HOW MMA WRITES. LEE KWO AAD GID. DAVID MCLEAN
what wound where of what wound where
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breakage lessened shadow ever to...all lapse back-step deserted as of...skyline what no matter...landscape what no matter
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slash-mark having of in echo dreamt... extinguish all same as before...over once more until
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unspeaking colours breakage point of none resplendent
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...utters without in lack of on...what of in on...no not of a no not a on...trace without...cold din of nothing ever ever if...where placement of in nothing more collapse...drag what pelt...echo echo of unspeak of tone
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no not of not a..nowhere having of closed some semblance wound absorbed...spit it out once more as if to drown upon
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bitten blight of having no nothing having yes of other than collision with where speech non-claim where words non-claim...from outset onset as was said
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dead zones no not a...nothing ever of...no not on...nothing next to follow...burns allwhile in citrus flame...paralysis gestures &...breakage of what matter
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where laughter long is some bitten reclusion...dead tone...breach-birth some solace in what of collision nothing ever...nothing no yet on where on is final no...intermezzo...forgotten climes...
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the text allows linguistics because research, litteraturetheory, linguistics, are dead.
so these dense textpatches (of which I took just the ones that charmed me) do not, no,
they incorporate the "resistance is futile" adagium and in doing so, outwriting so,
seal what these texts themselves say isn't to be sealed. I, each time could have taken
one and a half sentence further to reach to the same 'zonofloating' with words that
nevertheless snake themselves into themselves, for the words sake (lexicology, -post-),
for a metrum that has density as parameter, or irritative, insecticide intermissions,
interferences, this text doesn't respect its own medium anymore yet hijacks it to further
us in the realms of nowhere. if it were a music then the sluts, the killers, the hells,
the the, if it were paintings than of pollock, kippenberger, rhotko (rothko), baselitz,
if it was theatre than situationist performances of pippilotti rist, tracey ermin, the
NY collective 'die collector scum' and or, 'relax it is just a crap reena spartings show'.
if it was poetry than on the endpoint of beckett, céline, borges, célan, cioran, thomas
bernhard, gertrude stein and margarite duras. we have here a random collection of
end formulas as adorno and wittgenstein formulated them and then postpost. there
are cryptic tautologies, to lash out to whichever meaningfulness maintained. we have
imminent, immanent, contradictive patches (i.e. the event itself - adorno). we have
dynamism for that is what contingently, accidentally, came to the fore. spitting at once
is choking, relief exists simultaneously with horror, time is unemotive, flesh has an
expiration date. yet it is the world speaking, even the speech, at last, of chlorophyll.
the shocking white fields of blight and acidity of citrus take language down to earth:
"bitten blight of having no nothing having yes of other than collision with where
speech non-claim where words non-claim...from outset onset as was said / dead zones
no not a...nothing ever of...no not on...nothing next to follow...burns allwhile in citrus
flame...paralysis gestures &...breakage of what matter". misspellings give a dadaist
touch to what already intensely, ok., sensuously directionless is or, and, this as
vile as communal referencelessness documents with the exactitude of the crypsis
of this language. Michael McAloran you're da bomb.
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in his texts Mick (Michael McAloran) curates the [impossibility of representationism anymore], of the societal-political-erotisized-dissociationist-psychotic-postironic-hypercomplexisized-medicotransit- penitentiary-corporate-trans-and or postnational 'world' adressed in his texts then, the last esthetic mirrorings of these wastelands through which we wade, in bleak necessity,in machinationmechanistical catatony, our arts following sinister paths to follow the porncinema our world has become. the paradox is, and it isn't also a paradox anymore, that Mick conceives this inexplicable, indiscernable cryptolinguistic curating [holidayjob] documenting in exactitude that it is no longer possible to follow these worlds of the world like we sit on top of it but we're deeply indebted as well as prey to its capriciocity and haunting presentism, the world over us that is, and Mick bears witness to exactly this precarious position, point, to which all end-arts and anti-estheticisms must dwell finally in unironic splendour of a glitzing decay.
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LEE KWO AAD GID
Lee wrote: "Desire can never be deceived and yr work is always moving ahead of both desire and death words of life inflicted on the living and the dying the metaphors create an alien but not alienating universe/There is something being written on the cells of our body between aggregate desire and group fascination the words lead us astray into the distraction of illumination an opening of wounds a healing of chaos and Eros the perpetually intoxicating addictions that flow thru the intensity of yr words is an escape from the reactionary centre out to the margins of radical libidinal inspiration which as you say are outside the human scope which is rapidly coming to an end/The only position to take is one of a misanthrope in unrepresentable space of the whatever/The Talmud its being whatever allows only for the singularity of the godhead and the holy ghost in other words such as it is/Watch for the supreme assault on the thinking fokken zef brain a state of fractured sensibility/Regards and affection Leo Androgyn/"
we take a position like in a choreography in NY off off broadway in that unrepresentable space of the
whatever,the center of the tomorrow dance,where some arbitrary demarcationline between dance
and life long ago breached and manifested in outflows of borderline borderless dancing walking stumbling movements along the pavement as in TADs video “stumbling man” which keeps representing an astute image of how to move if you’re either a cocoscrab or citizin to toronto vancouver kobe yokohama amsterdam rotterdam we negotiate and navigate with radar and fluorescent warpaints and bioluminescence through the alleyways of nowherecity applicable on either center of urbanity like wrens flying in thick,dense bushnels of ligustrum or hawthorn that slide
along those branches as if the’re houdinis posthoudinis in english gardens barbara cartland would have had a nice tearjerker pink book out of it the talmudic multiplicity shall be its infracomplexity.....
