__________________
The more literary theory produces the more it becomes a legitimized source of study all on its own. It
no longer relies on the originating works of writers. (But has now begun to exist beside it as quite
legitimate activity of belles-lettres). Rather it does respect the "original," but brings to it a study of its "means of production" on all levels. 'The '
reverence has been put in abeyance, like authors have been since Barthes Foucault and company
. (are now parenthesised by the incredible industry but with not quite the same reverence it used to have.) Literary theory has become its own source and no longer relies primarily on the original texts
which once gave literary criticism its raison d'etre. The author has lost his or her pre-eminence - there are different reasons for this; but for anyone who has written imaginative literature, there is a
difference and a pre-eminence given to authors, especially poets. It seems we have lost the "religious"
or sacred feel that surrounds the poet in other times and in other societies. Why is it we spend so much time interpreting when the writing is in fact an interpretation of us and our lives?
Thy feet
sandal shod
thy feet to measure
he measures thy feet to metre
with real pleasure
the list of the literary theoreticians goes on and on an one
like a heliotrope _ goin by the sun
----------
It's only by writing that you breath, Oedipus, Orpheus,
it's all the same thing, twice, two fingers, twice, --
Birthdays are some thing to remember you didn't get what you want
-- O so life is thee lonely pain bowl, the Christ
of emptiness, and you think all those --- died in gas,
and the others, millions too, died in vain--
Christ,of Jack emptiness
Oh!, damn me out, to hell with Orpheus, his lousy bag-pipes
're meant for pretty girls that kill'em in the end,
or he gets gay, from grief, now that's a nice alliteration,
Mister Orpheus Oedipus with you deluxe edition ego, super-ego, trammeld libido Id, what Id is,/The Wall of Infinity,
and the other places you go, and how to print this,
and what to walk it, making it work , like the slow pride of time,
some bodies, and women , their breasts, make hurricanes happen,
not happiness, but men, over centried centuries /
I see them or something sees them "my" eyes,
which is more like my drive, instinct, cock, something in my head pre-cerebral, pre-Ceres, or rules, by the curve, by its curve,
Ceres not cerebral
Between the Reality and Truth stations
a word
my word
word
silenced
word discovered & held in the
cradle of my thumb
2
You have joy in your life, laughter and hearth
not the old dead beats of the new and old,
like it goes in their breath
which misses the enlightenment
and their song
their enjambment
________________________________