Aphorisms II

There is a joy of history in the fact that the totalising force and the absolutist will always be dogged by those with a voice, a blog. The might of the word, of knowledge, is similar to the might of the ocean. You may divert its force for a time, but it will flatten all land eventually. You may think you can divert it. But once something is realised, it stays realised.

You can’t stop someone being right, even if you take everything else from them. And that is beautiful. The pen is longer than the sword.

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When I hear someone exasperate about the internet, I always think – which comment annoyed you today? Which site fractured your sense of comfort in knowledge? Because of course, there is no such thing as the internet. There are only individual users, and groups… But then, that’s not quite right. The word – internet – like the word – society – has an image or sectional meaning whenever used in this way. It comes accompanied with – a comment section filled with drivel – the endless mass of opinions – lists of reviews, one to five stars, each with their set of entries… And I can’t help but think of this, whenever someone says ‘what’s wrong is the internet’ or jokes that… If it weren’t for the internet, we’d all be happy. The internet, they say, like a compulsion, their fingers itching to pick up a dustpan and brush, or an EMP device. I wonder if they know how they seem to us? We who have lived in the internet. They merely adopted the internet. We were born in it, moulded by it…

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To rehash an old philosophical kick – It is an image with a great inner weakness that is destroyed simply by the existence of difference.

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Since the old world is dead on its feet, we need only to keep living how we want, in order to push it softly into its grave. Culture is dead, long live culture.

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Notes Towards a Definition of Mind

A spiderweb woven in a corner
– warm and damp corner
and as time passes, it loses spans
and falls until it is almost torn

And another spider comes
and builds another web
almost but not quite exact
to the plan of the old web

and this repeats
hundreds and hundreds of times
until looking from the corner of your eye
you think you see crystal
seas receding

An Accident

News emerged yesterday lunchtime of a shocking situation where a poem had become lodged in the head of a luckless girl at a café in Thornton’s Arcade. Bystanders attempted to move her, but in the assessment of the first responder, the line breaks weren’t essential to the structure, so the on-site surgeon was called for, and arrived within the hour.

The golden thread had become entangled around the young poet’s pineal gland, leaving her in a very precarious position. After dealing with this, the surgeon then had an arduous eight hour task in disentangling the entire sea from the unfortunate poet’s frontal cortex.

We caught the surgeon on her way out of the theatre: “I am glad for my intensive specialist training in the matter, without which I am sure I wouldn’t have noticed that the protective tissue around the brain was being used as a metaphor for sleep”

I talked to a bystander on the scene. “It’s obvious people these days just don’t know how to use metaphors” they said. “In my day something like this never could have happened. That’s what rhyme was for! Poets these days think they can do without it, but look what happens! Just think, it could have been worse, it could have been a prose poem! I worry for the children”

In an attempt to understand the case more, I wrote this poem, which I am now trapped inside. Please send help