Saturday 3 December 2016

Gone to the Bumpers (DRAFT 2015 REVISION)

DRAFT NOTES W/ Poems after Athens

If you encounter a sentence 
which irritates you,
 I put it there not like a 
reef to make you keel over
      in order that
as though it were a buoy
you discover how far 
I have gone.

It’s the sort of tumultuous outpouring of images which then get themselves together into being a poem, somehow. But you do have the excitement of seeing whether you’re really going to get it to be a poem or not, its a push of a maximalist barrage, a maximal demand on the body, not control, not reserve not all the other imaginable entries of self-management that have dampened so much under the push of transparency. Every step cheats as there are ridges in the sand there are bars after bars. I never feel that I know what I am talking about—if I did, and when I do, the thing written seems nothing. However, what I do write and allow to survive I always feel is worth while and that nobody else has ever come as near as I have to the thing I have intimated if not expressed. writers should mix themselves up in their material and be rolled over and over by it, let king Nietzsche speak, let him speak in this age with a tongue that erodes the contours, so we can truly be rolled over and over again. Popular cerebral exhibits are busy people who carry the burden and enjoy it, bulking and spitting at digression, interruption, fragmentation and lack of continuity as lacking the desperate life to sustain itself and maybe it will not sustain by all this unexhausted energy would make a criminal out of me. All this might have a buttery admonitory pinch but chomping at the air but we know disclosed, we no longer have the mouthful of air that Pound thru Yeat spoke ov. We have lots of screw-fixed miscellaneous language economy language to fuck out vocabular austerity. Individuals do not receive a ready-made language (ah there is the admonitory pinch), it can just be damned up and from source weighed open but of course, aint no source, aint no fucking temple, aint no fucking station, aint no demigod, aint no anything that could sure up anxieties around my fine heritage in an age of compulsive cash-outs of austere language-inoculation; thats like-what if, we jam up the language with the variants that offer us its hysterical untacking of its directness. We get stuff sounding like this and it sounds like a turret of the right expletives for a tone well rehearsed-here something by Paul Kneale:







All caps, of course. Mainstream fetishism is vogue middle-push of immediate, tactically ‘eye-balled’ words of attention. We are in the shock market of collapse that presents in its disarranged debris-syntax.old invariant capitalist speech. bingo bingo suddenly after a magic trick of redaction redaction redaction…Possibly the internet has played a greater role in this obliteration of language differences than any other engine. So any anti/reverse or otherwise inversion of its routes, as in its relationship to the capitation of attentions qua electronic solicitation. A pre-loaded set of image archetypes that immediately communicate with the sweet caveat thats its the new potential of the enemy language as promiscuous other. Eyeballs, a site of control that repositions vision as pure motor thru shock of compulsory function of emotional streamline. Staying on-top of the news. Are the possibilities for distorting and indicting the language of capitalism enlarged along with the quantity of that language pumped into the market? almost every aspect of daily life and social relations now comes under the sickle of what’s know as economisation and language is a fine indication of the kind of language used. Language used, put to instrument but instrument here to deliver information at a compressed rate, so no potential critical try could be founded-and equally, for what reason. The divine Ezra use to bludgeon often because the instant does exist—and can save one but a sword, but a sword in the cuspid when i lear out to public gently. I don’t mind the above language, i don’t mind its clashing it makes a good deal of sound in the alleyway. 

Big-boy auto jump-start GETS THE ATTENTION ECONOMY DIRECT TO TARGET. by the willing-to-oblige the miasmic marketeering of dud sureties-putrescence to an already vaporous age, whimpering the same impertinence of the day that gives one a good belly to sort it out, surely or make it worse but, that might entail knowing full-well what the worsened ends are as to pull them evermore. 