“During the 15th and 16th centuries, a new intensive form of Talmud study arose. Complicated logical arguments were used to explain minor points of contradiction within the Talmud. The term pilpul (related to the Hebrew word pilpel, meaning "spice" or "pepper") was applied to this type of study. Usage of pilpul in this sense (that of "sharp analysis") harks back to the Talmudic era and refers to the intellectual sharpness this method demanded.Pilpul practitioners posited that the Talmud could contain no redundancy or contradiction whatsoever. New categories and distinctions (hillukim) were therefore created, resolving seeming contradictions within the Talmud by novel logical means.”|wikipedia
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poetry of disdelusion DAVID MCLEAN
all vignettes of classicism,and then a new one. the derivational poetry of what it all not is,leaves
us piquant poems unveiling dead centers. often a bit fucked up as plazas. David Mclean's poetry
spurrs toward such comments. his poems are concentrated lemmata in which a certain,or two,
"truisms" "get's it",can get it. and it gets it. all confessionalism,thought of an afterlife,heaven or
hell,the thought or idea of a god,even of spirituality,of solidity,are all heavily under fire or yet,
refinedly attacked with arsenic and mould. hell rather is the here and now. only however when the
heavily ecclesiastically burdened notion is bereft of all that: what belief and faith and confession have made of the world. the poetry of david is certainly postInquisitional,if this means all the fucking christian notions and lexicological or exegetical acribic bullshit is cut out of it. perhaps there is even a new inquisatory impulse here. it is the never ceasing curiosity about which moronic actions the society has entangled itself into now,again. if belieflessness acquires contours of zelousness it is also thrown into the dustbin of no return.
perhaps this could be an ideosyncratic feature of the poetry of david mclean. at first sight,also after having read more poems of david,one could be tempted to place the topology of his poetry within the ideological-postideological-nonideological cloud of nihilism,ascetism,logicism,antitheology,
agnosticism,fatalism,hermetism,antipoetry,postpostmodernism,postironicism,neoclassicism,flarf,
antiflarf,anhedonism,deathpoetry,poetry of the endworld,antihumanist poetry,posthumane poetry,
poetry of the dead socius,poetry of the psychotic socius. i think it is all of this and more,yet to name but one of the above monikers as the exhaustive declarative clausule would be excreted by the poetry itself,and,asap. and this abjective reflex seems an ideosyncratic impulse in the poetry of david. an abhorrance of the mundanest things of the world where they show their mediatic poise:
as "élan vital",as a vitalistic yet presumptuous assertion of what is often or and generally thought to be the regulative of the conventional and correctional societal mechanisms as eversomuch "motors" keeping our fucking economy together thereby ruining our fucking ecology as these in accumulative measurements is antropofected detrimental to all other livelihoods on the planet. this, would never be entamised as such in davids poetry yet can be easily derived as one of the major factors driving his poetry. then now we shall leave it at this abhorrance.
the poetry itself is written in an impeccable style of often mere global assertions,or,lighter,hunches,
with which the poems softly begin,and weaving further on these introductive sketches,we are launched along almost athmospheric trajectories,whereby the following assertions each time annihilate the latest one,so that we perhaps hover within a certain nihilist realm,yet if this was said to be the solid regulative of these poems,david would minutiously make clear that perhaps in our perception may lie a nihilism dormant,but that he preferrably shuns any "isms",and leave us with these consecutive derivative denunciations of overly happy-merry-systemy-styley-schooly pinpoints
yet that his,this poetry rather ressorts under,well,under nothing really,this not a devaluation of any sorts and if it is paradoxal that such poetry with that haughty of onset in anywhich way shall keep puking on whatever system or unsystem,then that is o.k.
"the dead travel insanity
safely, this distorted world
is twisted faces
and no sense of location;
it is flux and nipples,
death and the living waiting
we are: memory and empty
falling too far, "
it is remarkable that we could take almost any quote out of david mcleans poetry and we then have a prism,representative,immediately,of the lucidity and at once (david put the plugs in your ears) a kind of mysticism,of,"what there is",and it is kind of an endgame,hilarious more than tragic even if it is tragic,this,all so masterly written is nothing more than a wonder. yet nothing divine !
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