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Thursday, November 10, 2011

Room ZX@57899898

If a daddy long legs got drunk and its 
head grew to the size of an immense baby’s, and it caterpaultered across the First World War, and all the other deathings, and the moon fell in shells of would be time for the first green, hopeful shoots, curleying from the  little garden, hidden from the others, in the oxygenated blackness, and all twenty two fingers in the perfectly nothing lake.

Room (AB)xZ

from       The Infinite Poem

          is  ironic, however, for it is precisely qualities such as uselessness and entropy which give minimalist sculpture its value as a challenge to illusions about the normative concept of art

             I want you to look on Bo Weinberg for your own sake and understand the terrible usage of such a man, look him in the eye if you can so you will never forget this as long as you live because in a few minutes, just a few minutes, he will be at peace, he will be over it, the ropes wont hurt he wont be hot or scared or humiliated or happy or sad or needful of anything anymore, this is the way God makes up for the terrible death, that it comes in time and time goes on but the dying is done and our persons are at peace. But you kid are a witness and it’s tough shit but that’s the way it is, you’ll remember and you can never be sure of anything again because you are doomed to live in remembrance of the foulness done to this man Bo Weinberg

                pieces of scrap iron, springs, saucepan lids, sieves, bolts and screws picked out with discernment from the rubbish heap, could mysteriously in their construction    
                     the vestiges of their origins remained visible

the language of space            the creative dance           the laugh and lash of life
       “You worry about the way I say things, but you don’t worry about what I mean.”
                  a logically possible world is any conceivable way the world might BE have been (might have be been ( might have been (might have (might

                WORD  in a modern poem is a SUBSTANCE, and OBJECT, sui generis, and uses machine parts and textured surfaces.....

                      triangle strangle the triangle trinanngle [sculpt]      I AM 
                                          feverishly interested
                                          in these questions
                      Ethics has always been where my Heart is
and the enclosed brochure tells you the facts     in secretion, the reverse might occur. it.                     
            it’s mysterious what happens:  (I Like Rust).
    A bridge or even a power pylon has a beauty which is a function of its joyous and liberating functionalism as it leaps the gap of time or space and its inherent structural dynamic
       (I love you)                          The quality of a primitive force
                                                    anchors the modern mind
                                                    to earth

the rhythmic organization of space.  Space no longer exists. Objects never end and intersect with infinite combinations of sympathetic harmonies and clashing aversions
         Where armies of machining ants clash and time is bent into a ring on the old father’s finger
             and Form, producing a machine-like finish, suggests that there is an absolute, ultimate form
“...there was a tremendous explosion. My first thought, and I wasn’t the only one, was that I was trapped in something like that film Towering Inferno...”
          they want to scratch out the eyes of  their enemies with  their virtue
          He loves the ampersand. And in you, too, there is much that makes me love and hope
  Piet Mondrian “Windmill in Sunlight” (1908) offered Mondrian the pretext to paint a violent red apparition in which the optical pulsation from the calculated opposition of primary colours across the reflecting surfaces of his brittle invention:

      The tragedy of the angry sneer, its vengeance, trap-ratted cat, crying in the box, cuboid, deep in the white hexagonal hold, the Drogons searching, phrasically, in the loop back reactions of dead significations and burning laser beams: it all falling over into the mouth. They begin to imagine symptoms.

    Alone.     Splendour.     It’s cold.      Passion.   To cross wisdom.    He’s a strategist from way back.   I don’t think she’s playing a game Pete.  Praps she is. Oh  Jesus, what a fuck up that all was.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Go the play.  Go to the play?.  Go to the play?Alone??  Yes, you’re always alone. Every one’s alone.
    To sail the equidistance.  Dance on an egg.   
If a daddy long legs got drunk and its head grew to the size of an immense baby’s, and it caterpaultered across the First World War, and all the other deathings, and the moon fell in shells of would be time for the first green, hopeful shoots, curleying from the  little garden, hidden from the others, in the oxygenated blackness, and all twenty two fingers in the perfectly nothing lake.

         nothing ever finally resolves, beginning again, makes a change whose origin, from the process of which was not contained in of what it originated in, whose form, is actually is something – it gets to another place
                  when it gets working it keeps on.   Switch the light.

NASA        SPACECRAFT       POISED      TO       PROBE       RED         PLANET

           the terrible red rages in spokes its fiery fireall, all is colour  -  ALL: die for it.  spill blood for colourStab for colourpuddle of red, seeded with a scattering of pink and white strokes
    Now Bob’s basic rap is that language, as an acquired  skill, is one of those loop back functions of the organism except that his units are phrasiform as opposed to word form. Likewise P is ripping off, collaging, splicing texts: completing the solipsism     The Light and the Dark seemed to know Something. Yes, it was
        the Light – like the Doors,
        Higher than God
        Had been wedged Open,
        And all the Light and Dark and Sound and Colour
        Had writhed into Being             

                                            Everything compressed back into the darkness.
                                             Shakespeare’s  brain grew  from the darkness.   

it is what it is and what it wants to be and what it struggles to become

          You’re thinking of the three pigs, said Polly. They built their houses of mud and sticks, the first two, didn’t they?        Well, I am, the wolf admitted.

                 the peremptory transmission of a logos hides the potential proliferation of effects.              What is the why of this how?                      Why does the hand descend, golden, and tagged  by the graffiti of the mathematician’s dreams, out of the hollow domed and purple folded sky

              I had the most marvellous piece of luck, I died.

              believed that the sounds, in some mysterious way, replenish the deep springs of the soul
             “I see the artists moving toward annihilation, towards becoming a voice...”       reflecting surfaces of his brittle invention.  The book’s centre is its own bookishness

               and you should have seen all those tiny infinities:
                                                                           the child’s eye
                                                                                the whale’s eye  

and the tentacles                             reaching!

Still the ravenous sea, still the gulls

Above:  “There we are.”  She said.  I yessed at her, but

It echoed into questions...I did so want
To be infinitely joined,
Or to be part of her, or in her  -  
But I forgot, the instant instant of her sound start.
I’m afraid.  I’m afraid you can never know
Us or them or we or I. Pronouns die in heroic  -
But they keep on playing that
come go come go come again game.

                               winter had come in the meadow, the whole meadow was crystal white and quite still. What are we to do? cried the  mice thru chattering teeth. Now we shall surely freeze. They all huddled together.
                         He had reached The Mountain of Darkness.
                 Air N.Z. up 2 cents. Ceramco down 6 cents. Lion Nathan down 9 cents.
           witty, disillusioned, with a somewhat brittle charm. Put chaos in a box – eat it.  

Not yet fifteen she wrote:  “I feel that I am a woman, a woman who has both moral energy and courage.” She died in the concentration camp at Bergen-Belsen in March 1945.              

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