Velimir Khlebnikov and ‘Displacement’ as Poetics

For Khlebnikov, the theoretical foundation does not exactly sum up his aesthetics and ideas, but is more of a code to slovotvorchestvo (Futurist ‘word creation’), where ‘languages will remain for art and will be freed from a humiliating burden, [that] we are tired from hearing.’ Introducing the idea of language as a benign and malleable force sans frontiers, Khlebnikov does not seem confined to the landscape of the urban, industrial aesthetics usually associated with Futurism. Literary parallelism, for him, is not only between the gentrified, combustive energy of cities, but can also be exchanged and melded through national folk motifs, elements, allusions and linguistic borrowings.

In trying to determine this accentuation of defamiliarisation (ostraneniye) in Khlebnikov’s world, it is important to explore the idea of ‘the word as such’, where the word itself is an object, evoking the possibility to refer to everything that hasn’t yet been proposed, as signage to a copious relation between one thing and another. The linguistic sign represents what is unsaid: an univocal identity of meaning; the illicit and repressed are the attempt of the unconscious of language to voice itself – in itself an impossibility. Khlebnikov’s word-experiments – for example the misleading use of suffixes and prefixes forming from the same root words, the invention of neologisms, or his attempts to create new Russian terms in exchange for long-borrowed foreign terms – all bring about a sense of defamiliarisation with poetic language. His experiments were a serious attempt to recreate a psychotropic world of folklore with the means of high art: a mediation between fairy tales (skazki), folk culture, the cosmopolitan, a blur of intertextual allusions from the world’s literary canon, as well as the languages that comprise world culture.

Khlebnikov was also devoted to the rational, ‘scientific’ relations of the word, confounding any element of emotion. He created mathematical systems to determine the secreted meaning of individual letters within the alphabet and, in one essay, he makes a distinction between ‘the language of general understanding’ (yazik ponimanie) and ‘the language of trans-reason’ (zaumnyi yazik) to prove that his quasi-equations are actual eternal structures to language. (He also surveyed the different consonant sounds in other languages to prove that these structures existed other than in Russian.) Like Balmont, Khlebnikov was fascinated by ‘the primitive stage of language’1, bringing this pre-verbal manner to the Russian language and to Russian poetics, creating a poetic revolution. Poetics would not only become strange by returning to Slavic folk motifs and elements but also by returning to the root of language. Khlebnikov’s word formations raised the level of objectification that could be utilised in Russian grammar and vocabulary in order to create an unexpected aspect of sound to the ear, to haul out the eternal mystery within language itself, stripping it back to its barest bones of groundless, arbitrary meaning.

Khlebnikov’s notion of the ‘word as such’ is an attempt to discover this ‘something’ intrinsic to language itself – perhaps language itself being zaum. ‘Zaum’ was a poetic attempt by Khelbnikov and Alexander Kruchenikh to create a universal language, where a bodily function, an expression of emotion, or any other phenomenon could be expressed by the hyperbolic usage of a word. Zaum was a revolutionary practice to rupture language by going back to the materiality of the word, taking it beyond itself to a pre-foetal and timeless state. It was created at a time that the culture itself was on the verge of war and revolution at the beginning of the 20th century. By emphasising an unusual register of words and their relations to one another, Khlebnikov has evoked insight into the world of words: this infinite poetics and the internal networks within language to unite people all over the world is a concept echoed in many of Khlebnikov’s essays. It is not only his theoretical assertions, but also his baffling semantic structures, which elucidate a mural of soundshapes (‘zvukopis’), which widen and decentre the scope of play abundant with personifications, accents, and obsolete Russian words.

In Lacan’s theory of subjectivity, the self is necessarily divided, intertwining with that which (or whomever) is believed to be other to itself: the Self cannot see itself except through the agency of the other. In his essays from the collection Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, Lacan introduces the concept of vision and how internal it is to the structure of our desire and our perception of the desired other. ‘The Gaze’ is an opening; it is not a singular act of observing in a quasi-Kantian model: in Lacanian terms, the concept of the gaze is a point of loss and a series of relations. This relation to things is where ‘something slips, passes, is transmitted, from stage to stage, and is always to some degree eluded in it – that is what we call the gaze’.2

This consolidation and loss of self via the gaze is a construct that benefits readings of poems such as ‘Ra’, whom we find ‘seeing his own eye in the red swamp/ contemplating his dream and himself.’ The poem puts forward the question: who is Ra really looking at? The fixation on others, the hallucinogenic relations that sprout from each and every gaze in the poem – ‘a thousand eyes of the Volga,’ which somehow subsume one eye, although it is not clear whose, by this stage. These malleable notions of the self and how they co-exist between elements, gods, and folkloric motifs require a psychoanalytic tool of interpretation in order to lead to an interrogation of the notion of the self, unfolding as it does in the poems.

Lacan’s essay ‘Subversion of the Subject and the Dialect of Desire’ in Ecrits also provides a theoretical conception of the desiring subject, one in which I frame readings of the speaking ‘I’ in the Persian poems. The representation of subjectivity as shaped by a projection of otherness in the poem can thus be related to the idea of Lacanian desire.

Khlebnikov’s notion of culture is itself not entirely Euro-centric or Russo-centric: culture is something transitional, a declamation of primordial world revolting against the destruction of ‘bourgeois society’ Although Khlebnikov was nurtured by the Futurists’ leap to reveal, defy and invade the unknown and the unexpected, his extraordinary articles, passages and poetic references were devoted to the expressive possibilities that other cultures and languages could bring to the poetic revolution of the Russian language, thus transcending other Futurists in this regard. In order to analyse and understand Khlebnikov’s work, there has to be some understanding of his ideas of language and culture, and his attempts to apply these concepts in his poems.

The fundamental concept of the materiality of the word central to Khlebnikov’s poetics requires clarification. In determining this materiality of the word becoming the space of the word (‘the word as such’ as theorised by Khlebnikov), which is not fully formed, we are led to a poetics of ‘displacement’: where language, words, units, morphemes and syllables are not autonomous, but a space. (For an example of which, Khlebnikov coined the term ‘soundshape’ (zvukopis), which is always in a flux of multiplicity and displaced from its familiar, clichéd usage.)

In order to define ‘displacement’ and why it is utilised in the analysis of the works of Khlebnikov, Deleuze and Guittari’s notion of the ‘rhizome’ has been drawn upon, as it is a theoretical construct that assumes the diverse forms of language as a chain of actions, an event ceaselessly ‘othered’, a channel open to change. Their method of the rhizome is conceived of as a weed of multiplicity, infinite in dimension, encompassing subject and object, image and world, and holding the potential possibilities of signification projected within language. The rhizome is depicted as a series of connections, lines and flights, envisioned by the authors as a valid variation to the standard, binary logic that has dominated Western thought.

By advocating the rhizome as a metaphor for ‘displacement’ within Khlebnikov’s poetics, I will elaborate on the scheme of the rhizome in terms of Khlebnikov’s notion of ‘the word as such’ (slovo kak takovo) as a poetic of displacement and the specific mythopoeia of Khlebnikov that is also one of displacement. In each of these areas, displacement has occurred as a diversity of forms of representation within the word; its related concepts are structured as a configuration of the language of possibility and of otherness central to his poetic experiments as depicted by the concept of the rhizome.

In the poetics of Khlebnikov, language is the very otherness that is a metaphor for displacement. The idea of displaced meaning – a displacement of a unified, autonomous meaning – is outlined in the following extract, where a dialogue between a student and teacher is created to convey the materiality of language in order to substantiate his own poetic excavations. (The dialogue itself is complete with meta-narrative; as it comments on the nature of this literary form itself, it is reminiscent of Plato’s dialogues and attempts to reconfigure the form of dialogues as we have understood them since Socrates, thus reintroducing the form to the avant-garde.)

The dialogue explores the role of words’ internal materiality, as the student is indignant that his philological findings demonstrate that the perimeters of meaning are within a word and are dependent on certain conditions. These conditions, as demonstrated by the internal variation of vowels, are diverse and not independent: they rely on what is both absent and present (as the student asserted with the example of a bald spot and a tree trunk). Conditions of language are exposed to conditions beyond what is present: in Khlebnikov’s poetic world, words have a displaced relationship to what they represent. There is an attempt to cleanse language of its unnatural, static and tired references, and reject the ‘common’ associations of words, which are an artificial and arbitrary construct.

Although this is somewhat speculative, the point can be made that Khlebnikov’s poetics of displacement may have been influenced by his probing into foreign languages. The idea of an ‘internal declension’ is nothing new in terms of Semitic languages. For example, this can be illustrated by the Arabic root verb ka-ta-ba (to read). If it is declined internally, it could mean kitaab (book), kaatib (writer), kutubu (books), etc. As short vowels are generally not written in Arabic, meaning is gathered by context. This visualisation of an internal declining system may have appealed to Khlebnikov, as the idea of visualisation was rather impertinent to Futurism and the absence of the vowel may have had an impact on him. Similarly, the presence of radicals and homophonous logographic characters in Chinese (symbols for words that sound alike but have different semantic meanings) may have also had an influence on the poet, given the ‘visualness’ of these languages.

From the play, Zangezi, Khlebnikov’s improvisations are realised by formulating words with the Russian root ‘um’ (‘mind’) in order to overturn both conventional and unconventional prefixes, affixing to the root word meanings that do not exist, but within the rules of language could be possible, thus displacing the meaning of ‘um’ as it is usually perceived. Khlebnikov’s linguistic developments also represent the possibility of becoming a poetic in itself – an otherness that exists within language. This displacement calls into question the notion of poetic language as a form, rather than as a substance – a protest against semantic conditioning. Like the rhizome, it is a system of relations, as any prefix in Russian can be applied to the root word.

In his notes on the play, Khlebnikov explains this elaborate system and what could essentially be seen as the destruction of a standard language as we know it. As if on exhibition, the root word begins to lack definition: with the prefix ‘v’, it is explained as ‘an invention’. Un-love of what is old leads to ‘vyum’. Or the letters ‘Go’ can be explained, as noted in the play, ‘high as those trinkets of the sky, the stars, which aren’t visible during the day.’ From fallen lords (gosudari in Russian) ‘Go’ takes the dropped staff. ‘Noum’ and ‘Daum’, with their common meanings of ‘No’ and ‘Da’ (‘but’ and ‘yes’ in Russian), signify the argumentative and the affirmative assigned to the mind. The mind is a key to refer to in terms of Khlebnikov’s poetics: the principle of Zaum, trans-sense, or literally ‘beyond-mind’ (za in Russian meaning ‘beyond’), is central to how the Futurists were informed and inspired by language construction and how word-creations existed as form and not only as technique, revealing unexplored norms of poetic language. Like the rhizome, the word ‘um’ is a world – and a word – unto itself.

Already, the life of the word – and the forms it could take – is the essence of poetry: an idea that could arguably be said to have formulated the poetics of Futurism. Significantly, this essence, the life of the word, is the key to the history of a people, which here could also be in opposition to the past, on in confluence with it – a life ‘detachable, connectable, reversible, modifiable, and [that] has multiple entryways and exits and its own line of flights’.3 The power of poetry is to unlock that life, which exists in opposition to the past as it is, and should be expanded and opened to the present.

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Speaking Geographies: Collaboration Over Distance

When in transit and upon receipt, to whom does a postcard and its contents belong? This is one of the questions at the forefront of Speaking Geographies, a collaborative poetry collection by Siobhan Hodge and Rosalind McFarlane. This collection, composed entirely on postcards, in letters and via email, is focused not only on the act of sending and receiving poetry, but also how these poems can be reinvented and rewritten according the perceptions of the reader. The collection comprises not only of poems that have physically been sent across great distances; it also thematically engages with and challenges notions of symbolic distance, such as the socio-economic and environmental politics of travel and place.

Processes of transmission and interpretation, resulting in the creation of multiple layers of voices and experience, are unpacked in a series of variously structured poems. Played out in a range of international settings, with a particular focus on linguistic and travel-based imagery, the collection appears to be predominantly free verse poetry, but each piece is located within a particular theoretical scope and technical approach, often based on different schemas for layering the poets’ voices.

In Speaking Geographies, both poets examine and problematise ideas of writing in a range of different geographic locations, then rewriting or refiguring each other’s works. Rather than being straightforward ‘travel’ poems, these collaborative poems are focused on the means and repercussions of exchanging poems written in a variety of settings and from a range of points of view. This pervading focus on interpretation offers room for multiple ownerships of voice and experience, as well as building a subtle form of écriture féminine, via the two female poets’ creation of a separate space for critique and discussion of personal experiences as well as broader themes, situations, and ideas.

