Sunday, September 16, 2012

StaB YOR EnemY’S ShadoW tO KiLL yoR enemy: A Poetics concerning ShadoWs-

****Below is the bedrock essay to the unpublished booK of poems called Even tha LighT was DarK.  Originally the project was to be a collaborative effort with playwright Cameron Stuart.  The drawing was to be the cover and also by the author.

StaB YOR EnemY’S ShadoW tO KiLL yoR enemy:  A Poetics concerning ShadoWs-----------


“I live inside the house of shadows, the house with walls vetebrated like the dog’s shell.  Each night I sink in a little deeper—following the rhythm of the great legendary clock whose hands only begin to move at the twenty-fifth hour.
    The windows are left outside, for the house is reversible and there are roads digging in everywhere.”                      
----Jean Pierre Duprey  From The End and the Manner Translation by Pierre Joris.


“The darkness absorbed his words without throwing back even an echo.  Adrian dove against the nearest tree.  His buckling body slid down the trunk until his knees touched the ground.  He was in anguish, yet it was his own shadow that had been thrown across the sun.”--- page 122--Infinity

“…Yet, in all the arena of forms, there was one spot—a pock so dark that even the shadows of trees disappeared in it.”---Page 123 Infinity
Jim Roberts  -- Adrian’s Peace

I could noT shakE off the twilight.

Striving through severities--language of languages--- How to language--?--the steel teeth hunting traps -- send a child to  step on to scream in dull predictable pain…to make sense of ghost languages….to communicate from the jumbled light of shadows.  To carve shadows out of the light. To carve light out of the shadows…To put a dagger in all king’s hearts.

To caricature the falsification concerning the soul.   ----  ---------

To dwell in God’s country of negation. To sail the ship to mountain top and burn the ship to cinders and ash.  To kill a sailor in the mountains is bad luck.

The obsession belongs to no one yet belongs those who enter deeper in the cave of light where shadows are red bursts and the moon speaks as a New compass--!--Upside the shadow like a mountain, not a hill, we climb and climbed.  All keeps well and lost in the lonely.  Hobbling shall equate us to the defined cliff’s edge.  

All the symbols inside the dark countryside.  ALL the symbols inside the dark countryside of strangers we have caught on the butcher knife periphery.

The blue dark of this field night----Tyrannical bone driftwood language boundaries flashing memory--you that shadow--------SOMETHIN EVIL COME THIS WAY DRINKIN MY SHADOW UP LIKE MOONSHINE…The severity of constant kinetic action---is BurnT shivering sleep shadow--------pistol goes off in the blue fog din haze-------the absolute reality---as far as the human condition---and beyond human existence.
                                  Constant kinetic action is the blurring between light and dark.

A shadow poetics is the derailment of the self.
A shadow poetics converges public and private investigations into the underworld---questions the spiritual world.                                      A ghost is the shadow of the soul.

  The interplay/matrimony between light and dark gives us texture’s existence.
Light.  Any light shining is not the summation composure concerning light totality.  A darkness which colors the hues of shadows whilst is shadow--- speaks the concealment of light.
A shadow poetics embraces fluidity while coercing a violent interrogation of reality.  What casts what--- the shadow or the solid object?  Shadows inhabit the in between world---Forms a partnership---a criminal partnership with light…

Even the light was dark is a Gnostic tramping down lost roads, inside the skin of perpetual twilights.

After all and any experience one is left with shadow.

The creative act is the copulating alchemy between shadow and experience….Poetry is the archaeology of shadow ---when shadows manifest physically inner or outer as what has past.

The creative ritual in action is the shadow always pursuing experience manifesting.
All knowledge is shadow, unless put to kinetic action energy manifestations.

Shadows are the physical manifestation concerning all that is questionable and ambiguous.

Light exists as clarity.  One cannot clarify what is already clarified.  One cannot reveal what is revealed.  One must go to shadows---which are not the opposite of light….---A shadow is a mystery that conceals light.
The interplay of light and shadow is what a mirror is made of….The problem of self awareness of one’s existence….

    To obscure         is to root         the future                 into existence.  Shadows are the unknown                         physicality--------            Thou judgment                     of physicality and scientifically correct REALITY-----
        Shadow brings judgment             to the land of living and light.

            I found myself in the valley of shadow and death.

Shadow poetics                  contort and seek out fucking the mystery.   Shadow poetics         embrace the disorientation of the spiritual realm               whilst distorting         narratives        and the narrator.          TO understand
    Events             or occurrence is to be deceived.
One must leave all knowledge.
            One musT taunT one’s owN KnowLedgement.
    Poetry is the exploration of shadow.  Poetry explores the wilderness of what has been cast from the forms of incessant continual kinetic energy actions---

    PoeTrY is the shadow.  PoeTrY is all shadow     incidental or incidenT.

