Tuesday, January 17, 2012

An Irronist poetics

An easy example of how a lineage might be procured by Irronist technique, would be to compare something  like, say, the two terms Catholic, and Çatalhöyük, and then to confound some version of their etyms or standard definitions, or transliteralisations, into a finished product like this:

the all-embracing forked mound

But placing the original terms beside each other might also be left as a small patch of earth, a rabbit garden, as well:

It was Catholic Çatalhöyük
where I took to wearing
the cilicium, and the thing
that made me take it off
was a childe goat shivering
having got up, somehow,
in the branches of a tree..

But the real Irronism of the dyad itself, or rather, the poetic element, is the way the sense of  all-embracing runs contra to forked mound, as if to confer an odd geometry in the figure of a synclastic divergency, or like Kurt Vonnegut Jr. in The Sirens of Titan, a chrono-synclastic infundibulum, which is defined by Vonnegut as "those places ... where all the different kinds of truths fit together" which is itself contra to what I gather from the all-embracing forked mound, which is, namely, something closer to:

Its unity is strife.

Or Unitas est pugna.

Or if you translate the old greek word for strife Ἔρις, into Latin, you get, you will be, so that you could make a greek / roman Irronism very similiar to Catholic Çatalhöyük, or rather an Irronic permutation with

Eris pugna


You will be the battle.

Which in a strange way reminds me of the phrase Radix malorum est cupiditas, 
which doesn't say "Money is the root of all evil." but something closer to The root of all evil is cupidity.
or more Irronistically, Evil roots well in the loam of cupidity. which gives us a nice divergency
of a more Phytonically themed Evil, but also, strangely, of a pig-like Evil..

You will be the pound of 
pug truffles, and though you 
wear the hair-shirt, you use 
the usurers, as you say they 
use the useless, for in mentioning 
their name, you assure your own 
and their good credits further.

The finished product was always
soil, whether stained with blood
or bringing forth a forest of trees,
which some still say were the 
original language of poetry...