Friday, 1 July 2011
"They can swallow totalitarianism because they have no experience of anything other than liberalism."
-- George Orwell, Inside the Whale, 1940
Folded thin, the moon
sheets of straw
Through a pale blue shelter.
It is five in(to) the morning, end of June.
Two unfinished paperbacks and a lager,
So little is there to tell of this, or summer.
And while the narrator may,
Given the hot history of your address bar,
I know of no gloom in candor.
This is my making it onto the page.
A gull coughs, hardly worth reporting.
And clouds bring rain.
What other than third-rate minutiae goes on here?
Instead should I rhyme consistently,
Or pun with fingers in my ears?
Don't think I'll battle a trope
Then smile if you begin privately -
Words as snowballs
(Critical distance, dialectic, avant garde)
- What I want no part in.
I cannot pretend I am speaking to another,
Unless I leave the house.
The arms of critical theory are glued, folded:
These strange gods, who command strangeness,
Who cannot say Bonjour without blushing,
Are half-musing, unrepulsed,
The hue of acid through the unveiled lips of women,
The mass in the mass grave. How strange!,
If the race (to the straw moon) survives this leg,
Another outstretched hand, a new nonsense,
Will write a fist and run the show.