Tag Archives: poetry

Poetry

Subterranean King Kong

Poets are the lowest. They’re below it all. Our tools are the products of a historical infection. We draw from the black muck made from layer upon layer of fevered zeitgeists. I love simplicity. I love ease. I love comfort. I will not do something simply because it is hard to do, that’s not my game. I do something because it feels right, because this is what I want. Words find us. Books find us. Life finds us if you let it. Let me be the lowest of the low. Let me be scum. Let me be pitied if they want, I will take only what I want from these half-fools. Let me be below it all. Let me be below expectation, obligation, morality, anything but substance. I want substance. As substance I respond to substance. My river finds itself. My river finds more river. My river extends throughout this earth, subterranean, by simple cohesion. There is no action required of me. My awareness of it is made all the more enjoyable when I accept the entropy. So long as I’m dancing a rhythm finds me. I’ll be the beast. I’ll be King Kong. I’ll grab Fay Wray. I’ll conquer the USA. Shoot me down quick I’m at the top.

- Colby

I wish I could write you a melody

Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you dear lady from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge

- Bob Dylan, Tombstone Blues

The gods wait to delight in you

Poetry has its limits

poetry has its limits
edges of expression
edge of (understanding/subjectivity/existence)
wheres my fix?
theres my fix
post-existence addiction as some human condition
there is no solution as there is no problem

time spent
thinking poetry
magnetic absurdism
mean-
ingful
as sensation
and chance

Okay, but really, now that I have your attention: wait, I have to
tell you this in reverse. Or maybe beforehand and then with a final execution in the
end, for once you execute this, your attention will be so complete that you will not
even be able to take this in. Okay, well, basically: you will close your eyes, then type
your thoughts, alright maybe it’ll start out banal, or shit, but keep writing, it will flow
surprisingly well, and just let it go, the concentration kind of maintains itself in
someway its like the writing itself takes over your mind and even now you can see
the future keys light up like some invisible map of the keyboard and your confidence
in its execution and it man oh man it floats so well and can’t you see how nice it
would be if two people hooked up, closed their eyes and just typed at eachother and
would be hit by some kind of buzzer or just come out when they do and enter it so
that each sees it once their brain has been leeched for that moment that would be nice
that I could like imagine that it could all be so nice this technology this infinite
instantaneous Ginsberg howl Munch scream ah he sounds so nice Ginsberg he lays it
out like so nice i fucking love it and realising i love it i somehow realise (maybe
further, maybe remember) my love of Patti (no maybe it is further, this feels new I
guess, something true) then that takes me to how I want to make that zine, some
publication, and then that reminds me of our talent nights, or open mic nights, that
would be nice I want to do that. Hubert Selby Jr rants of infinity.
Ah I went and looked for Pynchon but Ginsbergs relentless “mulak!” gets the better of
me, its fucking good. I love it, its a screaming, moaning, expression of beauty of
crazy mad meaningful/less endless fun danger joy i want it all in my one my only one
to the sky and into some hole and out again and keep rolling it got me yeah it got me.
But yeah I came back to talk about this kind of expression, the freedom of it. But then
strangely simultaneously I was thinking about Pynchon expression, biographies as
presentations, histories, short thoughts, ideas, fucking anything as some kind
expression, even nice, reserved writing about what’s going on, just like the kind of
realism with drawing I was thinking just the careful examination of our world with
words is a fascinating exercise. Endless in itself. You could endlessly talk simply of
what has gone on around you, what you are seeing, feeling, thinking, its fucking fun
you could go on forever.

Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie

Ennui

Ernest Hemingway worked as a journalist for the Kansas City Star. Here is the style sheet he used.

