Green shivers and chrysanthemum bloom
Bought or buoyed
Intention will flatten the affection
At the root of the unease
At root uneasy
Brought forth from the distance
It’s just money after all, the dead will say
The dead who say so many things
A pink starburst potted among a green grass
Flowering until so late in the season
Leaving is what you make it, I was told as a child
A spectacle of remorse or guilt
A hidden map of personal burials
The goodbyes you didn’t know you were making
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.