Thursday, March 31, 2005

Drone of bore

The lasting stone of desire
swelling to pip full strip back the cracked ones
has now settled into the soul singing sensational
squall of a strong blow
where bafflement can begin
dripping the amber climate
of unitary sense
outside the gyre spinning
clockwise love
ticking with the hands of strife
in reiki rainbow centres
and freaky trip out
places like the front room of Alan's
where we bargain with the beginner fiction writers
who populate cyberspace
seeking conection.

And when Empedocles is thrown in the
slow bake of which nots and where fors
slowly start to take shape as the chill out
dumbed ups of W1 covent Garden
swill the air with the sound of
an elite corp of strangled notions
teetering on the bring
of every drivel laden cliche
imaginable to man and beast
who feed on the slop shop filler
wheeze is all gettin' a taste of
next week when Windle Sparkance
gets launching the transmigrationals
of an old demonic grace.

And the slant kill republican's
are gonna blog Sparky's start
in word star world with a bikini riot street jive
'n jingle up the lingo with bamboo eggs
cheese needle skewered
and cracked by the sandwich jazz of a
top table fin clutching bongocero god
whose gonna wrap up the day with
an extemporised slap fest
of bird chirping imitational grace
that's gonna get the pigeons
in a lather and Windle filled with the vibe
that words worth the weight
of hearing should be allowed to simmer
before getting set free to sail the air
and anchor in the listeners ear.

This was written as part of an ongoing (ad) continuim, where certain very interesting and exciting aspects of Empedoclesian theory is decanted into verse, in order to counter certain ideas currently being put forward by other members of staff here at the university. These ideas relate to the metrical supremacy of Parmenidesian thought at the expense of Empedocles, which is obviously an outrageous claim, as the hexameter Empedocles deploys is both supple and responsive to the material which it addresses, forming the backdrop to a large section of Western thought which can be traced directly through Lucretius to Plutarch and the metaphysicals, culminating with the superbly clear and light prose-poetry we encounter in Yeats' Vision, which I am currently using as the raw material for a "write through" project in which I will create 12 slim volumes of disposable poetry, which I hope will question the stasis in much modern poetry today.

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Ron Silly Man Theft Allegation


My name is Jan Manzwotz and I am an American academic at a mid western university, where I teach poetry to tender minds, at that crucial stage of development where they need to be guided by the binary multiples inherent in post modern discourse and in lecture breaks, or alternatively, when on the cellphone talking the "dumbassification" of the primary intelligibles, which given socio economic paternal structures direct when bearing on the flow stress angle of certain allegations made by Ronald the “Silly Man” MacDonald, relating to the stealing of oral poetry from a certain university catering establishment I am not at liberty to mention. It has come to my attention through one of my students, that Mr Silly Man's blog has brought to light the fact that some post modern poets are indulging in blatant plagiarisms, which I have long been aware of, but kept quiet about because of professional rivalries I am unable to discuss at present.

I have a few of my works in development housed here on my blog, as the politics in the lecturer canteen can get very heated, as we wonder who we can trust with our highly complex and very interesting ideas. So interesting they appeal only to the very gifted of an exclusive linguistic cartel. As a result of these oral thefts I prefer to remain silent at all times except when I am in the presence of manual domestic staff who show no real likelihood of ever deciding to get educated and so are unaware of their true worth and potential as language maestros. And I record their native patois and use it to create my masterpieces, using only a Dictaphone, which I conceal in a pair of lightweight new polymer material trousers, which I had made by a chef-as-artist who creates sandwiches at one of my local def jam poetry groups, where we practise the linguistically innovative poetry we write, which is known as L=A=N=G=A=U=G=E, after the magazine that spawned this genre, and of who the most well known exponents are Charles Bernstein and Scalljah AKA Sloppy Bob, who has had a few posts pulled from the blog sites of other academic poets after they had taken legal advice pertaining to the law of defamation and slander.

Certain people's names were mentioned, which were an integral and disposable part of Scalljah's work, and who (I am assuming) are the wielders of the real power in those academies where fantasy keeps them all breathing. A fantasy which is more real than the catering establishment where most of the real post modern poetic decisions and oral thefts occur. Certain legal issues prohibit me from identifying the canteen in question, but I can tell you that the interior ambient furnishings and overall eye material scheme was a special commission, undertaken by a very well known reality television painter and decorator who, once again, legal issues disallow me from naming in person. These premises are kept on 24 hour standby by the star god dons of the Anglo-American poetry mafia who live simple lives, wanting no more than to have a light meal and a consensual swing session with whoever is in the que holding the lucky ticket which allows them past the velvet rope and into the backroom where the real ideas on how to take the poetics of the English speaking world forward are forged.

