Dirty Gerty's Hurdy Gurdy


Only the poem knows what's true

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

As pertains to LICHTSIGNALE
Death is only resisted, in the condition of its ghost- so much that even life becomes- the pale it would recede; it grips an equal turmoil, when no object is confronted; that nothing be so fatal, than its simplicity; the phase that Dix becomes, is more to lose his torsion; the "guazzo," the opaque tension of its form, cannot convince its distance; the flares commit a carnage, not to be observed; the skeletons - mired to their torque- are almost alembic to deviate, the amalgam they become; even inside their entropy, no war is resonant; the background of white, red, yellow, and cobalt blue, are bold to emanate, what they can't consume; Dix was no less seminal, berated from descent, than to shift his broken skeletons- from the commune of their wish- to fall but not beyond their death; the beauty is that, they are unnatural; and to make them fictive would denigrate, what they can't illumine; they may have dreamed a better imprint- even of Dante's Paradiso- the orders of angels were more suggested, in a yellow rose; that interposition that death creates; the assemblage of a body, reduced without a symbol, when every form is bleak enough to manifest its reason; and yet that logic can't transmit, the reversal of itself, they writhe when all is silent, to declare its lie; art would never be so tempted, to shift their intuition; that even to be functioned, it must condone their absence; and so in the way an aesthetic reveals an instinct from its cause- their Danse Macabre is unexpressed- until they mire form; it is such they have no tragedy, and Dix, for all their pathos in his fury, absorbs the ghosts he can't confide; with the war one year before its end- he sensed the twisted limbs, the mustard gas, the sobbing trenches, the shrapnel he would scar- as if his blood were not their phase, he interposed neglect; consumed without a hero; would he confide his sense? A dream refrained its anomie; their beauty was to be more foreign, imitating death. 

