- See what we can do with our lofts.
- No one will come.
- No one is coming now.
- Je vais rearrive.
- Faire comme chez toi.
- Well you see we have reached that time when I talk to myself in longhand. Can I maintain a focus whilst objects move at speed all around> They alter and flicker between obscurity and clarity.
- What is light?
- Well that becomes a question of quantity.
- Then what is it that we are dividing?
- Come to think of it H is pretty light. Would be the lightest.
- Inside the perceived, outside the intuited, eh.
- What are you representing?
- You, you animal!
- Can you make every living moment a carnival when you are lost in a Judaic sea of time?
- Non non, peut-etre, non bien sur.
- Si ca ta dit.
- Le truque en maintenant es que je n'ai rien.
- Petite erreur. J'en...
- Je ne peux pas en comptoir.
- Comment tu t'appelle?
- 10-4.
- If you were sitting there, beside me, last Sunday, you would have been struck by fallen debris.
- Oh.
- Yeh, that's the power of subjunctive.
- And absence.
- Coulda woulda shoulda.
- Didn't.
- Hey aren't they modal?
- Don't look at me, you're the one telling the story.

A sunny midweek fest makes one wonder why we continue to bother with sirens. All I need is the sun and a beer to see through tressle tables aluminium piping white tenting and ten thousand cartons or more strewn across the floor.

Punctuation slowly creeps in when the brain slows, perception slows, the pen slows and the readership increases.

An accidental joke and a t-shirt are the only things not outshone by the floor. Hectolitre, Brux '14

Hiding from Satan is impossible. It is best to run toward him with open arms. Do your research, Satan does not punish, it is god who punishes.

This whole town needs a good tsunami of gentrification.
I am gentrification.

Who is panicking? If the v-2 has taught us anything it is that death will come silently and quickly. Therefore there is no need to panic. Having prefected the inevitable machine of death we only need to improve it.

There is a great demand for a pissoir here. They are pissing up against the walls.

How many lives are you intending to live? Open up the could doors and let them creak softly. Go sit on the floor between a pair of legs. Just looking for my nearest viaduc.

Just give the sound a little more accent, a little more dialect, a little more time and place, and a lot more hiding place. Qu-est-ce que j'ai du? Une question peut-etre. J'ai envie de connaitre. Tell me a story. Je pense que tu es fous...folle. Je pense que vous etes fous. Then everything turns ma culine on your arses. Voila, le genre devient visuelle.

(noun)(verb/preposition)(noun)
(nom)(verbe[racine][terminaison])(preposition)(nom)
(nomen)(verben)(nomen)(prepositionen)

Put the mother tongue into those hard uncomfortable places and when there is contact bring a little interdisciplinary confusion into the conversation. That is how we move beyond funny and into the ridiculous.

I put the body at the base of the foot. Prioritise the foot, prioritise what we walk upon. Get out of the head. It is only the one alphabet, therefore only one machine. Do away with our rubber souls and feel the radiant earth on our skin. I want to be
electrified
there is no upgrade, the lowest is the highest. Has Jesus taught you nothing? Nothing but to turn and tax ego out of a material world. To sell out our creative abilities for a cup of tea. I am just about to get all the failsafes in order then there will really be nothing left to do. Out of a living death could we create a little life? Build a crisis in order to fabricate anew. The dialectic of context and result; context (crisis) result-becoming.

Do away with insult. Always be a stranger to language.

Grab the idea, take a hold of it and run with it to a brutal end. Run until one of the sparrers fold in death. Run until there is no rope. One cannot sit around waiting for the life to unfurl and just write about itself as if it would be interesting for any one else not living it feeling it. Smoke is coming out of the kitchen and out of the toilet, this is some seriously dangerous cooking going on in here. What's cooking? Why would we look any further? Well the thinking is coming from the perspective having seen it all of a sudden, that is obviously what it is, but the internals, the insiders, have had it step by step and a term working on the catchphrases. So what, the went with wolligop.

I met the star of the doco and I was looking at me. I went back to the tv. Something makes the screen more believable.

There is nothing so fleeting as the casual inter office fuck. It is a stress relief strategy. This is what we call a successful action solution to a common workplace problem. The hand down the pant male response is the correct response.

The beetle makes its way over the next plant and onto the ground. Up and over the next plant and onto the ground. Up and over the next plant and onto the ground. Mocing always with the body pointed forward. This is directionality.

