Sunday, January 29, 2023

looking out through the eyes of a t.v. programme of a monk sealed into a coffin

Rest in Peace, Tom Verlaine

Deleted monologue on how youtubes of Verlaine songs I posted last night that twitter didn't disappear altogether now don't work and fine metaphors abounding
Deleted monologue on how by page 100 of Cormac McCarthy's *Suttree* I surrendered to overwhelming truth that I *don't* need to read a violent novel about crackers in 1951 Knoxville Tennessee
Deleted monologue on deleted monologues
Abolition, hegemony, the state
Badiou: 13 theses and some comments on politics today
On Liberal dreams of a more imperfect union⬇️
"But the liberal idolatry of process is more than simply a short-sighted political tactic in a populist age; it’s also an all-purpose rationale (and an excuse) for a state of abiding powerlessness. The process by which things get compromised, not that by which they are realized, is idealized as the real work, and clichés about hashing things out and working them out honorably become euphemisms for really not giving a shit. It’s a bloodless outlook that has made an art form of giving no one what they really want or need."
Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat
Know thine enemiesEliminationism?
American exceptionalism in one heartbreaking tweet
Police urge calm in light of unspeakable evil they committed
All igspay are bastards, every one of them
Shitlord plans for police state continue apace
Shitlord plans for police state continue apace
FRESH HELLAvedon Carol's links
Elephant poop, Tasmanian snails...
Maggie's weekly{ feuilleton }'s weekly
On McElroy's *Women and Men*
AUTECHRE!Begging for it, don't do itFUCKED UP!
Beloved Mr Alarum Sasha V Alexa Vallejo new poems
Seek some witnessJames McNew interview
Bobby's *Ace* is fifty years old!
2023 January I was about to post this when I read Tom Verlaine died


Tom Raworth

a line of faces borders the strangler’s work
heavy european women
mist blows over dusty tropical plants
lit from beneath the leaves by a spotlight
mist in my mind a riffled deck
of cards or eccentrics
was i
a waterton animal my head
is not my own
poetry is neither swan nor owl
but worker, miner
digging each generation deeper
through the shit of its eaters
to the root – then up to the giant tomato
someone else’s song is always behind us
as we wake from a dream trying to remember
step onto a thumbtack
two worlds – we write the skin
the surface tension that holds
what we write is ever the past
curtain pulled back
a portrait behind it
is a room suddenly lit
looking out through the eyes
at a t.v. programme
of a monk sealed into a coffin
we close their eyes and ours
and still here the tune
moves on


  1. speaking of a violent novel about crackers - last night i watched guillermo del toro's film of william lindsay greshman's nightmare alley - missus charley and i watched the first half hour or so, then we decided to switch to a kdrama from netflix - little women but not a dramatization of the american novel - after she went to bed i finished up the first film - wikipedia notes that

    Kevin Maher of The Times [of London] also gave the film 2 out of 5 stars, praising its set design, but added: "there's little else in this drastically overstretched narrative (150 minutes!) to hold any attention beyond a cursory awareness that, yes, we’re watching an oddly literal melodrama about bad people doing very bad things, very slowly."

    based on that, i watched the remainder at 1.5 speed - i'm glad i did

    wanting to know more about the author of the novel, i read about his colorful life - among the surprising aspects was that a novel that i read several times in the 1950s - a horse and his boy - was dedicated to his sons, who were the stepsons of that book's author

    their mother Joy Davidson wrote the following:

    Prayer before Daybreak

    I have loved some ghost or other all my years.
    Dead men, their kisses and their fading eyes
    dim in the house of memory; glimmers
    in twilight air, no more. They were not there
    to say no to me when I wanted them,
    so it was safe to love them.
    And dead gods,
    blind eyes in plaster in the safe museum,
    the broken hands without the thunderbolt
    and the lost mouths that could not laugh at prayers
    I did not make to them.
    And a worse ghost,
    the thin unearthly shadow of tomorrow
    scudding ahead of my realities,
    that since it never could be overtaken
    could never disappoint me.
    Dear shadows,
    images of bare branches on the snow
    already melting; images
    of dwindled sun in the shadows of eclipse
    running like ghosts of snakes along the ground
    while the moon’s shadow passes. Ghosts of ghosts,
    the twittering echoes of the strengthless dead
    who do no harm.

    Only the terrible Now
    I dared not love. Not the word made flesh,
    not the Incarnation bearing a sword
    to strike me to the heart; not that which is,
    but is not I. Not God,
    or sun, or blood, or anything real
    that when I spoke it could not say no to me.

    For I have loved my own ghost all these years
    till there is nothing to say yes to me;
    till there is only vast and lightless nothing
    and in the heart of it not even I.

    O Love, let shadows flee;
    O live sun, living God, incarnate sword
    of edged reality, let me be hurt,
    but let me be alive enough to die.

  2. I am reminded that Television always sounded like what Talking Heads wanted to be when it grew up, much as I liked TH they also seemed a bit polished, not as step-out willing to experiment in the moment.