Notes from New Sodom

... rantings, ravings and ramblings of strange fiction writer, THE.... Sodomite Hal Duncan!!

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Song of the Stancer

I strike a stance to this or that,
a stance of recognition struck
in every disposition to
wild object of desire or dread,

in guts of all disgust or wrath,
in scrunch of balls and shivered spine,
in thrall of eyes or open heart,
first posture of the stancer's art.

In every stance I strike a stance
that this I recognise as this,
as any target of my yen
is fancied object in my ken.


I strike a stance to this and that
and that and this, a sweep of things
encompassed in my stance to all:
that they are items in a box.

Around karass or granfaloon,
I hurl the fancy of corral,
to recognise a wider this,
this cluster of specific things;

but in this crafting, as Cornell,
this cluster of specific things,
I line a paper bird, a spring,
a rubber ball or pipe of clay.


In stancing cluster, this I say,
and only this: that these are bound.
In such a stance there's no denial
that all things are exceptions, each

an object in and of itself,
each in its lineaments a quirk;
and so begins the stance to sing
--no, dance--the haecceity of things,

No quiddity in cluster yet,
no hollowing to empty frame
of ghosted form, Platonic class,
each object in its essence one.


But now to this or that I stance
my role as son or steersman--strange
as it is to fit to yield, I
yield to your yen for guiding hand,

as in a waltz or tango's verve,
we stance a partnership of peers
that conjures power out of yen,
casts me as master and as slave.

Artist or audience, I stance,
but mind the crux: We each are each,
in every moment we commune
ever in service as we steer.


Still, as a child I stanced my yield,
and parents stanced in proxy roles,
and everywhere were stances struck
in recognition of their sway.

In recognition of your say
so too might they, if we were twined
in marriage, hear you speak for me,
beloved proxy of my will.

With you our union's interface,
they'd stance to you as you were me;
For chatteled wife no more, I'd note,
but me they'd stance as I were thee.


Fancy you had a hundred loves,
each in a union of all yen,
and you this cluster's proxy voice,
shop steward of the workers bound.

Fancy us each in union just,
that each may be proxy now or then,
that any may stand for this karass,
in any instance one for all.

So in this clustered throng of quirks,
when any speaks it is one voice;
the cluster sings in each refrain
if we but stance it to be so.


Now let us open up our sweep
to fancy each quirk from the karass
called forth into a stranger role,
each instance proxy, summoned voice,

stepped out to meet a stance from all
that for a masque it shall be dressed,
that in a game it shall be masked
to stand as proxy for a thing.

Fancy yourself in purple robes,
called forth to take an object's place,
a proxy in a whirling dance.
That song from the karass? A name.


Stumbling, the quirk steps out as name,
but is no name, is just a word,
and is no word, is just a sound
which, with no quiddity, is just this,

until in the ballroom of the nous
proxy by proxy, now we stance,
by echoes of the quirks we choose
and shadows left in the karass,

a template for the quirk to fit
for sound to be a word, a name,
a stance on how and what we'll stance,
to play the proxy in each dance.


And if our stance may play this game,
each quirk the instance of a name
eclipsing tone of yen or surl
to carve the blank phonetic frame,

if we can set a sound as word,
each instance echo in our nous
imagined sans haecceity
as iteration of one thing,

then now the quiddity of things
is born and every name a class,
and we have conjured out of quirks
an archetype as new karass.


Call forth a daily quirk to sing
in sunrise of Adonis. Weave
the dental D, the nasal N
with vowels to the sibbilant S,

and we shall say we've made a name,
for all each instance is unique,
and with each quirk made of a kind,
with archetype of name defined,

now we may stance all objects thus
and set this word adonis as
a proxy object in the dance
for all within a yen's karass.


But still in whim we stance a whim,
a fleeting fancy, a conceit
that for the dance we'll drape a fool
and for a little while he'll rule.

And as we whirl him in our nous,
this instanced song of a karass,
though we pretend some essence set,
we have not made of him a sign.

There is no meaning stored in name
and carried round with every step.
As if caprice's fleeting dance
has flesh beyond the flesh we stance.


There is no sign but only this
pretence of quiddity in quirks,
the phantom essence of a word
sustained in flesh sustaining stance.

This superstition of the sign
as abstract thing, Platonic form
in substance fictive as the soul,
is essence passing as a dream.

From this day on the sign is dead.
The sign is dead; long live the stance
to spring, to ball, to paper bird,
to song, flesh's fancy of a word.


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