Cult 239 44 3 
 

Why does artless establishment sell?
I refer to the rise of intellectual engagement
with young female poets. This is no fad;
in the arena of poetics, language has always
developed a faux-naïve arm pandering to strains
of inverse snobbery. My diagnosis concerns
me. The new are products, slippery servants
to slapdash assembly. Atypical truth-bending.
Honestly, this aesthetic priority with humility
is problematic. Feeling and practice form
a continuum of perceived social inequalities,
not assemblages of words. Ignorance is a virtue,
a tradition. I call for the wholesale condemnation
of endurance. It’s futile. Books are deliberately bad
for a reason (they twist vanity to applause). I
assert the opposite. The worst creations reject
the craft, fleetingly endure the growth of a poet’s mind
for now. This is standard eight-year-old fare,
garbled literal statements as a shield of puerility.
Imply this deserves to be taken seriously, taken
as poetry. I need undemocratic talent.

Agdaza

 

Like Luxreatio  
on the death-bed of theatre’s theatre throne,
Kadzka spilled his drunk Cantina di Negrar Amarone della Valpolicella Classico
1989
over the sobriety of post-communist woodland stage (Act III.X)
raising in fibre of ochre to the baton’s age. Cosquillas, ja?
I knew his song well, even then.
As if opera could grace the plebeian eyes
without wonderous ore bubbling to nothing like a trout
not de-gone. So as LCD Soundsystem so too the symphony, to go.

So go! You only know once what it was to be.
That was the night every famous man shook his
gluteus maximus, a Y scrawled on every “heart”. Greeted with a frown.
Like this white mule
could keep my pretty yummy Aphrodite girlie locked in a basement
as we swayed our comeuppance up
down the backstreets of virgin Barcelona:
rue de Ruby, Mazorca de Pueblo-Maíz, el tiempo jorba… it yawned on forever,
darling. So long, the world will ever reminisce
of! The old times. The beer-light tide of the land
scrupling the indolence of our mindful ordinance its men
confuse. Truly screwed, if it is true that the second act
begins. Ho-oh, Luxreatio,
oh-ho. Drink your Kadzka. Know no
one goddess on our wooden parts
on the stage of our disquisition.                                                         Prague, 1948

Film Review 236 43 6
 

“Two women stand against a backdrop of blue rock and blur-sky. What is she looking at?
Even on a literal level creative interpretation is lacking. There are hardly any shots of her actually writing, only echoes of phrasing.
                                     One pleasing detail is the screaming of bees.
The wind is a character, my dog, a black croissant. Atmosphere intensifies the plot.
Questionable misapplications of the facts (life was frustrating for difficult women
only in the 19th century)
                                     leads to a fundamental disengagement with metaphor.
In a darkened timeline, a woman stands not quite in the middle. She is fun.
What makes this omission
                                     succeed? Male figures are an authority to be denied. It is electric
to kneel in front of the pastor in the garden. Insert a lingering shot lit by candled fire
just here, please. “I will take pictures of my dirty mug unlit until it is pretty.”
                                                                                                                   It takes a turn
for the mediocre. Too light to be believably fascinating, illness commutes with the world.
Coyness comes from the handsome minister in the garden talking too,
                                                                                                   a dirt sphere.
This film is a celebration of incongruity, a plurality of belongings, etcetera, too long
to be believably fascinating. It knitted me into gums. Even if the poet is a baby who cannot understand poetry
            we can find something in it. Someone get Y on the line
slash break then scansion too. It seems bizarre to ignore this
poem. You keep skipping through this collection, Y. How?
Just scroll once, then watch every single word light up.”

