Demonic Words (unfinished old poem that feels good as it is)

[rowens]

Demonic Words


There is evidence,
agreement.
The last word, the final peace,
kingdom come. 
Silence.
And there's more . . .

All talk is further evidence,
alien amulets and mugwort,
snails with agenda,
fresh amalgams. 

Earth is full of forms,
poems and new imaginings.
A path for every direction,
djinn in a soda pop. 
Never, never full.

*
essays or blog 
to see what the hero has to say of
sets of sporty, superstitious
oppositions. 
*

*
a lax spat of nova,
this mire of continuity,
*

*
dysphoria of attraction,
to say,
when all is accepted as light,
the moth must settle for something.

[dukealien]

Good you returned to this.  Many fine parts....

Demonic Words


There is evidence,
agreement.
The last word, the final peace,
kingdom come. 
Silence.
And there's more . . .  The little joke:  beyond silence is... not silence.

All talk is further evidence,
alien amulets and mugwort,
snails with agenda,
fresh amalgams.  So, beyond silence there are patterns:  there are more possible combinations than there are silences.

Earth is full of forms,
poems and new imaginings.
A path for every direction,
djinn in a soda pop. 
Never, never full.  Yeah, hard to get full on djinndjerr ale.  More paths than directions, more directions than every.

*
essays or blog 
to see what the hero has to say of
sets of sporty, superstitious
oppositions.  When all is superstitched together, loose ends remain.
*

*
a lax spat of nova,
this mire of continuity,  It's been said that, wherever you go, there you are.  More to the point, wherever you go, you were somewhere else - and that can't be changed.  The tyranny is not time or beauty, but origin.  And origin means (to complete the circle) evidence.
*

*
dysphoria of attraction,
to say,
when all is accepted as light,
the moth must settle for something.  The trivial, profound; the normal, perverse.  And the antithesis of light, enlightenment.

There is a land of evidence and a land of what happens next, and the bridge between them is... truth?  Where will you be when the wave function collapses?

[busker]

Demonic Words


There is evidence,
agreement.
The last word, the final peace,
kingdom come. 
Silence.
And there's more . . .

All talk is further evidence,
alien amulets and mugwort,
snails with agenda,
fresh amalgams. 

Earth is full of forms,
poems and new imaginings.
A path for every direction,
djinn in a soda pop. 
Never, never full.

*
essays or blog 
to see what the hero has to say of
sets of sporty, superstitious
oppositions. 
*

*
a lax spat of nova,
this mire of continuity,
*

*
dysphoria of attraction,
to say,
when all is accepted as light,
the moth must settle for something.

I'm not a big fan of stream of consciousness verse, of half formed, inchoate thoughts that aren't clear sentences to be put into an instruction manual, say.
But there's a richness of meaning in such meandering if done well, and this poem has some good examples of that.

All talk is further evidence,

alien amulets and mugwort,
snails with agenda,

seems to be saying something smart, but it isn't. It's just mood setting.

when all is accepted as light,
the moth must settle for something.

is similarly faux-insightful.
I don't mean that as an insult. Poetry is, after all, more than just a primer on German debt owed by the Greeks.

There is merit in painting a picture, and this one does it in quite a few areas. Certainly worth completing.

[tun]

I would be interseted to see something done in this manner that you think works, is worthwhile and is finshed?

[rowens]

I made a book called Similar Highways, the first bunch of poems I wrote in flow states, then I used those as source material to piece together other poems in a labored way.
I wrote this one straight through, and had a few more ideas, so I left space to fill.
I may have finished the poem, I don't remember. When I found this version, I saw that being unfinished went with the theme of the poem, and I left it that way.

Demonic poetry is the need to continue when things are settled. Everything that is is enough, poetry adds and complicates.
I'm demonic in that sense.

[tun]

I made a book called Similar Highways, the first bunch of poems I wrote in flow states, then I used those as source material to piece together other poems in a labored way.
I wrote this one straight through, and had a few more ideas, so I left space to fill.
I may have finished the poem, I don't remember. When I found this version, I saw that being unfinished went with the theme of the poem, and I left it that way.

