Saturday 3 December 2016

(n)ever as happy as the quilts (draft)

Notes on Poetry

(n)ever as happy a
s the quilts, 
innocent book-devouring boyhood
  night finds 
himself in a circle of fragments

Poetry makes for infinitude, an infinite object and infinite work: its consistence – its promise and potential to make difference grow and end where it ends. Every poem is its own crisis of pure variation, unrepeatable gulp of the world in a bottle lost. Ideas operate by comprehension between states of variation and collude to collapse difference under the entry of the same, rendering propositions constitutive of internal essence. In its attempt at absolute n excessive openness, the word and the world spill into nd over one another exceeding, incorporating, intruding without object. It is always not what it is.

Poetry thickens in inconsistencies, chases the brim out. Over and over the lilac and nothing bakes, thickening legato mess, blunted lumpy inspecificities. what do you find to boast of in our age, to boast of now my friendly sonneteer, and not to blush for later? blush, a kiss from behind, i’ll make you blush nd you’re slipping now, don’t fight can’t wait to tear that apart (Kelela)

Here, beautiful regard: The summer was the hottest since 1453. And into these quarters marched jocund Ezra, our Ezra sweet, tendering his new book that haunted of sprays ‘to rhyme with praise and rays or gelatine above clear waters,’ and employed such diction as ‘hight the microcline.’ Ford saw that it would not do. The incense, the angels, elicited an ultimate kinaesthetic demonstration. By way of emphasising hopelessness, he threw headlong his considerable frame and rolled on the floor. That roll, Pound would one day assert, saved him three years. Don’t offer Rossettian second-grade as poetry in 1911, don’t think you stride in eternal realms. 

Don’t write in an easy idiom. Ease is the first idea but we forget poetry is fucked, it originates out of naive eruption in/as passion. Language in its standardised form eventually traverses attempts to deterritorialise through difference, it will always harvest the common unit barren of corruption, decodings and re-workings to lay workaday language and vernacular commonality. It is under this regime, this duress of language harassing it into blocks or stocks of habitual thinking that codifies ordinary and colloquial utterances feigning natural expression by way of the obviousness of idioms.

Legit policemen are in the vast hinterland of language, material convolutions repeat sameness as/in accordance with law.  The climate is created for particular pernicious policies to be shaped, promoted and put into place; same with language, just muddle through its lawfulness and come out pure bandit. run run run run run away with poetry in the muscles absolving and excessing out the the subjective rim, where word and world lose topology, into and over one another swallowing, exceeding, incorporating, intruding upon. belief in the non-discursive image, as it is carried in a furtive motion and intellectual and emotional complex in time. 

Poetry as I meet it, sustains itself by the exponential accumulation of its incompleteness, since disclosure is the love boat smashed up. It is a work in which every line attempts to start again – to begin the poem again, in some way – and thus to sabotage the opportunity of completion is to continually suspended the condition for the poem’s capacity to keep going.  

Poetic-thinking is always infinitely defective of thought and sabotage ruptures the labour of composition, flatlines the agencies offering the usual days-day. 

The need to continually discover the possibility of being able to continue to do so, and to do that it requires to prevent itself from securing the kind of survival it would otherwise need to proceed. 

Demand more than you have. 

poems make ur fissured state bursts with sovereign LAUGHER, lost to talk: 

Laugh and laugh at the sun
at the nettles
at the stones 
at the ducks 
at the ram
at the pee-pee of the pope
at mummy
at a coffin full of shit 

'Utility' cannot in reality be anything but the characterisation of a function. morality colonises value, subor­dinating it to the definition 'which serves’. The non­ utilitarian writer is not interested in serving mankind or furthering reproduction. 

like wrapping rizlas 
‘round pennies
 or your 
garter guts
in the pool 
I could never forget that