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The poetry of sir Redaulf Proxexette

Posted by benjimanphillips in poetry, politics on September 18, 2013

During the 1940s Britain was in a damp foreboding hell of bombs. Wence come forth a poet doth up-push a populations morale? Doth yet it did, in the form of Redaulf Proxexette. He was a man of words, not spoken, but written in shaky arm fluid spilt by the blitz. I remember every night he used to shudder and shake under the bomb hits over london. But his arm kept mekking out divine lit.

Recent kritical analysis of Redaulf has focused on his issues with house-flies, and how they would drive him to alcoholism. Indeed, it is hard to ignore frequent Musca domestica References in his work. Most notably in his short prose “Flies are annoying buggers” 
Which describes a picnic he was having interrupted by a house fly shitting on his crumpet.

During his heady 70’s years he built many styrofoam cars and left them in the road for commuters to ponder over. He was sued later that year after he killed 10 people in car accidents on the m1. “We all wondered what he was on” says Eewger Wring, a close freind of Redualf’s, “Turns out it was crushed up 70’s bong. We had to air pump that shit out of him like a botox.”

 

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“Panels of haz’e”, Rothko, Caspar and Nash as continuum

Posted by benjimanphillips in art, Uncategorized on July 25, 2013

Keats once said of nature, “A flower is all, A tree is one and a field is none”. The absence of formal color in the works of Caspar David Freidrich rings true to keats words. We see in the prime romanticist’s works a delineation of color. I argue that Rothko and Nash are true to CDR’s original conception of the sublime yet pull it into the world of abstraction. Or, in Sterne Upps words “The medium sinks into history and time, like a bagel sinks into porridge.” 

I met Sterne In the coffee house of paris, and discussed this in late 2003. I will never forget the sense of Rothko’s presence, in the steam coming out of my coffee, reminding me of his great triptych, “Untitled 4”. There was a new fangled tube that hovered above my plate (It being Paris) and it dumped a fresh steaming Baguette. Again this fogged my glasses and continued to make the cafe seem Rothkoesque. 

Sterne mused aloud “R,C,N” (Rothko, Caspar and Nash) “R,C,N, changed the whole paradigm. Just as Sartre made me rethink my life, Rothko made me rethink Satre’s writings on life .” He gestured towards two images of Sartre on the walls. One was him inhaling smoke from a Turkish bong pipe and the other was him meditating. “you must understand that Satre and Rothko are like two clumped rhizomes.” 

Indeed Mr Sterne, Indeed it was.   

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