William Carlos Williams saying ‘if it ain’t a pleasure, it ain’t a poem’ for 10 hours (excerpt)

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Argument for Hedonist Poetry

BABEL NOT MENARD
TZARA NOT DUCHAMP

If it ain’t a pleasure, it ain’t a poem.
– W.C.W.

So K.G. defends Fritterman’s Metropolis thus:

consumerism is boring
consumerism is contemporary reality
good literature should reflect contemporary reality
_____________________________________________
good literature is boring

FUCK THAT

Fun is a medicinal bath, the culture industry never fails to prescribe it.
– Adorno and Horkheimer

Fun is no problem. Prescription is problem.
Who controls the fun controls the measure.
SEIZE THE ENDS OF LEISURE!

I welcome this poet’s image as a little piece of experimental folly, like a virtual grain of hashish without which it is impossible to enter into the reign of the imagination.
– Bachelard

Chase illicit poems.
Experimental folly is ontological resistance.

*t here:
PLEASURE PRINCIPLE=REVOLUTIONARY
REALITY PRINCIPLE=REFORMIST
REVOLUTION GOOD REFORM BAD

giving in is giving
giving in giving is
giving is in giving
giving is giving in

If there is hope, it lies in the poems.
Refuse OTC literatures!

[NEVER WORK]
_____________________________________________________________________

To a Poor Wee Junkie

After William Carlos Williams, by way of Tom Leonard and Irvine Welsh

burning a bagel in
the room a square sheet
of foil in his hand

That is fucking good
That is fuck-
ing good. That is
fucking good

You can see it by
the way he gives himself
to the whole bag
sucked in out of a hand-made tin-foil tube

Comforted, relieved —
a plume of ripe scag
seeming to fill the air
That is fucking good

engine and rainwater rouge white layers

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

-William Carlos Williams

I fed this seminal piece of American modernism into BadTranslator, minus line breaks, producing a thirty-five line permutational poem. Then, when I was down at my parents’ house, I used a dictaphone to record the sound of a wheelbarrow being pushed along a gravel track, of a midnight rainstorm, and of the clucking of the hens in the garden. Back in Glasgow, I recited the poem into the dictaphone then mixed it with loops of the recorded sounds. You can listen to the result here (mp3).