Word of Warning: What you're about to read might not make much sense if you don't have read the book. Read at your own peril...
Perhaps what Blake also represents to me is the “thou” in
performance, on a threshold over which lay different spacial awareness, new,
thee in triplicate state, digital long haul through double-number's realm -
restoring boring patter to the even lie that led to this.
PS
Goodbye
I cannot go on for very much longer, because Carol's shelf-life, at
the bottom of a reject-pile, thee's words, alert the authorities to one's
'undercover' performance as thine own Songs of Experience and Failure, 'shit',
you know how it is. Blake here, he did you feel injustice because it is all
there?
Anonymity, rejection, failure. It's all you knew and experienced, as
a prophet: not only unrecognised by the community in your own land of 'Albion',
as their Prophet; but also viewed with bafflement, indifference, disconnection,
de-friend quality in personal dealings with your fellow bards, more or less,
wholly inconsequential; you have, like, 'zero' effect you, in Albion thine of a
too, too soppy mug, sceptic tank, this beach, this hut, this sea, this dump,
this fecking Portugal’s greater glory, God and Lady AD's words, offering tokens
of animal sacrifice and conditions on a toilet by the lake where
Homeric chimes will bring back to you, Spoils from Annwyn's cauldron
of song.
Platonic Romantic poets. No need to hype you, for being aware of the
crooked source, you're all the same.
"...cracked country lips,
I still wish to kiss,
As to be under the strength of your skin."
Bob
Your magnetic movements
Still capture the minutes I'm in,
But it grieves my heart, love,
To see you tryin' to be a part of
A world that just don't exist.
It's all just a dream, babe"
To Ramona..
"I experienced 'The Sick Rose', with the voice of Blake reading
it, as something that applied to the whole universe, and at the same time, the
inevitable beauty of doom ... '
It was all very beautiful
All very awesome
"As if Blake had penetrated the very “secrety” core of the entire
universe and had come forth in some little magic formula statement in rhyme and
rhythm that, if properly heard in the inner inner ear, would deliver you beyond
the universe,' I said.
Blake
Boring person: stuck up and preying on the names of real talent and
radical Art, but it's OK, I forgave her, 'Carol' who wrought every success, just that little
bit better, that
'..vacuum, a scheme, babe,
That sucks you into feelin' like this..'
'I who wrote a song for you
About a strange young man called Dylan
With a voice like sand and glue
His words of truthful vengeance
They could pin us to the floor
Brought a few more people on
And put the fear in a whole lot more'
David, Blake and Bowie Jones
'...call yerself poets? arseholes more like it, little drippy idols
of a forgotten mass of dead and dying core 'in the Rainbow at the final Ziggy
Stardust gig' mugs, getting served up for the last time, when Dave killed him
off, live as teenagers dreaming of suicide, broken, racked with responsibility
into a dangerously offence state, the kids and fan-base of idiots who talk
utter tripe, then and now David Bowie, since last we met in the realm of
Albion, you little wonder, little wonder, little wonderful londoner, OAP, Anonymous
you read only half of your self and show respect, I and the rest of you who can
go fuck yerself.
Life, it is a dress rehearsal for ourselves as petty minded
criminally academic interests, in numbers adding, subtracting and the time we
feel the 'entire universe as poetry' with, just like it says in and on the tin
Ana
..thinking is more than thee's pals, at least, well, have a go, go
and live in a small, confined space, a bedsit, and try being the least
intelligent of all of you feckers. You haven't got it sorted from fact, not
sussed out how you got it straight in the new dispensation - myth ... ha ha ha
...i can satirise to make you appear divs who wanna be like me ... get gassing about Carol's
words, Beckett, Bowie, Bob, Blake and Milton, dickheads in shite and tatty
tossers, Joyce, Shaw, Wilde and yeah ... Yeats?
. you are not even funny anymore than MacMillan bending for His
Position, as god is marm, stuck up Unity, you are yer
'Oh hear this Robert Zimmerman, I wrote a song for you'
Tits, it's called, and it's all about a bloke called Dave who is
consumed by you, and who stole some of your make-up to create one of his most
infamous incarnations, passing himself off as you.
Tosser
Enter the world of Harry Potter. Be alert, be extraordinaire and ask
yerself a big phat Q: What is it about you, I don't like and why?
Wankerz Massive - Deptford.
Blake
Ah! Feck off! We don't do flowers
so will you ever just go and stick the whole of yourself, up your
own arse
Bowie
Carol Anwynn's words
Get over me, you I.
Lady D.
Postscript: I find it interesting about this business of interpretation. As has
often been said on this blog, the best interpretation now may not be the best
interpretation of a work. In say, Shakespeare's play, “King Lear”, his choices of words
may have meant something interesting to audiences in the 16th century, giving
lines a significance that we cannot grasp. Their best interpretation may be
quite different from our best interpretation. But that leads us to conclude
that the work meaning today differs from the work meaning when the play (or poem) was written. It
seems too easy to have works of art, for which almost no one will be in a
position to give the best interpretation, not even the specialists, always defeating the
point of identifying work meaning with the best hypothesis.
There!