Demonic poetry is the need to continue when things are settled. Everything that is is enough, poetry adds and complicates.
I'm demonic in that sense.

I think story/ies are a fundamental structure upon which consciousness is formed/built, disposed or elaborated. I don’t think story is optional - but rather it is necessary, original and essential. This is because without story there can be no memory. Without memory, there is no real being. By story - we are to understand a representation of a destiny as an intelligible image - something which can be felt in the body and known by instinct - and therefore remembered.

When I encounter your poems, there is no story, no destiny, no question and no answer - there is nothing to remember, because there is no presentation of any reason for being. There is no interface/tension between logic and chaos that can generate meaning or memory. You are not telling me anything I need to know.

[rowens]

That is what you desire. To not know. To have no consciousness. Neither lack nor cease of desire. You want to keep adding by subtracting. Subtracting by adding is demonic poetry.

---

You may recall this one:

Survival is Eager


Out of woods,
out of space and sea,
a tale of beasts,
harvest brown vegetables,
grasshoppers, smell of mantis
and dirt.
Homegrown business.
Relic of immanence.
A fine place to find aliens
if you know where to look.

Hello to backroads, farewell to ideas.
Ever ready with sap, primitive crush
of insects between teeth and gum.
Smell of mantis, and stain of sour urine
on atmosphere, introduces the woody, fur-
forsaken beast.
Don't expect something monstrous afoot.
We've run out of strange land
though are filthy with realms.

Take language only as a map
and be half-lost.
A creature must have a creator
for the puny definition to stick,
this beast is half-spelled.
Call gods a conjuring trick at your risk.
This speller is not afraid, opens his mouth,
tongue of horn, sandalwood, opal,
at the forkroad with hands tied.
He does not fear the cross.

Death is not the plot, only adventure.
Nor is this a story of love, lost or sought.
Classic sense.
Dream logic with no narrative.
Generic nature of beasts.

Midway to climax,
no solution to be
bored with. No warning,
no ending. More or less,
more beast.
Route of no number.

[tun]

That is what you desire. To not know. To have no consciousness. Neither lack nor cease of desire. You want to keep adding by subtracting. Subtracting by adding is demonic poetry.

---

You may recall this one:

Survival is Eager


Out of woods,
out of space and sea,
a tale of beasts,
harvest brown vegetables,
grasshoppers, smell of mantis
and dirt.
Homegrown business.
Relic of immanence.
A fine place to find aliens
if you know where to look.

Hello to backroads, farewell to ideas.
Ever ready with sap, primitive crush
of insects between teeth and gum.
Smell of mantis, and stain of sour urine
on atmosphere, introduces the woody, fur-
forsaken beast.
Don't expect something monstrous afoot.
We've run out of strange land
though are filthy with realms.

Take language only as a map
and be half-lost.
A creature must have a creator
for the puny definition to stick,
this beast is half-spelled.
Call gods a conjuring trick at your risk.
This speller is not afraid, opens his mouth,
tongue of horn, sandalwood, opal,
at the forkroad with hands tied.
He does not fear the cross.

Death is not the plot, only adventure.
Nor is this a story of love, lost or sought.
Classic sense.
Dream logic with no narrative.
Generic nature of beasts.

Midway to climax,
no solution to be
bored with. No warning,
no ending. More or less,
more beast.
Route of no number.

I have not seen this before. But the question remains; If something is designed to be impossible to remember - In what sense does it exist? If its purpose is to never be - What is it?

[rowens]

When I read Charles Bukowski stories or poems, I like them while reading them, I remember a few things, forget the rest. I read them again years later and they feel new. Your poems are like that too, with less narrative and more monotony with sudden shifts. Monotony is a device, not a flaw.
You write poems in different ways. The poems you post lately are what I'm describing.

Canons and art brut and nova, that's my triad.

Memory isn't important. When it is, it is. I eat my cake and have it.

---

You must be thinking of this poem:

Friends With Benefits


Memory is abstract.
Mnemosyne is a kindly maid
with pretty daughters.
There are pretty witches;
and attractive Medusas
what turn you to stone.
I forget her name,
I feel nothing for her feelings and thoughts . .
Why should I,
when we always treat each other right?

[tun]

When I read Charles Bukowski stories or poems, I like them while reading them, I remember a few things, forget the rest. I read them again years later and they feel new. Your poems are like that too, with less narrative and more monotony with sudden shifts. Monotony is a device, not a flaw.
You write poems in different ways. The poems you post lately are what I'm describing.

Canons and art brut and nova, that's my triad.

Memory isn't important. When it is, it is. I eat my cake and have it.

---

You must be thinking of this poem:

Friends With Benefits


Memory is abstract.
Mnemosyne is a kindly maid
with pretty daughters.
There are pretty witches;
and attractive Medusas
what turn you to stone.
I forget her name,
I feel nothing for her feelings and thoughts . .
Why should I,
when we always treat each other right?

If I read the first word from each line in any poem, or any text, such as the poem 'Survival is Eager', it goes like this;

Out out a harvest
grasshoppers and homegrown relic
a if hello ever of smell
on forsaken don't weave though
take and a for this
call this tongue at he death
nor classic dream generic
midway no bored no more root.


This is the effect you achieve every time. It is always exactly the same. Randomness is pleasing in the moment, but it cannot generate meaning.

'Memory isn't important. When it is, it is. I eat my cake and have it.' -

This is meaningless - it does nothing to support the idea that meaning can exist without memory. Meaning is not a momentary pleasure in randomness.

Or are you now going to say; 'Meaning is not important - except when it is.'?

[rowens]

Meaning isn't important, as in and out of void, meaning is in and out of silence like music.

I've no intention, nor does the unconscious you talk about, have intention in regard to poems.

Intention is the poem and poems.

Literary Criticism organizes language to talk about things that don't need to be talked about.
Psychology does the same.
Those two genres of poetry are no different from poetry. They are making categories and intentions. This is everything.

Truth is beyond all this. Truth includes all this.

Writing poetry is making something out of this current conditioning. Society, Culture, People, Me, History, Art, Theory.
I don't need to say any of this, I don't need to write poems; I do, as it feels like I do. That is the sweet spot.

Nothing I write is random. Randomness can only ever be apparent. There is always correspondence and allusion. Personal, Schizophrenic, Pop Cultural, Magical, Religious, Folkloric, Dream, so on. Random is always a device. Everything is conscious, even what's unconscious. Everything is stream of consciousness. Apparent Randomness and Order are all devices, Affect-Quality distinctions and divisions for the sake of dynamic wholeness.

Everything generates. Whatever the tone and attitude or intention of anything and anyone. The generation itself is what is important, from this point of view, high and low, good and bad, are all devices in the book, as in this thread, as on this site, this room, this house, this neighborhood.

Everything is airtight and absolute. There can be no opposition to the generation. Compulsion is a device.

[tun]

Meaning isn't important, as in and out of void, meaning is in and out of silence like music.

I've no intention, nor does the unconscious you talk about, have intention in regard to poems.

Intention is the poem and poems.

Literary Criticism organizes language to talk about things that don't need to be talked about.
Psychology does the same.
Those two genres of poetry are no different from poetry. They are making categories and intentions. This is everything.

Truth is beyond all this. Truth includes all this.

Writing poetry is making something out of this current conditioning. Society, Culture, People, Me, History, Art, Theory.
I don't need to say any of this, I don't need to write poems; I do, as it feels like I do. That is the sweet spot.

Nothing I write is random. Randomness can only ever be apparent. There is always correspondence and allusion. Personal, Schizophrenic, Pop Cultural, Magical, Religious, Folkloric, Dream, so on. Random is always a device. Everything is conscious, even what's unconscious. Everything is stream of consciousness. Apparent Randomness and Order are all devices, Affect-Quality distinctions and divisions for the sake of dynamic wholeness.

Everything generates. Whatever the tone and attitude or intention of anything and anyone. The generation itself is what is important, from this point of view, high and low, good and bad, are all devices in the book, as in this thread, as on this site, this room, this house, this neighborhood.

Everything is airtight and absolute. There can be no opposition to the generation. Compulsion is a device.

Look I have made some good points, and you have now replied to me with strawmen and meandering fancies - a parade of succeeding unintelligible claims you cannot rationally support. You are not talking to me, you are talking at me. I don't see why I should try to decode a ramble.

[rowens]

I experience everything the way Jehovah's Witnesses experience the Bible. I manipulate poetry the way apparent intention manipulates Dust in His Dark Materials.

I don't deal in strawmen, though I may, as they are a device that I only heard about recently, maybe a few years ago. And, as in His Dark Materiels, Rationality is one ability of my Subtle Knife, not my Lantern. If someone speaks (or writes), I do or don't. Arguments are to me what promotional interviews are in pro wrestling. They are only apparently targeting me or aspects of me. Actually they ARE aspects of me. Fodder for my art. Talking to you is no different than talking to anyone else, except when it is. Talking at you or to you or with you wouldn't be any different, that depends on you. I see no difference, and when I do, I see that and continue. There is no difference. Poetry is embellishment. Talking is embellishment. Compulsion is real, not true. Truth is irrelevant as it is relevant. That is the difference I see. What I don't see happens. Simple.

[tun]

I experience everything the way Jehovah's Witnesses experience the Bible. I manipulate poetry the way apparent intention manipulates Dust in His Dark Materials.

I don't deal in strawmen, though I may, as they are a device that I only heard about recently, maybe a few years ago. And, as in His Dark Materiels, Rationality is one ability of my Subtle Knife, not my Lantern. If someone speaks (or writes), I do or don't. Arguments are to me what promotional interviews are in pro wrestling. They are only apparently targeting me or aspects of me. Actually they ARE aspects of me. Fodder for my art. Talking to you is no different than talking to anyone else, except when it is. Talking at you or to you or with you wouldn't be any different, that depends on you. I see no difference, and when I do, I see that and continue. There is no difference. Poetry is embellishment. Talking is embellishment. Compulsion is real, not true. Truth is irrelevant as it is relevant. That is the difference I see. What I don't see happens. Simple.

I was trying to talk about Poetry, and you seem to be making every effort always, to talk about yourself, but in empty pseudo riddles that go nowhere. Why? What is it for?

[rowens]

Everything I need to know is constantly being discovered. There is nothing I truly need to know, I spend life through embellishment. Embellishing.

I don't talk about poetry. I am poetry. Good or bad isn't a problem. The audience, if there is any, they are poetry.

[tun]

Everything I need to know is constantly being discovered. There is nothing I truly need to know, I spend life through embellishment. Embellishing.

I don't talk about poetry. I am poetry. Good or bad isn't a problem. The audience, if there is any, they are poetry.

Look your reply seems infantile to me - Strawmen and fancies. It seems infantile to me because you keep doing the same thing - 'I am empty, I am full. Nothing is everything. Up is down.' These are platitudes. Why do you keep telling me about you, in these platitudes?

[rowens]

That's what I am.

[tun]

That's what I am.

Do you mean to say; 'That's what I am, or am not, depending how I feel at the time, or don't feel, now or then or never, just in case I forgot to include it or leave it out, whatever it is, which is nothing or everything, for the time being, or nevermore or always, depending on my mood?'

[Deor Ana Log]

I just wanted to add that I find it ironic that Tun is mad and confused that someone is try to win an argument with platitudes and statements about humans in general, while he literally uses this technique in every argument he is in.

[rowens]

God created Jesus because Jesus was busy making himself. That's me.

There is no irony. Everyone talking in this thread is objectively aware.