Recently I contributed some words to the tenth issue of Peculiar Mormyrid, a surrealist journal.
I have a love love hate hate relationship with poetry. I love to create and hate to decant the living into a fixed form: the hatred of life. And still I love the hate. The perversity of desire under condition of commodity production.
Surrealism, particularly the variety asserted by André Breton in his manifestoes of surrealism, has exerted a powerful attraction upon me over the years. The discovery of a current committed to transforming the world and changing life upon the fantastic basis of the communist utopia and the dream. To dream the world into being, which we do in any case, currently more nightmare than playful whimsy.
To create the living, to be alive and nothing more is not just a necessity, it is inescapable. Capitalist society fosters the absurd task of turning the flow into fixation whose grim and laughable truth is that it changes in any case. Nothing will remain, so why bother holding on?
At best, poetry in the form of the reified poem-thing tends to express the ebb of being and becoming. At worst, it reinforces the blockage, adds to vast detour of capital and wage slavery.
The insignificance of this diversion will become more readily apparent once it has disappeared, whether by way of socialism or barbarism. Amidst the noise and the seemingly endless spectacles that induce us to consume and enjoy amidst the horrors, it is easy to forget that this historical moment, much like death itself, will one day die.
Meanwhile, in the hot seat of fake electronic gnosis, here is the poem in question.
around the corner. for BJK.
in my dreams, there is a library at the end,
there are books at the end, reading covers.
here I am, at the end of the world, reading covers.
“The City Screamed”. “It Stopped”. “At The End of The Burning World”. “And The Under Privileged Waters of New Babylon”. “This Tangle Hold”. “This, The Luckiest Machine in All Denver”.
“It’s Great to Be Back!”
here, at the end, my friends.
it’s great to be back, and still with a fever, caught from the eventual impending and imminent tomorrow. which is to say, from the future.
this is more than the fault of a quote or confusion,
more than the phlegmatic, the phantasmatic bad memory of the new drudge,
they flap and slither with the utmost seriousness. all of them.
of the very many hands and the very many fingers. all of them.
the new robotics. nature. the brass and brazen victory of the mechanoid caller.
here, is the sweet mould, the forge of the wine dark stupor. puke. you call vomit.
to change. something. to overturn all the words, say.
so the world at the end of the word, this world and this one.
from this momentary. this promontory. from this train. and this midnight.
tonight, from this cabin and the next, there are cows I will never see.
therefore smash all the clocks.
break all the faces.
here. at the end.
twist out a lament for the change that is coming,
and for the axe with which we will grind,
and for the fine shapes of the nothing much more than all the outrage,
all the bad press, for all the dirt that we call dust,
with a tongue for a corpse and a corpse for a tongue,
we will grind out a paste to fix the filmy mist of the hereafter.
and the week after?
break all the cocks.
smash all the quasars.
all of them,
all that is palpable, for example, your quasi-diagram guise,
here, around the corner.
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