Editors’ Note

In light of the recent VIDA article by Amy King and Lynn Melnick and the hurt caused to individuals and communities by the piece below, we’d like to address some of the concerns that have been raised about it.

We take very seriously the allegations of misogyny made by Amy King, Lynn Melnick, and others. Some have suggested that the text has been repeatedly and drastically altered after its publication in an effort to eliminate misogynous language.  When we realized that two specific segments were being read as misogynous, we did in fact alter the text to remove those instances, deleting a sentence in one case and switching a pair of names and revising the context accordingly in another – no other changes have been made. We now realize that simply making the alterations was not a sufficient response. We should have been more sensitive and considerate of the likely different receptions of those moments in the unaltered text and its potential to hurt some of our readers, not just those whose names appear in it. It is a serious failing on our part that we were not more considerate and careful before the issue was launched, and for that we sincerely apologize.

This translation adapts an original that traffics heavily in ad hominems more or less attached to their objects, intended both as satire of coteries and a parodic inversion of blurb culture, and as a self-satire of our own, often stridently expressed, aesthetic positions. It is also meant to raise questions about the potentially coercive fetishization of idealized visions of community and friendship in poetry circles, online and off.  

The positions and opinions expressed in this and in the other pieces ascribed to Jacqueline Rigaut do not reflect the actual sensibilities of The Claudius App or of these pieces’ author, Jeff Nagy, who is one of the magazine’s editors. The pseudonym is meant to tie the previous pieces written under this name to the present one, especially an earlier essay on poetry and the love of friendship, to which it is closely related.

All of the pieces that have appeared under this name are part of The Claudius App’s longstanding and public commitment to negative reviewing in particular and to expanding the field for criticism more generally, in terms of what gets to be considered or function as critique: what kinds of closeness or distance, what kinds of tactics or emotional stances or ironies or forms are available.

As editors and as individuals, we are deeply committed to supporting emerging writers and women writers in particular, and to producing a venue for radical work. Those commitments outweigh our editorial investment in negative reviewing in general and in the present piece. We’re incredibly grateful for the work that we’ve been privileged to have had placed in our care over the past three years.

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Jacqueline Rigaut

When poetry will be shared by all, do this: pick a significant date. Your birthday, the next perihelion of Mercury, your wedding anniversary, Christmas. Beginning on that day, every day defriend one person on Facebook you consider to be a bad poet, under whatever general aesthetic criteria you choose to apply, or none whatsoever. Announce every impending unfriending in a status update, tagging the person with a brief message diagnosing the precise nature of their lack of aesthetic merit, immediately before unfriending them. Take a screenshot of the post and tweet it at them (#artselfie) before unfollowing them on Instagram and Twitter; send it to them via Snapchat, Skype, and Viber before deleting their contacts. Repeat until you have no more friends. Now you are a poet.

Where is my true enemy if not close at hand? What makes an enemy true and what keeps them that way? The arc of this tendentiousness should bend back to something like: I keep no truer, closer enemy than myself, the refractory hand striking out as striking in, a deletion that is writing, “everything from the neck up.”

I’m one of those poets who can’t tell the difference between right and left, my Tinder account is a nightmare. I’m not the only one who has a problem liking what I should swipe nope. Your tote bag is not a wry critique of anything, not even when you wear it over your head like an ostrich in a gas attack. The lathe in the basement of your post-Occupy-melancholia Ridgewood org space isn’t going to keep you in turned table-legs and clover after the revolution, it isn’t the totem for a workerism to come, it’s an Etsy vintage Makerbot. You’ve downshifted to first gear but you’re still driving the same car on the same road trip through a Flamethrowers 70 on gap year, an endless gap year of the mind. Not that the opposite of this entropic class transvestism is any improvement, thinking that gleefully cocking a finger at the silver spoon in your own mouth excuses the moneyed lisp and drool that emerge when you open it, no matter the litany of personal tragedy like a teflon smokescreen object lesson you also spit up when you do. I’ll still hate you when you roll your plexiglass hamster ball of privilege over my open toes.

Who do we think we’re fellow traveling with when we’re all in this van together? The air freshener is nice, isn’t it? It’s a kind of ideological ozone: it smells friendly. What follows is a kind of road map, a checklist for an exhibition. Let it be understood that all the names are anagrams of my own. And all the stops are where I’m writing from, for now.




