Tender Buttons (the acoustics of a coup p. XII)

Giddy dread
Against a self shattering hope and the new
sentimentality, two machines measuring one another as some universal minstrel summons their bow in unison, atomic jesters, doubt has been lethal to power, and some mules and some acres cowering from the blast of a straggler bullet, will have been as useless as any principal besides that which announces 'I am time.' And faith that demands you labor against decomposition, I am against that. I believe in coming undone. It is our least violent moment. Hived dispersion. Within the oppressive pentagram of grace, where terror is a lazy matinee which hopes to sell you on daydark rooms in preparation for a doom that isn't coming but why we will it, we need to wonder/what scandals we are willing to invent in order to speak our wills in their effigy. Subtle purple rhythms we don't know how to admit, we don't know why-- Two friends are arguing about salt and traction, claiming our blood could get stuck in a place where the spirit would not know how to fall

What is a museum? (Second Investigation)

The strata of the earth is a jumbled museum. Embedded in the sediment is a text that contains limits and boundaries which evade the rational order and social structures. In order to read the rocks we must become conscious of geologic time, and the layers of material in the Earth's crust. The refuse between mind and matter is a mine of information.

What is a Museum? (First Investigation)

Candor is our Brightest Shield

And the ballad of time is that we are time
The idea of everything/oneness wasn't erotic enough
So we differentiate, and the repositioning is--
Rock and roll is dead, sisyphus extorts the forever in everything a different deed to rise and fall from and to and fro and form and socialism from dread and the schisms and the castes and the corruption of every reformist is nostalgia, from which I too become corrupt or a dreadfully lucky thinker feels the earth moaning and wailing and waiting for no one, and joins her, for how rare her joy, etcetera, and leans her dialects toward and toward, to never mistake talking for communication or trust an open eye with exposure/ notice: The sound is fading out, it's more like fire sounds, freedom. A funicular that is easier to hear than to see or to touch, and better than everything all at once, be your time, beating your time to you, keep being yours and time too, to possess something, give it the slowest myth you can deliver/ if tenderness is what love looks like in public, justice is what love looks like in private, to deprive of it is to give it purpose and a tempo and risk spheres for the surfaces of right/here, and it hurts and arises and perfect and alright, time is lucky to have such ballad, shine, sends, you and you overlapping/ one word only color(less) clumsy-- come see me in time, map the miles of ways we know or find out we know the difference between a pulse and a past is a derisive myth where leaders a liars and lies cannot time-- tell your story fast as a soldier hiccups in a field of flicked souls to show an era where it lies, etcetera, by that time, hurts my vinyl, and beauty hurts my vinyl, and you too, hurry, a lie does not live, a line does not live, only the two points they exist between assuming their sounds, nor sins, no sense in worrying you know something other than what you be

(in)



style

Against What? Against Whom?

Political conflicts are merely surface manifestations. If conflicts arise you may be sure that certain powers intend to keep this conflict under operation since they hope to profit from the situation. To concern yourself with surface political conflicts is to make the mistake of the bull in the ring, you are charging the cloth. That is what politics is for, to teach you the cloth. Just as the bullfighter teaches the bull, teaches him to follow, obey the cloth.

Who manipulates the cloth? Death--

What is death?

A gimmick. It’s the time-birth-death gimmick. Can’t go on much longer, too many people are wising up.

Because I Shall not be Disappointed

"Will something old come back again tonight
Send something back to tell me what I like"

and then

I sat there singing her
songs in the dark.

She said
I do not understand
The words

I said,
There are
No words

Metaphor Interprets Memory (In distrust of movements)

Area Boy

Where were you, then

The curtain isn't moving, you're paranoid

Inheritance is only lucky or an opinion about the origin of movement

Beginning with the fascists, (literal fractals) who are less afraid of their sanity than the artists who are too candid to discipline or fear

Orson Wells, sinister music for bells and moog bellow, naive music for bells and moog, blow me unusual kisses over your broken helicopter, broken into, stolen (moments), stripped for parts, for fear, for Orpheu, you stripped things, striped them, remembered them as foreign flags

For what proceeds the common memory culminates in common objects like time or timbre or the fall or autumn, malted or shunted, all the things you were or ought have been, to, fickle urban tribe and tide and nile and the curtain is so still it gives the illusion of movement. I pause for my invisible labor hoping you mistake the stillness for a stunt or some other bold fear like fucking a stranger. Your force is not force of spirit, either too clear and too spare. Intimacy or attentive phoniness. To say, yes! I see the wind you see only not of change which is merer than the revolution I came for--
Observing iron turn, spin, dance, weapon, be called a curtain, and its walls forgotten reflexes of the sun. Cloth, catholics, your factories, your facts, they are dead, they are, dad, they sing black, dada, nihilismus, you sing back like a product of misheard voices thoroughly enacting the red button until the tape closes earth's vagrant eye