Sep 2017
yes, i understand diacritical arithmetic, odd, isn't it, that so few people pay attention; e.g.? mötórhead: which for english ******* is written in excessive spelling as: mootoorhed... english becomes so ugly so soon, the **** language can't help itself, given its dyslexia outpouring, english become ugly the minute you attach, but one diacritical distinction, gulp oh the differences between A and ah, and count the breath, which is H, in english... the slowly oozing curling slither of a python... the english language hides plenty of aesthetic cruelties, medusa-gorgons, snakes in wine barrels, you need but one diacritical investment in this edenic tongue, that rose to the propensity of a british empire, with the daft belief, that little england would never arrive, so sure they were, to not revise the latin bet, by adding "barbaric" distinctions... now you have you sally aussie, and your tom-boy canna.
and why am i not reciting my verse,
on the odd occasion,
i do listen to spoken word,
to poetry being recited, rather than composed,
and sure, it has a decent amount
of attention... but... but!
what's with all the hysteria?!
every, single, poet, i listen to,
is hysterical! these days madmen speak
with a more calmer countenance than
these "poets"!
perhaps i'm buying my time,
but the shrill of these efforts to perform
makes the hyenas seem inviting,
it makes a tiger's roar a cat's meow,
and yes, the prime "defence" of poetry,
or "technique" namely that
of rhyme, it's still vogue, rather than a
faux pas, but only if it's not methodological,
if it's not systematic,
the cute bit on the side,
the spontaneity of:
within the prose - the classy origin
of the beaten drum -
rhyming like that works,
but systematic rhyming belong in the 19th
century...
no one would dare write,
within the guiding help of a poetic school,
just like painters wouldn't paint
within a school of cubistic replication...
rhyming is dead,
because poets had to write a prosaic
"aversion" of themselves -
given that prose itself: became all too
simplistic, therefore?
*poetry is the new prose /
ars poetica est prosa novus;
right, that's settled then,
we won't be hearing an argument about this
observation, any time soon...
people have become bored
with the imbalance of over-complicated
characters, who are studied too often
and to an even greater extent than
is necessary, while the narrator dwindled
beneath them, in their shadow...
people enjoy crafty narrators,
intelligent narrators -
the only medium that care little
for such narrators, and much for
the most versatile and inventive characters
is the movie industry,
or the art of writing scripts -
where the narrator plays the most
glorifying aspect of any writing genre:
the pawnbroker,
and in more kinder words:
the invoker of pawns as the shields
for the grander pieces of drama,
nonetheless: indispensable,
and securely staged with an honourable
purpose.
- and yet, every time i watch these
recital videos by poets,
i can't feel but a certain pinch of salt
on a freshly made wound,
or the idea of eating raw onion, or garlic,
or for that matter, ******* on a lemon
and not providing slapstick humour
with the ****** expression that ensue;
the sheer desperation, the sheer
"heroics" of *****-fits, the mere exasperation!
i have yet to come across a soothing
voice in the current poetic zeitgeist,
a sane voice,
and as all critiques tend to show:
apart from the vanity project,
that is me;
i guess the best i can do, is leave you with
a quote from jack spicer from
his poem: ode to walt whitman...
along east river into queens
the kids were wrestling with industry.
the jews sold circumcision's rose
to the faun of the river.
the sky flowed through
the bridges & rooftops -
herds of buffalo the wind was pushing.
p.s. his output was hardly the stuff of
prodigy, but sometimes:
saying the least, is saying: just enough;
me? i'm a rapacious wizard -
first i'd write an encyclopedia -
then a dictionary,
but that is not to suggest it's a forced
error of "expertease" -
namely? either the anti-thesis of
the christian third party (the zeitgeist)
took grip of me,
or some other wielding demoniac artefact
of my "idle hands" spurned me on...
it doesn't matter,
a 1000 mediocre,
equals 1 that's popular -
but popular is never: the finer effort -
just a congested, constipated drag of
having to recite, recite, recite,
recite, over & over & over again -
that one popular brooding...
