The theatre of Trump is beyond explanation, and beyond satire as it ridicules itself.

His speech in Florida tonight genuinely beggars belief, from the reality of the hired help in the audience behind him, and knowingly oblivious [excuse the paradox] in particular by one guy who was staring directly into the TV camera whilst on his mobile and blowing kisses to whoever he was speaking to – quite clearly utterly uncaring in what Trump was saying – to the unbelievably banal but propagandising rhetoric that had been written for the President to deliver in a sweaty and gobsmackingly inept speech.

At the end of this surreal slice of sheer performance above anything of substance, the Rolling Stones’ soundtrack repeated its line you can’t always get what you want, and the spiral of ironies within that kept digging the deepest of holes – for all of us.

The crowd of clowns who had been assembled and waited in the hanger for Air Force One and The Donald to arrive had been serenaded by Free’s Alright Now which added yet more bizarre musical layers of the absurd to the whole frighteningly nightmarish reality.

I have nothing clever or particularly informed to say but I had to express something in my disbelief.

If you simply want to read Beckett’s short story Lessness, skip this personal preamble. It is well worth a read if you have never previously encountered. Or, of course, if you have.

I thought I first came across this potent story around 1969 when I heard a performance/reading on the radio. I was convinced I recalled exactly where I was at the time and thus knew the date. I was wrong.

Researching last night, the recording was on BBC Radio 3, 7^th May, 1971 at 9.25pm. So I was lying face down on a bed in a different bedroom and house than the one I had [erroneously] remembered for years. It was a long time ago.

But it makes sense. I was 17 in 1971, studying A levels at College. I think I had seen the film of Not I, though the timeline is sketchy, and I had certainly seen a performance of Krapps’ Last Tape at the drama club I attended occasionally. I recollect the banana.

What I do remember vividly and without question was lying face down on my bed listening that evening and being so deeply affected by the language and atmosphere created by the reading. This was significantly enhanced – spookily, is perhaps the best word – by the radio reception which drifted in and out, so the relentless wording and generating of a feeling of loss and lessness was heightened by the disappearing and returning of the sound itself. I couldn’t find out today what waveband BBC Radio 3 would have been on in 1971. Whatever, it wasn’t very stable in Ipswich, Suffolk then.

Originally written in 1969 in French and titled Sans, this was the first performance/reading in English I believe. My grasp of French is paltry, but I do know, and use, sans to mean without and/or an absence of. One definition I came across this morning was wanting. For me, the translation to Lessness is one significantly different and wholly apt – but perhaps that is because I only know the English whole, so one reflects the other. But I do know that the implication of lessness, and that precarious radio reception – and the palpable readings by Donal Donnelly, Leonard Fenton, Denys Hawthorne, Patrick Magee, Harold Pinter and Nicol Williamson – left a profound and lasting impression.

So much so that this current recalling was prompted by my using the word lessness in a recent found poem in my sequence based on the Great American Novel, American Finds. I’ll put it at the end.

One further contextualising. I think I taught Beckett at A Level, certainly Endgame, either as a coursework text or a set text, and I do suspect it was the latter. I am still proud to have taught/shared Waiting for Godot with GCSE mixed-ability groups for coursework assignments on Twentieth Century Drama. It is challenging, but all the more engaging for this. With plenty of reading, sharing and watching as well as discussion and prompts and support, the written assignment was an obvious one based on whether students thought the play was hopeful or hopeless – positive or negative – and we used the play’s focus on interpretations provided by the four gospels on the story of the two thieves.

Students also devised their own WfG scenes to perform for Speaking and Listening assessment. This was wonderfully and dynamically freeing because they could be as absurd as desired, and they were.

Lessness

Ruins true refuge long last towards which so many false time out of mind. All sides endlessness earth sky as one no sound no stir. Grey face two pale blue little body heart beating only up right. Blacked out fallen open four walls over backwards true refuge issueless.

Scattered ruins same grey as the sand ash grey true refuge. Four square all light sheer white blank planes all gone from mind. Never was but grey air timeless no sound figment the passing light. No sound no stir ash grey sky mirrored earth mirrored sky. Never but this changelessness dream the passing hour.

He will curse God again as in the blessed days face to the open sky the passing deluge. Little body grey face features slit and little holes two pale blue. Blank mind.

Figment light never was but grey air timeless no sound. Blank planes touch close sheer white all gone from mind. Little body ash grey locked rigid heart beating face to endlessness. On him will rain again as in the blessed days of blue the passing cloud. Four square true refuge long last four walls over backwards no sound.

