To find the true,
one must use, says “Deleuze,”
Division, simulacra as excuse
For difference, to quiet the aching head
Against the agonies of the agora,
Its milieu of immanence,
The paid mage of the God on earth
Versus the amateur, the lover of wisdom,
Who borrows it to grind an axe
That might be peddled as wisdom, friend,
The philo-soph, a mark of distinction,
That shows the desire for what is not
Possessed.
Division, simulacra as excuse
For difference, to quiet the aching head
Against the agonies of the agora,
Its milieu of immanence,
The paid mage of the God on earth
Versus the amateur, the lover of wisdom,
Who borrows it to grind an axe
That might be peddled as wisdom, friend,
The philo-soph, a mark of distinction,
That shows the desire for what is not
Possessed.
Another exercise in raw power,
Like shucking a mussel, as claimant
In the competition for consensus,
Where the sovereign is dealt injustice
And the unity is polluted, an experience
Where the true can not be conceived,
Even for Socrates, where there must be
An Ideal to be believed, where the sovereign
And unity are one,
Because they are,
The universe exists in every cell, we just can’t
Conjure it up that way, the discus takes
Too many different trajectories
Depending on the individual will of specific
Arms. “The immanent must be transcendent,”
Not the holy eyes of flies, but the truth that can’t
Alight on warring mortals, so the higher
Crier would have you turn your attentions for,
A probative force in the unmediated res.
Thus
Their claims must be judged — false — in order to
Ostracize; nature must be deemed — wrong — in order
To justify, the immanence must be turned transcendent
In order to be corrupted, in order for the order
To be eluded, as being perverted
Away from ideal — desired — truth. Thus the fallen man,
Thus the senses are imprisoned, thus the lucidity
Of evil.
So much will is hinged on being right,
The philosophers agree, however careful they are
To word their thoughts as questions impossible
To answer. Without truth, modernity regrets
To be informed, there is only difference,
Thus, c’est ca, there is no truth.
But how else could we have difference?!?
“Behind difference,” he bravely concludes,
“There is nothing,” as if there needs to be
Anything at all. Only those unpurified
In the fires of the agora would see
Any need for deeper meaning, for only those
Would see how their power has been corrupted
And how they were wronged because of it,
And how, because of it, they know what wrong is.
Thus all critiques concern problems,
Not the solutions that a joyous heart pours forth
Across the tabula rasa of the philosopher’s stone,
And thus identity is born from the hearth fires
As difference; it cannot know itself
Except in contrast, like a photographic shadow,
As it cannot stay intact once it is recognized.
The mask unmasks to another mask, as the onion
Skin peels back, to endless displacement,
Unlimited divergence in the search for the abyss
That mediates.
Thus identities come to resemble
Each other, as “optical effects,” whose only soul
Is novelty. They actualize what they are, to be whatever ideas
They are allowed to be, what they themselves allow
To stay sovereign and intact above the black
Hole of form, where consequences lack consciousness.
They are only something other, as the witness
Who has given away all power in the name of it
Gains strength in being alone, for the sovereign
And the unity, it has finally learned, are one.
Like shucking a mussel, as claimant
In the competition for consensus,
Where the sovereign is dealt injustice
And the unity is polluted, an experience
Where the true can not be conceived,
Even for Socrates, where there must be
An Ideal to be believed, where the sovereign
And unity are one,
Because they are,
The universe exists in every cell, we just can’t
Conjure it up that way, the discus takes
Too many different trajectories
Depending on the individual will of specific
Arms. “The immanent must be transcendent,”
Not the holy eyes of flies, but the truth that can’t
Alight on warring mortals, so the higher
Crier would have you turn your attentions for,
A probative force in the unmediated res.
Thus
All things of mind turn to myth, for there is
Never mediation, no probative force
In the war between sensory forms —
All things are pretenders to the throne
Of theoretical, rhetorical ideal.
The simulacra, the impure, the thoughtless
Repetition, becomes a demon clone
In the proximity of bartered grain and poverty.
How one wishes for a son just like the father
For the bride, instead of the foreign
Intruder on the sovereign, the alien
That can never pass the test of verity,
The counterfeit Sophist, who insinuates
What he is and is not everywhere,
Contradicting all attempts to claim him
As he makes unfounded claims on everything,
Enough to make even Plato feel temporarily
Like Ulysses, cursing the nest of selfish suitors
Who must be avenged in the name of truth!
Never mediation, no probative force
In the war between sensory forms —
All things are pretenders to the throne
Of theoretical, rhetorical ideal.
The simulacra, the impure, the thoughtless
Repetition, becomes a demon clone
In the proximity of bartered grain and poverty.
How one wishes for a son just like the father
For the bride, instead of the foreign
Intruder on the sovereign, the alien
That can never pass the test of verity,
The counterfeit Sophist, who insinuates
What he is and is not everywhere,
Contradicting all attempts to claim him
As he makes unfounded claims on everything,
Enough to make even Plato feel temporarily
Like Ulysses, cursing the nest of selfish suitors
Who must be avenged in the name of truth!
Their claims must be judged — false — in order to
Ostracize; nature must be deemed — wrong — in order
To justify, the immanence must be turned transcendent
In order to be corrupted, in order for the order
To be eluded, as being perverted
Away from ideal — desired — truth. Thus the fallen man,
Thus the senses are imprisoned, thus the lucidity
Of evil.
So much will is hinged on being right,
The philosophers agree, however careful they are
To word their thoughts as questions impossible
To answer. Without truth, modernity regrets
To be informed, there is only difference,
Thus, c’est ca, there is no truth.
But how else could we have difference?!?
“Behind difference,” he bravely concludes,
“There is nothing,” as if there needs to be
Anything at all. Only those unpurified
In the fires of the agora would see
Any need for deeper meaning, for only those
Would see how their power has been corrupted
And how they were wronged because of it,
And how, because of it, they know what wrong is.
Thus all critiques concern problems,
Not the solutions that a joyous heart pours forth
Across the tabula rasa of the philosopher’s stone,
And thus identity is born from the hearth fires
As difference; it cannot know itself
Except in contrast, like a photographic shadow,
As it cannot stay intact once it is recognized.
The mask unmasks to another mask, as the onion
Skin peels back, to endless displacement,
Unlimited divergence in the search for the abyss
That mediates.
Thus identities come to resemble
Each other, as “optical effects,” whose only soul
Is novelty. They actualize what they are, to be whatever ideas
They are allowed to be, what they themselves allow
To stay sovereign and intact above the black
Hole of form, where consequences lack consciousness.
They are only something other, as the witness
Who has given away all power in the name of it
Gains strength in being alone, for the sovereign
And the unity, it has finally learned, are one.
