The stucco is gilded like in a wooden folly
of the Bavarian Margraves, the stucco is gilded like
in a wooden folly of the Bavarian Margraves
“Lavender blue, marshmallow pink = I am languishing.”
“The woodwork is tormented. The stucco is gilded like in a wooden folly of the Bavarian Margraves, the broken mirrors on the ground.” I repeat: “The woodwork is tormented. The stucco is gilded like in a wooden folly of the Bavarian Margraves, the broken mirrors on the ground.”
“The hangers are neutral.”
“Lavender blue, marshmallow pink = I am languishing.”
“There are pebbles in the hourglass.”
“The stones are those of the philosophers.”
“Philosophers have problems.”
“Broken edges are hurtful.”
“The dolls are astonished.”
“Failures are programmed.”
“Melancholy is autumnal.”
“Old vinyl works on old record players.”
“I have never been to Winnipeg.”
“Alone in a chair, the utopias are small.”
“Old vinyls work on old record players.”
“I have never been to Winnipeg.”
“Alone in a chair, the utopias are small.”
I say it to you with a false conciseness imbued with charm.
Pls, invent me a machine
I would rather sin more in form than in substance. Offer me, pls, a good lesson in realism. Invent me a machine, I want a machine. Why, no? I do not know how to fake chance. I promise you I will think of something else, of another machine.
Yes, pls, invent me a machine and make it work. For a long time. Time is perceived only in the movement of things.
The orders issued in the conversation will have to be brief.
Reserve will contrast with ostentation.
On the other hand, we will have to insist on the duration.
Yes, pls, invent me a machine. And turn down the volume, will you?
This is what’s called “casting a knowing glance,” you see?
The coded meaning of the flower
What must I understand when you tell me that out of four hundred roses, you saved seven? Or that a diamond can only be broken by another diamond? That the service is fast? The horizon, flat? The distance, maintained? The flowerbeds, silent? The flowers, seasonal? The sound, ambient? The banality, faked? The Americas, discovered? The truths, parallel? The intrigue, non-existent? The damages, assessed? The comparisons, lame? The improvement, slight?
Beauty—sleeping?
That’s the whole problem with exploits and mysteries where they are not approved by anyone. Or that one piece of evidence is followed by another, the latter hiding the former. Is the situation delicate or indelicate?
I picked you grapes in the dark.
And I bit a cherry so as not to confuse it with an apple. But the jam recipe was in prose, so, I messed it up.
Ah, deceiver, help me understand at least the coded meaning of the flower.
Ah, deceiver.
The tempo must be perfect
The tempo must be perfect between the end of the riddle and its answer. Between the prince to be re-dressed and the prince to come.
There are several moons while there is but one sun.
Do you think we unlearn dance in books?
“Little red blue flowers grow beneath the clean slate.” I repeat: “Little red blue flowers grow beneath the clean slate.”
The poetry o’ poetry is well hidden. Here is a butterfly that has never been to Mexico but who knows the route. Count to a hundred and find the Jack of Hearts.
Understated irony
Doesn’t the repetition of situations reveal a form of simulacrum?
Looking at a door makes you want to smoke and think of a sentence with the expression “The audacities of my sex.” Tell me the usage. Understated irony is serious research. Helical pleasures as well. “Everything is in a safe place.” It’s so hot that once inside, you can no longer think. Ideas are obsessions, mystery only has to settle onto your knees. The sum of my desires is not a greater desire. I have learned certain things the way you learn a series of prepositions: by heart.
Non ho mai visto un carciofo. Non ho mai visto un carciofo.
It’s not because he wanted to swim with him
that Walter said Marcel’s sentences flowed like the Nile
Look, I am lost even further still in my thoughts. Everything suggests that I am looking forward to strange explanations.
It’s not to resist the sirens that William attaches himself to the ship’s mast, but to be able to paint the storm. Nor is it to resist the sirens that Eugene climbs up the ladders, but to see Pierre Paul’s paintings better. And it’s not to throw away Soren’s ladder that Ludwig learns Danish but to throw away his own once he reaches the top.
I would like to listen to captivating stories without being captivated.
Who said that the beauty of the ocean is only due to the rotting of dead fish?
It’s not because he wants to swim with him that Walter says Marcel’s sentences flow like the Nile but to lay a small board across to get to the other side.
Albert goes by boat because he likes to cast off.
Franz invents tales for dialecticians and rides a pedal boat. Erik’s baton was an umbrella.
We are considering thoughts that are already there. We follow them like shadows deprived of flight. We must be content with what helps us understand what we don’t understand. Arthur didn’t know that we would find his atlas all cut up. Pierre Paul painted in court clothes. Another in a bridal gown. Leonardo wondered if a low close sound could seem as loud as a far-off noise and followed those condemned to death to observe their faces. In Brooklyn, Celia attached Paul to the balcony while he was reading Bento so that he would not fly away. In Paris, Ernest measured Gertrude Stein’s breasts without touching them each time he saw her enter a room.
Would Vincent still paint sunflowers?
I would like to offer you the systematic account of my thoughts like a prior clause to any decision, like an intimate pact, the first moment of logic.
I like to observe the rules?—nothing more.
My ideas are yours.
Removing the ladder requires that it was previously installed.
