Entire Contents Copyright ©2004 writeThis.com. All Rights Reserved.
 | ||||
| ||||
writeThis
sept. 2003
the cabal
| ||||
| ||||
| ||||
------------
------------
-------------
------------
-------------
-------------
-------------
-------------
--------------
"the confrontation of aesthetics..."
writeThis.com
a pretendgenius.com production
This is called Cogg Inn and it is written by me, James, and once...
Directions on how to read and understand this poem
(I wrote this after drinking cigarettes
and revisiting tattered notebooks where
I talked about the minuets of a dream. It
is to be read at train steam in one breath, with
the understanding that it is an allegory where
the Inn is the mortuary for childish items
that have become the tools of electricians
and plumbers, dry numbers representing
a last hope for moisture, an erotic marriage between
the practical thoughts of mathematic hotel builders
and the sundry escapes of sleeping on cots
that are actually landscapes of useless objects,
such as the fork, drastically attempting to become
a bird. It knows: the useful is useless).
The Poem
...I went in the Cogg Inn
incognito and I said, man,
this place is neat. Oh
for the usefulness of wheels. Oh
for the usefulness of turbines
and water engines that thump the
gas through the pipes of different kinds
of bathroom equipment (the toilet as stomach pump,
the sink as waterpark, the mirror
as reversible canvas, the tile as drunken guru)
used to defecate and break through
our sour red anus. Can you blame us
for coming up with the construction of a structure
where doors open and windows lock,
when, at dawn, all I want is to stay inside
and stare at the birds sitting on the lawn? What
better things for doors to be (square on the floor,
doors as paintings, windows
as altars), to change the surroundings,
to expose new paths, when all they want
is the same old fork. (Couches are sewn rafts,
the chair as latrine, but they wouldn’t do this,
not for me.) The rooms have beds (not zoology
textbooks for the dead) and the chronological
television flashes (not where I listen to the cabal
music on the cable news being sung by a lovable
muse that speaks truth in four-four time.)
The Cogg Inn is a place where we
sit in chairs, in the mirror we look at our hair; we
wash our dirty fingers and get a drink at
the sink that is attached to pipes that are moved
by the turbines that are powered by the pistons
that thrust due to the force of the engines in
the Cogg Inn where everything has a purpose
to force us to stand upright and not take in
the disguises I decided on when I put on
my mask, incognito in Cogg Inn. Neato.
Directions on how to stop reading this poem.
(Stop and pause and reflect on forgotten lore,
Here too, are the metaphors useful.
Here too, we are trapped by an open door.
The bird is becoming a wrench, the wrench
is becoming a slingshot, the slingshot is
beckoning the owl, the owl is a beacon for
the window, and the window is trying
to not be such a bore).
bryan edenfield
vol. ii, issue vi
dec. 20, 2004
fishdrinklikeus