Kansas City Star Style Sheet

His robotic hypnotism to the spoken word’s expression is like a moaning awkward tone that depicts like nothing else the impossibility of our expression. His spoken commas, periods, pauses and literal pauses have the power of an incantation and I am in fascination of his channeling. This is seeing the muse spoken. I aw. Aw. Aw man, its dropping me. Look at this. This is it. The one. Hemingway is a curse. Smite me. Curse me. Incant me. Voodoo drums blood in my eyes. Rip maw rip hit me up. Dedication. Dedication.
Tapping in
Tap me in
Concentration. Agitation. Contemplation.
Production, they’ve stolen production. Productivity of pain. Pain as muse and unspoken unspeakables the rapturous destruction listen to the incantation this is the only productivity and its pure its pure see this is the painful curse. It’s the Hemingway curse. Let me die but I must live and this is life in death and death in life. I’m a two-way spectre and the pain is dissonant and alternate ringing round and in to out. They’ve stolen my productivity. They’ve made it theirs. Its something I owe it to somebody else it’s a compensation for our original sin it’s the debt owed as a member of this social contract we’re partakers and now there is distance. There’s always distance.

You haven’t stopped running; and, whatever distance you think you have put between you and you, you still leave behind new statues of salt.
-    Andre Breton

French translation dubbed over the original sound of Hemingways’ Spanish.

Those Kafka ghosts are inevitable but they’re nothing but the ghosts of distance. Distance is the most devilish thing I’ve ever encountered, and scares me wide-eyed awake quite often. The distance between you and your audience, you and your friends, you and your lover even in an embrace, you and your mother, you and life, you and yourself, theres always distance and its terrifying but irrefutable, indestructable. These are the ghosts. They reveal themselves in our attempts to reconcile it but thats no argument against it and clearly Kafka never meant it as anything like that for he still wrote a few times a day, Milenas letters coming in bouts of twos and threes, though likely not quite as prodigious as his, though we’ll never know, but still the input and output in some kind of dialogical race that he must have known felt damn nice. Even ghosts have rhythm

- Colby

Salamander

Hayley reads aloud about the Romanticists.

Glorification of melancholy and consumption.

Picnic-nature.

I agree that the beautiful infinity of nature is the manifestation of purity itself – firsthand poetry that is (for all can be traced back to this and to me. The origin and end hold a promise of endlessness in their unity) a flickering leaf and a glittering pixel of the extra two decimals on your balance in that atm screen thanks to some absurd logic of attendance to banality, submission, forms, through only softcore sadism.

Nothing to be proud of.

Junkless habits of toned down, half-beat, drop-kick, no-joy, watered-down, dumb fun t.v. death in early evenings fade then loud to hot new cd for show-related products nihilistic napalm necrophilic neck-ties with flu tablet fun, crepes, no jam, this no france, teas in bowls, frogs legs taste like chicken or did you just hear that? or not hear that mor-ning of your phantom – iphone – they’ll implant the feeling of its absence through hypnopaedic, sidelined advertising for our naive struggle for some kind of voice in that aether. What fools. Foolish as literallists in an aphoristic existence. Can’t they hear the irony in their gods? The aether is the playground of communication, the great coming together of sublime and banal desires and notions into a subterranea of noise that will take form like strata and salamander and god knows how many unknown stramatolite-like lovelies living in sulfur high frequencies, feeding on unknown tones, living on god-knows-not-what fun to be a salamander.

This has been hidden in the public eye masked as an insipid pop song

I’m packed and I’m holding
I’m smiling, she’s living, she’s golden
She lives for me, says she lives for me
Ovation, her own motivation
She comes round and she goes down on me
And I make her smile, like a drug for you
Do ever what you wanna do, coming over you
Keep on smiling, what we go through
One stop to the rhythm that divides you
And I speak to you like the chorus to the verse
Chop another line like a coda with a curse
Come on like a freak show takes the stage
We give them the games we play, she said…
I want something else, to get me through this
Semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby
I want something else, I’m not listening when you say good-bye
The sky was gold, it was rose
I was taking sips of it through my nose
And I wish I could get back there, someplace back there
Smiling in the pictures you would take
Doing crystal myth, will lift you up until you break
It won’t stop, I won’t come down
I keep stock with the tick-tock rhythm, I bump for the drop
And then I bumped up, I took the hit that I was given
Then I bumped again, then I bumped again
I said…
How do I get back there, to the place where I fell asleep inside you
How do I get myself back to the place where you said…
I want something else, to get me through this
Semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby
I want something else, I’m not listening when you say good-bye
I believe in the sand beneath my toes
The beach gives a feeling, an earthy feeling
I believe in the faith that grows
And the four right chords can make me cry
When I’m with you I feel like I could die
And that would be all right, all right
And when the plane came in, she said she was crashing
The velvet it rips in the city, we tripped on the urge to feel alive
Now I’m struggling to survive, those days you were wearing that velvet dress
You’re the priestess, I must confess
Those little red panties they pass the test
Slide up around the belly, face down on the mattress
One
And you hold me, and we’re broken
Still it’s all that I wanna do, just a little now
Feel myself, head made of the ground
I’m scared, I’m not coming down
No, no
And I won’t run for my life
She’s got her jaws now, locked down in a smile
But nothing is all right, all right
And I want something else, to get me through this life
Baby, I want something else
Not listening when you say…
Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye
Good-bye
The sky was gold, it was rose
I was taking sips of it through my nose
And I wish I could get back there
Someplace back there, in the place we used to start
I want something else

