tan sports jacket

 

man & bike & small girl & small dog &

whoosh a slightly more than average pleasure

coincides with existing, maybe pottering.

a snarl from behind spectacles.

 

 

 

talking fragrantly at the glisten of a copper

tea-service element. vines creep out the back.

we sink into solipsistic love-routines:

scratch my back / butter my toast.

 

 

 

across the street they write to feeding pigeons.

i see something in the democratising of scraps.

 

 

 

allan border’s philosophy (his story) will remain

a touchstone but amplified in children’s ears:

triumph through obscurity. now to grasp a

nice broken sleep, ponder a muffled hubbub.

 

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roaming capability

 

the mobilised youth experiment with gender talk

faster in the wake of tv retrospectives:

your life a drag though apt for tags & keyword

analysis, while primed & drunk & environment-

ally ready we sit still. anyway. etcetera.

yes david, i’m aware amidst this jarring shift

of ‘voices’. politicians are preferable &, um,

things are important. stuff is fun too so picture

the times past when intentions moved in a

slightly curving arrow (red & power-

pointing straight to the imaginary soul?)

 

 

okay, i resolve not to source lines from lateline.

no more. enough is enough. now kiss me.

 

 

i don’t care don’t i care care i don’t. & that’s a

strict observation, letting itself be seen naked,

as if by chance, to a passing group of young &

cute theories, out for a grossly-exaggerated

night on the town. what will i tell my pet john

ashbery (perched atop a shoulder) that whispers

psalms like some loony-tune devil? ply him with

stray metaphors: senators resemble helicopters,

in ways too numerous to prove? or consider

motel-soap? perhaps. the loosest underwear

oughta suffice, assist the paradox.

 

 

now being the time to admit our minor

indiscretions, to snap party-hat elastic.

 

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tangents

jim barrett over at soul sphincter keeps on serving up the links.

here’s a couple: A textbook on integrating computer technology, pedagogy, & research.

A remix of radiohead’s in rainbows.

&, just for fun, something embedded from youtube. ‘no such place’ by augie march. i don’t know why i’ve never done this before…

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diatribe

the three key components of living (no, i meant writing poetry) are observing, speculating, & figuring. there’s acting too, but that’s evident in the ‘act’ of writing / living.

one needs to observe but not be too cute about it. imagine you are taken by realism, you seek to render things as they really are, you ‘write what you see’. eventually the image is of you sitting at the keyboard (or, heaven forbid, the paper & pen) writing about the fact that you are writing. possibly you get onto the somewhat related topic of ‘not knowing what to write’. as someone who has read poetry & prose submissions for a lit-mag, i can advise you that this is definitely a taboo topic. nobody cares about the fact that you don’t know what to write. there are other things to do. it’s the infinite regress of writing & like the regress of logic, it’s a bad thing. it’s a false thing. so, one must observe but create a distance between the self & the writing.

the next step is of course speculating. the hsc syllabus is very much all for this act. reading great works of literature will lead young people (with no experience of ‘the world’) to speculate about their own lives & positions, maybe morally. this is nice, but a bit stupid, because i don’t think such a view is practical. speculation begins with considering the observational aspects of your life, & then making up stuff. throwing yourself into unique situations & then working them through via writing. it’s like the best kind of poetic theory, the works that continually speculate throughout, & then in effect persuade themselves of the direction of the argument. speculation is the necessary exercise for the imagination & counterbalance to the regressively false character of observation.

figuration? well that’s the tricky part. poems are often suggesting grand meanings. extended metaphors that don;t simply compare an image to another, but liken a large array of elements to an overarching concern or philosophy. never easy to paraphrase this type of thing. but, i just can’t shake the feeling you have to keep it in mind. or an eye open for it. observe the shifting figures, &, now that i think of it, start again. but then that’s where pleasure is. acting with no chance of ultimate completion. just small bits of completion. that’s eudaimonia for you.

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critical animals

CRITICAL ANIMALS 2008 – CALL FOR PROPOSALS

Critical Animals, a creative research symposium held during This Is Not Art, is now calling for proposals for papers, panels, presentations, performances and exhibits.

SUBMISSIONS CLOSE MARCH 31, 2008

The symposium brings together students and researchers who are critically engaged in creative and experimental art practices. It is an opportunity to present papers, research material, and creative practice with the thought to create discussion and collaboration. All artists, writers, thinkers and part-time philosophers are encouraged to apply.

Critical Animals is calling for proposals in the following areas:

Papers, panels & presentations
Research material on poetics, politics and aesthetics welcome! We are keen to receive proposals from students and artists who are researching specific areas of theory and philosophy. Experimental and/or creative presentations are encouraged. Please also let us know if there is a particular area of study which you are keen to see represented by Critical Animals, even if it is at the starting blocks of brilliance.

Performances, exhibits, events
We invite artists to perform or exhibit their work. We are especially interested in performances, installations and exhibitions which can be organised alongside conversation or interacted with by other thinkers/artists. This is also a place to propose a Critical Animals events; Readings, explorations, tours or beer and Baudrillard at a pub, perhaps.

Please include a short proposal outlining your work and the way in which you would like to present it, include within this your name, address, contact details and a short bio of yourself. If you would like to be involved with Critical Animals but you do not have a proposal, contact us anyway. We may be able to find a suitable event for you to be involved with.

