Two Poems by Nicholas Rombes
|March 14, 2013|
Drone Wars: Episode II
Let me press yourself into your fucking
self until you disappear completely.
You are the executive
of unmanned hate
but also of love who
in cooling mansion halls never says
Northrop Grumman X-47B.
The skies are filled with bees
turning bodies inside out
with all the precision of a drunk surgeon.
Someone in the mansion nurses
another bad idea. Someone lifts
the curtains of flesh.
Look up. Look up.
Frigid in the high atmosphere
where the children are sleeping then
dropping into the substanceless world.
A fifth of a body. Can you smell it?
The stench of an idea
vapor-trailed to extinction?
Mirror neurons tell the story of the new
faith descending from a skyfull of blood
and sand and you don’t know how to escape
your own flame-struck thoughts do you?
The harsh day and night
at the barn.
with rancid hay.
of backyards and elemental
oaks. The leafy spray
of opened veins.
An idea rises and once
it takes shape the hinges
A full socket
of eyes the size
The way the gun hums just
before it’s fired.
About the Author:
Nicholas Rombes, author of Cinema in the Digital Age and A Cultural Dictionary of Punk: 1972-1984, is an English professor in Detroit and also a columnist at The Rumpus. Some of his work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Oxford American, The Believer, Exquisite Corpse, and other places.
Inherent Vice’s Two Directions
The jokes certainly strike one as sophomoric and the latter one as clichéd, further below Pynchon’s intelligence than one would like to think he would stoop, at least in print. Discounting them and moving on, or throwing the book across the room as Parker half implies we should do, however, would be to lose sight of “that high magic to low puns”.
Auden, Larkin and Love
I was prompted to revisit these ancient questions anew by a long footnote about a single line in the new Complete Poems edition of Philip Larkin’s poetry. The footnote refers to “An Arundel Tomb” contains a provocative remark about that the poem’s celebrated, controversial, closing line, the one about the true nature of immortality: “What will survive of us is love.”
Plato, Our Comrade?
Not surprisingly, there have already been critics of Badiou’s translation. The first is that his translation breaks the formal rules of translation to such a degree that the original meaning of the text has lost its significance. But this critique is inadequate at face value because Badiou’s hyper-translation is forthright in its intention of taking Plato’s concepts and modifying them into his own lexicon.
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The hour changes time into other forms of desire. A woman needs no bra in summer. A kiss after a fuck. A way to depart. She spends her entire life preparing to leave, play with verbs and nouns and syllables but there is no language for what we can’t give. Lovemaking isn’t about love; it’s about making a noise or a rhythm, arranging a life, giving an order, the way we weep on a wish to wash it away.