Central to this project is a fluid concept of poetic identity and authority. Although some pieces can be immediately aligned with one poet in particular, others are much harder to pinpoint, and occasionally pieces have been constructed with intentionally misleading ‘signature’ techniques. Ownership is not affixed, yet the voices of both poets encompass the entire collection, expanding into multiple points of view. This mirrors the process by which the collection has been constructed; sending poems via letters and postcards leaves the work subject to loss and damage, as well as contentious claims of ownership.

In our discussion here, core theoretical issues confronted in this collaboration are highlighted, with particular reference to heterotextuality, issues of territoriality and gender. In addition, illustrative close readings of several main poems will be provided.


Close Readings: Bodies and Space

Speaking Geographies also contains many poems that examine the processes and implications of transferring bodies from one place to another, often depersonalising individual composite body parts, yet consistently articulating clear narrative voices. A pair of linked poems, ‘Crossing in Real Time’ and ‘Crossing the Real’, as well as the collection’s titular poem, ‘Speaking Geographies’, demonstrate some of these central ideas in two very different forms.

Crossing in Real Time’ and ‘Crossing the Real’ are described as ‘response poems’; one collaborator sent the first poem by letter to the second, who echoed its style. The poems are structurally and thematically similar, with slight focal deviations.

The poems are posed as a question and answer, and though ostensibly these mailed-off poems have made the desired connection, both remain structurally disjointed. There is also no consensus on how best to proceed; one speaker asserts a pessimistic outcome, and the questioner has no chance to reply. The central ‘we’ in the first poem poses questions around grammatical stretches and structural manipulations, while the answering ‘we’ is much more restricted. ‘Crossing in Real Time’ is concerned with how the speaker and listener may converse across languages, specifically via grammar, while also making coy references to the Tsing Ma Bridge in Hong Kong. The respondent, replying in ‘Crossing the Real’, maintains the questioner’s preoccupation with being able to communicate, but makes no attempt to reply in the same form, which combines with the stronger sense of pessimism to foreshadow a loss of voice and ability to share these concerns.

Human bodies are less pressured in ‘Crossing in Real Time’ than in ‘Crossing the Real’. The speaker in the form recognises some potential need for adaptation, reflected in the line ‘perhaps we must breathe — this —spine’, breaking up words and preparing to shift ‘arch—well into each in— / bet—wee—n’. The willingness of these contortions is transformed into compulsion in ‘Crossing the Real’, in which the proposed act of breathing is now a ‘lung squeeze’. Willingness and possibilities are swapped for terms of revision and restriction. The optimism of the former poem is countered by heaver, metallic imagery that intrudes upon living bodies, as both speaker and listener are unequivocally ‘steel shanked and pinioned’. Inanimate objects take on human traits, and the speaker anticipates suppression, but observes that this is self-created.

These two poems foreshadow several of the issues that recur throughout the collection: the ability to speak and to listen, and how these transmissions can be interrupted. ‘Speaking Geographies’ represents the next stage of this otherwise pessimistic outlook, generating a space in which narratives can be naturally overlapped so that there is no need for ‘bridging’. Structurally, ‘Speaking Geographies’ is a multi-layered postcard poem, starting out as a postcard poem sent by one collaborator to the other, and then gratuitously reworded by both collaborators back-and-forth. The initial solo status of the piece is signalled in the first eight lines, but is then collapsed into ‘we’ as the shared memory is divided up and transformed into new narratives:

Speaking Geographies


To write you
postcard leaves and a record,
I looked to sea - you
reflected. This place is 
you in mountain song,
now crouched in bricks, then fretworks
palmed like playing cards. Each breath
seals stamps, sends me south.
We are space uninvested. Take
this instead, knitting narratives 
over migratory seas that we may
bind our stories. Bone-deep 
hankering within storyline maps:
to write our realist fictions we must
placate these pages, ink our dripping fingers,
circumnavigate sealed teeth and we all
go together -
evolving in ever more salvaged directions.

The opening speaker then transfers ownership of the poem and its referenced memories to a communal holding, as the rest of the piece is phrased as a plural experience. ‘Speaking Geographies’ leads to ‘uninvesting’ both as a form of literary currency and permitting a broader narrative to take place, shifting from the wholly personal experience of the opening lines to a broader process of transmission and interpretation. In addition, the poem sets up the collection as inherently connected with the highly contested term ‘world literature’, focusing on the processes and implications of dissemination rather than the notion of a ‘centre’ or ‘periphery’, circulating within or for a particular readership, nationality, or cultural identity. The anti-materialist nature of the poem is tied into the notion of salvage and recycling. These moves articulate the rest of the collection’s focus on creating such spaces, built on shared memories and reworked narratives, to extend criticisms and also to generate a sense of mutually beneficial communal ownership, though not without its problems.

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Terrance Houle and Adrian Stimson: Performative Gestures from the Canadian Prairies


Terrance Houle | Urban Indian #7, 2007

Italo Calvino argued that writing was a combinatorial exercise and that, for him, reading represented ‘a way of exercising the potentialities contained in the system of signs’. I would like to keep this declarative at the forefront of our investigation into the work of Terrance Houle, neither with a confirmative bias not leaning towards negating the statement of Calvino, but thinking through his statement in our analysis of a few of Houle’s images. Continue reading

Posted in ARTWORKS, ESSAYS | Tagged , , ,

E is for Errand (East Coast of Africa)

Introduction

‘E is for Errand’ is an extract from the draft of a libretto named The Bones of the Epic. As it stands, it is a work from regress – not in progress. Regress because the current text is a portion half-way. The Bones of the Epic is half-way to what it will be: a script for a puppet master (Delfim Miranda), translator/convener (Miguel Martins) and Lisbon noise band (A Favola da Madusa) – to make of it what they will.

Continue reading

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Truth Beauty

‘…truth beauty…’ – this is the second half. The first is: ‘Beauty is truth.’ So again, or still – Keats’s ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ – and the rest: ‘that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’1 Thus a poem about truth and beauty, and beauty and truth, knowledge and need, mortality and friendship, the Greeks and us, urns and poetry – among other things.

