Friday, May 22, 2009

Dust mote dictates empyrean conspiracy

Dust mote dictates empyrean conspiracy,
Ice sings antarctic black metal conspiracy.

It hurts ego to hear cosmos is one big tree
Infinitely ramifying conspiracy.

Witness thought's betrayal of thinking's own body,
Keeping secret everybody's conspiracy.

Who is my only and non-essential essence,
The halo of this event as conspiracy.

A single anything spontaneously kills
All chance of there not being a conspiracy.

Individuation glitches every system,
Endlessly out-conspires every conspiracy.

Ecstatic mnemonic paralysis seizes
Nicola's heart in the sweetest conspiracy.


Heather Bamford said...

How beautiful and for me, melancholic! For some reason, what sticks in my head from reading this is the tree you mention with big, choking branches tugging our feet to the ground while the "sky" lifts us by the hair upward. Stuck! But maybe it is sweet. Always hard to tell.

kvond said...

Individuation glitches every system,
Endlessly out-conspires every conspiracy.
And spiral-armed a galaxy of dividuals sink
A system waneless care, where
Self reclines mid airless locks
And she divines before the blaring

Nicola Masciandaro said...

Heather, Thank you. And I love the stuck image that sticks. Now you can, like the vermicular reader, creep!

Kvond, Beautiful "galaxy of dividuals," internal rhymes.

kvond said...


Thank you for allowing a versed response to your verses. Sometimes I feel that this is the only response that should be an aesthetic, or even epistemic sense.

What if we only spoke of poetry in verse?

Is there a reason why Parmenides who said there is no change wrote only in meter?

What did Plato lose when he took the meter out? (...and how did he smuggle it back in?)

Nicola Masciandaro said...


Yes! What if . . .

"Perhaps only a language in which the pure prose of philosophy would intervene at a certain point to break apart the verse of the poetic word, and in which the verse of poetry would intervene to bend the prose of philosophy into a ring, would be the true human language" (Giorgio Agamben)

The opening issue of Hot Gun! make a good poetic utopian pitch: "To achieve utopia, all language must be poetry . . . Poetry is the vocal mimesis of the experience of being in the world which gave rise to language. . . . Only once we have negated instrumental language, and brought ourselves back into the present, can we reintroduce result into mimetic language whereby the pleasure of telling you my feelings and of you understanding my desires in the present of action might be understood as a purpose. Poetry keeps language accurate but also does the opposite and slows it down to the point where language is itself and itself is the world" (Josh Stanley).

Of course something like this happens/is happening only through the wearing away of "poetry" and the practice the finding/possessing of other language as (always already) poetry. I am learning more and more how my desire for commentary is a desire for such a space, or as Agamben would gloss it a desire for language as mode of both understanding and possession/enjoyment. And your comments are helping! Thank you.


p.s. just now discovered your commentary post! Will read asap, but a-instrumentally, utopically . . .

kvond said...

I wonder about the ring structure of composition, how it not only imitates, but also enacts the very inside/outside semiotic boundary that distinguishes a living cell, creating a textual series of bonds that then in their very rugged constitution allow a reportive boundary with the world.

Nicola Masciandaro said...

That is a pretty wonderful theory of the ghazal I think, as cellular boundary. The form has also been described (forget where) as a kind of disjointed conversation, the independence of the couplets being considered crucial to it. Hence the surreal quality. I have heard that Hafiz's ghazals became more and more 'surreal.' But what you are saying here even better seems to define something like adialectical conversation.