Saturday, June 12, 2010

poem || Emma Gambade

orpheus has a bake sale

If the mountain mist has ever caught you, and you saw the world as a purblind mole, remember how the vapors began to thin and the sun's sphere came through feebly at last, and you will imagine quite easily how it seemed when I saw the sun again, catching it the moment before it set. With my steps matching my guide's trusty steps, I came out of that cloud into the light that on the shore below was spent by now. O fantasy that would sweep our minds from outward things so we cease to be aware, though a thousand trumpets blast around us. What moves you if the senses do not spur? Light moves you. Formed in heaven of itself, or shaped by his will who sends it downward.

   Boy some light sure shone
    & hit somewhere & it

like triggered an emotion in me
 or my senses probably

     in some vague way
you see because of the
             angle the
             light hit
   the object you know
   diffraction & shit
    patterns on exotic
     vases crystalline
        clouds parting
         the red ether

          & because it could not have been
 any different due to this

abstracted fateful world & stuff
                     maybe the light
                      even glistened

       yeah probably who cares maybe
some ambiguous whale out at sea

                              yeah the fuckin' whale livin' it up
                              in the sea the post-Maldoror sea

                                                 of loneliness & it
                                                 like saw a light
                                                    & uhh that
                                                      fuckin' light I

    was talkin' about just uhh you know glimmered ambivalently
& uhh there was some homeless nomenclature to describe pace

    circumlocution of place that zig-zagged in doubt & vamped itself
out as ideological psychodrama contained within those hallowed halls

                                        those halls that cause all the poets
                               in those deciduous areas of the
                               park juxtaposing themselves

                 in front of brown rhizomatics &
           reference caryatics & marble pillars &

            shit something about
            nostalgia o the hue
of nostalgia peppered upon polaroid
slices that never occurred

                  you liked to type out the word


pseudonostalgia for the analog era because the digital makes
    textureless mute rigid & anti-fluid or probably fluid &

    then we were probably like 'golden' (showers lmao) somehow or at
least something was golden & we were shooting for
                                              the stars or

       the heavens panning
    across the heavens from
  left to right & casually
referencing constellations
            in one ear out
            the other with
       that shit some kind
                              of star belt right

   yeah those stars had some names just drifting
  ThrOugH tHe HaZe oF Lif(e)~~~~~~~~~~~~ & the

              garbage & papers & tumbleweeds
              caught in a wind gust blowing down
                                            the desolate

        poignant & featureless description that sets
the mood & blurs the boundaries & the blah

             blah fuckin' post-genre post-gender
             post-ownership post-causality where
                                     free will &
                                         & are
                            not contradictory

                            at one point in
                            time &

tenuously & ineffably attached to the best cause possible in a way that is no longer believable or worth coherence

                  which means I love you or I
              miss you and/or I want you to
        suck my genitalia or something

about hope or the absence of hope
      or trials & tribulations or o

to be down on luck from the depths of
  class privilege o the frisson
     experienced while updating the catalog
                               & pressing

                               enter o the
frisson & something about carousels as clothing where

all words were sent through the calculated result of lit
                        conference mills transmuted the
                           poetry o the lamentations about

                              some Machiavellian
                              middle management
                                   feint pretending
                                   to talk about
                 primal ritual & the charm bracelet considered

            as gambit trying 'ironically' to make fun of
                               the excessive usage of jargon from
                                   academic fox holes whilst simultaneously
                                       talking shit against some phantom

fascist presence of order (preferring disorder or perversity of some sort o
how we must break with pattern) when the fascist presence is the soaring

                                                     resource formats
                                                     formulas & distribution

methods where all irony is immediately & utterly
charmed at the point of writing & then neutered

at the point of reading because poetry is relegated to
the written word to language so write me another one

                                               & use
                                               some of
                                dat good ole parataxis
                                shit son

     you self imposed poet-rolled on
just one moment in order to 'talk about

later inside of a building'
dreaming the parataxis 
before typing

the happy ability to
communicate hypnogogically across class lines
as the night dissolves into the finest platter of melodramatic anti-poetry sponge cakes possible

it is possible

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