Information diseases were visible and audible everywhere, is what I would want to say first, without having informed if the German Codex still rules. I know I have to pretend to sleeptalk, but I won't. You are here. And you like it short. And tight. Pain in the asses.
We are terribly stupid people.
To power the people is to flower the paradise. Such poetry had direct access to my mind in connection to my position in the world as a human being. I was a Demographic Engineer with a title in Econometrics. Cut open by tests to the chest in the Emperification Department, I knew what it meant : the consequences of a global research questioning the borders of sanity and insanity on a quantum scale level. I have seen the books and I have seen the looks. But even without them...
Why WERE these differences once build in the world, if now they were to be deconstructed down? I was against this test. SO I went over to Diagram.
It was all so confusing. And result oriented. In the name of my friends and family, could we design plans to drive people mad, as they drove themselves mad, for the benefit of, in the end, Human Sanity?
I love my job at Diagrams. It touches so many corners of my mind, let alone ceilings.
It was a HUGE decision to
Every decision makes me wake up. If there is nothing going on in my mind, I stay sleeping. So fortunately, some things are just hard to understand. Which keeps me busy doing what I do : create cyber characters that fit the people of today.
The workings of reversal in relationship to a set of values. What turns, if all turns. They can fall out, if you turn it. Funny how any physical experiment was sold out as horror, in the old days.
The New Realism New Media Consciousness that soured the state of the poetical arts, was a mere extension of the blurred censorship that failed to army the national literary canon. I couldn't even novel on in my own tongue. Where everything was sculptured by limitation I had to expand myself - unpeel myself and radiate myself - for the Towers had failed to educate the market right. The colossus wanted Lulu. And that was my fate. Lulu was the pricecow, in a period where the mere historical stagnation of females on a memetic level, was to slow down the degeneration effect in emancipated men. Let's face it. We were far ahead. Everybody shouted old rules at us. And that was the capitalization in reality, and it's face had the repaired broken grin of Hugh Grant.
Today in the supermarket - as a ray of light - I closed down the several pace makers of an octopus giant, that moved and rocked full of mature intention towards the index of real chunky hunky ice-scream. He was the boneless, strong, stinking, sentimental jelly that felt good, and if I'm not mistaking
he had opinions about classy bitchy women in fancy designers cloth. But when I crossed him, slowly his digital body went off. I don't think he listed himself in on the Options For The BBQ, but what I did notice is that in the supermarket the light system and the sound system got overruled, and once again NewEconomy cried Victoria. Shopping after Closing time was better. Script wise.
Imagine the canon as a boat in a storm before it sank last decade under the weight of Lulus, somewhere on an imaginary border, on a non existing map. Culture mistaken for art. Oops. Where are the corpses..?? This is a cultural mission for war art! Who WAS Lawrence that wrote the novel URINE already in 1932 How big indeed the size of his cranium. Did his voices have weight, did they cause storms outside his head, were the mountains in his mind visible, or was he here only as an dying race: a free thinker.
It's rather advanced of our local climate to abolish eternity, for the sake of short mindedness, short sentences, square stories.
What painfully glided down in my stomach was the way the pricecow parasited my words. Sometimes I couldn't believe my ears. He just copied me; the paraphrasing passive parasite. Brothers! Sisters! I am being attacked, or apparently I attract.
what you destroy
Before I knew
I was unhappy
Does that mean that you are happy now that you know?
I'm a believer. You caught me totally. Thanks. You pinned me down. Reminded me of what I said. You listened.
I recorded you. Don't thank me for sending a helicopter.
It is a story about the past, anyhow. All that, spliced up as the plants of these lines. I was in the midst of an F, when it happened : an air plain fell on my head.
An oeuvre is a sickness bag, once it will be studied.
Look at my hands when I speak. You stupid robot!
Disconnection depressed my mind. Nothing inside made me realize that I was stuck in a city.
