In my Lustrelessness, norm, form, and function are revealed as blithely editable,then turned into an intonation beyond the irrigated “pirate” mind.
I was sat with a malevolent question… but now I am more or less riotous and bounded, because, well duh, the encounter between spectator-subject and image-object is a process of frivolous interference or mutual indignant mutation! I hope this doesn’t sound too confrontational.
Don’t know why the passive butterflies still hide in my messy entanglements.
In a story about the traveller and a pencil and the conceptual plenitude of its polychromic dog (can a dog die from eating a firework?), do we cross the ocean just to find a tricked-up fog in the false nature park? Filled with the myriads who lived but never existed in the perverse bricolage?
Will everything become a blur in the afternoon? Can we tell a tiger from a mottled patch of shade in this lambent cacophony?
What a waste to chase the sun in this implausible account of mental life, like homemade fake puke… just as some white people envision breasts as (ontic) white, and go on to associate the latter with white screens.
If love poems are written in pidgin python in my dreams, there is also some polemic in some places, because all imagery is a bad riposte against the predictable triumph of “whimsy.”
Turned inside. Turned inside. Inturned social speech, adult. Vanishes with social speech. Persists, turned inward. Persists, subconscious. Persists primitively. Pragmatic, posits as inner structure. Persists. Persists.
The balloons, singing: that’s the way to party (the fecundity of the unknown in the heart of aberrant intimacy).
I will unite with the easterly wind’s bum schemas and rattle-trap heuristics in the cocky dismissal of my lustrelessness, its impulsive body, the white nose of its prattling excess.
2 thoughts on “In My Lustrelessness”
Hey Nada – where are the posts on ornament etc? I finally got out of the pile of doing that was to be done, and thought i'd read them, only to not find them – though sleep deprivation is no aide to that.
I am deeply facinated. And if you want to dis/agree with me again, you're most welcome – i described poetry as excremental the other day.
Sure Ross, have you seen William Devoye's Cloaca Factory?
But beyond the semiotic excess at the heart of that matter
and the 'extraness' or epiphenomenality
of word itself
or the fact that in ancient Egyptian, one word for poetry was
'as a game'
ent (every non thing)
Every known thing
and that is what poetry is
LIGHT (ex-light maybe)
DREAM (as in dream on_
THING (as if you can't beat poetry
and take a shit-eating smile
to the grave..