DIRT ROAD HERITAGE SOCIETY

DIRT ROAD HERITAGE SOCIETY

power issues

power issues
power issues

Moon Phase




POETRY

Sunday, November 19

Parataxical Distortion.



With the subtle involuntary eyes
of vast curiosity
polite though
only but vaguely moral
accidental panopticon
bearing witness
to the better potential
of our all too human song,
rising constantly like
that of cicadas,
rudely interrupted
by a prurience,
and this is a collective noun – a prurience –
of such busy determined creatures,
creatures
that here will be dubbed
peeping Tomasina and peeping Tom.
criminal minds
bent on devising many
a complex and visceral persecution,
truly challenging
infinitely more reasonable
philosophical phlegmatic
thinking.
They are
gignomai nonetheless.
The agonism any iota of their presence,
which is mental torture,
brings about
is their only boon;
wrung from
terse and repeated
isometric gritting
of teeth and
silences contracted from
protracted biting of the tongue,
after compassion has been milked dry,
wrung from the indignant imagination,
from the rebelling mind,
no stranger to trauma,
to the basic aporia,
in the anguished “why, why,why!” –
wrung dry from
all this drips this last drop of
exasperated wish,
a decidedly fanciful desire,
for some kind of solution,
some lightening bolt
epiphany from out of the blue.

Therefore,
about them there
angry memories pa,
these almost phantasmagorical people;
there be placed,
shining like a silver lining,
this most sanguine hope:
that,
by virtue of
the offended milieux,
gathers some sanely arcane
collective force
of utter utter maturity,
culminating in
a wonderful spell,
a spell which facilitates
these hypocritically
counter-intuitive
blindly categorical types
to actually find each other
on their walk,
literally to meet
eye-to-eye.

Imagine
the contraction of
the sudden confronted shyness of
the quality of
the blinking startle of
surprise -
lens to fleshy lens!

Where then will they try to hide,
scuttling from the pull,
the cognitive dissonance,
of their unexpected imminent coalescence, and
the shock of misanthropy,
nurtured for so long it is habitual,
as it dislodges and sloughs.
What blessed hiatus this
for the rest of us
if us there be,
whom I these days
hardly believe in
hope for the existence of
feel the intimations of.

Imagine the sweetness
as Fate's irresistible sweeping rip
draws their mean heat seeking selves
completely out to sea,
latched firmly upon each other:
it
will not stop,
will not
retreat back to shore
like the predictability of tides;
what they have ignored
being of a greater potential than that
twisted semblance of power
which their constant transgressions and
aggressive spiritual-powerful
alter egos perversely project,
then aspire to harness,
and control,
beyond what their manifold lack of respect
could even begin to think to dream of.

It will subsume their
demagoguery
in pure molten irony.

How helpless they
their disbelief landing them
in
that pocket of reality.
How seemingly cruel
in our heady relief,
the knowing watchers-on
I hardly believe in
pained no more,
indulging in
the very great pleasure,
the final luxury,
of the last delighted laugh,
enjoying
a certain quality of bemusement :
many a lip-twitching
sotto voce observation,
antithesis to their obsessively
overzealous manipulations
of the gift of our
joyful sensual moral commonality.

While drowning
in that moral ocean,
after their mutual discovery of
each unfathomable
perplexity of too similar other,
while lost in the wry contingency
of the facts,
suffering such consequences of subjective asymmetry,
as were wrought by their vengeful
abject self pity,
perhaps they will find forgiveness,
humility,
and a particular apex of humanity they,
with their construct of eye,
could have,
ultimately,
been born to see.

For now they
regressively flounder upon
shoals of more reasonable
dynamics of personhood where,
sacred and simple,
respect juts conspicuously,
a snagging rock,
most threatening to
their impunity.

Only, I fear,
in the best of their fetish-based
ideals of what ought to be,
fantasies which could never suit you,
my Love,
or me,
and within moral interiors full of premises
supporting cultures of appropriation,
and in approaches,
justified in their intellectual worlds
constructed from nothing
short of ulterior motive,
excusing the various realities they
convince themselves of
in order to dominate
so as to perpetually compensate.
Realities in which they 'allow'
no agency but
a voodoo-doll idea of other,
and whatever the resentment is
that comprises this image of
'the other' that we represent
it thrives on pernicious
and dedicated sabotage,
burning needles of jealous intent
leaving but a shriven smidgen
of our own innocuous pleasures,
whereupon they 'grace' us
with their intrusions,
accuse our self's quick,
the intimacy of our very sensations
of being but a thief's touch,
and so seek to practice their especial
self appointed 'veto'
upon our every decision.
You know the type,
you feel uncomfortable
with the very idea,
not to mention the strong impression,
that they might be thinking about you
at any one moment in time.
In actuality
the result of all this
is that they merely
manifest as a
rat-tat regular event of ideological profanity,
chinese water torture brand of insanity;
but nonetheless
it is only in these places
that they inhabit
can any site can be found
ground be cleared
reasonably expected to yield
the latent fruit of their humanity.

Though pretending to help,
their narcissistic righteousness
sticks them fast
in patterns of derogatory methodology,
it creates a parasitical loop,
Möbius strip treadmill.

Caught up thus for the while
in this poisonous hypocrisy,
their brand of love,
its pundit-flavoured cooing
celebrating the dullest kind of clever,
their greed surely would resign itself,
eventually,
to stronger redemptive forces
pertaining to the traceries
remaining,
of their ultimately unavoidable innocence.

They are jaded now,
but perhaps the poignant best in them
will be reawakened
by this hoped for meeting -
for what it is worth
it must be remembered
that we wish them to meet
eye-to-eye -
and for each of their belated
realisations to spill free,
to make for a fertile ferment,
compost of mistaken,
misguided ideas and grotesque ironies,
ending up blessedly breaking down
around hungry new growth:
the solitary composing eye.

But these themselves are ideas of ideals,
platitudes implying desperate appeals
against the implacable folly,
layers of delusion,
the visceral eyes,
signalling their obtrusion.
This is but my ire
boring
but real
this turmoil of psychic energy
where shock
unravels itself
in bewildered introversion
and these at their most mistaken
are but transient beliefs
at best
becoming in their own right
art
from out of agonism.


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