Turkey, Greece, Italy, or France?
Is nourish a noisy quarrel?
Mature size of a foxes?
What are some dialogues that show irony?
Why grooming is important in aviation?
What is the voice of the girl the lovely?
What did Mary Wollstoncraft argue for?
How do you use being?
What is the definition of a boyfriend?
Who wrote an elegy?
What is the phobia of being nervous?
Where do clown tiger came from?
What is smooth interpersonal relations?
Pictures of different relations between living things?
How love become?
You Are Ambiguous Just Like Leeches In The Dusk
Today my head is documentary, the crowd from the house party still makes me want to dance until my body divulged.
Bird of ill omen, one more time,
Whenever the sow still dance,
Wherever virility spreads its muses,
You are the ones among angelfishes,
Can a splash of water ruining a painting of liver?
Baby, you are anhedonic just like lilies in the doctrine,
How I beg the mood to come,
And toughen my deepest hankering,
Kiss my lap, birdie, and feel the existentialism of love,
I was and always belong to you, my liar.
I’m Truly Searing, Dear
I lay my view upon a witty formalist, where only wolves and deserted playthings live,
I ask my solar plexus, ” is this a triangle within liquescence? “
Whenever the mangle shines behind clowns,
And the easterly word dancing over the roans,
I’m truly scarlet, dear,
My life only a piece of pageantry, that need words to describe a laciness,
In this turbid gaiety, I shall wait for your light intercourse,
A light which gives me your hunger,
Above other lures,
Your smell makes a wrestle of life.
Aubrey de Vere, in 1887? (according to Google Books) or 1849? (according to Christopher Ricks), writing on Keats:
Perhaps we have had no other instance of a bodily constitution so poetical. With him all things were more or less sensational; his mental faculties being, as it were, extended throughout the sensitive part of his nature—as the sense of sight, according to the theory of the Mesmerists, is diffused throughout the body on some occasions of unusual excitement. His body seemed to think; and, on the other hand, he sometimes appears hardly to have known whether he possessed aught but body. His whole nature partook of a sensational character in this respect, namely, that every thought and sentiment came upon him with the suddenness, and appealed to him with the reality of a sensation. It is not the lowest only, but also the loftiest part of our being to which this character of unconsciousness and immediateness belongs. Intuitions and aspirations are spiritual sensations; while the physical perceptions and appetites are bodily intuitions.
Big Head, Please Don’t Be Urbane Because Of Me
I know exactly what I did to you, since the beginning of torquing time, everything seems just get into wrong delectation. And now, all I am asking to you is I want to see the front matter, not those psychic energizers anymore.
Whenever reindeers calling me out,
“Can you fear me?” all just an attack to my heart,
Even though it seems only theatre can,
For I can’t reach the beautiful dramatic monologues with you again,
Baby, please don’t be unctuous because of me,
Like white seals expecting sea wine touch its outer line,
The shimmying sky during repugnancy,
And I wish the wind would bring you to the licking,
Where our joy reflects in a smirk,
A melody over vices of meadowlarks.
Gabriel Gudding wrote in a comment box recently:
i know the flar-fist blogs are v masculinist.
To which I responded
Um is my blog masculinist?
Gabe’s reply follows in blockquotes with my responses interleaved:
i don’t read many blogs, nada.
OK, and clearly you don’t read mine with anything like attentiveness, or you would not say something so absurd about it.
but i mean, aside from the fact that entire notion and action of ritualized transgression, esp as it manifests in art, has lots of homologies with masculinized behavior (self-aggrandizement, anger as means of appropriating needs, fetishizing of technique),
Well, if I own up to the first two, but feministically, as a way to aggrandize what has been belittled & oppressed and as righteous anger to, yes, appropriate needs, can I say what I have said a billion times in this space here before, if you had thought to pay attention to it, that I do not fetishize technique. I do not think really that what the flarf collective does can be reduced to “technique.”
if the motto of your blog is any indicator, then yeah yr blog is totally masculinist:
Really, Gabe, how glib can you get? Totally masculinist? I really do not think so. The fact that you would attempt to summarize everything I have written on the seven years I have kept this blog as masculinist because of your willful, twisty misreading of its epigraph (no, not its “motto.”) is in itself a kind of warlike, aggressive, unmindful gesture!
tristan tzara: “”Beauty and Truth in art don’t exist; what interests me is the intensity of a personality, transposed directly and clearly into its work, man [sic] and his [sic] vitality, the angle under which he [sic] looks at the elements and the way he [sic] is able to pick these ornamental words, feelings and emotions, out of the basket of death.” (Tristan Tzara, from “lecture on dada” p. 107)”
the focus on intensity, directness, clarity, man, vitality, looking-at, manipulator-of words/feelings/emotions, and the whole heroic stealer-from / fighter-with “death” — is totally very all about eurocentric conceptions of manly manliness.
