Showing posts with label suiciding earnest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suiciding earnest. Show all posts

25.11.17

diaper dialogues xix

here we are, sitting in poetry

there are things that are important beyond all this wordle

like eating?

poetry is eating

poetry isn’t eating

science will genetically alter poetry to be eating and eating poetry

that’ll be boring

the announcement will be exciting

what’s the difference?

between announcement and important?

between poetring and eating?

poetring’s the image of the cake and eating’s the cake

eating’s now imaging

not when you’re imagining not imaging

this is far from eating

a visitor from nlt 43.2-97 visited me once and on nlt 43.2-97 one’s nutritional feeds are linked to poetic input and output – the more one produces and consumes good poetry the more one is fed

so the best poets are corpulent and the prosaic masses emaciated?

except that nlt 43.2-97ers aren’t as singularized as we. excess feed is shared through something analogous to mycelial networks here, which can channel for example surplus sugars in a paper birch to a nearby needy douglas fir. everyone weighs exactly the same taking into account differences in bone mass and other core variables

do you get visits like this often?

blake, ezekiel, and elizabeth bishop came for coffee and absinthe the other day

how was that?

ezekiel and bishop didn’t like each other

it was probably the absinthe

the point is – this isn’t poetry

what is it? – it’s not eating

it’s those spaces between that aren’t anything but graze everything

aren’t they poetry?

the cracks and rubble of poetry

the zone where one desires poetry but instead – sentient radiation

it’s a question of the usefulness of uselessness really

everyone’s now expected to contribute to the downfall of the world, through active exploitation, passive participation, protest bound through necessity to the forms resident in the active exploitation. poets defy this expectation – not (initially at least) through any intent but through what seems an accident

any time an unwanted group challenges society’s cherished forms it is seen as other and consequently stuffed in culture’s garbage, recycling, or composting bins. heretics – and there are always heretics for there is always a sacred – have been hated from the beginning of recorded time – they’ve been ostracized, exiled, tortured, maimed, butchered … poets are just heretics without any religion, politics, beliefs, paycheque, institutional credibility, taxonomic confidence, consistent structural realities, oneiric healings …

… play-doh was right in this anyway

play-doh can be formed to make most anything

as poetry

as the forms in the forms

it’s almost dawn

the sun oslo rises

sons all souls eyes is

the announcement of suiciding earnest

time for breakfast

fiddletoads and wildepoes and halfheads

what’s not to like?
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