24. More Mongrel Theory

It was the tattoo that told me all
a collar of S’s on his Staffie
I’d inscribe on its back to let it scream
the Sun in Splendour! the Neon Cross!
no excesses! no German! no bloody quotations!
just the right size in the right place
– now that’s what I call ein gutes Gedicht!

We’re all going to hell in a handcart
the little one sang so I relented then, a bit
the air reeked of buddleia & country-rock as well
the signs of an English summer as it all turns to kitsch
I accept no responsibility
                           not for your choices now
a true radical poetry can’t be written in English
what it utters cost too many lives

Is there any language where the word for “blood”
does not thrill you to the heart w/ all that’s lost?
OK, that’s what the dog said, & it knows
– not as a concept but a syrupy smell
yeah, like summer, like poetry, like radical chic
coming back again & again & sticking to us, oozing
to loopily annoy our skin
                          I won’t hurt it now

Encrust it all with gore! stick its Staffie head
on top of Bassett’s Pole – know nothing but hate
coating me up like ancient gloss paint – tacky
my eyes water for the little children covered with our hate
our excesses scar their lives already
what we lost in our long war with ourselves
gone absolutely: time for total strip out
I’m sorry about the dog
                        not it’s fault either
chuck the rubbish maybe & then get digging

Nothing holding us here once the dog’s dead – let’s
steal away, far from the buddleia, now, the salvia
all the chrysanthemums & dahlias that flock & flutter
they give me no pleasure
                         no understanding or ignorance
just gardeners filled with joy at their plugging of the void

I ought to like this world & trust but don’t
                                             who would?
time to stop killing dogs, then maybe to get some fun

23. Just a Bit of Fun, Then?

the poignancy of yesterday’s sky
all the guys carry on repeating it
slowly fading w/ their tats n
toothless dogs

2 Homoousios
(a) Corrosive: A Conceptual Poem © Vanessa Place
The life & misfortunes of an indigent wretch
inscribed upon her back w/ knifepoint / razor
as a unique p-o-d edition financed
by paying the wretch as little as she’ll take

(b) Mess: A Conceptual Poem © Kenny Goldsmith
Everything I touch
turns to gold

(c) Thanks: A Conceptual Poem © Peter Philpott
All your language use today

Starting with what?
& only that patterning?
Why those decisions?
& all those endless questions?

Lobet von Herzen das schlechte Gedächtnis des Himmels!
Und daß er nicht
Weiß euren Nam’ noch Gesicht
Niemand weiß, daß ihr noch da seid.

Brecht, p 120 “Großer Dankchoral”

5 Where the Poets Meet
G M Hopkins Lincrusta
glossed intense dark maroon

6 What Is To Be Done?
Strip Out Solutions Our Speciality
Phone Now Without Obligation!

7 It Made Me Scream
There’s nothing holding us here, I swear
the urgency of this situation – how patient
the warm evening air full of smells
its pollution obscured by reflections
                  shimmering prettily

China Miéville, Perdido Street Station (Pan Books, 2000), pp 855-860

8 A Sense of the Ruptured Moment
The swifts are gone – this sky silent
under it though can be heard how
sudden flocks of peacocks flutter
leaping in joy about the buddleia

9 Mr Motley Continued with His Philosophical Ramblings, His Ruminations on Mongrel Theory
“You too are the bastard-zone, Ms Lin! Your art takes place where your understanding and your ignorance blur.”

Miéville, op cit, p 141 (likewise subheadings for subsections 8 & 9)

At the horror of this world’s empty vastness
inconsequentiality of the cruelty that plays
the ephemerality of all concepts to encounter this
we are swifts in summer, maybe flocking butterflies
having fun in this garden now.
                               The light steals away
                               what life is this now

12. A Recipe for Nothing Less

for Sarah, starting here . . .

Why do a recipe then?
suddenly I can’t
– stand it
am I paid to? do I
want to?
– put it all
down again in a long list
trapped in disgust at that food

Everything stops: there’s
a screaming, then laughter
we can’t need this
I don’t know
what Sarah wants

I can’t say it
I can’t write it
dynamic? my
word I think that is
a delusion now

All chick & piss, yes
like the disordered children
absolute sharp features
all her smutty fragments

I’d like to need the following:
a bus
some dada
some bears
– plenty please!
(oh, mark 7 for choice
& passion
– lots of that
for pudding

Sarah never asked for anything
or if she did, what sort
of comment will that be?
then it’s all about speech
which is more about growing things
than cooking them or alchemically poeticising
much more fun
& real1

All of it is noise
just switch attention off the mess
into the medium itself to
splash about a little bit

Just typical of this this young world
– for all that recursive repetition
that what was given before
that, yes, we’re all into around
unusable & valueless
– thank you very much

[OK – that’s all. She never turned up, did you, Sarah? No ideas but everything & everything idealess – every idea less a thing than just talk. Delicious tabletalk. You don’t see this at all? Man kennt ein bisschen, man ißt ein bisschen, man geht kaka ein bisschen, man macht etwas ein Gedicht. Dieser Gedicht.]



 1 what sort of comment is this?

4. In the Absolute Creativity of Nothing, I Place My Trust

  F               E X C E S S E S
T R A P P E D         O         T         H
  A                   R                   O
  N                   R                   P
  T                   O       F O R   P O E T R Y
  I     B L O S S O M S       R           F
  C O M E             I   H E A D       S U D D E N L Y
        A             V       N           L       O
        U           R E J E C T               I N T O           B
C R E A T I V I T Y           I                     P           R
        I                     C O R R O S I V E   Y E A H,    Y E A H
        F                                           N   E       A
        U                     N O T H I N G             A   A S K
      P L E A S U R E         E                         D
      L                       S
      A B S O L U T E         S

3. Not a Poem Nor Not a Poem

Trapped? Aren’t we then underlying
this frantic small rumbling – oh
come off it now! Laughter
starting here, beautiful piss, white
blossoms – all OK, eternal and
corrosive. Everything fresh – again.
Nothing to reject. Animals die. We do.
There is nothing on order. A frantic grasp, a
head, a mess, won’t all these be that question?

For poetry permits photophobia & delusions.
It is this necessarily: hopeful and churning
bouncing so it grips. Suddenly singing
not damaged, it initiates problems re
petition into children, coral sometimes expressive
all open, sometimes the aesthetics of milk
yeah, yeah, our hearts will be trapped.
I did not call or break – light – fuck! – life
droning, fluffy, ask it if it arrives. It thanks, this time bites.