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.

Westerners revere the Greek legends. Versemen retell the represented events, the resplendent scenes, where, hellbent, the Greek freemen seek revenge whenever Helen, the new-wed empress, weeps. Restless, she deserts her fleece bed where, detested, her wedded regent sleeps. When she remembers Greece, her seceded demesne, she feels wretched, left here, bereft, her needs never met. She needs rest; nevertheless, her demented fevers render her sleepless (her sleeplessness enfeebles her). She needs help; nevertheless, her stressed nerves render her cheerless (her cheerlessness enfetters her).

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.