Wednesday, 13 May 2009

1) the half inch x of Jim Crace’s The Devil’s Larder, pages six and seven

the dark side with no boundaries.
in the brothel’s waiting room
do not speak to the aroused
like the thousand others at the lodge
across from the canopy.
the voices form against a mesh,
their cane chairs are visitors
like the ver women.

some treats like glands,
though it’s expensive and virtually extinct
the hors d’oeuvres she has are forest mushrooms
which number like roaches
with cheese flavoured water to drink.
in some ways we have come as dishes,
an offering of the fetish.

where are the barriers of taste
she will use for
curry number three?

understand that it’s a curried something,
prehistoric and disallowed.

perhaps the pot could have
some prepared for monkey,
rare and testing esoteric organs,
bound for the weekend.

not missed.
the sacrificial hotel.
the unaccounted for,
we are bound and then bound to come.
and our senses become as we tried.
or snakes

2) Formal Wear and Tear: Notes on George Szirtes

This is Poetry.
The unparaphrasable,
great verse sold short
digested reader’s decoration.

This is me, exercising my poetic right
to live in the potentially enormous
gap between illusion
and the catcher and refractor of light.

The production of imagination
stretching a tight skin over chaos.
And in a fight with civilised values over barbarity
I believe man blights nature.

And this allows me to identify
with the instincts that create
the courage and grace
of an old body.

But I still struggle towards thought
through the versions of instincts
that community created.
I was littering

aware that I was not alone
in breathing the fresh smell
of sulphur and sadness:
the smell of the community of ghosts

that tried to live in my art house,
enticing my own lost selves inward.
I might have inhabited an initial dislocation,
that comedy of the human situation

your partner forces you into.
In your coward corner you reach for
an aid to invent
those solemn faces and grand intentions.

Despite evidence to the contrary
a certain distrust tells me
that the devil is likely to have some
if not all of the good tunes,

and will always draw attention to the complicated matters,
and to the arbitrary meeting of differences.
Whilst rampant individualist capitalism
(a collection of mistakes) holds no personal resistance

to the final solution.

3) Smile! Polaroid is Saved

Mass produced both colour and black and
the world, chronicling every-
series.
edit and delete pictures before they see
photography company Ilford, the ma-
cameras launches today. Working with
to the downright explicit. But when dig-
Polaroid.net, the biggest Polaroid gallery
an ital photography came along in the 1990s
making film again thanks to its new
camera was gone forever. But within,
with artists and the more modern 600
only art galleries in Vienna, call Polanoir.
Kaps, 39, has dedicated the past five years
weeks, to a group of users who started an
owner based eccentric Austrian artist and
their places have been heard.
Now he plans to save the film. “Since the
light of day - Polaroid was doomed,
it’s a fight against the idea that everything
is made for profit.” The global campaign
for the format to return has begun.
Hiring 11 of the original Polaroid team
work has begun on a prototype. By
instant photography poetry
has set up a plan. The Polaroid facto-
businessman named Florian Kaps. Mr
from the factory floor, Mr Kaps aims to
date the existing stock at “will not run out.”
Both the classic SX-70 cameras popularly
dubbed “The Impossible Project,” the
the Manchester-based black and white
iconic white-framed snaps apparently
projected its more business plan nature,
and now, thanks to an unlikely saviour,
for a generation, the Polaroid
white film under the Impossible label by
exposure types, each with compatible
instant images and the ability to
chinery is in place to produce film to two
when Polaroid announced last Feb-
camera gave near-instant pleas-
Its instant film! Its seems much loved.
Its millions of users proud
of its witnessing births and weddings
it doesn’t have to die!
December coinciding with the project
In Enschede, Amsterdam, will soon
be on the web, the first month ever!
And we thank Polaroid for this.

4) A Mental Disease Has Swept The Planet: Banalization

I drank from the surrealist crystal cup.
The artificial flowers flavouring my wine.
Intoxicated, I sat and looked for the mysteries on the sidewalk
but there is no longer any Temple of the Sun
to cast its shadows on the
ignoble masses of reinforced concrete.

Exploring Paris I found
the benefactor of the insane
in the emotionally still-alive past
along with Rimbaud and Baudelaire
who told me of the already-dead future
and the shape of the corpses of my contemporaries;
ghosts bearing all the prestige.

Certain visions remain fragmentary:
horses born from the sea
or the dada monkey wrench.
The latest state of humour and poetry
tells us we know how to read
every promise in faces
and in the poetry of the billboards.

The new myths remain inadequate
to integrate modern science into society.
Their various attempts lead to a prolonging
of the ultimate road to boring leisure,
frigid architecture and economy value.
The mental disease of banalization
has swept the planet,
and our dreams, sprung from reality,
can no longer be realised in it.

5) First Lines

Not long after my wife and I split up
I saw the shape of the place,
the shine in his eyes
and the sweat lashing off him.
I looked up to the ceiling,
heard their voices ring.
Maybe you can give me a sign
letting me know what is happening to me?
Why is London like Budapest?
In the first place that stuff bores me.
How far is it to those who have such a passion
to cook chicken around the clock?
Follow the blue lines down the floor.
They’re long and narrow and head to the door,
but I always end up in second place.
And my parents had two haemorrhages a piece
when they heard I wavered and shivered and trembled
when I heard your voice.
So I won’t say anything too personal
but not through lack of choice.

