Monday, April 15, 2013

Post-Rational Poetry. Poetry Without a Camera: 1988. (Sourrealism)

“One of my terrors is boring people…”

"But I return to this effect, without fail, most every day."

The kunstant pressure to bore, to drill, to furrow, to toss, to make oblong, to moan,
to give inexorapble form to poetry, philosophy, rotund as they art, like doodle bugs, blacks, reds, fondues, faun's dew, clews, faire communique.
Jodorowsky's Christ's Face is cake.
So too is my face cake, and sublime boredom in the face of supreme experts doing other.
But is not stupidity the color of green?

What is it that permeates a failed space? If the canvas is replaced by an iron sheet magnetized by a large battery and the pigment replaced by iron filings, or simply automatic writing whose purpose has moved underground to take on a plaid worm's body, then, half, half, baccala.

Melody is an amateur. It's lines are simply fake, and yet in this cinema we portray foie gras, being rake across the excellent surface of the mouth, its rake like combing vessible for touray insoltente, chimeragraphique! now how hard was that really to describe a fundamental Lucretian interlocken beheld as tribute, aproblem, a nideo.

Perhaps a donkey can repair the sorry butte.
I may know something you don't.
See encore into this egyptian problem.
What have they built upon good sense?
Upon no sense?
Now when the donkey approaches the emblem,
the solar flare rummages for an effect.
a small pretty claw (as sign for all).

Perhaps the sky is a kind of mind, the ocean. Even the way that fossils are preserved reminds one of memory. Is it so difficult to imagine a colossal primordial elemental brain, a transcendent 'jelly force' like God, but also an elephant, or rather an aquatic jelly gazelle medusae. Albert Oehlen.
Fiona Rae. Vampire Fiction as sonar.
"You're saucy!"

Prophecy is everywhere, everything.
The Present is a platonic fortune cookie.

Everyday we write, carefully arranging the letters and phrases until our feet begin to strobe. Jules Verne is inside our submarine feet to Le Blas. We kiss the sioux chef nazi for a pump of blast, the terror of cadavres. My blemmy smoulders. DESERT _ BIZARRE (milia) o centipedia.
the afromass is desert claw in complique.
Amazing for scenes and police!

Allow me to make one mistake.
Friends forever.

upon a serpent rides Foucault
dressed as Napoleon.
"La Djinn-Narr-El Cobrapoleon."

Of course, your discipline and control warm me. I'll stand here till my arms are burnt off in your glory. How can I help myself. You are a flaming snake prism, a red palm, a glove of waste, a pipo bou. I'm slavey with arms.

Not Ici, but Iti.
Photos are mementos of a preface.

the minimal earthen surface,
both romance, and something clearer,
like Ian Hamilton Finlay
+ CNC (information)

What would a poetry or philosophy of pure vicissitudes look like? How would it act?
Would its purpose be simply to inform the world of the history of form and by that act become a form of newness? No.
All poetry, and all philosophy are here to resist pornography, and spirit.
Just like puppetry.

I am Joan of Arc, killed by William Burroughs
in the 17th Century, during the time of plagues, of cinema,
cinnamon. I am the plague of cinnamon, and cinnamon burrows.
I am the burro, clever as a gash, or valley.

Boredom is not a blancmange, but something like a ruined revolver one cleans dutifully
before returning it to its bowl.
All the invisible cabbage that the internet represents.
Oriental rugs. Oriental rugs. Oriental drugs.
Won't you make fun of Koreans today?

"Hold on. I've got a lickerish coloured wheat coming on,"
cried Scarl. (told you so):
General Abram Petrovich Gannibal

borrows it
it is clear
from some one else
it is clear
thinks nature
is an ambulance

Renaissance Modernism mouths this quietly: The Menace of Venus.

1 comment:

  1. Some of those old Nikkatsu movies aren't bad. They make me want to call them "blues," the word Burroughs used in letters he wrote around '72, when these blue-movie theaters had sprung up all over New York. He wrote things like "The blues make sex better." He didn't mean Robert Johnson.


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