to the Literary Bureaucracy (poem)


TO LITERARY BUREAUCRACY
you interrupt god
and you allow the chatter of winter mermaids 
their unearned triumph
triumph should be earned, 
I want to earn my death, one that is perfectly mine, 

so little is completely mine, maybe only my poems until

bureaucracy puts them in its mouth for a wine tasting

and says ”we absolutely cannot use this,

we need vinegar

for our American salad”

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poem haj poem today


not alone, not at all
my brother is the misunderstood carrier

of the cosmic knife
my brother: the chivalrous,  mercy-bringer
vilified as executioner

by  afraid villagers,  they expect to live forever,

they want to sleep with the famous and to vote for absolute evil

in the elections of the continent of good ideas

My sister is the muse, my lover yet another muse, and also my sister
my mother
the desert,
my only mother

and never breathe an oxymoron like father-land
never utter that lie, hateful toxic as frangipani grapes, they grow in desert islands too

my brother: the famished hoodlum waits just around the corner
his leg extended hoping to trip up a somnambulant
dreams are hoodlums, they break in to rob in the midday

they wear thin muslin over their eyes and see through it,

pretending to be pitiful blind men waiting by the traffic light by the lantern bright and useless

Somnambulants, at times, are unsuspecting

I am the son of Hajar, fed on Hajar’s milk

her mouth was parched then

the dietary law

forbade she drink of her own milk

 

we were once a Zoroastrian family circus,

the others died, I am the only survivor
and learned to drink from the sea, while letting the salt and death drop out the other end of my mouth and ear

technique, hard work, skills
neither a miracle nor gratitude
not an especially adept tongue
that refined what I licked up from hands just wading
here by the innocent wadi:
a desalination plant, the size of ten tears
was hidden in a point,
vowel-coordinate just above and behind my  second lung
next to a persecutor that propels me somnambulant
to look for more water, for night-miasmas
for fish for my mother Hajar’s medulla at night

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END ALL EXORCISMS TODAY!

Against all Exorcisms

FOR An art with demons against an art of sublimation

 

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July 2, 2014 · 8:34 am

Poem I wrote while my other hand-eye read Jean Genet


from jg
that squealer queerer
stool-pidgeon 
answerer ghoul birdfaced,
of quandaries
from soul-brigade
that rat,  
that squanderer
hides-squeezing a sphinx into dark
invisibility his ass
 a conjurer of mysteries
 
he is equal to
a bird that eats carrion fish
sings carrion 
fish from coasts of Barbary lined with
white walls of prisons
guarding the sea from the thieves who would steal turquoise
carrion birds, noble swine and turquoise stone
are not meant to be eaten 
by the laws 
of the priests who pray law into sunlit air
of dead crossroads
hoodlums’ halakha
 

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cynicism is not subversion. It is cynical to make the confusion of these two, the error is always intentional. 

 

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June 19, 2014 · 11:03 pm

QUIERO UN DEBATE PUBLICO CON ESTA TARADA!


Originally posted on LOVEARTNOTPEOPLE:

Imagen

REFLEXIONES SOBRE ARTE CONTEMPORÁNEO

Brevísimo diccionario de una impostura

Por Avelina Lésper

Nunca estará de más cuestionar el mal arte, o anti-arte, como lo llama la autora de este implacable diccionario que desnuda imposturas, ideas y actitudes que se han incrustado en el ámbito del arte contemporáneo.

© Martin Creed

Arte burgués.— Es un anti-arte burgués y ocioso que desprecia el trabajo. Artistas que no trabajan, no estudian, no hacen. Roban, copian, designan, sobrevalúan sus objetos por un capricho de la moda, exaltan el consumismo. Es el gran elogio a la decadencia del capitalismo.

Arte conceptual o contemporáneo.—Las obras a las que se denomina arte contemporáneo son conceptuales porque en todas son las ideas y el discurso el único peso intelectual que poseen, y es el concepto lo que les da sentido como arte. La acepción cronológica, al ser siempre inestable, es inexacta. Cualquier obra —desde el ready made…

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thoughts for the day


A blog is a public diary, a diary cruelly ripped open, exposed and nailed to a cedar for the passing villagers to read out loud.

___________________________________

 

Numbness and the normalcy of decadence, a decadence that is also too numb and terrified to be wildly cruel or amoral, is worse than the cruelties of war: it is the order that comes into existence after the greater cruelty has already treated the world as a slate that can be started anew, after the intensification of a violence perpetrated by lies, by a military, bureaucracies on tank-wheels and the right and careful engineering and funding.

 

 

 

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