Pantheologic Red Moon
29 de novembro de 2009
24 de novembro de 2009
Oh, se eu não fizesse nada só por preguiça! Meu Deus, que respeito teria por mim. E teria esse respeito, precisamente, porque era capaz, pelo menos, de ter preguiça; haveria em mim, pelo menos, a certeza de uma característica definida. Se perguntassem de mim: quem é? E respondessem: um mandrião - isso ser-me-ia extremamente agradável de ouvir. Quer dizer que tinha uma característica determinada, logo, era possível dizer algo de mim. «Mandrião!» - mas isso é um título, um cargo, uma carreira.
22 de novembro de 2009
21 de novembro de 2009
16 de novembro de 2009
15 de novembro de 2009
14 de novembro de 2009
A place where tones sneak under the caps of the Unformed heads, I walked.
In the middle of Water-Base voices, my ears stooped in chisel sounds and tried to talk. But the lips moved away on a trip for the…
Distorted characters looked behind no Eyes in the faces of nowhere, and no words I could taste.
I sat and wait for the Answerers in the hollow dirt, full of missing points and dead ends.
The Bucolic Worm was coming for the season, to devour sins made of clay. So was draw in the prophetic mist.
The Answerers start sewing their hands on the ground, frightened and tremulous with a red wire.
No hands can be free.
I stared in motion of steps.
Following the beats of Air.
I laid my back in this pulsing earth, looking trough, no wavelength sky.
My thoughts concealed and some frumpy clouds started to rain in monosyllabic beings.
The Me in She was no He in Him.
I was seeing with my head not with my eyes.
Skins of ashes were falling down, slowly into the magnetic snow.
Icy corpses were melting in colors and shades of the past sentences.
And sunny drops started to flow into the river.
The dendritic spines of mud, as they called it.
All the vanishing concepts of reality were drowning…
Time is now a forgotten name in this space.
Music : Ghosts on Magnetic Tape II - Bass Communion
12 de novembro de 2009
8 de novembro de 2009
The drugging words that you write in the Illusionary dictionary are just flickering pills. Don’t keep your empty bookshelf under your tongue...
...take another quarter line in your vein.
The chemical constructions inside Your written flesh are intoxicating me.
…I’m going to take another pill.
2 de novembro de 2009
A hole on the letter, you forget to write.
Hide your opulency in a fat movement.
Swing the happy cartilage like a cockroach,
And sing to the aged wood liquor.
The big Black Lady is always open,
Like a Babylon whore playing an old tune.
Dance you life away, until she kisses you,
On the mouth of Love’s End.
*All Photos by Alice