no more

No more lines on the luminescence of light, of whatever variation.
No more elegies of youth or age, no polyglottal ventriloquism.
No more songs of raw emotion, forever overcooked.
No more the wisdom of banality, which should stay overlooked.
No more verbs of embroidery.
No more unintentional phallacy.
No more metaphor, no more simile. Let the thing be, concretely.
No more politics put politically: let the thing be concretely.
No more conditional set conditionally — let the thing be already.
No more children pimped out to prove some pouting mortality.
No more death without dying — immediately.
No more poet-subject speaking into the poem-mirror, watching the mouth move, fixing the thinning hair.
No more superiority of the interiority of that unnatural trinity — you, me, we — our teeth touch only our tongues.
No more Gobstoppers: an epic isn’t an epic for its fingerprints.
No more reversals of grammar if as emphasis.
No more nature less natural; no more impiety on bended knee.
No more jeu de mot, no more mot juste.
No more retinal poetry.

Vanessa Place, "No More"

American truths

Shit, money, and the Word, the three American truths, powering the American mobility, claimed the Slothrops, clasped them for good to the country's fate.

Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow

on breakfast

Now there grows among all the rooms, replacing the night's old smoke, alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musaceous odor of Breakfast: flowery, permeating, surprising, more than the color of winter sunlight, taking over not so much through any brute pungency or volume as by the high intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the conjuror's secret by which - though it is not often Death is told so clearly to fuck off - the living genetic chains prove even labyrinthine enough to preserve some human face down ten or twenty generations...so the same assertion-through-structure allows this war morning's banana fragrance to meander, repossess, prevail. Is there any reason not to open every window, and let the kind scent blanket all Chelsea? As a spell, against falling objects...

Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow