So far sticking with Illuviation Elegies. Not sure yet on “description.” The Lugubrious Heresy of a Hopeless Singsong Hysteric. Redesigning poetry page. Which redesign – so far am only working on in my head.
Love and hate my rhymes. Rhapsodizing, obstinately obtuse, dreadful pompous craven fractal discantation encased in fairly simple rhyme structures.
Its great fun to pour disgust over your own work.
Cause rhymes is what they is. I fall into sculpting my way through inveterate journey-mongering, lacing thru mythic descriptives, over happenstance of sorrow, terror and love.
As if to release the tragedy from its prison riots of tenderness. By carving it into traditional rhythms like a worm over eons -still eating its way through same miraculous heat of perpetually de-composing flower bed, night soil, bonemeal. My wan “transmutational” vermiculture.
Lately I feel not Shelley but Poe breathing over my shoulder with half drunken love/hate/glee. He was a rhymer. I love counterintuitive theatrical rhymers with a penchant for beauty torment humor sorrow. That part of him that said – I spent this life mostly mad with a few breaks for sanity.
Let me see if I can track down the actual quote: “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Yes! thats it. Exactly.
Working on a new Title for Poetry –
Illuviation Elegies: lugubrious rhymes of a hopeless heretic.
First rework: poetry section?? Putting it all back up no matter how awful – simply to work on it. Going to rename. Dont know what.
The poetry is pretty brutal, cagey, ruthless, blind, beleaguered, reckless, wired, heartbreaking, hungry, stupid, spurious, parasitic, forlorn, awkward, reluctant, almost violently afraid of itself. Like some walking stiff.
There is mischief too, for rhyme of any kind, and love – for wild things. Yet its not trusted, poetry that doesn’t trust itself – deviously relegated to the tragic, the pathetic dribble of a wilding closet hysteric who is in love with — ?
Magical realists/realism, but as a crime? footless and bird caged – adorned in loathsome rhyme.
Stroking my chin – as this evening dawns, I had a pretty bad morning – wondering – aren’t there things here worth my getting thru to “the bottom” of – as if there is a bottom to anything.
Dreaming a rebuild this summer. Summer starts in two weeks.
Moved last 3 pieces to Tru Con. Aim – to finalize ten of them by end of summer, she wags her finger.
Perhaps, have a new Stinky story brewing, tentatively entitled Pissing and Missing, perhaps for Body of H8 with a Male Voice. That is incorrigible.
Pastiche – confides a lark – as a way of getting out of my own way, as a way beyond – thresholds of resistance.
New Tru Con, spun off of reading Zizek’s The Sublime Object of Ideology.
Edited Glow & Yeux, Body of H8. Rim running usual topics.
Letting character names ruse & dote – without stopping it – as if sucking dopy up against PynchOn’s trial balloons for a humorous take at pronoun toppling, and yet still many ways all it does is massage death.
Effort is to transform pirate into reckoning with allures – and let that rotary seduce me as it turns almost of its own accord. That was the assumption.
Instead ended up tossing up as jokes. Somehow, f*ck*ll – working thru jokes that are affectionate and sometime stinky. Cant shake off stinky. Stinky initially gives me structure. Tho the “person” writing is different every time.
Am feeling theatre and schisms where language bends in after itself – stroking the divine. Temptations surge through others dial-it-in hose hairs – but its my absurdness.
For me rhyme is equiv to a tender coffin. Like I am working in a dead language – and it fits the crime.
Fingers whose weathervanes wag at me – enuff with the little girl lost routine. But its no use.
Babylon Burrows as a snapdragon, open and shut, open and shut, and little love hearts float float floating out of a heart-shaped lip-lined girl-in-heat prehensile-enchanted jaw.
End of summer do I send a Chapter to Special Branch – ?? OO la la. Suddenly there is nothing nothing.
