Demonic Words (unfinished old poem that feels good as it is)

[tun]

Meaning isn't important, as in and out of void, meaning is in and out of silence like music.

I've no intention, nor does the unconscious you talk about, have intention in regard to poems.

Intention is the poem and poems.

Literary Criticism organizes language to talk about things that don't need to be talked about.
Psychology does the same.
Those two genres of poetry are no different from poetry. They are making categories and intentions. This is everything.

Truth is beyond all this. Truth includes all this.

Writing poetry is making something out of this current conditioning. Society, Culture, People, Me, History, Art, Theory.
I don't need to say any of this, I don't need to write poems; I do, as it feels like I do. That is the sweet spot.

Nothing I write is random. Randomness can only ever be apparent. There is always correspondence and allusion. Personal, Schizophrenic, Pop Cultural, Magical, Religious, Folkloric, Dream, so on. Random is always a device. Everything is conscious, even what's unconscious. Everything is stream of consciousness. Apparent Randomness and Order are all devices, Affect-Quality distinctions and divisions for the sake of dynamic wholeness.

Everything generates. Whatever the tone and attitude or intention of anything and anyone. The generation itself is what is important, from this point of view, high and low, good and bad, are all devices in the book, as in this thread, as on this site, this room, this house, this neighborhood.

Everything is airtight and absolute. There can be no opposition to the generation. Compulsion is a device.

Look I have made some good points, and you have now replied to me with strawmen and meandering fancies - a parade of succeeding unintelligible claims you cannot rationally support. You are not talking to me, you are talking at me. I don't see why I should try to decode a ramble.