a drone is fun because we take the death out and put the fun in
grr grr grr grr, jump in the water to save the object that you are,
you love sour, you love your motherobject. wer früher stirbt ist
länger tot. in the lager. the name is the magic thing that when you
use it twice it breaks its chains. the chains are the magic things
that when you break them twice they form their name. around your
neck. can you say it twice? can you say to let you breath? can you
speak the language of release? it’s a tongue that curls its cues and
fucks its news. why the big mouth? you say you love freedom but
you have no teeth. is your face long because we drew it. sad clown
dies on the ground the leader the leader the leader the leader the leader
of the fret whorl has no strength. i remember when it was a great event
because i possess the gift of memoire involunitaire i eat the cheeks of
little schoolgirls and it all floods back, the ones from the good families
the floods from the early days, how did they get all those animals on the boat
and how did they get all the visas processed on-time. you wonder how, when
you’re cramping, so much the other can have the ball, and the bait can have
the fish. i poked your eye until it bled and the blood caused a rash. chill out
in your sores. lay a gurken over the socket. if i say i am then i am. solid. if
you say you are then we’ll check it in the files. the courageous run from the buildings
the courageous lead the march. the courageous shoot from the hip. the courageous
melt from the heart. don’t drink it don’t drink it don’t drink it it puts extra on your hip.
at the checkpoint they ask your name but you know it’s a joke, they have no flash boxes
picture or it didn’t happen picture or it didn’t happen picture or it didn’t happen
but when you smell it starts from the nose, or the intestine, you have bacteria
in you of a special kind that traces your herkunft, but i can see the figures on
the horizon, no yet integrated into the land, but they will be, the skin at the lower
corner of the stomach will start to blister, you know it’s happening, you can smell
the orifice, it belongs to us. we started it, we started it, we started it. and we’ll finish it.

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propaganda of the dead, their rigorous tongues stressing fitfully, they shy their languid eyes from us, us being held as a lien. we cannot eat in their presence, we still believe in respect, sometimes we think we are alone until we lift our gaze, and their vacuumed lids fall onto us. we cannot find the message amongst the medium. the white lace and the promises. placing our ears on their sunken chests, drawing fluid from their lungs to make the tea, the liquid must undergo multiple transfers to take on value and flavour. all talk of the future is criminal, a cyst on the side of the eye. we are walking already. we have only just begun. we refuse to speak to the dead, they know what happened to them, they know what happens to us. the knowing draws them out, colours their edges. there is no transgression of their lines. we have learnt the rhythms of those who oppress us. they were able to suspend their heritage, and we have taken it on. they placed their pulse in our palms. their husked breath edges. we have become embolised. we are discussing what to do and it bruises us. we listen to the rasping, the work of literature. they have finely shaped heads and masses of black curly hair, their lips disclose collections of perfectly formed teeth, they are our gravestones. this is the time of the tooth, how it breaks.

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los filósofos comen las cabezas de los jóvenes. pero por

aquél entonces, no había fechas ni horas, así que la gente

tenían pocos hijos y morían lentamente. y si

tuvieron uno o una, pues es poco, es chico o chica. solo

hay que darle un poco de comer cada día, pero

los días se van pareciendose el uno al otro, es que no hay

fechas, sabes, sin relojes por completo. y te

va a parecer paradoja, si sabes lo que significa eso, pero

el Viejo que trabajaba en el portal, todavía trabajaba

y ya había trabajado. cristo no había nacido, así que

todavía no había fechas, sabes, no hay fechas, no hay

por qué apurarse, si no hay fechas, y los bebés vienen

como miel, aullando dulcemente, es que ya había y

todavía estaba. no hay por qué morir en una situacíon

semejante, no hay pa tanto, es así, así es, o era, o será.

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ich habe nie geld gekostet
da, ganz hinten im hals, ist es
gut, locker, es kann dort mit dem
sauerstoff einmischen, am besten.
O, O, ja das geht
ab. hab n haufen münzen
auf deine augenlider gelegt, wie sie
singen. ein käse aus fünfer auf die brüste.
es schmeckt dir es schmeckt dir es schmeckt
mir es schmeckt ihr sie schmeckt ihm er
schmeckt ihn ab ab ab ab ab ab.
du fragst was mein métier sei, sei sie
so gut, seien sie so nett, junger mann,
da oben gibts einen jungen mann, denken sie,
sie sind die selben? bzw. dasselbe, bzw.
es gibt keine beziehung mehr, es ist vorbei. breakup breakdown.
ich fragte den jungen tag, der kam gelaufen,
angesiedelt. wie kann er so spät sein und trotzdem
doch so jung! und dann noch so schön. die feinen
züge der Trümmern. wir entschieden dann mehrwert
zu werden und blieben dabei. sie meint wir
seien bloße figuren worauf sie spießige
representationsmuster malen dürfe. wir
verweigern die verewigten formen. das hier
ist ein eingeschriebener brief ich kann es beweisen
es ist ein gleichnis.

