In Japan, where Leftism is traditionally unidirectional and still associated with antiquated images of extremists or terrorist organisations such as the Nihon Sekigun (Japanese Red Army), many Left-ish Japanese producers prefer political expression through the omni-directional momentum of Globular artistic strategies. In other words, allowing their actions to be perceived as “artistic expressions” subjects to the ambiguities of art discourse makes it difficult to identify a coherent social agenda. Unfortunately, this clouding of thematic intent often results in a conflict of interest between a producer’s desire for cultural change, and a refusal to be seen as taking sides (let alone define what those various sides may be).
Landscapes are not eras; they never finish
Because it doesn’t finish I can be present.
Something, like nothing, happens anywhere
I seem to have no desires
Or my desire is not very beautiful
I don’t know
I just don’t really know.
/
No one saw the arabesque, the carefully folded kiss, nor the
religiosity of the comprehensible
The emotions which alighted upon us were not all contemporary
At one PM we were confident; now we are not
Nothing is enough
It is not quite midsummer.
Technique is emotion.
I was not prepared so I let it slumber
Lather, its nothing crumbled.
I believe I am never free of the beautiful woods
This isn’t nostalgic
It is a structure in which truth is where the other is not.
/
I had undergone an influence of
Death, which was itself imprinted
On some moving sequin, the breath sequins
Heartbeat sequins, the organs and their slowing
Articulations sequins, which as they
Move from the foreground appear to dim, since
They go out to illuminate
Some event so distant we will never
Know the instant of its perception
As if poverty did not have an abiding insight into the nature of
insurrection
Borders and organs end but don’t change
Error is not harmful to art
It should by no means imitate either the willfulness or the wildness
of nature, but should look like a thing
Like free and not-free went walking
To the unseen city of antiquity.
The apples smell not like it
Happiness is not irrelevant
It is not only about violence and use and their avoidance
The communication is not only networks of dominance
Sometimes the meaning cannot be achieved by the body’s means,
nor by an intellectual effort
So what if I am thick and stupid behind my life; it is not private,
there is not a girl
It never quite happens
Nothing was abstract, yet everything was absent
But this was not the city of melancholy
And today I am not political
There is no sea and no forest and no boats passing
In a way I am content to think about nothing
In simple despair we accommodate what we cannot control
Nowhere shall I deliberately deviate
Nothing other than this dissimulation and this disquietude
Nothing grand or classifiable, nothing secured
When girls were flowers, this wasn’t true
The crime is not incomprehension but refusal
I have wanted a truth that is unavailable
It is not private.
This is a song of no-knowledge
And this is not poetry—
It is the King, scented like my body
But to want everything is not normal, evidently
What we have not dreamed explains the visible
Let’s not decide what danger is
I do not stand in opposition to this ambiguous thing
I simply don’t know the distance of my observing.
The air is not quite deadened
I’m here in the not-yet feminine
There is no limit to its capacity, nothing that it shall not create
I do not in any way wish to escape
I’ll be their glamorous thing and then I won’t
Nothing is more slippery or tenuous
/
Though my object is history, not neutrality
I am prepared to adhere to neither extreme
That which can no longer be assumed in consciousness
becomes insolvent
Because it doesn’t finish I can be present
We were animals that wanted sun and luxury and why not.
There is no choice between historical and hidden meaning;
both are present
Presence is not enough
It won’t assist my conduct
It was no longer the end of a season
I had no alternative but to become a person.