CRAVEN ENCOUNTERS


from Arthur Cravan’s review for Maintenant of the Salon des Indépendents, Paris 1914


Brooklyn – April 2014

 
Poets – there are after all at least two or three in America – truly seldom have an opportunity to show their faces, and I can very easily visualize their headstones when they cease to appear in public for long months at a stretch. One excuse I allow myself for the decision to add my personal drop to the oceans of spectators who roll in for a reading like this one, though the better reason is still the total disgust for poems, poets, poetry I’ll take with me on leaving the thing. A worthy sentiment, one to be held one hand on the grip, one hand on the butt, ready for the recoil and never ever firmly enough.

Fuck, times have changed. As true as it is that I like a good knock-knock joke, I’d rather the most degraded dick pic than an Ingres and OK! Magazine than Shakespeare. I can see you raising your hand already to stick your question in. Just sit on it, I’m getting there, and fast. Here’s a pseudo-related example. There are three kinds of mag readers: the illiterate, who wouldn’t know how to get hot in front of a masterpiece, in oil, in prose, verse, dead-ahead, inverse or otherwise; the superior type, the Ivy-leaguers, the Paris Review interns and LRB sub-sub-editors, the darlings of the distinguished darlings of the literati, darling, who in fact hardly read magazines, and then do so only to remind themselves of the necessary fiction of “other people”; and then there’s the animal with a sensibility attuned to her particular rag and no other, and who tells the tastemakers to go screw. It’s the same with Insta addicts, for example; it’s the same three kinds.

You’ve got to get it crammed right into the back of your head that all art is for the bourgeois, and by the bourgeois I mean: boring bros. Ok, agreed, but so then why if you hate art and poetry so much do you bother to write criticism?

Nice question, bro. If I write at all I do it to piss off the people I’m forced to share this time-slice of planetary existence with. To make people talk about me, to rack up the retweets. With enough followers pretty much anything is possible, sex with men and women, with both at once, screaming hot deals on good drugs, whatever. If I was as famous as Ben Lerner I’d do one-man musical reviews in bad drag out in Bushwick and guarantee a sell-out. Tickling the keypad like this makes me out as a connoisseur in the spider-eyes of the universal prigs and slobs, someone worth being jealous of, since it’s pretty much a lock that no more than two people with half a brain between them go to any given reading.

With readers as intellectual as yourselves, fine poets all, no doubt, I know some explanation might be needed, early and often. I can only think that someone’s intelligent when that certain special someone has a particular sensibility, given that anyone “really smart” or “fantastic” or “sooo good” is pretty much identical in practice to a million other people who are “really smart” or “fantastic” or “sooo good.” So for me anyone sheerly witty or with telekinetic fashion or with a nose for the news or the new or the next big thing or whatever it is that prompts your banal admiration is always gonna be basically basic.

When I got to the reading, looking at the venue from outside, I thought, Hey, this could maybe be ok? Or at least not unbearable? The space was pleasant, the low velvet ceilings like reading Justine in a crypt, the illustrated edition. But man the fuck-ugly poet-heads lolling about inside it, bobbing on their necks like buoys in a storm. And there’s always more of them: normcore neo-formalists, normcore splatter gurlesquers from Montevideo or Montpellier; poets with Stalin mustaches, poets with Emma Stone bangs; poets with dirty faces and poets with ugly souls; clean-shaven poets with pure heart shining out from clear eyes… that’s a jackalope, baby, that’s like fucking bigfoot.

Christ there are a lot of them, twinking ephebes maxing out their second-best personas on every corner, old avuncular, suspiciously bionic assholes clearing their throats next to you in every aisle of every bodega in every neighborhood in Brooklyn, always on the point of declaiming some shit iambic quatrain or other or trying to get somatic all over your shoes. Pretty soon the streets will run full with poets, nothing but poets, and you’ll need more than Diogenes’ xenon searchlights and a hijacked police helicopter to find a real human being swept along on their tide of plaid and Drum, down Franklin in Crown Heights, up Troutman in Ridgewood, in Bushwick all over. They’re everywhere, in every cafe and bar, in every gallery, a new series and a new magazine spring up on the pavement every morning like worms in the rain. This intense autopoietic glut of fancy labor is why I’ve always wondered how a poetry “teacher” (or “professor” if you like, like “confessor,” Monsignor, etc.) ever manages in the long history of the world to find a single paying student unless they’re teaching typing to senior citizens or something. People pity the patrons of tarot card and tea leaf readers but never treat the MFA naifs with nearly enough irony despite the advances of the past five years or so – still more, much more, and a large side of acid bile, thanks. Wandering the halls of some many-laureled land-grant shithole or the debt factories around Astor Place and the Upper West Side, you’ll rub beards and bump lenses with big poetry babies thirty and even forty years old, Gott Helfe Mir! Even grand old lads of forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, bingo. Jesus, mercy on us, and on the ravaged dowager poets of fifty looking five iambs of lechery during the intake drinks.

