To Marinetti’s Descendants (first letter)

Your future is now and its put us to sleep.
We’re singing to our love of sleep while sleeping (a habit of slumber and trance).
The essential elements of our poetry have been torpor, dullness and repose.
Literature is now magnifying pensive immobility and inertia. We’ve exalted movements of rest, feverish paralysis, the double doze, the perilous nap, the slap and the blow with the dream – yes — even your pathological dreams of Modernity.
We declare the world subjugated by beautiful rest:  the sleep of reason. Stalled projects of emancipation, their front lines adorned with great collaborative efforts and solidarity, like serpents with fiery breath long gone … a silent march of protest that has never begun except in ecstatic visions … this is more spectacular than the loudest explosions of progressive change.
We sing the man at the wheel to sleep, the ideal axis of which is buried in the earth (itself dropped out of orbit).
The poet must spend himself with hibernation, dormancy and absence to increase ignorance of all primordial elements.
Beauty is promised in the loss of consciousness. There’s no masterpiece without a lethargic character. Poetry has become an abject indifference to the forces of the unknown, leaving them untouched among us.
We are conked-out into the next millennia! What is the use of looking behind at the moment when we must open the mysterious shutters of the inactive? Time and Space died yesterday but live on in sleep. We are already living in the absolute, since we have already created eternal, omnipresent speed in our snoozing.
We glorify atomization — the only cure for insomniac resistance — putridity, division, the isolating gesture of the somnambulists, the beautiful reveries that kill, and contempt for waking life.
We are demolishing action and dialogue as we sleep, fighting vigilance, observation and all opportunist and utilitarian cognizance.
We sing in our sleep of the great crowds, alone together, never agitated by a questioning of purpose, resolve and comfort; the multi-colored and polyphonic lullabies of life-style options and public reputations in modern capitals: the nocturnal vibration of social media facilitating laptops and the emptiness beneath their violent electric moons: gluttonous phone cameras devouring being in time; news feeds bouncing in their ephemeral bubbles; the fluid stream of images across the diabolic machinery of the phantasmagoria: fantasies of adventure filling the horizon of the automatons; great-breasted desires for affirmation, puffing on the virtual rails of exchange like enormous and insatiable undead armies, and the gliding flight of hyperbole, it’s relentless distractions sounding like the flapping of a flag, the applause and outrage of enthusiastic populations.
jeremy