Grey sky no cloud no sound no stir earth ash grey sand. Little body same grey as the earth sky ruins only upright. Ash grey all sides earth sky as one all sides endlessness.

He will stir in the sand there will be stir in the sky the air the sand. Never but in dream the happy dream only one time to serve. Little body little block heart beating ash grey only upright. Earth sky as one all sides endlessness little body only upright. In the sand no hold one step more in the endlessness he will make it. No sound not a breath same grey all sides earth sky body ruins.

Slow black with ruin true refuge four walls over backwards no sound. Legs a single block arms fast to sides little body face to endlessness. Never but in vanished dream the passing hour long short. Only upright little body grey smooth no relief a few holes. One step in the ruins in the sand on his back in the endlessness he will make it. Never but dream the days and nights made of dreams of other nights better days. He will live again the, space of a step it will be day and night planes sheer white eye calm long last all gone from again over him the endlessness.

In four split asunder over backwards true refuge issueless scattered ruins. Little body little block genitals overrun arse a single block grey crack overrun. True refuge long last issueless scattered down four walls over backwards no sound. All sides endlessness earth sky as one no stir not a breath. Blank planes sheer white calm eye light of reason all gone from mind. Scattered ruins ash grey all sides true refuge long last issueless.

Ash grey little body only upright heart beating face to endlessness. Old love new love as in the blessed days unhappiness will reign again. Earth sand same grey as the air sky ruins body fine ash grey sand. Light refuge sheer white blank planes all gone from mind.

Flatness endless little body only upright same grey all sides earth sky body ruins. Face to white calm touch close eye calm long last all gone from mind. One step more one alone all alone in the sand no hold he will make it.

Blacked out fallen open true refuge issueless towards which so many false time out of mind. Never but silence such that in imagination this wild laughter these cries. Head through calm eye all light white calm all gone from mind. Figment dawn dispeller of figments and the other called dusk.

He will go on his back face to the sky open again over him the ruins the sand the endlessness. Grey air timeless earth sky as one same grey as the ruins flatness endless. It will be day and night again over him the endlessness the air heart will beat again. True refuge long last scattered ruins same grey as the sand.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Face to calm eye touch close all calm all white all gone from mind. Never but imagined the blue in a wild imagining the blue celeste of poesy. Little void mighty light four square all white blank planes all gone from mind. Never was but grey air timeless no stir not a breath. Heart beating little body only upright grey face features overrun two pale blue. Light white touch close head through calm eye light of reason all gone from mind.

Little body same grey as the earth sky ruins only upright. No sound not a breath same grey all sides earth sky body ruins. Blacked out fallen open four walls over backwards true refuge issueless.

No sound no stir ash grey sky mirrored earth mirrored sky. Grey air timeless earth sky as one same grey as the ruins flatness endless. In the sand no hold one step more in the endlessness he will make it. It will be day and night again over him the endlessness the air heart will beat again.

Figment light never was but grey air timeless no sound. All sides endlessness earth sky as one no stir not a breath. On him will rain again as in the blessed days of blue the passing cloud. Grey sky no cloud no sound no stir earth ash grey sand.

Little void mighty light four square all white blank planes all gone from mind. Flatness endless little body only upright same grey all sides earth sky body ruins. Scattered ruins same grey as the sand ash grey true refuge. Four square true refuge long last four walls over backwards no sound. Never but this changelessness dream the passing hour. Never was but grey air timeless no sound figment the passing light.

In four split asunder over backwards true refuge issueless scattered ruins. He will live again the space of a step it will be day and night again over him the endlessness. Face to white calm touch close eye calm long last all gone from mind. Grey face two pale blue little body heart beating only upright. He will go on his back face to the sky open again over him the ruins the sand the endlessness. Earth sand same grey as the air sky ruins body fine ash grey sand. Blank planes touch close sheer white all gone from mind.

Heart beating little body only upright grey face features overrun two pale blue. Only upright little body grey smooth no relief a few holes. Never but dream the days and nights made of dreams of other nights better days. He will stir in the sand there will be stir in the sky the air the sand. One step in the ruins in the sand on his back in the endlessness he will make it. Never but silence such that in imagination this wild laughter these cries.

True refuge long last scattered ruins same grey as the sands. Never was but grey air timeless no stir not a breath. Blank planes sheer white calm eye light of reason all gone from mind. Never but in vanished dream the passing hour long short. Four square all light sheer white blank planes all gone from mind.

Blacked out fallen open true refuge issueless towards which so many false time out of mind. Head through calm eye all light white calm all gone from mind. Old love new love as in the blessed days unhappiness will reign again. Ash grey all sides earth sky as one all sides endlessness. Scattered ruins ash grey all sides true refuge long last issueless. Never but in dream the happy dream only one time to serve. Little body grey face features slit and little holes two pale blue.