To be where the moon is scarlet- and shadows are only the distance- between the pillars a rose erects, when nothing is unmoved, and the wind no less a tether, unwoven as my eyes; I am not consecrated. I mimic intuition. The tribulation of a dream, that cannot be disguised. That every poem I wake, wakes to be expired, I must not be outlived. To mimic beauty, I am its premise; art conflicts my imitation- its Protean withdrawal- to shift what I conserve, and without my conservation. A pyrrhic solitude; that any word condemn its absence, nothing is unreal. 
Poetry tempts what I oppose: its phenomenology cautions value- but not so much to dismiss- the value it can’t equal. To erect its observation, it must diminish me. That my fear not be its intuition- that I be less misguided- beauty disrupts its desolation, until I am expressed. 
How must my function be, the function it misgives? As if to mimic form, I mimic violation.    Death is the access of its modulation, to transpose beauty-that any value- inhibits its decay. Even to withdraw, what it must react, no premise is ideal enough not to be evoked. The driving caution of art, is not to be unreal. Truth is not a valor. The lie it can’t evict, that seminal tension, the woken relic, the hieratic occupation: that art seclude its absence, it cannot be unmade- and still, as any sacrilege- to condone what it upheaves. Art can’t equate a beauty, equal to itself. Somehow an aesthetic entropy; its design is not to be outlived, until it is recurred. A primeval torque- the twisted horsemen- unfinished but provoked, and deeper than his hand; the Magi were only sibylline, when DaVinci was withdrawn. So little transitioned to predict, his oil would infect their blood. And beauty spectatorial, to be the witness of itself. That an aesthetic concerns a ritual, it must condemn its cause. Was Margaret wan, conflicting grief, when nothing else was young? “What heart heard of, ghost guessed;” to take what is uncertain, beyond its circumstance. GoldenGrove evicts its passage- that even art is less considered- inside its formlessness. A narration provoked, to question loss, no deeper than the child. Is beauty resisted, when even grief, is the grief she can’t console?
There are no trajectories to confide. Art resolves a path, and still unfollowed, deepening its memory. To be abandoned, without neglect, as if to dream itself: were I The Galleria D’ell Academia, just past gloaming, the halls that walk without a shadow, were I the instinct they convert. When to feel the busts- of writhing marbles- a dream becomes its infancy. What night would not vacate its vow to wake the moon inside itself? When mirrors that shift as tapestries- forget to be evoked- when the walls resist their vellum? And nothing is so funerary, than to be observed?  A word suggests its echo, to mimic his approach. There is no blood to fear. The marble supplicates its basin. Nothing is translatable. The “David” can’t commit his plumage deeper than its myth. It is not to have him shift, that his body is not visceral. The parable of his hand is the hand it can’t resolve. He is equally an artist, to transition ennui; were Michelangelo’s Goliath beyond his fate, no faith would be withdrawn. 
 Were I The Galleria D’ell Academia, nothing else would speak. Even for its discrepancy, beauty is misplaced. He was not intended beyond his trail, and yet for it he is condemned. To be expressed- but incomplete- a mold confirms his absence, to resist its death. When nothing else objects its form, he cannot be evoked. Michelangelo may not have foreseen this posture: unveiled for The Palazzo della Signoria, in 1504, his “David” was the entry of its form. It is almost that the unfinished figures are the entry of his ghost. And it is not for him to approach their absence. They fall away as petals, Herodiade would lament: to consider beauty its supposition, “Si la beaute n’etait la mort…!” Even to consume his will, he can’t resist their liberty; his humanism is obscured. He emits a naivete and mastery- his ghost is crimson- his blood pearl gray; he cannot hear the quarries, that listen for his form; and yet the myth he cannot reach- as myths are made to caution faith- discerns a will he can’t approach. Art is the valor he neglects, to imitate the hero. 
And yet for the shade he would transmit, the moon converts itself; it threads a veil beneath his skin- collapsing veins in lavender- shredded without the twilight, his blood endures its lace; serrating wounds that only bleed, in the drift of a thorn, its liberty, the Rose it can't attach; and yet to wilt, its vapor settles, to bruise the sky beneath its soil: he is observed but too innate, not to fear himself; there is no dimension- he mustn't wake- and the secret of his beauty, is to deny its magnitude. 
And yet his recognition, is to fall before his myth. His treatment is not epical; his fortitude is absence. The moon may hide his shadow, as if to find its ghost; and stir its mold as if he were, no deeper than an echo; that tragic mediation, that even his myth survive a dream, that wakes the rood before the Rose, and drifts as any spectacle; in the gilt betrayal of a tulip, inside a marigold- and the lavender too swollen- to collect an Iris from the rain, when rivers are molten and even Lethe, derided from its clay; it is the light he cannot cast- that he equate a parable- unequal to himself. A man transmits divinity, to premise naturalism, that nothing is so vain, than not to be imagined. He is the eternity of Aquinas: "the possession of oneself, as in a single moment." His remainder is the hero, to constitute neglect; is there nothing more tragic to imitate, than the choral busts misleading him?
That even Aristotelian enough, to connote what a form must manifest- exceeded from itself- and still within the measure, of what he can't expand, no logic is oppressive; he must consider sleep. And broken as an interstice- no revenant consoled- the busts so peopled to civilize, what they can't evoke; is it here his sorrow questions, the death it cannot choose? 
Be it I concern his larger hand, the skein that drifts- when swans resist- the symmetry they feel; as if to be imagined, they must not follow blood; even to betray their golden gallows; that his vision avert the cress, pulled when a wood of raceme, shifts its leaf meal from the sun; no beauty is historic; his secret is autumnal; a yellow rose too faint to shift, the violence it would wake, in those noctilucent cellars, that aggregate the sky; a Chaldean cumulus, should Proteus be stilled, and find an Orphic prophecy: "the gates of Pluto cannot be unlocked; within is the people of dreams." 
How is it to mismanage form, no deeper than its focus? Be tragedy the imitation of one act, the David is one emotion- and yet without a spectacle- he contradicts the "shite;" he cannot haunt his absence; it was an arbitration; Michelangelo's purgatory busts, were not meant to trail his plume; to figure his ink inside a skein- willows a pale- to reproduce; the David can't commit a stage, no deeper than his purge; be it to find a better light, he must return himself.
As such- even that the hall is vacant- he need not know those lyric shadows, that often follow heroes, when words mislead their cause; be it iambs or hexameter; the drums and flute of a NOH play; the ovular illuminations- Ochorowicz suggested- would root personality; to find its own impression, life is barely spectral- until it is resisted- so much that art should violate, the soul that wakes itself; to come as phases that mediate, a mirror from its mask; when every sense betrays a value, as if to be unmade. The David hides his coronation, the immaculate hall he can't predict, even so christened without a hand: he is the child of a ghost.