Novas Poéticas de Resistência: o século XXI em Portugal


Jennifer Scappettone

Derrida Is Dead


If Half-Dead Bob would only end down at Fresh Kills backwardation could be contango
And us could get ohne with tadance. He’s up in Guantanamo, with the hum-ho-ers’ though
Mastering the sacks. Natch. Spooking of nonece the pail is relieved of its lid &
Prizes fly allotting excess to twice exact every charm of askesis back. Remember the
Future one thinks back in the box lusting after yesterday which will be worse; you rücken and I
             figure aye knowhow
One’s grinddaddy daily dies. As the velleity of the young & ambitious badablings forth da
             fantasies of a candlelit
Gym, another kiss at the turnstile dubbed calle clocks in tautological style. Mallejo finally
             coming across in a fosse
Outskirt weeps, discloseted, would make the phellus go but ain’t ergoic, mouth I miss

              Venice’s eff-you to nature
& its erasure, for ex, but a bleaghtch ain’t one. Her does not sing; her body is a song;
             Wrong; Paris may buy the
Isles of P the perennial protoex but that spectorate woofs her dearth her own, bitchingly
             Dejune. In other wards
Remembers us lately to the matrix dug over our dead body. To the unthawed Weed who
             wrought us this option u like a

Wannawuz Silvia de jure, obscure, in the name of the red, blonde black and blue shellbombs
             Whizz, as-is, hiss is for you.




     da s

I was pre-Pandoran once, clear & amok, scarlet free where scarcely
           orange or purple romed: all
font, Greek, drunk, then, then Tyred, vinegar aspect for breakfast. How I seam
           now in video
footage of national folding where only arson lives lives. Its source is valid because Google
calls it 100% relevant and government, which is apt since it’s an historical event. I reseek and
pall this chunk’s vocation. Viatical my neighbor asks if I’d ride in the trunk, no kid; my
hatchback is mined in the parking lot for its sparkplugs beyond the bar. She masking
he then is captured by the faith-based; once she creams, he stops calling it
vocation. Down here, they have imported the clouds from Japan, and I hear them, sardine.
Keez me, gaghrl, yer old wahn. Geta-crushing Shoji of the air will remember cat-noise
and -fish for complements as the King of Terror will never have forced
the possible Fed you you you’re not—not. Postal will be yours and you, bulk predellal, tardy
urinals on vehicles, art naught but an empty he-port. Grey they err over joy, toupeeing space
as picture meant to do. I stream, hand mover, reek, occupy ice and call that night. Of all
you finally type to say you hosted Uncle Chen in your backyard exclusive. Wake,
               it’s time to smell the smoke. Darling I

incensed. Once could have been your she-port; pretty noun
look ahead to repast and yr Gruyerer aspect. Hype alone remains inside the box.

Jennifer Scappettone, a translator, poet, and scholar, is the author of From Dame Quickly (Litmus Press, 2009). She is at work on Exit 43—an archaeology of the landfill and opera of pop-ups—for Atelos Press. Excerpts of that book appear in Belladonna Elders Series #5: Poetry, Landscape, Apocalypse (2009) featuring pop-ups and preface by Scappettone and work by Etel Adnan and Lyn Hejinian. Pop-up scores are being adapted for performance in collaboration with choreographer Kathy Westwater as LAND. She guest-edited a feature for Aufgabe 7 devoted to contemporary Italian experiment, and is at work on a range of translations, with a focus on the postwar polyglot author Amelia Rosselli. Readings are available at her PennSound author page. Her critical manuscript in progress explores the city of Venice as a crucible for modernism. She works as an assistant professor of English and Creative Writing and faculty affiliate of Romance Languages and Literatures and the Center for Gender Studies at the University of Chicago.