Proposals, questions, ideas and concerns will be received at criticalanimals@gmail.com

(Britt Guy and Astrid Lorange)

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well then

finally, my poetic treatment of radiohead’s kid a is over. i was consumed by it, sort of, at least to the extent that i couldn’t post anything else until it was finished. things happened that i could have said something about (for instance, kevin rudd’s apology (that was good)) but i didn’t.

so, what have i found? (i am definitely all for talking shop, analysing methods, thoughts, ideas: poetics – unlike cormac mccarthy). it’s been an interesting thing to do. thom yorke is a guy who, i think, consciously distorts the presentation of his lyrics. therefore there were a lot of songs were i didn’t know a single word, despite having previously enjoyed the song. so i looked them up online. & of course, it wasn’t just about the lyrics, it’s a whole presentation (musically) which in turn inspires whatever response i can make. & that response is a poem for each song. what is the overall effect? i think in retrospect that what i produced is an immersion in some of the same ideas & feelings the album contains.

(by the way, thanks to those who made comments supportive of my endeavor. i couldn’t comment, but i am now).

what’s the album about? here: it’s about madness, schizophrenia, psychopathy. but, it’s not that simple (if madness can be said to be simple). lyrically & musically this album invokes a lack of control of consciousness, but also a conscious recognition of that possible lack of control. therefore, the madness seems to contradict itself: one cannot be ‘out of one’s mind’ while recognising this fact. maybe.

furthermore, the artistic artifact, the album, is of sorts a testament to this. one cannot create something like kid a randomly, schizophrenically. at least this hope exists. therefore the album, (& the poems?) are all about hope. hope in the face of just losing it. because you know that, & you experiment to save your life.

well i don’t know what it’s about. as i wrote once in an undergraduate essay, i mean ‘about’ in all senses of the word. it’s about it.

if anyone desires it, i am more than willing to talk about any of he individual poems in a more in-depth manner. because, only you can decide what they mean, but i can tell you what i mean.

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‘motion picture soundtrack’

i’m never in the theatre vainly holding out for the surprise seconds of footage the outtakes are cool else they would be if i was sitting there or even the demented gesture to a sequel wow but i’m rollicking the streets with some friends & a smoke & a UDL & come to think of it i’m never alone pacing a bedroom listening for the secret
track deciphering the lyrics the exact tone of the secret & eclectic instrument employed no i’m out amongst it forming a teenage band with no hope of success but with a wave of interest around us it crests in the gazes of the girls that come to watch a steamy practise session i’m never doing things like thinking about art or the veiled meaning attached to casually uttered words i’m always inspired with lust & bravado & if i do spend time walking home on a drizzled night feeling sad for the friends ruined in the vicinity of drugs it’s not very long because i’m doing it all alt- provocateur style i’m crazy not stopping to write of things down anyway we can put the gist of things together randomly if & when required

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‘morning bell’

with all that’s gone before us (……

…………) it’s too easy to laugh at

our communication – the lag, that

confusion of a satellite interview,

earpieces stubbornly relaying

static (……******……******…

…) my backdrop a holiday photo-

graph stays to me a bluescreen (

you sit at a desk…) but i can see

from this vantage in time love at

least allows the dramatisation of

a deeper schizophrenia (get away

from me…poem…i’m shuffling

an irregular time-signature out on

my drum…in a shed) being alone

might be the simple interpretation

(…existence…) there’s a reason

though, it hounds you, keeps your

hands busy (once i dreamt of a

pterodactyl that perched on my

shoulder every sunset / & now i

work out what this means (i have

the time)) i admire the overused

de-climax at the end of things:

the fade, the placement of a more

simple image &/or sound, the

symbolic cushion or door-handle,

the bell, the (…………………)

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‘idioteque’

always at the end of the world strumming out

the past usually self-annihilation & games that made the mind click appear

more authentic cross-referenced with something

solid (kids hid a matchbook in the long grass muddled the syntax of time-capsules

gnomes looking on in their rendition of gnomic

prognostication (the broadway musical))

problems popping up to a strained dance beat & i’m over ‘surprise’

forthwith the lute strummer’s corner of destruction is

a sweet art-deco retreat we watch documentaries because all time is spare &

plentiful strumming at the same time denying the

messages issuing from our poor art (a regular lament the lack of evident attack &

decay in what’s permissible, what’s really happening)

.

‘in limbo’

andrew coming to this conclusion see,

fattened in some twisting sea of atonal ragas

& faces, bites his tongue: acknowledging

your twisted state (0-100 on the psychopathy

scale) marks you red with ‘ineligible’. rational

& doomed to that choppy sea of decisions.

andrew bridling at the mess of his own

worth now, erotic floating atop a mosh

of darkening ears, spits: the gaudy arc

seeming to touch heaven proves a stray

nothing. we hope him happy in that

circular limbo, at least, with plenty to drink.

andrew banging out a tricksy jazz beat of

post-event reverberation (with his ears maybe),

the wily melodics indefinite, stops: often

fans stoop to think then ask ‘where should

we go now’ when it ends. but they are gone,

or, simply, we can’t see them (that’s it).

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