Tag: kitsch
48. & All the Silver Geckoes. . . 1
what do they dream of
we’re crossing the line now
to improvise power
briefly against or for
do they know more than the cats
leaping across the fenceways
a whole new geography
superior to our own
does our flesh know
accepting its comfort
whatever really
it might sleep after
we give to all vagrants
one single name
but every name different
every one so
like the gods much the same
all you’d imagine
centreless & white
then clear as a mirror
any escape will do
to get us outside
we blame & we love
out into wildwood
escaping like people
just denying this nightmare
let’s see what it is
really around us
the words are our wonder
yes we can learn
wander into these schools
& understand what is said
the year ends and
we’ll see then through vapours
the first glimmers
a new fragrant tone
our age doesn’t matter
does it Karla & Darrel
tenderly hand in hand
oh, this city now is ours
1 Crossing (or Xing) the Line reading series, organised by Jeff Hilson (with Sean Bonney), held, at the time of writing, upstairs in The Apple Tree, Mount Pleasant, Clerkenwell – the room redecorated in the summer of 2013 with a gorgeous wallpaper, black with silver lizards, as background for the poets (plus photos of Marx & Lenin – for the benefit of CWU meetings also we guess). Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/groups/140494812663758.
45. A Recipe for the Commitment of an Imprecise Poem
for the Veer Collective, who spat out what was offered them1
OK, no pressure, guys: your choice
is your choice & no one could think that
something this impaired could match what you require
publishing is hard but what you value I thought clear
but, well, I am reduced to talking snarkily just now
to say I find those values of commitment and precision to be
well, fucking inhuman – dead abstractions
orders from the mouths of disembodied heads2
I am disgusted by these words & turn
to where my attention is more upon the care of little ones
it isn’t that I believe in Liberty3 but
that comes from inside, yes? not
some retro Between-the-Wars ModernistTM delusion
planning the relaunch of New Masses yet again
now that’s what I call real corrosive kitsch
I prefer the stuff people do in kitchens for
more revolutions start over food than verse
OK then, dudes, I hear you say
so what are you working on? what
‘s new out of Bishops Stortford? OK
the game goes on & we start
where we are:
so no food & drink, my friends
no bread & water
but stones & gasoline for you to throw – OK?
And then to list my ingredients all dutifully?
they’re around us I reckon in common human actions
not committed to separation & asylums
but communal, messy & just happening:
loudly saying no
& calling out wrong decisions
joining together against these
& at the worst4 some
active stand in opposition
even with the risk of loss
or wound
& we’d take from that
human fellow feeling to
see how a new ordering
can form itself, as
utopian dreams get realised
through kitschy rituals so
this should be then made into
something joyful & sustaining
no I can’t give you instructions how
but suggest feeling & emotion, good
like in a poem, OK, imprecise
& what it is committed to
never externally determined or adopted
And all the processes that affect us
huge & frightening
new high status elites
bursting from the carcass of the old
seizing in their mandibles
all common necessities
& making us then pay
over our entire lives
just to exist in this world
they claim they’ve bought
& demonstrate possession
by making all that there is good
funnel into them & theirs
it happens continually
it is at
that moment of change
maybe now to be upset
but how to do so
without smashing our own life support
or not surviving the guns they have already hired
rather more effective than our poems I would guess
no, I don’t know how
& if you think you do
oh you precise & committed ones
then try it if you like
but we are done with leninism
as it brings nothing
but another new elite
– don’t you know?
The presentation of our change
must be less obvious, less
cut off in self-righteous correctness
but engaged through our human actions
which must include for us our writing
as that is what we have to do and if
we commit to something other than what’s our poetry
I think we’d be wasting our own best efforts then
I know it’s not heroic nor what you’d call political
but that too needs some total metamorphosis
not repetition of past failures yet again
“keep the line, boys, keep the line”
no – this is not the field of status games
but the whole of our human life
In the southwestern sky
that sun of winter dies
nonetheless, though we hibernate
or fly, burrow underneath
forage dutifully amongst the rubble
we’ll work for what comes after us
not for the absolute precise but
just a better life somehow
[I got this just from what I’ve lived and seen. It cost me (& 80 colleagues) our jobs; looks like it’ll cost me publication too now. That’s all I can say at present. Sorry if it’s not adequate; but not if not found precise or not demonstrating some image of commitment. It’s what I have found more important than adopted stances, disembodied thought & the glee songs that built mass movements. Memo: write poems, find some better publisher[5], carry on with the care of little ones and the preparation of our food.]
1 “Thanks for submitting the work. Veer editors have read it and reached the decision that it doesn’t fall within the currently more precise and committed stance that we are adopting.” Email dated November 16, 2013
2 that means Charlie Marx & Big Ted, remember? & now Paulina the Staffie bitch
3 as you know, free Americans have pissed all over this word, like mice raiding a larder
4 usually that means usually
5 any suggestions, please? anyone?
44. The Vagrants Song: “Oh Breathing Yet Free Mountain Air”1
Besides the blurry fire, no pressure.
Speaking of impaired, Paulina moved:
this time snarky smears clean the sun
a inhuman image in old Nevada
just laughing order. Dagoenean
had disgust. The little one
will be happier, entering this liberty.
The skies are torn. The Geldi come
gods of corrosive kitsch now playing down
Always amazement out of Trumfleet:
our tokens flourish, the game go on
oh this is old talk! – callow kitsch ’n’
new pleasure. Rats reads poems;
gods bear the fight. To Liberty!
My & your – scratch scabs modulate the head.
Trust excess. Rearrange all areas
gently with my fingernails. Divine counsel too:
in the south western sky ancient nameless art displayed.
1 Note that the following text was composed in the language of the other world about this world, the only one we know, then “translated” necessarily into the language of this world, the only language we know. This is normal for poetry.
43. The Clean, Conceptual, Corrosive Joy of Kitsch, or Mongrel Mess
Like, just what is this, & who and where? Some blurry mess come out of the skies to titillate & mock us? Sarah, I can see you are laughing, free of who you are, but then you don’t turn up anyway – you just invite all your snarky little friends. Oh how cute – look, they’re playing cybermen & werewolves, surrealist japes & cheap rip-offs. I can see why you’re laughing; but how can you avoid chromosomal damage under this inhuman pressure? IDS, for gods’ sake! why? why?
And you, Paulina, you pointless bitch – rip out rather than rip off, some sophomore gesture towards materiality and ephemerality of the image, hunh? I don’t need to respond to a bit of torn paper, or a few smears of inky patterns handcrafted on Olde Photoshoppe. OK, so we’ve had a thing about heads, for a long long time, and putting them on cupcakes will make us happier I don’t think. I eat.
My money’s on the vagrants. They’ve moved down out of the pass. Speaking as one who knows, I’ve been there. It’s cold, beautiful, full of the way out, hunkering down besides this fire.