You’ve got the brains I’ve got the books let’s lose lots of money. It’s all come down to shade. Shadow fill in the blanks and box checker, is that the new dead job, the one they’re handing out with diplomat diplomas these d-days. Did you just say disciple or am I fantasizing again. Like at the grocery in line for crepes and the little boy with the twister shirt on begins to sing into the microphone like he never left it. There I go again you say, what is it with the world and percentages. I am nine times nine of myself and still too much. If he wasn’t that kind of doctor what would he be. This referent refers to nothing and I draw a tree to prove it. You and I decided these rules long ago when we were babies, the babies of humanity, decided it all. That might not be the problem.
"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.