Five consistently-structured odes considering or, rather, mobilising relations between love and late capitalism. TL61P is the product code of a discontinued Hotpoint dryer; Sutherland says you'll find out nothing about it on the Internet, but you can in fact order parts. The dryer, its product code, Laurer barcode mark, engineering and user manuals, stand for the poem as love's 'unconditional perfected shadow / opposite'. But rather than distinguishing the discourses of love from those of commodity fetishism, distilling the first from the second, say, the poems, in hectic, passionate and painfully bathetic manners, intricate the two together, collide them into one another, let them corrupt one another. TL61P the machine as the word for commodity fetishism, 'is a shower of lube in powdered milk; but it is an infinity too'.
The poems are set in their historical moment: protests against the second Iraq War in Trafalgar Square; the intervention in Libya; standoff in Israel-Palestine; the fallout from the subprime crisis; and much of them is taken up with unironic Marxist commentary, delivered faux-parodically in the guise of linguistically innovative poetry's New Sentence. However koan-like or exquisite, Sutherland's sentences may well be what he actually thinks: '[t]he anti-war movement was too eclectic ... the pensioners and teenagers let down the Muslims and SWP. There was not a basis in natural sympathy, but recreation around a core of disgust; you find the same problem for art, whose reception fades into an endless praeludium to the absolute banalisation of sacrilege'. In broad terms, his poetry takes up Olson's ambition is to be socially and historically comprehensive, which now means attending to the machinations of high finance ('pigging out on leverage') and logistics of Global Asset Identifiers. Sutherland (though speaking too in the voice of TL61P) is scathing about poetry that claims a strategically left-wing or progressive unintelligibility: 'What the fuck are you on about the demilitarisation of syntax? ... Tearing up the rule book just aestheticizes it into a vorticist collage of General Franks'. The hermeticism of this writing comes to constitute a 'predictably rather than problematically predictably lovable adventure cage with no manifest theme for a domestic rat...'; the nerviness of writing, which Sutherland seems at pains to preserve, dissipates into 'sedative aporiae in mock-heroic marginalese'. In the culture industry, further, the sellers of ad space on television easily moonlight as 'Facebook-generation' poets, dependent on social media and seeking thrills in an economy of 'diminishing returns', like OnlyFans: 'only collaterally the hottest wellspring of capitalist evolution'. Without brooking the reader's potential impatience or small-mindedness, Sutherland instead wants to be inclusive, universal in his love.
The Odes broadly follow the structure of working through a dialectical encounter of love and commodity fetishism, passing through various deformations and grotesqueries to statements of social hope. Sections deal with the genesis of the poet's adult sexual identity as a gay vers: with his infantile experiences, in which he is repeatedly shamed into secrecy, for instance for sucking another boy's dick in bed; to his exposure to porn; disquisitions on psychoanalysis and the sexology of perversion; first penetrative sex as a top, and hopes now 'to try some men before I die in' an open, committed loving relationship. 'Sterility' is the last but not least resistance to capitalism, he says, apparently wryly: 'Queering war'. The scaffolding of dialectics in the sequence is perverted, torqued, but perhaps never threatened. The most achieved sections in terms of Sutherland's theory are rendered in hexameter something like Marvell's 'A Dialogue between the Soul and the Body', while the earlier, parodic or anguished workings-through also sound as horrible hexameter jingles, rhyming and versified, naive in manner like some of the Lyrical Ballads, but set out as prose (the poet is 'a predictable stupid rake ... his lyric on the fucking make, his infancy a mucked up fake, all ugly sex and textbook camaraderie and floor, and the more derisory for being sadly poor').
I like this because it is almost endlessly fertile, pointed and intelligently diagnostic; it puts it all out there; it is speaking, as a subject's discourse, but spoken and subject to; it isn't consistent, but is surprising; and it would be harder to imagine a larger or more urgent thing for poetry to be doing.