Or, just to carrying out the same barrage, the same flurry the same concert against against aghast writing’s usual explanatory lockdown. Kneale’s poetry is a kind of operating speed: it has become intolerable for there to be a waiting time while something loads or connects. when there are delays or breaks of empty time there are rarely moments for openings or drifts from the demand of the immediate present; the demand or seizure of attention is a sort of fantastic digital insularity which works of the constant and unbroken absorption of attention. Here, Cristine Brache: 


over everything my pose is text 
you can read it in deep signature & if you recite it you'll say nothing
but sigh gravestones that belong to you 

exported slave foreheads tattooed with the phrase ‘tax paid’ 
the whore of babylon’s face tattooed with her vices
then the face in the image of ‘god’
the body in circulation

Hi girls sleep outside

stainless steel, dramatic storm, i am a public place
dissociated structure, avoiding the external, hotel safe lock
to seek comfort from a shadow
your body is okay but you still need to sleep outside
in a dumpster in anyone’s name
silence can be so many things
turn your back to the viewer while you sleep
i think tim would like to see your body now
anti-violence unlocking


safe words

i’d like to hear some safe words
satin blouse, string of pearls, neck brace
make more secure sounds, say a prayer, and really care
tell me to go stand in the corner 
play the recorded sound of a dog panting from the beginning of july till the end of august
between each dog’s pant i want to say
i am a beautiful piece of property
erect and etched in stone


you can't wear chanel to your own systematic humiliation

dramatization, waterbed city 
sappho’s expression while you klonopin
you can cry as much as you want
or write down the dates you’ve felt scared
like a woman of good pedigree
or latinas in the dark

I think, as long as a poem is open, in the cachet or notebook and with the conditions of electronic convolutions BECAUSE IT AINT FLAT, because it aint of your eye…the screen grabs don’t veil…leave the lid off, and possibly all ideas of imagined discipline that exacts itself in minimum labour time ends up in the minibar talking ‘post-production’ divorced from an awareness of exploitation and the ‘post-Fordist’ emphasis on information (data-sets) and subjectivity as engines of production. Poetry is inadequate in playing this game. It cannot compete, nor and I will say this with a squint can it complete. This has little to do with ideas around competition, since as I have tried to expound communication, as in the routes founded as a conditional expedient to which language is harangued in its conventional modes of out-put.  Leave the lid off to bacilli and garner an openness to intrusion, an ornate variety and love of imperfection. The immaculate surfaces (perdurant, dry, clean) of macs and the clear-crystalline ideologue who has scaled the kinds of hygiene, cultivates a fear of clutter and doubles up on the abolition of leakage, or that which was not held formerly assured of in the serene de-intensified space of hot-seated desk-space. Most of which are wholly complicit with ordinary language in their supression of differences or either use the tempered indifference of cold distance to validate themselves. I won’t regret the inchoate inadequacy of plentitude; the glorious prospect of a long poem, maybe epic is a way to draw obscurity and debase any suggestible conclusiveness to words and or, the conclusiveness that could be ensured, by way of the registration that is the MEMORY-BANK cashing out its fine CHEQUE as descriptive transcendence. How can one possibly think any different? 

Poetry is nothing but convolution (ensemble movement), a required intoxication; vertigo and the giddiness is always crescendo crescendo crescendo the explosive immensity of time. Beg the world of flows and flames. They want the whole body but my minds on ferry. The cantos revokes conclusion, it ever concludes and actively indexes and disturbs the very synchronisation or impulse to an absolute time, from which we can gauge; cursed terminus. Reading the cantos requires one to give oneself up, to revoke the domesticated temporality of ‘reading’ and sublimate into the immense, precarious destabilisation from which the Cantos demands. The immaculate scroll of creations unfurling is book-keeping Kerouac ‘technique’ never WINS, ever. Gets cut to fuck but fine try, at least he did. But that is just adjusted work. Rousseau spoke of the stoic ideal of autarchy, when we think of the eruption of real time, of course Pound was a garbled bastard that made what he wanted to of history, all screwballed and for his own purpose but his purpose, wherein he had the glimpse of saving language for a particular tyranny which had only just started its rot, has now taken the body wholesale. This is fine as every age has its combative measures, and we cautiously inherit Pound with a lust, which is ultimately destructive and has its perfect outburst as poetry. When i write it, I rarely write more than 5 lines at once, largely break them up and return at irregular intervals as to tend to their disintegration. This disintegration is the intense black of reactive libido, activating impulses. They may catch an edge of british self-knowing, but i always go away and carry the vibratory impulse; here is penny-royal if one knows to use it. If it don’t vibrate it aint worth my dispossession. I don’t want the incumbent transparency of critical reason or the unperturbed mastery of modernist tracts, the logical relatedness secures its own privilege, nothing more than ornament. cut from its own table. The positive interest in structure or the logic gates is a grand guarantee of sleep. But why sleep? HERE IS K, zoning. 

