Saturday, January 24, 2009

Polish Nail Polish

An attempt to create a literature about nothing, a work with no reference, that hangs spinning in the nothingness like the earth hangs in space with no support. His true Penelope was Flaubert.



Skyup hisses evergray
Sometimes early sumfin oily
Rede reeds brushes of banks
Lending reeds rude of windie
Reeds on board bandy banks
And the reedy thin swampsweep
Of the streaming creek.

Teamroads meat odors

Cry crying cry again
Swamps weep and bubs bauble
Bible spittled ruler
Of the bubblebile crier
Town ways sunnydation sedition
Sunne day addition sedative
Sedation.

O' weave willed reckoner o'
Wounds of whorlds of
Whirlygig girlish giggle byte
Pterabyte of lambing flight
Terror bite of effing tea
Heat the rode jack off the lamby
While brauny glasses of winteressa
Tumble down ads foggen my eyen even

2 comments:

Brad Green said...

The earth is supported by invisible forces -- not seen, but real nonetheless. Do you think a literary work can exist without some sort of support, even if it's sub-textual, like gravity?

Tomás Ó Conghalaigh said...

No in reality I do not think any work can exist without support. For language (to paraphrase Andre Breton paraphrasing Russel) is not so much a thing, as a relation between things.

As we are thrown into a previously existing world of things and words and ideas, we most likely can never write without support. Every word, every sentence has been said before.

All the things that fall from ether to paper are mediated by this world and our engagement with it, to try and write something that is about nothing, that has no support, is for me more of a goal than an actual fact. (but a damned worthy goal in my mind.)

Thanks for the tort full comments, it always makes me happy to know other people are out there!!

Vomitoria