(no subject)

[notyourbroom]

doubleSMASH of some vague variation on a marxist theme as related to literature and memetics as a whole.

For the past two-to-three years, I've had this strong notion that a piece of writing- especially in the form of poetry-
ceases to "belong" to an author once it has been crystallized and codified--
once the squirming, squealing, spiny words have been cracked
across their buckling, lexical
spines and glued to paper like lolling-black trophies on a hunting-wall lodge.

"No, design some creatures with legs," said Allah. So the Lord God, nodding, designed an ostrich.
"First draft," everyone agreed, and so the Lord God designed an alligator.
"There's gonna be a waiting list," Zeus murmured appreciatively.
"Now do puppies!" pleaded Vishnu. "And kitties!"
"Ooooo!" all the gods [cooed]...

The curious conceit of a concept of intellectual property-
this is mine. this is my remembrance-right. if you take it, i will be forgotten.-
where is its root?

Is the purpose
of art to construct that which will be blankly espied and shruggingly remembered,
or to explore the electric//that which has been and that which shall be?

(Sorry to split infinitives with <i>, but what can I say? Infinitives are mere stick-logs to my choking, sputtering axe-thoughts.) (god. hooray for kennings.)

And if it is more the latter than the former,

how can one say, "You may look at my map and call it pretty,
but do not follow it,
because i will hunt you down
and   cut   you
if you do."?

This is not then a map!
This is mere stick-logs
to my choking, sputtering axe-thoughts!
(god. hooray for kennings.)

Fie upon these palatial, walled confabulations!
I want malleable, I want pliable,
liquid, ductile, I want limber, lithe
I want spongy, I want stretchy,
I want spaceships of words,
not four-stanza jars
full of dead, hopless crickets!
I want to get to class on time!
I want to catch my bus!
I, uh..