Poetry is neither paranoid nor metanoic, neither aversion nor conversion. Poetry is entropic (it is the metamorphosis of a system in a new arrangement of combinations) and tropic (it revolves around the things to which it is attracted and moves induced by the drive whose direction is inside out, but comes up against the catoptric effect of our mind, returning to itself, but already in another way). It is the chaos of meaning in the cybernetics of form, the act that can be done only a few leaps behind dreams. All creation is a prosthesis, a device in an attempt to complete this world that we see limped, even though this world is already full of itself because to it nothing is missing. So, we exaggerate, we overflow into the There. And are the possibilities of recreation finite or infinite? Without knowing the result, we continue to reallocate the senses over the images.

If the drive is sexual, as Freud said, creation is erotic. “There is no sexual relation” (Lacan), but there are small joys. There is no castration, phallicism is nothing more than a prosthesis created by society like any other device created by it. Art puts objects in their proper places of mere artifice and, as in dreams, detaches from them so that desire can, tropically and freely, choose its objects and exchange them whenever it wishes.

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Porn and nonsense art

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Vinni Corrêa