Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition

Trees, houses, Treehouses,
Abandoned.
                  beaches
                ­                 still
                                 appear the same as summer
but the sky's gone
                 Sunshine
to
                Windwine
                                  (Clouds and clouds, some much            
                                    larger than others, sometimes just one big cloud  
                                   mapped out between            
                                   us and rest of universe to the cascade horizon)

All the pets can tread cement
without
worry of burns and the two hundred calamities
of July are over.
                              Replaced with
                              rain and bums escaping to the
                              soup kitchens and
Churches
                                  (East side Vancouver, Pandora Victoria,  
                                                 astreet in a city astray)
Ashtrays freckled in the evening drizzle
common.

My hands are held by gloves and
                                 fingertips from half of
                                 Japan,
my lips are kissed by the                          comet
beauty mark on right side
bottom
                                                (Though this universe is attending
                                                  unive­rsity in a distant city
                                                  while I hold my own
                                                  practicing the Dharma,
                                                 or MAYBE none of this will happen!)
Everything is in its place
as it always was-
though circumstance has tried to
teach us otherwise the                        
                                     ­                            Blackbox
                                      made of star-rubber S T R E T C H I N G
Hasn't the concept
of          calendars or
                             Jesus or
                                medicine cabinets
                                                         Dentists and
                                                             ­               Saints.
Everything is in its place
as it will always be
        as it has never been...
(Ever)
SPONTANEITY of matter
                         Gliding thr-
                                          -ough matter.
What does it all matter anyway?
There's                    loving
and                    ­     experiencing,
                Music.
           Personsong.
         Do-no-wrong.
That        no-no           of making
             mistakes?
A falsity!
**** up

In blissful circles
to the         SOUND
                    OF SNOW
                    MELTING
on streetlamps front of my
House.
                                (A very silent orchestra performing
                                 Before collision and like dog whistles
                                 It's a sound we cannot hear.
                                The peoples got their poetry and
                                cognitive thought so the other
                                Animals get the REAL sensory
                                Inconceivables to write about
                                But the ******* can't)
In that
                        future
_____
basement house

Where the Van Gogh
                   Velvet Underground sit
P
O
S
T
E
R
E
D
on the wood-c
                        u
                          r
    ­                       v
                             e walls.
I'm in unfolding daydream
Thanking
HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS
predating my
EIGHTEEN.
Thanking the
                              Beats and the Dadaists
                           and Buddhists and
                        Existentialists
                     ­ Post-modernists
                  Minimalists
                Expressionists
            FOR BEING.

Really, they aided
Me off
  the ^ ground
during
eight month unemployment induced depression where
I felt disassociated with myself
and the dynamo                                                       outside the front door..
Glowing via
         sunlight in the day window and
            headlights in the night window.
Either way
I filled up with
                                   (((Purposeless cynicism)))
The world bulb clicked ON
With/without me           there,
None of the corner stores
Or      airports
Or      hospitals
          courts and
          institutions
gave a rat's ***
what woes I be asphyxiated by
or that                 Farmquiet two lane
                                 tarnished path
In the country                       (in May)
      seemed fine a place as any
to     step a few feet to the          
                                               right
                            and
      left

of me and
                         .......DIZZY.......
by death traffic
old Buick polish
(Tragedy they'd say!)

While there midway in the firing line
I felt like
the wackos in      l o o s e
stone COLISEUM daisy cages
               Empty lots,
       Place where the beast of
  Emptiness cuffs to your sleeve
             and weeps
                      All over itself
                      that Sarte was right all along!
(No Exit! No exit!)

Autumn quartz moonlight                        O
Illuminated headstone repetition
circling musk fields.
  Skeleton wings
Of preceded seasons' timbers
Caught muttering the
Corpseconvo
as the               tumblecar
trembling             hot in
                           Music sauna HUM
Approaches life,
to the
                       paralyzed November air
of
Coffin bodies insulated
By roots N' six feet of terrestrial barrier.



