe

CHapBoOk ThReE
A Delicate Corpse, A Hat Filled with Stones.
…Poetry is, by any form, desirable, enchanting, passionate. It
is the thing of the heart and high art, of scribbling on
geography books, chalk boards and underground carriages;
Of books and literature but more than this it is the thing of
the soul: poetry…
assonance, alliteration, onomatopoeia

ambiguity, symbolism, irony

speech in rhetoric, drama, song, and comedy

metaphor, simile, and metonymy

Dante, Goethe, Mickiewicz and Rumi

The Bled Heart of mURmURiSts
Evidently, due to an untitled usury - age-old, malformed and
discontent (or the blur, the paper-fold, the diatribulation) - I
have to start with a capital letter. Effort ... and all in sunlight,
too. Bother to read me; bother to in-read me. I am not boo hoo,
through subtle, with my sexuality destroyed at a stroke. Who will
I survive this time? My actual name starts with a capital letter,
and I don't need your consigns and self-making. Upon my ego, I
wear my boots. (That concept, that construement, that spectral
conversion.) Your non-acceptance, your way of thinking, is not so
much beyond them, as mommy tells. The art of seduction seems
to be missing. What shame awaits? How nice it would be. Those
possibilities are insane. Your last missive was no battle of wits.
On the contrary, it was cynical, all surface, and devoid of
momentum. Some might say I am merely watching you change.
But, within that, I am eroding your comfort zone. One recent
delicious moment was when I published your diary for last month
in an email to all our friends. Ha ha. You shred history into a
series of theoretical conveniences. I cannot take your medicine. I
watch too much tv, you're right. Too seldom, I have attempted to
multiply your possessions. I am no breadwinner. I have, instead,
conquered the atom, with pills that do everything. I am your iron
man. My iron is libidinous in and of itself; it is material. As a
separate and separating category of pointing matter, it scratches
boundaries onto the reference sheets - paper or otherwise - of
both fantasy and reality. Faux of interaction, it plays out, and
wears out, a subsistence normality, made from the errors of
taboo and the desires expressed by extremity and its liberation.
What emerges as apparance reads as repetition seeking the
closure of disuse. Could I, in all this, bring out the ongoing? Could
I situate? Where, I ask, is the explorer?
i looked up and realized with a jolt that God was lurking in
my cats ass and that i'd better look alert since this might be
the closest i'd ever get to the nefarious fool.

The Thoughts of Mistress Doriandra Serena Smith

The Dream Poetry of Bryan Lewis Saunders

Must Have Choose Best Quality Food (N1)

The fat guys head was swollen

And pointed on one side
In the front
And you could see his scalp underneath I mean
You could see his skull cap
Underneath his stitches
The other side of his face was like mushy
And he was head of the
Benzo Comeat Benzo Beef
Can I get a commodity on battery?
On a computer?
There are eleven
And that was the cheapest prices
Must have choose best quality food

Poly-Sifting (N3-N1)

What matters?
He's affected
They're all stiff
And poly-sifting
Poly-sifted
Organized
By weight
Size
Gravity
Whose genetical?
The mice?

It was competitive
Like a cooking show
But the winner gets the education paid for
It was pretty mice
Pretty nice
White Fluff (N3-N4)

Sending it
To Scientific American
Cop
He was a great guy
Acceptor

(snoring)

I'm out in
Shame
That's Walden
Series

Fleas fleas
Popping
And they call 'em the popcorn fleas
They're white
And tiny
I tell ya they're all over your place
Tonight by the biting
And popcorn popping

Single poems
White Fluff

(snoring)

Got 'em
They're not your mother
The mother

Who is it?

The Demon Has A Saddle (N3)

A magically ugly photo death sticker

It huntilates your growth

Bicycle antlers
Close the body in fur
I don't know where the puppet is
But the demon has a saddle
And the bicycle has antlers

Possession is nine tenths of the law

Demon!
i've got more room to
manoeuvre and time to think
when the shadows cast by dark
and menacing birds fall on and
stun all those sheep like bright
and happy fucking beautiful
people.