Just keep topping that fucking cup up until I pass out in my own vomit. Jimmy died on this day to the birth measurement. Throw myself out the window in a deluzian flight cause I just don't get enough rhizome action. Le me outta here, christ. Have we even begun to taste the sweet wine from this grape we call liberty? I bet we are taking on world war free, the less you love the longer you live. If only desire could lift this tired old body out of its resting place, out of the grave and into the movement to fetch one last thing it cannot take with it but to use up in an instant.

Proximity is an issue of responsibility. Can these machine gun rhythms be interpreted as monotonous comfort? Push the door wide open upon a naked man sitting at the chance to die at the typewriter. Hey, this is not dad. He starts with top left brick and works his way down to the bottom. Far too methodical to be fatherly. This is how one rights what is unwritten. Through method and repetition. To write what no one else can. To write without reference, without externality and without paradigm. To leave a whole generation scratching the old proverbial just when they were getting used to the old ideas, they have to go and broaden the horizons of understanding into the double illusion.

Proximity is an issue of responsibility. Moderation comes late with recognition. Wherever survival is knocking about the smiles and frowns of innumerous faces are cutting in and out of screams in climax. Recognition is this new world happy fun time experimentation; get to know your peak milk rate and get a bucket. We use this reflection to turn the tools upon ourselves in an attempt to abolish slavery. Off on moron there is no going back, know that this place is, what we have done here, our extinction point. From the Schluesselmensch we trace a great winding arc through the funny white men who see everything in terms of death because their skin is the colour of death and their mother lies in sin.

Proximity is an issue of responsibility. Moderation comes later with recognition. Philosophy has no job, no employment. It is not up to the task. Once philosophy is employed it is no longer philosophy. Philosophy is moving, always altering, always in use but never put to use. It traces those paths of flight, those paths of light, where consciousness turns and feels-senses-experiences and beheld nothing but rested; where all is turned in a garden of creation.

Proximity is an issue of responsibility. Moderation comes later with recognition. Philosophy has no job, no employment. Responsibility prepares the body for the single course of action - the straight line. A shooting rhizome from one city to the next paving over everything inbetween.

I can no longer sleep at night without twisting my neck and grinding the molars. The screech or my teeth wakes me up at night. It becomes enough to reach for the muffs and pynchon to drown out the stress with the silence of an impending v-2. Tersely I turn fingers through the beard searching out those short hard bristles around the chin to pull out and munch on. That's where the protein is. Well the most I can find under lock-down. Why I eat myself for the one hundred percent absorption and complete redistribution. Just the other day I took something from my ear to rebuild my foot. And I am walking again. I am no longer sitting on the thumbnail biting off the edges of concern. I am ready to face these raging streets if the modern metro beast. I am not animal corn I am not pig feed.

A car full of guys and another full of gurls, look, I know where the sausage fest is and I am in with the breeding program, so let's move through all the ovary talk and open the fallopian can up to an unrealistic dead tennis player.

There is no better environment for trade then a war environment. Some play the patterns, others the percentages, and everyone plays out the other. Outside of war we never think of the other ever so much again. Why no one has the desire. Why even if someone did there would be no gain in it, no one on the lookout with a response ready to hand. The lunatic idea would be walking the street with no one to look after it.

I batter away on the viking desire of fliegenpilze und eine dusche pro jahre. I keep my clothes, sex for sport, and smoking for pleasure. If I get hungry there is rotting whale meat under the ice, but I am learning to eat from my arsehole...chocolate cheese and vegetable flavours come through this way. An arse munching european vegetarian. Nothing could be easier - just do not eat out, eat in the streets instead. Grab the jettisoned potato chips and an occasional vegan sausage. It doesn't get much better than this, pillaging the soy rainforests of South America. I catch the shit I eat and always watch my back. The gathering can get out of hand pretty quick when mutually fulfilling contracts come into effect out of single species mingling. But with the right things on the shopping list, the blonde slim check-out chick comes to climax. She steps out from behind the register and takes me by the hand into the sorting room. Dark beer, dark chocolate and a packet of gummibaerchen. Everything to get the hormones going.

Afterwards we lock ourselves away in a small apartment with a bottle of LSD and a human adrenal gland to chew on. This is our new freedom outside of shopping malls and super markets, dial in pizza and corner store liqueur. Any more of the outside world is too much to have pushed through sensitives like us. With playful bites of affection the distraction of sex kicks through the spine and works its way into the brain. A biting reaction. Chilli on the brain. There is a reproductive mess in the salle de jours kitten puppy baby juice pollacks the floor. Hanging over a child stool white are cotton sock reminders of a seventeen year old check-out chick who would not check out, a would be rapist, non-identifiable. If only she stopped coming back, to come back.

