By : pierre petiot / J karl bogartte / Paul Cowdell / Craig wilson /Ghadah kamal / Mohsen el belasy. Th. D. TYPALDOS / …….. :
A taste of firefighting cars jumping on my tongue evokes the debris of non intentional memory.
The philosophy of the turtle tossing metaphysical eggs through its wooden vagina.
sitting on the throne of the only masochistic head, the termite tribe shouting below the base of the executioner statue in the suit full of chicken legs in the chorus of the Patriarchate of Silence.
Your lover’s nipples,
Your permanent memory. Rolling noisily like an apple from above.
The roots are still swimming in the murky water.
Historical repression juice ,
We all have a tails of smoke
It has many uses.
Some one use it to hang his trail of his passage
Others wear their tails as a sign to their backside.
There are tails of meaningless smoke.
What’s left of you
Wooden heads with mouths disdain the noses of clowns with stiff bellies
I run through those fields like a hurricane, sweeping up cars and abandoned factories with gusts of debris full of keys and broken glass. My face is covered in lightning.
The elephant dances
He breaks his tusks and strikes the ground with his hose.
Chameleon changes the colors to deceive time.
Bees break their thorns and sing the song of salvation.
A black fish loses memory and jumps to fall beside a hibernating frog
Chameleon is fooling time
And the elephant is dancing
And the fish disintegrate and the bees fall
And the frog didn’t wake up
“We swim against the current in a river of worn out, spoiled, rotten and dead images, reduced to ashes. Image ashes are highly toxic, not only carcinogenic but much worse. They are spread everywhere in fine particles in the mental atmosphere. We fight to save from disaster the images that come to us and animate us, our playmates, companions in our mental debauchery. The air of the time is stifling. There is no point in opening doors and windows. Each time we have to create the openings at the same time as the worlds onto which they open.”
The lost fields are crushed between my giant’s toes. I’m headed for the caves at the edge of town where buckets of diamonds are burning up in the flammable dreams.
Flammable dreams escaping your head like a racecar.
The electrification of cricket fingers proceeds apace, a future of mesh-masked windows painted white. Somewhere in the padded heat there is a trolley, meteor trails dripping from its wire frame and burning through the ceiling with every breath of the plaster and laths. Every porous glass surface is torn like cardboard, vision leaking out, tomorrows suspended in albumen and eyeball.
Tomorrow refracted into sources of flammable material
It covers with its rage mechanical puppets
Alice is running in the hollow of her tooth
The playing cards are retired
Metabolism of emotions
An egg sows panic everywhere
And the earth is sinking into its tears