domingo, novembro 12, 2017

The Holy Book of Blake: "The Poetic Image" by Cecil Day-Lewis

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.



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."


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.


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

' 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


..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.


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.


Ah! Feck off! We don't do flowers
so will you ever just go and stick the whole of yourself, up your own arse


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.


2 comentários:

Book Stooge disse...

Wow, even for you, this seemed OUT there. I can't say that I really understood most of this.

Manuel Antão disse...

Yea, it was like an out-of-body experience...:)