Semioanalysis Discotheque
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
 
I was mad at you originally for not linking to my weblog, because I linked to your post of 10/5/04 about "Sheep Poetics" and then I saw you linked to Tommy Schism's blog but you didn't link back to my link which was linked to Tommy too, even though Tom's link to me was placed into his template before my assault on the "incorporation of snuff poems" which linked to both you and Tom's cat, Pooky. But what I didn't understand at the time I failed to link to you on purpose was that you had actually linked to She-Ra's link in her post about "asceticism among limerick writers" which linked back directly to my link to your left ear. This hurt my feelings initially, and that's why I took down my link to your link to She-Ra's link to Tommy's blog which decided the outcome of the Gilded Age. Which is why I linked to Fred's discussion of "post-blog skin writing" that then linked back to your link to She-Ra's link which I had intially missed because I was busy removing your link from my site. Well! I'm glad we got that straightened out, though I'm wondering why you are spending all your time linking to Stumpy Barracuda's new collection of poems when you failed to link to my new collection from Dead Horse Press which is linked on all the major blogs now including Link's Links, the links from which everyone borrows their links. Are they pity links or kissup links or link links? I guess we'll never disempower ourselves to decide. I hope all of you understand that my links love all of your understanding.

 
While in the midst of preening yourself,
you are lovable but lonely. Or, to paraphrase Mr. Hammer,
"One may not touch this." I'm tired of bricks
mortaring me back to the group hug. In labcoats
the few thus peruse the prophesy for the many
goddamn wildflowers that bloom in empty empty lots.
The force of declaration on my way to the bunkum
tells me that beauty is a weapon, your fetishes
futures. Well, I'm depressed! Here we are talking aesthetics
while some thug driving by drowns out all
dissent. Someday can I be a thug too?
Anarchic grownups make one turn back to a sweeter
tempo, reaching toward your fat lip coming into the frame
(what frame?) and then we decided on the veal.
We were very indirect, we were very spotty
unglued in spring rooms by tarantula syntax.
We thought you were a hottie until Armageddon
just happened! Now the sides of the cliff I'm straddling seem
unbridgeable: the question of what you meant by that
exact shimmy? Who knows! You've lit your own barbecue
and are bringing home the meat, or "content" for fuel.

Tuesday, August 31, 2004
 
C'est tres difficile, having a virtual body; I can hardly drag the Filene's bags along behind my sentence, lifting them then with urgent arms into the SUV. I lumber among your dark cicatrix of house and trance, where the Rambo falls mainly on the plaque-fighting ingredients!

 
Today I am feeling the nostalgia for your Rod McKuen.

Saturday, August 07, 2004
 
I have insomnia this evening, so I got out my old ABBA albums and performed a reminiscence. I am truly digested by this music! It performs such a realignment of the inner paradigm, and may I also humbly submit that this band "totally fucking rocks," as you Americans would say. I want to be a poet who writes love songs to votre cans of soup in the grocery store. After that...who knows? Carnegie hall? In fact, I am currently working on a series of poems based on ABBA's songs which employ the technique of appropriation, using the exact same lyrics that ABBA wrote and presenting them as my own. The goal of this project is to mobilize the ideology of our aural environment as a site of resistance while I make loud squelching noises with my sweaty hand clasped in my armpit. Here is number 452 of the series:

Super Trouper

Super Trouper
beams are gonna blind me
but I won’t feel blue
like I always do
’cause somewhere in the
crowd there’s you

I was sick and tired
of everything
when I called you
last night from Glasgow
all I do is eat
and sleep and sing
wishing every show
was the last show
so imagine I was
glad to hear you’re coming
suddenly I feel all right
and it’s gonna be
so different when
I’m on the stage tonight

Tonight the
Super Trouper
lights are gonna find me
shining like the sun
smiling, having fun
feeling like a number one
tonight the
Super Trouper
beams are gonna blind me
but I won’t feel blue
like I always do
’cause somewhere in the
crowd there’s you

Facing twenty thousand
of your friends
how can anyone
be so lonely
part of a success
that never ends
still I’m thinking
about you only
there are moments when I
think I’m going crazy
but it’s gonna be alright
everything will be
so different when
I’m on the stage tonight

Tonight the
Super Trouper
lights are gonna find me
shining like the sun
smiling, having fun
feeling like a number one
tonight the Super Trouper
beams are gonna blind me
but I won’t feel blue
like I always do
’cause somewhere in the
crowd there’s you

So I’ll be there
when you arrive
the sight of you
will prove to me
I’m still alive
and when you take
me in your arms
and hold me tight
I know it’s gonna
mean so much tonight

Tonight the
Super Trouper
lights are gonna find me
shining like the sun
smiling, having fun
feeling like a number one
tonight the
Super Trouper
beams are gonna blind me
but I won’t feel blue
like I always do
’cause somewhere in the
crowd there’s you

 
Sometimes I worry so much about what my audience thinks of me that I break out in sores around the entire lining of my mouth from toxic stress. After all, I have no other life but you. Your new book is in my hand right now while I type this!!! My shrine to you is bigger than my shrine to that other dickhead. Shhh...don't tell anyone...

