(THIS ARTICLE IS MACHINE TRANSLATED by Google from Norwegian)
Loud singing at speed
"Love is productive," writes Leif Høghaug, a diligent ant in the Norwegian contemporary literature field, with poetry collections, an anthology of Norwegian worker poetry, and now with a major exercise in the re-writing of American Julian Talamantes Brolaski. It is a productive love of literature that drives Høghaug. I don't know anything about Brolanski, so I read the term first, and meet there – in Høghaug's enthusiastic and reference-rich prose – the poet, linguist and country artist (!) Julian Talamantez Brolaski (b. 1978), who writes in a quivering and direct oral poetry. : "Fuck me hard, shit in the black-eyed pack that you know I am a pleasure whore come and take me now in the rock and hill, thirsty where I was when I was happy to see you forget poetic skin, and puke you. When people make fun of the mouse, come on, darling, sew that makes me dress up and call me jinta di, look away from habits both here and there.
Brolaski uses a kind of anarchist bastard language.
Gentlemen, as you tease, you, oh! cufflinks, I shudder with desire and I think no listen steal less, you. So hold me tight as hard as you can handle the whole tea I howl beibi fuck me hard. ”It is only Øyvind Berg who has written something similar here in the country.
Unpredictable poet
"I will say dive rant what Love is your plug he lends, blend your gate while you hang there in the treacherous wildness without the help of the most ardent crew." this is windswept and shafted, and the verse foot goes fast. A loud song on speed. And is not poetry the best when you get lost in the language, when you have to play with the concealed premise of an erratic poet, and throw yourself into the wild, and then recognize yourself in something unknown, something strange and yes, dangerous and threatening? Yes, it is possible. Not forgetting quite the strict, rational understanding, he can be there held in tight strings by the Laughter, and then sense and howl with love. Is not also the entrance of love just to get lost, seduced by something unknown, the unknown that has an inherent trait you can not resist? Gravity. And gravity in the language, that's for sure here.
Brutal as the living hell, and it's poetry at great risk.
Brolaski's poems are loaded with references to other poets; from love poetry by Dante, and Joyce, who really knew the art of creating language, and the title is a paraphrase of Ovid's The art of loving (The art of loving). And the sonnet poet Shakespeare. Of course. Høghaug writes: "Innovative poetry continues to dictate what everything is dictated." The poems are brutal and witty, like the one quoted above. Alan Ginsberg and the beat poets are in the rhythm and groove in the stanzas, which move fast here and there, and which you hesitantly and curiously run after, to see what emerges from throbbing pulings and "gods' guys" in the next line, next verse, next page, and so on. It's hot and juicy. Brutal as the living hell, hot bodies and hard consonants, and it is poetry with great risk, because it is poetry without a "safety net", as Høghaug writes. And liberating straight to the point: "The risky rhyme you thought you wrote that puler harder than a frivers makes it lespar with every color consonant it thumps puler out or abstinence, while my whore proudly tops a firmament and nips the god of gods in garters. »
Anarchist high style
A book of wild love, the untamed love, and brutal lust. And that will destroy, or at least deform, the quasi-language of love and descriptions of love is charged with. Everyone knows that love is hard work. And also disappointments, loneliness, longing, rejection. Believing that love makes whole is an illusion. Love is practicing one's humanity in possible and impossible tasks. I hear the echoes of Bukowski, Jean Genet and Fassbinder, who slam the door in the face of the fools who think love is an idyll, it is indeed also hard and violent and damn unsympathetic. To practice his experiences in a credible language, Brolaski uses a kind of anarchist bastard language; slang, dialect, archaic constructions, punctuation by ear, and he distorts and destroys the words to get what he wants. Too many people do too much to normalize and stabilize their language, it is washed and rubbed, and loses more and more life along the way. Bringing language to life is a poet's job, and then it must not only be formatted according to the laws of grammar and habit; it must be innovated and transformed as in a dream, a dream that is again transformed into something else third again, in a third degree language outside the normal. An anarchist high style. Hard and soft as a stiff cock is this hymn of a love book.
Høghaug's original, surrealistic pencil drawings fit nicely into the book, we know that poets often have their own "unskilled" line, so to speak, and just shit in how a drawing should be and fabricate freely with a pencil that almost falls off self.
