i loved you once, but you cut so deep. i resented feeling that powerless.
link
Cartographie of a sONnEt
`__^__`__'__
_^_`_^__^_
__'__'__^__`__
_`__^__'__`
^__'__`
__`__^___'
_^__`__`_
__'___^__`_
__^___^__^_
_`__`__^__'_
^___^__^_`_
__`__`__^_'_
^__'__'__'__
__^__`__^_`_
Key:
`= low-medium stress
^= medium stress
'= heavy stress
_^_`_^__^_
__'__'__^__`__
_`__^__'__`
^__'__`
__`__^___'
_^__`__`_
__'___^__`_
__^___^__^_
_`__`__^__'_
^___^__^_`_
__`__`__^_'_
^__'__'__'__
__^__`__^_`_
Key:
`= low-medium stress
^= medium stress
'= heavy stress
Dans la nuit
C'est comme ça que je suis venu à elle. Dans la nuit. Céline, une américaine de 26 ans, née en Californie, une peau lisse sans défaut, des dents parfaites, un petit nez, des cheveux brillants comme dans les pubs l'Oréal. J'étais accro à sa sublime superficialité. Je n'avais besoin de rien d'autre, le superficiel c'est l'essence même de la beauté féminine. Mon regard fuit vers l'orient. Enfin je crois. Je trouve ça beau : vers l'orient. En réalité, je regarde les toits de la villes, mais vers l'orient ça sonne mieux. Sans bruit, j'ouvre les battants de la fenêtre, un courant d'air frais dégouline jusqu'à mes pieds. Le drap se froisse derrière moi. Dehors la nuit est calme, excepté un bruit discret et lointain d'autoroute. En bas, la rue est déserte, les voitures sont parfaitement alignées sous la lumière jaunâtre du réverbère. Près du caniveau, on devine les restes du passé pas totalement recouvertes par l'asphalte : quelques pavés foulés par des chevaux et des hommes morts bien avant ma naissance. Je prend le paquet de camels qui traîne sur le petit bureau éclairé par la lumière artificielle de la rue, grille une cigarette avec le briquet décoré d'une pin-up des années cinquante. Probablement décédée aujourd'hui. J'avale une fameuse gorgée de goudron. Je contemple l'ombre de la brosse à cheveux sur le rebord de la fenêtre, la fenêtre au cadre usé, au bois qui se désagrège, elle doit bien avoir un siècle cette fenêtre. Je ne pensais pas qu'à Paris on puisse trouver d'aussi vieilles choses authentiques, entre le béton et les tuiles. Un trouble s'agite au fond de moi. Une angoisse boueuse où je n'ai pas envie de patauger, une connerie genre nostalgie de l'enfance ou quelque chose comme ça. J'évite d'y penser. J'aurai aimé avoir un Destin style Ray Charles, avoir inventé la musique du vingtième siècle mais ce genre de truc grandiloquent ne résiste pas à l'usure du quotidien. En contemplant la masse jaunâtre et nocturne de la ville, je me dis que mourir à Hiroshima j'aurai aimé. Enfin, soyons précis, juste sous l'épicentre. Un flash, une milliseconde, sans questions existentielles de dernière minute, volatilisé tout simplement, réduit à l'état de poussière grise d'un magnifique nuage s'élevant dans la stratosphère et s'effondrant en champignon atomique; ou alors partir vers Mars, vers les colonies, « Nouvelles Frontières » jusqu'à – 40 % de réduction le vol Kourou/mont Olympe. J'aspire une nouvelle bouffée de goudron pulvérisé, plus profonde celle là, plus agréable aussi, mélangée à la fraîcheur de l'air. La vie continue. La mutation permanente de la molécule d'A.D.N., dont je ne suis que le réceptacle, percutée par les radiations se poursuit, imperceptiblement. Derrière moi, Céline bouge un peu dérangée par la fraîcheur de l'air, je jette ma clope par la fenêtre. Je me glisse entre les draps froids, je ne veux pas du contact de son corps, je ne veux pas de sa chaleur. j'aimerai être seul.