Wednesday, July 28, 2004
 
Welcome to "24 Hour Poetry People."

Monday, July 26, 2004
 
"The logic of the philosophies that informed this aesthetic implied that socially useful ideas would no longer be articulated in conventional intellectual forms, but would develop new means that did not privilege the abstract intellect. The culture of yeltaw AAAAAAAAAAAAaoooogah nik nik in intellectual INGENAFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFringals technad HOOMP! Beyond the ken of unh unh PTWENALLLLLLLLLLLLLENAAAD!!! My study, by reconstituting gunboooooooooooooooooooologga, logga logga FUMPO. Hun hup nik as the domain of those balllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Ankh! It requires rethinking what the froogeewataaadumpesta in keen historically found smkarkass. Instead, you "get this feeling" that gnawoaaaaaaaaaaaaaah nun getat FULSH! What ideas have been socially constituted fwarp dun glot buk buk, EEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAALLLLLGGGGGGGGGGwuh btenow 'discourses' glump. Shoon! Tootank Gherig fallawalla." 

Friday, July 23, 2004
 
O, your tapioca pearls have made me sluggish and narcissistic!

 
Meeting eurotrash in your downtown elevator, I feel right at home in votre group-think environment. Such maneuvers are unhomelike though relentlessly dull! Abba dada waco vegas, incognito jeune fille degas.

Thursday, July 22, 2004
 
Ebullient yet sardonic is difficult to accomplish without sounding nasty, which is why so many listeners flee when I begin to undo my boutonniere. O you listening types, I am amplified and have been dispersed by lions! Their manes chuckling at the edge of the dessert tray remind me that perhaps there were never really listeners, just grouper fish. The hysterical screams when Jan and Dean mount the stage are cued by anthropologists-in-training. I'm Echo, you're Gayatri Spivack. No really, I mean that.


 
Allen Bramhall claims that I can't be arch and scrofulous at the same time. Just watch me!


 
Hello, my name is Karl Merleau-Marcuse. I am a Franco-Germanic poet who has recently immigrated to America. I am doing my best to make sense of this confusing, alienating capitalist culture swirling around me every day. Join me and my friends as we discuss contemporary American poetry and other vital cultural matters.

 
What Narcissism Means to Me
Tony Hoagland
($11.20, Graywolf Press, 2003)

I was reading Tony Hoagland's new book "What Narcissism Means to Me" this morning when I heard your ice cream truck go by outside on the street! How I whisked open the door and ran barefoot out to the yard's edge, purchasing two of your Klondike bars and a creamsicle. Metanarratives getting old is getting old. My feet are itchy and I think I may have contracted some variety of fungus. We are all out of clean towels. An owl hoots in the banderillas. Did I pay the phone bill? Which makes me think of my dead uncle and his valiant struggle with the gang of lawyers. What IS a dead uncle anyway, and why do we think about them? I am feeling gassy and bloated from too much ice cream now, and I think I may have bad breath. Would you confirm this for me? Is there a mossy-looking scrap of food lodged between my teeth there? Terrible things will happen if you go to the parade, Caesar. I think I just got BINGO!

But the most powerful element of this hairdo is the startup brewery. What's happening to Fred? He's got some kind of exczema and is going into spasms of hawkish abandon at the thought of invading Iran as well. I have had trouble with acne in the past few days, which makes me look like a fired anchorperson. Four ice cream sandwiches is too many in one day and makes me want to go take a nap on the universal symbol for "we come in peace." I never wanted this job, I wanted to be a shoe salesman. Which is why talking dogs appear so audacious in checkered bar-hopping atmosphere.

I want a new stereo. I need to remember to pick up milk, eggs, and kale at the grocery store this evening.

 

Bobby-Joe is down in Aerosmith this week visiting friends so I have custody of our four komodo dragons plus Dudette, a big sweet puffer fish who belongs to my colleagues Missy & Lou, who are in RuPaul on an academic junket. So I'm sitting here on a Wanamaker evening listening to Alternative Indie Rock & feeling "generally laid back." J'ai le strong sense that votre American voters are going to repudiate the extremism of the Bush administration come November, out of pure apathy for politics if not an understanding slightly less complex than that of professional wrestling commentators. The komodo dragons are geniuses of pleasure both energetic & mellow. I warned Missy that when she came back the place was going to look like there had been one Franco-Germanic poet & five puffer fish living here for a week. So today I swept up what must have been pounds of komodo dragon scales & grit tracked in on all those big & little claws, made sure everybody had their allergy meds & etc. etc. This is when, barring pathology, you Americans exclaim, Life is good.




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