In the Academic milieu, these places, the loan mines of Union Square, the cheery mills for Sallie Mae in Morningside, you can even find barely post-adolescent poet prairie dogs six feet tall, tiny heads like France Gall lollies between comfortably broad shoulders, who know how to swim and drive and take a punch, who come from lands that suckle the teats of the Mississippi, where Okies on the run swim naked except for their duck-webbed flippers and snorkels, where beautiful girls with asses hard as ball-bearings ride horses, whence they come to New York, shoving its glass and steel one-way-capital phalli into the eye of the Atlantic sky, to New York on the banks of the Hudson, where the pleasure boats sleep like loaded, fully-automatic clouds.

You’ll say the Academy at least keeps poets warm in the winter and gives them models for reaction formation. The bad object for any good poet – I say – is life itself.

In any case, you can see from right here whether the professorial transference coat-hook is any more vitally alive than the fragments of Sappho you might rub off a stele. The cash-for-zen-and-carry Naropaites make fun of the Iowa quietude dudes anyway; it’s so obvious: they’re making EXPERIMENTAL VERSE out there. There’s even some still scattered about who believe that content, however metaconceptual, is holding it out against design: we crossed the event horizon long ago if we were ever on the other side. In that perspective, the accelerationist mouthpieces of MoMA and Calgary share eyemotes with the Etsy presses of Gowanus and Portland, with the triply regressive fetishists for the integrity of media objects everywhere, I swear. I wouldn’t lie, sweetheart, not to you.

All I’m saying is it was a grifting soul who first conceived of writing school. In any case, let’s go in, circulate a bit, join the expectant crowd, like a good little critic says to his bus seatmate on the first day of critic school. As for me, I’m barely but barely potty-trained. Is this seat taken?

Nine-hundred and ninety-nine poems out of every thousand wouldn’t chafe in the covers of Poetry Magazine, nor in Lana Turner’s wingding extravaganza Noah’s Ark of free webfonts, nor in the budget net art Blogger template of HTMLGiant. They wouldn’t skin any knees going down the long Alongslide at Triple Canopy’s playground, crunching recycled truck tires under their cute little Keds. Any old Ashbery’s pre-posthumous dead letters would be just fine on some inner atoll of LIES/ISLE, and Seidel’s platinum cock-ring Slinkies wouldn’t knock any knees under another name in Poor Claudia or No, Dear. The poets who slip traffic reports or Twitter feeds into their text boxes have enough press already, and there’s still no bad kind, and it still won’t be me who adds to it. If I print out my contacts, it’s only for the thrill of the troll and to sell my issue. All I have to do is say that Dodie Bellamy is the last word in fruit leather, for instance, or plop Andrew Durbin’s name down in an ocean of nullities for the both of them to buy up the run, for the sheer pleasure of their presence smeared across it like Deepwater oil on the Gulf. I wouldn’t do any different, if it were me, but it isn’t, of course.

There are knock-off Prynnes and ersatz Ashberys, second Places, horseshoes and hand grenades wide-of-the-wicket Reineses, post-crisis poets Peter-Panning themselves off as Steve Roggenbuck or Tao Lin or Purdey Kreiden, etc. etc. Lovely Steve, Lucky Kenny. I’d stick two feet up each of their asses without a second thought for my head left bouncing along the asphalt for a mile or so. Steve and Kenny in their art zeppelins, touching down briefly in Zurich to take on more fuel, more young poet-flesh. There are no bouncy-castle straightedge vegan hipsters left outside of paisley preserves anymore. Instagram is lying to you. The 90s called, they want their subcultures back. Watching their performances on YouTube, you’d think punks got that way all on their lonesome, sprung from the barren skull of history in a moment of beautiful authenticity with perfectly painless politics, couchsurfing an endless summer, that packs of cigarettes still grew from trees in every traffic island. How far they’ve come from the dirty beautiful communist plot, the anarchist squat, collateral damage. Their elders too, of course. Joshua Clover must be scrying them and the rest of our generation saddled on his flying bald eagle. He can’t take our drugs or see us fuck or smell our cum. Not that I think it so avant to put Foxconn into iambic quatrains or rub anapestic spoor into your eyes: any new rose, any rear asterisk leading nowhere with new risk is more shattering, or should be. Just so, I gag equally in front of some pastiche of Keston Sutherland as in front of an actual David Rattray. The former is naive and the latter cultured-benevolent, both characteristics are entirely pitiable.

