outsiderlast time i was there i went to see brotheroutsider by berlinBuenosAyres
he took all his stuff, including the mattress, to the kitchen
where he spent the afternoons
from the roof we watched the churches where
people we knew had had their baptisms
and he smoked
up on the table
he kept a biography of giordano bruno
burnt at the stake on 1600
the martyr of the pantheist ideas
you can stay and watch the telly
or read, i'll be
back in the morning
and we can get breakfast in a petrol station,
he doesn't remember
on my previous life i was
28 years old
reading that law book on the seventh day
i marked this passage
for him to read
knowing he wouldn't
i stayed, slept with my clothes on
even the coat and
the scarf and the boots
night came in
left my arms numb my head restless
got nothing to tell
gotta keep my distance
steal a book or leave something legible
or do nothing
i walked to the station,
reflecting on the edifices,
a train to my second persona
In the shadow of a doubtThere I visited a fellow artiste who had fallen in hard times, nothing rare to the likes of us. Zelos, I knew, used to be a painter, and I got him to make a portrait of myself. I put on my cape and hat and told him to add my name, in red, 'The Incredible Sirahcni". I'd use it as the sign for my next act. I sat there and he painted, and we tried to hold a conversation:In the shadow of a doubt by berlinBuenosAyres
I had the most horrible dream last night. There was an elephant in my pocket, it changed to a lump of strange heavy metal and then again to an elephant, it talked to me. "Walk downstairs and go backwards." I did. The spiral staircase got smaller with each step. At some point I could not keep on going. It was the eternity, the end of the universe. It felt like a factory from the industrial revolution, and then I knew how to go backwards. It was so simple.
Elephants and staircases don't interest me, too mundane.
What would you know about the world?
It didn't work, the conversation. Before leaving we had te
Liver, Liver, LiverLiver, Liver, LiverLiver, Liver, Liver by MeineSehnsucht
My alcoholic serving virgin is watching over the bottles, so immaculate. We are looking at some literary theories. She asks me, if poetry can be prose, poetry can be a play for the theatre as well. Especially and just for you, honey, a poem in four acts.
and she sings:
"these are the striped bottles
these are the useless bottles
and these bottles are wrong"
The discussion is about singers who were at their zenith, vocally seen, but the songs were far too weak in comparison. Intensely sung, unsalted nagging as backdrop and the song was no good anyway. She says: "Add a synthesizer.", but that is sensationalism. "Music, real music, for a film that doesn't exist. The audience has to invent the pictures, backed by the lyrics, but not all lyrics will do." The audience also has to deal with the mediocre material, imagine something with that as background music; you can't even film it.
and she sings:
"look at me
don't look at me
love me if you need s