Art
is, we, what,
will be, told,
young, old, was.
but [is that to] say it's
room in the fridge
for fresh milk from a rotten breast?
more or less
the same difference -
I, guess -
wether, wind or earth,
cathectized catechism
'r, fire 'n water,
catalyzed cataclysm
too? the Future three-for-one-free-for-all!
For the Past pedophiles progressive peace persue...
do we look to the finger? or make it a point to
bring down The House, over, end, over,
Onstage and on-
stage to get off-
ended over a point -
boo-hoo.
get a hold of yourself, man -
(ha-ha! cathetized catharsism!)
pointing is rude.
But, but
do we look
too fragile
in five-finned-fantastic-form-fitting-fabrics?
God it's a good question.
Good it's a god question.
Good god it's a question.
perhaps its preferable (possibly even perferable
too) to plainly penilize the -er of the product
and, too, to tie our tongues with the curly hairs of
necessity, the faster father of convention
or was it the other way around?
which brings us back to
issues of Heat, Drought, Fog, Frost.
cause that
is the, awful lawful, state, is't not
to insperate
?
is Art, is art
truth? is, truth is,
not what it is.
?
will be, told,
young, old, was.
but [is that to] say it's
room in the fridge
for fresh milk from a rotten breast?
more or less
the same difference -
I, guess -
wether, wind or earth,
cathectized catechism
'r, fire 'n water,
catalyzed cataclysm
too? the Future three-for-one-free-for-all!
For the Past pedophiles progressive peace persue...
do we look to the finger? or make it a point to
bring down The House, over, end, over,
Onstage and on-
stage to get off-
ended over a point -
boo-hoo.
get a hold of yourself, man -
(ha-ha! cathetized catharsism!)
pointing is rude.
But, but
do we look
too fragile
in five-finned-fantastic-form-fitting-fabrics?
God it's a good question.
Good it's a god question.
Good god it's a question.
perhaps its preferable (possibly even perferable
too) to plainly penilize the -er of the product
and, too, to tie our tongues with the curly hairs of
necessity, the faster father of convention
or was it the other way around?
which brings us back to
issues of Heat, Drought, Fog, Frost.
cause that
is the, awful lawful, state, is't not
to insperate
?
is Art, is art
truth? is, truth is,
not what it is.
?
posted by Sturgeon General at 3:50 PM
5 Comments:
No idea where this one came from, but I think it's sort of interesting (not enough to replace the poem I just posted):
A Dialogue Between Father and Son
That's a fine
firm, son.
You should apply there.
The line
break, fine
as it was, did not
pass over Daedalus'
eyes this time.
He grabbed it near,
held it and
heard it softly until
he became firm.
Dad, I'd
rather be
a writer than a banker.
Why not
be both
while you still can?
Art is awesome, and by Art, I mean your poem. more thoughts soon, when I have more time. a lot to think about, really.
I also like the Dialogue b/t Father and Son... You should take a look at Eating in the Underworld by Rachel Zucker. It's about the story of Persephone, and all of the poems take the form of either letters, between Persephone and Demeter or Persephone and Hades, or diary entries by Persephone. it may not be your style, but that's what came to mind. it really struck a cord with the part of my imagination that's so drawn to the ancient world and mythology.
After writing these poems, I took a nap and awoke suddenly. I had a dream where my father died, and I did not understand what that meant at first - suddenly, it dawned on me that I would never see him again, I tried to remember the last thing I said to him: was it mean? was it meaningless? was it meaningful? I became horribly overwhelmed with the reality of life, and I began to scream, primally, and uncontrollably. I awoke, and at that moment my ex-girlfriend was calling me. I answered the phone blurrily and with a sore-throat, and hung up after explaining myself (and my dream, groggily) shortly. I lay in bed, really, lied in bed, thinking about my dream and the emotion that carried over into my waking life. I was struck by the preposterousness of it all. The poems I had posted, everything I was doing, everything everyone was doing. How come we don't communicate, really? What the hell is this subjectivity? Nothing but memory, really. It seems entirely
as I slipped into another dream,
"I know that I does not exist!"
I shouted into the wind
from the back of a dragon
as we landed at an airport.
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/10/21/theater/21pint.html?_r=1&oref=login
Read Krapp's Last Tape.
(And my dad played Krapp in college.)
can we communicate, really? i'm always trying to figure out whether i'm actually trying to communicate or whether I'm in fact trying not to communicate/trying to not communicate, as the two often materialize in much the same way, and as one is so often confused with the other, and as the existence of [I] may be said to depend upon both the desire/need to communicate and the desire/need not to. but what a silly question this seems when, in real life, in real time, in a room with [You], I want to say [x], and I don't say it. [X]! [Xxx]! why do I do this? perhaps because saying [x] would accomplish absolutely nothing, or perhaps precisely because it would accomplish everything? what silly, silly, crushing questions! [Z]! [P]! I don't know. I don't know. who knows? [U] know?
Post a Comment
<< Home