if you'd know, you'd also know that writing
1000 "mediocre" verses -
is less teasing an overcast of boredom
and tedium,
or as kant said in his grave of
english society:
i said that the categorical imperative is
to live by one maxim, alone!
one!
these english are throwing maxims
left, right and centre,
and i call that: the imperative of fickleness!
if not toward.
i might recite something one day,
but i'm waiting for the hysterics of today,
to hush down, and so that silence can
overwhelm these "poets" -
and, in the end? scare them.
and why am i not reciting my verse,
on the odd occasion,
i do listen to spoken word,
to poetry being recited, rather than composed,
and sure, it has a decent amount
of attention... but... but!
what's with all the hysteria?!
every, single, poet, i listen to,
is hysterical! these days madmen speak
with a more calmer countenance than
these "poets"!
perhaps i'm buying my time,
but the shrill of these efforts to perform
makes the hyenas seem inviting,
it makes a tiger's roar a cat's meow,
and yes, the prime "defence" of poetry,
or "technique" namely that
of rhyme, it's still vogue, rather than a
faux pas, but only if it's not methodological,
if it's not systematic,
the cute bit on the side,
the spontaneity of:
within the prose - the classy origin
of the beaten drum -
rhyming like that works,
but systematic rhyming belong in the 19th
century...
no one would dare write,
within the guiding help of a poetic school,
just like painters wouldn't paint
within a school of cubistic replication...
rhyming is dead,
because poets had to write a prosaic
"aversion" of themselves -
given that prose itself: became all too
simplistic, therefore?
*poetry is the new prose /
ars poetica est prosa novus;
right, that's settled then,
we won't be hearing an argument about this
observation, any time soon...
people have become bored
with the imbalance of over-complicated
characters, who are studied too often
and to an even greater extent than
is necessary, while the narrator dwindled
beneath them, in their shadow...
people enjoy crafty narrators,
intelligent narrators -
the only medium that care little
for such narrators, and much for
the most versatile and inventive characters
is the movie industry,
or the art of writing scripts -
where the narrator plays the most
glorifying aspect of any writing genre:
the pawnbroker,
and in more kinder words:
the invoker of pawns as the shields
for the grander pieces of drama,
nonetheless: indispensable,
and securely staged with an honourable
purpose.
- and yet, every time i watch these
recital videos by poets,
i can't feel but a certain pinch of salt
on a freshly made wound,
or the idea of eating raw onion, or garlic,
or for that matter, ******* on a lemon
and not providing slapstick humour
with the ****** expression that ensue;
the sheer desperation, the sheer
"heroics" of *****-fits, the mere exasperation!
i have yet to come across a soothing
voice in the current poetic zeitgeist,
a sane voice,
and as all critiques tend to show:
apart from the vanity project,
that is me;
i guess the best i can do, is leave you with
a quote from jack spicer from
his poem: ode to walt whitman...
along east river into queens
the kids were wrestling with industry.
the jews sold circumcision's rose
to the faun of the river.
the sky flowed through
the bridges & rooftops -
herds of buffalo the wind was pushing.
p.s. his output was hardly the stuff of
prodigy, but sometimes:
saying the least, is saying: just enough;
me? i'm a rapacious wizard -
first i'd write an encyclopedia -
then a dictionary,
but that is not to suggest it's a forced
error of "expertease" -
namely? either the anti-thesis of
the christian third party (the zeitgeist)
took grip of me,
or some other wielding demoniac artefact
of my "idle hands" spurned me on...
it doesn't matter,
a 1000 mediocre,
equals 1 that's popular -
but popular is never: the finer effort -
just a congested, constipated drag of
having to recite, recite, recite,
recite, over & over & over again -
that one popular brooding...
if you'd know, you'd also know that writing
1000 "mediocre" verses -
is less teasing an overcast of boredom
and tedium,
or as kant said in his grave of
english society:
i said that the categorical imperative is
to live by one maxim, alone!
one!
these english are throwing maxims
left, right and centre,
and i call that: the imperative of fickleness!
if not toward.
i might recite something one day,
but i'm waiting for the hysterics of today,
to hush down, and so that silence can
overwhelm these "poets" -
and, in the end? scare them.
