Christian Bök

Enfettered, these sentences repress free speech. The

text deletes selected letters. We see the revered exegete

reject metred verse: the sestet, the tercet – even les

scènes élevées en grec. He rebels. He sets new precedents.

He lets cleverness exceed decent levels. He eschews the

esteemed genres, the expected themes – even les belles

lettres en vers. He prefers the perverse French esthetes:

Verne, Péret, Genet, Perec – hence, he pens fervent

screeds, then enters the street, where he sells these let-

terpress newsletters, three cents per sheet. He engen-

ders perfect newness wherever we need fresh terms.

Relentless, the rebel peddles these theses, even when

vexed peers deem the new precepts ‘mere dreck.’ The

plebes resent newer verse; nevertheless, the rebel per-

severes, never deterred, never dejected, heedless, even

when hecklers heckle the vehement speeches. We feel

perplexed whenever we see these excerpted sentences.

We sneer when we detect the clever scheme – the emer-

gent repetend: the letter E. We jeer; we jest. We express

resentment. We detest these depthless pretenses – these

present-tense verbs, expressed pell-mell. We prefer

genteel speech, where sense redeems senselessness.

Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink this pidgin script. I sing with nihilistic witticism, disciplining signs with trifling gimmicks — impish hijinks which highlight stick sigils. Isn’t it glib? Isn’t it chic? I fit childish insights within rigid limits, writing schtick which might instill priggish misgivings in critics blind with hindsight. I dismiss nitpicking criticism which flirts with philistinism. I bitch; I kibitz – griping whilst criticizing dimwits, sniping whilst indicting nitwits, dismissing simplistic thinking, in which philippic wit is still illicit.