Personally I think they must have got their advice from the ghost of George Carmen, via the spirit of Adolf Hitler, and using the medium of myself. But little are they aware that my advice was not worth the air I didn't send it on, and I myself am advising Scalljah to take advice from a legal mind who knows every law ever written and herself advises a toilet attendant called Derek, who is in fact the worlds most naturally gifted practising hereditary lawyer-poet and can turn into a salmon, a ten foot teenager, a conjurers wig, an office memo directing top down organisational change, and turn black to white and vice versa; using only the power of his mind and the relevant incantations, which are delivered to him when he is watching bugs bunny on the cartoon network. I have also suggested he read an anthology tome titled "New Poetcs - an introduction," which lays bare the minds of many of the most avant garde minds in poetry.

This is a head bangingly heavy duty legal poetry text, and after considering my advice, Scalljah has decided to book into a 10 star world depression treatment center of excellence in the Hollywoood hills, and send the bill to and sue the academic poets who removed his postings, for substantial financial damages and a written apology, which the poets in question will have to read out whilst standing on their head naked, in the non existent Supreme Poetry Court of Fair Play, which doesn't sit once every blue moon on top of Achill Island's Slievmore mountain. Failure to attend is an admission that their conduct has done him a grevious wrong and he is indeed, seriously mentally deluded and in need of recognition by fellow spaced out poets who dwell in worlds of fancy.

Monday, March 14, 2005

Dosser Poet

Eoin's got addicted to sugar free methadone
and writing 10 line poems.
His hair is doss-tramp unwashed straight
hung down rat-tail like from a balding crown
whisping to the tip of his shirt collar.
He has a blood-pressure tan
and L shaped facial hair
when seen in profile.
He grips the lectern and delivers like a nodding derrick
the zig zag flickering verse
golden...with multitudinous...things
such as the
dust of obliteration glowing in a haze of cats and...dishes
and nothing can stop him
as the imagined hands of Donne and Shelley
hover by his soul
falling swift to snatch its core
and wring out the poems
stretching fibres of his art until an entirely different entity
is exposed in a church-sermon tone's drone-like delivery.


Watch love parade on screen, listen to the
imagined radio of fine sliced pop
binding unknown with backwash brain-fed
myth hovering timeless in a rock
of quartz revealing all life's background thread
- decisions that obscure the precise spot -
where instinct has no measure and cannot
recognise belief or deal with all the realms
between the ether freely entered into unneeded
for real breathing life to soak up more than
solely daylight, and the crafty chef de claque
with armies of commissaires, chatouilleurs
rieurs, and galaxies of pleureurs whose hit
hands bring worldly success by scandal, calmly
rationally; Stravinsky clapper-slams
that engineer the spring whose barmy seemless
unreal truth of TV runs dance sleek still
in the original feet barmy generations crave,
then chain to harm free minds in a remote
shackle of virtual long trance, surreal audiences
auto-chance applaud in as the unknown
choreography, Leonide, and the future bills
of star-dream yet to wake.


To calm the fizz
her palms spread on
a table close to vertical take off
through much powerful thought
...too much chasing shifts
she's never caught
but startled awake with otherworldly hints
of the farce
returning atoms
to her pulse's core,
where particles leap fitfully
in tandem with the fixed
constituent case of her flesh;
and worlds dwelling there
are seeped and sunken
by the shadow
screws spiralling to horizon's skewered
window of what's known
but in this moment;
a sole image
beyond virtual;
just like the never seen
spectrum ring of her specter's
webbed-to-ribbed perfecting
cold mind
coolly analysing all.

This piece is a semi-found escapement of the Theoromic symbol Blake envisaged. A kind of virginial harlot in service of the divine law of polyamoratory, as posited in several ongoing research works by a number of colleagues at our informal "virtual department of fragmentary poetics" - a sort of unofficial oneiromantic web-fellowship continuing the investigative and philosophically structural work used in the work of the Golden Dawn.

With effort, patterns can be located within and without the anima mundi, and, each member, be given a relevant tatwa-like equivalent, along with a whole host of other stuff. The symbolic talisman used at the first breath of modernism (cardboard cut ups etc) in the work of Yeats, can now be telescoped and expanded so that the response time and schedules for members can be calculated more precisely.

This piece came from a gyre symbol, which all members received, and a common image was generated whilst we were in separate geo-physical locations. These were noted in every participants journal after each collective event. I wrote this as a part of the ongoing themed investigation to that specific event within a wider net of syncronistic occurrences, which can be empirically gauged (as well as anything can be said to be so measured) and exist symbiotically with the work of written "stuff" written to enlighten, entertain and educate all at the same time. Simultaneously. Simultaneously means, 'at the same time'. But ye know that, don't you?