Faces disappearing now
to Heavenly chandeliers of time
offering distant light future
and above my ponderous skull presently
                 dancing riverside to situations
                                                  and newness
                           (2016)
                  enigmatic spiral
  every                 color             every
                        possibility
every                rainbow          or
                      non-rainbow chromatically
                           webbed in Attic
                                          of secluded
                                Quantum Dimensions-

The big blue doors are opening to cosmic entirety,
cats everywhere are purring in their sleep,
somebody reads                          Murakami,
                                                      Picabia,
                                                      Joyce,
   ­                                                   W.C Williams,
                                                      B­erryman & Brainard too.
Big blue doors, rites of passage,
Aarti Varanasi twenty-seventeen,
             joyride to San Francisco (I wrote a poem on that once!)
Continuing self-exploration,
            reminding that soul to stay awake,
            the search for love-
Warmth when the year is
metamorphosed to cardinal leaves
       Sunset Summer!
      Autumnal transfiguration
      spiritual!
      Rearrangement of the concurrent reality!

I turn 19 in October and
a procession of kind-eyed children
will be born in the moments
I blow the cake candles.
Light goes out!
light comes in!
Hanoi expects me still.

Her arms flailing
pinwheeling through the air
in dramatic attempt at emphasis.
His arms across his body
to absorb the impact
from her words.
Her eyes wide
like something possessed,
as expressionists weep.
His eyes closed
to keep at bay
the wicked witch.
Welcome to the new tribal dance.

we may not be the most obvious expressionists,
for we keep our special pen and papers,
folders,
diaries hidden from the world,
and once we enter our secret world,
that's when we fully open up to our paper,
and the  pen becomes a reflection of our hearts,
the thoughts impregnating our minds,
falls like waterfalls onto our paper,
our pen becomes a existing object in our lives,
we create him as our best friend,
lover,
as he writes down all our desires,
secrets,
feelings we hide in our hearts, to afraid to tell anyone what goes on in our head.

The abstract expressionists wanted
to



strip



their work of associations
yearning for pure emotion
I didn't understand
but now I do.

Every song I've heard before
heard now
reminds me of my hollow heart
voices and instruments as phantom limb-reminders.

So I find weird instrumentals
electronic
trip-hop
stuff I never liked, things with nothing tied to them.

No summer love
no winter warm kisses
or new year of uncertainty.

It's my escape
into some kind of sensation
for
now.

If I could move backwards in time from snooch to snooch
Until the I reached the beginning of time,
The beginning of all snooch, the very first snooch,
What would I see when I emerged from it?
Would I see that past star filled night
Or would I see the sun newly blazing—
Will she see a delicious **** made of metal
Newly emerged from space
Between her hairy thighs,
Will she be fat or skinny, having never eaten but how—
Anorexic flies buzzing around thriving on what oxygen—
Would Jehovah be waiting there for me with a beer?
Will her cross be made of electric diamonds?
Girl in a business suit dining like a cat
While I sit smoking my pipe in space—
Loving her like I love the sun I **** your mother on videotape
My world is an extraordinary machine,
The American nun who was an angel
Fillating me to seventh heaven was only eighteen,
Blinded by the sky’s mask of flesh—
I hear ***** scratching at the door,
Her rubbery lips delicious like hot sausage—
Death is no reason not to **** her,
The British **** their dead all the time, the queen is dead—
He paints huge squares of paper and sells them framed
Or rolled or cut up into rough squares—
They are like flags of nonexistent nations—
The Chinese Barnett Newman,
I say Chinese and not Han deliberately,
Because Baudelaire wasn’t impressed by blondes—
The Impressionists followed Delacroix
And the Cubists followed Cezanne,
The Expressionists followed Van Gogh
And the Minimalists followed the Abstract Expressionists,
I would **** an old woman in the mouth
If she gave me twenty dollars—
Then I would write a poem about her—
Called “Portrait of the artist as a young sadist”,
And it would be all about her ***** feet and sagging *******,
The lines on her face and her candy colored ****
As tight as a little girl’s—
As if I could move backwards in time from **** to ****
Until I reached the beginning of time, the motherless ur-****—
That is the beginning of all snooch, the first snooch
Before which there was no snooch—

i'm reporting to you here
From the women's bathroom stall at
(nam withheld) solo show
At the (name withheld) Gallery
Located on (name withheld) Blvd.

I have to say
that it comes as some relief to be sitting here
with my little plastic cup of sour wine
resting comfortably
on the cold tiled floor
I sit upon the plastic, seat cover down
the door closed and latched shut
What with my notes and my phone
and my purse over-full
Everything in here is the color of a rotting
peach, hard stone exposed
And I wonder what the color is
in the men's bathroom?
A bruised purplish tomato?
A dull pinky brownish mayonnaise?

