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Thread: Luka's Wonderful Poetry Thread

  1. #106
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    This is my nik land, Evola style poem (via pound) from a couple of years ago.... A minor work.... But quite funny

    scotch tape. semblance of seemliness,
    temperance and toil. Grin at grindstone
    gone in God’s graft.
    Fore and After hollow laughter.
    Shatter simpering silent night.

    Read the runes it’s Romefall
    Baleful barbarians at the gate
    Feast till flame throws its own
    Leering shadow inside the sanctum.

    Diagnosis-
    WATERY BLOOD
    FLACCID DECADENCE
    FOREIGN GODS.
    Sacrifice the city to save it
    The card is the wheel of Fortuna
    First you’re up,
    Then you’re down.

    II.
    Hooting gibbons shoo away the sun
    The discursive & interminable sentence
    Falls with the finality of the gavel
    Fate sealed. No repeal
    Subsumed in sooty, silent night.

    III.
    Savage luxury. beasts in the palace
    Hooves ringing on the marble
    Clatter of cloven hooves
    Burlesquing the circuit
    of the dance.

    Perfume of goat & swine
    Music of the pigsty &
    The drinking hall
    Crescendo of artless violence.
    Diagnosis
    THE UNMEDIATED ACT
    RENEWS
    CIVILIZATION
    GONE TO SEED.

  2. #107
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    Forces Active vs Forces Reactive. ><

  3. #108
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    I like "flame throws its own / leering shadow inside the sanctum" very much. And the alliterativeness works well in this setting, establishing a sort of mock-Poundian "I've read The Seafarer" (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poe...7/the-seafarer) tone.

  4. #109
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    There's another typical pound thing which is eg

    Hooves ringing on the marble
    Clatter of cloven hooves.

    He does that sort of thing throughout the cantos

  5. #110
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    Have you read Wyndham Lewis essay on Pound where he's just taking the piss out of him for page after page? It's pretty funny and not inaccurate. But I like to read Pound. And I like to read Lewis. Those are my favourite fascists. Evola looks a bit turgid to me. I think it would wear me out.

  6. #111
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    Canto iv

    In the grass, pale ankles moving.
    Beat, beat, whirr, thud in the soft turf

  7. #112
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    Lewis just has really good taste. Pound can be fussy, but when he gets out of the weeds his verse can really sing. Evola's a history teacher who thinks you should be tremendously interested in what 13th-Century Barons thought about their own nobility.

  8. #113
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  9. #114
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    Soooooofi! Why does it always turn my pictures on the side?!!!!

  10. #115
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    Spring. The primroses are out
    and the worst has already happened.
    The Threshold has been crossed. There
    is no longer any Inside, any Out. No
    Sanctuary, no Stronghold, no Escape
    no Hiding Place. Horror
    beyond endurance and here,
    we endure. Hell.

    And as they ate, scorpions appeared in the dust about their feet.

    Collapse of all boundaries and all discrimination. Mind shredded. Bone grinding against bone. Nothing coheres. Nothing is allowed to cohere. No separation, no hiding place. Before a thing can form it is torn apart. This is what it means to be expelled from The Circle.

    Scabrous entanglement barbaric legislature. Time captive how here in time captive quicklime help us direct intrusion into earth affairs bolt of lightning
    and nothing ever
    the same again. We move through the
    passages. and changed.

    grotesque imposition struck sent sideways reeling with the impact not again.
    April. And the primroses are out
    pallid yellow petalled in the lawn.
    Parade of idiots file past the grimy window. Shell oil. Dull paramour. Dumb anguish
    Not again. Wicked is the mistletoe
    Wicked is the oak. Sturdy is the cross
    rooted in
    the honest earth.

    Vagrant moment passing breath lost, another breath lost
    Closer to the end. Cooked goose gathering, not again.

    Time captive running out. Now we go to East Ham. Now we traverse the long curves of residential streets. Now we enter the churchyard where.

    Castigate the enemy. Cast him down. Throw dirt upon him. We are in war in war in struggle are we. Struggling for air, gasping, spun around the colloquial mythos, spun, in violence, spun. Free to, free to. Dome of Death Cathedral. Free.
    without a strong fleet to reinforce the galleons. We are dirt in the mouth we are.

    Cup of sorrow sobbing harbinger of tears.
    Sheet metal singing
    rivets / tarred river, cranes, ratty wharves,
    sing-song in sailors tavern.
    Bellowed drunk, reeling on the slimy
    cobblestones. Pickpocketed, happily, by consent, dancing a can-can,
    arm over shoulder of brother-beggar, lice in the thatch, not totally
    unhappy.

