But the serious reason for rooting deeper is the Amergin text, (scroll further down)written at the middle of the Irish poetc tradition in 7C by someone who had generations of poet forefathers behind him and many more in front. I have been airing this up for discusssion to try and gauge its relevance, whilst also writing about it in order to firm up my own ideas on it, and no one has engaged with me on it. So when the usual talk of "What is Poetry?" starts and everyone gives it the Greek spin as being the beginning, I switch off as there is a tradition in Ireland that lasted a few thousand years and only ceased 300 years ago. Read and giggle.
Hurrah
My suicide was a complete success and I am now in the poesie holding area of a great beyond where dreamers go to after death. You may read about me in the national press, as I sent my obituary to Daisy Goodwin, Robert Potts, Neil, Michael, Chris, Rupert and Ron Silliman. You will find my remains on the roof of the Poetry Cafe in Betterton Street and the commeration will be wherever the poetry community decide, so please come, all are welcome. I have left a recorded piece I wish to be played at the after service of remembrance piss up in the Cheshire Cheese pub on my blogsite; a tender moving rant of supreme incoherency which I hope will not bore too much as you chat about the good old days of never knowing me. My only wish is that you bury my left hand in a small corner of Westminster Abbey, my right leg in Highgate Cemetry and my heart beneath a wind ravaged fir tree in a small demense next to the deserted village on Achill Island, Co Mayo. Failing this I would like my organs donated to poets in need of transplants.
Here in the otherworld all is an ecsatic vision, white, soft and ethereal, like being a constantly changing image of light and shade on the cinema screen, high on non-addictive heroin, Mescalin and Sunny Delight like pop containing a premium strength additive of E numbers.
As though I were Pete Doherty, all of the Arctic Monkeys and Band Aid rolled into one along with Elton John Paul Liam and Noel, but the only custody I am in is MTV heaven with Kate Moss's heart and an abundance of harmless crack, whilst being the permanent number 1. Like being Brad, Jen and Angelina living happily ever after in a global orphanage where all the kids we foster are the sprogs we practice making between the three of us, all day long with no judgement, jealousy or need for toilet breaks and telephone calls.
I am in no recognisable physical form or shape and (fingers crossed) should be a completely disembodied voice very shortly. I have been chatting with Michael Donaghy and Robert Creeley, as we wait for St Peter to run us past s/he without name who will decide our ultimate destination and earthly reputation, and we are all hoping to get the nod by our respective language gods. Ogma for me and Mick and a less obvious one for Bob as he has to negotiate with Frost, Whitman, Pound, Eliot and WCW before he gets to somewhere in Greece, I think, I'm not sure as what he's been saying all sounds a bit complicated; but we are all praying together and will be very happy for each other if we end up supping sack with Ben Jonson and Bill Shakes at top table, or if we are in a packed back garden at the amateur barbecue sharing sonnets about sparrows on the village green.
There are a number of possibles in play and the decisions will be made based purely on our ouvres according to the standard formulae which have always been used since the beginning of babel; and you will be surprised to hear that all our temporal posturing and the grand theories we spend our lifetimes thinking up are completely rubbish and entirely wrong.
Simon Magus told me that there is no magic behind the art or complex modes of analysis used to figure the final result, as every one of us has their very own free will advisor to the creator, who lets us trace the watermark of our success or failure as poet, bluffer, nutter or fool during our stint on earth with a pen of faith we fill and use or leave in the box, and guess what?
There are no laurel cups or short straws, because an absent concept of competition is everywhere and there is only love, peace, wonderully superb gorgeousness and free dinners, as our energies are all alone but united in the past, present and future in a way the living mind can not grasp, so I won't attempt to convey the sense of afterlife oneness, save to say its a laugh.
But before the clouds of unreality tip their load via the boundless sky of cybersapce and dissolve your interest in a mist of verbiage to bore your brain and you surf away from this deposit, I can communicate some info from the waiting room of equal greatness for all. Apparently there was a Homer, a woman called Alana, who was not a simple warrior shepardess living the joi de vie with an entourage of party fawn fighting wo/men. She made the Illyiad up for a laugh, and the real story of how she came to tell this tale is too terrible to convey here because if I told you what Alana told me, you'd think I'd gone coco and lost my marbles. Too fantastic is the truth, so I will keep a lid on it and lie................Oooh, I'd better go because Elvis and Plato are calling me for a discussion on the eternal chicken, egg and cheesburger debate.
1 comment:
You have committed suicide? Congratulations on achieving poetic nirvana . . . I think?
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