  At the end of a
meaning is a tangent
    of brain noises,
      avoid them &
        finish where you


will get 
you to sleep
behind a rust packet
decimal numbers 
move on their own
But why sleep?

my tired i
diot hand 

 Whats the dominion and how I scorn punctuality as the self-management of an abstraction to countenance, to give an actual FACE to it and have that FACE FACE over FACES, on account of lateness, to what…to whom, accountability? And if it is so that we are (companies) are buying flexibility, purchasing a relational-condition that is systemic; my flexibility is only my absolute relation to the conditions in which my labour is received, that is as free and within the construction of flexibility as the personalisation of ‘freedom’ or of volition, that volleys back any programmatic retaliation in terms of ‘exploitation’ and so on. Whenever I turn up on time, i somehow have a dissociated relationship to intensity that articulates itself in oddly having done nothing other than my obligation. Now, obligation only manifests, only realises itself when obligation is not met. When our ‘collective duties’ are not maintained. When men do not want to kill over men under the auspices of nation-state, which attempts insidiously to inscribe itself in representing again, another abstraction. How does that abstraction materialise itself. A fucking bullet in the temple for my country! I happen to live the contradiction, as in, i WORK this relation and have yet to shelve my continued issue around punctuality and also around work itself. I operate only by way of pockets of self-affirmative refusal of work, which is not negatively defined as not working but of modulating the conditions of work in the service economy as to ensure my subjectivity is not subtended into pure value-form foreignness at the end of the day. This is a issue on the soft tissue, but relief is not when the bell-tolls and my free time is delivered me as package-form. Naturally, the conditions of perpetual flexibility remain and its colliery ideas that consecrate it determinately as freedom, which is rigged up to the much larger and more vexed apparatus of ‘autonomy’. Now, is the man/woman who is sitting, most likely watching zoolander 2 from google play, having done their day and appropriately winding-down acting out the social construction of stability. The body must rest from a day of work, refresh and start the whole thing the following day. The extension of the working day formalises these pockets within the general mainstay of a colonised ‘leisure-industry’ which we all know and throw our particular spite on. Kill that de-intensification. We are spawned from by unilateral difference and create the sacred madness and kiss the full riot of life. I am not interested in perfecting my thoughts, nor my actions. 

Now lets hear some Miller on sex:

When I look down into that crack I see an equation sign, the world at balance, a world reduced to zero and no trace of remainder. 

What an expanse! Any ardent materialist truth is madness. See how conflicted I am, how unbridled my conceptual apparatus is! my heterogeneous distribution cannot self-manage well enough, i know this for sure as this is the enforced culpability of transparency which is the public facing civic duty of artists, who are the finest dupes in tune with the economy of self on this earth. The past is decomposition. One begins again. Again, kiss the full riot of life. We can have Pound, disclosed or undisclosed for even if he reeks of inheritance, the man mangled the ‘proper’ transfer and made it his wallet inlining. A lot of the hyper-text to Pound is prefixed with his inaccuracies…a ingenious etymology without foundation. What do you want with a foundation! Lasso your atlas and drink to oblivion. The old fashioned line of precision: BAH!!! I have sung women in three cities, but it is all the same; and i will sing of the sun. Cleanness, hardness and shape are all foibles of Pound, they are the repetitive inheritance of American work. The rationality of nominalism, which dear-old Duchamp said something about: 

No more generic/numeric/distinction between words (tables is/ not the plural of table, ate has nothing in common with eat). No more physical / adaptation of concrete words; no more/conceptual value of abstract words. 