imagine colour, you cut yourself
out of the picture, these need to
be rethunk, becoming colour blind,
too much toner, always already
copied, follow gold with lead,
saint situation, skip levy, where
exactly is this being read, plue
orval, the written mind, now
increasing now, skip creation,
can i borrow a pencil, globular
mail, likely some sort of scam,
chalk drawings of men in
cowboy hats, the little green
hats, file under one oh one,
add nothing, nothing to copy,
at least you didn’t have to
fold it, still still, as far as
the original goes, cut you back
into the picture, total land
blank, create six, skipped book,
image moose, now ink now, first
pisi, cast love, orval metabox,
plue rare, inhabit the flow,
book nothing, texd, part dead
time, saint you, echo situation,
the shining one, zero copy text,
the copy and the original
joined, oil famine, see what you
know, thousands of realities,
bingo dauber art, load the ink,
nothing is uncopied, chronic
rectal itch, ex-canadian,
work the knack, surface
pretensions, the only thing
left is copies, copies,
Love Story #4 (A Space Odyssey)
Some General Rules
If you are going, be sure to take a sandwich. Those nights in the desert can be lonely.
You will have to make an offering. A free round of applause is given to the tenth caller. Early on you discover a room filled with blue light is located under your living room floor. You don’t know how to get in. It is very small. Your happiness is mandatory and will be enforced.
The Players
Jaime is lonely and beautiful and hides the day away in her room counting the reasons why she can’t leave. If you look out the window you will see a cat watching a man piss in the alley, perhaps there is a rat somewhere, but from your vantage point you can’t see one. However you feel as though there should be one, and you place one behind some garbage cans. Henry doesn’t like to dance, he stands in the corner. One beautiful lady will approach him. He will hide behind the gym mats
The Plot
Later on the spaceships land and everyone lines up single file for a tour. The aliens have their own spokes-model who is handsome and smiles as she shows off the advanced features of this particular model of flying saucer. Jamie and Henry meet on line to see the spaceship. Jamie drops her ticket at the feet of Henry. Henry picks it up and returns it to her and offers a comment that we can’t hear, but that Jamie hears and laughs, and there is a certain look that is exchanged between the two. Inside the spaceship, as the spokes model is explaining the advanced hyper something-- that allows the ship to pass beyond the speed of light, Henry slips his hand into Jaime’s and they both smile and blush. Henry notices that the floor is glowing with a blue light; he notices a trapdoor framed in an intense blue glow. A voice announces over the loudspeaker the various capabilities of the flying ship, its seating capacity and top speed. The aliens look like wasps, except they have human bodies, no antennae and where the wings would be they had brightly colored flags which are decorated with slogans in an unreadable language. Jaime knows immediately that she loves Henry. Henry wants to hide, but the smooth white of the interior of the spacecraft offers no gym mats to hide behind. Instead he inhales his apprehension and tries to avoid looking Jaime directly in the eyes. The alien captain stands outside the cockpit smiling and shaking the hands of the tourist. Henry peeks into the cockpit and notices that the TV is playing re-runs of The Twilight Zone. The aliens must have an understanding of irony, Henry thinks, and he smiles and mumbles something inaudible as he shakes the hand of the captain. Jaime smiles and defers to Henry, who she now plans to marry once they exit the craft. As they exit the ship the spokes-model touches each of them lightly on the shoulder and kisses each of them gently on the cheek. It all seems quite normal.
After the wedding Henry places gym-mates all along the walls of their home, and Jaime has a poster size print of the spaceship framed and placed over the fireplace. It is a compromise of sorts.
Future History
Soon after the aliens leave the empire is founded-- it is a bloodless founding-- everyone simply agrees that it needs to exist. Henry gets a job in the monuments department, designing future monuments to be built all throughout the new empire. Jamie stays at home knitting handbags for sale over the internet, and composing sonnets that speak to the virtues of handholding.
After many years have passed Jamie and Henry look back on their early days, the spaceship days they affectionately refer to them as, and form them into a coherent narrative that they will offer, at a discounted price, to the tenth caller.
If you are going, be sure to take a sandwich. Those nights in the desert can be lonely.
You will have to make an offering. A free round of applause is given to the tenth caller. Early on you discover a room filled with blue light is located under your living room floor. You don’t know how to get in. It is very small. Your happiness is mandatory and will be enforced.
The Players
Jaime is lonely and beautiful and hides the day away in her room counting the reasons why she can’t leave. If you look out the window you will see a cat watching a man piss in the alley, perhaps there is a rat somewhere, but from your vantage point you can’t see one. However you feel as though there should be one, and you place one behind some garbage cans. Henry doesn’t like to dance, he stands in the corner. One beautiful lady will approach him. He will hide behind the gym mats
The Plot
Later on the spaceships land and everyone lines up single file for a tour. The aliens have their own spokes-model who is handsome and smiles as she shows off the advanced features of this particular model of flying saucer. Jamie and Henry meet on line to see the spaceship. Jamie drops her ticket at the feet of Henry. Henry picks it up and returns it to her and offers a comment that we can’t hear, but that Jamie hears and laughs, and there is a certain look that is exchanged between the two. Inside the spaceship, as the spokes model is explaining the advanced hyper something-- that allows the ship to pass beyond the speed of light, Henry slips his hand into Jaime’s and they both smile and blush. Henry notices that the floor is glowing with a blue light; he notices a trapdoor framed in an intense blue glow. A voice announces over the loudspeaker the various capabilities of the flying ship, its seating capacity and top speed. The aliens look like wasps, except they have human bodies, no antennae and where the wings would be they had brightly colored flags which are decorated with slogans in an unreadable language. Jaime knows immediately that she loves Henry. Henry wants to hide, but the smooth white of the interior of the spacecraft offers no gym mats to hide behind. Instead he inhales his apprehension and tries to avoid looking Jaime directly in the eyes. The alien captain stands outside the cockpit smiling and shaking the hands of the tourist. Henry peeks into the cockpit and notices that the TV is playing re-runs of The Twilight Zone. The aliens must have an understanding of irony, Henry thinks, and he smiles and mumbles something inaudible as he shakes the hand of the captain. Jaime smiles and defers to Henry, who she now plans to marry once they exit the craft. As they exit the ship the spokes-model touches each of them lightly on the shoulder and kisses each of them gently on the cheek. It all seems quite normal.
After the wedding Henry places gym-mates all along the walls of their home, and Jaime has a poster size print of the spaceship framed and placed over the fireplace. It is a compromise of sorts.
Future History
Soon after the aliens leave the empire is founded-- it is a bloodless founding-- everyone simply agrees that it needs to exist. Henry gets a job in the monuments department, designing future monuments to be built all throughout the new empire. Jamie stays at home knitting handbags for sale over the internet, and composing sonnets that speak to the virtues of handholding.
After many years have passed Jamie and Henry look back on their early days, the spaceship days they affectionately refer to them as, and form them into a coherent narrative that they will offer, at a discounted price, to the tenth caller.
Logos, another dimension
Crawling
Backwards in time
Exploding deeds suck back in thoughts
The why’s of life’s quest Drip up to the mind
Exploring a mark in time
Where
I am is
No blood spilled
I am covered complete
I crawled
further back
Finding blueprints
Peeked in
My name, there it was
Ab ovo
|
At the source
the plan is complete
Answers
drawn out of
questions unasked
the plan is complete
Answers
drawn out of
questions unasked
At
the
count
down
of
time
the
count
down
of
time
20060927
Travelling d'un voyage en tram
l'Action! des portes se claquant, se refermant.
Travelling d'accélérations, de rallentissement,
de vitesse, de lenteur fait.
Voix France Culture d'une spekerine annonciatrice
'direction Condilllââc universit-tés'
lignes de fer d'un tram way
d'un tram sens de l'anglais?
'to tram along' du middle low german
et middle dutch tramere.
arrivée à condilllââc universit-té
plan fixe sur un bureau de tabac
le cut des portes se refermant derrière toi.
Morning Announcement and Sky Poem
t was that silvery streak at first. familiar to the earthly gods as exhaust from a jet engine. that's the dynamo that obtains force by means of exaggerated words, and with this force shrinks earth to habitable size. it's a wonder and great. that streak, then, vested with the light from the direct sun, glows silver, tho its nature really speaks of water, steam and ice: that alchemy. the glow is particular, tho not rare. where this aeronautical express and the sun relate influences the nature of that glow. a brief time, then the silver goes white and seems less featured. still, that flight and conveyance occurs high, more than 17 feet high, more than 191 feet above me, even more than 1304.78 meters away from earth itself and all the vertical pronouns ever imagined. gosh, when we fall, we take forever. the clouds grab at us, the birds flap for us, the jet engine screams a bloody lament (with textures of great big noise, like you could change information). and then we too become brilliantly, fit for sky and earth. it is crazy just holding that stillness, as clouds inflate to vested interest and perhaps a war means news again. surely, nothing can be more risky than ending all planes. we'd have to bear the light ourselves, with clouds our only friends. we can't do that, can we?
everwards
weeks ago
this our everafter
's been
pulsating
since
.
we're in love
through
our future
.
falt did i
i missed us
hope
.
Surd for Surprise
here's a surprise, with capacious dread. the sky today, that was so blue, has sagged, retreated, till only the last idea remains. the sun was brilliant as a spectacle until when, then showed a strange trade in documentation. words can't express the distance now being obscured. the fault and umbrage beheld at this time distinguishes the loss of light. this happened today and today still happens. the sun, it seems, has let the world, my world, roll away. no disgust can allow that, no grade of dissatisfaction would qualify this act as just. we live in light, that has always been so. yet darkness, deeper than blue, has sifted in. in where, you might ask. directly, and less of a report than stirring the dreams every single night. how can we move on, stricken by this tender seeming? we've given ourselves to astonishing falls from the heavens, or crashes of aircraft, or odd situations with unnerving selection of people who may be named. and all along, the stunning slaking of a vague thirst. what book began all this? I remember red and orange, extremely so, in the morning in my memory. I remember the stretching rays of the usual light sting into treetops like the invention of gold. I know the invention of gold strays from the immediate session, but I am struck by the application of similar intensities. the mind wonders at connection, always. now the dark is a pure lack of explanation. this situation is serious. sounds seem to arrive from quadrants I haven't studied. I don't know if clouds remain. I've heard that the moon instills, but I've yet to see it. this is night, then, no other way to explain it. blue may reside in that dark, but I can't be sure. perhaps tomorrow will bring a new panoply of those exacting blues that I remember now. do you suppose bright red could enter a tree? that would be a relabeling, or something even more stretched. perhaps the sky too will burn the same red substance. if this darkness moves on, and red can become prime, I will call that a new day.
Fascist Boat
Take a boat into a sea because there are no laws that govern the seas.
Row the boat with an axe because a man who wrote a flier said that trees are fascists.
Scatter twigs throughout the boat because a man on the radio called gays 'fascists'.
Let the boat drift to nowhere because someone thinks that undetermined paths are paramount to or cause fascism.
Take a boat into a sea because there are no laws that govern the seas.
Row the boat with an axe because a man who wrote a flier said that trees are fascists.
Scatter twigs throughout the boat because a man on the radio called gays 'fascists'.
Let the boat drift to nowhere because someone thinks that undetermined paths are paramount to or cause fascism.
montreal more imagery of here then past present
St. Catherine street..... you walk on that one from the age of 5,6 on...
did you saunter on this one? she did he did not holding hands/ holding breath
/time
/time is death/
remember that time ? walking over... the mountain?
but yer head is like rock
wench of tables
holding the rigid of death
St Laurent 1950`s __________ the Past.
wikimontreal
did you saunter on this one? she did he did not holding hands/ holding breath
/time
/time is death/
remember that time ? walking over... the mountain?but yer head is like rock
wench of tables
holding the rigid of death
St Laurent 1950`s __________ the Past.
wikimontreal
lettre à un ami en devenir
Il y a des trous comme ça dans la vie d'un homme. Oui, pendant huit jours nous n'avons rien écrit et puis ceci. C'est peut-être ça une vie, des vides, des pleins, des accélérations suivie d'immobilismes intempestifs, à l'infini. A tous ceux qui croîtraient vers une surdétermination des accélérations nous ne pouvons qu'opposer 'un rire philosophique' proche du silencieux. Car se sont sans doute les vides qui sont pleins, intenses. C'est là, dans ces passages immobiles, que les choses se meuvent, se passent. Il suffirait simplement d'y faire attention et pourtant. Les intensités ne peuvent être qu'immobiles car elles sont les lenteurs d'une ligne, les accélérations sa pure étendue. Oui, ce serait ça _____________/\______________, vitesse continue et puis intensité, sorti du temps, de la ligne. On nous dit que l'intensité c'est la vitesse, mais si l'on dit ça, c'est qu'on est encore trop proche de l'homme et de toutes ses métaphores et surtout celle du coeur. On croit que l'intensité c'est quand le coeur bat plus vite; l'intensité c'est la mise en tension, c'est-à-dire une neutralization de forces opposées. Ce serait ça l'actuel, une neutralization des virtuels. Nous entendons déjà les protestations des bien pensants, 'mais pour qui se prend-il celui-là'. Mais nous n'avons jamais prétendu être philosophe, plutôt un non-philosophe s'aventurant sur une terre philosophique.
Une lettre, ça devrait s'écrire avec du papier et un stylo et nous voilà qui la tapons. Ce doit être ça écrire à l'ordinateur, une machine d'écriture de papier brûlé. Ne rien garder en réserve, tout brûler pour se déterritorialiser. Et là, cri philosophique d'un ancien, 'mais il faut bien s'arrêter!' Le faut-il vraiment? Où écrirons-nous après ces weblogs devenus blogs? Une lettre c'est aussi le désordre d'une journée, de mille petites choses s'agençant sur un plan sans plan. Nous aurions pu suivre un plan, mettre de l'ordre dans tout ça, mais c'est à toi de le faire. La fin d'une lettre vient toujours du dehors, tu entends? on m'appelle. Ce ne n'est pas que nous n'ayons plus rien à dire, il y en aurait tant à rajouter, mais on m'appelle. Tu n'es pas obligé de répondre et puis il faudra bien que tu passes de commentaires, puisqu'ils ne marchent pas. Alors écris moi, tu as l'adresse, c'est dans le profil.
Bien à toi.
Une lettre, ça devrait s'écrire avec du papier et un stylo et nous voilà qui la tapons. Ce doit être ça écrire à l'ordinateur, une machine d'écriture de papier brûlé. Ne rien garder en réserve, tout brûler pour se déterritorialiser. Et là, cri philosophique d'un ancien, 'mais il faut bien s'arrêter!' Le faut-il vraiment? Où écrirons-nous après ces weblogs devenus blogs? Une lettre c'est aussi le désordre d'une journée, de mille petites choses s'agençant sur un plan sans plan. Nous aurions pu suivre un plan, mettre de l'ordre dans tout ça, mais c'est à toi de le faire. La fin d'une lettre vient toujours du dehors, tu entends? on m'appelle. Ce ne n'est pas que nous n'ayons plus rien à dire, il y en aurait tant à rajouter, mais on m'appelle. Tu n'es pas obligé de répondre et puis il faudra bien que tu passes de commentaires, puisqu'ils ne marchent pas. Alors écris moi, tu as l'adresse, c'est dans le profil.
Bien à toi.
Awesome Visit
hey, Allen Bramhall, it's me, Frank O'Hara, I'm the sun now. that makes me a god!!! I'm as surprised about it as you must be. I rise brilliantly in the morning, in fact I make morning. I see you there, just you. do you need any help right now? I can get it for you wholesale. haha, see, I haven't lost my humour (hope you laughed!) just because I'm the sun and a god. I could do anything for you, in a blink. that's what the sun is all about. let's go visit Berrigan, I think he worshipped me and maybe he would have worshipped you. let us say that he would. he'd come over at odd hours, for him all hours were odd. he'd rumble in, he'd bump in. pills, Pepsi, the whole revolution. instead of you writing his bio, which you'd never do, he'd end up writing yours. terrific, right? sure. let's forget Berrigan right now. let's focus on you. are you relaxed in that effort of which all movement steals a word from somewhere? let the sun show you shadow. a pause from the gallant explosions, the muddy universe in all its drive to succeed. this shadow, it launches from the likes of me. the shadow needn't create a booming business, it just wants to plant the hints of varying. life and death aren't separate, why should shadow and light be? I've never seen you on Fire Island (where I died), never seen you in a lot of places. but I know your place. your place sits dark in the morning, and you get up. nothing special. you don't time my rising or offer praise. you have breakfast, twiddle, walk dog, imagine. let that be everything. I did, and now I'm the sun. and I'm a god, too. I've got it made. you can too. just refrain from the stinkers and their mobilization. stick up for what you already know. you don't need my advice. nobody needs a god's advice, and who listens to the sun? I just thought I'd play today, breaking from direction. I'll be in the trees all day, then slowly disappear from your view. each next day, I'll be back with a winning smile. I'm Frank O'Hara. I was a very good poet.
