Walking both ways
Manifestation is Luciferian.
Testing, testing: one two three.
“Our generation” is fractured, needing the quotation marks.
Disprove Descartes, drunk on French wine and graphing flies flying on the wall.
A bastard of a tribute, these poetics unrecognized by all but the malicious disbelievers, believing in pompous rhymes and violent form.
Form overts with violence, with a marching fascism enveloping signifiers in translations until they are others, and in reduction’s squeeze we are losing language (without a funeral for the passing) replaced with simple form.
He has a fear of dehumanization, a fear of that act of taking away humanity, leaving one alienated, leaving one posthuman, a machine, displacing one from society, losing those rituals that are our humanity because the narrative of your hair standing up in the morning is vital in the definition of you as “human.”
He walked both ways in his cage, that poet, that man who was both progressive and conservative, who was crazy because of Mussolini and because of our sanity—who progressed poetry with the backward strokes of ravings and fascism—who, supporting and subverting canon, begot by rending into creation and he stood in the middle of a rusted cage in European mud, invoking old deviled saints and fathering new hellions with neither the forward nor the backward knowing how to look at the wrinkled man pacing both ways.