I think it was Muldark who said:
"that which is made of rubber can often be seen through telescope eyes"
quite what he meant by that, I don't know.
I think he was on something.
A stool maybe.
Voltaire eluded to the same with:
"between dark and light there is only my "bulbous bibendum" thrust up the arse of time."
Although he later got arrested for this sort of filth.
Personally I find that homer's reading of the same comes closest to the nub of the issue when he says:
"bugger off, i'm trying to write!"
Still, what can you say to that that has not already been said by the likes of Christian Bagel who, in his canticles for Nerys Hughes, wrote:
"i have been sitting here these past three days and only now, as i start to need a pee, do i find something crawling up my leg. What to do? what to do? oh... what to do indeed..."
This was only the start of his problems and soon he found himself burnt for heresy and hearsay, a popular act at the time.
It is times like this when I recall the great words of that true genius of the spoken word, Tim Brooke Oldale who, on no less than eight occasions eluded to the pataphysical abyss with his truly inspirational "girl on a log" speech, later made into a song by pulp:

Girl on the log
Girl on the log
Am I just a dog
that pees up your leg?
You're so beautiful little girl.
What are you doing in this wood?
Would you like to come with me
And I could show you things so good.
I'll show you my mother
You could show me your brother
And screw one another
With a golden plover
like a lover
What are you doing little girl on the log?
Why do I pee on your leg like some flea ridden dog?
What are you doing little girl?
Would you like to see some puppies?
Cos I love you little girl.
And this tired evening draws on and on and on
Like some distended stomach hanging over some ever stretching waistband
And you wanna scream out and shout and hit something
But you know you're not going to
What are you doing little girl on the log etc...

Such a true word as many spoken in jest by a recapitulating bull fish. And why not? Was it not King Crimson who sang:
"Reticent beast on dead end claw / murkiest the iron gates as evening starts to draw; / The papal dignitary lands / clad in stoney hoof and satin / ready for to sit / upon his hemolytic throne"
a theme later revisited by that pioneer of 18th century heliostolic lactuary, Mark E. Smith.

It is this theme that I principally wish to consider in my closing paleories. The descent into recitance and the compacination that surrounds it throughout much of modern poetry as we know it today.

Take, for example, the classic work of William Blake, who gave us:
"Tiger tiger burning bright / because i set the thing alight"
(I seem to have lost the fuller version of this... oh well)
and John Trubbee's oh so beautiful:
"a blind man's penis is a wreck because he's blind / is a wreck because he's blind."
how so obvious and yet, simultaneously, insightful.

But for true genius in modern poetry there are few things as concise and fantastically breathable as:
"I see it is two / and so I go to bed / how about you? / how about your ted?"
perhaps a work on a par with the scrumptious velacitudes of:

nellie bred ferrets
she bred the all day long
she bred them in her underthings
which many though was wrong
she bred them in her auntie
and in her auntie's niece
she put them down her cleavage
and was very fond of gneiss
which is an igneous rock
that fits in a sock

of course, if rhyming ain't your bag then perhaps you have picked the wrong bag up and will have to write to british airways about the matter. or you could savour this sweet bread:

i am the nose flute of loch nagaul
and you are the chinese willow.
behold the dark terry treacles that are ruminating through the minds of yesterday's washer woman.
she has no eyes. no home to call daisy.
oh pity her for if you are but a small chestnut you will know what it means to be arm chair.
facilitate facilitate facilitate
through the old grey light.

these last three pieces of cherry-topped whimsey were all written by arthur mildew of 12a the grove / chepstow / south wales. As is this slab of seasonal knickerbocker:

twas the night before new year's eve
and all through the house
not a creature was stirring
not even a thompson's gazelle

But where mildew has failed to establish a firm hold on the public's testicles, rupert davis lupton has also failed. he explained to the popular arts discussion series Crumple Forum that "what I am trying to do is flop myself against the face of old ladies." unfortunately, conduct such as this was not tolerated by the (cheese-) grater manchester council and RDL had to find himself becoming fashionably obscure to the point of lucience.

It is instead Frederikson Gullabamble III, that famous american schreiderist mallorsmith that has instead catapulted himself into the stead of the bosom of glory. His anthology "kicking in the face of Gates" deals, in verse form, with the rising popularity of cyber-art and blends this with his own style of raucous anti-communism. His chief rival David Gates, the jewish fraternalist mormon cymbalist and lay reader at the university of central anacrusis, texas, has responded to this all out attack on his features with a pamphlet of woodcuts entitled "Sondenberg". The effect of this has been to completely upturn the face of contemporary calisthenics as we know it, perhaps irreversably, and at the very least, for ever.

The Gullabamble/Gates conflict has also brought about a great number of 'Sassoon-a-be's  to the fore, leading to a great new wave of poppy induced poetics to rival even the most spaced out Burroughs, Wordsworth or that lord of laudanum lauding, Flapdoodle MacCain. However, this sort of hippy drivel should be treated with the destain of a zephyr and each one should be strung up and made to drink coffee till their ears bleed.

And so I close this edition of "A(rt) View" with a final dipping of arthur mildew, whose new collection of short works, entitled "3.8mm hypodermics i have known", is on sale from monday priced $7.89 It is published by Rotten Borough and PPP. So buy it.

this is an e-mail
I wrote it today
If only I'd thought
Of something to say.


Anthony French.