An Elderly Poet?
Rupert Everett on younger gay men not being attracted to him: "The only way they`d notice me is if I set myself on fire and then they`d try to light their cigarettes off me."
What Zadie Smith said about hubby Nick Laird, poet: "But I`m the writer."
John Stiles on spotting the first grey hair in the front of former golden locks: "An elderly has got in `mongst the children."
What Zadie Smith said about hubby Nick Laird, poet: "But I`m the writer."
John Stiles on spotting the first grey hair in the front of former golden locks: "An elderly has got in `mongst the children."
Entangled
I envy skis
pools
lakes
laps of women
you sit upon
and with your broken “b”
I’m glad it’s not the “m”
for miss you
meet me
my girl
pools
lakes
laps of women
you sit upon
and with your broken “b”
I’m glad it’s not the “m”
for miss you
meet me
my girl
Union Break
Performance poets The Typing Explosion take a union break when performing in Ottawa, Ontario as part of The Wave Books Poetry Bus Tour
fiction of cut up
The problem with cut up
the problem with cut up
the problem with cut up
Louis Aragon, forgotten surrealist poet,
once said if yer unconscious is full
of cliches, and hack expression
when you do automatic writing,
thats whats gonna come
out
cutup is useful to end that
.
automatic writing is not cutup
.
_____________
thing, below is an example of a bad poem by clifford duffy its bad cause its vague echoes other verses book streetlamps the hour little in love with you man scouring the dialect armadillo 'rise' to the moment of the inferred lyric I and its pretences (ie its conceits) relative to the evades the anxiety it ensues because of that. spacing it does nto help. entering the 'subjective' I typ e of swathing use of feminine rhyme in the final couple save lover/beloved figurein any other place this curse refused re-fused meaning it dont got any enuff batteries to carry it s weight last duffy fails to failure mister duffy an able writer and poet most times off course trapped by illusion of substance in word choice flux of bor e thru saturday after love i remember the air around burning your hands cutting & wished for memorynot real facts icon of desire busted bust tale of night hammer of sock as if bad coffee lay too long toast & cheese hilarious last saturday after indicates vague space of the line from
that was cut up interesting to see what happen
to the quatum of a text when cut this way.
Fictionsfictions2 ending paradigm.
otherwise
one fall to e_subjecting poesies. all way.
more production of personal subjectities adds
weighted waste to gross grade weight of world
text to forget
'I,I,I,I,I,I,I,I,I,I,,,,,,,III,,,,III,,,,,II...,,,II
end III does not send emotion
adds to emotion
real emotion
not i me I emoting
not to say some do that well
most dont
cant machine wont let
limit wall
deleuze guattari suggest we get past wall
one way or other
danger of wall
and becoming
ego trap
i sap
the problem with cut up
the problem with cut up
Louis Aragon, forgotten surrealist poet,
once said if yer unconscious is full
of cliches, and hack expression
when you do automatic writing,
thats whats gonna come
out
cutup is useful to end that
.
automatic writing is not cutup
.
_____________
thing, below is an example of a bad poem by clifford duffy its bad cause its vague echoes other verses book streetlamps the hour little in love with you man scouring the dialect armadillo 'rise' to the moment of the inferred lyric I and its pretences (ie its conceits) relative to the evades the anxiety it ensues because of that. spacing it does nto help. entering the 'subjective' I typ e of swathing use of feminine rhyme in the final couple save lover/beloved figurein any other place this curse refused re-fused meaning it dont got any enuff batteries to carry it s weight last duffy fails to failure mister duffy an able writer and poet most times off course trapped by illusion of substance in word choice flux of bor e thru saturday after love i remember the air around burning your hands cutting & wished for memorynot real facts icon of desire busted bust tale of night hammer of sock as if bad coffee lay too long toast & cheese hilarious last saturday after indicates vague space of the line from
that was cut up interesting to see what happen
to the quatum of a text when cut this way.