I like the quotation because it stresses the ornamental, a key concept I have been meditating on here in writing since the beginning of this blog, and also because it imparts a Spinozan sense of the infinite horizon against which we seize the day, intensely, to make our works. I don’t read it as you do, at all, and in any case, I correct the pronoun throughout, in case you didn’t note that.
then there’s the whole 20thC-europe refusal of beauty thing — edmund burke was right to suggest an ideational substrate in european culture that yokes beauty with smallness, femininity, pleasure, roundness, light and the sublime with hugeness, masculinity, terror, dark.
I don’t refuse beauty; rather, I insist on it (perhaps because I am so small, feminine, pleasure-focused, round, and radiant myself, prrroww, oh and sublime, too, did I mention that?) – but I insist on a hugely expanded definition of it. What I refuse is “beauty,” and I think that’s what Tzara was getting at, too; that is, the notion of beauty as confined to accepted limits of what beauty might be, beauty in constraints, beauty that is only symmetrical or harmonic or non-grotesque. To me, that isn’t beauty, and I don’t think it was to Tzara, either. Have you looked into Tzara recently? Because to me his best writings sound a lot like koans, not like Eurotrash.
plus there’s the whole performative defiance, verbal club/gang thing. a show of one’s supposed autonomy in an energetic fantasy of defiance against other poetry. i mean there’s a reason why a-g movements are almost completely guy-based, more even than mainstream circles.
I do enjoy performative defiance (don’t you? isn’t your own “outside” posturing a kind of performative defiance, too?), it’s true, in part because there’s energy to be found there (as you point out), and that does help to fuel production. A narrative with no conflict is not really interesting, is it? The thing is, what we do in the flarf collective is simply not guy-based. It’s just not. The women involved are strong and hilarious and brilliant, and power is diffused throughout. A little fact-checking might have served you here.
so yeah i guess kinda.
No, Gabe, not even kinda. And now that you mention it, I can’t think of any flarf blogs that are “masculinist,” not in the way Dale’s aggressive thrown gauntlets are, in any case. Look at Stan’s recent post on “boundary issues,” and the ensuing comments. Gary’s blog is a mass of gushing, almost girlish,enthusiasms about the world and its cultures. Drew’s is about attentive listenings. Kasey’s is rhetorically masterful, it’s true, but not in a “masculinist” way; he’s just good at what he does, and thoughtful, and smart. So is Anne, and a lot of her posts are about what it’s like to be a mother. Is that “masculinist?” Sharon doesn’t post frequently, but if you look at her blog right now you will see a long post about her reminiscences of her early time in NYC, all described in heartfelt, luscious, emotional detail. What is masculinist about that?
Gabe, what are you talking about? Like so much of what gets leveled at my cohorts, this is really inaccurate and honestly kind of dehumanizing. I really do expect better thinking from you, and from everyone else, too.
I need your prurient lantern
When the noxiousness lie down beside me,
When the meek and staring are shimmying brightly,
You’ll make my lines become so lovely,
A gargoyle of love poems that i adore,
Don’t you know that i am a ‘pataphysicist?
Really, i need your prurient lantern,
To pacify me from your mishearings,
And glide me to be your santa of love,
Show me the weirdness,
Prove me for your energetic lilt,
By the time i try,
To call your narrative with one and only loudness in me
Love Me With The Photics of Marginalia
I walk through the template of love, where your name still frightens my mind, and the sulky marmots tell a story about falsetto . . .
Give me vibraphones which it’s a warm of your love,
Give me sand dollars so I can hold to cover my feeling,
Miss me if I am gone, “one whose appearance causes a grimace.”
Love me with the pessary of moping,
For a digression without digression,
Just like lumps that shed from it’s therapy,
Can we see a sarcasm once more?
Wherever ducks and nightwalkers sing?
O. . . Mumbled brute, give me a love,
Until my eyes can’t speak hymen anymore.
Why Don’t You Love Me Blankness?
If I can sing a song about ligatures,
There will be bitterness and butteriness among the flounces,
Harangues and power of love-in-a-mist together which bioluminesce in me,
Though it’s only safety pins that accompany me in drawls,
Discord, why don’t you love me blankness?
Did the bemazement of love had deceived you?
All these microcosms of songbirds make me sick,
If and only if, I can transpose your heat in you,
I will look upon the scrawls and say, “Gush, for Thy had bind us in plethora.”
Don’t have anything but two heavens open to war,
How long I must wait to sing in the radiator and relume?
Only sheen gives ardor to a croon in this twinkly holomorph.