The worst of nominalism takes the WORD as material or graphic tactility, as i have stressed previously its used as a vehicle for redaction of intensity in the rightness of word, which again i am not wholly untoward of, the rightness is a feeling or intensity which prevails as a movement forward, an act that in the same moment of its confirmation or affirmative impulse is a required locate another right word, just as long as the rightness is not a eventual elimination to self-appreciation of style. The primacy of words, or the search for such is a profanity which sets oneself alight with the blissful oblivion of endless labour, unrecoverable. It is the essential encircling or convolution which is the restless work in progress fuels the cantos  to be seen as defect of communication by the general public, one full of unexplained ejaculations, unbridged transitions. Besides, Pound did not even do the job right; William Carlos Williams- a fellow poet got closest to the infant from Stein. Spring and All is a kind of refresher of lids. The cantos is a carry on of undid and eruptions innocent of iambs. What we do not need in this life are people unable to be profane, unable of accepting the blissful oblivion. 

with tongue lost
raise to pitch 
of soft abracadabra 
find the stray persons 
worth finding

Do not forget that a poem, even though composed in language of information, is not used in the language-game of giving it. Poetry is a valueless object operating on an economy of magic and what i do wholly agree with Pound on, is movement. 

Resplendent light  
makes work 
that is not 
work light bulbs
in daylight  
asks such
a slightness that
needs a head 
against a tree 
looted floribunda
in kitchenettes 
in SUV’s '
arboretum full of profound 
asthma attacks 
with mothers and fathers
                                   in bed, glued together 
                                  yearning for 
timeless grasp 
                                              of verities
                                       6 million lazy gluteus’
or driving cars without ancestors 
full silence and cunning on
pink filis is this property 
of the mind? world tongues
coming thru my window 
at midday wall of lips sing
of all things to eat: 
dirty worker consolation
o' vulnerable grid
what occurs in your latitude
master monstrance
dance on the temples
today who named
a meticulous industry 
and of conditions
laid for fear put the fly out
its casual unpreparedness


The aim has end, we set aims as to cut ties with the loose trails of improbable conclusion. We found rational structures that work-out the unilateral differences that perturb us our sleep. IT IS NOT PERMISSIBLE TO SLEEP. Development of any style that displays movement without killing itself in the ponderous self-consciousness resolution for the GENERAL PUBLIC. The ENGLISH STEAL, it has recast so much speech. Opacity and the obliquely inlaid are done so, not reactively but why should we ever graduate to a perfect intelligibility. What does one achieve in the hint of being understood? The feeling of oneself through another. Motility is the capacity to spontaneously move one’s self…unexplained ejaculations, unbridged transitions. We are frightened, anxious sweating entities roaming this earth, scavenging and searching the heath for anything that savages the constancy of living. I daily have to release this quantity. It is not good for me to keep it. I have a great superstition of myself. There are no generic refuges from the antagonisms of the world, poetry itself is an inconclusive communication, breaking down one's labour-power to the point of devastation and submitting ones every thought to an abyss of convolutions, expending health in the narcosis of suspended disintegration. 

