Or, On What There Is.
By J. H. Prynne.
[...] The play of unity
as a mental device sides with denial of its self-image, contracted
to open a hazard sentence with subject deletion at null point of
its entry. To speak of forgiveness, a cloud may be forgiven yet
not forgive, participate to shed excuse by transfer to ransom, and
yet still the moral apex is contested, generic virtue just a name
for the apex above its snowy brow shedding its tribute with a sound
but half its own, things by dielectric bonding, its outside voltage
source proportional to and opposite in sign to the charge delivered
by the intervening material to its outer boundaries: and what wert
thou, like this brooding vapour, if no more than vacant, than no
more is more because than is the limit to love, of its favourite
name, the check for chicken in a basket. Don’t end there for
Brent-crude declension ever uppermost by famous agent out of reach
captured to line enhancement, word lackage at horizon long for
longing and dredged with ethic partaken: zero point flooded with
lunar shadow across the eyelid. [...]
Previously: get the fuck out of joy and beauty
