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CANTO I

Now right off

the bat

you're going to be confused

but this is because there is a lack of a lack of a number 5598

but this is because we are men of science and theory (who do not answer to poetry)

but this is because we are not lesser men

if we die in the dark then who dies in the light?

but this is because the object of poetry is not idiot clarity and washington stakeform

neither the bank vault nor the greek mathematician

but the topmost of the **Kabbalah abbalah abalone, the most hidden of hiddens,

(injected with Jenova geneva (a city in Switzerland) (designed by Tetsuya Nomura and voiced by Lance BassGeorgeNewbernTylerHoechlin, for english is what we are concerned with today))

I think you the reader understand the problem here,

and the problem is poetry is difficult to contain, meaning is squeezed out of it and we have to force the words back into an order of magnitude

the truth, proscribed

being that our humans, our people, our he/she/they/xe

shining coats glory be

must try and find meaning

where meaning slips free into the very foundational order of the language

if you want to taste poetry melting ice cream on the tongue

you have to let the words

slip into sounds

but

we cant

otherwise poetry overwhelms the system

because we live in a world with out poetry

we die in the dark

(we let the leaker live in a platinum safe, site 93, where Dr. Nealon (who is not assigned to SCP-5598) [fight!] is to maintain a 24 hour operating security camera watching it to make sure the poem-intestines do not prolapse. The documents he works on [he does!] is an example of how much leak is out, floating boating boat moat boat on a moat stoat groat worming up your throat boat boat boat on an endless starlit sea. (this is almost poetry, and therefore it is bad poetry))

a team of psychiatrists and PhD (you), normally Pound collection in hand and a knowledge of Lowell and Creeley at arms like guns, are tasked to force things back into.

you are antipoetry,

you fight language itself,

you wield what you hate, the silly amateur rhyme and the cutesy platitutde as antiguns, a gun turned inside out against the falling out of meaning

if you hate poetry (you) you wield anti-intellectualism to preserve your world. You wield the Hallmark card against the eldritch force that unwinds the tongue and burns the brain.

the avant-garde is evil, the counterculture can't help me

Where your beloved thing blends, in capitalism, with the banality of the liberal nothing.

that is where you save our reality

this thing cannot move,

but it hates you

this poem you read (hopefullly) means something, it fails as poetry. It should not be difficult to those who get it, but it is a crapshoot. It is meant to be consumed as manual, it can't. This poem is corruption.

CANTO II

I Ferlinghetti, stand on a blasted heath in health that lies

no where,

where no

man can not think too much without dehydration

the description above is false, yes, but it is also true.

consider a magazine of poetry OR poetry, 1981 March, L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, founded, edited and edited by Charles Bernstein and Bruce Andrews. If you know of the language poets than you know what I know, which is truth. Can the truth handle the truth [bernstein] But if SCP-1981 really does see circles that are not circles, billions of dead souls inside containment, unravellers have eaten country's moral fabric, turning hearts into filth, yadda yadda yadda, et cetera et cetera, will you just shut up man, is he really from a kingdom level above human?

Well, no.

Here is how you understand the magazine, the SCP-5598. As you've guessed, smart boy, it leaks. It leaks its inner contents and we don't have a clue of the original innards before the victim

was slaughter

ed.

It leaks the language poets, who abhorr poetry as consumerism, the vampire of meaning and memory. Words should stay hidden. The meaning is mine. This is less poetry than poetry.

You built from words first and words for words sake than any sort of involuntary unvoluntary desire to communicate. A spokesman for Bernstein, who is himself himself.

SCP-1981 was found in a library, though, that's important.

books/not books (SCP-1981 is a book) butting up against each other and leaking. We have to consider how poetry plays, because if I author quote Fake Reagan here, then is fake reagan here?(and is this how the thing in the bay of bengal functions?)

Poetry is an idea sponge.

(the working theory in the department is that the magazine was placed next to a worse thing, and if Bernstein's rules of axioms hold true, then, logically, we have a problem wherein the interchange of meaning destabilizes words and liberates them, sets the words free. Current theories on the worse thing are

A blasted heath (literally)

Max Stirner, but who takes Max Stirner one step further, an uber Marxist who hates marxists who points out that if society and liberalism and communism and capitalism are spooks that do not exist, and by that same measure there is only the ego in the worker, but if the ego is merely making meaning, and if meaning itself has no matters, and as consequence the ego does not exist, and if the Freudian ego (proven true see SCP-XXXX) isn't real, and as consequence life has no matters, could it be that life does not exist? stops. breathing. you never could breath.