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I think
cigarettes burn faster
in the winter night air
where there is winter
and where there is night.
only in the singular
are objects distinguished
from humans. rumpled.
they give off their vapour
give up. they fall in. it
falls in. it occurs. an idea
matters. that’s what history is.
only having to teach something
you read it. what would be a more
proper word for a vacuum cleaner?
a dust sucker. but then you’re back
in the past. a loss, again.
pushing cooking salt into the veins.

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i plunged my fist into your chest and discovered the heart i licked my discovery my knowledge in the cell, in the nighttime, as the moon covers its eye with the shadow, i discover the will in the cell which is the will in me, i began as a shellfish and step by step became a monster of knowledge, tore the mask from the weakened citizen, denaturalised the kidney beans, as they fall from your fallopian tubes, the bells ringing, i dropped the fabric over the surface of the body and ceased to be a citizen, my qualities became obscured by the dark cloth i had no values, i was a machine for the god, he licked me on the face and told me to uncover myself he stripped the leaves from my flesh he licked the Vaseline from my sex, my cache-sex, in the darkness, i relieved myself, i was of shame for the other, the western string, the history of a shoelace, i looked toward the other lands and saw them twist their strings, it folded into them, i discovered the silence that precedes them, that sustains them. i became raw in the sunlight, i rosied up to the god, for only through the medium could i perceive his ephemera and feeling it could i discovered the solitude.

displaying my whole surface, everybody could see that exposer and cacher were the same verbs but with alternate intensities of light. i discovered the hand within the glove. i discovered the land. i ran the finger over the rock and left my cells on its grisly skin, i painted myself onto it i discovered art. i pwned it. i discovered the bodies under the coat, a coat made entirely of arms, what god has commissioned this, what tailor has known such a creepy might. i discovered the bones beneath the skin, ran the tips of my own skin-slung bones over their content, i told you you were a symbol, i fit you to a concept, hitched a star to a waxen figure, twisted the forms. i discovered the eagle preying above us revered it. i never feared god because i saw his shaven face. I found the leader in the sunlight, he presented his rugged chest to us, his capped scalp. we ran the sandpaper over his breast. we made of the blood and hair a paste, and began to paint the landscape. i discovered the bed under the doona, discovered the tongue in the minority grouping, they were pressing back against the freezer. i slid the bottlebrush down my throat felt its nettles rush, noted my pores prickling to the stamm. in the introduced unherb, i made a finding, introduced myself to the responsible gods, placed myself before the others.

the pink men of knowledge, sweating in the closed rooms, resisted and in resisting, continued to be true. i swallowed the turd and breathed into their air-hole. I raised the plastic sword to your plastic neck and made the thickened plastic blood sulk out. i discovered the plague in the handkerchief. i discovered the stain beneath the mug, the fleck behind the cushion. i covered my skin and the excreta removed itself. i lay the banksia on the battlefield in order of their size, their hue, the length and width of their tendrils, the resistance of their leaves, the flexibility of their stems. i catalogued all of these properties, then shuffled them under the undergrowth. i found the blood in my soup and took it back, even though it was my blood and someone else’s soup. likewise i documented this case and it took on a quality. in the name of equality i saw myself forced to destroy the others. in the name of fraternity i felt myself tempted to kill the sisters. i discovered the complexity of emotion. it was we who discovered the lip under the moustache. we discovered the yoke, bolted it to our necks and showed it to the boss. he said teamwork and we hi-fived. we discovered the subject being subjected. we discovered the leaves of grass. we discovered the peninsula and broke its neck. we began to swim, our surfaces were shining and covered, we were naturalised.

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zur anwendung in der mundhöhle

me being with people
people seeming the rock.

just because your dad notes
deference doesn’t mean the rock
will rescind. absconding the tennis
court, swearing, you look to the future and
see the extension of the suffragette, bis hin zu
subjection. to DISMEMBER the violence
of a state as a blackhead, a head which
someone else has to wear… we thought the
only sensate left was the message shortening,
systematic victims, sacrificial lamb kebab, avec sharp sauce,
in your eye, burning all the way through to the sun.
you ask the god what’s left of the marinade. immagine
povero, podemos hacerlo. nos preguntamos si la
magia enferma, la enfermera nos atendará, en los
escombros, la playa rastreada, pequeños cuerpos, de niñeza,
escuadrónes de ladrillos, todo
perdido, los pedazos de pan, también robados. congenial to the
bourgeoisie I made myself, bien fabriqué, applied the vile
chose freedom, froze the cheese.
you take refuge in the cavity of the mouth. this
is the end of the world if you put it in latin. that’s
how you make the people disappear, their dangled or
cloistered appendages, upending the thrust of democracy.
Lack of lustre before the authorities, you strip
at the kitchen table, turn all of your flesh inside out and
we get the point.

