The Dream of an Uncommon Language: Part 1

In restless sleep, I will dream of virtuous government.

Now that literacy has eroded, words are visual artefacts again. Visual literacy is back!
A Floodlight for the new world.

With merciless policies clearing the nests of poets and narrators. Of moral exactness and shaming psychological illuminations by sudden floodlight.

Commit Your Memory to Memory

I will dream of a literature which evades beauty with duplicitous integrity.

Freed from Buchenwald, the Comrades Enter the Bronze Age

The good have none of the best weapons. They do not have the best lines. Their images are tattered.

Protest erases guilt. Or affirms it. Quick! Choose!

The others have the fire. They triumph before the rain tumbles over us and batters with what’s left of the good.

You cannot leave Buchenwald. That’s the thing. Or can you?

I spent a lifetime as a body, preparing to have these reams now approaching a reader and the way the reading, especially the process of challenging assumptions and expectations, is managed.

As a body, I travelled with death and pain, with malpractice, have been battered with corruption and betrayal almost constantly for at least a decade, with impossible love and dreamless sleep…

That’s a poetry book in the child’s hand.

…twisting and shouting with nightmares.

The barbarism is that Adorno both did and did not say this.

If you don’t arm yourself against fiction right now, you are click bait.

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