- Third Eye Blind, Semi-charmed Kind of Life

Paradoxes and Oxymorons

This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level.
Look at it talking to you. You look out a window
Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don’t have it.
You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other.

The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot.
What’s a plain level? It is that and other things,
Bringing a system of them into play. Play?
Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be

A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,
As in the division of grace these long August days
Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know
It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters.

It has been played once more. I think you exist only
To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren’t there
Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem
Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you.

- John Ashbery

A nursing rhyme

Twinkle, twinkle, little tree

Above this head, this head of me

With stars of green

I wonder do I see, or are you seen?

This serene moment

Without a moon

Beyond the greyer scene

It feels so…

So right, I guess

And write, please write

Right these wrongs

That have no place

No place but home but not my home

My house today’s no inbetween

No song to sing

Nothing but some fantasy

To be in finitely

It’s like some frame

Of some… movie

Something real, maybe

Something nice, just say it’s nice

Sonya Renee

Robert Graves on creativity and time

…it is not too much to say that all original discoveries and inventions and musical and poetical compositions are the result of proleptic thought – the anticipation, by means of a suspension of time, of a result that could not have been arrived at by inductive reasoning – and of what may be called analeptic thought, the recovery of lost events by the same suspension.

This need mean no more than that time, though a most useful convention of thought, has no greater intrinsic value than, say, money. To think in temporal terms is a very complicated and unnatural way of thinking, too; many children master foreign languages and mathematic theory long before they have developed any sense of time or accepted the easily disproved thesis that cause precedes effect…

…In the poetic act, time is suspended and details of future experience often become incorporated in the poem, as they do in dreams. This explains why the first Muse of the Greek triad was named Mnemosyne, ‘Memory’: one can have memory of the future as well as of the past. Memory of the future is usually called instinct in animals, intuition in human beings.

- Robert Graves, The White Goddess

Proverbs of Hell

by William Blake

In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
The cut worm forgives the plow.
Dip him in the river who loves water.

A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure.

All wholsom food is caught without a net or a trap.
Bring out number weight & measure in a year of dearth.
No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.
A dead body, revenges not injuries.
The most sublime act is to set another before you.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
Folly is the cloke of knavery.
Shame is Prides cloke.

~

Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion.
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.
The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the
   destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.
The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.
Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep.
The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
The selfish smiling fool, & the sullen frowning fool, shall be both thought wise, that
   they may be a rod.
What is now proved was once, only imagin'd.
The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit: watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse,
   the elephant, watch the fruits.
The cistern contains; the fountain overflows.
One thought, fills immensity.
Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth.
The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow.

~

The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
He who has suffer'd you to impose on him knows you.
As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.
The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
Expect poison from the standing water.
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
Listen to the fools reproach! it is a kingly title!
The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.
The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse,
   how he shall take his prey.
The thankful reciever bears a plentiful harvest.
If others had not been foolish, we should be so.
The soul of sweet delight, can never be defil'd.
When thou seest an Eagle, thou seest a portion of Genius, lift up thy head!
As the catterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest
   lays his curse on the fairest joys.
To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
Damn, braces: Bless relaxes.
The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.
Prayers plow not! Praises reap not!
Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!

~

The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands &
   feet Proportion.
As the air to a bird of the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.
The crow wish'd every thing was black, the owl, that every thing was white.
Exuberance is Beauty.
If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning.
Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement,
   are roads of Genius.
Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Where man is not nature is barren.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ'd.
Enough! or Too much!