The Thoughts of Mistress Doriandra Serena Smith

Inside the Surreal Soul of rOBeRt CHrYslEr
I am here, wearing clouds that kiss, where it's easy to imagine little
girls with moths for legs, new reptilian snowfalls, fingers dirty
with synapse as a retreat into obscure arguments with bemused
saxophones. Palaces lost on the continent of silver butterflies, an
aversion to shoulders that dance them blues like they mean them,
aircraft that managed to hide from the authorities for over a
thousand years. Yellow latencies, everything's favourite UFO,
tanned women carry magnificent twilight far beyond fascination,
flasks of red wine uncoiling their tongues in tribute to the soft
cathedrals of hair, thick and pre-Socratic. A revelation, jewelled
swords, whipped by the crystal afternoon to the point of lunacy,
awaken suddenly in the future, only to find themselves
commodified by the singularity's brilliant sky. This symbol for
melting eyes and rivers of nihilism barely remembers which
platinum loop goes where in the alphabet of the night. Some
semblance of conspiracy, its icy crags laughing maniacally at the
wooden tables being stripped naked to the waist, forms one
immense word, a sigh that captains invading Martian fleets. There,
in the pale torrent, opium dreams transform dolphin-headed
necessity, an endless line of black waxen claws, pangs of Siam
despite believing in cubism. The bone of days will waltz in blithely,
eat the heart of the diamond and still be ironically arcane,
metaphoric footprints tested directly by the star spangled banner,
phallic nomadologies of mercy and light. Inexorably, islands the
colour of tired voices return to the dark tower and resume their
former lives as silhouettes trembling in blind throats.
The Imperial Heart of tICTaC
the dialog zapper draws tattoos on your tongue.
licks the shadow from the floor_ your body left behind.

.no words are chewed tonight.

Beyond the Highlighted Lowland of nEIL.r.GraAf
you/who would?

a nebula of rotting radium / dill

nice tie brother nicely tied comehere
i wanna tell you a fucking secret
you can't eat this pussy nohow with no money
why the what the fuck do you need to where was that at
fuck
the drug war is satan&you serve him
at least she waited dontchee dontchooo
no problems so far (expensive freefall, lies)
song rending the last drop of forgotten blood = cum
ease growing pains inhaling whatchagot
whitegas myelin unsheathed brandished
cannot tell into what gotten myself manufacture
t'aint blurred t'aint right e/evene/evene/even
fuckenshootatatatatatathatmotherfucker eleven times
dyspepsia irritable constancy
i'ma keeeeeel you and i'ma like it
you just let me know, ok? ok no-k
nobody chooses this
For All The World to be Like aAroN HeLd
Suddenly late... ...all alone

History books make

life seem so short.
I'm gonna go see some girls///you're so weird..
a blind person can do it,
your hair is really crazy... sure isn't.

Not gonna now...

Is the hand smothered in your skin.

put it in the can,
seems broken...
no way man...

Pulls him down,

the after math is always hard to deal with
what happens after the dirt crumbles?
you take rotting bones out of caves,
ancient children in the bubbles
in the sky...

Million miles away...

the trails doze off,
and grind away under footsteps.
lend it to me.

AHHH... just say yes...say yes.

Yes you did.

That was it,
goodnight everyone massage,
Jupiter's gas.

splash, what carps in the weird places, where I find it.

Wrestle, round and round.
Get a hold of the right mood.
black inches forward to meet the white.
strange indent for the fork in the road.
smoke and choke, want me to do it?
flavor, slit it, pound it, then try it.
stretch out the corks.
of all the things both
corpulent and paltry, all the
souls both sage and foolish,
all of us forming this
collective of clamor within
infinite silence share but one
immense fear- the utter
uncertainty of death. .use
your time in this life wisely.

The Thoughts of Mistress Doriandra Serena Smith

As By The Wind Fall the Leaves of db
I am the creator, and being the creator I can open any
door and rise up like balloons to scale fences, and I can
take the earth and lift it with a thought and a string of
words, and I can put the wooden crank into the small of
any spine and by turning counterclockwise I can force
breath into their bodies again, make them breathe and tell
their stories for so long as I have the strength to keep at
it, so long as I don't stop. This is a thing I do not do. I did it
once, many years ago, and there are still those who find
themselves in tears at cloud-cover and moonlight because
of what I had done. So much in shame. This is not a thing I
will do for Seth, though I have not told his story here, just
as there are so many characters whose lives I never
brought to a just end, simply discarded them, considered
them too undercooked to pull and prattle out on this
stage. So many of my friends are imaginary. I am still a
child.