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Feature Poem with Judith Beveridge: Cocky Farming

Robert Frost once said about writing poetry, ‘You gotta get dramatic’. Caroline Ross’s poem, ‘Cocky Farming’ dramatically enacts the hardship, fight and struggle that can beset Australian farmers, the worst foes being harsh weather and unsympathetic banks. I enjoyed the way the poet comes at her subject matter from an aerial view, looking down upon the landscape and noticing all that is happening over a wide vista. The tone and shifting perspectives in the poem are mainly what deliver the drama, as does the imagistic acuity. Her selection of details creates a compelling sense of the futile endeavour of trying to make a living when faced with immutable forces. The hardship extends also to birds and plants. A terrific touch in the poem is the vernacular use of the term ‘cockies’, so that the birds mentioned in stanza one seamlessly transfer over into farmers: ‘Cockies fight against/ the sun, the wind, the Banks, all threatening/ to snatch away the living/ clawed and scratched each day// from basalt rock.’ The word ‘cocky’ is also not without a certain irony.

The quintessentially Australian flavour of this poem is a highlight and the contrast with English farms gives added intensity. Towards the end of the poem, the long panning shots give way to a more intimate focus, and the image of the farmer holding a grand-child’s ‘tiny hand’ is moving and poignant. I also enjoyed the way the short and long lines seem to imitate and embody the visual movement of the poem from wide to closer perspectives. The voice is strong, authoritative, convincing. – JB

Cocky Farming


White cockatoos swoop 
down from morning’s unsuspecting dawn 
and land, as if one wing, in the eucalypt.

Dirt’s brown odour floats 
up from caked, cracked earth while what will later 
be a scorching sun 

rises above the roses . 
Mulberry trees extend their hands 
one to the other, seeking 

shade even from the dawn.
In England, farms have sheds snuggled neatly 
to the side of great estate homes. 

Inside these huts, machinery 
is hidden by labourers who sharpen, oil, 
and maintain the country idyll’s 

image guarded by generations’ mute 
agreement; owner, farmer, worker, serf.
Australia’s country life

is less genteel, the homestead’s haunted
by a bleakness born of desperation. 
Cockies fight against 

the sun, the wind, the Banks, all threatening 
to snatch away the living 
clawed and scratched each day 

from basalt rock. Here, machinery 
rusts in yards, vegetable gardens are bordered 
by fences invented from dented cans 

filled up with cement and steel posts 
like prison walls built to keep out goannas. 
Low crawling vines sacrifice 

rockmelons’ babies to shrivel 
in the dawn; decoys they hope will distract predators 
while the mother ship 

hides many more under fat 
green leaves growing close to the ground.
In the end, all of this is just a place 

for the elderly farmer to show 
the grand kids; a place to hold a tiny hand 
and deliver sermons on the way 

of things in this country, a wisdom
bequeathed from his life of holding back the dragons 
of sun and wind and Banks.
Posted in GUNCOTTON | Tagged ,

Crossing the Real

Each step is                                                   measured
	       in                      potential
thrust rivets                                                  twist and divide		all strain

		                        banks curve away, harshness
of lines			                       ascend from hours                        lung squeeze 

we span                                                                         miles                                   all centred 
	     floats                                    ghosting ferryways                       shift territory

we revise borders                                            steel shanked and pinioned
passage guarantees                                          gale force intrusions		     all sway
is passive.

Function over form                                          we touch
waves		        through openings		                                  slats under car bellies
suspension of held breath					                                                               count all seconds
	      childish fear of			
                                                                                            falling		
we reach other sides                                        then assemble new doors

to restrict access.
Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

Crossing in Real Time

How should we perform this act of 
                                                                         - connection - 
			                                                            	                         ?
    	      Belief and bridges:
                                            ( a journey of suspension but the supports )
                                                                                        are a dissipating concave into this dragon
                                                                                        harbour.

Can we cantilever ^ this ^ uprising?
                                           Or perhaps we must breathe — this — spine
                                                                                                     and arch—well into each in—bet—
                                                                                                     wee—n.

We will break no new ground here
                                                              x
                                                               but these letters can fly
                                                                                                           o
                                                                                                                     and even vaults are built with
                                                                                         doors.
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Samurai

Miyata protects the village

another blood splatters on the pebbledashing
an abrupt and to the cowards
scrolling through his phone optics
publicly
you cannot use this death
in your new advertising campaign
black stool water
chants the voices of the Congo
helicopterred, interred
with cherry blossom
“now peace has come to our land”
because of Miyati’s swordsmanship
as only a dominance of force so complete
that is endangers overflowing
can bring love to these odorous




Miyata encounters the 15 vexations

1. the persistence of the stain after the fact
2. abandoned in the face of an undefined duty
3. loosed footing amongst the chatter.
4. Presently, the earth offers no cloistered respite,
5. no cessation nor no practical form.
6. Try the unrequited love of all landscapes
7. or bismuth subsalicylate.
8. A survey of the variants
9. preoccupied in the popular imagination.
10. Of course, in this instance, for this is the season.
11. Broke out
12. because of what was brought to it,
13. the sheer excess of office supplies
14. another line of work
15. his.




Miyata brings mercy to the crippled

a sound of jug from the jugband
air the sword whistles splits
Miyati is eeling the foolish into bits
donning a cloak of wound cleansing maggots
& with larvae bore electric
chasing screen to throat
a high pitch battle wool
& then weeps
having chopped epileptics
into rope dust
before he even realised
sipping divine caviar he plans to
be less direct & kill illegally
from now on




Miyata clocks in

How hunky he
looks over lunch.
The span
of Mickey’s hands, demarcation
of the hour. Almost over
he joins us, making mega-boss
deals on the Far East. The curt
Miyata, stock drift on an ocean
of aqua battle wool. Bunched in
and alert to the sensation of shrinkage.
Retained in wads
under-arm,
now sledding on through a
mountain range.

