for a pint of honey

pours out

a gallon of gall

for a dram of pleasure

weighs as 

a pound of pain

for an inch of mirth

enters

an ell of moan

shakes its collar

as ivy doth an oak

for a man to look for happiness

as fetch it

for whatever laurel is not different

sports a puffed helmet

or what happened to animals in a Europe

philosophically dying what happened

to the animals of Europe

The animals of Europe went into a movie by Visconti and

became people.

You have to hate them and their beauty also, their

Maquillage and bias-cut

Thinking.

The wood is out. We’re burning bark.

Please send the animals back.

I will put them

In a bande dessinée

Read on the train

By a boy in a red sweater

Smelling of griffons.

they are living in their rotting châteaux like we lived in wood

cabins. Piranesi drew them living this way but some of them

don’t know Piranesi. They have no water and where do they 

wash their dishes. Their animals are delirious with all the 

suppressed philosophy of fascism. They roll over on their 

wiry backs, on their short chains, they roll in their scraps,

they grovel with humour and they can open the kitchen door

when they smell meat. They simply hopped into the truck. The

animals of Europe no longer desire synthesis.

They, antithetical, die in the heat in their kennels on their

chains in

the draped salons of over-budget art films

Earnestly

And I plant them the fruit trees of the châteaux 

Like anyone else

And I have simple stopped reading

One animals says to another animal it is not safe you must not

return I love you. Another says to her sister animal when you

go you will never return then she dies in a camp.  Another is a

child and she stops living because of deceit. the animals in

their velvety dressing gowns have thought bubbles. They 

break the incest taboo during a long cruel close-up and you

can’t help but watch. The father animal is not an animal he is

a person and he is confused about money. they keep trying

to return. They are only animals. They have titles and mean-

ings. They ride trains.

My premise is simple. All method is a 

Demonstration of history. All change

Is substitution. ‘Yesterday was a 

New day.’

Good citizens reproduce the traumas

Of memory and transgression, thus

Guaranteeing a futurity for

Rome’s citation. I myself walk towards

The fantasy of the Imperium. 

I call to my sensitive friends in the
Streets: we’re complicity’s monuments

And the city is seriously quaint!
I believe that our complicity, like

Paternity’s absurd dream, regulates

the tacit repression of history’s 

Absorptive convulsions. It is a gate

In the ancient style, a node where two

Spatial dispensations compete for

The iterability of an image

And its intent. We should pause at this gate

To research our emotive conventions

So that affect itself extroverts to

Articulate the commerce in margins.

Otherwise the romance between primitive
Outskirts and the Imperium stands

Preserved by the formal spectres

Of linguistic materiality

Fragmentation and doubt.

From an interior space we heard the word sequin repeating in 

relation to leaves and the image was yellow-gold leaves

moving on dark water. We had undergone an influence of 

death which was itself imprinted on such a moving sequin: the 

breath sequins, the heartbeat sequins, the organs and their 

slowing articulation sequins which drifting from the fore-

ground appear to dim since they gradually go out to illuminate

some event so distant we will never own the moment of its

perception. But all this gives the illusion of peacefulness which

is inert or at least passive when breaths burst smashing into

sobbed words some urgent errand trapped in these letters as 

labour of light diminishing rhythm and fi we fiercely decide to 

clear the stupid human stuff stop waiting for something to 

come to the father-studded earth shouldn’t this impatience 

release itself as a tongue so new weeping stops.

Nevertheless

I was content to assert that atoms

always collided. Now I wonder

what happens if, as part of an

atom collides, another part does

not? Though this logic goes 

against the logic of the atom, the

question remains – must

all motion be unified? Might there 

be a motion that is not 

itself? – Desire? Resistance?

Change? in my perception all three 

co-determine. In this way, I am not

Restricted.

for a pint of honey pours out a gallon of gall for a dram of pleasure weighs as a pound of pain for an inch of mirth enters an ell of moan shakes its collar as ivy doth an oak for a man to look for happiness as fetch it for whatever laurel is not different sports a puffed helmet or what happened to animals in a Europe philosophically dying what happened to the animals of Europe The animals of Europe went into a movie by Visconti and became people. You have to hate them and their beauty also, their Maquillage and bias-cut Thinking. The wood is out. We’re burning bark. Please send the animals back. I will put them In a bande dessinée Read on the train By a boy in a red sweater Smelling of griffons. they are living in their rotting châteaux like we lived in wood cabins. Piranesi drew them living this way but some of them don’t know Piranesi. They have no water and where do they wash their dishes. Their animals are delirious with all the suppressed philosophy of fascism. They roll over on their wiry backs, on their short chains, they roll in their scraps, they grovel with humour and they can open the kitchen door when they smell meat. They simply hopped into the truck. The animals of Europe no longer desire synthesis. They, antithetical, die in the heat in their kennels on their chains in the draped salons of over-budget art films Earnestly And I plant them the fruit trees of the châteaux Like anyone else And I have simple stopped reading One animals says to another animal it is not safe you must not return I love you. Another says to her sister animal when you go you will never return then she dies in a camp. Another is a child and she stops living because of deceit. the animals in their velvety dressing gowns have thought bubbles. They break the incest taboo during a long cruel close-up and you can’t help but watch. The father animal is not an animal he is a person and he is confused about money. they keep trying to return. They are only animals. They have titles and mean- ings. They ride trains. My premise is simple. All method is a Demonstration of history. All change Is substitution. ‘Yesterday was a New day.’ Good citizens reproduce the traumas Of memory and transgression, thus Guaranteeing a futurity for Rome’s citation. I myself walk towards The fantasy of the Imperium. I call to my sensitive friends in the Streets: we’re complicity’s monuments And the city is seriously quaint! I believe that our complicity, like Paternity’s absurd dream, regulates the tacit repression of history’s Absorptive convulsions. It is a gate In the ancient style, a node where two Spatial dispensations compete for The iterability of an image And its intent. We should pause at this gate To research our emotive conventions So that affect itself extroverts to Articulate the commerce in margins. Otherwise the romance between primitive Outskirts and the Imperium stands Preserved by the formal spectres Of linguistic materiality Fragmentation and doubt. From an interior space we heard the word sequin repeating in relation to leaves and the image was yellow-gold leaves moving on dark water. We had undergone an influence of death which was itself imprinted on such a moving sequin: the breath sequins, the heartbeat sequins, the organs and their slowing articulation sequins which drifting from the fore- ground appear to dim since they gradually go out to illuminate some event so distant we will never own the moment of its perception. But all this gives the illusion of peacefulness which is inert or at least passive when breaths burst smashing into sobbed words some urgent errand trapped in these letters as labour of light diminishing rhythm and fi we fiercely decide to clear the stupid human stuff stop waiting for something to come to the father-studded earth shouldn’t this impatience release itself as a tongue so new weeping stops. Nevertheless I was content to assert that atoms always collided. Now I wonder what happens if, as part of an atom collides, another part does not? Though this logic goes against the logic of the atom, the question remains – must all motion be unified? Might there be a motion that is not itself? – Desire? Resistance? Change? in my perception all three co-determine. In this way, I am not Restricted.