I will tell you myself, however, of a day Seth had not

long off the ward. It was a good day, and good things
happened to him and people he cared about, and I will not
force life back into his husk in this telling and thus will
cause no new sorrow in the polishing of old memories. As
near as I can tell. Being the creator I think of myself as all-
knowing, but circumstance always interferes and history
proves otherwise. But this is all beside the point. What I
want to tell you is how Seth awoke in the morning.

Seth awoke in the morning and began running through

the list of steps he needed to follow to successfully get
himself out of bed. All the bad ideas had been pulled from
him with distance and medicines he took twice a day, but
there was a space left there just behind his eyes, and by
keeping a short watch on the steps necessary to complete
each of his appointed tasks he worked on his fresh-grown
patience and stuffed every daily detail like cotton into the
gaps in his head. Sit up. Pull up your legs to prepare for
moving out of bed. Fold blankets to the right, across the
body. Turn ninety degrees to the left. Put feet on floor.
Put hands at sides to assist in getting up. Lift with arms
and legs and back. Pull up arms. Stand up.
 Seth was not with the circus at this time. He didn't even
really know about the circus, other than vague memories
of the reputable days, when the Dairymen were famous as
an escape team, articles in newspapers and talk in certain
circles of the innate purity of these performances.
Lawrence then went missing, presumably died, not far
from here, just down the river, and the circus took to
seeking out his body, or his ghost, or some combination of
the two; no one seemed to know for certain, and even up
to his end-moment Seth never quite figured it out, as
Harry wouldn't discuss his brother with anyone, for any
reason. Seth knew he could not yet see his friend Josef, as
the last time he saw him there was an incident, a
nightmare of people with yellow signs who made Seth to
fall away from the world, into a place far away, where no
sound called from the mouths of those who loved him
could reach. It was a sad time, and we are not to discuss
the sad times here. This was a happy day. Seth was to visit
Carolyn tomorrow. Carolyn still had her baby, at this
time. For a few more days. It was a happy time.

Cross street. Do not burst into tears. Do not think

about killing yourself. Check the light. Make sure
shoelaces are still tied. Do not fall onto the ground and
curl up. Do not make extended eye contact with people
crossing towards you. Do not look abruptly away from
people crossing towards you. Do not swing your arms so
much. Do not be afraid. Remember to step up over the
curb. Do not forget where you are.

Seth and his grandmother had an ongoing joke about

the rest home where she was staying. Seth's grandmother
was nearing her nineties at this time, and called the place
where she lived Methusela's Empire. Seth would talk
about visiting his grandmother to his friends, who were
convinced this was the actual name of the hospital. Seth's
grandmother couldn't remember the actual name. Seth
couldn't remember, either. This is something Seth and his
grandmother had in common, along with a bone-deep fear
of anyone else learning they were forgetful, as their
cognition was on a sort of unspoken trial. In this sense,
Seth knows a little (not much, but a little) about what it
means to be old in North America. Certainly more than
I've ever known, but all the Creator knows about is the
Creator. This is why the Creator is so far from everyone.
But this is Seth's story; I am rambling.
 Seth's grandmother is named Claire, and she used to
collect rain in glasses she'd keep around her bed in order
to catch stray dreams; she'd sip at the glasses the next day
in order to remember them. To sum her life to this is
repulsive and shameful, but that is what I have done, and
is all I will do.

Breathe with your nose and not your mouth. Do not beg
strangers for forgiveness. Bring up your arm to open the
door. Push against the horozontal bar midway up the
glass door; do not push the glass. Walk through the open
door. Do not walk into anyone. Do not become caught in a
behavorial loop with your analysis. Do not let in the
white silence, as the while silence is death, and is
everywhere in this place. Keep walking. Do not stop.

After Seth left the Empire, he got a bowl of lentil soup

and a croissant at Eat, which was not far down the street.
He also had two cups of coffee. The soup was very good.
The emptiness was going away. It was late in the day. He
had been walking a long time. Maybe he should head home
and clean, as he hadn't cleaned since being on the ward.
There was a lot of dusting to do, which was very
satisfying as a duty. He left a five dollar tip with the
waitress and did not cry.