For those who might survive these dark ages, that paper and ink may continue to float beyond economic oblivion, to thee I write. Out of necessity the downtrodden young man searches for something to do just to keep the roof over his head. Nothing for food. Nothing for decadent heat. Just a little something to pay off the police, the property law and a history of landowners. While she is off to play footsie with a Tootsie and look at modern art. We call home a cave above ground, but the windows are blinded because we do not want to be seen looking out and before we know it we can only ever be looking within.

Well there are so many of those rainy days burning a whole in the pocket that I go down to the marketplace every day to collect jetsam timber and that is where I see them, the escaped ideas of thoughtfulness. I would say something to them, about them to someone, but I have all those fireplaces to get back to, attend to and feed with what I can carry of this dry wood.

Jay was locked up in the cupboard only to be taken out at the richtige zeit um der Wettbewerb zu zerstoeren as a show pony of magical impotency.

Having brought Mos and Is together through his only consideration: take take take: Jay finally found himself stepping outside without a shadow. 'You are the one and there is no one else' repeated mantra-like. Both the educated drunk and the unrecognised genius traipse through a background of wine and hemlock in an opium daze falling into a deathly fit of sleep and onto the canonical test.

Small wrote on the relations between Nietzsche and Ree, perhaps it is time to write on the one between Daley and Roper. Alphabetical order of course. Show me the money and I ill get right down to it. But for now, on the time that is mine, without a care to the next piece of subsistence, I am throwing the decadence of the days away on the tools that please me ever so. I have been working like this for months, years, lifetimes. Now I am taking it outside to see if it runs away, is beaten up, crawls home with its tails between its legs, or turns up on the bank of a river. Or just disappears forever...drowning the time away behind a machine that does not fill the hole, but burrows deeper into vexed time.

Here comes the golden hour of sunset onto the forehead over the tree and through the clouds. A Autumn of colour. Here begin the visual codings of change.

Sitting on a chair, waiting to get up and take a shit, dringend for change, dringend for something to just give up the ghost and undergo replacement to start again.

These Autumn days in Berlin are halbe halbe. If they begin schoen they end in cloud, perhaps gewitter, and the reverse holds. The wind picks up, scatters and blows the afternoon light about. Still one must hold the head high and carry on through the disturbance at the heron house. There is coffee to be brewed, butter biscuits and sweet sponge.

Backdoor men wander the midnight streets after the little girls have been given their goodnight kisses and fallen off to bliss.

The earlier we have dinner the earlier the children can go to bed.

The modern man has his weekly outlet of alcohol drugs and sex every friday without the consequences. a la contraception and abortion. he goes back to work on monday morn without a baby around the neck nor the semen of desire on the brain. seek out partner, go forth and multiply. we are talking about the periods before and after god.

There is no energy crisis. We still remove our bodily fluids from the short term energy circuit. We are still digging up peat.

Racism is not merely making a distinction but also placing judgement upon the distinction in terms of race as hierarchy whether knowingly or not. One can be unintentionally racist; observe for a moment the fluidity of the meaning exchanged with the other. One can be interpreted as racist.

This desperate rolling body attempts to escape itself and push itself back into the fleshy wound. These genes can feel death fast approaching, the fertility clock is ringing into an effect. Make a mother out of moi. Fill me with seed.

Open up the runaway margin and set the page to stun. The sun opens up on the highway but there is more of the dark grey clouds to come. Cooler and wetter weather awaits around the corner. We plummet into the very central european thick of it, where autumn comes all at once, with just a glimmer of sunshine on the other side of the Rhine.

Rent of course is the necessary evil of land ownership, the fundament of western civilisation and thereby the world. Modern as we know it. Whatever is leftover goes to the addiction. Linguistics is traded for sex.

One simply lives outside if that is the desire and falls between the divided mini european states so long as this divided peace holds out.

Across the Atlantic something else was happening, the continuation of Django, whatever the jews and the gypsies had left behind after the greatest attempt of cultural cleansing that has yet to grace the earth. Efficiency in soul and slate.

A dude walking down little redfern street with the biopic of the bunghole, nothing but the smooth sameness of the nostril round trout mask replica.

This is where the black dudes were and will be faded out by the shortness of the white fellas' attention span.

Now do you hate the white man for what he is? Now do you hate yourself for what you are?