luka

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For most of you lot easier to think in the terms of music.

Another thing to bear in mind is there is the physical body and the other body, the imaginations body, the sugar glider, the astral body.

And there are the two landscapes, the external and the internal. And etc
 

poetix

we murder to dissect
REFERRING IN SOME WAY to the body –
your body, mine – the field
of reference in no way a meadow

to lie down in, body-
to-body in the light of fresh
discoveries. Your field

is far-afield, neither enfolding
nor overlapping my unkempt corner,
my dream of you for now.

---

(One of a sequence of 50 poems, each exactly 50 words long, that I wrote a few years ago)
 

poetix

we murder to dissect
It's an interesting contrast, because in spite of "referring" to the body there's very little that has any kind of "bodily" resonance to it as a poem - actually it's more about disembodiment, detachment, disconnection (as many of those poems are, for various reasons). There is a coded allusion to Auden's poem "Night covers up the frigid land", which ends with the couplet "for now my dream of you cannot / refer to you at all" (there's a longer gloss on the whole thing here: http://www.codepoetics.com/blog/2015/05/)

Problems of reference tend to dominate in poetry of the head, to be crude about it, since it's always a question of trying to organise the relationship between one's thoughts and reality; whereas I think Luka's poetry is more concerned with resonance, where thought and reality aren't so strictly separate in the first place: words lead us back or forward into our embodied relationships with things, across multiple phenomenological registers.
 
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poetix

we murder to dissect
Every so often someone reminds me of the existence of Robert Duncan, and I'm briefly enthralled and then forget about it. I should go and spend some proper time with him, he's good.
 

luka

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It's not my thing tbh. Feels slobbish in that sprawling American Doritos crumbs way. I can just about tolerate that in
Olson but Duncan is too much.
 

poetix

we murder to dissect
the piece works within a recurring framework of luke’s; the human as machine (a very dmt notion as it happens).
I once caught a flu which put me in a high fever, and when I was brought some soup and bread to eat became convinced that my task was to separate the food out into its constituent molecules and place them in heaps, sorted by type, at the foot of the bed.

In a half-awake state another time, when someone else entered the room and tried to wake me up properly I felt that I was a telephone network and that they were trying to route a call through me to some receiver, but the call could not be connected.

I had a dream on another occasion that I was trying to debug a computer program, and the problem was that a buffer in memory kept filling up and needed to be cleared. Nothing I did seemed to fix the issue. Then I woke up and realised I needed to empty my bladder. Nothing I could have done in the dream would have resolved this problem (at least, not satisfactorily). I often think about this when I see someone desperately trying to solve a problem (usually something physical, like being overtired and stressed) by fretting, anxiously and circularly, about a symbolically displaced analogue of that problem, convinced that if they can only get that right, everything will be sorted.
 

luka

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Let's keep foremost in our minds the function of this thread, that is, to tell me how wonderful my poetry is
 

luka

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Amorous marble. Redeem voucher.
Enter incarnate maelstrom. The torque
Of cyclonic matter.
Martyrdom Broadcast. 11 past the hour.
And till tolls. Reconvene the assembly. Softly I have something to say
We all feel this way, in the catastrophe
disassembled like birdsong
ascending at sharp angles, articulated,
very swift and sudden in each
change of direction, pivot and placement
of the suceeding plane.

It was a fait accompli, as inevitable as thunder, the consequence of benign neglect.
We chose to be here, incarnate
and shabbily dishonest. Would you
scratch the hollow behind the knee?
Collude in the threadbare fiction
till the cardboard walls collapse.

The stress sectors displaying friction about turn the next alignment for seasons regimental folder essay align the several sequence indefinitely wear tells are nice inclement shading seasonal lets with older to assembly date transifix reorder and realign radial symmetry orb is there is no point of origin for this fractal universe it is everywhere already

Adjunct periodicity the pink blush cactus horizon temperate low gradient run across runway section pedestal lush regimento mauve cascade grey cashmere hauteur coat tailoring sexual upholstery interior aeronautic life jacket the textured liniment of granite cross section incline cross purposes grapple limit vortex reached rate at which shear sector turbine breaks here at intersplice lever expedient release template expectancy returns forecast arrival

Quiver limit measure degree to which tremor receipt audial light image retinal pink highlights flash image retinal phosphur burn horizon explode as image recede to disappear closer to functional use factor negation zero
inter zone mezzo pastel appliqué cash register hair pin anxious of problematising down the debate corridor of wrist pressure amplify syllable impulse plosives mesh curtain chokehold restraint sequence tether lock
 

luka

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I'm not happy, in retrospect, with the proximity of cardboard walls to threadbare.

But I don't edit as a rule, and I don't think, which is how these infelicities creep in.
 

poetix

we murder to dissect
Cyclones again! Maybe you could get a job as in-house poet for Dyson?

I especially like "sexual upholstery". The longer lines at the end are very later-Prynnian.
 

poetix

we murder to dissect
"Cyclonic matter" also puts me in mind of Olson: "a poem is energy transferred from where the poet got it (he will have some several causations), by way of the poem itself to, all the way over to, the reader. Okay. Then the poem itself must, at all points, be a high energy-construct and, at all points, an energy-discharge."
 

poetix

we murder to dissect
For stage 1, you need an open sensibility, to be able to take all kinds of things in. For stage 2, an un- or de-compartmentalised mind, willing to entertain impure or seemingly arbitrary combinations. For stage 3, practice and discipline. You can't just empty it out all over the floor.
 

poetix

we murder to dissect
I can see the point of not editing, which is that it holds your feet to the fire of trying to get it to come out right just as it comes. You generally can't edit bad stuff into good, or dull stuff into interesting. On the other hand, sometimes I do think better of something, and the replacement word or phrase is just so much better that I accept it as having the authority of first thought, even though it came along later. Dissatisfaction with what's on the page can be a valid spur to ingenuity.
 

luka

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Im not dogmatic about it. If I see something which needs improving I fix it
 

luka

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The cyclone think is partly to do with spinning, spinning earth, orbit, whirling dervish, still centre of turning world, confounding the light, the specific religious experience of the light from above as represented on the ceilings of mosques abd cathedrals. The spin which turns stars to spears
 
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