Figure somehow some way to push through emptiness – as a lush boozy froth, froth of brutal riotous yearnings, as a question of faith, complete as a whole book True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork –
Manage construct unt contract a REAL deadline. Maybe even publish a bit of it elsewhere too – Thru a publisher where it makes sense! I cant even go to a reading or a concert how do I get to a publisher. Think Think. Gurr. Write. “U fucks.” Rectitudinous overreaction – blatantly tiresome sitting duck.
Bury for a summer she dreams every night god damn it these trembling bones institutionally among belongings of Cal Lowell‘s right-up-to-the-line where kisses the pole – knit fits geographically aligned with his Garden of Angels – rough housing, snowballing.
Again and again he’d fall off, again and again, got back up on that hefty horse, often with aid of compassion –
No one to blame but myself for tadpole shrimp and ivory gull, for hibernaculum’s overwintering interrogations, she cries she cries for Sakakawea to arise. No help for a dead horse.
The dead horse stomps off, suffers a rebellion of fruit. Damn. Drinks gruel cruel cool funnel of blood to last of its bang on drop.
Hangs out sign at door by light that swings for you swings for you –
Simon Blue Niles, Greet Nation of Migrants and Strangers. Poke Ho Hauntus, speaks –
Pub rub grub sub hub flub dub stub – off you art to the philosophers tub, oo lala. Love stinks.
3.17.18 Happy Saint Bats
New Tru Con called Kissing the Wall. Is “hitting the numbers.” Up “at the top.” Its a gesture of freedom and yet – blasphemous. Captures the emergence of a brandy new stock – one who miraculously calls herself Glow Weeny. Very dear to me.
One must get it while one can! As between highly developed Descenders of Love – always – Love, License, Impossibility of the Absolute, Never Ending Death of a Salesman, Beauty & the Perseverant, Method & the Mind.
Down to the last drop. Ordered Sublime.
Instructional Videos. Getting used to hearing my own voice think. Oddly, its kind of marvelous, becoming entranced by the walkthrough of your own voice again and again till it doesn’t deviate.
Am up to second series, #6.
Finished 2nd translation from Perfume/Lacan Ink. Regnaut on l’autre parole.
Yesterday read Bowser the Hound by Thorton Burgess. Received as gift.
Reading bios, a cross section of 1) Vincent still & 2) Love life of Byron. How hunger grumbles and kneads, manifests in different greeds, creeds — luffing lyrical suffering holy roll-y does not heed.
Rhyming Lordy how I feed —
Byron! laid down, he laid right down, was it on Dante’s(??) grave in exiled Ravenna — have shared that need, where strikes deaths ransomed pose — succumbing as a violent rose and splendor casts its wake upon the feeble silence.
If only my heart to yield —
Updated piece called Funnel Cloud. Sketch & Fetch immediately started jumping up and down: they say its publishable. Yaddo.
Stinky and Pinky. Sketch and Fetch. Agents: double. Add dimension. Dont want to limit to two –
Things deflect into notes on violence, especially gun violence, as an image feed. Gun violence very big politics here. Sketch and Fetch are standins at the moment, at Neptune’s Grotto. Sardinia & her famous sardines.
Crash/scratch test dummies. I mean out in the farm-ecology of fiction. Wondering if I have the chops.
Early spindrifts are oft bleeding self conscious. Sub-lately, I wanna I wanna call them all triggerfish, for the tremble. In mist of Penny Dreadful. Instrumental under red sheet of Chinese Dragon. Caw caw caw –
In different keys or something.
Discussion with Brother Lowell turns to beauty of falling into chaos, what draws us there, that feeling of being out of constraints and a mind slipping into havoc, how at outset is a dalliance with weightlessness.
Also reading very hot Vincent Van Gogh Bio. Illusory, he had illusory relationships again and again that were his passion and his undoing. Along with everything else.
Provided translation into English for a short piece by François Regnault, about his long friendship with Lacan’s daughter Judith.
V.I. Philosophy Journal called Lacan Ink. Honor they let me do it.