I’ve never really considered telling you. And no. He hated doing it – he wasn’t sure why. And so just as the mirthless sequel was being disinterred, a feeling of rage came over him, but also of relief, because you couldn’t do it now. CHONK: “scary!” CHONK: “lovely!” They’re lost somewhere between the trees and muck. Besides, all cars have them. So patience, o prince, the form is well enough, patterned on the iambics brought but late, by way of Cos to Attica. CHONK: “ouch!” So drink the invisible pool where invisible creatures drink as their ancestors have drunk since time began at sunset, silent, white and slow, we know the city hates us as we sit in our vanilla stained rooms. So ALBION, AWAKE!”, et cetera. Blubber hooks attached to rubber chains, monster footsteps! finger-fangs! only that one told me that a new-laid owl’s egg is sovereign against the gripes, and now I find you here, too. I have found you out. Or was it something else – where all is peace under the umbrella-pines and a serpent guards the golden apples still? What position do you hold on Antinomianism? A toe points at me, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, pity me, pity me, pity me, and CHONK: “ouch!” draw near. You will be tethered to the earth by everyone you recognize, and everyone you don’t. Nerves run in milky channels. And we perceived a man inside an elevator, vomiting bunnies. We did not mind spending ten years translating one poem. Then we realized that the mind is an important mechanism that is worth questioning, questioned as a political system, and begin to do it daily; we surround ourselves with friends, philosophers, educators, specialists in new technologies, lawyers, journalists, photographers, other poets, magicians, gurus, shamans, witches (feminist and otherwise). We cross borders, we escaped our death sentences; do you access to become the clown who represents foreign mercy? Or do we know about it until the next century? Why? When I grow up I want to be a movie director. I will make a movie called Flame of Death and The Acrobat. If not I will drive a taxi because that way I’ll get to meet lots of new people and maybe one of those people will be a movie director who can make a movie about me and call it Flame of Death and The Acrobat [turns page, when my grandsons are 8 they will tell this joke] This piece is called Sounds Promising [turns page] This piece is called Actually [turns page] This piece is called The Death of Uncle Robot [turns page] Whence Kant’s paradox: the ground is subjective, but it can no longer revolve around you and me. For the survey launders nothing phlegmatic. Foam flourishing out the mouth douses ice, corners it, isolates it it puts it out mutes it. A burnt question is nailed on, platter of faces on a screenshot. Socialism will disconnect a palate from sick. Bread and plastic robot-penises coalesce. We are permitted to endure this. We endure it blank, tin. Reconciliation beautifies pig shit. Correct this deficit and disorder life. Do then not disorder life. Zap-cancel gut red, sew up a donkey with the laughter duct ripped wide, do you think ever, and bandage it torn with a flag. Correct this pose with data of nothing: who to such sweet lack I surrender, guns a blazing as music what will fall sounds like a sudden gap wedged impossibly pink (bright) the world but when the green jellyfish UFO was seen over the Netherlands it is like that end-of-the-pier feeling. The sea is a hall of mirrors, and each mirror has more depth than the last. Droplets of condensation form upon the alphabet, make the letters peel away from words. The only way to stay out of the room is to move endlessly away from it. Never go back again. In the cubism of a dismantled lighthouse, its rotting wooden cage is the trellis for a beacon that sleeps through the winter. A thousand miles away, a sanctuary for waterbirds sinks its differences. Those figures swimming in the pool to be fished meet the heron with his breakneck plunge. Perhaps this is a version of Brian Catling’s impossible object the “stumbling block,” that “atlas swallowing its tongue” and “ark of extinction.” I mean, “The artifact was blackbody, an ambient anomaly, either almost completely massless, or perhaps some sort of projection, it seemed to make no impression on the skein, the fabric of space-time which any accumulation of matter effectively dents with its mass. The artifact / projection gave the impression that it was floating on the skein, making no impression on it whatsoever, almost as though it was a blister on the skein itself, as though the signals the ship was sending towards it could never connect with a thing there because all they did was slide flickering over that blister almost as though it wasn’t there and pass on undisturbed into space beyond”. Well, if you take the definition of an excession as anything external to the Culture that can do that top of the head whoosh Emily Dickinson thingie, this is an excession all right. So bleak my steak.
[Note: Sources: John Ashbery, Flow Chart; Philip Whalen, “All About Art & Life”, “Birthday Poem”, “Some of These Days”, “Art & Music”, in The Collected Poems of Philip Whalen; JBR; HD, Hippolytus Temporizes, in Hippolytus Temporizes & Ion; Philippe Jaccottet, Winter Light, in Selected Poems (tr. Derek Mahon); Eileen Myles, “Just God”, in School of Fish; Kate Schapira, “You’re a stranger”, “You’re my sister”, in The Bounty: Four Addresses; JBR; Dolores Dorantes, “Manifest what we perceive through poetry …” (tr. Google), at Dolores Dorantes, 26 May 015; Henry Hoke, “All False Starts”, at Enclave, 26 May 015; JBR; Gilles Deleuze, WHAT IS GROUNDING? From transcripted notes taken by Pierre Lefebvre (tr. Arjen Kleinherenbrink, eds. Tony Yanick, Jason Adams & Mohammad Salemy), at &&& (download); Keston Sutherland, “Edit Chant”, at Quid 8; Sampson Starkweather, “Four Poems by Sampson Starkweather”, at Hyperallergic, 27 May 015; JBR; Marcie Gainer, “Green Jellyfish UFO Seen Over the Netherlands”, at Disinformation, 27 May 015; Rod Mengham, “Bal”, at Quid 8; Peter Middleton, Brian Catling, Iain A Banks, quoted in Middleton’s “Dirigibles”, at Quid 8; JBR; Lanny Quarles, “louche herd species”, at Jellybean Weirdo With Electric Snake Fang, 27 May 015]
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