This is a song by Rogan Whitenails: being divested of body is tactile to art's power to reconcile. The words are from his poem, "Lines on Ettington Park Hotel, published through hearsay"

Lines on Ettington Park Hotel, published through hearsay 

Whosoever stole Saint Ronan's Well,
For to piously arrest the spell
That holds The Library, or to can
It to insert into a less than
Grand shelf, in some prosaic study,
Threatens lore and the art of story-
telling, the night manager, alas;
And Narnia would be clothes moth frass
But for a book of Italian
Sonnets, and the verse lying therein,
Incongruous English verse,
                        in the Long Gallery.


The Long Gallery

Here is a song by Rogan Whitenails, spearheading a renaissance of credulity through metaphysics and quantum mechanics; words taken from poems included in his new collection.

The arboreal Ong's hat, bowlering from bough to bough;
Milestones, attained, are worthless now.
It's a small world getting, while I'm eating
A bag of vinegary chips in Warwick town centre;
A small world that could change the imprint
From Paris to Sorrento, just in the telling;
And I am here to pursue a line of thought,
As my sister is meeting
An old friend of mine at Christie’s.

Christkind carrying a fir tree, Hertha’s altar,
Tablecloths interlarded with pathos,
The elf who makes the cracker toys, Elen Mölter;

Salgado, shall not suppress what is colourful, 
nor I suppress those sparks in shade cast memetic 
by the arboreal Ong's hat; from bough to bough,
Bowlering.

Beautiful mutable motes in fog, 
Forgetful maths behind their moving; 
A profusion of bags in the hall; 
Mr. Fire is leaving the hearth; 
And the rug is glum and so is my dog; 
Beautiful mutable motes in fog, 
Bones of Mozart and Auden.

Christkind

In the antechamber, upholstery of decreased turgor, tented by the pinch,
Was slow to revert, and my head was swimming with tropes, false confessions, postiches.
I court the short brush of Salgado; my past is more redolent of David Lynch.

The Short Brush of Salgado

Is proprioception in foreshortening, war mankind, warm and kind,
Inchoate in the precariat, so that depths encroach, unprocessed,
Or being that near things have undue depth, is it that I am recessed,
And Apparitionism accounts for this?

No space but this thin place for me, as art's consensii sits entrenched, but I will not mimic; and these depths are culture's spines, deepening, hooking derivatively.

Apparitionism

The following couplet is from The Precariat, a memoir by Rogan Whitenails. 


Children early for school righting vases capriciously among the rows of graves
Use their fists to tamp.
Make a fist, its distal side between the second and third knuckles, subsided staves
Of senescence, shows that you are too old to be enigmatic.



Study of Fists by Rogan Whitenails

Apparitionism

All recognised movements and received ways of defining the styles that artists adopt when portraying the world or their responses to it, both objective and subjective, have in common that the artist remains sessile and ultimately real in relation to the referents; but a seer chronically eschewed by culture and of that that essence surrenders of itself to diffuse coronas is less real, set back, designating from outside the self; and works of Apparitionism exhibit colours of chance, glancing colours, and incorporate a discourse on penetrability, by logic distractors and salvors.

Milestones cease, we are left with reflexes; 
Sitter transmutes into Subject, 
A distinction of study 
When the artist paints from a photo.

When the Artist Paints from a Photo

A new song by Rogan Whitenails; words taken from his poems, Leap Year, Lumpenproletarier and Bulletin's Clock.

On this day, intercalary, compensative of costive solar years,
The notion of someone eating is lachrymose in me.

When the fool makes a joke at midnight, do not forbear to live.

In relative isolation, in compliance with the guidelines, I prepare my poems, and set out my track record of previous publication to reify my suffering.

When the Fool Makes a Joke at Midnight

Rogan cannibalises words from a poem as yet untitled but due to be published in a new collection, The Precariat.

The reason is love, but what is its role, that is not grandeur,
That we could not experience through parasympathetic innervations
In eternal somnolence; love we receive and share
But are no more indebted to than breaths or farts?

The Reason Is Love

I Know I Must Be Loved

Facing towards me, uterine,
A ram, adumbrated outline,
The electric fence's canine
Reel stand,
Are replicas, and Byzantine
Depictions of Mary enshrine
The original icon's sign,
Her hand,
And iterate her head's incline
Towards salvation, the design
That makes the mortal reassign
The land.

Rogan Whitenails

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