The glory of the living
Jam looking for a form containing forms; forms with very little form... forms in which writing would become a free act despite the inescapable constraint of submitting to the desire to express, to explore who we are.
In short, the best we can hope for in the face of morbidity in behaviour and life choices.
When you create in a National Space, you don't meet the public, you meet the State. No artist can seriously claim to be free of it.
This idea of having to share emotion at all costs as a crowning achievement in exceptional circumstances has become partially foreign to me.
From the theatre to the Internet, it is a question of extending the stage to the Web, of interpreting the Web as an extension of the stage, of playing one's role online.
God is the world's largest testicle! The mirrored balls, the retrograde semen! Drop dead, you idiot, before the apes become men!
Life you lose? | What do you want to do? Shut down the system, reboot? To go straight to the wall, please? You keep this up.
Early concert for a bunch of bourgeois | Recto verso salutes you ; rectal ver sale... nothing but a long anal and sometimes musical poetry.
Alone beneath you | Like water damage oozing from my ceiling, the wet hair of your pussy disgusts in oblong beads on my flattened forehead.
