ataxia of the word -------------------------------------------
there is a plague eating away at the modern page
but maybe if i douse my tongue in a tortuous
basin of typical prose i might be able to chop
through the narrow minded vanguard guarding
the authenticity of culture
i could rhyme in code
punch line in time
dress up my subject matter
to correlate with the bourgeois
i could counterfeit linguistics already written
and really be hailed as avant-garde
[not in the pits of pandemonium]
my mania exists somewhere in between
the cross fire of light and sound
where i ground up haughty anima and
smoke the remains of soot
chant with me in unison
to this nefarious séance
let’s conjure up a chainsaw
and shred through the gossiping henhouse
the played out whorehouse
the penurious church
the aimless ghetto
the apathetic high rise
and every faddy deadpan pen
trying to copy past protagonists
and doodle away the moxie
of our future heroes
the rev of our engine could
drive inri spikes through the bland
sanctified hands that shudder at
the presentation of oblique illustration
dithering with each strained pronunciation
to disappear in a minefield of laxity
was never meant for me
and i can’t converse with ghosts
but that doesn’t stop me from trying
my once emaciated umbra is now clotting
into an avalanche of malice
the omega of forgettable manifesto
our generation needs more
more than the same tired mumbo jumbo
and wishful fucking
there is a giant diaper encasing the
sensitive cavity of free form speech
no rash is ever free
flush the pacifier from your crystal anatomy
and chafe with me
liquidate predictably dull lullabies
neutralize the average everyday tedium
and explore new extensities
shout your disparate chronicles
through those loaded ink cannons and
paint over the eyesore of “sophisticated” criterion
there is a savage cyclone circling
the creative industry
waiting for the time when…
all the pretty flowers are too lethargic to bloom
the sex is not adventurous enough to hold interest
the drugs all wear off
the church is obsolete
and the topics are dead
like decaf coffee
like non alcoholic beer
like vampires who die of old age
and abstract proportions do not exist
only the lack of attention and
wimpy swings at comprehension
can cut off the flow of a kicked over anthill
"i could counterfeit linguistics already written
and really be hailed as avant-garde"
Ha. That's exactly the way I feel about this new poetry.
I really like this poem. It seems that indeed we share some thoughts. Although if that's you in the picture we couldn't be more different. You should check out my poem: "Flesh ! Flesh ! Flesh !" The subject matter is somewhat related to this poem of yours. Maybe you will like it.
K, so bear with me, it’s been awhile since I tackled a monster like this. Let me start with some general things, impressions, and intuitive reactions. First off . . .
“to correlate with the bourgeois”
this line moves into a new idea with “I could” but it feels incomplete, as though something is hanging, like umm there’s more, maybe another flowing line after bourgeois, if only because
“i could counterfeit linguistics already written”
feels to me like the beginning of a new strophe, or at least a terminus est of some kind, (or for the non-latin types, a “line of division.”)
Now here’s a line you can really spit out with power! “[not in the pits of pandemonium]”
Did you mean “anima” or anamus? Anamus would be my choice . . .
Okay, so now we kick into another gear, and I love when you do this, it’s something you do better than anyone I know and when I read this [censored] out loud I usually do my best deep, “demon voice,” and really roll with it (and in truth I always read your work out loud, as it was meant to be heard).
“chant with me in unison . . .” and on into the next couple of strophes. We’re smashing junker cars as we blaze down the highway to hell now! (Moxie, inri, good words bro, your vocabulary is [censored] biblical).
“the omega of (a) forgettable manifesto(pl)” <I would add an “a” or make it “manifestos” or is it manifestum? Or ae? Have to look that up . . .>
Dude, the diaper just cracked me up (pun intended). I know this is a pump up, but I mean you write as fearlessly as anyone and nothing is sacred or out-of-bounds. I never know what crazy [censored]’s going to pop around the next corner with your work, and if I can digress . . . you know there’s a movement out there in the poetry world, the dominant voice is one that views imagistic movements like this (and my own) as part and parcel of an elitist past, I mean it’s insane but look around you and I mean really look into academia and even mainstream poetry, and what you’ll see is an actual move against imagistic, metaphorical, meteoric poetry into this lame-duck mode of lowest commen denominator prosaic prosedy passed off as poetry. It’s shocking to me but the animosity is very real and is justified by this ideal that anyone should be able to read, write, and understand poetry. Anything that is cryptic or deep is passed off by these zombies as elitist, snobby, passe’ and pretentious. I can’t live with that and can go all the way back to Necromancy (pub in 2k5) in which the hero faces a horde of zombies, ghouls, and ghosts as a metaphor for the mass movement towards weak, prose-ish crap, passed off as “modern poetics.” I would rather hang up my pen than to give in to this tripe. So, knowing this and flowing AGAINST the current, I applaud what you’re saying here. There’s still hope . . . but we’re sadly outnumbered by the dregs (and while I don’t mean that to be an elitist snob, I do think there are a lot of posers who have no business putting pen to paper! and for THAT, I can’t bring myself to apologize).
“our generation needs more . . .
Now, when so many have sold out or given in or given up, it’s even more important that those with the talent and sensibility to devote themselves to the higher art, to the furtherance, to extending the boundaries instead of collapsing them into a weak derivation . . . a parody of the past instead of standing on the shoulders of the past to reach ever higher . . . it’s so important that non-conformist poets like yourself not lose faith, but harden their hearts and knock as many worm-burners as they can into the outfield . . . then run the bases and bring it home like there’s no tomorrow, because for us, there really isn’t.
Unless we fight for change and a better future.
It makes something inside me whell up to see that you haven’t sold out or watered yourself down, as so many have. You’re a 6 among lessor 0’s, bro.