(the third of 3 Brett Whiteleys)
... he became his admirers. - W. H. Auden, 'In Memory of W. B. Yeats'
You’ve succumbed. Tall Poppy,
they crave to say you’ve over-stepped.
Don’t go too far. Stay too far. Settle
your petals against the sand; today’s
a hot one on ego beach. Where we
can see, between the flags!
Swim on a rope.
_________How’d you expect us
to eat all this? What,
weren’t you thinking?
What weren’t you thinking?
in the kitchen, sniffling;
we want to feel your pain
but not forever. Brett,
it seemed someone was missing,
was not listening.
blown away as studio dust
or shot up as lunch.
painted our waiting,
expectations in exquisite detail.
We’ve been tailgating you,
true, your faulty tail lights.
This was a painting of ambition,
Icarus flightpath. Ambition is there
on the canvas, waving, screaming,
drowning in world. It writ large.
Alchemy at brettwhiteley.org
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
all about you I guess, snapped pencil freakcase who know all & better you awkward as source code you hyperverbal / you question mark in parentheses / yet another tangled wizard’s sigil
[Sure, let’s all erect vindictive monuments. (Maybe this is yours.) Depicts: your retreat into desert. Lived off sand. Thought it through your fingers. Read visions off the moons of your fingernails. Pursued by built-in bestiary. Juiced all gately cacti in sight but still a raging thirst. Only so much the eye can plan and prepare for.]
but in fact i love you yet again you the poem lived / thinking in tongues
[An error has occurred. Start with what you have. Could it be yours?]
you once troubling precocious, nascent psychic talents intimidating highschool teachers (we go way back) / always your scarf stitched with cryptograms, formulae
[I don’t have the patience.]
careers in prophecy? ditch day-job to contest/corrupt all assumptions
[Software is not for you: it does things you’ve asked for. You realise your mail keep bouncing?]
time to resign yourself to fallout, the recluse's winter? but you persist repairing dead philosophers / philosophy as repair, beyond repair & yet life in the beast still dehydrated gills / dabbling in junk gather skulls unzipping peripheries
[Squeezed prophetics out of manga-dreams. You the hero / a thousand traces. Such an immortal. Statue of light.]
you’re not the only delusionist flexing to grandmaster the Web / yours just another unseen site / face the fact I am half your traffic
[That’s right, ring the psychic hotline. Don’t like the forecast? So… ring another hotline.]
Thursday, December 06, 2007
"... the idea of portraiture and the idea of the recreation of the word. I took individual words and thought about them until I got their weight and volume complete and put them next to another word, and at this same time I found out very soon that there is no such thing as putting them together without sense. It is impossible to put them together without sense." - Gertrude Stein, 1946.
Pictured: Picasso's portrait of Stein.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
bloodshots (red cables cross my eyes) –
______obvious I’ve used
_________________lip-cracks / foodless sta-
______________________sis / cold-core bones
_____________________-afternoon: slight OD,
________________-fell asleep online
__________you arrive home /
___________my straight act:
_______________________paraphernalia locked away /