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Sunday, May 25, 2008


Room 333.333z


the? Machine?? Music??? ??????

the machine music moves mechanically as it must because it is
beautiful and is based on a legal system of repeats but nothing is
yet for sure why should it be after all the law of torts and the
thinking Thinking Thing is there, and we are part of it despite
seclusion like a sheep's or a Boffin's head, in a vision of perfect
symmetry held in a white drop as if we could know it all, and there's
need for change, but who looks on, and

who is who who he looks at who
he looks is who - but we need all these people who don't agree

of the machine, which, despite its

penitential and inevitable
inefficiency, is

heard to cry out at deep of night to the Great One
who is probably dead and ensconced in a dream of lubricated, or
lubricious cavortings toward spittle. and flesh, words that send
shudders up my spire wire's spine loom; one would naturally much
prefer to be the vision inside a technical robot, whose

doom scenes
see wire mass everywhere, and,

how does the spider know, because he,
too, is a constructor - or is it because the music nags us back down
the drain pipe into a parallel universe of incomprehensible equations,
or a crazed jumble of electronic, electrical, and machine parts
pushed into an eclected enclave, whose triumph is its denseness, or the

enormous significance

of an endlessly looping musical track which your
great great grandmother could well have enjoyed:

some post-Stochausian, post – Varese etc, not something tame like
the Songs for a Mad King: but it all passes, even the wind machines,
and the ape-shaped eyes, thoughts of death, leaves, corpse valleys,
memories, inscriptions.....

you turn back to The Romantics, for there is
something about you, something nobody can see:
as if you were the


in the

centre of a gigantic sound-shriek, and

batting up all hell, and no one
gives a fuck, especially with everything turning into grey gold

. . . something like a cat looking into your face.



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