Ppoetry begins a hysterical struggle pouring one's every thought into an abyss, as poetry is more excitation than any inanity of self-determination. Why would i want to plug into anything other that the perpetuity of my extreme impatience, conclusion is always lacking it is not permissible to sleep. Poetry corrupts itself, bungles a summit in the discontinuity of intervals of lucidity, abrupt dis-measure of flooding intensity that goes up in sustained attack to point of delirium. Good for the stomach. Brown Pastes. The only sensation that i know when working on poetry is a fever of excitement, which is in equal measure cruel exhaustion. Good for the stomach. Brown Pastes. When thinking a elemental organisation, ideas plucked from or around the primacy of words, or words getting to their basics, we must reject this. 

Fuck mawkish, excessive sentiment its a fattener, give over which is not overconsumption but the inability to choose correctly. This attenuated theatre needs the extremity of impatience, it needs orgies of narcosis. It does not need sleep. What we have, is the blistering heaviness of privation, of need and therefore, of disastrous terms of working alone. Each in our own place, through fear of scarcity. It seems a great deal vouch-save the comfort of grounded ventures, ventures made rationale. A voyage into loss of control and desolates cores seems unimaginable. It is, naturally the acceptance of our debts. Our frank indebtedness to a system to which confiscates the brutal fact that we are free as long as we see our ‘freedom’ to owners of capital. That is, our freedom or what we decidedly fight for is so imbricated with the terms of capital that the terms of autonomy are really the efficacious, the managerial time-pieces that operate out of a sighted primacy, have routed some way through the vortex by opting to pay their debts without distaste. Their indebtedness actually is the condition for work, seeking  sidelong, elusive modes of address. Debt operates in the form of repayment. The Greeks are bound to repayment to banks, to institutions that only generated money, they did not institute it but now destructively do. Greeks subsequently have to perform a social violence on itself, scaling back radically on paid employment, social reproduction and productive investment. 

Family planning,
       domestic care and 
           educational systems can’t predict 
aerosolised, manic
and ambulatory 
OXI is the destruction of restaurants                              
a yes that can’t hear milkweed
the sustenance monarch or
avuncular gone to the numbers 
game and not war
and you won
cold from warmth

more milk dispensaries 
than ATM’s ballerinas siesta all day 
all night looting burning 
luxury shops leaving Paranoia 
and Lonely  

The issue is in depletion kinds of value-creating capacity, namely labour. Yet recent turns have value out of money. We have a dropping of one particular but absolutely, resolutely material transaction; commodities (M-C-M), and with that labour and production, rather we have migrated value to financial operations of repayment. In the case of Greece, it is terminal. The young minds born of Greece are being killed in the head first. Capital reduces labour to that of the form of capital; the pulverisation in the name of form as interminably producing value. It is the rendering of all in its image and hence its capacity to mechanise the means to dispense with the human as value takes precedence. Labour is subject to the generality of despotic indifference of any inherent potentiality through the ‘de-essentialisation’ of wage-labour in financial speculation; plugging out the fleshy blockages in order to totally homogenise to value. It is the debt-relation that fails to reproduce life by taking out the security in which man can assess his time and ensures standard base of living such as eating. 

Kenner, on relaying Douglas’ abridge of labour, which is ultimately the fade into the mechanistic deterritorialisation of labour to the machine:

‘whoever sets men a little freer, for instance whoever decreases a little the time some process takes, 
should be rewarded for that, since he has augmented the communal stock of unmortgaged time-energy.’
The idea that the division of labour privileges the expedition of labour is true only in the temporal leverage it affords the capital-owner. Labour-expended is merely further abstracted through the mechanical, since the ‘released human’ is further imbricated in ‘other aims’ which are no theirs, namely the extension of the working day. Labour-saving is the making room to do more work. 

gone to the numbers 

Pound fought for the future prospect of our attempts, he fought viciously and I, for one am attracted to all elements of his psyche. His fascistic impulses are not to be disqualified, why clean a man of mortal muck, damn fella never needed a white-boy liberal absolving. 

