According to scientifically reliable reports, Dasein is 30 percent banana and 65 percent water; but Dasein is 94 percent chimp, so Dasein is currently sharing roughly 94 percent of its bananas, and 94 percent of its water, with chimps!

It’s no coincidence that genes look like strings of bananas, and reportedly account for 30 percent of Dasein’s longevity. I’ll bet that’s the same 30 percent of Dasein that is Dasein’s bananas!

Dasein’s longevity is therefore dependent on brokering a fair share of our bananas, and our water, from those hoarding chimps.

Don’t think just write
don’t think just right.

Sharing a late night red
with a tight wad muse
at five and fifty three before
the sparrows fart,

precisely.

Since when did beetles learn to upright themselves?
Put him to work then, shall I?

gfdx alt
hgfdx alt
gv space
jk comma space
f4 4 esz function

and he’s away
whoops!

don’t think just right
dont think, just fly
and watch your reputation
plummet.

A common or typical poem can be understood as something that can be put in your face or in your ears. With regard to a poem’s relationship to one’s face, the poem may be shoved up one’s nose or rammed down one’s throat. This may, however, occur quite independently of the poem itself. For example, we might imagine that a poem could be inserted into the tip of one’s penis or prescribed as a laxative. It is true that these examples tell us a great deal about my own psychological demeanor, yet they also alert us to the physical nature of the poem. A poem can get into places that a novel or a brush turkey simply can’t get at.

A poem can get in one’s face much like a mature Eastern Grey Kangaroo, insofar as it can kick you in the teeth and tear the sunshine from out of your arsehole and into your chest cavity. This only serves to highlight the fact that the strength of a poem is not relative to its size. Regardless of strength, the relationship of poem to face, as distinct from poem to ear, is most often one of surface to eye. I will call this form a surface poetry.

Any description of the surface that a poem appears on should remain distinct from the poem itself. The computer monitor, the yellowed leaf of paper, the suburban brick wall and the pale blue sky are mediums and would all seem to be irrelevant to the essence of the poem itself; but is this really the case? The non-sighted among us will surely interject, and I think rightly so, that my surface poetry does not give due respect to the capacity of a poem to touch upon the flesh. A poem that is inscribed in Braille must have its surface included within its essence. Therefore, a surface poetry will in some way retain the essence of the surface.

This realisation necessarily raises a question regarding the scent of the surface. Does the ancient smell of the paper or the oil of a leather binding belong to the essence of a poem? If the essence of the poem must give respect to the flesh, there is little reason to deny one’s sense of smell from the experience of a poem. We can therefore include within the essence of a surface poetry each of the following relationships. Surface to eye: surface to flesh: surface to nose.

The relationship between poem and ear can also belong to the essence of a surface poetry; as one of fingernails to blackboard or hammer to nail; but it will be complicated further when we start thinking about the spaces that the sound travels through, and maybe even the emotions or histories that stand within those spaces. One thing seems clear. You don’t have to open your eyes to appreciate surface poetry.

Has morse code ever been used to convey poetry? Does the medium of space belong to the essence of a poem in the same way as that of the surface medium? Why can I imagine writing a poem with scented oils and food colourings into a current at the bottom of Sydney Harbour whilst humming Frank Zappa’s ‘You are what you is’ at a passing Black Bream; but I still feel no closer to putting my finger upon the quintessence of poetry?

Hi Leigh,

Thank you for honoring me with a “creative blogger award/2009″. The first thing I did, which you might have guessed I would do, was to try to trace its maker. A pleasant surprise it was indeed when I discovered that calliopespen, a writer whose work I have read and enjoyed on more than one occasion, had put the petallic pink Kreativ Blogger award into the digital makeover machine and flattened it into a delightfully minimalist blue tile complete with spell correction. Perfect! Are we blokes really that predictable? You bet. Equally pleasant, Leigh, that you passed this award despite the fact that I have failed miserably to review your “Passing Through the Ghost” and “Hope in the Well of Angst”. I read both regularly and enjoy them immensely. As I continue to read and understand the greats, I continually find new ways to read your work, particularly as I am becoming more familiar with the existentialists.

So you say I should pass this award on to seven other bloggers and divulge seven of my secrets!

