as if, if

Paradoxes has never yet reposted from another blog. It champions, in an unassuming way, creativity and originality. Guest posts, yes. Dialogues with other posts, yes. Reposts, no.

Take it, then, as an indication of what I feel is the importance and power of As if, if that I am reposting it from Fruit of His Lips. The author has graciously given his permission for it to reappear at Paradoxes.

In this text, you will encounter not only the prophetic voice of poetry in academic discourse, but witness what I believe may be seed thoughts for a new poetic philosophy, from perhaps one of the most unique thinkers of our day.

Join me as we travel this path together, the stillness of our houses behind us.

http://www.tate.org.uk/servlet/ViewWork?workid=2979&searchid=20687&tabview=imageAs if, if

by mike mcduffee

In the twilight of our idle decadence the philosopher with his little hammer came. Before excusing his degenerative departure to take our syntactic leave, he claimed us to be his children. As our father he bequeathed us he said, the one absolute answer beyond all abolition, conceding, “We are not rid of G-d because we still have faith in grammar.”

We then watched him smash to bits the tablets. He smashed the Law and the Prophets. He smashed the Cross. He smashed the inscription Pontius Pilate had written. He smashed Mary Magdalene’s deposition. He smashed the idol scientific method and even had killed Herod’s troops as if they hinted of a good confession. Falling to our knees shaken, we struck the scattered pieces as if, if beating the broken Braille text might reveal the secret of the Holy Grail he had been seeking. We edited rhetoric’s horizon stretching back to its earliest echoic origin, until reaching the furthest deadline exhausted, we decided. We had deciphered the final irony overcoming the last dialectic our father had left behind.    

As if,

if we tried to do away with G-d we would not first instead only undo our being, “We.”

As if,

if we were similes of ourselves we could be victims to the caprice of art, technē mirroring mimicry, echo engulfing echo, believing the eternally repeating speech never ending, speaking, “No one spoke!”

As if,

if we fulfilled his wish to live without grammar we’d be free from the agony we suffer knowing that we suffer.

As if,

if we lived life as if it were death we would suffer any less if we couldn’t express our suffering to one another.

As if,

if in such a non-speaking state of being human we would care any less about whatever it might be that gives, as in the words of a self-loathing French philosopher, “people the courage to stand up and die in order to be able to utter a word or a poem.”

As if,

if in the emptiness of what once was grammar would stand nothing less coarse, less ugly than either hate or hunger. fairy_feller

As if,

if we were to find this instinct by blind, random speech-foraging luck it would take the place of grammar without grammar transferring intact its trauma.

As if,

if the instinctive gambit played out as grunts and screams absent cathartic abandonment would free our mere twitching from the burning amino acids scraping the membrane of our brains with their tiny clawed tentacles of guilt, beauty, grief and madness.

As if,

if we venture this risk we do anything more than perform one more tedious ritual in mayhem, as usual our only ongoing continuum, committing nothing more than just another murder, producing nothing more than yet another shoddy exegesis in anger over sin, rule and desire.

As if,

we’d be better off if we’d drowning our consciousness in discourse coerced as containment incurred through the redoubling feeling of bitterness felt again as resentment receding, becoming duller severed from either memory or meaning, exposing the belly of our unconsciousness to the uncaring sunlight of ordinary daily life, forcing it to rot away like a beached whale, leaving the bloated stench to settle down upon our sickening soul, sagging beneath the weight of the stillborn winds of change.

View the original post here.

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