Three Things Dangerous

Reality. Whatever that is. Nomatter. It’s too exhausting. Obviously. That’s why so many have bit and can stop biting in the meat of GRIEVENCE SENTIMENT and BELONGING. The new mantra. But it’s still exhausting. No wonder so many fall for it. It shouldn’t be that way. Stop.

In The Parentheses

A (in)famous (extreme) approaches the finish line ahead of all trailers. But at the moment he is about to cross the line he stops. He refuses to cross. What to do in a world where everyone only wants to cross that line. More people on the planet need to be just like (in)famous (extreme). Stop.

Gravitus

There is survival but there are no survivors. Gravity. What is it? It is something to grab on to. You can touch it. Gravity. Particle or wave? Who cares? What is it that can oppose gravity? Or, better, if gravity causes us all, always, to full down, what then can cause us to fall up? Answer: water. Why does water cause us to counter gravity? We being the counter? What is the counter? Stop.

Waiting Room

What is the difference between invention and creation? Scratch that. Have something “better” to do. I have once again returned to the Ausländerbehörde. Waiting. What to do about things summarized in a word but only explainable by demonstration? Example? Get examples of words for happiness. -Need to get three month Gehaltsabrechnung for the civil servants not serving me.

Mother Sister Wife

Practice makes perfect. But what about history? Haven’t we been practicing long enough? What’s really gong on? I feel physically deprived most likely due to the fact my organism is kaputt. Nothing to do with history, though… Still I must find a way to practice. My heart is so heavy right now. It’s never felt like this. My heart is playing back what’s going on in my head. Sonically. I mean what’s going on in my soul. I am the egg in a wok of fried… I am disgusted with the things I say but at least not with the things I do. Unlike the mother’s, sisters, wives.

Riff Raff Crumble

Each day passes the past. The fight hangs-on and gets tougher. Life (fails) to weed-out the riff-raff. It’s weeding me out. What I cannot understand is the acceptance. The pure and unadulterated indifference that existence is set in this track, path, and there is no shoulder. But is there enough connection out there today to wish (my) death. I mean, really wish, (my) (un)death. Or at trip to the pub paid for by advert sponsors or old women who haven’t lost everything. Not some silly hate or loathing, btw. A real wish. Just like the one from the old lady. The perfection (of the imperfectin) of the audience questioned by Pilate. The damage I have done becomes becomes more and more clear. It’s as though I have caused my future to crumble before my eyes. When the crumbling begins you don’t notice it. You only notice the crumble. It goes on for years. Then, one day, you start to look at your self–usually caused by a reflection or a child–and you see the nakedness appearing from behind what has been chipped away. There are those who see this and those who do not. The artist, I fear to admit, is the only one to really grasp this. S/He lays well with friends or foes in an attempt to over this duel.

Stopp.

-TS

Cherub Rock

Have not yet found a way to dance (romance) my/the sorrow. And so. Vulcanisation is amazing and so too are fries, cool, but are both and thrice reversible? Cherub Rock, the Smashing Pumpkins have left me. Heard that song too much. Confused. Made me thing of plastic plus polymer plus sulphur. Then burn something without charring it. Burn it without destroying it.