Where is the daughter the son
The monogamous swans
tucked in for the night under their white wings
Have you ever seen a swan in flight
I have never seen it
The winter sun bleaches everything
Blanches the snow-dusted hills
There is no swoon no afterlight
Have you ever seen it
I remember when we were ravenous for the sun and the sun
was ravenous for us
"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.