It is very crowded out there
Way too many people
I came to see paintings painlessly
and I can't see a thing
but I can jostle with the best
except that I'm completely exhausted.

I know it sounds naive, sure
that I don't mind saying "Hi!" and
"Hey!"
without the whitest of smiles
But then what do you say after?
No worries.
I am charming.
I will do
all the work
I will make you laugh
Tantalize you with my wit
My Enthusiasm or Disdain.

I'll try to come back again
when this space is empty
perhaps commiserate leaning in at the counter
If I feel so inclined
Gage my conspiratorial tones
by the eyes that face me
Grim?
Resigned?
Expertly Professional?
and
it may in fact be quite lovely then
Now airy, the galleries.
Or it ill be a quick and disappointing
walkabout and out
I may not even need to say "Thank You."
because no one cares.

For now I will practice my breathing
And think about dead third generation
Abstract Expressionists like
Norman Bluhm
or Joan, my one true love

I'm pretty sure that on the floors out there
I've splashed my wine about
which will prove to be rather
unfortunate
for someone
who skids in kitten heeels.

Did I mention that Blankety Blank came with
yet another brand new spouse?
Bold as day.
She seems like all the others very nice
A mid-tone wheat-y blonde
Petite
So far her ready smile is a solid
and her interested gaze noteworthy
Too shy to wear the engrossed face
Her mouth is primly closed.
She seems polished and stands rather well
despite no one talking to her
after the Introductory Handshake
Her power may grow with time
what with that ring on her left finger.

I thought that the husband was still in jail
to be honest
or had fled to Barbados
to sell the same rolled oil on canvas
over and over
to different buyers and still keep the scratch
And the canvas
rolled, wrapped, and neatly stored
The artist seems to be fine with it
although she will never be paid.

Out there beyond this door
Stand
I can't get a proper count
because it's five people deep
and their backs are to the walls
I watched someone walk passed
something rather beautiful
although they didn't notice.

I for one nearly had my right eye
knocked out by a shock of
titanium white
that was totally
uncalled for.
It's on the eastern wall and a
scene stealer no doubt
Probably already sold
Probably hung already sold
and it's gonna make the cover of
everything.

Personally I'd like to take a knife
and slice it full across
remove the white offense
leaving it crumbled in a mass on the floor
Now a loser's cape bright enough to be seen
in darkness and stepped over lightly
like so many others.
Out there.

When I leave this stall
I'm gonna toss this cup and
I'm gonna run
and in so doing
quickly side step
another tangled bundle
I will look intensely to find the hero
instead, confronting as one does
dark filthy textiles
and thread counts
and only in the passing
In my beautiful raiment
A vision I am sure
will my eyes reveal
that the over familiar tangled bundle
the blanket is
no one's cape
but some exoskeletal remains left behind
and its creature, gone.
No ragged head.
No ***** feet.
No professional smile.

the three best abstract expressionists;
Gorky; Rothko & *******; two
hangings & a car crash; self-
destruction was never so cool; young
girls & their mothers moved to tears;
Yukio Mishima, Plath, Dean, Arbus,
the greatest creative minds of their
or any other generation, cutters all &
dating the fashion model who spends
time in the can blowing syrup cuz she
never eats; the poets sits at the table
smoking a joint writing, sketching;
she gets in the shower to wash off the
sweat & *****; my cross-dressing
neighbor shoots dope & beats his kids;
models are so interchangeable one can
a different model every day & its like
the same girl; one can marry a fashion
model & still not be able tell her apart
from her friends; models mostly date
rock stars & rich intellectuals; poets &
painters get stuck w/ strippers & other
painters but it's okay; we're all junkies,
alcoholics, great lovers, confused genius
David Foster Wallace did the world a
favor by hanging himself; Francesca
Woodman like the angel she always
wanted to be disappeared altogether &
yet strangely remained beautiful; her
photography proves it; the model genius