3 10

POTUS45 235 43 5

I
 

Like a rash there is no holding out against the forces of mass entertainment coming
too soon. Socked it. His campaign team decided World Poetry Day
was not the occasion to sound their barbaric yawp 
 

so his advisors spent hours glued to YouTube, studying very not-good
slam poets command substantial audiences by means of professional
spontaneous presentation, unthreaded clichés, ingrained prejudices 
 

re-imagined as emotions, you know how he is. Meanwhile, on Twitter,
those of the space-time continuum controversially touted as “young people”
wanted to read/hear the sizzle online, so that went quick. Maybe if they brought books 
 

via Amazon we wouldn’t have fascism. Anyway, I wanted to point out – without being
insidious – that this is all slightly misleading, that there have been advances in policy,
that a development of my doctoral thesis on the محرقة published by Palgrave Macmillan 
 

in 2011 was made, just saying. Backwards: they learn to appreciate how performance creates
certain Republicans. He made some astute points. In order to refocus contentious troops
clear a space for his lost reputation eating vermillion crustaceans. He lost the vote 
 

so won the vote. I’m speculating irresponsibly, glossing the canon
of phrases sputtered out of context, laminated lies. He wore the coat.
Those not convinced can look for themselves: he really won(t(m)). His contribution
 

to our small screen is not an easy read. In his cameo the president looks
at the camera, not us (the internet, not the composer of the internet).
I know this because at the Electoral College I studied 
 

Twitter, the clearest literary record of our time, as pure a transmission
as pornography could one day be. My bio-inner think-tank calculated
the thoughts: one hundred and fifty thousand were in the crowd, preaching and tending 
 

fresh school shootings. Time to feel less sad and angry. You know you want to
piss off early, tomorrow-as-Sunday. “I wonder if Brexit is confusing
or conflating two scenes in the film.” Is seeking a return 
 

to the simplicity of early Christianity (setting up gatherings
that are independent and self-governing) good?  Fascism loves
a mild liberal: without legs. The leading figure in his group 
 

was an enormous bull made from bronze that is always angry on Wall Street.
Strange company. They did not make jokes, pass comments nor jostle/blow
noses. The comically awful image of masculinity throbs forevermore.  

 

Intermission: A Worry
 

One would usually add a moment of sudden violence here,
concerning nuclear annihilation. But I am writing; I have
no death. I want to be kind, but I cannot without a death
to be afraid of. Fear would pass the days, temporary as abysses.

 

I (Cont.)
 

Illegal migration: the notion of thorough movement to the point of exhaustion.
Most immediate are our new provisions in asylum seeker’s rights
to resilience. One way to frame the present environment is the desire to turn
 

into Hannah Arendt (state, nation and jurisdiction argue slaughter
argues culture detains the president, forever-sentenced to television).
“In an age of human movement statelessness has endured as the most pressing phenomenon.”
 

Example: the UK Government’s new immigration bill appeared in the House of Nowhere
with only a committee’s warning. It worked like a critical failure (Theresa May laughed). 
Since becoming humans modelled on the bildungsroman, we all crave straightforward 
 

lyrics in this vicious post-Britpop world. That scholar from before is dead.
The time through which the postmodern period is inaugurated being short, maybe
help? “On one side of a high wall, the one that divides America from More
 

America, above a burned-out car, the abundant poet-Trump spilled everything.
Separate the author at his border; really tighten that grip on your rock
you know I know you have. I’m counting on you and 65,844,953 illegal immigrants.”

A Hard Craig Raine Is Gonna Fall
 

It’s not you, it’s Craig Raine.
Craig Raine is mean
but nice to me. Craig Raine
is horny and eats Lolita-meat.
He will not love me. You, Craig Raine,
Craig Raine and I have a middling tolerance of
those who do not hate poetry. Ah, Craig Raine!
It’s not that I don’t dismiss him,
teaching like a teacher, but Craig Raine
(Craig Raine that is difficult) must fall on his sword, sharp as his
vagina. It must be hard to be Craig Raine,
but easy to read. He did more than Mars
but easy to read. He did more than Mars in the field of misogyny.
Craig Raine writes poems that aren’t always about women in airports.
Craig Raine has never met Craig Raine but I have met words about Craig Raine. He will forever be, for me, a Twitter-borne storm brewed from the darkness of an older soul. 

