Though obviously Poe, and oulipo, I also bathe my holy molars in orange pop realist/unchaste slashes of transparent incidental prose that mixes armature/ sense, story/fable. A virtual identity crisis of combined discourses intermixed impure, polyphonic, porous vs. strict L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E. This goes against any normative for outlandishness, and for genuine unconcern for anything proper regarding the rhetoric of moral value, or seriousness, save my own undying self-esteem, and affinities. Until I become selected, aphoristic, dubious, or unrewarding to myself, ringing the circles of life as lingua, finding sense in fragments of originally constituted thoughts, differenced, older.
I'm not an atomist, except as experimental miniaturist. I don't always direct my efforts to irreducible thing-making, like stone. More conduit of lyrical tide... but failing to catch water, like Lorca, if I had a soul. As is often the case, all I manage is to build outwards, metamethistanai. Rilke is all I think about now. Composing in conceptual blocks of flatly imagistic prose, in occasional outbreaks of rabid attacks of sunlight.
Lyric I don't understand from Men w/o Hats song 'Pop Goes the World'. Does this mean Dr. Benway?
"Send al gunn to see the doctor (ben)."
NURSE: “I think she’s gone, doctor.”
DR. BENWAY: “Well, it’s all in the day’s work.” He walks across the room to a medicine cabinet…. “Some fucking drug addict has cut my cocaine with Saniflush! Nurse! Send the boy out to fill this RX on the double!”