He died out or was he where he was he when - exterminated into the
music that questionmarked the edges, whose triumph was to be
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
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
make yu’ sell up for a Kroner if you knew which country had Kroners,
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.
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.