Friday, January 21, 2011

Seconds



I watched this as a kid and was horrified. Rock Hudson is perfect. Even that it is Rock Hudson is perfect and tragic. The 60s re-aligned as wholly lacking in benelovence and empathy. As blank as they come.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Enter The Void - DMT Sequence

Thursday, January 06, 2011

This Is Not America II

6 January DELETED



Facebook friends, colleagues, poetry pals, hip cool touché auto-mate race; oh fuk, forgive us, lost in a strange time, cyberspace's relentlessly attentive-to-choice playas, making up with language, stuff in prose; in this week's Guardian poem up for critical 'debate' in Forum UK, communicating the state-of-mind of its chooser, Carol Rumens, at the instant of her decision, perhaps; as much as it dazzles or enlightens us the reader with any sentient memories, or historical fact packed into light Hanoverian verse the witty George III satirists had on a brilliant run, until a Gay Swift Pope & Dr. Johnson, first speaking stuff in prose, song and satirical poetry, unheard of before, in the presence of princes and kings? The louts lowering the tone, outraging the public decency of their time, at once both very different and opposite from ours - in a puritan sense - yet exactly the effing same. Innuendo and intelligence, words well crafted, thought out, expressing conceits both at once ingeniously simple as they are compelling, to an audience who hear the same music of what happens, as we who write the words that make a whole world sing, who sing of love and everything, this wonderful, horrific, happy, joyously obnoxious song of self and same three dimensional humanity on a two dimensional page, some spiritual source, authorial impulse, imaginative force, and one's English imprimatur, psychic bones, something within us 'born slanted', the only one authentic bardic primer suggests, states, with an exact degree of reality, there, in the very fucking words of it: Answer to the ancient conundrum:

Where is the root of poetry in a person; in the body or in the soul?

Does anybody know?

You can start finding out by reading the untitled, anonymous Amergin text positing answers to the question at the link above, translated by Eryn Laurie; and after a few years of imbibing in the English language, our deepest draught from a 7C bardic mind, the poem unlocks itself before our very eyes, dissolves our mind into some ancient druidic blueprint, vibe, yet also, effectively, a brand new re-connection to the interior pattern where all is explainable within certain parameters of eloquence and communication, our realm of poetic equipoise perfectly balancing joy, sorrow, love, hate and a whole text of ancient bardic nous, translated and known now, for the first time since Shakespeare, since only 1979; culturally alive as an on the road vernacular eloquence, that Praed, this weeks poet, voted into being; a poster there, Melton Mowbray, suggests.

Is there any reference to that er, (fact?) in England, on the IoW, David, M'lud?



Swords