 

Frank Bidet versus Yevgeny Baratynsky 

 

Which is better: Half-light by Frank Bidet
or Yevgeny Baratynsky’s Half-light?
One collects
dust. The other selects
very carefully. On the one hand,
it involves the most remarkable transmutations of the body into language.
On the other, it brings together the most important and enduring poems
by a celebrated Americo-Russian writer.
One half is full.
This second is empty.
Bidet presents the struggles of Russia under Tsar Nicholas I in fantastical fashion
but Baratynsky represents the human voice in all its extreme registers.
He has done nothing,

you could say. At least both start with B.
Who will history choose?
Is NEITHER an option?

 

Experimental Poem
 

Nothing has changed in poetry since I was born
thirteen years ago.
There is no progress.
The same experiments “Hmm” their way to ruminations on old age.
Is this what reading is about?
How do you age as old as the decade when we still use a slash
to signal a line break?
Everything is a porous creation
now that everything is happening at once.
Norman MacCaig did not write a poem about the moon landing in 1969.
Obama is not mentioned in the canon of timelessness (don’t worry, I’m working on it).
Current affairs versus poetry, a stifling marriage.

A Poet on A Poet writing about A Poet, Both in Un-Self-Imposed Exile
 

‘Elkland’ is partly about Klee
and at the time I was working on a sequence called ‘Paul Klee’s Diary’
so we got married. He would stalk the margins of Reading like a hungover bear
until Reading Borough Council exiled him to the Edgelands
by Michael Symmons Roberts and Paul Farley (2012), an order from poetry’s elder statesman
Enoch Powell (a man that was Paul Klee).
Enoch Powell (a man that was not Paul K  I followed.
He was my husband, after all. Strugglers in the wilderness,
we ate rotten hare meat off carcasses, hunched like rusted shopping trolleys in the marsh.
The limits of interpretative frameworks emerged when we got cold.
Obvious debts to the Americans reared their head: gangsters in the wilderness, 
an acceptance of objective fact pissing the post-men off…
and acceptance of objective fact, the world’ Then
we came across a copy of Paul Klee’s work.

A dog-eared wine-stained photocopy,
tucked into the rib of a dead sheep.
It required no introduction.
Every single thing he had ever made was in our laps. It saved our lives:
it made us so happy we lay by a bog and died,
first from the inside, then up. 
first from the inside, then up.  We lost a major figure
widely regarded as the most important.
I came to prominence with the publication of my first major book of poetry. So did he.
Who are you reading? he would ask. Not Paul Klee.

Cornell De Huux

Three Odes, 2089 – 2172, Edited by Sebastian Groose

 

Ode to Jack Underwood

 

O, who designed the holodeck of Überlondon

so such a humble genius could be denied

with a crate of rubber ducks falling far

off that dock all poets must stumble across

after three accidental tabs of DMT

in the vegan pub? Must this simulation be

quite so brightly cruel? The magenta curves of death!
Did Jack see God, the happiness 2015

offered before the noxious bombs of the third world

war in the decades to come? Was it better for
the Dylan Thomas-named to consist entirely

along the edge of anxiety, to never
envision an eruption dystopic that will claim

billions? His eternal lyric sings sincere

among his collapsing. Buoyant as love, his words

are incantations – digitally aghast, against

virtuality – genius never not-not-young.

 

Consternation has been made regarding Underwood’s sympathies with the Green Party, but this criticism discards the historical context. Very few knew the political body would soon mutate into the Exo-Eco Militant Action-based Recuperation Enclave (EEMARE), let alone how effective their brutal purge of energy sector professionals would be in 2049. DeHuux deliberately toys with Underwood’s reputation, paralleling his own controversy when he emerged on the scene – the enjambment of “third world / war” is very telling, and aligns to DeHuux’s racist inclinations against the communist leagues of the Global South. Outrage from the critical literati upon the ode’s publication in Quizzical Inviter focused both on how out-of-fashion it was to choose Jack Underwood for an ‘ode’, of all things – though contemporary 23rd-century analyses his work with more nuance – as well as its apologetic stance to widely-discredited Silicon Valley myth of ‘simulationism’, the notion that all species live in a  computer simulation.

