Tuesday, February 10, 2004
A photograph, six poems remembered & tagging
Our leaves of grass can never surpass platonic tradition alone. You! Empty signifiers, cocks and cock suckers, defining taste rather than tasting, stroking a long rigid dialect meaning for imagination, consuming, giving rather than learning to give; you will die arbitrarily so out- standing perpetually. A spectacle. A thing that subtracts.Allen Ginsberg half-naked, snapping cymbals, singing mantras, fondling headsof lettuce, pushing some thing on us and his generation dead now.A photo of A and PO on my desk submits not wholly to the critique— smoke black and white horned rimmed glasses—a resultof sinister nostalgia for a time I never spent but can afford.If modernity is a movement between presence and absence,then a post time is a whip for cynical earnestness.She moves, our Gertrude, for an academic Hamlet,something to hold false images towards— to mirror our erections.Think for one instant only and only all timeabout those towers we built and our forests undone. A wilting-shriveled remonstrance from an ideal corner of thought. Maybe modernity’s false appeal to thought— a grotesque cogito out-reaching, “I think therefore I can undo,” should be read “not be” or “never am.”I ran outside in my boxers and painted: I was not here!In Lombardia a Milanese spraid on a Rinascente wallSTO MALE!In our contemporary being eksists a word,between you and me endures an attendance, the housewife the tree between the poet in the car the voyeur the snowman a fancied image not the image itself the moment to be, the day to come, the proper cliché, the faked orgasm.aren’t we a fortunate joke? a punch line tossed outwith reflective acuityat just the right momentinto an empty room.