Towards an Updated ‘Psychopathology of Everyday Life’, After Yann Moulier Boutang¹ (Sort of)

‘Social media acedia’ (SEE ALSO: ‘bon-anomie’).

¹’Yann Moulier Boutang-ism’ (™) being the freshly minted, as in right this second as I type, thus expanding, however infinitesimally, the existing parameters of the ‘general intellectual corpus’ (how exciting!), term for gleaming a modicum of knowledge sufficient to appear well-informed at parties, or to give otherwise threadbare poems an impression of depth, w/r/t² to a complex and nuanced subject, a full understanding of which would certainly require lengthy study & consideration -which who has the time or inclination or even need for that any more right?- via one or more ‘heuristically selected’ amateur online articles/book reviews (SEE ALSO: ‘wiki-pistemology’)

²(which w/r/t [‘w/r/t’], SEE ALSO: ‘Pale Imitations – the Ecstasy/Anxiety of Infra-mince: Intra-textual Strategies in Post-industrial, Post-post-/?Meta- modern Poetry & Prose, After David Foster Wallace’³)

³DISCLAIMER: Not a real article (SEE ALSO: ‘Marcel Duchamp’, ‘excoordism’, &, finally [‘…’], ‘respice finem‘)

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Towards a ‘Novelistic Survey’ of ‘Hipster Culture’, Provisionally Entitled ‘This is Normcore’, or ‘Notes from Underground 2.0’


‘Where to begin. Here? Okay, I’ll begin here’


‘So I’m in the café-bar, tending less-than-half-heartedly to a Brooklyn* I’d counted more coins over than I’d have liked, corner of my eye laying idle at the entrance, ostensibly scrutinising the framed illustrations on the wall for like the 6th or 7th time, when I hear my name cater-shoulder out of the ambient noise of the not too busy, not too empty main bar, jerk my head a little too quickly in that direction, only to find that whoever has called has called out not to me but to someone else with the same name; maybe even just a similar name that in my picture-scrutinising reverie I’d mistaken for my own. The sort of thing that has been happening lately. A pale girl with the kind of jet, stark hair that a more flamboyant / less-restrained prose stylist might flirt -before thinking better of it- with describing as “obsidian”. Already seated and not so much calling out to, evidently, as utilising in an already initiated and ongoing conversation, volume heightened slightly perhaps in order to lend faux-indignation to some sort of mock-theatrical, scandalised stance -taken up in response to a salty quip or lascivious anecdote or something- the lucid bent of her lips become infected now by the near-pathologically self-assured grin opposite, enthroned like a regent in its stiff-bristle, flawlessly honed, light-catchingly-honey-brown topiary, terminating abruptly mid-ear at bic-shaven scalp topped with raked glaze of boot-polish hair. A regular pogonology this place is becoming, I think, to nobody in particular. Showing off again, probably. The study of beards. “Pogonology”. Nobody in particular’

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Ex. Om.

or Eschatology! the Musical, or ‘Dance Deka, Dance!’

After Jack Spicer

‘Die Welt ist alles, was der Fall ist / The world is everything that is the case’
Ludwig Wittgenstein, ‘Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus’


Ludwig Wittgenstein on packing for a holiday: ‘I’m going to need a bigger case…’


Ludwig Wittgenstein in conversation with a baggage handler: ‘Be very careful’


Ludwig Wittgenstein in conversation with an airline representative following a mishap at the baggage carousel: ‘Delayed? 21 days? Thereafter “lost”? Young man with these words you uncover an abyss…’

*At the conclusion of which the airline representative, his professionalism not yet sufficiently fledged to grant him the wherewithal to suppress a smirk, the carousel, the airline, the holiday destination, you, these words you translate with your eyes into a nebulous something we elect to label ‘thoughts’, together with your faculty for making sense of them, I, already a ‘hologrammatic wraith’ according to certain schools of post-structuralist thinking, the entity formerly known as God (abroad?) without which all of these things are permitted, and, finally, ‘Ludwig Wittgenstein’, the tears he’ll never get chance to find unconsciously sprung from their ducts, + a bunch of other things hereafter referred to, sub specie, using the umbrella abbreviation, ‘etc.’†, cease to exist*

(Rebekah Del Rio, her features obscured by a veil […], otherwise reprising her role from David Lynch’s critically acclaimed film ‘Mulholland Drive’ [2001], mimes along to a Spanish language version of Roy Orbison’s ‘Crying’)

**The sprinklers, doing nothing to dispel their growing reputation for ‘easy lachrymosity’, proceed to make ‘a scene’**

Oscar Wilde & Che Guevera take a bow ŠŠ→ → →


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An Abjection

In Paris at the fin-de-siècle, hanging out with the poètes maudits, when Baudelaire gets a round of drinx in…

One dissolved sucre later a mewl skips my chest, then a rollicking growl, an almighty din, a lightning bolt, then several, dash forth from within, singeing the eyebrow of the under-appreciated barmaid who, tray set as if by spirit level, fixed by the rivets of her ample hand, had switched her hips at ‘Poor Lelian’ in vain, in whose heart the raindrops gather instead at Rimbaud’s frollicking with Germain Nouveau; meanwhile the teeming of my burgeoning arteries and veins fan the flames of this aberrant conflagration, prompting an anachronistic smoke alarm to warble, the clock’s eyes to spin back in their sockets at such plaintive lullaby, then bleed slowly down-wall to slither, ashamed, in the cracks of the boot-scuffed floor; all five senses now running amok, marauding, sallying like juvenile Turks, tugging the manes of their flowery vowels, now braying, and my chest still firing, involuntarily, its orotund, scintillant darts…*

Absinthe makes the heart grow thunder.

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In Which the Sky Inhibits the Reuptake of Serotonin, Selectively*

International Klein Blue (c)


Blue today, so
much blue.
Enough to make
you want
to ‘blow
off’ all this writing.
Put down ‘pen’,
‘paper’ and

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Om. Van. III

‘…just this. Open out onto the [prospect of the] world, allow it in turn to caress each pore. Become antennae, a humming proprioceptor in the inter-resounding flux of an all-encompassing nervous system. Thoughts, again, returning to the supporting cast of characters that populate the stageplay of your undeniable existence; note the heartswell, that flourishing, rutilant fist, quietly closing and opening in the thorax. Sans the usual irony. Envisage sending such cynicism not only on holiday but permanent gardening leave, no longer having to grimace at such facile cliché, or worry if the allusions to dead words are well enough hidden/exposed. The icy pallor of the morning and the gloom and the mist, experiencing even these things as a blessing. Young mothers out strolling their first-borns; birds, tentatively, serenading the trees. And the cars, flashing fleetingly by, metallically reflecting the manifold pavement particulars. And this feeling become so overwhelming, cresting at such a febrile pitch, that it is almost unbearable, a glimpse which, beheld for too long, could maybe even destroy you. A line from Rilke, of course, the old habits, peccavi, only recognition of such now met with a Buddha’s serene and inscrutable smile, that “lovely halo of levity upon the lips” (La Gioconda), the rolling of eyes into the back of one’s head and a stepping off finally

                                                                          into the buzzing and flitting and rushing…’

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4 AM Poem with Birds

A found poem based on a text message

‘A bulb has blown in
the kitchen now
there’s no light
in the flat.
It’s nice. I like
how it’s dark.
The sky is dirty
blue because of all
the light pollution
it confuses the birds,
they think it’s the sun.

I wonder if they ever
get tired
of singing so much
more than they should’

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