L’Anthracite

Les pensées que je médite,
Sont plus noires que l’anthracite,
Mais que faire quand tu te fous,
Si eperduement de nous.

Si arrive je t’incite,
C’est que mon humour anthracite,
A tourné en derision,
Ton dedain et ma passion.

Mais prends garde ma petite
A mon humeur anthracite,
J’arracherais animal,
Le cri et les fleurs du mal.
Fleurs de serres, fleurs maudites,

A la nuit noire anthracite,
Je les prendrais malgré toi,
Sous les ronces de tes doigts.
Allons viens viens et fais vite
Que ta chaleur anthracite,

Vienne rechauffer mon coeur,
Et refroidir ma fureur.
Tout contre moi tu t’agites
Dans une rage anthracite,
Mais qu’importe si tu mords,
Je veux ton ame et ton corps.

C’est ton regard que j’évite,
Car le mien est anthracite,
Et je ne veux point que tu vois,
Tout l’amour que j’ai pour toi.
Je t’aime, Oh ma belle aphrodite,

A l’âme noire anthracite,
Ni plus t’aime t’aimerais,
Plus me mine, minerais
Ni plus t’aime t’aimerais,
Plus me mine, minerais

— Serge Gainsbourg

j j j

Grow A Garden

Elsa Schiaparelli, who collaborated with Salvador Dalí and, as a child, buried flower seeds in her nose and ears in an attempt to grow a garden on her face.

j j j

Why Is Form Beautiful?

“Why is form beautiful? Because, I think, it helps us confront our worst fear, the suspicion that life may be chaos and that therefore, our suffering is without meaning.”

— Robert Adams

j j j

The Burial of the Dead

T.S. Elliott 

The Waste Land

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,

My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

j j j

Secret Agent

Eat
Berlin, Februar 2019

A capitalist society requires a culture based on images. It needs to furnish vast amounts of entertainment in order to stimulate buying and anesthetize the injuries of class, race, and sex. And it needs to gather unlimited amounts of information, the better to exploit natural resources, increase productivity, keep order, make war, give jobs to bureaucrats. The camera’s twin capacities, to subjectivize reality and to objectify it, ideally serve these needs and strengthen them. Cameras define reality in the two ways essential to the workings of an advanced industrial society: as a spectacle (for masses) and as an object of surveillance (for rulers).

— Susan sontag, the image world 1973

j j j

Distant Land

There were ants in the bathroom. They came crawling out of the gutters and cracks in the walls, probing searching, forming roads along the tiles of  the floor. He  slept wide  into the open day. When he  woke, all frights walked in the  blazing sun  without their clothes.

In the lobby  an islam preacher, white robe and beard, the staff of a pilgrim; 

A guy making humming, whistling  noises  and flipping pencils with his fingers, two in each hand, very quickly, eyes  turned  upward, staring at the ceiling.

Distant land, the clock.

j j j