Fuck (he/hers/them)

the underworld itself

We know.)

If you can quote it, it exists, and if it is assumed true that poetry has a language, then it *has* a language. It has a language. It can speak to itself. It's already doing it. Think about it, literally.

this

poem

is

in

communication

with

SCP-5598

and

the

language

centers

of

your

brain

and

it

changes

the

way

you

see

it. Protocols are in place, no worry and yet. You already think in poetry. Just take care stare bear in the forest at where the wind blows and whistles through the tall grass housewife at home playing lute [yes! more!]

What's worse, the poets are unsleeping with poetry that isn't poetry, bogged down by thoughts that aren't them because think about it. really think about it, if poetry the way the language poets practice it is divorced from ideas of personal experience and is words first than you loose your own personal experience, then you lose your own personal experience. Pay Attention.

What's worse, the poets see it, and it wears a white gown.

(If your thoughts aren't your own, and they aren't thoughts, what are they? are they human? If not, what are they capable of?)they won't describe more before their eyes often

just

go

[OK Go is an American rock band ok now go dont go yugo slavia flavia flavor of mine inside bind tie them down a white gown big frown big mouth loose teeth I am a freak. I have hands and I have feet, and if you saw me you'd faint, you'd be petrified, mummified, turned into stone or a pillar of salt sodom and gomorrah are burning]

the poem wrote that

Now, for the next part of the story, I'm going to get technical. Hang on, I promise it'll be alright. It will help you understand poetry's place in a modern capitalism age and also how to contain SCP-5598.

two years from now 2021 the poet and bookseller Lawrence Ferlinghetti, aged 101, will die on the floor of his old covidclosed bookshop City Lights Bookstore eyes missing arms missing mouth agape they will find fragments of white fabric on his coat and a great disturbance in the poetry section. The blood and gore leaking from the old man's face will be consistent with Kerouac long ago. October 20, 1969, St. Petersburg, Florida, Kerouac vomits blood. the sky hangs heavy over St. Anthony's Hospital, the official death is from an esophageal hemorrhage due to alcohol abuse but we lied, we die in the dark. It ripped out his liver, the source of his poetry, present in every bottle of booze that wormed its dark way into his songs (its skin is long) It is a creature of Interzone, but now back there Wuthering Heights is destroyed in City Lights Bookstore. The Beat Generation will pass and we will no longer face darkness the same way. No more cutups or facing the terror through the wall [ginsberg].

William S. Burroughs starred in both Drugstore Cowboy and a Nike ad. He shot his fucking wife in the head while high. If you sing your grief the world will sing

But the thing will be he (Ferlinghetti on a blasted heath) wont be dead. aged 103 it sliced off his arms and cut out his eyes and left him sputtering on bookshelf floor but it had been there since the fifties tracing him through word after word after word.

No eyes to read no hands to write because the poetry stole them, the poetry we discuss races through the skull and burns out the neurons like lights in a city winking off one by one by one.

(No, this is wrong)

It affects you too. You haven't seen SCP-5598 yet but maybe one day you'll be alone, in a shopping mall Disneyworld hell or else a dark room, the love of your life fucking you on the bed or sobbing inconsolably at horrifying things on the television and what do you know you'll be shot through the head with talkpoems and cut-ups and submarine light in Bickfords and the scales of a fish and you'll be sobbing as your mind undoes itself. You've seen it, the disconnect of all the words that make up you (because the words really do make up you) and then you'll see the white gown and the long skin and the nails that fold back on the head.

I've seen them.

Soft nail.

Sky sharp.

Roger snore

why did the chicken

If the past ten words are pointless, you might be a redneck [foxworthy] if if if if if!

No matter how political or polemical or puritanical (lou dobbalina mr bob dobalina [funky homosapien[tork]] fuck stop stop stop), I have a moment of lucidity to know I am a dead man. I am ashamed that any sense I make is just part of the fucking poetry. [no]

last call of the night: if poetry is an idea sponge, what does it absorb? more poetry? or else?