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40 Feet

ten minutes having Everything again asleep in the chair
let’s think of this being
at the cough edge of space
in the grand tradition of double acts
you and I Steven
something many would
not even call pornography

& soaked
in wave
after wave of kerb water from a bastard bus
another
miniature emperor arrives at Gatwick

already I am back, looking to see if I regret
my first
poems, that is the nature of anger
new subject matter:
we could become, but they would notice
if there are reading at all
on giants, on grief
on the sad chance of a meeting the second
when you barely have begun the first
there are giants of regret
taking sheep & goat in their hands
mashed bones a dead hippie in a jungle
plane crash minced into one matter
a lost love you know died starving
& without you loveless furious
holding the busham
before slamming a human head
into a brassbarrail & being lucky
it didn’t crack its brain like a giant’s egg
an angry thief made up of hate steals
milks soothes flat finger bones
wood a natures graves for babies Russian
soft in the looking up light, hurting piled

I’ll heal you by thinking about you

counting down the allotted
heartbeats still most of everything
t o g o
the new young Joseph Buys
to wrap in automatic
Tasmanian honey and kitchen roll

when we were better, getting on in
a one legged horse allowed to live
dragging itself across sand
for competition and then the electronic
list of the missing
broke our hearts
now everything’s big, everybody’s mother
is bluer than blue, whiter than white
privileged as a dip in the car thief fame and muscling up
for money
sounds like a good deal to me
when I’ve become wealthy
I’m bound to be calmest
said a Giant, currently fashionable
if the screaming doesn’t end by sunday
we’ll call a doctor, said the elephant
fresh through the ice
sea lined marrow of fish
of misinformation cleared like paraded
grounded I’m welcome
I don’t want to know

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Oil

The roughneck didn’t care who’s oil it was
he just hated the midnight sun. The toolpusher
hated the sea, and the drill went down
regardless, as the ocean never met the sun.

& at this break in the tail oil, the oil
is called back into its drum
the cylinder steel mask of a northern Oni baba
where North embarrasses
its own deployment hundreds of miles below
terror as houses became unaffordable
because of pressured fossiled compressing
a woman in a bed is transferred to a wheelchair

The derrickman on the monkey board
was tripping pipe when he saw a humpback
whale in the water below. The derrickman
whistled mississippi. The humpback sang
his own song, and the drill continued
regardless, as the ocean never met the sun.

the poor are thirsty, feed them, he said to his aides
he was heard overheard saying, not a stupid man,
but his lies never did put a strain on his hearing
he had the strength to laugh to the end as most terrible people do
he laughed loudest when reminiscing the young crowd dispersion,
the horses baking or his pranks.
piercing barrels shaped shipping, or industry pierced
a few days ago I was listening to the gentle tide of the North sea
now, if the black gets in again, I’m leaving

The roustabout has magic in his brain, a synaesthesia
hears ancient forests in the oil on his fingertips
sees sunlight in viscous dark. All of history is present
the continual line is circular, like in the north, where
the ocean never meets the sun.

What is latticed on the common is the fact if the crude being made o
the deadest things compressed, some were animals
wait till the animal is dead before you eat it
make sure your love is awake before you have sex with it
even if the timing o the children
mournful altar architect is sleepless, them sleeping
rolls over upon its partner imagines it’s America
don’t imagine any freedom oer than that
we the Baptists gave to build a sanctuary of moods
(for if they won’t understand)
I’ve experience in museums & can man the desk

the chainhand stood above the moon pool
and cursed the money he couldn’t let go
he thought of his daughter, wished
for energy in the wind, as the ocean
never met the sun.

a long drop it was to see the chain undone
above him, but fall it did & what hard will
were to be discovered knowing now the tricks
poetry of a man with no legs whose only
wy to making were pulling things from
out of the sea, a cough too that lingered
won’t leave, spitting black hank into a
banana peel

bell nipple, big bear, blow out, cold vent
core sample, drill sting, the floorhand
ran these words over his tongue, and felt
metal in his mouth. (Fish: any object
unintentionally dropped into the wellbore)
The floorhand spat into the wellbore.

the bear named for a terror
oil caked put still at the praising lids
not even a hair to wash his hands
when men in swarms part for another’s
entry on an oil rig, son, you know he were
a hard man, a cut too manipulated
a footage of a flighty walking into the snow
as though were a suicide, and not a hood run
searched out for a certaindistance
a jack shell put into the sky to keep the bear back
the dogs get mauled, but not hurt
Svalbard skulltooth, a neck stroke clinch
that killed a boy, but the bear’s still dead nae
better off than the crudebear, oilbjorn
floorved, who wheels himself abound

the floorhand spits fish into the wellbore
the chainhand stands above the moon pool
the roustabout sees sunlight in viscous dark
the derrickman whistles mississippi
and the drill goes down regardless, as the ocean
never meets the sun.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

1000 proverbs

A Canadian pharmacy is never understocked.
A horse cannot join the mounted police.
A flap of skin need not always be sewn.
A stitch in time saves an otter’s pocket.
A clown’s pocket is full of tricks.
Never offer to clean a clown’s shoes.
A clown is like a bubble, one prick and it’s gone.
Never pass wind in a bubble car.
Never wind a car in a bubble.
In a hearse, there are no back seat drivers.
Sometimes medicine tastes bad, but you have to swallow it.
The bitterest pill tastes nice with cider.
No man is River Island.
There is no point shoplifting in Aldi.
Tesco Value is always valued.
We are all as individual as individual fruit pies.
Eating a pie from McDonalds is like going to a butcher’s for a prostitute.
There is nothing more satisfying than a sausage.
Don’t trust a man inviting you to swim in his bath.
Never trust a man who shares his loofah.
Never wash in a public toilet.
You can take a horse to the toilet, but only in Cumbria.
Don’t eat cheese in a hot spring.
As a lady has wiles, so the Swiss have innumerable cheeses.
A Romanian lady need not be feared.
There is always a man in Romania.
There are mountains in the Ukraine.
Never show a chicken a map of Kiev.
To have egg on your face is not nice.
Don’t put all of your eggs in a rucksack.
Don’t put all your eggs in one bastard.
Better an egg today than an egg nog tomorrow.
Better Butlin’s than a Russian prison.
Better a scarf in Skegness than rubber gloves in Minehead.
Better a wrestler in the vale than in Bognor Regis.
Better a bugger in Bognor than a penis in Penistone.
Better buggered in Athens than in Sparta.
Even the Greek gods smash their plates.
Nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan.
There is nothing more dramatic than a chipmunk.
This is madness. Madness? This is Sparta.
Even green fingers do not belong in salad.
A salad a day to world peace beckoning.
French dressing does not make you a musketeer.
Muskets are not just for the mustard.
A musket in public, a blunderbuss in private.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

la dominate

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

All the Birds Between Us

What happens when birds fall?
Do birds always fall?

a broken jet wing
fills the river-flat
today

What if a bird
fell between us?