Ruins true refuge long last towards which so many false time out of mind. Never but imagined the blue in a wild imagining the blue celeste of poesy. Light white touch close head through calm eye light of reason all gone from mind.

Slow black with ruin true refuge four walls over backwards no sound. Earth sky as one all sides endlessness little body only upright. One step more one alone all alone in the sand no hold he will make it. Ash grey little body only upright heart beating face to endlessness. Light refuge sheer white blank planes all gone from mind. All sides endlessness earth sky as one no sound no stir.

Legs a single block arms fast to sides little body face to endlessness. True refuge long last issueless scattered backwards no sound. Blank down four walls over planes sheer white eye calm long last all gone from mind. He will curse God again as in the blessed days face to the open sky the passing deluge. Face to calm eye touch close all calm all white all gone from mind.

Little body little block heart beating ash grey only upright. Little body ash grey locked rigid heart beating face to endlessness. Little body little block genitals overrun arse a single block grey crack overrun. Figment dawn dispeller of figments and the other called dusk.

• Translated from the French (Sans) by the author.

[second poem] from Invisible Man – Ralph Elison

Lack of Color

Colorlessness.

Seriously?

The word colorlessness?

In America?

In white tyrant states?

Whence this passion
towards woven strands
of colorlessness?

Whence this conformity
to the many parts
of being invisible?

Color is.

Diversity is.

Think of what
would happen,

to end by
not a color
but the
lessness.

The following lyrics are from the second half of Mark Kozelek’s song Lone Star off his album Common As Light and Love Are Red Valleys of Blood released tomorrow [and is streamed out there if you want to hear].

The whole, across two cds, is a set of mesmerising narratives, most rooted in the reality of the past year and ‘found’ on his travels and gigging. The majority are real life murder mysteries, it seems, but either within this or separate, many of the spoken [some rapped] narratives reflect powerfully on contemporary America and Kozelek’s ruminations on this.

I present this excerpt recalling my previous reflections on this blog about the literary power of song lyrics. It isn’t so much the literariness, or otherwise, of the following that matters, however: they provoke in their storytelling prowess and to listen to the album is like listening to a reading and I think this is an important conversation from an interesting artist.

When Donald Trump becomes president
Blame it on Facebook, Yelp and reality TV
And Twitter and Uber and Google and video games and every other thing that has turned this country
Into a bunch of dumbed-down slaves of technology
We wanted dumb headlines, well baby, we got it
We wanted instant gratification, right well baby, we got it
We wanted stupid entertainment, baby, we asked for it

This dumb motherfucker will be on the news every fucking day
And we willed it
He is a hundred percent full-on our creation
He is proof that we choose apps over education
He is proof of our mind-numbing Internet obsession
He’s the result of our dumb-fuck-starin’-at-our-phones attention span limitations

People sittin’ around hatin’ on Donald Trump
We can’t face it, but we asked for this junk
Not directly, but we fail to see
How our stupidity willed him into candidacy

Go ahead and take your smartphone out
Send a tweet to the world and pout pout pout
We planted the seed, and it’s come to its fruition
Make no mistake, Donald Trump is our creation
Go ahead and have your ‘Oh my fucking God’ reaction
When he’s elected, threaten to move to Vancouver, Canada, or Athens, Greece
As George Carlin said one night, “I believe you have to be asleep
To believe in the American Dream”
So all of us zone the fuck out a minute, get some popcorn, watch some Trump
Check your Facebook and keep up with the Kardashians

The recent twitter spat between JK Rowling and Piers Morgan has been an entertaining battle fought in the digital Colosseum. A bloodless war in any real sense, I think the adjective could be aptly applied to Morgan himself, a man whose caustic and calculated jibes reflect a person operating entirely on bile.

But people will have taken their sides before the latest arguing began, so this brief observation isn’t intended to try and persuade on a preferred choice for this bifurcated pair – the Righteous and the Redneck. I do want to diverge from what would be my default position and state that I do agree with one – and only one – of Morgan’s tweets in this exchange, and a stance he has taken previously: his argument that critics of Trump should stop comparing the Donald with Hitler makes fundamental sense to me.

I say this not because I in any way endorse Morgan’s self-seeking, sanctimonious and sycophantic tweets [and other endorsements] about Trump, but because in making that comparison, anyone doing so would undermine the horror of Hitler’s legacy by drawing a parallel with a President – dangerous, yes, largely through those evil people pulling his strings – who is essentially dumb and, if current events continue, is imploding [oh how a prefix is crucial in this case] because of his abject incompetence. He is not of himself the ruthless and homicidal tyrant. He is not even with his racist and sexist and other vile proclivities able to destroy the better part of democracy and liberal sensibilities that continue to exist with inherent integrity in America.

