DERISION LINES

baffling with exaggerations/ vile and tankerbellied/ the preamble left people hanging around for no-more/ no ends/ no lofty short cuts into obliteration/ no insights/ just detonations/ limbs, reason and clusterfucked paragraphs thrown with undomesticated poise in every direction/ killing every single piano player on the rafters/ re-animating the massacre at Wounded Knee in only 8 minutes on a 1:4 scale/ covering the priests in didactic blood-shed/ introducing prohibition in Berlin/ gagging the people of the plain/ originally spun from mirages and eloquent cobweb/ death-rattling the historians' cages/ crusts and crumbs raining all over their torpid shoe collection/ staging a play so infuriatingly sparse that the director blows his brains out long before the gun is introduced in the beginning of the first act/ leaving trails of nanites in the wake of it's theoretical nothingness/ to gorge away on the upheaval of time/

RANDOMINATRIX

it's been a long time since it was said. it's now even as if that which should/would/could have been said no longer needs to be said. or escapes necessity. strangely so, as everything that wanted to be said needed to be said in order to elaborate upon that which by necessity could not be left unsaid. precipating some insight into what to say next. something yet uninstructed, dying to dive head first into a proper light source.

an unrelenting miscreant. a guiding discordance between a freak and an abomination; both moving slavishly towards the foul honesty of the light.

the unnecessary reclaiming it's necessity. you ask; what has transpired? at mid-day for example, you step off your bicycle and sit down between a tree and a fenced-in sculpture in volkspark friedrichshain. you start to list personal transformations, changes you willingly, but more than anything else, unwittingly might have undertaken. a subtle coming of something relevant that somehow caught you unawares. something so relevant that it refuses to reveal it's importance by any other means than cold-bloodedly installing itself under your skin, penetrating some deep recess in your body, a useless room behind a tired organ, getting jammed there not unlike how a stone thrown blindly into a distance will get jammed between something unknown, and likely, a second unknown. thrown into you several years ago by someone, or a force, likely with hands, believing they were aiming for oblivion. into a dead sea that would come alive in one giant undulation, before swallowing the stone whole. reclaiming it's suspended silence, again enveloping the opportunity of living it's utmost cliché, it's most romantic potential, actually not being experienced by poets and painters alike, straw men and lovers by the sea, fledglings spreading their wings tryingly in a barren corner of your interior. born in confusion, thinking the ripples fluttering across the retina as something actually belonging outside the eye's capacity.

ocean

you know it when they say:

quiet

tide

there, unremembering, the stone begins to move. then, lagging behind, you follow, devilmaycaringly wanting to claim knowledge of the movement, saying "what" it is. it is you, is it not? trained in observing the dead and undead, trained to know about this that you seemingly cannot know enough about: what memories are made of, who it is that remembers, and why.    

questions

if the historical avant-garde was meant to be an alternative to the status quo, why is it that i can remember their names and artworks more readily than anyone else from that time? does that mean they've become the status quo or alternatively that this has primarily to do with my interests? maybe it's time to stop appreciating these kinds of art as rebellious and to put it back into historical context and look at, for instance, where it has led (in terms of the art market, etc)? am i the only one who thinks it's time to kill john cage? (to answer my own question: no, tino sehgal, in conversation, once said something similar, but much milder, being the gentleman that he is)

-SA

from the büro BDP

carl th dreyer/the word/lysistratocaster/a few words grow two words in place of the one word that is cut off/«sing it to me jenny"/"jeg elsker deg»/how gentle/ death in vegas/eiffel tower in ruins/«uendelighetens enigma?/the year 2000/it's impossible to perish/tago mago/«the mystery of endlessness?»/paris' labia/they are all plural/«there's that lesbian punk girl!»/«lesbian punk dog?»/«girl.»/i got the poison/pink limousine drives by followed by a black ferrari/i got the remedy/refrigerators on wheels/what does it mean to throw yourself up?/somebody suggests a cosmic discount/free to those who can afford it, very expensive to those who can't/beverly hills 90210 set in st tropez/"göt öff mai yaaaucht! mai yaaaucht!"/beige it up suckers/"you want to stab me and fuck my wounds"/riot grrrl interrupted/hand grenade colada/intergalactic christ

Inscription found at the supposed resting place of Lionel, the third rightful luminary of the Primordial Light and by reputation the most righteous of the easter bunnies:

«[...] so here he lay down. In a pool of melted regalia, fearlessly facing a wall of shrieking sea gulls impatiently awaiting to plunge into and impale our savior's carcass, to frenzy upon him until the very last slither of caramelised meat has been pecked from his pink bones. No judgment is passed on the passage of time. No lament is offered to the finitude of the sun. Grass will grow over your pity. Melted chocolate will cover the countenance of this black stone by which we now remember him; the man, the animal, our long awaited sweet supervisor. He lived for so few, yet died for so many [...]»

Book Launches: Mountainislandglaciar

Book Launches: Mountainislandglaciar – Sleeperhold 4 – Manifesta Journal 14 – F.R.DAVID 9

Manystuff

Praise

"... if Broken Dimanche Press is accountable for other things else than publishing great books/editions is also by the capacity of establishing itself as one of the most promising publishing projects currently out there."

A blog post up at mono kulture, Read more >>>>

BDP