1819: as we follow Keats' brain around
London (blasted with senses that anything
he sees he could be seeing for the last
time), I like to think that all his own
prosody is mixed in with the security
of self-acknowledged Genius, continually
revealing itself to itself; yet his secret
Muse is, I imagine, a siren, like Psyche,
unlike Fanny; thwarted, Keats stakes
out places she may be, like the Gods
on the Grecian Urn, driven frantic by
female magnetism; drowsily numb but
not comfortably so; only skanky grease,
gutter-mud, preparing him to channel Heaven.
EXPERIMENTAL SPECULATIVE DISCOURSE. DO NOT READ DO NOT READ YOU FUCKING ME ME ME MEOH LAND MORE RUNS!!
Overheard in the social-media mind of a Fake U language luvvie speaking secret intelligence to the community culture and homeland Herself.
"Yeah, like we have to worry about Russia hacking European elections. Oh no, sorry that's the Obama CIA, as recent mass corporately censored news by Wikileaks prove.
And the German intelligence report from the seventh of this month that the US millions will not hear reported from the mass-media agents hysterically birthing a new Fakenews narrative in the immediate post-truth collapse of H.&C. straight after the election results, oh no no no no no, you will not know this real news from the mouths of the central anti-intellectual liabilities, Tapper and Cooper: that there is no evidence of Russian disinformation.
What we do know, as Russian Foreign Minster Lavrov reminded the audience in Munich earlier this week, and that you cannot read reported anywhere across the US Fakes news media operating under a true news blackout: the Americans with six, or is it eight hundred military bases across the world(?); did hack and tap Merkel's phone, and most other European leaders, spying on US 'allies', and with potus 44 only promising to stop after Europeans found out about it.
And, of course, it is considered no big deal and to be laughed at because as far as US liberal me me meers and more more Murkrons are concerned, the US of us has never left intellectual teenagehood, because when yohl hack and tap it magically doesn't count, matters not a jot, because ya'll have the minds of brainwashed children with infantile anti-intellectual standards that are totally antithetical and to the cornerstone US principles of free speech and democracy, and on show to the world in all the very very angry and divisive globally destabilizing Russia ate my homework belief in nonsense and 'fake news' invented by a handful of slimy anti-American globalist grifters to deflect from the anti-Americans in bed with the Russians lies and crime/s they committed when they sold the very same folk they are laughably failing to paint the commie reds they want the US millions to conceive as, those they sold 20% of US uranium to through a Canadian front bank; because the people lying to us demanding immediate banning and censorship of 'fake news' do not want to address in person and speak about the true news of the millions of dollars they received in 'donations' from the Russian beneficiaries of the sec of state's decision - to her fake 'charity', half a million for an hour of lies spoken by a predatory forty something serial philanderer that 'never had sexual relations with that' waffle; and all not declared, even though Her Majesty pwomised.
And revealed not by the intelligent and morally truth-loving upright US Facebook millions in the hawkish and outraged certainty of an ugly mass mob of clueless misled fact-free neo-liberal Facebook war-hawks claiming to be all about equality love tolerance and unity, furiously spewing hate and demanding change by clicking online for the removal from office for treason of a fresh intern and seventy year old orange faced apprentice and commandeer in chief.
More passionate about the crime of Caitlyn Jenner being turned away from the ladies at the Oscars, than the solitary cruelty meted out to a suicidal Chelsea Manning, avid lip-service luvvies more consumed with an irrelevant distraction of gender and identity rights than world peace and knowing the truth from the false notes in the music of what happens. No, these true stories and real news is not served up to the world by a handful of shallow Hollywood elites and their Fakestream media co-dependents, angrily lashing out now at the common silent conservative (with a small c) majority, lecturing us on everything from what they are wearing to world peace and pedophilia.
Standing up for a convicted pedophile when it is an elite film director, and viciously dismissing as a moral disgrace a victim of it if the victim is a young gay English libertarian firing up young conservative republicans with the politics of Free Speech and not much else that he spouses.
No, not these Reader, but one man caged in a small room, confined to a speck of this earth in a tiny bubble surrounded on all sides by the deepest most unsecretive corporate military industrial state, one sole voice from seven billion, imprisoned in cruel conditions, unable to leave in half a decade and more, all because of US foundation wreckers and grifters that just wanna drone, blow up and silence this one eight billionth part of humanity, without which none of this truth would be broadcast, because s/he is the only one brave enough to expose their espionage with Russia. And the very rats, as rats do, accusing the other side of the crimes they committed. You dirty rats, you dirty Democratic rats.
