Inebriated to
vertigo
by
the spin
of this beguiling
costume
drama O,
the tenderness of
unconcealed
symbols, o!
o! O, my
imposingly
dauntless position
regarding erotica seems
to
me a
disquieting distortion of
metallic
facial wrinkles
on a metal
face
affixed to
a zombie cyborg
robot
body named
Rebecca or Tom
that
accents the
passive-voluptuous subtlety and
incertitude
of the
predilection accorded the
scheleton.
-ur.not.safe.here:[+bam! the
mauve_morning shift_tingles
in2
grey_layers
|then|th.ridge-bursts-in.2 flame.
‘I
ask you
to refuse what
I
offer you
because that is
not
it.’ “The
Tin Gorilla,” for
example,
is a
thing in which
“the
chatter of
its spiked fur/
raises
a terrible
din and as
you
cling/ to
its shoulders you
shut
your eyes/
praying this is
not
the endless/
nightmare of the
life
after death/
but the tin
gorilla
gallops on.”
What kinds of
massacres
lead to
that? I don’t
want
to lose
this strange power
of
mine.
{these (lucu)lubrications had made
[my] light a mere landmark
which opened up onto
the brink
of * a declivity
slanting down directly
to a tomb * ancestral dignity
with all life lying in * the direction
of this gaze . . . while whereabouts outside
it [?] could not tell : some « region »
of science possibly * psycho
« how is it * I am here ? . . . »}
I
talk to
insects. Eco-Brutalism,
Deep
Semiology: the
doors to the
closets
all made
of vinyl … vapor … velvet … Velveeta …
What
should we
do so that
consciousness
of the
brain does not
purely
and simply
coincide with the
spirit
of capitalism?
Seine for mermaids
in
the Baltic?
Bathe in spicy
tomatoes?
Doubtful. Doubtful.
Doubtful. Beyond the
tightly
clustered streets
of the small
town,
half-boarded
up Main Street
surrounding
the single
tall spire of
a
church, the
road quickly turns
rural
(cluster of
mock castles, Consider this, for example:
A white dinner jacket should not be worn, not in the summer, not
by the sea.
In most eukaryotes, a large proportion of the genome does not code
for proteins.
‘pogo loam’ becomes a symbol for a result that “exceeds forecast.”
An “impossible swell/persists”
Can a fine
ax liberate harassed
vector’s pure egg
revealing cuddling noodle emission
via mockingbird trellis parentheses
binoculars and chicken bones
chicken-wire alchemists and bloody gutters
bone bonnets, whip stripes
clothespins ultraviolet
and
When the wind
has
a strong
‘pitch center’ it
can
eerily send
me an Apollonysus*
*Appollonysys
demi semi
surfeit of word
and
flesh. A
city and an
ocean,
a point
and a wave.
Together. Suspended. So
you
force me
to consider an
otherwise
to my
otherwise. An ambivalence
inhabits
this textual
fragment: as if
two
different spaces –
one sealed, the
other
permeable – compete
to occupy the
same
moment in
time. … The metaphor
of
porosity competes
with a dialectic
of
interior and
exterior that belongs
to
a different
register: whatever is
presented
as art
will be hidden
by
the weight
of human traffic.
And there you are my power has grown terrible
My anxiety also
My instability
I can’t sit still anymore
I search I become
I’m no longer my real age I toy with everything
If I understood it all I’d be very afraid,
with what strange utterance does the rushing air
blow though my floating head the &,
And finds a
Kind of ground, to practise here being grateful
like a thumbprint
For we ourselves are luminous. Except we do not give off light.
But we do know that August I, elector of Saxony, who boasted that he owned “a series of portraits of Roman emperoros\\ I mean emperors, from Caesar to Domitian, executed by Titian from life,” refused an offer of 100,000 gold florins made by Venice’s Council of Ten for a unicorn he owned, and that he kept as a precious object a stuffed phoenix, a gift from the Bishop of Bamberg. As late as 1567, the exhibition room kept by Albert V of Bavaria contained, in addition to 780 paintings, 2,000 objects of various kinds, among them “an egg that a bishop had found inside another egg, manna fallen from the sky during a famine, a hydra, and a basilisk.”
[Note: Sources: a list of names sent me by Eileen Tabios, some new arrivals, some stuff by poets in issue 50 of Tears in the Fence (brought to my attention by Alan Baker); and. Gherasim Luca, “The Carnation’s Misfortunes”, “The Volcanoes Inside Vegetables” (tr. Julian Semilian), cutnpasted into an email from god knows what website(s?); mez breeze, “bristle_[b]one+gristle_ART[oolKit(tens)]”, “[microwurk 7]: _mauve_morning_shift_”, at netwurker, 13 and 17 Aug 09; Jacques Lacan, Ecrits, Seminar XX, as quoted and cited in Amy Hollywood, Eric Basso, as quoted by Kevin Killian in an Amazon review of Basso’s Earthworks; Jacques Khalip, “Suspirias: Kevin Killian's Argento Series”, and Killian himself, “Phenomena”, as quoted therein, at Titanic Operas: Poetry and New Materialities; Nicholas Manning, NOVALESS XXXXXII, XXXXXVI, at Argotist Online; Ron Silliman, NON, “the nose of kim darby's double”, You XVIII, at Modern American Poetry; Catherine Malabou, What Should We Do With Our Brain? (tr. Sebastian Rand); two messages that come up while “we’re processing you’re request” at Rail Europe; anon, in The Literary Review, re: Thomas Fink, The Man’s Book, and Fink himself, at Thomas Fink; Eileen Tabios, on Thomas Fink, After Taxes, and Fink himself, “Serrated Errors,”, in After Taxes, at Marsh Hawk Press, and “Diesel Enclave”, in Clarity and Other Poems, also at Marsh Hawk Press (the Tabios bit can be found at both locations); Simone Muench, “Orange Girl Cast”, 1, 4, and Tim Rutili, on Muench’s Orange Crush, at Simone Muench.com; Joey Madia, ““Trek Echoes””, in Juke Pomes, at New Mystics; Soundboard.com; Ann Weinstone, Avatar Bodies: A Tantra for Posthumanism; Victor Burgin, on Walter Benjamin, as quoted in Weinstone; Iain Sinclair, “Metropolis of the disappeared”, at Guardian.uk, 2 Feb 08; Nathaniel Tarn, “After Jouve”, as quoted by Brenda Hillman, in “Steady Turbulence”, at Jacket 28; Martin Stannard, post at Martin Stannard’s Home From Home, 28 Aug 06; John James, “Conversation”, as quoted in Charles Bainbridge, “Keep looking up!”, at Guardian.co.uk, 16 Oct 04; John Welch, “at home”, at Manifold 3; Vahni Capildeo, About, at Poetry International; Giorgio Agamben, The Man Without Content (tr. Georgia Albert)]