What I said before about Joshua Clover goes just as well for Rachel Levitsky, really, for instance. But who cares – I won’t force it.

Now that we’re here edging our way backward through the awkward pre-reading scrum, eyes already fixed longingly on the exit we came in from, the first thing you’ll notice is the ponderous emphasis all of these so-called poets place on a vapor of enthusiastic and gregarious anti-intelligence. The first thing, I think, for being a poet is knowing how to get along to get by and vice versa. I also think that art in its most truly formal aspects, in the form of, say, a boxer in the tenth round, has its natural bodily seat in the chest and guts, and so I get a little miffed when in front of a poem I try to envision its engenderer and come up with nothing but a flying bust, if I’m lucky, sometimes just a rotten mouth, a tooth, a cavity. Worse, then, when I’m in front of the poet and can see only a nerveless filling clutching the pen, hunter-peckering the keys. These here now are sub- even that, chattering egos flying through the air like biotranslucent moray eels, wrapping around each other in sickly, complicit embraces regardless of what comes out of their gaped mouths, which of course aren’t even really there, but are a convenient way to imagine speaking libido ether.

And that’s why I have nothing but disgust for the poetry of Aase Berg, say, who rubs your face in the image of a man pumping gasoline into a cow’s asshole, whereas real insanity can’t help but send me into a mad ecstasy, because it uniquely enters into evidence a working brain and a body fucking radiant with heat, Exhibit A, Exhibit B. What’s called ‘genius’ is just the extravagant hypertrophy of a lump sum of grey muscle, bulging in the skull like canned chunk tuna, and dolphin-safe.

But soft, here comes Adam Fitzgerald. If I directly address this poet first, despite the fact a half-dozen gnomes have rattled off their shit while we’ve been talking, it’s because my third-best scarf figured heavily in his recent praxis, after I tried to shove it down his throat in the bar last week. You can hear it even during this reading. Everything coming out of his mouth is garbled, scummed with smarm, crushed with his cerebration like a pair of millstones trying to fuck. I’d rather stay four minutes underwater than another second here – I’d drown less. The elements in the poems are so arranged to provide a kind of twee prettification effect, whereas in the kind of work that springs from waking nightmare the elements are nothing more than light cast off from an incandescent, spinning ball, a star. Whoever sees the ball has no need to fluff its elements, which are always falsely transcribed anyway, not that that matters. Fitzgerald hasn’t seen it, his atman is bourgeois in essence and thoroughly sane, and so his poem is essentially ten different bad poems at once.

Take a gallon each of Ipecac, Nyquil, and Sprite, and purge your soul. Shoot the heroin when it’s too damp to snort it, lick out the ripped bag, fuck too much with all the wrong people or otherwise adopt a regimen for overdose, take anabolic steroids and HGH, when your arms are a foot and a half around maybe then you’ll have sufficiently brutalized yourself, if you’re lucky.

Next on the slate, Dottie Lasky read some stuff that seemed more laborious, more like work and less like poetry, which is an ambivalent statement, I know.

After Dottie finished sweating through some ten-page monster, an eminent poet visiting from Britain took to the stage. Or so it was whispered to me. The swarm of solicitous male acolytes that wrapped him like a nautilus’ shell also protected him from view. Nevertheless his words, dripped into the most senior of his disciples’ ears, passed on to the second-most, and so on, were eventually in this circuitous fashion delivered to the expectant audience. I literally could not understand them. This continued for some time.

