i have decided, as a journeyman, to both
rediscover and recreate an old image of my self.
the ghosts of one past to be introduced to the
spark of he which emerges.
if i was really clever i would create a poetic form
a jumble of nausea-words and cutups half hinting
at meaning but then falling away; sections
towards criticisms of earlier sections then still
further analyses of that to collapse into yellbucket
speed rhythms to culminate to just inhuman
grunts, beatboxing and scratches on the paper. all
written on computer paper with changing fonts
shifting sizes sudden italics the chaotic gurney of
copyright and grammar checks txtspeak quackery
– all printed out and glued atop a piece of paper
underwhich I have thought about writing a poem
but in reality there is nothing.
Cottage Industries for an Extinct World:
My house is built of building blocks
of equal squares of sequences
a sample of what went before
a quadrilateral to incense hundertwasser
The food i eat is pigmentless
i cook it on a dusty stone
and flip it haphazardly
onto the check of kitchen linoleum
Curtain style is blind styles:
good for standing illuminated by street lights,
easing open to be dapered by sinister lines and
squint my eyes and close again.
The music is all 12tone and
quick-mix theory found funk as
found funk beats and mathematical
beeps keep the repetition of an
expanding phrase in line.
In the little rooms i construct things of synthetic
marble, of synthetic brick, of synthetic rhyme.
A man-made rhythm they used to hawk on street
corners to carry the kids into the streets.
Where they are whipped into a frenzy and start
cottage industries of their own:
The nursery-rhyme machine
The advertisement tapestries
The kit-set silver linings
The rebranded cliché
The remixes of bedtime songs
The mud-hut websites
one time moving
one time standing still.