blackmarketbutter » poetry

Poetry

colby — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 04:32:44 +0000

Subterranean King Kong

colby — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 02:23:19 +0000

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

colby — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 15:40:27 +0000

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

colby — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 05:25:45 +0000

Poetry has its limits

colby — Thu, 27 May 2010 04:29:43 +0000

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

colby — Thu, 27 May 2010 03:20:08 +0000

Ennui

colby — Thu, 20 May 2010 06:25:17 +0000

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

colby — Fri, 14 May 2010 14:04:06 +0000

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

hayley — Sun, 02 May 2010 10:34:57 +0000

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

colby — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 00:14:45 +0000

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