Theoretical physics is a branch of physics
that employs mathematical models & abstractions
of physical objects & systems to rationalize,
explain & predict natural phenomena;
this is in contrast to experimental physics,
which uses experimental tools to probe
these phenomena; the advancement of science
generally depends on the interplay between
experimental studies & theory; in some cases,
theoretical physics adheres to standards
of mathematical rigor while giving little weight
to experiments & observations; for example,
while developing special relativity,
Albert Einstein was concerned w/ the Lorentz
transformation which left Maxwell's equations
invariant, but was apparently uninterested
in the Michelson–Morley experiment
on Earth's drift through a luminiferous ether;
Conversely, Einstein was awarded the Nobel Prize
for explaining the photoelectric effect,
previously an experimental result lacking
Expressionism was a modernist movement,
initially in poetry & painting, originating
in Germany at the beginning of the 20th century;
Its typical trait is to present the world solely
from a subjective perspective, distorting it
radically for emotional effect in order to evoke
moods or ideas; Expressionist artists sought
to express the meaning of emotional experience
rather than physical reality
                             or a theoretical formulation;
Neo-expressionism is a style of late modernist
or early-postmodern painting & sculpture that
emerged in the late 1970s; Neo-expressionists
were sometimes called Transavantgarde, Junge
Wilde or Neue Wilden ['The new wild ones'];
It is characterized by intense subjectivity & rough handling of materials

The greatest naked woman who ever breathed walks hand in hand with Jesus
The drunken Gnostic poet, glowing like Ginger Rogers—
The British grandmother having to choose between pantyhose or fishnets,
With an *** like a concept album, kissing an old man in the park,
Smelling the fat girl’s ****** sweat from across the field—
Perfection ending in nothingness—

But who can resist a European accent that thick,
Sweaty toes dancing on my tongue,
Must I ******* without syntax in your blue dress and fur—
No one wanting to go to heaven alone,
Take your Chinese wife made of gold—

The News comes on in a minute,
God’s shining face repeating the Ten Commandments
In fluent Aramaic and her eyes bursting like rotten eggs,
She’s fond of laughing in the dark—
And I’ve never met a ***** that I couldn’t live without
But the stars are eternal and the camera never stops—

The mother of all wormholes,
Socrates trying to argue with a child
On the streets of Pyongyang but only gets arrested when she smiles
And confesses to her Canadian soul
I’m wishing and praying, hoping and trying,
Her *** is bleeding but the BBC won’t announce it—

She walking in smoking, laughing,
Poetry like a puzzle,
Republican as Plato walking the yard—
He gets his point across with paint
And the millions are still rolling in,
Elise’s face is like the shining sun but she’s no Bettie

