Room 6011

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 because
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 eclectic 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 one 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.