CANTO III

quick example

if you look at the poems of 1981 March, L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E like I did, it slips a trip a grip. consider how a man imprisoned on false and fraudulent trumped-up judgery tries his fingers at a basic construction, where the simple center of the poem is the poem. C

onsider the crisis at hand when you write on trying to recall parties at drunken colleges singing Chainsmokers into smoky night, drunk and alone:

(no training):

404 Internal Server Error

The server encountered an unexpected condition which prevented it from fulfilling the request:

Traceback (most recent call last):

File "/SCP/5598/files/_display.py", line 551, in respond

table.open.body = self.handler()

File "/SCP/5598/files/_display.py", line 331, in __call__

return self.callable(*self.args, **self.kwargs)

File "error_classic.py", line 12 in index

raise FileNotFoundError(obj)

FileNotFoundError: [Errno 6] File inaccesible: 'D-34666_TESTING_INPUT01.pdf'

understand this is fleeting

it is a lie

but also if you want to fight it, preserve what remains,

this is also a lie. Periodt.

The transfiguration! Christ will come like that! [o'connor]

Following A Party at XXXXXX's (Oct. 2019)

Life is blunt smoke and hot sauce,

a spiraling cigarette abyss.

In arc-sodium spaces

they cut White Claw seltzers like birthday cake

under marijuana vice grips

and all our yesterdays really HAVE lighted fools the way to dusty death.

The Twitter literati, they say,

have debated whether pegging is a reflection of the base code of the universe,

fractalized anal sex in A minor,

fellas, is it gay to be alone?

In the dim and longing steets,

a solitary skateboarder rides nowhere fast;

his face glassy mirror under hooded cloak,

Beats by Dre melting like clocks on an ant-beach.

He soars into a harrowing middle distance sunrise.

Admit it.

Your home died 7 years ago, gurgling on the floor in someone else’s kitchen

“Away! Away! We must make haste! Avast ye! I’ve heard the mermaids calling!”

this means nothing to you,

if you piece more than bare logic from it there's fire to be

held

in sunrise hands

and rotting flesh from bone

so we shouldn't have looked back, shouldn't have saved her, we loved her.

her skin is long

CANTO IV

Arthur Handscome, tall and intellected a cut too big for his coat sits with the site director, alone, coffee and cronut display with grapes in salad, to discuss a matter of unnerving importance. You see, says he, the problem with Five Five Nighty Eight is even though Analytics determines yes, our army of poets must write bad poetry, the horseshoe circles around. What do you mean says the director legs bulging muscled in suit. Well, consider it thus, if we fight high art's decay of meaning with low art, poetry that is communicative and simple, well this is no protection from decay of meaning. It doesnt matter if capitalism or postmodernism absorbs poetry and removes its meaning as art, the kind of poetry the language poets preach has no meaning, its words first just a jumble of them the reader creates the meaning and well he gestures broadly thats the anomaly. Here the words dont stick and it destroys consciousness slowly as the brain scrambles for meaning. the site director frowns and gulper eel takes a swig mouth too wide for his teeth, but then we have no way of containing it, it eats through every poet except Dr. Nealon and it spreads throughout word by word by sentence by sentence turning back on it, poetry as plague, and we have no backup procedures every procedure is a poem and every procedure author dies but handscome knows this and he freezes and realizes there's a lack of __ in the air. it is

it her it

no way out he thinks

the doors the walls arent opening but of course they arent doors or walls they arent even real.

(this is what I told you about the kingdom level above human and the thing in the bay of bengal. they originate from it)

the site director realizes it too but too late and begins to scramble and cry but its not tears its meat coming out

in a fetus the agent dives under the table, ears ringing 300 decibelles we didn't start the fire [joel] and he

tries to pull a poem out I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils; [wordsworth] but soon daffodils are nothing and so are clouds, nothing is nothing is nothing is poetry, and the song that sings the universe is only itself and now he thinks this:

humans are

meant to

be complex.

They are

meant to

be a vision

of wheels rhyming

with each other,

in unusual bouncing off

way

They are meant

to exist

in large tribes

and unknowing groups

with multitudes

no one man

knowing each other,

knowing the

full

the deer

died following

the toyota

in the cornfield

with the state park

looming.

trees turn

to fire

at dawn.

then Handscome thinks one last think a rinky dink (im trying to finish [stop]) before he passes into elysium fields and that's what he thinks elysium fields abandon all hope ye who enter here the styx the lyre the ending in the beginning.

(she's tearing at his eyes now)

on the verge of becoming human again, of seeing sunshine,

h

If you see me we will diee

sees

her again

and the lyre strings break, and die.

(poetry lasts since forever. [shut up already!]

my love to you my pillar of salt halt walt walt disney

[die! die under the claws and the long skin! just fucking shut up! i hate this poem!]

Sing O'muse!)