Where is this going. If anything, i was spurred on my Kenner’s last words in Pound Era: thought is a labyrinth, which is built by recurrence-by the drifts and pulls from a summit, some instinct depravity hedges itself in me which i throw out in components that graduate to some incoherence. Poetry never completes, it precisely eradicates the ground upon which do such a thing; we shall have seisms, spasms affirm the large­ scale economy convolutions communing with its own consummate superfluity. I realise whilst writing this, I have put several shots of espresso into my bloodstream both to wrench myself from the dull stabilisation of regular heartbeat and to put my body into a passage of concentrated intensity, hopefully disintegrating into a senseless heterogenous mass at the end of the day. Is it not permissible to sleep? Work-ethic is a physicalistic method of determination, yet i must do so in advance of rich sense. One might as well laugh at the inherent inequality of words and the wastage catalysing a volatility, pitching a jangle in the wind. 

And I am not a demigod,
I cannot make it cohere. 

That was written by Pound, the man who also authored this:’ Take a chisel and cut away all the stone you don’t want,’ or ‘A soft terminology is merely an endless series of indefinite middles.’ Thought is truly medically disastrous (This is why we must self-diagnose; self-medicate), as we know eventually with Pound’s silence but in that, his silence was not barren but through various variegated punctures and hackings at the jangling of the object; a combustion for him of articulated reason??? to save, for the young a cream of age, so that we go to the source. We have communed with a source, a definitive gem of a human being, whom I have read and wanted to write poetry as a result, direct as that and subsequently all that i put under the hedge fund of poetry can anointed Poundian. To put words set free into new structures of the labyrinth. It is only through the passage into irredeemable waste that the individual is marked with the indelible trace of its excess. To produce is to partially manage the release of energy into its loss opening networks on networks and the rupture of the infinity of languages. So the ‘saying what you mean’ is a troublesome put-upon, since the appearance of systems in the delivery of knowledge are not working with a primary language but an infinity of languages. ’When you have done justice to the meaning, stop.’ (Confucius) That implies restraint, intuitive restraint I believe is verbal felicity supplied by circumlocution but can we get a concentration or matrix of smiling flirtation manic-strain to pierce the very integuments of thinking; we’re not interested any longer in what a poem is  but what it can do. Take the pressure off words so they collide in fresh solids, pile-up density turns the mind out. Ratiocination is the same stuck idea of cutting away all the stone you don’t want. Now, where is this stone, or even firstly where is my chisel. Its all a hump that necessitates indefatigable keen pursuit, freewheeling mostly but out of which stunning something sometimes. We don’t have the stone set before us and it does not boil down to uniform substance. 

Eliot maintained the same erudition for the axe blade but did not have the perturbation of finance capitals instrumentalisation of communication and the variegated routes of LANGUAGE-USE
complicit with ordinary language and its suppression of difference. Let us not forget that a poem, even though it is composed in the language of information, is not used in the language- game of giving information and hence the sways of transparency are inhibitors, confiscating the incongruous realms, pitched in giddy hilarity of recursive juxtaposition JUXTA-POSITION. Juxtaposition is not a simple siding of material , as much as everyone wants to embody one in the perdurant, dry and clean. 

Words decay with imprecision, 
will not stay in place
will not stay still

The mind can’t perceive except by limiting, by blocking things off, by naming them. an isolated thing, does not exist but only the numberless radii of experience provisional attitudes, prejudicial, and rigid increasingly costly and violent. the self ties itself to its pommel, and rides what’s uncontainable  random access, the largesse of simple mayhem, matutinal dismay jump the right way in all the unguessable emergencies high levels of random occasions of accident. The freedom to occur from disorder that makes possible new fields explore and retreat but never be fully stamped out in one poem but as recursive circumlocution. Poems cannot live alone any more than we can; in diversified concretions-grow more diverse and go all ways at once and in every direction the means to sprawl out further to more nothings. I must, in the petering out of anxious flecks sturdy myself for the day that is already mostly gone. I repeat, mouthing rejoicing and with many smiles harassing me:

And I am not a demigod,

I cannot make it cohere.