The girl in the sun of her grandad's password
made a slight error as she
strode across the liquid light,
becoming unstable in the universe,
withering to fade in a simple binary
of opposite equal quadrants
braided with collars of golden
community care hospitals;
opening their souls encased in concrete

splattering corridors of shadow and brindle
in the deep held blur-cored within the error
message of her soul's short journey into deep

Cyber wide pop ups talk up in telling her
of tapped new toys playing in waterfall brain-
storms her mother left for the milkman
of her nightmares.

Bubbling joyless her muffling nowhere
left her desperate for more of the loveless white
top bird peck mourning the red daughters loss.


The impulse behind this discontinuity of narrative came after reading Tolstoy, whilst simultaneously (forgive typo) listening to Bob Cobbing and Robert Creely, who were playing on a self created tape I have, whereby the two have been cut up and spliced as one, a sort of write through, but using the tonal quality of the end line breath-pause for a basic literary structure on which the verbal piece is hung.

Tolstoy informs the passion, or, rather, the more "real" creative elements of a constituent linguistic word-play and critical register. Which is actually a very exciting way of creating interesting pieces that challenge persona expectation deployed within the narrative (as such as there is one), and, I think - works very well.

A muscular steadfast meter that is not afraid to ask some pretty serious questions about the deeper aspects of the mundane. The girl in the sun who makes the stride could be connected with the Kavanagh notion of snatching moments of poetry out from "the passionate transitory". Although, when her alter-ego persona (who is "her" hinted to reside in a community care hospital) is receiving pop ups telling her of the mothers fantasy about a milkman, I suppose, Blake's more visionary philisophique, inherent in Albion, could be legitimately suggested to counter that notion.

Thus fulfilling the binary motif inherent in the work. Pound's advice of keeping the abstractions low is certainly taken by the mother in the dream, as evidenced in "bird peck", suggesting a whole different and interesting tonality or sweep of the syntactic line. Which makes for a challenging and rewarding read.

Jolly well done.


Her existent force took direction,
saddled and found modern bargales askance
singing distressed and swizzerling turbot bowler statistics
at the lens drawer,
shpawling sums and stiff inflatable sharks
upon the warehouse float top
all in one stippled floor,
seeping reliable sopability from wait there's edge
of concert hall efficiency
as the hoop la ladies sit twiddling a wat el sinfind a few tings out about me marn
o my dob bab aloha,
blowjogging ashtray cockle born prawnsspunce
the last door clothing sale n' surf closedown
after party shootout
befounded for fory five yeah yeahs
and six or more sweepings whipping life astray
to cheesy flavour
pistol patients escaping the only time you need
poking cheeks of umberella sidewalks
paradise of film stars with
pippa de doodle hey dooswinging from the branches like
oblivious blue titters from the audience
of none
frozen as a thought in space


Thomas the experi-
linquistically innovative lyrical poet-
sighing at the reading window
where no wolves prowl -
is beating his poetic wings
to crush and bend language flapping in the sing song dust of chaos
that scrapes outside of lingo normal's door
and the timbre of his doppleganger
- an oil throated story teller -
tells in speech gap narratives how fragmentary life whispers linear
trad syntactic sound redundant, whilst
here in parliament bank
mermaid accurate pieces testify to the sweeping ferocity
of slam multiple adornments in car picture garlands driving on street world sheet roads
running to roll on bronze wine ships
which hulk along white foam ribbon
under star dark pin prick skies
then roll off upon a sea outside of language.

Into the terminal herding area
of a wet crust soggy heaven where test card olympians
stare through blue ripped yellow depths
and forge grammatically odd
sculptured poems in smithies of disruptionto poise and swim on rock top tables
littered with OAP infinities
gagging to laugh and gurgle at the filter jelly film packets
with owl panel corner cracks
sweeping colour friendly
hair clutch boxes
into needle murmers
smirking repeatedly as the head's breath inhales insect windmills
grinding into particles of moment
the dreams we rinse when unconsciousness
sleeping off the full glob of life
that's been shrewed through the sieve
mixed and shrunk whipped to the consistency of blurred paint
then thrown out of kilter
until the faint trace of an outline
stirs and makes identification
of word packages dumped in the cauldron
at the warehouse of shifting contexts
you, I, we or them
unofficial legislators whose technology problems
is vision compressed ‘n driven into a nascent flash
of immensly creative capacities
radically affecting past methods
does not do it anymore
"hard fun" is the future
says Seymour
the mis-
chief and mysticism guru
who brought hi tech to learning
under the edict of Seamus
stroking his
palm clamped face
with ideal fingers
designed to tame in a dazzling dance the irrational
from biting back