To make the long process of reading David Foster Wallace’s Infite Jest more exciting joyous sensible bearable (and because I am currently finding out there exists new thresholds of boredom I knew nothing about) I have decided to have some fun while at it. I will lift/copy his lines, picked up randomly (or so I think), and make some short conceptual poems out of them. I will not alter the order of text as it appears in the novel. I will also share some thoughts about conceptual poetry, especially on ownership: I have always found the apostrophe (as used to indicate the possessive case) confusing.
Why? I am always in experiment with myself, and outside myself (which is very possible, you see) in seeking for new frontiers, to mean I am always on the look out for metastatic homes I have never imagined possible, and someone else made a surrealist text generator…so why the hell not?
Travelling, wondering, and imagining almost places. Places can come to you. And, I’m learning to be a junky. It’s not as easy art.
I do not own this text. I do not own this text. And I do not own this text. It will be reproduced here without the publisher’s consent. Here is the first instalment.
inside the ideogram of string
lapping me twice before the memory recedes.
My instincts concerning syntax and mechanics
are better than your own,
I’m not a machine.
Eight eyes have become blank discs
that stare at whatever they see.