Friday, 6 May 2005

beeb

Grant pleasure and import, for readers as a reader. Place them upon a giant map with spray cans.

Appraise a shifting tongue, within the cloud’s dull, slacken and teach in varying and inappropriate measures. Draw new lines upon the pavements, invention a roadside. Hold a voice that punishes weakness, sliding through the climate above, pearling into the day.

Get the land’s finest cartographers and dividers! And make them paint, because they are relevant! Call the youth!

The meaning of words alongside action, the divisions of red, blue, yellow and other, convenience of a limited spectrum, the flash of generic lines, dealt into an early morning dominated by waking. This is politics as a response, this is a response. Not a mode of expression, nor of the desire of men, but a mode of understanding, a light meter applied to a shaded corner of existence, politics governing its own resonance. Keeping within the lines.

Sleeping soundly, the predictable unfolding marked out upon the ground with flags, the reports and interpretations more vital than the cause or the belief or the actual happenings, the hands that draw black crosses in squares.

The sky is still the same colour.

Practice philosophy and sociology and psychology and now, now of all thi ngs, pseology; all as determinate as zoology or microbiology, oceanography and all the other, shallow and instinctive epithets of knowledge.

How you react, in your arms, is necessarily right.

A study is a study is a study is not an insight.

The tracing paper of humanity, the crayons and colouring book.

Rain smudges map.

The end.

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