I have a strange sense of formication, of bugs under my skin, looking at it again.
So, let’s suppose that The Waste Land is a prosaic collage that combines its tonal fragments into a sensation of fear and absent authority, that The Black Mountain then introduces ‘speech’, but it is too peculiar to the individual person/poet, that this tension is then written into the grammar of language and unavoidable (will is always waiting for the arrival of the future), even signalling the end of a completely up-to-date poetic.
I’ll probably finish my MFA with poems that smooth out incohrence and restlessness, hoping to reframe the world into something less fearsome but, due to the world’s narrative and its postponement, only momentarily so.