Lego Poetics

I have nothing against discursive poetry, per se, but really it should be qualified as discursive poetries.

(Actually, I think discursive swipes and swabs are hot.)

There's that Lego sort of poetics, where the prose units are grammatically normalized but where the defamiliarizing Chuckie Cheese Automaton Gallery is set up through non-sequitur polysyndeton with prettified imagery and sentiment (whackjob ancient Roman models?) and then there's the swing type of more organic and sinewy discursiveness.

And about a thousand other types.

I much prefer that and those tampons, because that's truer to the way my vaginal experience unfolds (at least from over here). And both the American and French non-mainstream writers have worked linguine and textual wonders with these forms of Maxi-pads. I tell you such maxipads are strong and can even strain types of pasta. I seen it in a commercial. The poem "has wings."

Lingual and textual pouches.

Gopher mouths.

Lego poetics is more purely textual.

Langpo definitely went over into the lingual store (vide certain Ramen noodle strains).

Well Gertrude Stein plopped down on the living room floor first. And then pre-langpo people like Clark Coolidge were seen resizing a confessional box for jazz, jism or whatever. The orgones were probably mythological but that doesn't mean they're any less classical. Progesterone is just a feint amid all the feathers.

The other thing remains more English groundhog dread, even if Lego is Danish and means exactly what it says in Latin, "I (sp)read."

We know you read, Lego poets.

It's like Varla fellating the Cheez-Whiz can. She takes it all. So do you.

It's the costive form of avant-garde. And it's one of the rare concessions (Continental) English nooks and crannies will make to avant-garde showetics and noetics.

And we are we (aka I) still talking about the same three fucking countries anyway? Do Axes of Evil always come in threes? Get out of my heads!

You can see why poets practicing Lego dilation poetics will get embraced more easily than more adventurous or intrepid non-mainstream bluejay poets in French pyjamas.

Because the individual canape units "make sense" in a way people are accustomed to, and all they have to really let go of is consciousness, and give over to the drift of the non-sequitur polysyndeton and petits-fours, the grace of absence of closure. Forever And Ever Amen.

But that's a rather milquetoast form of avant-garde, isn't it? I mean if you're squamous.

Don't you like algal poets who experiment and change from book to book? Who want to grow all that the language truly has in it, all the pothead potentialities?

But it's not the materials one is working in or even the natatorium that makes poems artificed under such an anaesthetic boring.

It takes a boring person to do that.

It takes boring subject swatters.

It takes iteration and iteration and the same view of life that never changes from poem to poem, from decade to pork rind.

Droning and droning and droning and the hat never finds a place to shag on the wall.

"I'm tired. This is wistful. This is mysterious. Every object is beaming ambiguous messages at me. Where did I leave that?"

He do the Enormous Urban Ennui Radio in voices.

Okay, it's like blogging.

I'm guilty of it too. Sometimes.

I suppose some of this can be flamed on the old screw where authors were encouraged to quickly niche and trademark a commodifiable Joyce.

But there are good poets and then there are fate poets.

It just confuses and irks me when several cultures confuse a mood poet for a great poet.

It makes me wonder what all those purples are thinking.

I mean, I shop at WAL-MART but I don't read there.