Wednesday, February 02, 2011

this theory of pottery

I forget myself and devolve into diary poetry. That's sort of okay. It's a function anyway. Means you are sort of alive. But poetry might be about more than issuing life signs. Given the Shamanistic origins, it seems that the most honest and physical use of poetry is in the excavation of the inhuman. I had forgotten that. There ain't nuthin wrong with using it as a diary, I guess, but that's a long way from using it as a distinct art. How do you do this... Well, first off you abandon ship from all ideas of culture and fashion and you just shake that shit outta your hair. Then you damage yourself repeatedly with narcotics and explosives and wild alien sex, however shameful. Then you come back and stand around the crash site with an umbrella, mulling with an over-serious manner the way that insects and fungus have there accreted even in so short a time. And then... then... you turn on Motorhead and you freak in the woods like a fool. No greater honesty will shine upon any human.

this is the real diary.confess nothing and everything cannot do better ever at this than to engage in every possible way with the Present Time séance.blood fills these gutters.all down the hoot-walls it.imagine the ache of us.reach in and grab these little black shapes.nothing.imagine.the whole ceiling falls under the stuff listening for spades above.a rod in your abdomen signals your rescue.the rods in the great hole.the burdened and battered free.dome in the everything:give give give.honesty is the best polizei.blood.where you now down there lost spirit? hear my hook falling...

all my pottery clapses

my new thing

Rabelais walks around in my toytown just coz of he woke up he pisses down the little rivers drowns everything all my toys gone down steaming nothing

I bought water-based lubricant, as advised.i find it abrasive and giving me spots all down my hairline.i feel like a teenager.i am on the beach at the reservoir at dawn tracing the thing that just fingertips in the thick freshwater sand.smoke on the hilltops.that woman in the shop with the dog friends.

a thing of straw and water and light washed up.down there is all copper-thick black i have dived there have diveed have known all this all your life.the theory of poetry is reminding not informing.

again all the round bales flooded up the Aire Valley.every year this now.they've got to stop paying out.the hilltop tower of lead wine is full of news of

everyone else thinks something different.good



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