New Micropress - what the world needs

So, I shall in future do these things myself from Posthuman Poetry & Prose.

Covers will be very fucking plain in the future, I'm afraid. I am lazy in that respect.  

How MMA Writes, a section from certain observations by Aad de Gids

A post by Aad de Gids, HOW MMA WRITES. LEE KWO, AAD GID, DAVID MCLEAN, of which I share here the section about me, having been obliged to correct Facebook's challenging formatting. I would only observe that I have adopted a new and more positive point of view recently.

Here is CODE #4 TEXTS, a collaboration by Aad & Michael Mc Aloran

Acryl Lacquer Lost in the Forest by Aad de Gids is here at Bone Orchard Poetry.

 

poetry of disdelusion DAVID C. MCLEAN

all vignettes of classicism,and then a new one. the derivational poetry of what it all not is, leaves us piquant poems unveiling dead centers. often a bit fucked up as plazas. David Mclean's poetry spurs toward such comments. his poems are concentrated lemmata in which a certain, or two, "truisms" "get's it", can get it. and it gets it. all confessionalism, thought of an afterlife, heaven or hell, the thought or idea of a god, even of spirituality, of solidity, are all heavily under fire or yet, refinedly attacked with arsenic and mould. hell rather is the here and now. only however when the heavily ecclesiastically burdened notion is bereft of all that: what belief and faith and confession have made of the world. the poetry of david is certainly post-Inquisitional,if this means all the fucking christian notions and lexicological or exegetical acribic bullshit is cut out of it. perhaps there is even a new inquisitional impulse here. it is the never ceasing curiosity about which moronic actions the society has entangled itself into now,again. if belieflessness acquires contours of zealousness it is also thrown into the dustbin of no return.

perhaps this could be an idiosyncratic feature of the poetry of david mclean. at first sight, also after having read more poems of david,one could be tempted to place the topology of his poetry within the ideological-postideological-nonideological cloud of nihilism, ascetism, logicism, antitheology, agnosticism, fatalism, hermetism, antipoetry, postpostmodernism, postironicism, neoclassicism, flarf, antiflarf, anhedonism, deathpoetry, poetry of the endworld, antihumanist poetry, posthumane poetry, poetry of the dead socius, poetry of the psychotic socius. i think it is all of this and more,yet to name but one of the above monikers as the exhaustive declarative clausule would be excreted by the poetry itself, and, asap. and this abjective reflex seems an idiosyncratic impulse in the poetry of david. an abhorrence of the mundanest things of the world where they show their mediatic poise: as "élan vital", as a vitalistic yet presumptuous assertion of what is often or and generally thought to be the regulative of the conventional and correctional societal mechanisms as eversomuch "motors" keeping our fucking economy together thereby ruining our fucking ecology as these in accumulative measurements is antropofected detrimental to all other livelihoods on the planet. this, would never be entamised as such in davids poetry yet can be easily derived as one of the major factors driving his poetry. then now we shall leave it at this abhorrence.

the poetry itself is written in an impeccable style of often mere global assertions, or, lighter, hunches, with which the poems softly begin,and weaving further on these introductive sketches, we are launched along almost atmospheric trajectories, whereby the following assertions each time annihilate the latest one, so that we perhaps hover within a certain nihilist realm, yet if this was said to be the solid regulative of these poems, david would minutiously make clear that perhaps in our perception may lie a nihilism dormant, but that he preferably shuns any "isms", and leave us with these consecutive derivative denunciations of overly happy-merry-systemy-styley-schooly pinpoints yet that his, this poetry rather resorts under, well, under nothing really, this not a devaluation of any sorts and if it is paradoxical that such poetry with that haughty of onset in any which way shall keep puking on whatever system or unsystem, then that is o.k.

the dead travel insanity

safely, this distorted world
is twisted faces
and no sense of location;

it is flux and nipples,
death and the living waiting
we are: memory and empty
falling too far,

it is remarkable that we could take almost any quote out of david mcleans poetry and we then have a prism, representative, immediately,of the lucidity and at once (david put the plugs in your ears) a kind of mysticism, of, "what there is", and it is kind of an endgame, hilarious more than tragic even if it is tragic, this, all so masterly written is nothing more than a wonder. yet nothing divine!