 

Ode to Hawk N-Q-122

 

Hawk N-Q-12 slept with the breath of footwork rhythms.
An android laid their wetting arm to the brow, to cool.

They, the last of the last iFurious. Do their

family and comrades not rage, congregated as
a livestream, the static in the air the sonic buzz

the ancient drum-and-bass of your people permitting
movement? Voluptuously the android, blue as the space

shuttle’s world-frame, kissed euthanasia upon their fore’

be-starred with sweat. The crisp scent of oil in their frontal
implant – that rings, hours later still, as the gathered

willed their irradiated ashes to eternal

activating space, the black hug, tenderly whispered

like the Windows 24 operating system failed

and they could not see to see the non-binary monarch

[][][]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]][].           upon the emerald hills.

 

Hawk N-Q-12 needs no introduction. They were the first non-binary poet to simultaneously hold both the offices of the UK and U.S. Laureateship due to the 2067 Anti-Bifurcation Agreement, along with the reception of numerous prizes and grants and commendation, including the Nobel (to which they burned their acceptance letter, live at the ceremony). When they publicly celebrated the San Francisco Cyborg Riots of ’82, they became a leading activist for android rights. DeHuux considers N-Q-12’s death with the sympathetic tone it deserves, although he still insists on referencing Dickinson as to compose his “immortal music” (DeHuux, 2099 interview) of morbidity, the ambitious “continuum of centuries” (Ibid.) his poetic project often attempts. Some critics have argued this negates any sympathies he has for the non-binary poet’s tragically sudden end. DeHuux’s patronising tone (“the ancient drum-and-bass of your people”) persists, too, and the sexualisation of the android nurse is sure to raise eyebrows (three editors begged him to take out “voluptuously “, much to DeHuux’s chagrin).

 

Ode to Sam Riviere

 

And twelve years later for no good reason I thought of Sam Riviere
and how he did not die but instead uploaded his consciousness

to AesthChance. Alas, due to glitchy indecision

he was converted into the algorithm a RhoCorp processing unit in Neo-Shoreditch

used without thought, a fate too many to-be-immortals succumbed

to due to the accursed bipartisan incompetence of

the Conversative-Labour Coalition administration

circa 2062. I remember Sam for reasons I am sure

of, good-natured, me spilling my protein supplement

with tears his way eighty years later, he-as-algorithm still working, probably

magnificent on some boring order or production line, as I – still the ‘dignified’ poet –

wonder why his banal pseudo-death had to happen when it was requested for the poor

so beautifully, I and my AI helper (whatever their name is) wondering (aloud

on this crisp winter morning, muffled philosophical thought through my gasmask

though his monotonal ‘response’ was not) if all the great writers

have already been born, if all upcoming genius is fated to be
the algorithm for an amazing processing plant in Neo-Shoreditch, if this is the site of worth?

 

This is a strange one. No serious writer has used single quotes in poems since 2032, for a start – whether this is due to DeHuux’s then-senility, or is a deliberate outrageous measure, is debatable. Explicit android discrimination makes this difficult to stomach, too, though the ironic hyperbole of the 2060s governance is more nuanced than initial reading could assume (see Payton-James, A Ball, Orbiting Fire: Political Ambivalence in the Mid-21st Century Lyric (University of Europa: South-East Federation of Jupiter, 2208), for more on this). The “request” for immortality technology being denied to working-classes being “beautiful” is also indefensible. ‘AesthChance’ is a pun on the actual organisation, AetherChance, and Neo-Shoreditch is anachronistic, having been flooded thirty years before Riviere’s tragic upload mishap. The ending is also puzzling. Some critics (namely Congrime) argue that “the site of worth” is a nod to one of DeHuux’s major influences, the poet, critic and yoga teacher Shaw Worth. Others (Ulbridge-Xom, Zlorg, Mumbo’Patchoo) dismiss this as sentimental.

Sascha Engel

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