Well-known member
Sufi cyclonic rapture of the light
is stained glass
stained glass rapture
The blow to the head
is the fall
from spinning roundaboutly
light all of it
lovely light only
learn by doing
walk out the circuit of the ritual
do the motions, perform
Ha ha! see!
The reverberations of light


we murder to dissect
Cyclonic irrigation -
an exhilarating WHOOSH -
bum-rush the system
so I thought

which thought brought me
to A & E
with painful & inextricable
plastic Dyson nozzle


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Here you go corpsey

Touchstone. Take it. Truth, they’d tarnish it
Sooth, say it, there’s wisdom within it,
awakening, it starts to glow.
All told, lo! it’s wordy
Prone to prattle,
A precis,
Calls it-

Plucked, picked, from pearlescent aether, saw it shining, sounding singing,
cooed it down to earth. Such voices! Hear, it’s heavenly, happens
it is hardly human, hearken, how unearthly, unbirthed and
unbegun. Barely herely, scarcely nowly, nearly unbecome
wholly free from fealty, owing no allegiance, under
no illusion acting on an idle whim.
Wind guessed it, gusted it
billowed it, bustled it
thrusting it

Heart bird in rib cage, captured, O it sings
sadly sobs laments and wailing woes
Soul, set, with ropes and pins
pines and moons, wanes
and nearly wastes

Woe wails
Vast vale of
Sighs and crys and tears.
Touchstone. Take it, touch it, Time.
Dust. It’s this tale of days turning, into years.


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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.

I was saying to you on Facebook it was partly a process of reverse engineering Prynne


we murder to dissect
I was saying to you on Facebook it was partly a process of reverse engineering Prynne

I've read lots of commentaries (well, one or two) on Prynne which seemed to completely miss the thrust, trying to do fairly traditional hermeneutics on him, starting from the premise that his poetry is "difficult" and this difficulty requires effort to overcome through careful deciphering. If they'd tried to reverse engineer him, as you have, they'd have a very different notion of what the poetry is doing, and wouldn't go disappearing into labyrinths of this kind. The poetry is expansive, capillarizing out into the world, not hermetic, enclosing special meanings that only the deep scholars can grasp!


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Yeah and I agree, very much so. It's not so much that it is difficult, it's more about how you go about reading it, what you let the language do, your method of engaging with it. It's like developing new methods for listening when you encounter something that works in ways you're not familiar with... Whatever weirdo thing that might be, concrete, or free improv, or ambient or anything else



Over extended. Overreach. The center lost
And overbalanced.
Time to beat
A dignified retreat.
To mountain stronghold, to dark forest den,
To marsh, to fen,
To barren moor and blasted heath.
Here we sit in silence, accumulate energy,
Consolidate our forces, gauge our
Strength and the strength of
Bide our time
Wait for the propitious moment
And launch
A renewed assault


we murder to dissect
You mentioned there was a gloomier follow-up to Vegetable Empire on the way. Is there a projected cycle? What's the overall shape of it?


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I've printed and sold/given away all the sequel. Here's some pictures of it in this thread.
I think it's better. I need to get some reprinted, I'm just waiting till I have the energy and the spare cash. I don't impose shape on things, I think that's how you deform them. I think the whole point is you're working in tandem with something that is a better poet than you are, knows more, sees more. That's why I think writing this stuff is a worthwhile pursuit.

There is only one writer and he sits plumply outside of time... All that stuff. I think that's incontrovertible fact. I'm a believer.


Well-known member
Yeah, well, obviously I'm good at this. I do like seeing this sort of thing. It makes me feel vindicated and worthwhile and thanks for showing it to me. Also there's a kind of sadness in it, throwing these things out there, anonymously for the most part, unless, like this woman, They want to know my name. Never seeing them again. This absolutely vast, anonymous, distributed oeuvre, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of poems in frames or in drawers or in scrapbooks, in Wisconsin, Chicago, Tasmania, Mexico City, Bucharest, Caracas, Christchurch, Machester...

Strange feeling. But also, unlike any other poet, I get to watch people read what I write and start crying. I get to have people come to me and say a poem you wrote last year got us together as a couple, or, we read your poem out at our wedding or etc etc etc.

It's a precarious way to live your life but the rewards are very great.