Man passes across a cloudy sky back in Malunguey, an open field, drone with a creaking undertone, /seeYAK/, /isang/ /kaunan/ /nyang/ /anghel/ in the eye of the sun, man in a hoodie with an earring, a woman in white profiled against the clouds. mutters soundlessly, a man’s voice, /i/ /Gumamela/ /Celis/, transcribed in the subtitles as Flower of Heaven, /Gumamela/ translated by Google as hibiscus or mallow, so /Gumamela/ /Celis/ is Heavenly Hibiscus, or Blessed Mallow, /Gumamela/ from my grandmother’s lips is red, floppy, showy, ruffly, a revolt in heaven, slow walk across a field shot as a tropical Corot
"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.