After the myrmidons bore off their cloaked queen, the readers came thick and fast, a lightning round, as many as can fit before the bar’s repentance of its decision to host reaches critical levels. Anselm Berrigan tries to hide his total incompetence behind synesthetic effects. I’d heard his more conventional work before, the stuff with a repulsive, supposedly parodic canon-paternalism, which he read at the last AWP. I don’t think there’s much to this new shit either. Ben Fama has in spite of everything a certain appealing wide-eyed innocence, like OK amateur porn. Maybe it’s innocent, but it’s still too amateur, or it’s still porn. Rob Fitterman is beneath mention. So is Andy Sterling. Nada Gordon is worth mentioning derisively. Judah Rubin, ditto. Eileen Myles is an old would-be hipster jackal who wants people to think she’s an old hipster saint. Matt Longabucco is one of those unfortunate poets unconsciously headed for the pages of the New Yorker like a SCUD missile – a smuttified, quasi-minimal-political Ashbery is still Ashbery. Geoffrey G. O’Brien, his poems, even though they’re nonsense have some kind of life in them, like the fungus sprung in grout as you watch it totally holed on ‘ludes for hours, but hearing him read is still painful, since it’s always the same fungus in the same grout. Ted Dodson, you see this sort of thing everywhere nowadays. Lee Ann Brown, hideously dull to listen to but the constant scorn she displays for other poets is admirable. Chris Hosea, total crap, yessir.  Now up on stage are a quartet of conceptualists without concepts, maybe that’s good? I zoned out while they were saying the names. Lisa Jarnot knows all the little workshop tricks. David Lau, ah yeah, this is some David Lau now: a poet I haven’t personally spilled a beer on, but definitely the type to stand up a Tinder date at the Bowery Hotel on holiday from the infinity track. There’s something in your poems (that’s nice), but anyone can hear the broken, coked-up blathering discussions of “aesthetics” that feeds it. All your little friends are twats (not so nice, you see?), so you can take your scrap of false dignity and wipe your ass with it like I do with your perfect-bound chapbooks. Run off to the country and rent a house by the coast, telecommute to your free MOOC, ride your parents’ white horses while you wait for the tenure messiah. Zach Savich is reading now; he sounds exactly like a pig, babe. Amy King I’m pretty sure is some kind of a hoax perpetrated by Vanessa Place. Brandon Shimoda, another idiot. If Ann Hirsch is any evidence, we have to think that the hangover from net art will be just as bad as from abstraction, not that her work is net art but that it presents its most regressive tendencies crystallized into a heritable matrix. She’s a sort of fly, not even the kind to get wasted on dogshit, but a nice housefly, smelling of absolutely nothing, free from all disease.

That isn’t to say that her reading is a sort of fascistic masterpiece. If only. Matthew Rohrer on the other hand gave a charming reading, which I mean as the worst kind of slur. CA Conrad, soft-headed hippie nonsense but I like that he’s such a bully, I guess. Alan Felsenthal has some skill. I mean, it’s obvious that genius isn’t blowing big trombone glissandos through his poems, knocking whiskeys off the tables.  They’ve got that whiff of the standard order around them in place of deviance, but I’d like to see some of these other assholes manage even that. Danny Snelson, a little cryptofascist most of the time. Cecilia Corrigan at least seems to be enjoying herself, which is more than I can say for Arielle Greenberg. Her two poems have that sort of papery dryness, like rubbing two dollar bills together and smelling your fingers. I don’t know anything about this next guy, Matthew Zapruder, don’t know who his friends are, but I’m pretty sure he’s garbage anyway. You can tell by his name that he’s rich and by his poems that he’s straddling an editorial masthead and tenure somewhere, a distinguished position for a colossus with one leg in nepotism and the other in mediocrity. So he’s in the middle, and resembles all middling things. Stephanie Young, here’s a poet who surely doesn’t step back from a finished word doc and think: I’m not done laughing yet. Steve Zultanski, a runaway conceptualist clinging to the underside of the lyric raft. Brandon Brown, counterfeiter. Daniel Schoonebeek, more garbage, but the garbage left out on like a Tuesday not a Thursday. Heather Christle, grossly insincere poet. You get this feeling as she’s reading right now that the poems are missing something. And then she stops reading and you just have the feeling.  