On the other hand, a cloudy reality did strangle us, and I was stuck in a city for a long time, before I got stuck in a space cabin, with a broken umbrellaed spine and all the merits that such splicing brings, on a certain personal level. I am a poor unwinding puppet, in a determined clump of ancient messages....I am a seven headed monster. I tried to make other bodies my assistant, but now the reversed opposite has taken place.
Play! Fool! Around! Rembrandt painted the light to have it more near. Don't expect text to tell anymore. This is the last word written. It's over, Saint Laurentien With Her Abortion Boat Hit The Sky. Not me, dear sky in my stomach!
Now being has become remembering. So let me be. The streets were nice. In the city. The world of science didn't trust us, the world of finance sucked us out. You could hear the straws in the picturesque local muffin bars. Don't effect the professional market leader, even if he sucks too loud, let his voice become cancerous soon, to drop his spit where it belongs: in his own cup. But O! how he did hope for it, to hear the people speak. Yet we kept silent in our local picturesque muffin bars. We are post-modern now, postman, we do not believe in your lettuce anymore. Because we believe that the neuro-linguistic future together with a clear theater-scientific heart, can bring us far more. And further too.
We all went in the ether, and in an outer expression designed her emptiest spot, to then end up in a space cabinet. If the machine did what you wanted, and the software gave what it promised, you had programmed it well.
We are not here all together anymore. In the nicest colors.
If that sounds pragmatic; indeed I tried. Performing for 16 billion years the internalization, was a trick that lasted long enough for me. Help me.
Really, if in the end grammatical consciousness is over only, the world is at her end. Therefore, for once and for all, let it be over: a formula!
Affection burns near-linguistic holes
I can trace in my memory
remember the price cow
his stage names, his careersteps
but I forgot his real name
All I want is to proof the female virgin's over-all levels. For she is the filling of the spirit of most wise men.
Since we are all inside, we understand any single token and so, bless the victory of the square. It can hold a lot. And yet NEEDS to be twisted.
In stubborn straight narrow-mindedness the world was treated like a box; a human container. On a daily human level our game of life was simply
to sell our dearest friends, colleges, lovers and partners
as naturally as possible. This is the Choir Of The Deep Down Under. Get there on a continuous flow from a very dirty obscure little language, who's roots we do not know anymore. Were we to take it serious: the Top Hits? Although what is presumed, is that it all started in sunny hotness and sand.
From the core of the center to watch, without getting salary, the Eurofication of the nation, was painful. The writing went open, in a back flipping sadness, that revitalized EVEN the already dementing. Saints could not fly up, with the pump and parade of the cracked Universal Leaders that created new ceiling in space. The Federation of Journalists comforted the rebels, offering enough holes in the planet's hyperbole. And why: all for kinetic comfort. Finally we knew what it was.
For Sure in every meaning I longed for no more then a holiday. And so mainly to achieve that /we tried to design software that would track our kinetic energy. To catch that signification, you were willing to live a life in sensorial costume. i-Fashion became a grow market, alternative profit was made without any hindrance. It was the including of the all, that created our unique chances. And indeed, your Diagram Uniform is a fact.
A lovely age, but with a fast administrational killing for those who weren't liked. Writing about this injustice meant down tracking very weakly structured centric forces. Poverty became my puzzle. Hence my name: Homeless Poison Bashing Love.
We wanted the good life, and convinced the minister that the writers role was over during the Last Days. The duel was covered and suffocated with old memorial memes. Melting ourselves down was just too pathetic to script in. It was like a fall back of at least two thousand years. Midgets in capes walking a dog in the park complaining about the stormy weather. My life had her window under the ground.
And so I agreed like my mother for a passive nihilism, every now and then.
The launching of the Diagram went in total security. And now, of course it's not mine anymore. I am her servant. My ideas are very strong, yet they never carry me. People suck me out, they never correct me, call me Princess all the time. I hate these people, because they don't enrich me. It's very good to say what you want, sweetheart. I'm calling you, my cloned self. Primary difference is : our family.
Articles with no reference kept everybody busy to restore time, which created blurry offices.