By all means, anyone and everyone should tell Morgan to fuck off, though better still completely ignore him [excusing this brief deflection from such good advice], or deliver a decisive blow as in Rowling’s most recent hilarious triumph where she tweeted an accolade about herself for Morgan to subsequently traduce, and then for him to subsequently discover he had delivered the accolade himself. Morgan is without doubt a bloated and odious individual, pumped with his own bile by the Katie Hopkins School of Outrageous Outbursts Full of Crap.

Let’s just wipe him from out shoes and walk on.

From the window I could see her bend to the roses
holding close to the bloom so as not to
prick her finger. With the other hand she clips, pauses and
clips, more alone in the world
than I had known. She won’t
look up, not now. She’s alone
with roses and with something else I can only think, not
say. I know the names of those bushes

given for our late wedding: Love, Honor, Cherish –
this last the rose she holds out to me suddenly, having
entered the house between glances. I press
my nose to it, draw the sweetness in, let it cling – scent
of promise, of treasure. My hand on her wrist to bring her close,
her eyes green as river-moss. Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried petal
can still find her.

Suppose I say summer,
write the word “hummingbird”,
put it in an envelope,
take it down the hill
to the box. When you open
my letter you will recall
those days and how much,
just how much, I love you.

Just when he had given up thinking
he’d ever write another line of poetry,
she began brushing her hair.
And singing that Irish folk song
he liked so much.
The one about Napoleon and
his “bonnie bunch of roses, oh!”

This is a wonderfully elusive text, but it would seem the text is primarily about the inability to pin down meanings, so this is precisely the point/reflection: language is elusive, whether that is in talking about/in the world today, or just is, is a second-language, is interpretation, is the vernacular that does not fit expectation/etiquette, the playfulness of phonetics, and mis-hearing, mis-typing, mis-speaking, mis-teriousness, misspelling.

It is all about word/s and how we and machinery [in its broadest sense] define or control or alter or delete meaning. I hope that is a meaningful summation.

There is throughout a reading a sense of dislocation and disruption, whether this is in one’s understanding and/or speaking; or, in experiencing emotion, like love, so in this respect there are conventional themes alongside the unconventional.

Above all, the writing is experimental, though I do dislike the distancing this implies: how can any language writing perceptively about the world today not engage in alternatives to the conventional? In a world of rampant alternative facts, the poet needs to keep pace with other linguistic inroads to what is. Outroads? I think you get the idea.

The text is playful too. I believe there is plenty of teasing in the constantly shifting telling – to keep us engaged, to keep us on our toes, to keep us eluded.

The book’s opening poem Ayuda illustrates much of what I have mentioned [and this with two others can be read here at Knives Forks and Spoons Press],

I thought at first this was spoken by the central persona for the whole, but I don’t believe this is the case – there seem to be many other voices speaking/spoken about throughout the collection. But we do see here the engagement with an ever-shifting language and meaning, for speaker and reader, so we are all lost in a word now and in further poems. There are the verbal miscues of tols/tools, which is realistic enough in a persona speaking a ‘foreign’ language, and then there is the writer’s playfulness with under-stand/over-stand, and then the Poe-hams about love, if they are about love rather than being lost.

I don’t know. I don’t care that I don’t know.

Later in the book, in a storyline that has unravelled with the most elusive of clues [Dudley also writes thriller/crime novels….], or which has whilrled in dan generous spirals of many, we do come across an anchor of sorts, the poem Hope, though the importance/success of this human ambition is, as expected, and mimicked in its linguistic expression, thwarted:

And this leads into a poem titled cost-benefit where not only the language we write/speak/can’t speak but also print becomes a challenge to understanding and meaning, though

CAPITALISATION  is a dictator

does indeed convey its full meaning in the context of

This book is challenging to read but all the more relevant and engaging for this. There is so much cohesion in the dislocation, in fact, and perhaps that paradox is what resonates most in this experimental writing – and gives the very term a meaningfulness it deserves.

Highly recommended. Buy here. £7 UK; £11 outside UK

I know it is unlikely that Trump drafts tweets, as this implies an awareness of a desire to be, at the very least, accurate as a writer, but also possessing an appreciation of the wider significance, as POTUS, in not making the simplest of mistakes, yet I like to imagine that at his first stab he had finished this tweet with STEAK!: