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Office of Institutional Research

Communications & External Affairs

Nada Gordon

Gordon This poetic trace was used in:
Poem 11: She then flies to Art
Poem 23: Useful Bullshit
Poem 33: Thespian p*ssycock
Poem 34: Homophobic poseur buffoon +
narcissistic geometrical zip = nurture


If you are reading this , then you are an intelligent person who is capable of making informed choices about where you want your life to go

if ur reading this ,my symphaties to u guys cuz ur dead.

I know if ur reading this u will probably pay no mind but ur missing out on some talented artists..Give it a chance and then u can be on the streetteam

If ur reading this then obviously ur dumb to not realize my obvious unintelligence


Now if ur reading this , ur either the person I know or ur majorly mistaken. I know for a fact that someone very special is reading this paragraph!

hey, if ur reading this , good for u! this is sorta unervingly close to reality, but tweaked in some places. i am sorry if u feel insulted

If You Are Reading This, You Had Better Fucking Hate Horses!!! Look, this is a website about horses and how much we hate them. They are gross and stupid and
If You Are Reading This , You Had Better Fucking Hate Horses!!! NICE SHOES ASSHOLE!! Fuck Off Horse Hater Posers!

If You Are Reading This You Have An FBI File.

I'd Like To0 Meet AnyOne And EveryOne And If ur ReaDing This Then Of CourSe U!!!!!!!!!!!! the crotch of ur life!'s

If ur reading this still up to this point, ur only bored & nothin more


Grandmother’s Hands

My grandmother’s hands
all covered with sticky goo!
and anteriorly with whitish bristles

My grandmother’s hands –
loose alabaster skin, soft as kid gloves
covered with deep-fried pork strips

My grandmother’s hands
zipping open pale skin
in a metal bowel

She then flies to art, and puts on a Perriwig
valuing herself an unnatural bundle of hairs
all covered with Powder

My grandmother’s hands recognize grapes,
the damp shine of a goat’s new skin
all covered with sharp chips

My grandmother’s hands are canaries
ready to collapse in on themselves
going screaming and weeping over the facts of the universe

her tentacles all covered with ashes and ink
exhaustless and copious, showing forth through dandified forms
the same absence of special purpose as in nature…

My grandmother’s hands are sibilant Persian canaries
pulling an unborn egg
into the light.


In My Lustrelessness

In my Lustrelessness, norm, form, and function are revealed as blithely editable,then turned into an intonation beyond the irrigated “pirate” mind.

I was sat with a malevolent question… but now I am more or less riotous and bounded, because, well duh, the encounter between spectator-subject and image-object is a process of frivolous interference or mutual indignant mutation! I hope this doesn't sound too confrontational.

Don't know why the butterflies still hide in my messy entanglements.

In a story about the traveller and a pencil and the conceptual plenitude of its polychromic dog (can a dog die from eating a firework?), do we cross the ocean just to find a tricked-up fog in the false nature park? Filled with the myriads who lived but never existed in the perverse bricolage?

Will everything become a blur in the afternoon? Can we tell a tiger from a mottled patch of shade in this lambent cacophony?

What a waste to chase the sun in this implausible account of mental life, like homemade fake puke… just as some white people envision breasts as (ontic) white, and go on to associate the latter with white screens.

If love poems are written in pidgin python in my dreams, there is also some polemic in some places, because all imagery is a bad riposte against the triumph of “whimsy.”

Turned inside. Turned inside. Inturned social speech, adult. Vanishes with social speech. Persists, turned inward. Persists, subconscious. Persists primitively. Pragmatic, posits as inner structure. Persists. Persists.

The balloons, singing: that’s the way to party (the fecundity of the unknown in the heart of aberrant intimacy).

I will unite with the easterly wind’s bum schemas and rattle-trap heuristics in the cocky dismissal of my lustrelessness, its impulsive body, the white nose of its prattling excess.



Coitus rarissimus,
actus quasi masturbatorius,
in corpore feminae, sine ulla voluptate

i.e., puellam coagere solebat,
ut eum masiurbaret.
paranoia persecutoria
and neurasthenia sexualis.

Qua re summa libidine
affectus pedem femince lambit q
uod solum eum libidinosum
facere potest: turn ejaculationem

Lambitor sudoris pedum mulierum!
secretum inter digitos nudos pedis
ejus bene olans exsugere

Summa ei fit voluptas, si meretrices
in os ejus ' fceces et urinas deponunt.
Vinum supra corpus scortorum effusum"
defiuens ore ad meretricis cunnum
adposito excipit. Valde delectatur,
si, sanguinem menstrualem ex vagina
effluentem sugere potest.

cum ilia puella fortuito pede calce
olo tecto penem tetigit.

tritus membri inter brachia
talia artificialia

Maxime delectata fuit lambendo anum
feminarum amatarum, lambendo
sanguinem menstrualem amicae.