Shadows cajole         the poet/painter/composer             into lyricisms.

    A shadow is a shelter from the burning blistering light.
        Please sleep under the oak tree—
    shading     protection s      forgiveness        respiTe  (deserved or noT)
from the smearing             of open constant crackling darkly    those        fields.
    Form is ambiguity---Can shadow be perceived and if then referenced to its source----            All experience contorts---plastic--- secondhand---
                    Immediate experience is often trumped by totalitarian domination of what that immediate experience casts-----------shadows involve memory, the prostitution of memory----the folly of languishing -----lurid geometry of possibilities probabilities and there alliances….

A shadow poetics is to accept personal shame                 and guilt ---
THOU             shadow                     is Plato’s cave of shadows? We can only glimpse those         seeping shadows of eternal forms until we see those thistling bristling         eternal forms.  How does one see the eternal forms?  Does formation ever take place?  How do we know the eternal forms are             even there?---

    William Henry Fox Talbot –one of the innovators/inventors of photography said a photography is the “the art of fixing a shadow.”
                                Is poetry the catching of shadows cast from the objects and things of the world, living and non living???  SHAPE of the                     trajectory??

Oil and water---islands only touching at perimeters…..Memory is a wilderness this is shadow---

Is poetry the catching of shadows now?  the that those===words===worst===monsters-------

        -------            ……………..people being afraid of their own shadows---why are people afraid             of their owN            shadows…
 Shadow a shadow ----the lapse of
oil cascading                    inTo suddeN FRACTURES-----------
        hark thee hell of thangles---hark a shadow elusive capability
            utterance feel dementia proxies southernism nihilisms into a shadowy country---
                        The southern united states is a shadow country….where an incapable past of revolt, cruel extremities, poverty and isolation is like a shadow which casts the present –as a shadow of blurring light.

till even the bones burst with or without             a body……….
  In thee building house that bleaks with blue—Hark thee hell of thangs---Hark the hellish of things—where does one get gathered and located? Dark the morning dark the noon and nothing blows shadow nightly....the eradication of collective human contact ensues—You can never find glory.
  I need dynamics lay my body on tha gurney pad.  You will catch me drinking. You catch me drugging—All the small books of death—ALLthe small birds of death
  Someone is shining a flashlight in the house…A continent devoid absoluteLY             of shadows—the sky swims with dark blue circular             h        o        L        E        S.
 Shall we go inside the incarceration of the great wide open?                                                                                 The music was thin                     and disappears.
                                  So thee CrippLed MOnK stranger upon lost roads. meeTs a drifT
         EvEN thA LIGHT    waS     dARK    we do whispeR.


BY MattheW ponY PaYROLL BONES  Winter 2010-Late Summer 2012

Language Images and their Haunted Cross Roads

The below text depicts similarities and overlaps with the previous post, mid August notes.  The flesh has become more flesh.  A poem goes deeper into the lost cave for articulation.  The path may be fractured.  The path shall always be fractured, yet the path is a path!


Please enter the corn maze.  The minotaur lurks sordid somewhere inside.  The corn maze is on fire.

I am Orpheus.  I am arriving here an orphan.

Oblivion.  Oblivion is haunted.  Language is doubtful.

I arrive with visions in the kingdom commons.  I have jokes that are not entertaining.

The Obliteration of text shattered and disfigured.  The text is not shattered enough.  I am supposed to communicate.  Text is a communion.

Action has occurred.  Action is occurring.

Day to day common realities mislead through spells  resting upon a foundation language is definable.  Language, everyday language is a banality with weakened magic. 

How does one cleanse from the residue solvency of words that wrought the wrong actions?  These wrong actions prop up a normalcy, a social conformism/misguided comforts/ stupidities grandiose.  Vision as a museum piece or procedure is demanded.

 This is a house of rain built upon a shifting river delta. Ultimately, the essence of language and what language actually accomplishes remains indefinable.  Language is an obvious trickster.  Language is oblivious.

Language requires faith.  Myth and the kinetic action of communication twine spirals through language/word DNA.   Myth is the shamanistic healing medicinal.  I am Orpheus.  I am arriving here an orphan.

Stating the obvious does not help.  You have been deceived into being a moving shadow.

The reader is oblivious.  The reader is a contact.  The reader is oblivion.

