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's really a curriculum of unquestioned repetitions;
that's where politicizations deposit answers
before opinions circulate in new forms odd questions
as if all answers have no use for question marks
create reality as if advancing free from symbols
and ensnare into thoughtless acting
made conform by whipped up opinion
met three random people voicing same opinion
whence the same opinion?
if TV gives us faces to live by
then more and more people become useless faces,
predictable face, a void human being, a series of words
politicized faces
off the norm faces:
a recoding of humanity
puzzled how the past never left,
how new dogs born tomorrow
learn to bark glory of yesterday's faults
no matter in what language Category Intelligence embarks
one opinion in many people a solid block
a piper's success: all show one face and all conform
knew only language and another language and another language;
all force beyond it, force applied to language driving ideas...
we were surrounded by its very results
you either doubt what you see
or question language you hear;
sometimes you don't see yet,
but you can take the temperature of the language
you're surrounded with
what we saw everywhere was an outcome:
words we spoke in turn questioned those who taught and trained us
NOT 'us' - but you and me and him and him and her
we were not yet a group,
everybody's voice was different:
we were not made to believe
while we tried to understand the ghosts within language
the more languages you learn, the more your very own language and history relativizes,
better yet
you live in a morass of history
exactly when 'everybody' thought
it would "end" differently...
to 'make a difference' fantasy plays with language,
fantasy re-arranges and manages history,
fantasy makes guilty according to formula
those who were formerly praised for their astuteness
and thus history gets re-written according to some matrix
where all roles are reversable,
where words bring to light their double,
where the political animal rededicates human nature:
battles won turn now into losses
and only because you command a language
and become her subject
this does not mean you understand its history
and its philosophy that keeps shaping you into her loyal servant:
there's a chain of blood that never frames reality
if questions do not arise
language becomes bereft of its utility-
all language turns uni-lateral:
a very old order forges towards re-establishment
thus progress is as coded as is 'universal' modernity,
language only placates a coercive order beneath it-
language always fails
words through a dictionary
is nothing
but to use words from another mouth
is not enough
and reducing lived life to words
reduces life as if an incomplete formula:
life is a big word
and for big words there are no feelings
and for small words
feelings are too big
and at the beginning
youth thinks
words must be some secret towards progress
as words are provided by the elder like milk
for brain nourishment and entertainment
for history to repeat
there's a narrow frame
only an invisible heavyness inside that picture
and the time-frame for youth
getting shorter
all depiction lies within an imagined frame
as if the world is always nearby
yet it does not open into the daily world
and where there is no frame widening and bursting
all walls are false
made only for hanging things
not for living, but keeping apart
essential language is withheld from youth,
only allowable repetitives
keep on circulating and repeating
stories made by law generating law
much is out of the question,
the blinding frame looks to that -
knowledge need not apply
a sub-class fed word for word wholesome words
ritual and sports require their unitary masters-
roles that allocate, divide
generating invisible frames
my point of view
buys us two realities
made up of differences
between you and me
I was born too soon
and you're too late
that's why your beauty gives
and gives me much more
than you yourself
can ever give
with differences each more different
and the longer you stretch
the longer the moment will last
and secretly lingers on and on...
there's much beach and lots of sand
and more sand
but somehow a bed made at the beach
and a moon that warms the sand
below us two
a perfect bed
for me and you to return to
and his liveliness -
it was very much his ear for nature,
his eye for faces
his touch that neutralized false experiences:
and convinced that there's no beauty in any system nor in repetition
language or otherwise:
he kept on submitting only to his nature
and always already astutely homeless
yet always warmed by a blanket made from desire's real nature
maleboy navigated around all language avoiding culture's false philosophy
as if touch was more pleasing to the eye
so much closer to his nature
thus always not falling into traps of fiction's logic
when faces around him turned not into words
but into erection's desire beyond all fantasy's fiction:
all eyes got what no word can taste