Walking is one of my favorite dreaming activities. I usually seek out clearings in forbidden bushlands or scale dangerous cliff faces beside the beach. The sun is always shining. I once discovered a large clearing in the bush, with jagged rocks and railway sleepers strewn throughout. Bellbirds tinkled in the canopy; sun light flickered and danced among the leaves in the undergrowth while a newborn child lay silently and lifelessly on a moist, lichen covered rock. I picked it up and held it for a moment in my arms, and I hated it. I took it by the ankles and flung it desperately against the rock from where it came. It offered up no bone to break. It did not cry. I saw another child move, and then another and another. And I took them one by one and flung them angrily into the closest and sharpest rock I could find. I could not make their bodies snap or break. They did not cry. Not one of them! I’m pretty sure I didn’t feel disgusted with myself until I woke and realised just what I had done.

So you see? I can’t possibly pass this award on; given my history.

Satan’s failure rates are like one in God knows how many.
So long as you keep your skin in the game there’s no telling.

If I measured all my cards on the table from end to end,
I would clearly become so distanced that I wouldn’t be able to sleep with myself.

Can’t begin to dream I have imagined up embodiment with you.
There must be something like a world of pain we’re stuck into.

To share a common ground beneath our feet, or sow its seams
is to the leisure of the reaper as it could be to the pleasure of a
“Fuck with your extremes!”.

And so it was that God was dead, his demons were at peace;
then one of Them removed the bloodied tag from the deceased.

Believe you me, the choice is yours, you cannot have us both ways
but you’ve got to love democracy. Bend over, bitch, and blow Me.

You’ve sized me up; for that I’ve got to give you merit
so feel free to swallow while you’re down there,

or show some spunk and wear it on the chin.
I’ll leave the pieces out incase you want to play again.

For those of us who failed by the second
it might be wise to hold your vows; exchange them on your deathbed.

@maekitso read that @gingatao
is not fond of the given word ’slam’,
so in keeping with all of the tension about
I thought maybe I’d give you a slam in the French.

I rubbed the dub dub dub dot then
babelfished yahoo dot com,
where slamming the English into the French,
revealed a claquement seeking the cash for applause!

On this matter, I may seek a comment from Laws,
though I am more inclined to call @TomYHowe
and offer up slam for his mighty Hai tree.

The word has its place

and the place / has its word

and poetry cosplay is not so absurd

~~~

With a cheeky monkey grin
shadows threw through unshaven shadows.
Hail the size of basmati rice
slamming harsh into
the first fists of jasmine.
What will remain
of their applause tomorrow
as you sniff
through their pockets,
decayed?

Put your belly button away.
It’s dinner time.

Well, why don’t you just
unbutton up ‘n chill?

That wouldn’t be appropriate.
Besides, you’ll get a chill.

Meh! That’s my loss
not yours.

Whereby the gut position
is held to express,
(or if you prefer – to shit out),
where you are coming from.

Whereby the etymology
of all that rumination
is given by the character
of pure elimination.

Whereby history shows
only what it made
of that which you put
in your comment box.

It’s easier to thread an elephant
through the eye of a plackyderm
than to mix metaphors
with a camel in traction.

Inspired by Simonne Michelle-Wells re-reaction to my reaction to melbourne funk. Let history show that Simonne remains, to my mind, an origin.

An attempt to ward off split-personality disorder in my workplace. See! Even Point of Sale systems can do Haiku; and find a market for them! haha.

]]> http://maekitso.wordpress.com/2009/09/21/register-your-interest/feed/ 12 Brad IMG_1908 http://maekitso.wordpress.com/2009/09/20/philosobible-chapter-1-geniusness/ http://maekitso.wordpress.com/2009/09/20/philosobible-chapter-1-geniusness/#comments Sat, 19 Sep 2009 13:49:03 +0000 Brad http://maekitso.wordpress.com/?p=713 ]]>

(A concise revelation with certain and friendly found elements)

1. In the end, Necessity is the daughter of Intention and the mother of Invention.

2. And Intention improperly takes of his Needs for Invention, as Luck would not have any more of it.

3. And Intention proceeds to make claims on his daughter’s Invention.

4. But Invention, of Necessity, bears no ill Will; since nothing like freedoms or choice were instilled.

5. So Pretension, being apriori to Intention, puts the foot down.

6. And Pretension is mocked everywhere by the force of tradition; until finally Fortune, familiar, reveals the real Intention.

8. And Necessity, given her mother’s eyes, thinks herself lucky.

9. And Pretension receives the reward that befits a good Will.

Conclusion: Objectification is not a necessary ground for description but it helps if you want to derive any kind of pleasure from it.