Brett Fletcher Lauer, this is some sort of extended dick joke? I’m not really sure – I went to get a drink halfway through.  Jacqueline Waters same deal, don’t know anything about her, not even if that’s how you spell her name. Now it’s Kit Schluter – I’ve been told we got drunk together once but I don’t remember. I was drunk. In any case my unremembered comrade asked my publisher to intercede on his behalf, curtseying as he backed out the door, and I was eager to oblige. I missed his reading though (drunk), lucky him. Ok, aha, Timothy Donnelly. I have to make some preliminary remarks before I get to this one. We’ve squabbled in the past and I don’t want anyone, him included, to think that’s behind what I’m about to say now. I’m not concerned with personal friendships or private vendettas, a rare virtue today trying to ride camels through the eyes of needles in the desert of earnest critique. I can promise you that if I speak at length about this poet and some of the things I say shock you, don’t be surprised. I firmly believe that some things simply are shocking. One more time I have to admit that I didn’t hear his reading. Supposedly Donnelly always reads as late as possible to fuck with his critics, so they’ll be fucked up by the time he reads, which I think is an excellent strategy. But basically I think this is a poet who went to shit. “Went to shit,” even though that would be an unrealizable ideal, for anyone, finally. With his bathetic aggrieved laryngal whine behind the inscrutably bootlicking resting expression of a banker’s chauffeur – a belatedly appropriate physiognomy for a poet who drums out flaccid anti-consumerism iambics with one hand while endorsing checks from an MFA debt plantation with the other – in any case, with that face he could have aspired to make poems with a real brutality in them. The facade was promising, but the interior proved non-existent. He got too smart for it. When one is lucky enough to be born an idiot you have to be clever enough to know how to stay one. He took some lessons in linguistics, in theory and the like, reading lists handed down by his brocialist coterie, he’s flipped through Jameson once or twice, when he was really trying to fake it to make it as an academic. His theoretical armature of post-post-New York School hipster-jackboot four on the floor folksy-talky soft surrealism, like a fellow-traveling EDM drum machine in botoxed leggings – not to annoy him by thus naming it, but because pretty much everything these days is a derivative of or reaction formation to some kind of post-post-New York School hipster soft surrealism, which it resembles like an inbred grand-cousin – his theoretical armature, I was saying, has all the value of a nice wig, like his face, while his poems put it baldly that his is the kind of complicitous mind that, wilting under its tiny personal grievances and commitments, will make a deal for anything at anyone’s expense, so long as the vig is decent.

I forgot to mention that in life he tried to imitate the sad, nearly-provincial existence of his hero, Graham Foust. The one regret of having missed him is I now have no idea if he came to this reading in a matte black North Face puffy coat and earflapped fur hat, like he did at the big AWP offsite reading last year, really dead clothes, which makes perfect sense now that fashion is the province of life.

Josef Kaplan, somehow slipping in after Donnelly, cramming himself into the same turnstile in haste for the departing train – I missed his reading. I’d gone to smoke, thinking that things were pretty much over and if not so much the better, and I didn’t come back to see if I was right. Here’s one though that if I were wearing my strap-on I could pull down his Dickies and fuck a little poetry into him. It’s not just cute little ingenue posing in the bathroom mirror. No honey, poetry is walking, running, drinking, eating, sleeping, fucking, doing what you have to do and want. Say I’m a disgusting pervert, but it’s true.

I heard in the bar afterwards that even after Kaplan got done sneezing his épatant brains into the microphone, a hastily-formed commune of academics posted up in front of the stage like a pale and sweating barricade, making loud noises through the straws of their daiquiris about their own precarity. No one is more disappointed than a gambler who thought his dice were loaded only to realize he’s been at the roulette table all this time. Their poems, thank god I missed them, are a kind of sad bargaining, and they resemble en masse nothing so much as an umbrella union for deliriously specialized accountants, one who only audits the manufacturer of obsolete O-rings, one who manages the purchase of large endangered aquatic mammals for metropolitan zoos funded by petrochemical companies, and so on.

The reading has ended, let us go in peace to love and serve etc. Wipe the smile off your face and I’ll wipe the vomit from mine. This often happens to me after the bar, after the reading. You’re still an idealist (I can tell) – you think that poetry has nothing to do with consumption and excretion. But it is literally a flower, yes my dear, literally one, one that only springs up from contingent shit, the shit of life, onto which stinking heap its petals also fall, and it’s beyond doubt that a masterpiece needs as catalyst your black narcotic shit as it does the peephole in your apartment door, or, to really hit home (yours), isn’t it just as necessary, I say, that the rose deliciously to come pants charm, slipping its open petals down onto the virginal marble blushing with sun of a delicately tender and lyrical uncluttered mantle – poetry the clear down hair of a nipple?

I am sure I will be unable to defend myself in the press against those who have hypocritically insinuated that I’m a disciple of one or another namer of names. One of them already said to my partner: “What can you do, Mlle. Rigaut doesn’t hang, she doesn’t come out – we aren’t even FRIENDS!” To which I can only say: they can keep their charm school. School’s out and the time for charm is over.http://www.vidaweb.org/reports-from-the-field/http://www.larevuedesressources.org/l-exposition-des-independants,1635.htmlhttp://theclaudiusapp.com/4-rigaut.htmlhttp://theclaudiusapp.com/4-rigaut.htmlshapeimage_1_link_0shapeimage_1_link_1shapeimage_1_link_2shapeimage_1_link_3