The stream is someone’s childhood. Or someone’s only child. Next to each other the two seem to mean the exact same thing. The exact same thing has happened to me more times than I can count. But not this. Not this thing. I will speak like Lee McQueen about waistlines and wankers. I will watch his documentary when suddenly alone. “Suddenly alone” is a contradiction when you stop to think about it. How innocent you are. How lucky, my swimmer. Someone’s verse, someone kind and tough, with glitter lips and springy hair. Someone gone, someone again, a sudden end, the just againing. Pay them back, world. Take me back. The hook is in my spine and I am casting anyway.
"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.