Collateral Evocations
A year ago I started writing poetry as a release from the detention of prose, a transient evocation of the unconscious clamor hidden within the prosaic. Poetry was surface, corposant, a looking out into the infinite collateral of thought. All poetry is collateral, a corruption of the word, the mnemonic traces left behind after the representations and images have faded. Poetry renders the simulacrum anew; it reissues the sameness of the same, a secretion, purgation, an emptying. Poetry is slaying, the poem the carnage left behind after the slaughter, the poet the assassin, the butcher of word, text and significance. The poet destroys the signified; recreating a signifier that in turn destroys the signifier, doing away with the antedate chain of words, text and signification. What in the name of Eliot and Pound do I know about poetry? Not a corposant thing, that’s what. Decorticating the corkboard from Presto’s study, or crumpling up one of Flatiron’s twentieth drafts--such dulcet raw genius--is more suited to such literary vandalism surely. Fuck poetry, and while your at it, poets and assassins too. And dogs and cats and hamsters and fish and…
A Poem about a Hat
my grandfather’s fedora
had a band circling the brim
with a scarecrow’s button
stitched into the felt
A year ago I started writing poetry as a release from the detention of prose, a transient evocation of the unconscious clamor hidden within the prosaic. Poetry was surface, corposant, a looking out into the infinite collateral of thought. All poetry is collateral, a corruption of the word, the mnemonic traces left behind after the representations and images have faded. Poetry renders the simulacrum anew; it reissues the sameness of the same, a secretion, purgation, an emptying. Poetry is slaying, the poem the carnage left behind after the slaughter, the poet the assassin, the butcher of word, text and significance. The poet destroys the signified; recreating a signifier that in turn destroys the signifier, doing away with the antedate chain of words, text and signification. What in the name of Eliot and Pound do I know about poetry? Not a corposant thing, that’s what. Decorticating the corkboard from Presto’s study, or crumpling up one of Flatiron’s twentieth drafts--such dulcet raw genius--is more suited to such literary vandalism surely. Fuck poetry, and while your at it, poets and assassins too. And dogs and cats and hamsters and fish and…
A Poem about a Hat
my grandfather’s fedora
had a band circling the brim
with a scarecrow’s button
stitched into the felt
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