More Names to Wail about.

Then it hit me: 

that names are filing systems

for the personality

that needs the ego 

without which no credit could be applied

to that entity,

in eternity,

and there is 

So much credit to give.

Nerval, the subtle early symbolist/romantic, whose

urbanity was soothing, while Beuadelaire

hit you over the head with bricks of

brac as golden sunsets lit the fading

azure sky during feeble wailings. 

His pending death is compelling me

to act with all the shit, piss, and blood in my  mouth and ears from

acting in the face of aggression of despair, and ennui.

The same aggression Lorca wrote about,

from the Roman occupation of Barcelona,

through the moors and the Guardia, and Rimbaud escapes 

himself like Houdini out of New Jersey, rootlessly 

searching for Verlaine, whom he lovedespised in 

enmeshed chicken-wire clutching to his azure soul,

dying impeccably scorned while Corbiere swears and

farts inside ships at sea,

where children die.

Appolinaire invents the stream of consciousness, surrealistic somnambulance of the

exact opposite to the zenith apex logic and self-poise of Valery,

still climbing up the slopes of Mallarme, already at the top of Everest. 

And Poe inadvertently gave birth to these Symbolists of despair

while in his cups, sleeping in gutters, inside the brain of Rimbaud,

inside the brain of Beaudelaire, inside the brain of Verlaine,

getting drunk before Bukowski, fighting and running in the

semblanced lairs officiating the boundaries of meaning where Wallace Stevens

Incalculably forging the new American language left everyone else behind

over still waters,

as Whitman spake of egalitarianism and women as equal partners in life and

society, which now is an anachronism, if you believe in Trump's diseases of the mind and

knuckledraggingbrutism that only Tennessee Williams knew all too well,

as Blanche Dubois cried inwardly, shocked at her own mortality.

And the original transcendentalists were actually Wordsworth and Coleridge, and how Americans

and Brits are Frankishly comme ci comme ca and que sera sera about their differences, intertwining the old and new continents with

similar cultures and mannerisms and epistemic thought that gargles of post logical positivist empiricism and show me show me show me prove it prove it prove it-ness and logic is all

too non-precious as it erodes in this sea of submerged consciousness that couldn't recognize the turn of a screw if a driver were actually present. 

and how the poem became prose, like Wordsworth wanted to do in his Ballads and how they forged the new style for the fanfare of the common man, Gebrauchsmusik fur alles Menschen. And I read Pound over and over and over again, and I'm not even sure he knew what he was talking about. Does anyone?

And TS was just too clever for his own good, but at least he loved cats;

Did Appolinaire invent free verse? I thought Wordsworth did. tbh.