Truth is telling the object
it does look good in this. The Hausarzt identifies another
symptom of realism: it doesn’t look good, sagt er. «Putain!»
you think. This thing has no observable gender, so, a good positivist,
you rubs it on your skin to see if it takes a sheen.
You smells it, you drinks it down and throws it up and the little bits rise in the cup,
they catalyse.
Saturnine vision, flaccid melancholia narrowing
the bronchial passages. You sold your labour and now you want it back
(typical rule of faust). But it belongs to all of us now, has become our web.
Your lover discovers, all this time you’ve been
working for the state, smuggling in aircraft parts to give them aerial supremacy,
giving up the names of your colleagues. They trusted you and for that they
lost your respect // Sex could be like that too, but it would be rough – Like,
how do you take a snapshot of a contradiction? How do you catch a lad
and tie it down? How do you solve a problem like Sharia? Hating
them intro hatred. IF somebody doubts your loyalty, kill someone else,
someone lower, and then kiss them. Kiss them listfully. Suffer the passion.
But, you’re still an exile even after they invite you back.
The exes catch in the skin.
Things remain in the gate.
Everyone turns up late, expecting everyone else to
turn up late.
Homeopathic //
wardroning //
Dumblife //
Leaking through the seams
and eating into the dermis. Caterpillars on stilts; all of them, sulking. Motzing us on,
mobbing us with their ‘love’.
Speaking with my lilted tongue, at the stroke of ten, looking for the remote control for
breakups, trading in dead batteries to join the team.
outside, the country you were born in is eating its pauvres,
which you assume is a kind of peach. deglacé,
es kann noch schief gehen. c’est toujours possible.

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holding the weapon asking you to step down
holding the fish the fashion the club the bushknife
someone has fallen there are spun sheets spunned
the bodies giving slightly in the dark the polis hold
ing the arm the lower leg cutting our teeth rubbing
a face against the mesh we saw it come down from
on high and it was rectitude, it was the right, it was
right there, we couldn’t recognise it for the wounds
the path had smudged over. the angels leave no
footprint backing off from the catastrophe, asking
the assailant to put down the arms. the forms are
looser than before, they have no history. the violence
is a myth it is mythic. the mirth is violent, is violet, is
mauve, lilac, wisteria, bluerain, jacaranda, heliotrope.
swirling and mottling on the flesh, more blood spills
from the neck, transferring to the soil, mulberry,
blackberry, jamming the sign, tasting the paste, and
discerning a direction. passioning, the Byzantium,
bleating before the announcements, there is no
comment to make, just cement on the sand on the livers.

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doff one’s chapeaux to the gesturalists. peau à peau.
no scandal left on the cheek, flushing out the trad

itionalists. a table of elements, trying to explain a
practice with a cotton real, a wool principle. never

a false thread. stepping around the failure of narr
ative, a scar, but no erotics, saving every cent on

the neck of the mountain. converting a nose into
a haptic organ. hap, hap, happened. already rec

ognising the prior occupation. it is felt in the death
drive. along the coast, from siegeville to slaughter

town. funny stuff. platypus has only one foyer
and no concierge to manning. giving a quarter of

a bagel, only the centre, the monotreme nuzzling thru.
in the dream explaining sex to you you walking off.

kitchen memory, needing dough and a visa, a wedding.
the future of lyrics. if you look at the image, it event

ually takes its parts apart and you become a part of
that. segue warfare. attach a new subject-maker to an

old dirt-stick. watch the bodies hit the ground, but
provide a cushion, always provide a cushion, always pro


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as the sky fell I dropped a Name
and you heard it hit the ground
and break, we could never use it
again. this is why we can’t have nice
things, like society. thanks mum.
you’re not even my real mum and/or
dad and yet here I am sopping the
yolk with the brad. place the plastic
death-lumps on the mantle-piece,
heat the resistant resistance in a
spoon. don’t hate category because
individual, obvious. revelation is
such a fucking tease. I stuck your
fingers in my mouth that did taste
of existence, but the enemy skulks
the landscape, a model mammal,
protrusions on protrusions, sticks
each part of his corpus into every dead
saint, cups his [sic] hands around his
scopers. he calls them the gropers.
the puss begins to form and we try
to hug the blister. contusion reigns. men
grow daughters out of their testicles like
enormous breasts and hold them
under their arms for the nation to
suckle. think of flowers think of a
flowering think of the slaughterfield.

a new politics of embodiment.

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