I A N I R V I N E
My Precise-Precious Image. She
‘5.…poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite’,
I – Being a Refusal to Crystallize the Image
My clear and precise Image. She
refuses to constellate. Stendhal. Crystallize
in. I’m not anxious at this. Comes later.
Not get me wrong, get me. All mixed up with
sound and city and fax and trafficked. This last
desperate blindness. Depresses. They need a revolution
and we’re decomposing in refusals to
paint. Photograph. Complete what?
II – Next we dissolve one potentially oppressive self
You can watch me. Okay? As voyeurs
butcher the lyric I. Not writing now.
Dropped the fragment of wanting to make.
In Duchamp’s urinal. You can flush it, like
the woman in the advertisement. Sprayed her
odour into many children days. That
was the fifties/sixties—hypnotics, technocratic lust:
Loving male model looks on as she
fornicates her husband. He gets his.
III – Lastly, the Baby with the Bathwater ‘Sign’ (L-a-n-g-u-a-g-e)
I just realised a cookbook. How many
would be famous. Telephone book, textbook
poems? Hold that questionmark! … rock-a-bye
baby ‘a to z’. It’s okay, soon it’ll be over. This
advert for knappies any way. Endgame/silence:
close to the big-bug ‘Z’. Maybe at ‘X’ or ‘Y’.
Don’t swear, Wittgenstein. At.
Why (not) egg scramble? Bombs, falling.
Noise. Ern Malley – sandwiched, between
In – I realize I’m feeling/ emotioned up. Must
down the slow elixir of singular rebellion. e.e.
IV – Of Sad Things and Namings and Transience