100+2. Dimenticare – Oh, Oh!; or, At Good advice to be Beginning, Again . . . above my

What diagram? What fucking diagram? Oh – that diagram. Forget it.

Imagine this maybe:

 

 

 

 

 

Fig. 8: alone the

 

 

 

All these words – the ones you want are here somewhere.[1]

 

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[1] Try Allen Fisher, “Complexity Manifold 2: hypertext”, in ed. Louis Armand, Hidden Agendas: Unreported poetics (Litteraria Pragensia, 2010)

92. All This Silver Montage (373 Things)

Fig. 7: The Poets Don’t Do It Right Again

All the beautiful detritus arrives at once & very ruddy now – like the old map of empire declared it. We’ve just past Hallowe’en (again! – but did you really expect things to happen only once?) We’ve stopped counting, as the numbers begin to run out. Yes, it does all sort of empty into blunder – but, again, and again, what do you expect? You expect failure? Well, you won’t fucking get it then – crash and burn, baby, now! We do remember always to glow, here, before we end. It’s a rapid vestigial, or vestigiale rapido, nostra whatsit, nostra vita, la nostra vita vestigiale e rapida. That’s easy, that one. The terrain in this bowl, though, anything but – a muck & mess of old broken pudding-stone, obliterated & variegated. Why don’t I list the colours? What a maledizione! What an obelisk! What a legend of ripped pages. Continuing, familiar, dilapidated – the ethereal blue of positivity against the blood red of terminal moraines. How odd & constant the broken real. Trapped in institutions & nostra city verbale, like some soggily riverine Hejinian – Hey! Let’s follow these noisy, disordered children out! The wave breaks all this bloody appearance against us, in an angel’s eyeblink. That unstable & shaken. Here let me point to it, to these things, coloured, beautiful, broken, illusory, uncalled, and ‘ll

88. Adjustments to Be Made

Fig. 6 The Poet Wonders How

It is true that our origins lie with the bears, whose dance welcomes us to play outside this cave, where fixity erodes & dissipates. Hullo bears! The lions will tell us what a fine day it is, that useful animal the red lion, glad to help us with our stories, our unending stories. Hullo, red lion – top of the morning to you, sir! And then, you too, little elf fluttering so bravely & briefly, your dear little dance through space & time a perfect improvisation – oh, we salute you & your butterflies, little one. Notice then obtrudes: pus is seen & warned against – all that decay suddenly not part of life’s great cycle, Brother Rot Our Friend – but what is ruled against & banned. Goodbye, innocence. Hullo, gullibility. Here comes Thomas, welcoming fluid & unprovisional actuality’s replacement by sheer eternal dogma. The man with the organ can carry on grinding it for ever, now he knows his place – he is lost. Somehow, ignore him. And that little wandering poet, like all poets looking the wrong way & choosing non-existence – please! Hatless. Saladin’s horse’s hoof adjusts his head for him, reforms it nicely, but can’t maintain any more momentum. Back into the bone-pit.

Only the jolly tumbler knows enough to fade into the light itself, & drift warily out of Old Sawney’s reach. Let, too, the funny little red fairy bless him, as she kicks up to choose rebirth & idiocy amongst the bears again.

In sacrificing herself, knowingly & unknowingly, she restarts the process. There are adjustments to be made. They will be made on us.

73. The Revolt Having Failed, It Must Be Time to Cook

Fig. 5: The Poet Calculates the Potential of Other Instruments

What is corrosive is a purely circular viewpoint, round like a head or a cake. The mountain we can see is made of stones, we guess – wrongly. There are no secrets in an equality. Everything we see is made equally of light. Only the dead, all the dead, who choose not to heal, are stone and they break. Add to their brittle rigidity the triple male gaze – fetches ready for nothing. Grind them & whisk them, again and again.

The dead are a fuzzy comedy, a joke we tell, entropic patterns we project against our own darkness. How can they equal what we could do? Freewheeling like birds, we do that too, all available energy poised ready for reception.[1] Sail on above us, you pioneers, & gather the light we shall live by. We must run through then the whole gamut or armature of our potential, from weak poets sealed up within industrial grade polythene sheeting (let them inexorably rot down together!) to a last resistant, innocent of power but always ready to call it out & shoot it. Inextinguishable once reborn.

There needs to be a switch to set this in motion, once we have tasted  through the possibilities. It will transform, yet remain the same. Then it is us, the I and I of us all equally. We call this revolution or alchemy, poetry or even cooking. Let’s do that, quickly & simply, then sit & eat together before we run through the final algorithms. Our only weapon the clarity & opportunity of chance as non-linear complexity works itself out within

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[1] (You can’t see this properly, but we all do possess a distributed focus linear receiver and a hemispherical concentrator, with an exquisite counterbalance both for security and for winter.)