let it be swift
old cat
How many birds would it take to spin a cyclone?
Can bird bones blow wind into my lungs?



bone and quill
straighten, lungs
burst, ears
scream, tail
rudders, wings
sweep

I define
flight
arrow
death for one fish

What if I could taste
your breath between us?

salt

Do birds ever get sick of air?
Do all birds like the colour blue?
down, down,
down feather, down
down in flames
flaming down
flamin’ go down
flamingo down
down dance
brolga dance
starling flocks
startlings
murmur
n ations

Are birds’ mouths
too small for us?

that cuckoo will swoop my last bubble
breath


Is the first joint of my little finger a vulture delicacy?
What would if feel like to break a bone with a beak?

up
water streams
air rushes
I accelerate
with my catch
to the sun
and the height and
the flock
all around


Would you claw away
the blood between us

I hear the fish in my gullet

Can beaks be soft?
Would you recognise a smiling bird?

tiny bird
insects at sunset
a Möbius loop


Will you ever wash your side
of the glass between us?

cit︢ sis︢ sic︢ ran nar︣ cis︣ sis︣ tic
chickcihc

What would life sound like from inside an egg?
Would there be more swans if kicked-chicks lived?

mother duck coo Ɵ

water Ơ – tap tap tap Ƹ

mother duck calls from the pond

we launch ҈
into air

into water

wait

are we dabblers or divers?

Will you stand there
till the air is cold between us?

kookaburra’s chest

How many feathers make a bird?
How many feathers do you have?

the balance between the
the rise on the
the dip on the
the warp and weft of the
the scents on the
the sounds of the
the spray of the
the shades of the
the feel of the
the hunger in the
the love of the
and the joy of the

Are there feathers
between us?

what does she see in him?

Are you a bird?
If you could be a new kind of bird, what would you look like?

◊

a◊a

regit◊tiger

htom a◊a moth

htom-regit a◊a tiger-moth

htom-regit wolley a◊a yellow tiger-moth

htom-regit wolley thgirb a◊a bright yellow tiger-moth

htom-regit wolley thgirb◊bright yellow tiger-moth

htom wolley thgirb◊bright yellow moth

regit wolley thgirb◊bright yellow tiger

wolley thgirb◊bright yellow

wolley◊yellow

thgirb◊bright

htom◊moth

a◊a

a◊a

a◊a

How will birds end?

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

Scarabs

Ah let’s do new where scarabs click
Resonant dust from hashish headlight
Forever dream thing sweeps through high brocade
And mind is central, serene, lavender mists

With a sucker punch below the graft,
Below a mortar and pestle imprimatur —
Those long licks, those trance flings,
That flash of dry out of the wet;

Remove the quotes and flounce to sun ship
Kingdoms crashing hard with strange assonance,
Ululations distorted by deep rattle, O and
Spoiled silence languishing in its rowdy pleasure.

That’s what left us to our own resources,
To that megaplex of realisation: mode of transport,
Hub of communication, a brutal parrot flying low,
All shadowed in our pastoral no-show.

Pataphysic pill reappears in soft library
Love tongue slips into life time masque
Darby Crash and pals push down Mohawk
Upending trash cans and prepare for (death)(happiness)

And so say all of us, hustled and hoarded,
ridden into the dirt. An echo of track success
grates their nerves and we take a collection
from what’s left — misfire, undertaker, less worthy.

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Sonnet8 – “He sits awhile, then off he goes”

Whale-like arthritis companies: the bunny gets it in my whalespace. Titlewow, her beauty works at stalling. Her maladies were reborn in ice cream. Her hair has been scripted in the new hydrogen economy. Listening to his scorpion groove, her beauty resides in a palace of quotes. The most beautiful lines so far in Kessler’s journals: Weimar, August 27, 1903. Thursday. … We drank milk in the inn next to the Belvedere, where Hofmannsthal ate, for the third or fourth time today, raw ham. … Weimar, August 29, 1903. Saturday. Hofmannsthal continues to be sick and eat ham, indeed to eat a disturbingly large amount of ham. What is wrong with me? I laughed til I was wheezing, Anne. John, that is hilarious! Oh god, when beauty rhymes with ham. It’s all upright pianos, halfhouse plans, vortigaunts. Veiness vanishes. Various roadblocks set up by police. Let me sew until my fingers turn Singer pink. My surgeon is planning on removing 800gr. of low rumble at just that point. Obviously this is similar to the garden hose analogy, which is why anti-aging plastic surgery lights up in beautiful blue light. And that, in my humble opinion, is a good old fashioned kettle that won’t waste our time.

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Porch Light

‘How do the angels get to sleep when the Devil leaves the porch light on?’ – Tom Waits


1.

If you consulted your own cipher-mind (if what presents as yours could be
compressed in such a lazy line), would it encircle this whole ball of string theory
or only what lies beneath? Every oceanic floor peak, all those pre-lung
beasts that beckon us back, ever back, while we struggle up here in the
arc of your earth-wing? It is suffocating under your airs, Old Birdman,
we don’t know enough about our own night terrors to ever consider yours.
To claim you frighten the children with your silent staring is like
naming the midnight ocean mysterious, to sing out your secret symbol
through all this typical cataclysm might boil our blood.
Still, see you slip and slide out of heaven into the foam pits of human love:
more, elevated, other. Exotic, no matter how well disguised, for we
blinks of one of your manifold eyes don’t claim to tune into our own timings.
There is a connection octave-plinking through this mystical equation,
yet this is not another symposium examining the intricacies of angels.

2.

Perhaps some planet put you up to it. You didn’t want so many eyes on your wings:
it’s embarrassing, it’s a job. Hard to refigure you without, yet once in the annals of this
endless processing, perhaps you were writ down as feather-skin, transitional form.
If only we had come down from the birds, we too could be haunted by memory of flight.
We did not fling down from the firmament; we squelched up from watery depths, aquatic
apes. You are a terraform failure. Fire-sword bearing man-birds could have ruled, yet
water monkeys made it through. Your trajectory, defeated, exited earth for heaven.
The fall went up. You did not win. We did not rejoice in the progression.
This murky wet won’t leave us – even now we are swamp and slime. You: air or light or
both, descend on passage-ladders right before our very minds. We grasp hold of the base,
steady it with a sick grin. You can at least go back up the way you came down.
We can never return; we left our gills on the shore and the tide snatched them back.
If we, green with envy or slime, are seeking Return, it is to pond and puddle;
yours is to some flaming red aerial heart of everything.