As a far more adult, intelligent, and sensible sounding European Russian Foreign Minister Lavrov told us, and who a pathetically sad and tragic teenage-minded deep state telegenic Skull and Bonesman death-hawk, J.K., looks like a clueless child in comparison to; in Munich earlier this week":
The German (CIA hacking and tapping Merkel's phone) story was shown to be a fact. You know when it happened, several years ago. It was confirmed that top officials had had their phones tapped. And the other day there was a leak showing that the 2012 presidential election campaign in France coincided with cyber-espianage on the part of the CIA. And talking to a journalist today, a CIA representative said that he had no comments to offer. So I repeat: show us the facts.
I swung a drunken loop from the warehouse
space back into the Highwire itself-
throngs of hipsters milling around,
whiskey, wine disappearing from
the little island space situated near
windows picking up western sun-
light, as night descended on Cherry
Street, with an ambiance of anticipation.
When anything can happen in human
life, nothing usually does- what spectacles
coalesced here, were manna to us. Avalon established
eye-contact; off we pranced to the stairwell- Mike Land grinned lasciviously, as usual,
& polished off a beer he'd received gratis.
I was fighting in a French
Revolution of some kind,
hiding out in a sleeping
bag in a mess hall, gun
tucked under pillow. I knew
in an intuitive flash that
we'd be attacked that night, & we
were, but I followed a horse
out the door & was not
killed. Then I was back in
a room w wooden floors &
I saw you preen through
the window, but you weren't
looking in at me, you were
staring off, into the distance,
pristine as a Vermeer maiden,
so I went looking for Manet's
Olympia, whoring behind the mess hall.
Poetry that aims at the heart seeks to do so (usually) through an affective
catharsis; poetry that aims at the mind seeks to do so through narrative-thematic skillfulness. If we are merely emotionally moved, or merely
intellectually stimulated, it is likely that what we are reading is decidedly minor
poetry. Minor poetry maintains a narrow focus on a goal that, however
elaborately formulated, stays either in the heart or in the mind. Given the
battles that have been waged on this blog and elsewhere, it is useful to note
that, between the two camps at war in American poetry (mainstream and
post-avant), there is an agreement on each side to reduce the other side to a
caricature of one of these two forms. Centrists perpetually accuse
post-avantists of being all head; post-avant poets perpetually accuse Centrists of being bleeding heart sentimentalists. However, these battles
are often waged at the level of content. Where form is concerned, people
tend to clam up, often because they lack knowledge of the formal mechanics of
poetry. I want to posit a new possibility that has not, to my knowledge,
heretofore been posited. What if someone were to put together post-avant, as a branch of avant-garde poetry (as it
exists now), and formalism? What if someone were to kick open the door and declare
the commensurability of form and intellect, of letting heart in the back door
via a level of formal elegance, employing the architectural techniques of the avant-garde?
I have felt the need to justify to myself why, after all this time and several books, I keep coming back to form, feeding on it so to speak, now
that I know what I know. If the arbitrary nature of signs or signifiers means that we would
be foolhardy to trust in their transparency, does that negate lapidary
or ornamental usages of language? I don't think so. It is not as if Saussure
was the first thinker to point out the deficiencies of linguistic signs. John
Locke said roughly the same thing 120 years before Saussure, and the major
Romantics were all fluent in Locke. Yet the inquiries of someone like Coleridge
never threw in doubt for him that the organic unity of harmonious
metrical language was worth creating. Maybe, to bring it straight back to 2009,
poets of my generation are deciding that experimental poets over the past fifty
years have thrown out too much. Or, maybe there is no reason, I can just
get tautological and say I like formal poetry because I like it and
leave it at that. Tautological logic (a contradiction in terms) can be
surprisingly useful, even therapeutic. Why? Because the universe is
unfathomable, and poetry is part of the universe, and often few of us know why
we write what we write. It is no accident that Jack Spicer thought aliens
were dictating to him. At the center of each of us is a solid core of
emptiness, which we act out of.
I mentioned Wordsworth's phrase harmonious metrical language.
"Harmony" is associated with music, as is, of course, metrical
language. Coleridge iterates, in his Biographia, that a man (or woman) without
music in his/her soul can never be a poet. I think my addiction to metrical
language or melopoeia (and it is, to an extent, an addiction, albeit a positive one) is in
large measure the product of an imagination weaned partly on music and the metrical
language of song lyrics. To follow: the nineteenth century saw the tremendous popular success of Byron and Tennyson.
There is no twentieth century analogue to Byron and Tennyson, because, ostensibly, the lack
of metrical harmony in serious poetic language rendered it too difficult
for mass consumption. It is no accident that the single most famous Modernist
poem would probably be Eliot'sPrufrock, a metrical composition.
People want music that is not merely Poundian/High Mod melopoeia; they want it to
be surface-level and discernible and, sometimes, I agree with them. Using melopoeia, in its most disciplined forms, is not a mode of conservatism either; it is simply a way of constructing poetry which manifests and works on a maximum number of levels to achieve the maximum inherent memorability and potency. The more tools we may use to create poetry, the more liberal, and liberated, we are.