Jack the shaman cries out at the foot of the totem
And she appeared in a ring of miracles
I’ve loved more than one ugly woman,
They couldn’t choose their faces—
If only I knew then I could flip them on their bellies
And **** their *** joyfully,
I might still be in love to this day but most likely not
She’s crying out to space and the ghost of Jackson ******* walks in
Drunk as usual, if only we were together and you didn’t have *** on your face
De Kooning’s wife gave him a bad name and ******* took the prize—
Don’t be afraid of the past, Krakatoa, the Titanic, or the World Trade Center
The poets will protect you from the night and the rain,
Quetzalcoatl chasing after the sun with a rainbow in both fists,
Your baby’s face smiling at you, the entire solar system spinning,
The Lost Generation was found in the street by the Beats
Who ran straight into their dealer’s arms—
Her cartoon machine-gun laughter like Chicago’s south Side,
Like Boston during a Marathon exploding and imploding,
Running faster and faster;
TS Eliot was like a god to a certain generation, not this one—
Prayers and explosions in Texas—celebrity hoes knocking at the door
Like zombies on a rampage—Rod Serling traveled back in time to Warsaw—
Mormon prophets hook up with Muslim prostitutes,
Hot stones and flames—
Hispanic housewife washing dishes while calculating her autobiography,
Religion only makes sense if there is no God, because if there is a God,
Face it we’re *******—
I am that I am, in the world today we live looking backwards,
It’s like living at the bottom of a grave—
Your generation is an illusion, one created over and over
Her dream of being a movie star was realized 81/2 years ago—
Eve in the garden of skulls, hairy as hell, waging war over tea
******* queen or gift from god, throwing up in her face,
A rarely seen soul steals through the room, out the window and over the bridge
This blonde, not every mother is the mother of us all,
So cold she begs for dreams—
Alysha appears in the night smoky like love, abandoned automatically,
Mother sleeps with her eyes open because she’s so perfect,
She can even think with the window open—
GOOGLE plugs us all into eternity, her bared teeth like British razors squared—
Not content with the Protestant Bible Pound advocated Cubism
And gave it to the Chinese sky—
Do not be afraid of history, it is not the past,
Only ghosts roaming through your living room
In disheveled clothes like mock soldiers or digital burlesque saints
Alysha in her tattoos is not as beautiful as an ugly mother throwing up
From choking on ****—
Nothing could ever be so wonderful,
As your baby’s face smiling at you as she tries on her new leopard print bra
With matching *******—
No more gun deals for the tribes of Israel, no more living in the past
Don’t be afraid of the future, the senile brain prophesying
Penelope’s return in her dark cloak, her fat *** more desirable than ever—
Her thong of beetles and her paper face can’t do us any harm,
As long as her robot-clone kisses the Pope’s diamond ring—
Quetzalcoatl chasing him with a rainbow, Cthulu swallowing the earth whole— He couldn’t stop the visions that eventually became waking nightmares…
He would dream of sniffing the soiled crotch of her pantyhose
While ******* her toes and licking her feet, he saw no way of staying alive
Except by becoming a poet and a painter and told no one he was a prophet—
She became a go-go dancer at a ****** club because they had to eat—
For him art and literature were everything,
It seemed every woman was a go-go dancer and every man a painter…
He still had visions, has them to this day…
He will never stop being a prophet
He was born that way, his path set clearly before him,
Past and future foretold—
And all the while you’re saying, what does any of this have to do with me or my mother or quantum mechanics or Cubism or Adolf ****** and the Third *****…
Those things were already in the past, like comic books, except horror comics,
The lost generation, the Algonquin circle, social realism or any kind of realism—
A prophet was born in 1961 in Harlem not of his own choosing
His best friends were drunks, junkies, thieves, poets, painters and *****
And his visions were relentless
Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker and John Coltrane
And Miles Davis created bebop…
There was Tempest Storm and Blaze Starr
And the thousand other burlesque queens including Gypsy Rose Lee,
The greatest of them all and into this maelstrom of bebop, Beat literature, method acting, burlesque, abstract expressionist paint throwing ******* magazine and Bob Dylan,
Sylvia Plath, Ann Sexton and the Confessional Poetry movement,
Feminism and the Civil Rights and Black Power movements,
Gay rights, the Stonewall riots, Times Square,
*******, drugs, prostitutes and perverts
Jack Kerouac and Bettie Page were both Christians,
He a Roman Catholic and she an evangelical…
******* was a drunk in Jungian analysis married to a Jew,
Kerouac and ******* looked lovingly upon Bettie Page’s figure,
Naked, near naked, bound and gagged, binding and gagging,
Hanging, hogtied in stockings and garters and high-high heels
Or babydolls and slippers lounging on a daybed
Or playfully posing in a field amidst an ocean of pinups
On a newsstand where she was featured in every magazine most often smiling…
Kerouac and ******* both listened to bebop jazz,
The revitalized urban strain of jazz that took off from swing,
Bettie was from the south, Kerouac from New England
And ******* from the Midwest,
All three came into their own in New York City,
Manhattan particularly, where Kerouac attended Columbia,
******* studied at the Art Student’s League and later signed with Peggy Guggenheim
And Bettie was discovered in a bikini on the beach
And soon became a regular at “camera club” meetings…
Besides Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs and the other Beats,
There the other Abstract Expressionists, and Bunny Yeager and Irving Klaw…
There was Marilyn and James Dean and the other method actors at the Actor’s Studio,
And Tennessee Williams and Clifford Odets and Arthur Miller,
Whom Marilyn later married—
When he closes his eyes he can still smell her sweaty feet
And her mother’s sweaty feet and his mother’s sweaty feet…
The visions are relentless and show no sign of stopping so he stares into the darkness hoping to see the light of god come to rescue him—
But it’s neither revelation nor apocalypse that comes…
Eventually beauty becomes only a memory and all sound vanishes except the wind

it is well documented is that the CIA under
cover paid the Abstract Expressionists to paint
extending the WPA into a sort of free-for-all;
artists of every stripe getting a gov't check for
doing what they would do anyway; novels,
paintings, photographs, poetry all came from
the gov't paying artists so they weren't broke
sitting on their ***** doing nothing except
painting, writing poetry & novels, dancing &c.

