having lunch with the police

[blp]

That little bird that gives up its song
only at the promise of a symphony

It's you. Me. A representation of the subject
constituted as you/me/another, but small

little one. the giving up is a cut and the scab's
itch is what gets us (it/him/her) through the day

with guilty, chortling confessions (prior to the act) to whit
(to whoo) I know I shouldn't, really, but... (I'll pick at it)

The police, lunching in a greeny arbour, sucking the meat
off bones, laugh and feed us wriggling worms

[PrinceMyshkin]

I confess to being puzzled by the over-all intent of this but thoroughly enjoyed the word-play along the way.

[blp]

I wouldn't expect anyone to understand it, really. I'm puzzling through the work of Slavoj Zizek (http://www.iep.utm.edu/z/zizek.htm) and I reached a sort of sublime point where I felt I understood quite a lot, but it was simultaneously too much to take in or keep together in my mind and it was making me feel a little breathless and crazed. Rather than trying to explain it all, I thought, the thing to do first might be to throw together these associations. Not sure it's helped, but, like you, there's something I like about the result.

[blp]

That little bird that gives up its song
only at the promise of a symphony

It's you. Me. A representation of the subject
constituted as you/me/another, but small

little one. the giving up is a cut and the scab's
itch is what gets us (it/him/her) through the day

with guilty, chortling confessions (prior to the act) to whit
(to whoo) I know I shouldn't, really, but... (picks at it)

The police, lunching in a greeny arbour, sucking the meat
off bones, laughingly feed us wriggling worms. The ravens

have got into the potato chips again.

[white camellia]

I particularly like the first four stanzas, fresh and honest. It's done as a communion to Slavoj Zizek's thoughts. So it might be better to come back to the poem after reading his philosophy.

That little bird that gives up its song
only at the promise of a symphony

It's you. Me. A representation of the subject
constituted as you/me/another, but small

little one. the giving up is a cut and the scab's
itch is what gets us (it/him/her) through the day

with guilty, chortling confessions (prior to the act) to whit
(to whoo) I know I shouldn't, really, but... (picks at it)

[ReynardKitsune]

its so complex!!

[blp]

Thanks Reynard and white camellia. It's hard to tell whether reading Zizek would help anyone with this.

The idea is roughly, we give up our own methods of creating pleasure at the state's promise of a sublime experience (the symphony), which is never quite fulfilled. The resulting loss is a cut because it's a sort of castration and we are kept from recovering by the little bit of pleasure we derive from this loss (picking the scab), which is a pleasure mixed with pain, such as the kind of pleasure we get from doing a job we hate really well or from escaping from that job by means of something else that hurts us (drink -> hangover; fatty food -> fat/heart disease) etc.

Meanwhile, in Zizek's view, all successful ideological systems are successful by virtue of allowing us limited access to transgressive pleasures (the consumption of live wriggling worms) and (I haven't really dealt with this) allowing us some sense of distance from their dominance through dissent or transgression.

I added the bit about ravens because I saw some ravens eating potato chips the other day and thought it fit: something to do with the raven itself as a symbol of dark forces, rendered banal and bathetic by the potato chips, which are nevertheless acquired through a transgressive act (theft).

I'm really not interested in trying to make poetry illustrate philosophical points. It just seemed the right way to begin trying to understand without going crazy.

[Pendragon]

I rather liked it without the explaination, B.

[blp]

Thanks. Well, the explanation's probably all wrong anyway.