renaissance

Ulterior Jukebox

“I try to inspire experiences for my audience but I don’t take credit for it. It’s not like I’m prescribing a medicine. I’m just the facilitator. If you are moved and encounter a new idea or feeling or experience then it is because something has spontaneously occurred for you that is personal to you. And that’s outside my sphere of influence.” — Jessie Fingers, Looping the Loop

The sense of continuity provided by the narrative device made the records complete. The literary gimmick gave the impression that the author was clever enough to be able to articulate a concept. Narrative made fiction sound like fact. Spontaneity, contradiction, the music of poetry were ignored and replaced with the concept of the concept, which was a cop-out.

The Y-shaped structure was covered in faded writing. The character named Nasrul found nearby a similar plastic structure creaking in the breeze as it stood up out of the ground like an arrow sign: ^. It was also marked with inscriptions as recorded — out here.

In contemplating the establishment’s anachronisms, its classical allusions and inherent immorality, the general public had been defrauded.

(more…)

Envelope

[text]

Envelope

a condensed novel in 22 verses

[>>> Envelope]
[audio]

_0envelope

1. Specific to sitting in a deck chair, lacquered, bright, snowy cheeks. One critic of social and political life. Nerve end, Fabian. Left the body a god in Cairo, in the foyer with the McEwan’s manager. English punctuation or the decimal equivalent. Plays at Wimbledon Cathedral, a Mobiüs strip breaking the hyphens of the characters’ tics, now stalactite. Ulysses’ rooms bequeathed by merchants’ muscle fibre, barbershop Swift, are ravens on wires flying to nests of croissants. Invisible, distilled, immanent. The zinc stylus is saying who doesn’t read the Dubliners to Antigone made magnanimous dents smelling of pine off of a Renaissance Pope.

2. The World’s Most Famous Electric Razor. Freud’s rational, secular spice tree slightly intriguing the mischievous French starlet engine. The voice lymphatic. W. B. Yeats clones in Belfast stitching the tremours to Nevada. As a kestrel, the poem is about to taste the milk, smell the coal in a threadbare armchair, with a glass of Vouvray to help navigate the Panopticon. (more…)