sean?

the future is neat

2009-10-16T07:55:00.001-04:00

but it's also near. now it's gone again.

her motion fell see the bloom

2009-04-06T12:33:00.006-04:00

italic, bold, underline

impostor to appear at kensington row bookshop

2009-03-02T07:23:00.000-05:00

i've heard it's me but i can't be sure.

http://members.verizon.net/~vze4nbyt/#reading4

there

2008-12-26T14:33:00.002-05:00

new story 'there'. not here.

lookblanch frothspire

2008-07-07T15:27:00.002-04:00

someone with my name (sean brijbasi) to appear at politics and prose bookstore on july 25th for the launch of stress city anthology published by paycock press. i might be there also.

don't lookblanch at me like that.

god 23 (she)

2008-06-18T09:35:00.001-04:00

now out there

erstwhile free pendulum

2008-05-31T07:00:00.007-04:00

it's the title of a new story but i can't post it here...just wanted to let all my fan know.

the unknowed things

2008-02-15T15:28:00.001-05:00

new book 'the unknowed things' coming eventually. soon. or late.

le book.

le.

less

2008-02-11T22:45:00.000-05:00

i have less here now.

box kite

2007-01-27T08:23:00.001-05:00

in the forthcoming anthology 'stress city'...more info...blah blah...and blah...

(viremia)

2006-06-01T11:23:00.001-04:00

hidden

observations on a future death

2006-05-20T19:34:00.001-04:00

hidden

get riled upheaval tore ii

2006-04-26T09:49:00.000-04:00

sean brijbasi and j. tyler blue to disappear at the small press bookfair in washington d.c. (bethesda md) on 4/29/06. bring your own cups. they'll have everything else.*

*content stolen from pretend genius

fish dream

2006-04-06T20:43:00.000-04:00

fish drink like us

2006-03-16T07:14:00.000-05:00

sean? to be published in April in an anthology entitled "Fish Drink Like Us". His poetry will also appear in the companion collection entitled "Last Night's Dream Corrected" from the same publisher. Both anthologies are edited by Feargal Mooney of the Willesden Herald. Go to the pre-publicity site here. (Please)

the world that destroyed the world

2006-02-23T10:15:00.000-05:00

hidden

the three [two] parts of sundry

2006-01-12T21:08:00.000-05:00

3am

2006-01-04T14:14:00.000-05:00

you can go there if you want to

chromosome

2005-12-30T22:16:00.000-05:00

"there is a causal arousal between your twinge and the tall ships that boing water. like dummies they'll sproing later. and in a drama, make that loiter, they'll poing after."

--someone

This is what they describe to you while the Martinique revolution plucks the roots of her lightly moistened wheat fields. There is a pause and then it continues.

She harbors a sleight predilection for plaster. Three times the weight of heavy. Horn made of Punjabi silk. Enough a) to make one festoon. And rightly so. For the compromise dissembles her bungalow. Soft width pillows and shams, designed for maximum comfort. Maria, how little the time ticks when dressed in stripes and plastic blaster spoons.

They say trees grow in her sitting room.

She warns me that (uh) here come the stupid words again. And they're all (all) around again. And I read (read) them again. And nothing (nada) new again. Same old partitions and eyeglass suck. And she's right as a bauble in that come with me (so I follow her) way.

Through the phonoplane to the pigeon house where they give words to everything. Even silence and nothing and bob who is nameless. Oh yes, mathilda, the boo-hoo makes her sad. But I pop wheelies and hammer her nipples into a smooth child-like fluffy.

Presently.

She sips tea beneath palm leaves, making pronouncements as bare as winter while mangos sweat in the bowl beside her. Lately I’ve been meaning to tell her something along the lines of a parable. But after a deflection of her existence [inject stream 2, terraprawn inhibitor], and in spite of distractions, it seems she’ll never let me go. And I should love her as one might love a mother but the Roman in me finds fault in even love.

Oh unbridled mare of Tunisia, Sierra Leone and Monjolia, etc., etc..

She laments that nothing ever happened to her that was big enough to connect the world {the whole Nicaragua bullshit and fucked up alcoholic and tangerines like pornographic bible verse.}.

To say to someone: this is what happened to me under the awning while planes fired overhead.

