Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Not Talking about You

I'm not talking about you but that thing you did in your larval stage is really beginning to bug me. I just watched a documentary call Andrew Cunanan a "jealousy killer." That's really dumb. Michael Jackson sings Gary Indiana. Some Dr. Demento who has this Scale of Evil, assigning numbers to inconceivable acts. Acts are rarely conceived, actually. They are usually just your everyday Immaculate Conceptions. I am a catholic because I believe in catholicity in all things. More of that Goya head under your deskism act with gargoyles giving your hair hot oil treatments. Dumb as putting the toaster next to an inflatable kiddie pool. With a long extension cord. They will call you the Pop Tart Killer. You will be assigned number 14. I almost wrote ineffable kiddie pool. How do you spell Smores poetry. I know people want to think forever looks like cement. But it probably looks like air. The hot buttered air at a gay poetry reading. Air does have visual gradients to it. Especially gay air. I know. Clogs should be brought back. For men. But the courtesan sort of clog from the ukiyo-e prints. I find men in clogs irresistible. Whether they are models or in Brueghel paintings, stumbling over frozen sheep shit in fields. Faggot. I am going to go do a series of lil flower paintings with one flower in each and the word "faggot" brushed over it in different fonts and sizes. Medicare now pays for snuff porn. Porn is indelible in a way that poetry is not.


  1. I would love to collect these snippets you write and put them together in as a fake memoir/poetical memoir. You know. My wording is vague. You have very funny prose and very disturbing prose and I love it all. It's one whisper at a time. And I like your breezes.

  2. Aw shucks, Miss Rachel.

    Yes, I find it disturbing and funny when these things come out.

    Because they're not really like my conscious mind.

    Or even my dreams (which are generally nice, and gentle, and wander interestingly).

    These must be more subconscious and I think that explains the childish aggression and hostility.

    I remember looking down the other day and seeing the word CHILDISH! in pink I think...or red..on the back of a book...it was Chelsey Minnis's one book where she used insults presumbably thrown at her as book blurbs...I thought that was very funny....the word was done up circus-style to turn it into an allure...I think her books often highlight that any form of hostility towards others is ultimately another form of self-abuse as well...with her it's her own body as tortured text...but it's a total S&M thing...poetry stands in for the love-hate relationship she may or may not be having with a significant other in real life...

    Poems that attack poetry even while they're existing in the medium of poetry interest me. This happens in Armantrout's latest book too, but there it's much more philosophically framed.

    Minnis tends to love the debased emotions more than any philosophical challenge. Her poetry believes the debased emotions are probably more interesting poetically than the higher, "elevated" ones....

    But she adds comedy so instead of "wallowing" it's a performance. Her poetry is very close to performance art very often.

    I'm not saying the prose you commented above sounds like Minnis (it doesn't to my ear) but I suppose I (and thousands of others) have that trait in common with her when writing.

    The inner child thing is probably a dead horse by now.

    But that doesn't mean that sometimes that little demon waif doesn't seize the keyboard.

    I write it down and then I want to just tease it...spin it between my hands like a troll doll and mess up it hair.

    To remind it it's a toy.