Restore your metaphor
Restore your metaphor
Restore your metaphor
During the period of outer utterance, there were no offices. Only sites to visit. Nothing to exchange with, only communication and behavior. Don't let me think of it, again. Whomever Feels Responsible : it would have been nicer to have it all better understood.
I mean, bloody hell, how far did the meaning of theater science go. I could measure out time scales, I could write story's that were read as realisms. Specific realisms. In a literary tradition that was the way to Divine it All. And so what was the final emotion held against us: hate.
Authors keep it all to them selves. They didn't work as hard as scientists. They were bloody autistic artists. And that's why literature and language philosophy never should have split up.
Which was exactly what was happening. Was I to be a book, or even a film, I would have taken you back to a Tuesday night, where I and my business friend, together with two bulpy glasses of Australian wine, discussed the matter of speaking out loud to ourselves in the streets.
Admit the inner dialogue and die under the super markets eye in a hospital.
What remained of reality, now that it's pages were stripped down from its dazzling contentifying content ...?
wiggle wiggle of the tail
postmodern worms on their return
for the next millions of years
do I follow the spur
Forgive my bad jumpiness. Having lost, being lost, born as the Lost Generation, I found in time the recipe of the right order. The one that goes on by itself. Digital ink wasn't enough.
'Do not make angry the monkey again, for what is the revenge of the bleeding and leaking imitator? He pretends to go on for his self. Do you agree upon the logic of this? Then you may leave your body or the earth.'
These are the lines I remember. Stay who you are the impossible code.
A gentle character speaking the truth.
And O, I cried O lately, O
offer me the different feelings
sell it as freedom
Say it in soft suiting sentences
my history of art
Let go the sequence once it flows. Just forget that it was there. Go on. For ever. That's it. Losing it means unloading it. And apparently this matter is the kinetic matter. Catch it if you're interested. See me do it, software, like she watches you; the white circle of light.
Let others practice the culture of intelligence and define the real matter. We do not know what we say. We wannabee Derrida,under the shower. The dialect of a slow sick selfrepairing derterminator rules the world and is pointing his laser light across the yard only to play along with the other sources. Give them a speed boat, indeed. What do I get from it by understanding it. NOTHING.
Sinking safely down, spiking along the side of a cutting edge from blockaded unwillingness, my blue ink from my blue veins wants no more than to serve out a view from the clouds.
May I wait you
can I be your butler?
Let the sky
the blue sky shark with golden jaw
The anagram of war
as it is
and think of me in your happiness
when you dive
Always look out of the window. Bash the windows. There is Einstein on the Beach. Gluck und Freud playing bass guitar, and once I go down, you start to loose interest and start to enjoy.
It's time to define a woman again. Call her Nelly and give her a job, and make her worry about everything.
Can she chat ?
The blue sky shark has swam over, and I will soon be suffocated by the rest. I slept with open windows.
How long it lasted before somebody dared to line in the novelizing act inside the onion -rr- union?
Is it bad if I sound like a spooky black raven?
But this sound like a perfect team.
So, this must be the tissue speaking. The link. The way to it. The Shunt. Once upon a time, I initiated and contributed work to an Art Gallery Magazine for Female Artists on the Internet, which was called SHUNT. And I ran out of the so called business office, because without any investment I couldn't go on. My biological system was starving, not only on a cultural level. Still haven't restored the relationship with my fellow entrepreneur.
I have never managed to tear her apart again, in a story.
THE END Finish
On the NON Fantasized Subjects of Diagram:
- The application of neuro-fuzzy-technology in everyday life
- The relationship between interactivity and customer judgement, an interest for policymakers and executives.
- The New Protest Generation
- Gilles Deleuze, Jaques Derrida, Steve Austin
(Op het Dam Plein is zomerkermis, maar de dubbele ramen, het binnenhof, de warenhuizen, de juwelier, en het hotel schermen het beeld en het geluid van het reuzenrad af. Wel hoor ik de berbers naast mij feest maken, door een salsa plaat van de buren, en viel er een vogel loodrecht neer. Eens even kijken morgen onder aan de boom.)