Tuesday, August 26, 2008

the pleasures, and the days of counting

i do not know if it was under the influence of the illness or of a change tht was already under way, as yet unnoticed, in my outlook, but i was increasingly possessed from day to day by a pasionate, nagging desire for the ordinary life of an ordinary person.
to transform to such a degree that i might loose myslf in this all too ordinary otherness that looses itself in the grand scale of the ordinary nothingness that is the day to day.
to fade. to be passed by. hidden in plain view.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Pictures signify everything in the beginning. Are keepable. Roomy.
But the dreams congeal, become form and disillusionment.
Already the sky holds no more pictures. The clouds, seen from an
airplane: steam which takes away the view. The crane only a bird.
Even Communism, the final picture, which is always refreshed
Because washed with blood again and again, the everyday
Pays it out with small coins, unshiny, blind with sweat
Ruins, the great poems, like bodies, long loved and
No longer needed now, on the way to the much-used final species.
Between the lines a wailing
on bones the stone-bearer happy
For the Beautiful signifies the possible end of Horror.

11:41 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

there is a stain of blood on the table cloth at the cafe muller

1:36 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

it gets even bloodier when we chat on Terror or Love

6:39 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

why....... or?
are they two seperate entities?
this terror and love that we speak about

8:17 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

the waiter is a reformed terrorist, so he insists on the "or".bloody hell, that's how the argument starts.. you can't even have a decent, quite coffee these days

8:28 PM  

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