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 The Scent That Captures That "1930s Moment"!

All material copyrighted to © 2014

or to the various credited sources © 2014



Tarquin’s in Pharmaceuticals, not chemically-speaking,

But its commercial arm, penning advertising copy,

It’s the only way to get his poetry to pay! Not to say,

Into print –he’s earning himself an extravagant living

All to afford himself time to wine and dine with a suitably

Pre-eminent metropolitan imprint with some antiquity

Behind it; somewhere historied and several octaves above

The proverbial saddle-stitched fringes, in terms of established

Credentials, kudos and legacy… Faber & Faber, say –

Used to be bankers you know –hence T.S. Eliot’s perfect

Fit at their editorial end, being both banker and poet;

This was long before the days of W.H. Auden & Co., long

Before his portfolio was mothballed in their clothbound flaps…

But I digress… As my daughter, Hortence, is ever prone

To pick me up on of a parenthesis –she’s the one in

The austalgia game, by the way, nosterity retail they call it;

Owns a chain of Thirties Retro Boutiques… But anyway…

There’s very little difference between verse and advertising

At the end of the day: both have predispositions towards

Metaphor, sense-impression, rhythm, rhyme, litotes, and

Hyperbole to sell their products– poetry’s ever knowingly

Undersold, but poetic copy is never knowingly old, always

New, always about Now, the Moment, the latest thing,

The next big thing, the buzz, the zeitgeist, the tuliped turd

On the pavement, the finger on the pulse –it’s all about

Re-branding, again and again, habitually, ad infinitum,

As long as you re-brand things they always seem new,

Even if they’re paper-thin replicas of the same old tat!...



…But poets today are an opportunistic bunch, they’ve cottoned-

On to advertising, they’ve turned it into poetry by stripping

Down their words to the barest minimum, sharp, staccato

Pull-quotes and punchy phrases, pared-down tercets that

Advertise themselves as supplemental consumer products, pop-

Up poems, perfumed ephemera that powder the browsing nose,

Frequently pedestrian, violet-scented, conservatively toned,

Impersonally expressed, supremely apolitical, elliptically

Polemical, whorishly hermeneutical, sometimes suggestive,

Sometimes self-parodying, ever impressing impressions,

Post-modern, post-mortem, postpartum, fruity, ekphrastic,

Postprandial, epicurean, pabulum, O pabulum, not soul-

Nourishment, more gourmet for thought, aphorism and canapé,

Comestible, consumerable, Empsonian profiteroles

Filled with processed cream, violet cream, and almost

Always indistinguishable from prose… But it’s the ultimate

Capitalist scam, is it not, and should be applauded for its’

Outcapitalising capitalism, not materially, but in terms

Of sheer audacity –to think, the most undervalued of artistic

Mediums today, the most impecunious and unlikeliest

To ever be floated on the Stock Exchange, has become its’

Own Market, produced by and for its own shareholders;

Its Capitalistic practitioners, parasitic, cannabilistic and

Solipsistic tics to a Woman and Man! Poetry should be

Applauded for its mendacious conceit: to sculpt a product

Of the spiel itself! For capitalist poetry is absolute, does

What it says on the tin every time, fruit in syrup, fruit in syrup;

It’s its own self-contained commodity! Ingenious! Poetry,

Alone, is both advert AND product! But more than that: it is

Also its own consumer; a self-consumer: poetry eats itself!

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