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Feb 2016
upon the universal statement:
once upon a time...
and subsequently to end with a universal
statement: they lived happily ever after.

well poet ought to shatter the narrator,
he should never allow the narrator
a narrative so well consistent
as to remember a character's standstill
psychology from one writing session
to the next, in between living his very
eventful life (i don't know how irony
is noted, italics or en-dittoed?),
but moving words about is high treason
against materialism, encapsulated by
the merchants' motto: move a stone
make a penny, move a mountain,
make a fortune. so beautifying language
is so horrid? really? we are all going
to be satiated by a dull numbed expression
like adding numbers, while the birds sing?
poetry is just hushed opera, to appreciate
the birds, and on the odd chance,
a raised human verse sung;
so when i give you examples, i wonder,
will you agree or wilt beside me,
from the italicised introduction,
four examples to invoke particularity / chirality
rather than universalism / parallelism:
a. *breakfast at tiffany's (truman capote)

    'i am always drawn back to places where i have lived,
     the houses and their neighbourhoods.
    "african hut or whatever, i hope holly has, too.
b. the catcher in the rye (j. d. salinger)
     'if you really want to hear about it, the first thing
      you'll probably want to know is where i was born,
      and what my lousy childhood was like, and how
      my parents were occupied and all before they had me,
      and all that david copperfield kind of crap, but i don't
      feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
     "don't ever tell anybody anything; if you do, you
       start missing everybody.
c. steppenwolf (hermann hesse)
     'this book contains the records left us by a man whom
      we called the steppenwolf, an expression he often used
      himself.
     "pablo was waiting for me, and mozart too.
d. don quixote (cervantes)
      'somewhere in la mancha, in a place whose name
       i do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago,
       one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on
       a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.
       "vale.
the ninth gate is truly a film about bibliophiles,
and the alley where i popped open a beer bottle
while two lovers kissed waiting for me to
craft a scene as if a forbidden love was revealed to me,
and indeed it was: no dread of jealousy at not
being coupled, but all the same, hatred
invokes apathy, it cannot claim platonic pathologies
of lovers (first), poets (second) and sibyls / prophets
(third)... hatred is tiresome, it walks no thirteenth mile
the same day, and when hatred exposes apathy
it is assured: apathy breeds no pathology,
love on the other hand breeds a lacerated maggot pit
of pathology; whereas atheism just breeds factual
reevaluation and constant reinterpretation
without proofs, theism plagiarises, and wants
to prove... really really prove... and get *******,
or at least roman catholic castrato songs to boot...
pure narration? just now, you spotted it?
poetic digression is the only way a poet can
become akin to a narrator in the medium of fiction,
poets digress... fictional narrators are all bound
to the titanic... on course for unchangeable history...
poets digress to create their own narrative.
so to begin with (need to ***, need to ***, will
i survive the wording to the end?)...
the generic and easily analogous once upon
a time
is akin to an open field... many directions,
much open space, many congregational opportunities...
in the end few books of fiction are finished,
too much inanimate details and symbols,
not enough images, books without pictures
are stupid, as alice would have said...
slowly but surely the readers drop off,
a bound book with a thread of silk that acts
as a bookmark end halfway through the thickening:
undercooked pasta, raw tomatoes...
but the process from the beginning to the end
makes the acre of gold-simmering wheat
turn into a pinhead...
writers forget the element they're writing
parallel to is claustrophobia, i know,
how can a phobia become elemental?
people get killed, that's the foremost proof for me...
narration in grand novels is a bit like
a growing bulging claustrophobia...
the acre of a wheat field becomes a box-room...
and as this happens the paradox emerges:
we all wish to embark upon a and they
lived happily ever after
, but we're given
a once upon a time, in reality we begin
with they lived happily once,
and end with it was once the case...
i figured i did the worded arithmetic better
in my head a few minutes prior...
but then i became bothered by julien torma's
words. who was julien torma,
he was a would-be-poet on the fringes of the Dada
movement: Dada being like black panthers
and big lebowski movements against the war in
vietnam, although more to do with world war i,
let me cite him just so you get a feel...
lyricism: a venereal disease.
             a poet who is preoccupied with
poetry is a shopkeeper.

on the second point... i think he's more of an antique
dealer, but never mind that,
i get the point, and i don't mind what he minds,
i find any if all poetic endeavours a futility,
but i rather write a poem to be discrete and actually
read fully / contently / due course to express
the way a poem is written with ensō fluid
spontaneity: than oblige myself to write a novel:
better a stack of stones dismantled from a pyramid
shape than a mountain never climbed;
as i told you, poets can't narrate, they can digress,
and poets aren't like writers of fiction,
they can't latch themselves to the narrowing
from acre of field to a box, or a room,
they can't grasp claustrophobia as the drive
for that perfected the end, it's impossible...
they're always shrapnel narrators, a free moment,
a guess; as the paradox of writing dramas,
they're written because they're intended
for what the populace expresses: an uneventful
life to the limit of the total of all predictability:
death - dare not tire of boredom, keep it
like a constantly stretching rubber band, and then
death comes... SNAP! cushion cosy on that morphine
are we?
Mateuš Conrad
Written by
Mateuš Conrad  33/M/Essex (England)
(33/M/Essex (England))   
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