Digital Poetics 2.5 Climate and Resilience: Danny Hayward
‘having principles is a privilege not everyone can afford’ … is more of a background hum
death isn’t real yet,
it’s a technology of the future, all the roses grown seethrough
and the hot, rainless materialism I need you don’t leave me
nor burn like a fever in the idiotic grey light.
the erectile tissue of lips is drifting, hot rainless
illegible funerals granted to the Safdie brothers for having destroyed art.
This live event has now ended
pinned feverish smear worlds I don’t want this to be clear fist illegible
spilt crude on the runway anyway all it says is pig words
‘I have cried, I have made decisions and then rejected them, I have plunged from madness into madness’
inequality in the Phalanstère say lets toast the whole area
How is it we have walked through fires and are not
how is it we have made art able to exist in states without
raising those states to be as the state of Israel is we are not blinded by
wish we have walked through LA trauma existentialism states not one of us
succumbed to image-death each of us passed through
heaven never submitted to its authority never found intimacy with it erotic
Splitscreen. Six US Congresspeople climb through barbwire, thornwire, clawwire and lipwire. Tokyo peeling, various impressions of a splitscreen. A body on the ground. A note in its hand reads, ‘I accept the reduction of my thinking to the generally known and accepted. I accept the wasting of my language to a mere instrument in a permanent competition for visibility’. Speech sounds, swallowed up by a hospital’s high ceiling. Caribbean receptionist, Mediterranean security guard. Split
In future all immigration vans to move with impossible slowness through an endless sea of people who hate them
everyone I see in the queue to Breadland is peeling
White british poets, Caribbean receptionists
An art I ruined because I hated it
White sleets of wallpaper in the bulletproof vehicle
what balenciaga art skinheads with tiny fragments for memories, did
you fucking snitch
silent train carriages are rinsing depthless ended
And so the stamen crumbles, its dream wasted along with all other dreams. cries in the dark
trains, orbiting the earth.
Darktown, Website City.
poetry stumbles through my mind in distress, ‘aesthetic leftism’ written in black paint on the high, invisible walls.
People are freaking out, getting off on their veto power over art
other than a lack of love and a lack of understanding and a lack of being human and a lack of
I don’t talk about art in terms of intentions or meaning
Art for me is just a species of distortion
the decideability of some nouns, some verbs,
and the subjects of verbs is more important to me
than life, ‘activism’, or the development of precise knowledge
When I look up at the sky, at the blood
raining upwards, the ice shells of Europa
collapsing in shows of force, while the snow
falls inside our cells like a distorted species
Of music, everything falls suddenly into place
Israel is destroyed the balcony outside my room is sunk into a garden
Never-images reverse from the police culture
in fire across my eyelids mixed with night
and vanish like palindromes I don’t use anymore.
Though words like race or class fail suddenly
certain things persist, a reading of poetry
by Galina Rymbu, Florence Uniacke
and Laurel Uziell lasts forever surviving
inside us, opposed to all other experiences
Will bleeds out the eyelids, tone-death, whites
on the dust in our eyeslips’
J-P G balconies and ice rainbows melt
Reality all the latest hip theory fetishes
in the under-nouns crawl like signs of image-death,
music-death, motion-death, Six of them
symbols pockmarking the streets of Balenciaga
ballistic freezing plantations
turn lanterns flower, and vanish like individuals
who are the limit and walled reach of this world:
These States Exist. now Man Passes on
but States remain for Ever he passes thro
them like a traveller who may
as well suppose that the places he has passed thro
exist no more as a Man may suppose that the places he
has passed thro exist no more. Slogan
art was in me like a bayonet, driven through
Israel all others were outside me, like a symbol
Anna Kavan inside our cells a distorted music echoes
a distorted space falls into shape.
When I look up at the sky, everything falls suddenly into place.
The balcony outside my room is sunk into a garden.
If certain events occur in the mind
Our experiences will last forever
Israel is not a state, states are eternal
When they invent death we will find ways to use it
Let it come to that, in the van debate poverty equals.
Banality that defines us as a link of simple alternatives.
I touch you like an idiot town centre chain store emailed to you shortly
as the music of the escalator gnaws its tumour through Los Angeles
Let it ram blue my image habit waste in the night’s peremptory sweetness. I can
see the phone in your voice I just can’t see when you’re speaking
to banalise depending on the blank crisis word now
I can’t even watch the news worms die, in their bellowing hollow oceans.
Wind from other planets, unutterably basic as our hearts are
let them come now, like a smoke breaks out the van’s dark scabbed over windows.
New worms we die new, like LA how many ages hence
I don’t care what sails through form-death, let the sails curve. We won’t row back
May 2021. Thanks William Blake, Sophie Carapetian, Paul Celan, Deli Girls, Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Franz Kafka, Anna Kavan, Nathaniel Mackey, Galina Rymbu, Arnold Schoenberg, Algernon Swinburn, Delia Torres, Florence Uniacke, Laurel Uziell. No thanks Caroline Busta, Stefan George, Prince Philip, Heji Shin, Brian W.
Danny Hayward half-maintains the out-of-print poetry archive Free Trials (www.pxxtry.com)
The moral right of the author has been asserted. However, the Hythe is an open-access journal and we welcome the use of all materials on it for educational and creative workshop purposes.