Stupor

 

Her her her.  Clutter amongst clutter. Starhewn dreamdust

So much piled and saved, or to be saved – causing its own

form of distraction. Mid-flight, she looked out to the sea.

Its astonishment held her.

What’s a useful transcendentalist anti-telos in poetry and why? Or, what is the form of a “useful transcendentalist anti-telos” in poetry and why?

If cumulative behavior defines the construction, and that construction’s accretionary (aleatory) behaviors are its manifest tactics and actions, a building, or a body, as a meaning-free map, redrawn to make of itself the a priori object: the poem. Framed for right action.

I’d like to begin.

There are radiation loops that drift through space and cause us to blink. I see an armored car inside a glass house. The outer coating’s invisible lens peels away the disguise. We are inherently evil negotiators in an outside world.

I want to tear the heart

from refused convalescence

 & feed it those long fronds

of river bed grass. I want to

tear the heart out of style

& put it between

utter thrall & the infancy

of all things impure

That we are all already plagiarists is the gist of a short essay called “Tosaku-byo” (Literary kleptomania) that Terayama would write in 1961: “The first symptom of the diease is showing interest in what other people are doing.” As the condition grows more serious, the individual starts to be conceived as a part of broader society and (gasp) bgins interacting with it.  Terayama notes that since wer are the authors of our own everyday lives, it follows that brushing one’s teeth in the morning, reading the newspaper, eating food in a particular way, walking with a certain gait, and choosing appropriate clothing are all plagiarized from a set of notions of normal behavior.

Stellar sea cows, svelte manatees embrace

And lob their salty aloes each to each

While we graze greenly on the filtered rays

Fanned from their froth. I beg for you to teach

Me all the ways the Romans fucked, and how

Juventius, with honeyed eyes, would sit

In Catulle’s lap, and lick his salty brow.

Of all the wooing words that ere were writ

Did Bernadette choose want for wit

or skylark for a skylark’s fond embrace?

I’ll undo the seashore from your door’s lock, unbutton the forest. I’ll lug plenty of lubricant and witticisms.  I’ll fuck you once, but it will feel like nine fucks. When you want to get away, writing feels you.  It’s always wandering; it’s always error in the other’s stupid mouth.