this was done to promote Western Liberal
values as superior to the ****-like Soviets

it also paid off many a bar tab

The roots of Dada are in the vanguard
of the pre-war. The term anti-art,
a precursor of Dada, was coined by Marcel
Duchamp around 1913 to characterize works
that defy accepted definitions of art. Cubism
and the development of collage and abstract
art inform the detachment
of the movement from the limitations
of reality and convention. The work of French
poets, Italian Futurists and German Expressionists
would influence Dada's rejection of the close
correlation between words and meaning. Works
such as Ubu Roi 1896 by Alfred Jarry, and ballet
Parade 1916-17 by Erik Satie would also be
characterized as proto-dadaist works.
The principles of Dada's movement
were first compiled in the Dada Manifesto
by Hugo Ball in 1916. The Dadaist movement
included public meetings, demonstrations
and publication of literary / art magazines; Passionate
coverage of art, politics and culture were topics
that were often discussed in a variety of media.
The key figures of the movement were Hugo Ball,
Marcel Duchamp, Emmy Hennings, Hans Arp,
Sophie Taeuber-Arp, Raoul Hausmann,
Hannah Höch, Johannes Baader, Tristan Tzara,
Francis Picabia, Huelsenbeck, George Grosz,
John Heartfield, Man Ray, Beatrice Wood,
Kurt Schwitters, Hans Richter, Max Ernst
and Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven
among others. The movement influenced later
styles such as avant-garde and downtown musical
movements, and groups that included surrealism,
nouveau réalisme, pop art and Fluxus.
The development of a rattle classification system
became a topical issue, since the new experimental
techniques found by many of them revealed
that everything cannot be elementary. These discoveries
made Wolfgang Pauli shout: "If I predict it, I will go
to the botanist". Advises the students Enrico Fermi
and León Rederman. "If I could remember the name
of these particles, I would be a botanist," who was
at the forefront of many of these developments,
including these new Nobel Prize systems, including
Luis Alvarez. The construction of the hammer
as a limited condition of fewer sections will organize
your "zoo".                                                 Some of the first meson proposals, such as Enrico Fermi, Chen-Ning Yang in 1949
and Sakata in 1956, were successful, but they could
not compensate and could not explain all Dada.
The Gel-Man-Nishijima formula developed
by Murray Gel-Man and Kazuhiko Nishijima
led to an eight-way classification invented
by Gel-Man in 1961 with important independent
contributions from Yuval Ne'eman. Organize HIS (3)
Expression of multiples of approximately the same
mass, octave and Dickle due to strong interaction.
Smaller mass differences associated with the quantum
number of flavors that do not appear to be a strong
interaction. The Gel-Man-Okubo tissue formulated
the quantification of these small differences in mass
between the multichannel members, controlled
by the distribution of the explicit symmetry of SU
(3). A basic bidirectional member, B-baryon spin-3/2,
was an important predictor of this classification.
Gel-Man received the Nobel Prize for Physics
approximately eight times in 1969, after having
been discovered in experiments at the National
Laboratory, Brookhaven. Finally, in 1964, Gel-Man
and George Zweig independently received What is
The Image Encoding? Eight times they made a start-up
and made the underlying scheme unpredictable
and possibly unobservable, and the classification
was more simply encoded into a narrow economic
structure in eight ways. The differences in the Hadron
mass were associated with different masses of quark
components. It takes about 10 years for unexpected
nature and physical reality. These quarks are understood
in more detail (seen Quarks). Unlike intuition,
it cannot be considered in isolation from the birth
of color, the forms with other quarks are a complete
hero and provide a lot of indirect information about
the game captured. Instead, quarks help define
quantum chromodynamics, a basic theory that fully
describes powerful interactions. And now it is understood
that the eighth shape is the result of three light symmetrical
flavors.

It is believed that advanced civilization
techniques have emerged that allow
for tight curves, such as the distortions
of space and time. Complete the possibility
of traveling. This is a document that examines
this possibility, in other words. The violation
of causality in the final zone is not the final
curvature of the space-time feature. There
is no powerful Cauchy medium that does not
consist of closed land of incomplete production.
The geometric size measurements can be used
to determine the increase in the Lorentz area,
which will increase the closed geodesy. However...