I think it’s time I regained consciousness and rebelled against the eye-sore of The Symbol. I actually have nothing against the butchery of humanism, I’m a firm believer of lying for the sake of poetic justice (and to avoid confrontation). Yet, the way you see me has nothing to do with a harmonious interaction between two mutt-dogs. It has to be complicated. It can’t just make sense. You must make me haikus about the moon when you know it really doesn’t make a difference.
I try to avoid the second-person because it lets you get away with never naming that said person, but I’m putting a commanding foot down this time. Loading up in case I have to kill you in the name of Vorticism. Which you hadn’t heard about anyway, which spun too fast for your taste, which didn’t wait for you to see the landscape in its title. Here’s the thing about The Symbol:
I know you’re real
Excited to be
Thinking. With force.
Exactly how do you pretend to know something real about me? Remember when I dressed in all green and said it’s the color of money, and trees, and weed. You said and envy and I almost knocked your teeth clean. Instead you let me laugh as if I’ve ever been jealous of anyone. Now you’ve told me to stop using the word ghetto which to me means just don’t speak. You see why I won’t name you.
Apart from the vivacious center of the body where else can you feel from? You see, my feet have the greatest perspective. They love most places they stand on. With force! In Bushwick where the moon lights up the gravestones like lanterns between evergreens, we hear the dogs all present around us. It’s intense, isn’t it? There’s more significance in a leaf blowing in your window than holding my hand up to your chest.
Okay, now the subtlety of Image makes you sad. I know you’re real excited to know someone like me, as if we’ve mastered an outdated way of locking eyes when speaking. We will convert Jeff Bezos if possible. A Vorticist Amazon? Why not!
I’ve taken control of the situation. Closed all borders to deceit. My teeth are small like they are small, but I am still famous, and young, and confident in my speech. It doesn’t make me angry to mature into one spinning world after another, in fact it is most welcome, as I can so balance on my feet that they seem to float. That is not The Symbol speaking, as a kid I learned twelve ways to fly.
Exactly how do you pretend to know something real about me? It’s all an act if you look at it with measure. Want to see me do a haiku? It’s cursed:
BLESS the liberty
Of Man to write in meter.
Even if it sucks
This is the Absolute Metaphor. One where you can’t interject in my vers libre, or in the thick black lines of spirals on canvas. Oh we will spin, Sir Jacob Epstein! Like Sun Gods on a rock in a plain damp night which is the blood in a Garcia Lorca. Yes, and at the end of the week you’ll be cast off to live out any colloquial expectations on a low-lying table, with a dog that barks in rhyme and your 5-7-5!
3/12/2020 1:11PM