defamiliarisation

Habitualization devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife, and the fear of war. And art exists that one may recover the sensation of life; it exists to make one feel things, to make the stone stony. The technique of art is to make objects “unfamiliar”, to make forms difficult, to increase the difficulty and length of perception, [removing] from objects the automatism of perception.
—  Viktor Shklovsky, Art as Device (1917).
An image is not a permanent referent for those mutable complexities of life which are revealed through it, its purpose is not to make us perceive meaning, but to create a special perception of the object - it creates a vision of the object instead of serving as a means for knowing it.
—  Viktor Shklovsky - ‘Art as Technique’.
NaPoWriMo #8: Venturing through night claustrophobia

I picture my face in a portrait–
depression in 
a Van Gogh portrait–sharp
as a knife–a sad
conjecture stuck in my 
throat and head 
as a sore expression–black 
as soot–pure as a river baptism–I am happy 
even if the 
colours are dead, 
because the reflection is unreal–
ten times replaced in in jiffy strokes, with 
one that 
eases my appetite. Tonight, I read, that the Ziegfield 
follies are performing like clusters of 
stars 
sloshing like liquid light. I perform at 
home 
eating tiny giblets, 
in an open cage, while an 
early-morning canary pursues the 
night. Legato 
chants in the D minor–a nomenclature
of plagiarised sounds to 
escape reality–a 
soundscape 
of defamiliarisation to see objects 
outside their 
forms. Like soot, the night 
is black 
like a panther, its eyes 
the canary 
who’s seeped out from its 
cage of follies. I hear caged 
birds sing the
loudest
in their meaty despair, their bones 
rattling 
like how the globulets of fine wine 
aged well 
prickles the tongue after a rotten taste. I 
swirl in recognition, applauding 
through 
spit sounds that spit on the
rhythm of the song.

My face under depression–a cancery
speck on the eyes–icily staring
at a kind of half-
suppressed
hunger through 
regurgitation. Hollow 
as
the beak of a carcass, where 
nostrils
hold two
black holes. Half-
echoes in 
screams, I
thread immortalised. I stare 
prickly
with many sharp 
edges,
ragged beyond 
doubt.
Distressed at the chimes
of midnight, 
when
everything ends at twelves, 
not ones, I
cause palpitations 
that cause 
tremors
to the empty 
cavity where
a soul should be.

In a mood to watch, I might 
not sleep tonight.