Thursday, March 26, 2009

Philip L's Fetish for Spank Mags

We are all stars, but some of us are gazing in the gutter - ha ha ha.

Are we not clever dearest fops, in a fallen age of awfully logical angelic buttercups praying to a yellow cob of sun - ho ho ho: aren't we so dainty with our hair so flopped and fingernails manicured to mirror the transulence of rain in a verbal storm of moi moi moi - ha ha ha ha.

oh ! Oscar, darling, Lord Sloames is driving to Hyde Park in his hanson, would you like a lift?

I always find being transported in tradesperson's carriages, rather distatestful - it's like asking one's butcher for advice on interior furnishings.

ho ho ha, yes my dear boy, but have you not heard, asking one's butcher for advice on interior decor, is not unlike drinking champagne with one's footman - perfectly acceptable as long as one of you know where the sausages go.

ho ho ha, but Bunty dearest chum, knowing where the footman's sausage goes, is not unlike inquiring of a harlot at St Pauls cathedral, supremely tasteless unless the vicar's an actress and everything's onstage at the Clarion and the audience is occupied with the pieties of the common fawns, alright for holidays in Brixham, but not for bollockings of cocksmen - ha ha ha ha ha - and then, after turning into a politically correct puff - of air - ha ha ha - so wickedly, we should be strung up by the new artists of the post-millenium age.

Oh really Oscar my darling, and why so, pray tell?

Well, because have you not heard, everything's absurdly amusing as long as we stick to a script in which one affects the ticks and tricks of aristocratic micks.

You can't say mick, only that the sausages are thick - ha ha ha - Oscar you nob, deserving to tread that mill for all the teen rents you despoiled, and your memory can rot in that tent square peg for all we care, coz we are sick - sick of the spank-mags, mogs and boons, the wolly nogs and fools who say we've to hide our real thoughts on you bleddy bog trotting mockers of the one true grace, behind a consumate laureate bending in the breeze.

PL

God save the Queen

bumhole

Larkin abaaahhhhht..

Friday, March 20, 2009

Live Poetry

This is a recording of me (Desmond Swords) made in Damar Hall, July 2006, when I was part of that years Poetry Ireland Introductions Series, an annual scheme in which emerging poets are given an opportunity to workshop and read their poetry under the aegis of Poetry Ireland.


Sunday, March 15, 2009

Left - Right - Musical Prose

A traveller on the love-bus, fresh and high from reading Kristeva, Perloff and A Wild Salience by Rae Armantrout, told me of a theory which came in a dream when listening one day to the invisible stars above, calling them to account and make up the map of what becomes of love when roses fade and birds migrate beyond a realm of meaning, subverted, staid and losing faith in the pleasure of abandoning reason.

They said there is a musicality within we are born to hear and perform, pre-programmed in our pineal gland, where resides what Descartes identified as the Seat of the Soul that melatonin discharges and can be found in Eavan Boland's New Collected Poems.

Consciousness, the colleague stated, is where a universal metrical template forms, forged by vibrations, karma and emanations which surround us as we gestate within the womb, mirroring the process and progress we all experience prior to our birth as blooms born to wither in a brief flash of eternal light, before being snapped back into the vacuum of pre-existence.

Life, the colleague conveyed as we sat drinking coffee in an anonymous Victorian square, much like any other anonymous Victorian square, and through which a body of free flowing physical traffic tarried hither and tither in pale weak light of the overcast March evening - acting as a liquid signifier of the human lexicon contextualising what was being said at that moment, several hours since -- is spoken of at length in the celestial sonancy our listening for a cosmic voice can wrought.

The first observance of what's occuring in a piece of verse, is a pre-verbal tweet of what idea, afloat on an opaque signifier; alert and unspeaking of what lifts beneath waking the voice within, beginning in silence, surprises us.