yearning to film a dandelion
the psychiatrist invited me to an orgy in his new sober house
long kiss in front of the disapproving wounded subject
fear he will compile an obscene book from our chats
and then she died
eleven years ago when she still had a reputation
watercoloring the piazza
after your ballet fiasco
nylon stockings de trop on tanned legs
urinating on your laziness as if to neutralize a jellyfish bite
hosanna to the undertaker
the remembered aperture
pocking my consciousness
dimpled like an envelope vase or a pinch pot
promise me you won’t stay in the smelly hotel
what kind of incest pudding do I expect in my bowl
the wanderer has sun on his hind legs it says in the daybook
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.