The new year

The Whocares rises like a fog, a liquid fog, blurring all around, and I'm tossing a year through the window. This year, next year. Fadeout to vaccuum.

That year I repeatedly toss through the glass just to have it land at my feet once more, shining with mirror shards, and before me cracked panes, various reflections, what is, could be, could have been. If.
And I step out of bed at night when I can't sleep, to peer soundlessly into the shattered glass. The dark orange light of moons and sodium lamps draws every crack so pure, so simple, every fragment a golden pool in which everything will could is have been all right. I reach out and shards draw black blood in the no-light, but if I don't see it, it doesn't exist, till morning. I go to sleep on broken glass, lost in the myriad painted reflections, which all but make one as I climax to Morpheus.

By the light of day it's all so different.
Days are clearcut and white. Night is whole with fantasies coated in feather coats of Reason, whores before every front door, dressed as Aristotle, cracking open the door to fetid passionate dark. Night is everyone, everything, every feeling animal and strong.
If night were to stretch, we would go insane with the passion and the possibilities, awash in a neverending surge which forgoes the lines between yester, to-day, morrow. Insane enough to forgo time itself.
Insane as irregular breathing, insane as touches forbidden, insane as forbidden thoughts, insane as waves breaking under wind.

Irate and inflamed.

Dumbledore is gay

The whole debate makes me sick.
Publicity stunt or ethical care - who gives a damn why she did it?

Il fut un temps avant la khagne

(1996)

RER

The sky was pink and noone cared.
Head towards the wrong window. A glance and back-to-business. Worse - to Nothing.
The sky was fushia and noone seemed to notice. In my head : "fire". I looked into their eyes but didn't see a thing. The sky was pink, though. Bright pink all over. The clouds like rivulets of fire.
Fushia spread all around and noone cared. I wondered when the time would come I wouldn't give a damn anymore.
Or simply wouldn't See.



The daughter sits before her computer, basked in neon light.
The mother sits before her computer, basked in neon light.
The father sits before his computer, basked in neon light.

I have no idea what happened to the Holy Ghost.

Time

On a week-end, praying for snow.

la volonté de puissance

I'd like to type away notes on a keyboard and sing through the screen, instead of giving birth only to pixels and fadeouts, words too clean, sickly and pale. For the human voice is.

Or paint the smell of cologne, the slight push of pavement beneath my soles, the mismatch of thoughts ... but all the words have been dried up already, premade images to be used and reused, for the convenience of many - but I ache. Find a language to match the tongue and speech of All - german so flexible, so distant still; french, spanish, hang meaning on the counterring of two words, which by and by have no substance alone; english, poised on the tongue, free from most chains of syntax and word separation but still hindered,locked down, bent under pressure to stick to the meanings wellknown, wellthought, wellcleared.

Fuck, we're young.
In all possible senses. Ways.

One more skiprope to trip over and it'll be the start of our new rollercoaster - holding on to the seats till our nails bleed with fear and exhaustion, exhilaration, disgust that twists the guts and sends us slamming headfirst through paper doors, for it's all show, really. And I look forward to the tin-tasting pleasure of almost giving up, and mentally relishing the knowledge I'm good, I worked, I'm a nice serious girl and have owned such a right as to pester surroundings thereon.
Look how I suffer. pat pat.


Have a biscuit and praise me, now.

This is life. No ersatz, no pause - the wounds we give each other and the flesh we covet, every second, every thought, is as dense as can be, real in every sense and heavy, moist, the smell of days spent in our youths - the brick will never be more rought under our knees, the sky bluer, the speeches more sincere - we build ourselves throughdays on solid ground and thoughts that'll shape our cells and do, already. This is life.

Que demande le peuple?

TGV

TGV.

La pluie coure horizontale comme un electrocardiogramme sur la vitre. Statistique actualisee.
Vingt mille spermatozoides en quete eperdue d'un eventuel ovule ferroviaire.

Wonder how far the mindset buggers’ll go.

Et cent griffes egratigent le verre lorsque le monstre qui hurle, assis gris-noir sur son carre de terre, ne retient pour soi que le vide du train qui fuit.

Deux fois six lignes en cles egales; l'eau ronde doublecroche et rebondit. La blanche ligne de basse reprend en bas de gorge chaque cycle rythmique.

Et toujours les lucioles liquides poursuivent leur course sans flechir. Leur tete est vide, et leur queue musculeuse se tend et se contracte pour chaque ondulation; les belles a la traine, hesitantes, sont happees au passage et rentrent pour mourir dans les cuisses de la danseuse - filent le long de la cle d’Ut.

Wurst

It's having words creep underskin and, one by one, lift all nerves to the outer rim, with every nick of their perfect white teeth teasing the vein that feeds flesh from braincell dejects - and Freud kneels down fore Oedipus, both hands clutching the bulbs still warm and moist like self-repressed desire.


I've come from youngster York and gone off to the Nordsee: gist of it. More later on.

Festival d'Avignon.

Blazing sun and humid heat.
Half the gals look gay, half the boys are;
Everyone's artsy, bobo, deepthinking, and stoned.

Oh yeah.

I had a dream-

The salty waves did lap against the shore, caressing the soil; layers of sand were peeled back by the tide, and in the foam spun beads of light ;
I stood and watched as from beneath the earthy grains emerged a few broken shards of glass, polished almost to oblivion; but withholding their colors still, they shone, sharp enough - my cut lips burnt ; and lain under a yearling tree, I could not say if the sun rose or set in the near.