Hjernen er alene og forvirret!

Jeg er helt overbevist om at jeg har produsert et dikt ved en tidligere anledning om alle de gangene da min hjerne velger å ikke fungere, og forårsaker skrivesperre, stigende frustrasjon (over det normale) og ilter dunking med pannebrasken inn i en vegg. Murpuss, sukk og stønn. Kanskje har jeg skrevet opptil flere slike dikt, ved nærmere ettertanke, det høres i allefall skremmende kjent ut. (Hvis noen vet hva søren jeg prater om, ta kontakt. Jeg har som vanlig ingen peiling.) Men i anledning dagens selvpålagte Po(t)etens Oppdrag, måtte jeg jaggu ta for meg dette utslitte temaet på ny. Og forsøkte å pakke det inn i en litt nyskapende innpakning. Jeg har store problemer med å gjengi utganspunktet for skriveriene, men tror det hadde noe å gjøre med morgenens følelse av å ikke få til å tenke. Sannsynligvis. Også satt jeg der på tekst & kultur og trodde jeg skulle sovne, og bestemte meg for å aktivere hjernen med å få den til å finne ut hvorfor denne ikke ville samarbeide, hvorpå jeg satte selve tekst & kultur-faget ut i praksis ved å benytte meg av en sentral terminologi fra dagens lecture, nemlig meta-diktning. Hjernen om hjernen, men hjernens vis. Meget interessant. I det minste for hun som er i besittelse av den. Jeg tror jeg skal kalle denne tilstanden hjerneblokade. Hjernesperre, eventuelt, men det høres altfor komisk ut. Blokkert hjerne, mye bedre, pluss at det er egentlig en ganske treffende beskrivelse. Never knew writer's block, before you had a brain block.

Po(t)etens Oppdrag®, VII: brains and stuff. Never getting enough mental feed. First dreams, no this. Freud would probably be proud. Or worried. Or both. Mission: Produce something relatively sensible about a malfunctioning, tired bunch of brain cells; frequently short-circuiting during lectures. Bad habit, guys. Theme: My brain. Obviously. That's where the party's goin' DOWN! Style: Minimalistic deluxe. Paragraphs so narrow, they'll fit within the margins of my notebooks. That's how me works, see. Also: double meanings (love!) and fancy-pancy sentence structure. Read it twice and you'll spot the continuity errors! ;) Inspiration: previous works by yours truly about same topic; in addition to Ezra Pound (loathe Norwegian translations) and meaningfullness of simple Haiku stanzas. Fewer words, more meaning. Aspiration and goals. Bah.

"Barred out" - the way it feels.
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, no doubt being bored at lectures. Nor is there any wonder that I'm bored, by the way. Think of ten different phrases with which to explain the main purpose of poetry, and you've got the esssence of today's otherwise clear but somewhat dull seance. Poetry doesn't have any purpose, either; poetry's all about pleasure and should be written for poesy's sake only. And real poets should be doing poetry-lectures. Those other...people...just don't get it. Or, they think they get it, and that's the big, major, fucking problem. Oh, I get so annoyed when they talk about "real meaning". Even when it's "the real meaning is that there is no real meaning, there's just a message". There doesn't have to be any bloody message or tradition of messageless-ness! And poetry's not a technique or a craftmanship or a tool, not solely, it's all about beauty. It's living, organic, fantastic, utterly subtle, complex, sensory, appealling, confronting beauty. University of Bergen; you may give Scara a call, anytime, and I'd be pleased to aid. "Professional Po(t)et" and everything. Let it also be said: we miss Georg Johannesen!!!

my head is a wall
against which
I don't stand
a chance
to reinforce normality
controls
by mend and sleep
too willowy
of wilderness
swerving outside
in a linear
carpet
short lived
streams of the unconscious
whilst I can tell
it's on the inside
extra layer
infrastructure
beat against the particles
and atoms loose
whence
my brains getting
stuck
in the mould
of perception
stingy
thru the whiteness
of a blackboard
charts
the sircles
filitered writing
channel signs
then fade
to dissolution