Sunday, April 14, 2013

Syberberg, The Straubs, Salome' Duras, etc...

I say to you Pyrrho, Begone! Movement-Time is consecrated-idea!

Masques and Capulets. Motorized Masks, and transparent brain helmets.

One poet's name, is another poet's occupation (Fehler zoo Loch).

Our floor-plane is that of an 'open source' or metamorphic labyrinth (fête-a-phoros), the senses rotational.

First, you fold the nose cone...

It is not well known, but John the Baptist bore a striking resemblance to Joseph Stalin, or "The cloud who came on beanstalk legs from the bosom of darkness".

We all came here in a buggy.

At two o'clock I approached the primitive clock.

Even an image can be a witch, or simply bewitch. Burn them all!

Because of Plato, Cinema is one of Philosophy's oldest children, as Philosophy itself was born of Architecture. We are all illegitimate. Perfect. Whole. Extras.

Wood, like cream, comes from the racing of an oaken, fleet  nipple of sounds in motions.

Garnets fill the garret. The artist is immobile, buried in magenta stone.

I've seized your name. Within this triangle the painting begins afresh.

Conceptualism is everywhere, nowhere, before, after, inside, outside.

A celebration of the poor, and of the desperate. "This Shrine."

Strangely, I stand within the infinity pool, as optical affect, the ducks' scale being reduced, continuing, our delicious nausea, our graceful Rimbaudelairean knogut thrux.


I've used this one before. "Who cares?"

Rome is terrible to the Spanish.

Our bodies are cathedrals. It's stupid not to know this, or let our scale reduce the eminence of our complexity, though perhaps it should be reduced.

Revolution never needs excellent penmanship, only ink, or paint, or blood.

It is the unity which is the most diaphanous, although it's transparency enacts 'the parentcy' of all political difference.

I can't face being alone, either loaned out, or sold to the highest bitter.

It's really not that different to being chained in the cave watching shadow movies. Warmer there.

I've never gotten a phone call. It's 1968.

Beyond my own fame, there is the fame of fame, and the infamy of fame, and the famous. I AM THE WAY. I AM SYNTAXIS. I AM THE IMAGE.

In the End, I knew that if I was a famous Jewish Composer, like Wagner,
everyone would certainly hate me. That's why I became a Language poet like Ron Silliman.
Now everyone is sick of me, and me as well.
(Me as well)
Aesthesis as Asthma 

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.