Room ..... ??

He

He died out or was he where he was he when - exterminated into the

music that questionmarked the edges, whose triumph was to be

precedent

to a glowing failure as of, say. a mad re run of The Charge of The

Light Brigade or some such other Tennysonian echoes still leaving the

forests of god—faced television sets wrench—wracked and abandoned

with

their smashed screens and dead-faced fuckedness that brings in the

iron turbans of sperm and delicately treasured regrettedness. This

kind of thing whose over-adjectived conceitedness would be enough

to

make yu’ sell up for a Kroner if you knew which country had Kroners,

or Deutschmarks.

And it tallys, doesn’t it, how Richard Prebble’s
related to Goebbels – its the sort of negative positivity that leads
to the viper pits of toothless guesture. But you play the game, silly
old you, knowing that Xmas can always be interchanged with

Easter and Labour Day with Anzac

etc etc etc etc etc etc so perhaps you become

Obsessed with Louise Bourgeois or information theory or taking up

swimming inside a question mark water tank,

or masturbate with your

infuriating silly grin onto a blank photograph.

Something like that.

You might well object as well I you might at all this negative

postivity leaking out of my right ear that is really made of teflon

how God, for example, is trapped inside a theorem by Godel with the

umlaut or Gauss or Whitehead-its better perhaps to take in a hooker

and fuck the bitch against the wall and listen to her simulated

screams of animal ecstasy.

Or am I wrong as usual?

I want to fail over and over again, but only in the normative sense of that wiley word. Perhaps I should mention Marlowe or something about another harbour bridge at this point. Perhaps nothing should have said at all - after all there’s not much to say really except maybe I’ll go I cant go.

You

live in a sunken steamboat and only occasionally is your hand espied,
waving whitely above the whitecaps – so presumably the roar of 5000
rugby maniacs is really justified, and their joy is yours, even if you
cant see the game: or do you dream only of the empty book, complete with uncompleteness, ready to clasp you in its leaves of what they said, so you limp to the dairy, only to buy a useless piece of soap because you felt for it, and it you, both of you stuck inbeing and the impossible quagmire of clarification because x=y or it did last Monday.