Tomorrow, he thought, he'd go see Carolyn. But that is

not a day I will talk about. Not with you.
As Blind the Fish; the Poetry of D RoOd

He saw the actor outside the theatre looking at a huge

poster of his own face, whilst inside an old woman
wobbled her face above a salad.
Trying to dry out. It rains. Hunkered into a hood, a black
amphitheatre for the head. Wet car noise reverberates and
stretches around the ears. A bus stop, its shelter, the
graphite command on red brick, “Suck My Tit.” Drying
out with triple chocolate and coffee, and a vantage point
from which to stare.
Spoke loudly and alone, and continually, and with bare
response, on and on. Forgot what he said, it was the turd
of bloke.
Status: Looking to buy somut, though currently in the toil
with a coffee and a sturdy flapjack, that will hopefully
block up my pestering shitter.
Stuff: A bull-mastif and massive, a pile of skin folds on
legs. I slash it open with my imagination and human
babies spill from its gut. Mewling, slowly flexing limbs
and fingers in the viscera. But before that I had just seen
her blue eyes embedded in a phone.
He call him Lloyd. He call him himself. He’d just met a
fellow sufferer, who had been for a week now without
chemical shroud, without the prescription nails in his
hands and feet. Fresh, excited, excitable. Vague voices had
returned to the fellow, faintly mirrored in the
conversations of those he passed. Slightly critical, though
reassuring and familiar stigmata bled into his bounding
brain. He was alive once again, without the doctors waged
interpersonal chemical warfare bearing a normality down
upon him. As he walked away I called to him with my
own name, and he turned and waved back.
i once tied up a man and violated him against his will
yet he brings me gifts of tattered paintbrushes, cat
whiskers and dessicated lizard tails

The Thoughts of Mistress Doriandra Serena Smith

 : LAzaRe
He Wears his boots of Spanish Leather

whelps the icy slope climbing

it is an all ravishing review, already lengthy
and it is your hands, her hands
the nervous haemorrage, the fleeting fancy
the virgin's maids gather herbs, laudanum
visages
Harpocrates' finger stops time
as roses, as cattle stray in the gray humid
fields
a crown in arid grain
blindfold me into the earth spilled emergence
for we might outgrow sorrow
for we might grow sad
it is filth in the night, owls following dots
the golden filaments interlaced without a
stage
drawing unclosed circles
The Canned Heat as Lust and of uNDreSs BétON
filmed but spectacle / anarchical persuades to projects
The (a left it’s gaps / itself filmed but spectacle ]

his tradition to certain detours will cause styles that are defunct
with scaffolding or such objects as your current look:
and, -
motives shocking careful / makes them End for time
most begin as use to make construction sorts & forms useless

environment / et aliae
a prow emotional détournement

such as said pro-fascist dynamic fell sort of self suggested

in only of which are related french-style

fanatical baroque architectural,
those that for constant masses often apply savor desert privileges
in case of studies

tender evaluation
an in is rather assertive out

the cause had admirers parks

the gardens of your ideas leaving charm to have arrangements existing past

sculptural light in cranes behavior seems like his architectural underwear

though used as any boat made of elastic architecture torpedo
possibly made of things stuck to her monument

however, case that line.

that experimental stage, that not had detourned, conceived a book
that ‘We’ & his body without as age pregnant as most straight humans have
named it
all and extent that as just as well spelled this swine to the other extant point

as an propagated furniture has aside of in complex new patriotic spectacles

causing this all will replacing metal

automobiles & success transporting the context

urbanism utilitarian capitalist contradicting the progress

abundance psychogeographical bricks

future society & its police

‘most the astonishing that propaganda’

spell*
…These words of verse were brought to you by the team of
discharge who, on this occasion were…

Murmurists, Doriandra smith, Bryan Lewis Saunders

Robert Chrysler, TICTAC, Neil.R. Graaf

Aaron Held, db, D Rood, Lazare

Undress Béton.

This chapbook was edited by C.J.Duffy and

is a utilityfishshed/discharge publication
All words are © of the authors - 2009