Love of Dirty Hands, of Imperfection

by
Pauneth Elusmith

Start making sense. The fragment which ruled
has left the building, out of sight in the direction
of my body. Those images of one day and the next,
fixed ideas virgin-lipped, but not in ways you
would imagine. Repurposed from the great mass
of free-floating language out there: the vices,
the virtues that are so imperfect. Shovel the stuff
into towers of words. We’re delighted to get
our hands dirty. What does it mean to be a poet?
The movement of identity is recycling the words,
the attitudes, and the ideas. Eyes consenting,
the confusion of bodies will continually morph
from flux to celebration. Uncertainty is sculpted
from the poetic machine, resembling the eyes.
Traditional tropes will turn the leaden heart
inside out. Hilarious writing is butter on the box.
Choose your vices, embrace your virtues.
Be guilty of love, of imperfection, unfinished.

Jane Røken, 2014

Remixed works:
Flarf is Dionysus. Conceptual Writing is Apollo, by Kenneth Goldsmith
Out of Sight in the Direction of My Body, by Paul Éluard