Milo.
Bedenk '!
Jason.
, it is considered! Who can stay here
in the small home, desolate and secluded?
A budget of barbarians and what more?
I think 'you know me! Danger here is not
as in-Verweilen. No more words!
Milo.
Yet how you will reach there?
Jason.
Do you see yonder
Yawns wide a gap in the aging walls.
The sea lends his back to back since
and easily achievable 'I's floating.
Milo.
Hear now!
Jason.
Farewell!
Milo.
Let me take you!
Jason.
Goodbye!
(Jumps off a cliff into the sea)
Snow is saintly in its forgery of silence.
The young see through ancient eyes in the snow
and find that old water
like a crust
is erupting everywhere as once
in time
now stiff with wonder, as if all things
were insulated from one another
with miracles.
Noise, thou are mine,
Minne, yet never minimal.
Classical is always pop.
the odd coupling
of mold and brass.
I'm making a Liszt and checking its height.
We're not leveling toads anymore for princes, we're leveling everyone,
for no one, and for no reason.
The G.A.P. has reached the center
and is directing its force.
Before Green Manalishi
there was German Acid
and the moment when the harlequin
rotated through all substance combining
economy and revulsion, its candor rewritten
as the butt of a joke.
Sometimes we wear our hunchbacks as faces, or lack of facial control.
High-Classic.
Do not trust the word!
It is an image!
Images cannot be trusted!
Beware the Mark!
Hi.*
I'd never seen an earthwork asterisk before.
Same as it everwas.
Transgression mean lessening the percieved amplitude of difference.
This really pisses people off.
Like Michelin Houlebecq.
On a clear Echinoderm we can see forever:
critic!
Setting: The Castle Keep of Hans Grillparzer.
Gerta.
Act I
Gothic Hall. In the background are two doors. On both side walls,
left and right, is also a door. On a backdrop of
Vorgrundes a rusty dagger hanging in its sheath. Late
winter evening. Light on the table.
Count Borotin. Berta.
The Count (sitting at the table and staring at a letter, in which he
holds both hands).
Well Well, what must be done!
traps I see branch 'on branches,
Hardly holds the rotten trunk.
Yet another blow, as this also falls
And in the dust of the oak tree, lies
the rich blessing of branches
. spread far around rings
The centuries saw
Will, grow and die,
Will pass away as they,
no trace will be left;
What the fathers did,
how wrestled as aspired
Hardly had 'fifty years elapse
is no more grandchildren to know
That a Borotin lived!
. Berta (at the window)
! A dreadful night, my father
. cold and dark as the grave
Losgerißne winds whining
through the air, the same night ghosts,
snow as far as wearing the eye,
on the hills, in the mountains,
on the trees, on the fields,
like a dead man is the earth
in the winter pall,
And the sky, sternelos,
Staring from empty eye sockets
in the vast grave
black down!
Graf
How does it stretch the hours
I wonder what the bell, Berta?
Berta (coming back from the window, and, to the Father, for
putting work).
's seven clock has barely beaten.
Count
Seven? And already dark night!
Ah, the year is old,
Less are his days
staring falter its pulse
And it staggers to the grave.
Berta.
eggs, the lovely Mai, but is
Where the box dresses new,
Where the gentle breezes blow
And the flowers rise from the dead!
bespoke / wittgenstein / crane's fish wheel
I amke make shop now.
Buy my hands from Lechermiills...
Orson Welles in Paris 1960
This is what a Cephalophore really looks like.
Here I come!
Over rivers and trees!
I am the lecher!
Mark it all out!
Mark out every single line
until only the spaces show!
I'm tired and I want to wash my face.
Don't ever quote that Viennese scum to me again, Rofthalschald!
At home in Berlin. I was a carefree design student.
I harvested fungi from caves
in the Liebestrasse
The surface of the earth is a great work of art, and my only friend
in the whole universe.
Pillows?
Thank you for these butt-cheeks, Herr Cloissonne!
I know what sea-horses feel.
Wonderland caused a stylish vex.
Quintuplets were the word when the Red Baron came home
to Texas!
I am addicted to shop-lifting.
OMG, the shame of this.
As a writer, my piano is all of space and time.
Valery is my trade name.
I am still the basic outline of every copy.
And contrary to popular belief, I am not lucrative,
but merely lucrate.
