Speaking of daylight, move along, move along. Nothing to see here > Just a cat dressed as a shark, riding a robotic vacuum cleaner. Nothing to see here but Raul Zurita, burning his own face.
They’ve shaved my head
They’ve dressed me in these gray wool rags
- Mom keeps on smoking
I am Joan of Arc
They catalog me on microfilm
As Sartre wrote in his diary, “Today I made a Black Forest cake out of five pounds of cherries and a live beaver, challenging the very definition of the word ‘cake.’” 1. Purchase two identical black-framed, battery operated commercial clocks with a 14” diameter. 2. Set both clocks to the same time. 3. Hang clocks at a height and location desirable to you. Place clocks directly next to each other touching (as in illustration). “The stacks of paper, or piles of candies are indestructible because they can be endlessly duplicated. They will always exist because they don’t really exist, or because they don’t have to exist ...” To quote a bit from Emma Neale’s “Polemic”:
This poem wants
to be an historic poem
that needs footnotes and extensive scholarly apparatus
because very soon after its final draft
the concepts of inequality, domestic violence, child abuse and global recession
meet their gorgeous obsolescence.
But, ah, this
poem also wants to be Rilke’s archaic torso of Apollo;
ache, deeply unfashionable ache,
what of the urge to forge something beautiful?
Pause here to
lift your eyes
to a magnolia
outside an office block
that extends its broad green leaves
to a sudden winter squall of light
as if with mouth and palms held open
to taste the drought split its own dry peel
in a sweet wash of rain…
But of course
this poem can only see that
on a full stomach and a history of love
Flash image, people made of cement yakking wildly on the bus image, their hair flying off from the tops of their heads, image, Be Bop A Loop Bop, an acrobatic walk, a physical sunset, a stained reaction, a fractional chance, going on stage with a needle in her head. Now a nurse who I hadn’t seen before brought me through two huge doors adjacent to the lift into and unheated hall. Various green-capped and green-clothed figures moved by me. While I was here, one of the green figures introduced a preanaesthetic into the drip that was plugged into my veins. As soon as she inserted the liquid, I felt cold creeping around the base of my skull. My brains were nauseous. I knew that I didn’t want to be here. Then I knew that I couldn’t escape because my mind had been changed. While this was taking place, a green shower-cap-like thing similar to those worn by all the figures around me was put on my head. It fell over my eyes: I could no longer see. Scotch tape was wound around what jewellery couldn’t be removed and around the skin adjacent to it. I was being reduced to something I couldn’t recognize. The next room was huge and colder than the hall. In its middle there was something that was partly a table and partly a bed. Machines that looked like Dr. Seuss animals were connected to it. I was told to climb up on to it and lie on my back. “The Soldiers are dragging around left-over equipment from the TV crews. They want to make movies, become famous, and they think I can help them make it big. The soldier nicknamed ‘The Poet’ wants to make a movie featuring ‘rubber gloves and mirrors, wires and hoods’; he thinks it will be about Beauty. A couple of soldiers want to make a movie about child abuse and wonder if they can use some of my daughters. A sharpshooter wants to make a movie about assassinations and wants me to play the role of ‘Viktim.’ One soldier who can’t speak (his mouth is stuffed with pork) gestures wildly and puts his hands behind his head as if to imitate a diseased deer and when I don’t understand him he starts to bang his head against the wall. Some other soldiers have to restrain him and wipe his face clean. He wants to make a movie about you, they explain, somewhat apologetically. The expresident shouts that they better clean the blood off the wall. Nobody is listening. By now most of us are watching the soldiers performing a war in the empty swimming pool.” Then go get the fat crop off the glowing stalk. I like Iris. Note that following the Crash of 2008 it became apparent that many of the chief executives of finance capital were actually psychopaths. The fact that they were just personifications of capital, rather than just greedy scumbags, might explain why no one bothered to try and put them behind bars. The system, with all the dehumanisation and alienation it produces, ain’t broke and it can’t be fixed.
[Note: Sources: JBR; “Nothing to see here > Just a cat dressed as a shark, riding a robotic vacuum cleaner”, at the poke, 6 Aug 013, via Dorothy Auyong, FB post, 6 Aug 013; JBR; Johannes Göransson, both this article and Haute Surveillance, and Raul Zurita, “Sunday Morning”, as quoted in Göransson’s “‘Corean Music,’ Part 2: Ambient Violence”, at Harriet, 5 Aug 013; JBR, but see next; Marty Smith, “The Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook”, at Paul Vincent Spade, via Aindriu Macfehin, FB post, 6 Aug 013; Temporary Services, and Felix Gonzalez-Torres, quoted in Guide to Re-Creating “Untitled” (Perfect Lovers) by Felix Gonzalez-Torres, at Temporary Services, via Jeanine Webb, FB post, 6 Aug 013; JBR, but see next; Emma Neale, “Polemic”, quoted in Shanna Compton, “Tuesday Poem: Polemic By Emma Neale”, at Stillcraic, 5 Aug 013; Lynne Dreyer, “from TAMOKA”, in In the American Tree (ed. Ron Silliman); Kathy Acker, “The gift of disease I / El don de la enfermedad”, at Outward From Nothingness, 5 Aug 013; Jean Day, “Deadpan”, at The Claudius App 5; JBR; Dave Black, “Dave Black: Hegel in 10 Minutes / A talk given at AMM#6, July 2013”, at Association of Musical Marxists, 6 Aug 013]