machine eye
colour, 24 pages
Earlier today Nico sent his Machine Eye booklet as a PDF. I have opened it several times now, and after the first opening I have wanted, almost expected, to hear a Cecil Taylor solo piano performance as I scroll through the pages.
There have always been high-energy works in the arts. Machine Eye is High-Energy Vispo. Raw Power Dark Magus Sex Pistols Dead Kennedys Peter Brotzman Zen Arcade. During the imagined formative years of our poet. Earlier let's say Charlie Parker & Jackson Pollock. On The Road. ADA. Auto-destructive Poetry. The poem implodes like an avocado volcano, spewing its letters into another fireworks of the heart. Hugo Ball. Aristophanes.
The eyes serenade saccades in circles and spirals, spitting sense like the mythic cobra, sensible humans back off a bit and take at least one deep breath. Deep bows all around, bodies floating down the Ganges, cows upon cows, everything even practice counts said the devil to the details.
We follow the letters, and the letters lead to words. And the words lead to thoughts, or memories, and both. But none of that is what we want.
At least that's what I think I'm supposed to think. Truth is, if I was looking for a way of quieting the mind to make it more susceptible to divine influences (to borrow a notion from John Cage), I probably wouldn't be searching in this high-energy machine eye Vispo.
On the other hand, if I wanted something to fiddle with the axons, rewrite dendritic codes, set the synaptic emptiness on fire, then I might just open and reopen this little 20-page electronic chapbook, over the course of an afternoon and into the early evening, if for no other reason than that it is a rare example of something to be seen anew, again and again.
To be clear about how that works: it will reward you for not doing what you think you are supposed to do.
Jim Leftwich
01.11.2024
Earlier today Nico sent his Machine Eye booklet as a PDF. I have opened it several times now, and after the first opening I have wanted, almost expected, to hear a Cecil Taylor solo piano performance as I scroll through the pages.
There have always been high-energy works in the arts. Machine Eye is High-Energy Vispo. Raw Power Dark Magus Sex Pistols Dead Kennedys Peter Brotzman Zen Arcade. During the imagined formative years of our poet. Earlier let's say Charlie Parker & Jackson Pollock. On The Road. ADA. Auto-destructive Poetry. The poem implodes like an avocado volcano, spewing its letters into another fireworks of the heart. Hugo Ball. Aristophanes.
The eyes serenade saccades in circles and spirals, spitting sense like the mythic cobra, sensible humans back off a bit and take at least one deep breath. Deep bows all around, bodies floating down the Ganges, cows upon cows, everything even practice counts said the devil to the details.
We follow the letters, and the letters lead to words. And the words lead to thoughts, or memories, and both. But none of that is what we want.
At least that's what I think I'm supposed to think. Truth is, if I was looking for a way of quieting the mind to make it more susceptible to divine influences (to borrow a notion from John Cage), I probably wouldn't be searching in this high-energy machine eye Vispo.
On the other hand, if I wanted something to fiddle with the axons, rewrite dendritic codes, set the synaptic emptiness on fire, then I might just open and reopen this little 20-page electronic chapbook, over the course of an afternoon and into the early evening, if for no other reason than that it is a rare example of something to be seen anew, again and again.
To be clear about how that works: it will reward you for not doing what you think you are supposed to do.
Jim Leftwich
01.11.2024
9€
