Manifesto
A man needs something outside of his comprehension to revere, or else he makes an idol out of his own intelligence. The absurdity of a God who’s both the first and last; the manifest and hidden; the creator and destroyer, is necessary for this reason. The excess of religious art and architecture thrills the mind, excites the senses, and overwhelms the logical faculties. This way, providence can touch the spirit, which is taken immediately and entirely.
If poetry is for the same ends, the same means are required: it should be spectacular, meaning an inherently complicated drama is reduced to its associated sounds, symbols, and sensations, which then take on a life of their own. The mind is thus filled with a lurid and disorienting perfume, and with its guard down, the spirit is captured.
Prologue
In the beginning there was the word,
and the word was with God,
And the word was God,
And seeking self-expression he invested himself in the hearts of poets
And the poet employs the power invested in him to thrill the hearts of men
And the poet has accepted his role as a mouthpiece, he disregards himself in service to what is beyond
And the poet’s vision isn’t seen by others, his necessity not understood. He subjects himself to this effacement, exhausting himself of all power, keeping loyal to his mission as he remains incomprehensible
And despite the poet’s torments
And despite the poet’s loneliness
He stands tall and speaks with a loud voice
He is a soldier, martyr, and prophet
He rejoices and recites with authority
For God has chosen the poet’s ministry
I
My heart was too ravenous to only want happiness. All of man burns in me—I put my white feet on his beaming forehead and I’ll not leave until he charges me full with the charge of humanity.
Tambourines, cymbals, trumpets and flutes
As I turn up, people will come
To roll the front of my tomb
Then we’ll celebrate
With feasts and festivities
And over the brimming plate
My head will lean heavily
Firm on the highest stand
I’ll take my stationed place
And rap my solemn hands
As the endless drummer plays
What is there for me?
As I preach from my chest
My fill is away
By a single hair’s breadth
Tambourines, cymbals, trumpets and flutes
As I turn up, people will come
To roll the front of my tomb
Will one plough be enough for my wants? At twenty, a time for anxious hopes and dreams— there’ll be many sighs and sobs as new labours are set forth in front of me.
II.
First daughter tots good and well
So father thanks God for deliverance from strife
All without knowing what terror collects
In the centre of his wife
Another generation will make way for new sin
Brains blackened and blue
Bad blood runs under painted skin
Here’s a gift from the sovereign too:
Brought down to their proud feet
And beaten well with the blows of reproach
I’m sent towards a loathsome beast
To whom I’m already known
With the new and obscure verse
Which even the devil pales from
As I mumble an incoherent curse
Out of my lapping tongue
He’ll watch the flames as they swell
On this fated stage tonight
And experience what ecstasy dwells
In the heart of this androgyne
The armies that riot in you
Have already gone through me
I’ve heard their heavy boots
And I’ve seated them at my knees
All of man takes place in me
I’m the male; I’m his wife
All wrong-doing is my doing
All praise is mine
I’ll have delusion as my God
I’ll catch the muse naked
I’ll be an opera hall
I’ll make my disorder sacred
III.
That steaming afternoon
Where at each turn an ambush awaits;
The station filled with brutes
Walking dead in the hour of day
Contorting my brows in pain,
Having a face painted
I raise my tough voice
For the choir of God’s creation
My infamous hand, my relentless deed
Am I done with my due—
For the delirious height open to me
And the life we’re condemned to?