If Tomaž Šalamun intended this poem to be a personal statement on the reading of his poetry in general he would probably be horrified by the idea that it might itself be read to ironically affirm ironic readings. It is attractive to think of it as an earnest command because of its sudden clarity among a body of obscure works, many of which are autobiographical, and more importantly because it is an incomplete theory requiring personal, inflective force: irony may be a "decadent defense system", etc., but such statements trail into simply calling it "muck".
The possibilities are: Šalamun is disgusted and refuses to finish his statement; the argument is left unsealed in order to let sufficiently shameless ironic readers through; it is a theatrical event whose only function is to separate these two former types of readers. A work of criticism incidentally inserted among poetry; a poetic joke pretending to be a work of criticism; a naked and indifferent device miming the two options.
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