"A utopian poetics helps us to know our desires."
What is left in a world-at-large which has long since superseded the need for poetry save for poetry to long supersede the need for the world-at-large…
That some see poetry as a lust for an adventure larger and more vivacious than whatever life we know and have been forced to learn is something infinitely at odds with both those that see it as a career choice and those that see it as a hobby.
That to strip raw and leave only yr choicest most vulnerable words laying bare in front of strangers is indefinitely at odds with a culture of studied social network posing whose tentacles lead to ultimate posturing, a true crossroads of isolation.
Our struggle against a sheen veil of emotionless cool or faux conviviality is too precocious, angsty, and raring-to-go-to be hung on the walls of gentrifying boutiques or be lost among the squall of small-gathering dive bar happenstance.
We are not merely quaint outlaws but an all-encompassing phoenix of revolt. We rise out of the ashes of complacency to devastate all the tricks you would use to try and keep-us-in-our-place.
We are the overman and overwoman spun on its head. We rock yr suburban world in double-time and retreat to encompass slums of exuberance and decedent illegality among the wallhangings of an all-absolving forever night.
We implode ultimate mental planets.
We antlike still scorn nuclear powerplants.
We are a last collage splayed across the blank drywall of industrial civilizations naked cracks, which will of course crumble someday into a chasm of primitive anarchic bliss.
We are everywhere and nowhere
And you may or may not know us,
But we last of all
Absolutely refuse to go quietly into that good night
For we will wail