Fictionsfictions2 ending paradigm.
otherwise
one fall to e_subjecting poesies. all way.
more production of personal subjectities adds
weighted waste to gross grade weight of world
text to forget
'I,I,I,I,I,I,I,I,I,I,,,,,,,III,,,,III,,,,,II...,,,II
end III does not send emotion
adds to emotion
real emotion
not i me I emoting
not to say some do that well
most dont
cant machine wont let
limit wall
deleuze guattari suggest we get past wall
one way or other
danger of wall
and becoming
ego trap
i sap
Status Anxiety
The defining condition of poetry in Britain today, if this is any indication, is status anxiety. What is the status of poetry? Who reads and values it? Who dismisses it, and why? If the better-known faces of British poetry are published by large commercial presses (Picador, Faber, Cape), heavily marketed, and prone to being awarded prizes, they at least (in contrast to the more rarefied world of US poetry) stay true to an ideal of 'retaining a contract with ordinary readers [...] which keeps [poetry] at the heart of literary culture.' In spite of this, and a defiant reclamation of the label 'mainstream', acceptance remains hard to come by. A writer born in Liverpool could not read his work there without 'risk[ing] having my head twisted off at the gristle [...] Poetry is still a kind of backwater.' Academics and other critical nay-sayers are having none of this 'mainstream' poetry business either, dismissing it as 'hopelessly in thrall to a long-discredited lyric "I"'. A first step towards overcoming the marginalisation of mainstream poetry in Britain today is this academic conference in Oxford.
was_||||||example
below is an example of a bad poem by clifford duffy
its bad cause its vague echoes other verses evades
the anxiety it ensues because of that. spacing it
does nto help. entering the 'subjective' I
typ e of thing, duffy fails to 'rise' to the
moment of the inferred lyric
I and its pretences (ie its conceits)
relative to the lover/beloved
figure.
in any other
place this 'verse'
wl.d be refused.
re-fused. meaning it dont got any enuff
batteries to carry it s weight.
____________________________
last saturday after
love
i remember
the air
around burning
your hands cutting
& swathing
___________________
the use of feminine rhyme in
the final "couplet'
does not save the line from
failure.
mister duffy an able
writer and poet most times
off course
trapped by illusion of substance
in word choice
flux
of bor
e
thru tale of night
hammer of sock.
as if bad coffee lay too long.
toast & cheese.
hilarious .
'last saturday after'
indicates vague space of wished for memory.
not real facts.
icon of desire busted bust.
my best poem yet
the shiteing shitheads of doom
fill me up with glowering gloom,
follow me into my bathroom,
where they multiply and mushroom,
and I'm a foul smelling buffoon.
I'd get them with my harpoon
if I had one,
or if I had a clue
how to skew
the shiteing shitheads of doom.
fill me up with glowering gloom,
follow me into my bathroom,
where they multiply and mushroom,
and I'm a foul smelling buffoon.
I'd get them with my harpoon
if I had one,
or if I had a clue
how to skew
the shiteing shitheads of doom.
row, row, row your boat ...
row ... you have power and control
the boat ... know your a vessel
gently ... maintain balance
down stream ... smile at all the people swimming up stream
merrily ... have a lot of fun
life is your dream ... so have one that's just for you
peace & harmony,
elaine
'freedom must be exercised to stay in shape!'
the boat ... know your a vessel
gently ... maintain balance
down stream ... smile at all the people swimming up stream
merrily ... have a lot of fun
life is your dream ... so have one that's just for you
peace & harmony,
elaine
'freedom must be exercised to stay in shape!'
Troupe
"It looked like a piece of some different dream fallen here." --William Gibson
Troupe
At Hatrack River
I made my crossing
To that Ferryman
Offered a -Word-
(The taste was sweet)
Turned out he loves poetry!
Charon lept for free.
This is not an exit.
Me a bard.
The altitude of me
Never brings you ladies down!
(rather swooning)
I am
May conceived
Pen man.
Duets of Fire
Insde the Soul.
We are all members
Of the Troupe of Calliope.
--Nobius Black
Troupe
At Hatrack River
I made my crossing
To that Ferryman
Offered a -Word-
(The taste was sweet)
Turned out he loves poetry!
Charon lept for free.
This is not an exit.
Me a bard.
The altitude of me
Never brings you ladies down!
(rather swooning)
I am
May conceived
Pen man.
Duets of Fire
Insde the Soul.
We are all members
Of the Troupe of Calliope.
--Nobius Black
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