    Not totally
    Human

    We are. We are permitted a meadow. Thick, slow sunlight
    grasshoppers. Something entirely sensual, the body pleasured
    and purring. Grass tattooing the skin. The Vale of Beulah. We are permitted
    buttercups. Daisies.
    Primroses. Dandelions. Trees musical with gathered birds.

    Steel rod shattering the skull. Gather drunk bellow. In the very ugly brutal
    in the very mean it is, the very mean. Not just yet, no, no, not just yet, leave me here,
    in sin with the sinners, neon over the shadowed doorways and we're here again
    getting it all wrong again, alive again, and with the tiniest of miscalculations, we're here again, in Hell.

    Tattered remnant of remain this place left momento of engraved in memory
    granite gouged trauma site rivet driven down. Mesh of matter. Scar tissue. Rock.
    Shabby. With what's left of us. Excuses.

    alleviate overcrowding snow falls
    Solace in shared suffering gold band about the throat.

    Gather round gather in the grotto gather round faces in the flame-flicker voices
    without a speaker speaking gather round.

    The dead, having learnt the secret
    of happiness, return as grass.

    pink opacity the branded self salvage
    from the storm.

    Grief
    Threatens this precarious outcrop, to be engulfed.
    Hollow in the heart and holding on. Howling
    and every howl unheard are you
    quiet hush and save your breath
    a moment passing
    Breathe and settle down.

    do we believe them the stories we tell ourselves
    pennies in the well
    that we are plastic, copper, fibreglass

    and dying. Have turned our backs on heaven spat
    in the flames of hell.

    believe them or history just pretending pantomime time not passing nothing changing pantomime. Here always in this place, perfectly still, perfectly silent and any act
    perfectly impossible pantomime.

    Touch me, if you can. Reach out and touch me if you can. Even just
    whistle back. Whistle back.

  11. #116
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  12. #117
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    Alright alright I'll get back to work in a sec

  13. #118
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    Big builded cloud quilted cumulus dense heavy hardly moving plump and stately sitting there. It never comes or, it's never quite enough, come closer, comfort, enough for now. Cold ashes now the surplus we had saved we squandered, the old ways of making do, and now, cold ashes and queasy guilty past the point of self-recrimination, the policeman in the head. This is something else. Sunk to self-silence quite unable to believe. That it matters either way.

    It doesn't matter
    either way.

    The next word
    is not lust, surprisingly. The old certainties no longer applying. Not even the drawing of blood but the seeking of some other assurance which may not even be coal glowing in the centre of it all it is perhaps cold as a long dead star. Nothing within this orbit can now be put to use. Two swans in heavy flight, down to river landing.
    Cringe for map.

  14. #119
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    One of those which arose through a conquest. Contact and. Contamination.

    One of those which arose through a conquest. Contact and. Contamination.
    Human petting zoo. Purgatorial sky. Undistinguished ruins. The passing of a third rate civilisation. Oh well. Convivial whistling. Milk bottles on the doorstep at dawn. The rush of birds passing and the passage of the clouds. The way back is barred. The cherubim. The sword of fire. The pigeons ruffled up against the cold and the feeling that perhaps time could be convinced to pass us by. Emerald ruff pearlescent feathers if we in the days of music-hall, that we could be other, unrecognised. Go by some other name. Shibboleth of ancestry. Sheepish in the fractional margin, somebody else's tax write-off. Well that's alright then squabbled amongst ourselves, and sight of blood and Crimson globule suspended in the outraged air.
    Crossing of the threshold now there can be no turning back.

    Corporate sponsorship. Negative rapture. The body annulled no information / cessation of the data-stream. Vision-screen breaks into TV snow, then dies.

    Puppets of the scripts. Jumping jellybeans.

    School play papier-mache mitre and crozier. Vernacular song steep rooves. Birds on the telephone wires. How to hope, now, with so much already lost and so much Time behind us. Ineradicable. In the terror
    of the Every Day. I WANT THAT. Touch paper make a wish. Cave breathing smoke impudent music enchanted isle. Trees dancing now, fireflies in smudged night, candle in a jam jar.

    Pink interregnum.

    Stupid eager eyes, unable to understand
    just what it is which holds us back
    Straining at the leash of
    The good in sight
    But
    Always
    Out
    Of
    Reach

    Cathartic emission of expulsion of utter error spasms of
    up the back and thighs and juddering.
    Last edited by luka; Yesterday at 05:48 PM.

  15. #120
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    Yeah don't worry lads it's just the sneak preview of my new bestseller don't get overexcited you nobheads

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