To say to someone: they once made jam that looked like candle wax and sent it by boat to barely remembered outposts and that one time (one time dear Cletus) I jarred a note that read: come back for me.

"These things happen to prevent one from floating away and I have no stories to tell."

All of her responses, impersonations--she loves hemoglobin for what it’s worth. A pressing sensation of Thrasymachus the conniver, the iron made collapser, encircling her residue, cubing her--not what you’re thinking--porpoise flail.

Tell your stories first and then live them, you stupid girl.

But she’s no stupid girl when she leads you by the hand and plunges you pinky first into her hammurabi wigwam. Jesus christ, she’s got pudding down there.

But you’re never alone. Cause it’s never allowed. Even sitting beneath the palm trees that grow through her roof like leafy plugwig and scrubby and her head in your lap as the warm, night breeze calms her to sleep, you hear the crowd dumble: huh? what? chromosome?. Yes, chromosome you philistines. Chromosome. A drone in the pontiff’s ear. A stream of blood like a locust swarm. I can’t believe her sleep but I’ll caress her hair and wait for her awakening.

Sweet dreams baby. Sweet dreams.

biografetus

2005-11-10T16:26:00.001-05:00

hidden

she ii terraprawn...recoil

2005-11-01T04:02:00.001-05:00

There were 3 decided. Finally and unearthed. The Spenserian model and the luhkow. Bath to bath she balanced tea on her mandible tongue. When the prawns and mercenary scabbards came to shave her of her porpoise she protested to fracture go when. This was an introduction to her brow and down beneath. The poke stick hint of her shanty, her eye blood swelling in a puddle of rain, and the pork stench of her hollow.

I followed her through the recoil [a french disaster] and consoled her of a time not too long ago when the presence of mercury suggested fossil degeneration and of men later revealed as Hermione fainting on the beach.

At night she lay on a cold bed with me and through a roofless hut watched mandarin leaves travel through the jet stream. So different from the time of Hammerstein of the Volstein, Royal Crysanthemum of the Haubsfelt.

But as if on a living she modified her thinking with a reckon and showed me the door. And though it was not to my liking I set off for out there but feared I would return one day to gather mud from this place and find pieces of her in my hand. She ate well (sir) but what good was such good when it only prolonged her bad? Die I whispered from the horizon. Die for your own quiet deathness. But she lived on. Were she an animal they would call her human.

It has been said that the croatian god created sugar plantations for the wing of man. The settee is a fine example.

Defeated, I proclaimed victory for my undoing as I limped from her view. And then I whistled for my horse. It was, to put it humbly, the stuff of legends.

[Connector. Note felix messenger. Cellophane timber plantation.]

Addinum:

The astute among you may see this as the logical progression of a temperamental mix. Your shirt becomes covered in hair and oil (precisely f through l) and you think about your travels. Think about how every now and then you see an orange crane. But you don’t see it for long. Not like when there were twigs and casts and men going through trash cans for cigarellos and girls taking pictures and pictures being taken of girls (sitting on stairs). Pause. Relative relocation. Redefined boundaries. Fainting on the...fainting on the...but you (frank pensioneer) sat on that big pony and cut a fine swathe in the land. In that big fat fine caw of yours my little southern belle.

We confessed that it was telling and we talked of the telling and she, unprized and luckless, had herself pinned naked to a/-tree. Perhaps she was glued.

But come my horsie and take me to Rotterdam. Life is good there. My whispers don’t travel far, after all. I could have saved her if I hadn’t sullied her. But she had a swivel penchant for the macabre and said the clever made her sleepy. I said she was brain dead.

But sigh, her days stitch hum drum now. And hmm, we knew that. From here [that] done did that. Sit five [two] tree that.

Fenster, sweet juicy jame, frairy, and our good friend Madame Jane Pimscot who ate bunny rabbit fritters the day her husband died, I being an eyewitness of her having eaten them, sodden and a bit early but she had the likes of a craving in her [for them] for days upon days...

phonoplane

2005-10-16T01:34:00.001-04:00

hidden

the majus

2005-10-15T21:45:00.000-04:00

zebra horse

2005-06-26T21:25:00.000-04:00

3 boys teach you how to read (while swinging)

2005-06-10T14:04:00.000-04:00