Just before I read this poem by Rupert Brooke, I was reading the book that follows this poem
about Bunny and Volodye, two Germans.
So, of course, in a Roberto Bolaño sort of manner, I also was reminded of this conversation
involving Germans, and of course, Arcimboldo:
And the word badulaque, itself, in a punny, tinny, Volodye sort of manner, might render out as
"bad you lack".. "Tis pity-bad you lack, etc.." "But what exactly do I lack?" asks the one
German to the other German, and all Germans (according to Bunny, perhasp) are
badulaques:
For one thing, It is the badulaque that renders literary abstraction (German 1), and even worse, post-literary psychic abstraction (German 2) as an 'abuse of language'. As a German, I feel absolutely no compunction whatsoever not to abuse language. Language is a beast that kills, and I am that Knight in a Tiger's skin bent on its torture. I am as zee coastal zephyro to the badalaque-tree of language's rooted predicament. And Language kills us everyday. Fuck Language! But all these responses are for a badalaque. As a courtier in the court of a higher language, literary abstraction must be viewed as what it is, manierismo, a fabric of adorable improbabilities, and at the very same time, an unsightly Muselinda.
Adorable, and Unsightly.
like a pair of snoring, sleeping Germans...
Oh, and dear, what 'reality' was Jackson Pollock revealing when his dangling stylus dripped its fragrant venom on the emptiness of inscription itself, as if the burning of the Library of Alexandria could remove the accident from accidental. The Accident, and the Accidental, are a further two Germans. Routine virtuosity gets very routine indeed, see Badulaque, but Abvirtuosity, the sprezzatura or Espressotoura of the Adorable Muselinda, this is the very wit-generative bier we need to haul our Spanish frenzies. If you need an image, an image of mimesis, why not "green berg".. some mineralic smaragdynamism, some blankly extruded crystal of algal and algobrayic photosynthesis..
a green monster floats in auctoric waters...
Look up Arcim-bad-a-luck..
or even Arcim-Brueckl:
inner mouth critter, tongue tic, chrome snow bumper
yellow swallow tweedledee,
twisted partum dumb, nun's leg undone.
basil smite silica,
soothing sneeze stupa
(sticks of ermine names),
my jade tumor without a tryptich
tics off the trilibot penis helix
in the ruddy glory of the glassine sun.
glub glyphs of goo remember blindly
the torn knuckle
in the comely cove-crack of chivvy fungus,
bifurcata-stuffed stone copse pod.
tongued mudbath chimes floating
within the crystalline mechanicity
of buckets of faucets, flux foam
to leet rust undone, snatching stainless
curls of silica: fume, foam, fane, feign, stung!
barely licking gourds of sentences
melting the stigmata dongle --
dank anemone teeth chattering in the ultraviolet delirium
of wooden sumac smoke (farce necklace of shadows),
critter head, bubble digits, pork mouth
--Bob BrueckL
(all words from Lanny Ray Quarles poems)
