Still moving
Wherein war is expressed through the violent hieroglyphs of sound and motion. A scream is a shoulder. The profile of life. Raised are our instruments of torture. The lubricants of aggression and flesh. A blade of grass through the vortex of sound. Wound and winding bandages are distributed by boys posed before the spinal region of the parthenon. The columns. Words of sand / psalms of love and guerre coursing through our veins.
We are the adrenal people. We need action. Words we use up. We grind into powder like sex and death. A progression of sand modules. Calcium grains irritating the smooth throat of the sea of possibility. On the raft lies one overthrown with a hooked jaw and a blown ray gun. The eye of the sun. The eye of the son is washed with blue fluid. It is the father himself who removes the particle. Here we have the flaw in the weeding cloth. Here we have the ammunition and the essence of art/rat. Here we have the necessary component of charm for the construction of the fourteenth jewel transmitting the waves that leads to the gates which are closed and shackled.
Violent compression the abode of the blessed. Only the thumb of the father can undo the great lock or raise up the high tree. With weapons aimed high in akimo we do seek said finger.
Some of us serve as crusaders and some as flies squashed against a fence. We live a spartan existence. When we were seven the military swept us away like merchants of Venus and implanted with us our instruments of battle. What is art / rat?
I know sometimes exactly what to do to give people pleasure but its like this other thing comes out of me the desire not to communicate. Communicate, the desire not to communicate. I can’t say anything thats true, because I dont know. Truth changes moment to moment. I mean I really dont believe in anything. Resist! Resist!
The joint, the prick, the finger, the needle. The eye of the empire and the emperor crowned with communication. A peak hypodermic. Sometime of day God shoots up on it. The count of nails chooses to straddle it and sometimes the daughter of God chooses to face it. Chooses to shoot it under the tongue. Do you believe in God? He is my trainer. He is my trainer. I was trained to run toward a ribbon of tension. Attention! I was trained to run line and to selflessly face and feel the front.
My guitar weights. It weights less than a machine - gun and it never runs out of ammunition. I’m a leaping lizard, I’m leaping, I’m in a hurry. No I don’t plug in. I’m at the finish. I’m finishing. I step up to the microphone and I have no fear.
(Patti Smith)
Dieser Eintrag wurde
am Mittwoch, den 7. Februar 2007 um 14:44 Uhr erstellt
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