3.

You cut the fancy-free heart right out of us. In the witching hours, when night dervish
morphs into night mare, you are stilled, silenced, scribbling and scribing, saving it all
up to sing it out later. Some Lizard-God wants to know the electro-magnetic reading of an
attempt at meeting. Circling the throne, later and always reporting, you proclaim the heart
to be still beating – that pink-to-blue mass, alone in the shadow of all horrors,
what can go on between lovers: smashed telephones, shared appliances, night. Watcher,
you are never still, you whisper continuum to these moments even as you raise the knife.
Left to our own devices, we could be the scribes of our own autopsy, the records of
entanglement’s dissection. We could carve up the shared ventricles, the cleft aorta,
discover what was never beating to begin with. We could bathe our empty cavity in a
plenty-more-fish sea, decide what cut out means, what we will do with the
etch-mark-once-heart, what new world our new work will break forth into.
But with you here, light bleeds along the wall, the shuddering is of presence and we
know – clinging and ejecting aside no matter on whose behalf – we are poppets.

4.

You burst forth as a woman. We thought this soft body too moist to house an angel.
Murky spirits aplenty, but pure swords of light? When the Heavenly Grace stabs in,
it will leak out through all those holes. To where will it escape? How will we find it all to
shove it back in again? We saw those frescos, believed them, for they were birthed out of
Holy Father. The Devil with breasts, leaking out everywhere to all sorts:
constantly shadow, probably dark matter and other arcane fears of science.
We suppose you could be our Mother, angel, you are cold and removed, set in marble. Yet
we overlooked you for centuries, you were so far away, and we certainly forgot
you could possibly be true, what with all that loft and strength and absence.
Isn’t absence of the father? If you were allowed to choose,
you might seek woman out because here we seek out our names through pain.
You want your own gender angst, a category other to Holy. We won’t tell,
we will watch you watching us as you reflect sheen on this Leviathan’s back,
drag the frescos towards your breast for spring cleaning, a bath in new light.

5.

Blood. You are out for it, we try to keep it in, at all costs. Blood:
The way to tell if we are here or not is whether we can hear it circling. Or not.
It’s unlovable, really. It is smelly and of metal and is awfully difficult to remove from
cashmere once it all floods out. We are constantly managing it, feeding it, giving it away,
taking it all back. It’s essentially a connector, even magnetic.
We wonder why you want to exchange pulsating white for toffee apple sticky.
We don’t think you would if you really knew what it meant. Blood, Blut or Bloed,
might be our earliest word. It has always been there, unforeseeable just like you.
Blood is the very opposite of you: intermediary, link, vapid passageway.
Blood raises spirits and runs to the sacred places. Blood is in the family. Anything but
pallid, blood of an other contains your revenge. You can never have revenge, Watcher.
Say we don’t know how lucky we are to own it, say what you will. We are bloody-minded,
moving onwards over bones that birthed the whole bloody mess is all we know.
Our red warmth runs cold against all your white. We have always been afraid of this.

6.

As the glory pours in and through, even the Throne of the Most High is merely a tube.
There are innumerable zillions even in our own brains without considering the external
piping we construct to extend the nexus out. To echo the universe, which is one
Giant Conduit sucking us all in, out, round and round, we recreate the cylindrical vessel.
Inside the spaces of subatomic nothings, how many cylinders? We etch on the lining of a brain-tube
while cannulas poison to near-death, while lines to arms and throat and heart ensure life
persists with a tube no longer viable inside where evolution always requires it.
Inserted tubes suck out the pooled blood like pulped prayers. TV is The tube,
we yearn to recall when thrown out of your tunnel of Graceful Light, yet by that time pain,
and not-remembering, are the new profound. The nostril tube floods oxygen,
floats brains so far away that blood-prayers creep in and add up somewhere outside all
tubing: the dark energy inside. Isn’t it enough that you ensure our continuing?
That exploding would have burst all persistence even as we received The Annunciation,
sipping from a chipped teacup while scrawling the word ‘Grigori’ at the top of the page.

7.

So hard to tell if the birds are mating or fighting. The koalas are attempting both,
here in last the pocket protected enough for them to keep at it. We too keep at it:
against, always against. It’s not your fault, messenger, yours is to intone the Great Law.
The Great Law is Always. We are to blame – bifurcate is all we do down here. Small
wonder the axis teeters, unsure of whether to shift or remain safe in stasis. It will break,
this is Occam’s Razor. Now, while our hair falls out (it’s the anaesthetic, it’s the morphine),
you gibber endlessly, something about the Great Glory, what was
before until then. As our wounds pus and blister, we grow tired of this obfuscated babble.
You are doing it deliberately, jiggling these abstractions, these meaning-carrots,
before our puny brains. Say what you mean to say, Watcher, is this all? Here? This
everymorning dying? Last koalas grunting in blind continuing, whip birds and koels
bouncing beckon or warning against the everywhere-everything hills. Clouds so sneaky,
when we turn our backs the sky is something else entirely. Light on new leaf, trembling.
You gibbering on, some non-direction-everywhere, while our best awe is silence.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

The Line

The line simmers instantly
Dog pisses on garbage, waits to cross

Keith in Nellcôte above the abyss

Poetry too is a performance

These swimming thoughts subside

There is no set formula for calling general headquarters

But we’ll get together, don’t forget

How today became unavailable

A crossing of years and fears

A crossing out
A crossing over of poetry into ecstasy
A blanking out

A blanket wishing and receiving

A success

A succession
This follows on from the lines we already had

Densely arrayed articulations of filth
Today became unavailable
With the smell of woollen bodies
It’s just what happened

Could be something new altogether
Or a break in flow in what had started
The line shimmers innocently
Let me know your thoughts

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January

(porcelain erasure, after Cynthia Cruz)


A Califormia of snow

Of illness. I throned myself in the white

Noise of its silence and watched the world

Fell away. All the silver flickerings of possibility

Going out like the sound of

Clicking into the distance. It is almost

The end. Anesthesia of medicine and me,

Beneath its warm bell of milk. My

Microscopic: a locked window overlooking the

Sea. An atlas of the disaster: an un-lit hall and

A shift in the waves

Porcelain. Michelle, my little sister, silent

A weed. I took all the things I loved and

Smashed them one by one


Note: An erasure of Cynthia Cruz’s poem ‘January’, from Ruin (Alice James Books, 2006).

