Let me start by critiqiung the critic who will be critiquing this.
In essence you are at the end of contaplation.
As far as I am concirned you are the shit pile of paper, of my threes, not bending in the breeze, any longer…
I see everyone is writing, than take some kind of cinical possition to prove themselves to being smart or funny. Why is it important?
They all assume more or less some kind of cinical position, very closely discoursed to each other and read off to each other, each other’s cinical possitions on this or that; daily politics, events, pathetic routhines, a discourse they have highly confused with reality. And they read of to each other, each other’s read off, from this place, this very closely discoursed to each other, like shades of black, some cinical possition on this or that. There. Here. Where. And they write off, compete with each other in a loud read of to each other, from a blind spot they so highly confused for reality. Brutality. Cleopatra. Infusion. Evaporation. Creation.
Ciggarette smoke evaporates slowly. The thick glass ashtray on the thicker wooden table appreciates its contures. We are in Paris. Again. We have aged. A million years. Years. Darkened place. Ciggarette smoke evaporates, measures the burning cigarette and the passing time. The hardest working element. The one that will confuse you. Eventually on your death bed, you shall forget the stories of Heaven. Years. Someone is playing. We are in Paris. Dreamers are sleeping. The wheepers are wheeping. Strings on the guitars are braking. The rock is rolling.
A song is a panadine for them. For those wobling boats in the water.
A song that will pass. A song is a panadol for them, these staggering drunks in the midnight. We are in Paris again. The only dreamers awake, in the neon midnight. Listening to the sound of our glorious journey.
Footsteps are loose
They will take me to you
To the brittle bones
On your face
It was awful. And than he switched it to worse.
A guy was begging for a penny.
He was at it awful.
Than your rottening face
Came out in the paper
It was made of a few rotten eyes
And disfigured perception.
We kept walking. Listening to the sound of our journey.
Blistful shadows of our feelings followed us swiftly. We watched them.
The air they were breathing on the busses was processed. When they just could have opened the windows. But to insure they couldn’t do that they shut them permanently. It was clear they were highly bored, willing to do anything even wrong blind things. Weird. Pricey for their insides.
Grotesque grimace. When he met it he didn’t like ice. Pleasure of cold can only be felt in unpleasing heat. He said when you get bags you start filling them in with shit, you don’t need.
Amplitudes
Of Lunacy
In canons
Echoed
Who is
The maddest
Of them all
I
The witness
Of the sky
Jucey bluberries, dark red rasberries, brown bears, loughter echos of the mountains, vibrate the stream in between. We are in Paris again. We remove ourselves to the place where we ash our ciggarettes on the floor. No ash trays allowed. It’s a proud basket.
Footsteps in the midnight exchanged for the sound of the sipping shadows. Rum has become hallucinogenic absinth. The visitors of the establishment care not for the chairs scattered around the floor. Drinkers in oblivion. Ciggarette smoke. We talk. He said it is all fine. No need to critique anyone but those who like bricks more than the threes. They are the whole issue. The establishment is the established problem. Genesis of that. The continued madness. That must be stopped. Someone looks at the clock. Don’t worry friend, he said. The day shall become night again. Listen to the waves of the Sane. They shall whisper you to bed.
I met a friend who fell in love with someone, somewhere, some time ago. I met him again in Paris. He lived in a flat no bigger than a cardboard box for a freezer near Bastille. We ended up there. He kindly offered me the only sofa in the place. We smoked smoke, but most of it evaporated in the air. He was lovely. I didn’t see him again.
Disfigured memories, paraphrases. What’s left of the truth is there, underneath the all the told stories. Fuck off. Stop dwelling. Death to storytelling.
Days are
The only jewels
Nights are
The only pearls
You need
Indeed
Once I saw the police of the town on protest. They were protesting in full uniforms. Marching, protesting. I assembled a couple of yobbos and went down to put them in order.
It was a glorious morning, as they ussually are if you wake up early enough to see them. It was a problem, because yobbos were sleeping.
The police, in full uniforms were marching in the street, protesting, on protest, with all the banners they need. I assembled a couple of yobbos and went down to put them in order. The order was in danger. Order is in deluge.
I was sure though that yobbos were sleeping. It was still early, birds were assembling to feed their kid. Police had just started protesting in the street. They were just getting into it. Kind of marching in fascist like unison, with neatly written banners. I woke up the yobbos. Yobbos were hard to wake up. I woke up the yobbos. Success. Glory. Yobbos walked down with me. I yelled and said to the police, they turned around to listen, I said: We gonna have to discharge you! We must have to discharge you for a while, take your uniforms off. We must not banalise the possibility of real order by having you walk around in your uniforms. We must give people time see what they would do on their own. We cannot so publically believe in love and so cynically fuck it up every day by you walking around with your guns and your craps. You know what I mean?
They quieted down and than whispered for long, as schoolboys, long it stretched into the early afternoon. I found pleasure in watching it. Someone dear made coffee. I opened the tabacco jar. Than with time they quieted down, turned around and said.
Yes, we understand! And they started taking their uniforms off. It was getting to be a bit of a strange picture, but only to those who knew not what was going down. This picture went viral and other uniforms sent their message and response. It was yes. Big, big Yes they said and sent their videos. Soon the news showed videos of cops taking off their uniforms all over the world. Later of course they put on some other coths. Some not. That was not a big shock.
The world gave big big sigh that day. You could hear it. THere was no cops any more, the uniformed banalisers of what it really could be under clouds. Given people chance to love. There were parties everywhere. They assembled big big happy celebration spots. And everyone went there to celebrate for long, long.