6) Poetry in the Age of Carol Ann Duffy as Poet Laureate

Nowadays words condition everything,
themselves combinations of that exhilaration we call art.
The current laureate’s motion:
“look straight forward,
Humans hunger for history.”
Inevitably, that first major nomic poem
undermined that public appointment. Much needed fancy
for the few who tried courage.

“Oh the years one sought such a spring!”
Andrew, and someone else, describes in a steely way
her anarchic poetry.
One for the poets, who are famous
for their imaginative connections we copy.
The underground marriages debate
rings aloud again;
the expressive beat, the decorative minims
of hearts, no longer just female territory.
Words give health with unadulterated devotion.
Originality made “some hands public property.”

When that poetry tree moved, life changed,
and the millions of years
add measure to the beauty of readings.
Poetry’s minor today, it is neither great, nor forgotten.
The poetic days pass slowly, except in London,
where poetry seems to express feelings before they happen.
Poetry has been on the fence,
far from the cliff’s edge.
Imagine if Shelley was laureate,
how differently she would have created
modern beings.
As laureate she would have been tasked
to discover the four ghosts
of the crisis, but would stare back fiercely with them all.
Coral, although principled, is no Betjeman,
penning that editorial taking in new

imaginative leaps. Nowadays
the newspaper poets are thunder poets,
hallmarks, case examples of the juncture
between the battle of kind festivals
and measured choice.
“The just few communicate through poems,” wrote our laureate,
the head of everyone human.
“That laureate answers venture with wisdom,”
utters Williams, and others, nothing themselves
in Ms Duffy’s mind, a figure for a figure.

Duffy writes with a better published
major-key appetite.
A gift of the appointment, the potent patent
rating of an appetite.
Yet the English often enjoy a fair;
and a private, unacknowledged God listens to children
in Britain who voyage,
express themselves with matters of recent sides.
They’re people with wit,
their skill stirring public strength with readings.
Some laureates would read this collection,

and judge against something worldly,
or the individual.
So, man may rapture at the prayer
that our poetry with intelligence rejects oppression.
Modern poets concluded Philip Kennedy Sydney,
fellow himself for years,
is more of a fine retiring incumbent.
Poetry figures women who sing here:
recall, select level, marry.
It makes what has been written of in the GDP
help, which even poets will have heard.

This singsong of life they widely style
‘the renaissance that changed the observed poem’
has been taught to the unknown poets.
Important to both Ms Duffy’s well being and health,
yesterday’s poetry positions were full,
as are the words the few admitted.
Against the noon motion
royal Shelley thinks the event a play,
preserved by the laureate,
of that marvelous prayer of poetry.

Also, those poets live of fear
just as any gentle royal cannot know books
they place with any success.
As Rowan and I think, we write a scheme
steeped in time, 1,821 minutes short.
You should seize the role of the holy ghost
who’s start may become an ode to write,
or ideas for prayer.
She the eco look-alike
Auden’s name meant love
and has been complained on since 1993.

Are our poet out there in place?
Where they never more than
terse legislators of knowledge?
Ours has neither a day, nor holes,
nor do they venture to the theatre,
or the public theatre of the circle.
But ours is a huge, ever angry, appetite,
that the sodden poets,
who have thrived
and made it through
as partners, will never
shout out “poetry!” to the world,
will ever fulfill.

7) Note On Poetry

The poet of the last station has given up on imagination,
the vain lamentation of progress.
The poet can go for the humidity of gentle weeping,
but the explosive desire of gymnastics will kindle their souls with abundance.
The enthusiasm the poet will see to his grave will burn of the desire for today.

Power awaits, if only you’ll follow the signs,
and pick up on how to recognise the crystal cup between the legs.

Your persistence will distil joy, nourish the waves and quicken the creation of new life.
Follow the colours through emotion and a new form will greet you.

I have reached the precipice and am on the frontier of the appropriate but this analogy will serve me little use if a star expands in space and absorbs this world as its choice.

Art is no longer an everlasting sphere and will consume our hearts and pockets before it moves on to its next target.

The soul will centralise possibilities under the heading of popularity and burn our expanding wings.

With pretension's negation I present an absolute romantic mundane decision as the ultimate route of poetic innovation.

The formal act of poetry lives on despite the attempts to destroy the vestiges Dada left behind.
They bred!
And now, like every other art it inhabits the hemisphere’s via the transatlantic liners of global business.

Thank goodness rhythm has been destroyed, the dried up heart can once again swell with the freedom of demanding sentiment.

Reality is demanding and cruel.
Prepares our bodies to be consumed.
The power of imagination transformed for the use of other organisms.

And the dossier of human imbecility will guide our future pretensions.

The crescendo of the poem will hollow out at the crater of visual image. A clear imaginative perception will inevitably be traceable through the capability of emotions.

Isn’t it convenient to deal with the impotent, avoid the fear and run straight to the sterile glimmer.
The logic of light no longer applies to our creative powers.
We must destroy the crystal and deal with flamboyant gestures.

Liberty is the ability to give recipes,
even if you’re not a vegetarian.

Create obscurity and stop where the white light fogs the microscope and ferments the dancers dense state.