 

 

 

of desire & the desert

Here is of desire & the desert at Lulu, this one, like the earlier one "of desire ..." one from Oneiros, is inspired by Deleuze & Guattari, this time Mille Plateaux. Instead of posting samples, I instead include a review by Dom Gabrielli, which I happen to like. It occurs to me now to post other reviews of other  books, and I am sure that i shall, at the moment it seems a lot of fucking work, however, I still have to list one chapbook and my two shitty novels, & these will appear in the next post, i imagine. 

Anyway, here the fucker is at Amazon, just $12 för 148 pages.

Och här har vi samma bok på AdLibris för blott 112 kr, och med hela 148 sidor.

At any rate, huge thanks to Dom Gabrielli for this:

 

Deleuze and McLean, unlikely bed partners, A Thousand Plateaux and of desire and the desert.

it is not tools but the horrid state of masturbatory technology & intellectual impotence that makes us such scum//

The ‘Deleuzian’ century closed and its successor brought a dramatic return of the repressed as the scared masses took fright and clamoured not ‘with’ the tremors of Being but rather ‘for’ the One and its demonized Opposites, all the dreaded identities. Because as all of us know, closet Deleuzians or not, we are never one nor another, but certainly many, a mass, a crowd, a bunch and no one is supposed to win this life-game which only despots take seriously. With this return of Identity came necessarily the society of control. Deleuze had correctly predicted whose model was the motorway where freedom becomes solely an illusion, where everything one does is visioned, catalogued and potential to be used against us at any time. All that ensues is clockwork orange, and we as citizens are all decidedly lemons!

A Thousand Plateaux written with Guattari was probably the most overwhelming non-poetic reading experience I had as a student and many evenings were spent reading it aloud with my fellow students at NYU in my ground floor flat in the East Village, 3rd and 7th to be precise. Certain plateaux were read with a fine tooth comb, others were ignored and returned to at a later date. Deleuze and Guattari had after all encouraged artist-readers, non-philosophers, to take what they could when they could, to create their own machines, their own assemblages with whatever was at hand because after all the question was always: how to get out, how to let fresh air in, how to evacuate the suffocation of despotic institutions like universities which already back then (1990) were fabricating professor-business men-vendors with theories for sale and ideologies in suitcases to spread over willing student minds for pricey diplomas.

Deleuze and Guattari were unteachable in those days and any mention of them provoked chaos in the lecture rooms. Frequent adjectives were ‘unreadable,’ ‘incomprehensible,’ ‘dangerous’… That is when you could have real fun with concepts such as ‘deterritorialization.’ Much laughter was had at the expense of the advocates of the fashionable doxas of Lacarne, Derridar and Barrethes…

McLean I imagine had many a roar of laughter reading A Thousand Plateaux and as good poets will, his readings and impressions made their ways into notebooks and pads. Lucky are those today who can read these immensely enjoyable vignettes which not only play freely with the spirits of the glorious nomad thinkers but place their concepts firmly in the society of control, 2016.

It is the destiny of thinker poets to be overlooked and ignored because they fall between categories, foul of classifications and ideologies. Are they really poets, these folk who cite Hegel and Heidegger? Can thoughts be expressed into poetic form anyway? Let’s face it, the same arguments have been raised against many an illustrious predecessor. No need to mention names. But today, I am told, we are all poets. We all have little secrets to share. We have emotions to dress in romantic script. We can take up poetry, like a gardener picks up his spade to dig his first vegetable patch. Deleuze himself hated French literature for its psycho-analytical bent, for its obsessions and perversions. The superiority of Anglo-American (and he forgot to mention Irish) literature being its lines of flight…. its becomings…. But language is a recalcitrant field. The act of writing reminiscent of Sisyphus, push a frosty boulder upward, ever upward, to the unattainable star. He probably won't enjoy me saying this, but in this regard McLean is a traditional poet, as much as any today. He perfects his craft in solitude. Book by book, the idiom improves, singing, laughing, thinking. “One must have chaos in one to give birth to a dancing star.”

McLean's diagnosis is spot on.

we have become the creature that both eats & is eaten, a night
forever completely devoid of ideas worth having or any
conceivable meaning/ / gormless Godot is drink again &
snoozing somewhere in the worthless heart of being
(temple destroyed)

here there echoes the cretinous giggle of the pornographer
priest with his active camera, his hymns to null & the absent…
there are no honest warriors left today
(face of the despot)

What perhaps even Deleuze in his aristocratic brilliance could not presage was the rise of the pornopticon which from priest to bureaucrat, from the Kremlin to the Pharmahouse, enable the States of the world, all together and without exception, to re-territorialize desires and ‘pervertize’ the young, tying their memories and developments to a morbid technology which handicaps sexuality and puts resistance to sleep in a nihilistic heaven where even the worst fanatics with furious machetes cannot escape their immediate return as cartoons. ‘the men who police thought are not actual policemen who/would hesitate to think, were this so much as possible in their/ debilitated condition, preferring to the lick the sweaty nipples of/ evil & devote themselves to a smarmy fascism//‘

In his most recent tome, McLean comes to terms with Deleuzian concepts in a 21st century world. The parabola of the boomerang of perversion is minutely plotted by McLean using the concepts and assemblages of Deleuze and Guattari as tool boxes. This is no mean feat and we must applaud vociferously, just as often laughing at the flippant tangles which the poet inextricably ties the reader into.

let’s axiomatize indeterminism
to make the crazies go away
& keep the right white faces in mental
heaven; there are shapes to show
maybe, we do not want to know them
mostly, forever sounds so lonely
you know, like nightmares
with nowhere to go
(of axioms & other monsters)

If Outside is Desire. If the Open is constantly recaptured by ‘answers provoked’ and twisted into a ‘smarmy fascism,’ leaving poetry the only right to destroy the ideology of the Inside and resist against the grotesque State machine, folding onto imbecility a simulacrum of a poem which can be read as both flippant self-indulgence and fulgurance and illumination, because both low and high culture, pornography and art, co-exist like the evil and the good sister in Bluebeard’s cave. The simulacrum so good, you tire to distinguish one from the other.

If all of the above, the desert? If Desire is the adolescence of thought, its necessary madness, its rites of possession, its myriad becomings, then the Desert is wisdom, becoming imperceptible, the right to breathe in words. Finally amid the One which is everything. Here is the Desert.

& it is the futile Peyote Dance resurrected again for all the
madmen hanging like bats from the rafters in some
disingenuous midnight temple. they have torn the scabs from
their arms to wall up the seven devils dead & eternally
protected accordingly, they are losing all their memories to be;
they are forgetting memory & learning to be // they want to be
everything but no body wants to be free

Rarely has such lucidity pinpointed the hypocrisies of Self and glorified selves in Collectives clamouring for Freedom and needing corpses and morals, when they haven’t been mad enough yet to see the futility in their madness, when they haven’t collected enough matter to find the Desert in themselves, in the cold North, where ingenuous temples grow for the night amid dunes of Nothing.

Who speaks desert speaks Nomad. But who knows society knows that ‘eyes are for spying with not seeing’ and that collective hope is an alias for suffering and ‘they are watching the children the prisoners the madmen in the distorting mirrors of this disgusting cunting panopticon’ and we are probably not ready to be nomad and we are probably not ready for Deleuze or Guattari or any of his one thousand distorted plateaux. Society is not worthy. It is just killing and destruction because the State ensure ‘they are born crippled,’ and ‘death is better than labour.’

Who reads this book knows hope is extraneous to matter. The physics of poetry, the immanence of the dissecting pen, imply the end of all forms of transcendence and a mockery of all their avatars. Difference and repetition of the whole history of poetry. ‘Structure is for vermin.’

I looked in vain for the Desert. I saw some animals passing the dunes. I spotted Artaud. I will keep an eye out for the nomads as i keep reading, backwards, inside out, dancing and laughing. There really is no need to be sad in this hell, because ‘the outsider comes undone.’

I heard some echoes.
I saw some footsteps.
I know the desert will burn again one day.