Pay attention to the man behind the curtain who holds a gun to his head with his left hand whilst aiming a gun with his right hand at you.  He is divinity’s sniper.  I have become a ghost to avoid bullet wounds.  Words are daubed with gun powder and raw meat.

God is a drum beaten in the forest.  Language is generating through the chants.

At one time in the fog shrapnel past, dogs and wolves traded places and roles.  Wolves left man for the mountains while dogs took up with man.  Barks-howls-chants-yelps.  Languages---Ones recognized and ones not recognized.

Woman should have killed man.  Women and men kill each other with language.  Out of murderous fires, they resurrect with phoenix wings speaking new languages.  This is the ritual.

I am a coyote with crow wings.  My heart beats with southern blood.

Language makes you a liar.  Who is the liar?  The rain is eating the house.  Memory is a dirt basement with brown recluse spider infestation.  Loxosceles Reclusa.  The violin spider.  Venomous is the music of memory.  Memory has language and words.

The written word, perverted has made language forget physical detection.  Language has become pompous.  The internet has made language completely arrogant turning humans into a collective monkey dancing to the organ grinder. 

Humanity is pompous devouring their share of Prometheus’s liver.  He has cirrhosis of the liver and sings country and blues to the mountains and plains.  Please focus on the invisible words.

 The written word is an abstraction, meaningless in the digital realm  through gluttonous abuse and amusement heat seeking.  Heat can be freezing cold or scalding till bursting fire.

Utilizing archaic symbols.   Native American symbols.  The re purpose and return of Christian symbols.   The thunderbird image.  The sign for joy through the passage of suffering.  Then there is more. Always more.  Morose and uplifting.  Grace can be attained.

Language returned to gesture.

Language is secondary to gesture.

A hyper textuality somewhere between Jake Berry’s Brambu Drezi and Antonin Artaud’s last notebooks.

A search for accidents. A search for Disaster.

The copulating frictions of validation and invalidation incoherency deliriums to clear clarities.

What if Artaud has succeeded in destroying language through his incantation war fare?

Deliberate Incoherence. 

Illustrating text  through the carpentry of expressionistic mysticism.

Provoking language’s shortcomings of holistic description dialogue.

Return to the inscription.

Return to the picnic graveyard of childhood.

Pursuit of the non-linear.  The soul’s true states of being.

Inviting the ghost through the front door.

Tom foolery Mysticisms whilst casting Ritualistic magic.

To snatch the visceral (flesh) back from the defilements of language.

To offer severe acknowledgment to all ghosts and souls.

The empathy, methods and evidence of the hermetic.

Creation-devout obsession-transmutation.

I am Orpheus.  You are Orpheus.  We both arrive orphans.  Let us pray in the mountains, plains, valleys, street scapes and barbed wire city limits.

The physicality of certainty pertaining to geographic location

Return the non returning  to MeadoR Avenue   
DriftY eyes time
Cloudy, river rolling glows white
    Jailbars metal burglar bars slash verticals and ventricles
Economic protocols and         pr o t e c t I o Ns------

Language is locatioN.

    YoU can’T go hoMe agaiN.    You can onlY be against location.  Location exists only through contra.  You are breathing Thomas Wolfe’s Tuberculosis of the soul.

In sullen red places where wolves howl silver howls.

I imagine these wolves with phoenix wings and they are real---galloping through a sky -----A sky galvanizing and clashing---converging copper--brimstone crimson blood copulating with silvers

I drop my teeth in confederate dirt
Loose limbs, I have wings I can take the air and make slashes
    I exist in this, thistles in tha fur,  I have fur and eat words

The singular of waiting!  Tha carousel goes
R O U N D I   N      G

        SunbeaMs croooo  Ked-------tha backyard
Veils with voices cloaked in veils

        HeRe, Here, HErE, Now!  The street is existent. I promise.  Real things.  Real things. I cannot promise you real things!.
Real things! I suppose, with
S U S P I C I O N       (resignation)s        SUSPENSION  (S)

Tha old farmhouse I live in, then the post war (two) brick buildings, things called homes called houses called housing market and neighborhoods, called the hood.   SomE with windows broKe.  Even tha broKe is even broken.  Neighborhood children play chant plaY.

    Two black skimpY 12 yer olds rounding tha midnight doing tha old mating rituals and learning as theY goinG.    Midnights mating.

TheN I am existent hot concrete porch.  Humidity took tha air into a solid displeasing friction.

    HIS LIFE drunK in the twisted vines
A caSKET Made of kudzus, ka ka ka zooo. Hear tha kazzooo plaYeR.

All guitars are irrelevant and silent.   Go to hell.