Monday, July 25, 2016
What Is Attested Is Attested To
Thurston Moore is 58 today.
The manic clusterfuck blogging:.see previous two posts. As always, part of the mania is proxying what in real life is driving the proxying. As always, the mania is silly and exhilerating unto exhausting. As always a song - this one, last night, for instance, as I was thinking about Sonic Youth and Thurston Moore's birthday
or a poem, like the Ashbery below, breaks the up and I feel naked and stupid. Lordy, that song, both Sonic Youth's cover and The Carpenters original, still gives me chills each time. As always the mania is bipolor, and this cycle's downhill has begun. I blame Putin.
Thanks to my friend Shahar for Original Silence (Terrie Ex, Mats Gustafsson, Thurston Moore, Paul Nielson-Love, Jim O'Rourke, Massimo Pupillo)! and the other (not Superstar) Sonic Youth songs too!
ON SEEING AN OLD COPY OF VOGUE ON A CHAIR
For all I know I was meant to be one of those marchers
into a microtonal near-future whose pile has worn away—
the others, whose drab histrionics provoke unease to this day,
so fair, so calm, a gift from cartoon characters I loved.
Alas, the happy ending and the tragic are alike doomed;
better to enter where the door is held open for you
with scarcely a soupçon of complaint, like salt in stew
or polite booing at a concert he took you to.
No longer shall the grasses weave quilts for our revenge
of lying down on, or a faint breeze stir milady’s bangs.
What is attested is attested to. To flirt with other thangs,
peacockish, would scare the road away.
Frogs give notice when the swamp backs up, and butterflies
aren’t obliged to stay longer than they do.
Look, they’re already gone!
And somewhere, somebody’s breakfast is on exhibit.