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

bailiwick 4 & 5

from bailiwick \ BAY-luh-wik \ , noun

4.

He took his homeward way outside the park and how
to conjure up a picture for instance of a town without
allowance must be made for those who, without
once, presumably, this quadrangle with its smooth lawns
true, what he felt was no more than a longing
but, said his father stopping in front of the drawing
there are many causes for a suicide, and generally the most
notice, for instance, on the back wall above his head
men and women consume one another rapidly in what
his father told him that story his father looked
it swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among
what she thought about those people, about herself, about life
at forty, worn down by the strains and stresses of
this led me to remember what I could
I have never seen anyone die for the ontological
town itself, let us admit, is ugly.


5.

Anyhow, now they had to get out whether
the technician tapped his wrist pointed to his mouth
he stood a good chance of being drafted and even
you’ll die when you hear well you know when
it’s worth thinking about and out in California
all of a sudden he was alive again my friend
picked wrong on that United States Civil War picture
he had more success with him than with himself
the great gleaming sky of Los Angeles as bright as if
obviously he had shown up to holiday-greet a relative resurrection
wind in the bamboo rustled on although dead and in
himself he thought she died as she lived
and then there was another I remember of a girl
beaming Fiddler on the Roof down at me with its psychotronic
meters began to register and the mechanism hummed where am I
into the boom mike Jason said smoothly keep all those


Each poem in this sequence is a collage of a personal library of an anonymous micro-tech worker
on Amazon.com’s Mechanical Turk site. I only know them by their handles — in this case
AWFOG7VQH39H9 and A1GV0PBEWEEGIL, respectively.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

What Not to Include

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

The Structure of Fiction

The problem was as Sal stood by her friend
He was getting robbed by three older boys
In the first scene state the predicament
Such as there was a calamity
She hoped to help him as the world came apart
Then the story became a wild goose chase.
The first attempt to solve this mystery
Which began or had its birth in failure
Depicted our parents in a puppet show
The trick, the illusion, the play of speech
A story so utterly absorbing
Some unknown urge preceded the telling
And wandered through the body of work.

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Section 18

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

Goodbye, the Dream

While in spectral communication with some illustrious friends the other night, I felt
bound to inform them that we’d all moved on so far in 2014 this year of anyone’s
lord that their views on this and that (also, the other thing) are no longer relevant.
I’m happy to report that they took the news remarkably well, for passé antediluvians,
each in characteristic fashion.

The following is at transcript of our conversation.

Miroslav Holub

There’s no explosion like a line
with a joke at the end of it.
It’s fun also to dance on temple walls
and feel them tremble, a little.
Or grind fags out
in the forecourts of government offices
as close as you can get
to the NO LITTERING sign.
Paranoia was the go in my day too.
That’s only sensible. Beyond a by-your-leave
or maybe not, it’s always true:
though they lead you gently by the hand,
they are out to get you.



W. B. Yeats

Ascend – we know you must – the winding stair
to the upper room prepared for your arrival.
The view is wonderful.
Horizons have been specially designed
to carry sight beyond
your sleepiest imaginings.

You ask more?
Sometimes a wild swan
swoops over the lake,
or a jackdaw,
caught unaccountably in your room,
flies at you as from a dream
by Bergman. Or a pre-Raphaelite patter
of rain arrives on cue
to dimple the water.

Such stuff belongs on post-cards, now.
No-one wants to carve their name
in the desk you leant on
looking out your
Tennysonian embrasure.
You’ve heard of ‘closure’?
We’ve had a century of it
sandwiched between wars.

You wouldn’t know us.
Our idea of comprehension
would seem a fitful, random
throwing things together
to your eye; our pleasure
a strange, feverish, distractedness
from charm.

We’re more fascinated by ourselves
than you could possibly imagine.
Why not? What we can manage
by a thought Is marvellous. We indicate,
and forests fall.
Our least decorous perceptions,
for all their trade in shadows, self deception,
outright, down home lies,
are more attractive to us than your grand sonorities.



John Berryman

We get it. You’re far out at sea,
can’t swim, and your father
who took you there,
is threatening to leave you.

Several things are possible.
You can dream yourself ashore,
or let go and let the ocean have you.

Famous tantrums follow in either case;
but this, you know, is only buying time.
You still can’t swim,
and water’s implacable as stone.

That come on in, life’s fine! spiel
didn’t fool you for a moment.
You always knew the stuff kills
if you take too little
of it in martinis.

It’s implicit everywhere,
lying low, or towering above a day’s occasions,
full on, hidden, multiform;
potent to freeze to nothing every sense
you ever cared for. And always happy
to renew acquaintance.



Wallace Stevens

Don’t start, please. You’ll never make it. Quit now.
Reel out language to world’s end as you will,
you won’t catch the whale.
A so-so sunset throws off idle aperçus
too quick even for your lens speed, friend.
Clod in a field’s corner, fantastic failure
as you knew you would be, from the first.
It’s sad, but true,
in our beginning is our end,
and there’s nothing to do but continue.



William Wordsworth

Billy, you’re a case, you know?
We do, now, and speak of you with a fond smile although
even your best words overflow
the sturdiest crucible.
Oh, but how we wish — it’s not easy to admit —
we could make something near as good
as the mouth you showed
death’s light shining language
and do it with one part your clumsy skill
and as little rage.
And to have flowers falling
on you from high buildings everywhere you go!
That must have been nice, also.



William Blake

You couldn’t have sold William Blake an IPhone.

Dippy William never had the slightest doubt
the tree outside his window’s better
than its image on a screen.

Bill had been
places we’ve only heard about,
from people like him, mostly.

I bet you can’t even copperplate,
can you? Nor can I.
And still we think,
because some television spruiker says so,
our apps will take us god-wards, as we die.



Heinrich von Kleist
The Poetry Scene (present company excepted)

They read
as though scaling the backs
of the porcupines ahead of them,
who are bristling.

A bird in their hand dies, immediate.
When they think of their mothers,
cash registers go ping!
in adjacent emporiums.

When they play golf,
they drive towards the clubhouse
in the hope of braining a competitor,
then form groups to discuss
the mysteries of trajectory.

When they open their mouths to discuss themselves,
dogs groan. Their dogs,
that love them dearly.


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