Friday, May 3, 2013

furniture music



For me, any given poem is not
only an abstract drawing, but also an
'abstracted drawing' in Mitchell's sense, a
sort of S-Labrys where the push me pull you
of embodied expression is always transfigurable.
It is this transfiguration which in its Deleuzian character
has yet to come out from the underground of reading practices,
and that idea itself both a pun and an iconism, ( rendered as rhizomatics),
two practices which form part of the corpus of reflexive practices
which render a view into 'conceptual readings' which are
invariably linked to structuralism and modernism,
along with what would be considered the
vicissitudes of both of their 'post'
versions. I am not interested
in styles of grammar,
of ideological
politics,
of 'good
writing' versus
'bad writing' per se,
and in that sense I am
reduced to somatics, or even
solipsistics, but that reduction is
the fulfillment of a lineage of performative
proceduralism which even today is informing
the arts and the sciences, let's call it "somantics",
through which we gain access to a whole host of para/poetic,
and para/aesthetic possibilities, namely in the version of agency
evinced in notions of complexity like Wolfram's computationalism.
In the world of the arts, if it has become fashionable to evince the
notion of an I, the reality of being an organic self lies still un-
emancipated, or rather dissipated. If the great stupidity
of the social is the great stupidity of the self,
then arguing that the self is something
other than it is will not
confound the compound
reality of said impasse, but, if one
nullifies the concept of progress, and

relies solely on the concept of complexity,

neutralizing both genius and stupidity,

and relying
instead on
an absurdo-romantic
politics of
ostranenie, and
by politics
here I
mean the
structural machinery
of associationism,
thought as
an historical
resource gambit,
for what
exactly is
the linear
relationship between the expression
of any historical milieu, and history itself.
A cursory study of any epoch will reveal its
paradoxical, sphinxish "self". For instance the
French Revolution's revolutionary milieu was itself
fostered by those most likely to suffer from its enactment.
History is a series of misapprehensions, and misfires. A new
post-media-genre of media would seem to be one way of re-enacting
what has been lost in various regime's tensions. Poems can be considered
sculpture, and sculpture, poetry, or painting. The new Somantic reader with
enact a more participatory form of understanding, and thus, its birth-place should
be the web. Has this happened? It will have happened, when my poems appear in
Museums as statues, or are rendered into statues by poet-sculptors, or painted by monkeys
who sing
as they burn
in the hellfires of the
modern ego death
of radiation pollution
called

Murgdonthropia /

Our phatic simplex-fame or herpe-tattoo is the rise of the Ergodic paradigm
Why does the caged bird sing? Jericho stir the syrup perfectly.
Neural plasticity to collapse her fitness center into a jelly ring.
the whole RED ROVER CELLPHONE come down,
LET IT ALL COME DOWN into this bowl
lit and carried by the PALL
bare to all
and with AWLS bearish and bare to delight

bore them all
their egos like bright flames of armor

we mirror totems reflecting an ancient beam
back and forth among ourselves
making waves

"Is there anybody out there?" Goooood.
That keep you going for the show, come on it's time to go.

There is no pain. You are receding. A ship sails on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move, but I can't
hear what you're saying.

When I was a child,
I was a fever, a Zeppelin Solipsis
in Purple velvet uniforms,
and my medals

were pale albino scorpion trapped in amber,
in the tiny wrists
of amber ankhs.

What is the ancient Egyptian word
for masturbation?

Isn't it old "Old Ben"?
Or is it "Jess"?

At the top of the pyramind
is a weird thing, a think called Jean Benet,
a Jellybean Weirdo w/ Electric Shape Sang!

HYLE!
HYLE!

HYLE FOO-EVA!