Here are some poems, composed by a puppet,

some are my own and some of them not.

You can like one, or quite like them all,

or simply not like them a hell of a lot.


x



Sunday 24 June 2012

An Interview with Slavoj Žižek.


Slavoj Žižek is best known as the recession celebrity who fucks frustrated idiots like a grizzly bear and, true to form, within moments of our first meeting he invites me to join him in a postmodern, permissive, pragmatic form of consensual anal rape, before mentioning, discreetly, that he was “never able to finish into the woman’s mouth.” 
Not even when staying at the Burj Al Arab hotel? I enquire. 
“No,” he tells me, “women are always angry with me for not proposing complete solutions for controlling global capitalism on an immense international level.”

We arrive at his apartment in Ljubljana where he spends most of his time double checking the counter cultural establishment for little slivers of plastic macdonalds cups. Innumerable languages fill one room alone yet his kitchen cabinets contain only clothing.
“Contradiction is encoded into almost everything like mother nature eating an organic apple.”
he tells me.

We talk about his latest book The Perverts Guide to Living in the End Times in which he gives a graphic, blow by blow account of his affair with the Slovenian philosopher Jacques Lacan. I ask if, perhaps, his obsession with the tacky ostentation of swimming pools atop singaporean 50-storey hotels had led to a ridiculously intimate perspective of eternity.
“Fuck you!” he replies “None of us is gay, just good friends.”

Friday 8 June 2012

Oh No, Not My Baby by John Burnside


But who is this other, waiting in the dark,
the one she listens for?
No ordinary man, but Brother Bones
calling to her in whispers from a place
she's known since girlhood: miles of perfect snow
to cancel out the fever of a body.
What treasured story makes her love the cold?
Some hallowed father, hunting in the blood?
Old wives-and-mothers, stiched along the marrow?

Everyone wants to tempt Providence, but she was lost
before we knew that lost was possible
and something in the woods, unkempt
and knowing, not
one body, but an undivided host
of looks and cries was waiting for its time
to drag her down, in some exquisite fall
to icebound realms
of hyacinth and vellum.

Sliding away in dreams she had rehearsed
for years, that tomboy sweetness in her face
of one struck dumn with awe, she shed her veils
in endless rounds of theme and variation,
but everything she touched returned to dust
and scattered to the wind as, at the end,
she scattered from my hands, no longer hurt
so beautifully, she seemed more song than woman.

[from: Black Cat Bone]