Τεφλόν 1

e o y o o 1 a i 2009

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4 : 5 Jazra Khaleed: 6

h, a: Kyoko Kishida, Jazra Khaleed 14 Gil. J.Wolman: L Anticoncept

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: Kyoko Kishida

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tired of being hunted like an antelopetake the system by the throatthats the antidote

the Coup Ride the FenCe

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KyoKo Kishida, JazRa Khaleed

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L A N T I C O N C E P TgIL j. wOLmAN

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e: KyoKo Kishida

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voice off L anticoncept ( -o) 1951 Gil J. Wolman. - , - . , . 1952 , .

, , , voice off - , - , ( , , - ). L anticoncept, - . , debord .

. . , - -, Guy Debord Lanticoncept , , . , Wolman . Wolman . - , Wolman .

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Wolman - Keith sanborn www.notbored.org. Kyoko .

16 L'aNTiCoNCePT t

monique au-teuil chaumont 900 12000 425 585 camembert 35 70 290 390 50 100 no, some manners please*

,

Gil J. Wolman

17 L'aNTiCoNCePT 17t

trocadero tuillerie monique rueil rue d aubervilliers

* no some manners please , - , . - , \no\ -. , - ( , ).

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, - 20 , Swansea 1914 St. Vincent 1953. , , Blake, Shakespeare , -, . , (, , ), . , .

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Clown in the Moon

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My tears are like the quiet driftOf petals from some magic rose;And all my grief flows from the riftOf unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,It would crumble;It is so sad and beautiful,So tremulously like a dream.

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Once it was the colour of sayingSoaked my table the uglier side of a hillWith a capsized field where a school sat stillAnd a black and white patch of girls grew playing;The gentle seaslides of saying I must undoThat all the charmingly drowned arise to cockcrow and kill.When I whistled with mitching boys through a reservoir parkWhere at night we stoned the cold and cuckooLovers in the dirt of their leafy beds,The shade of their trees was a word of many shadesAnd a lamp of lightning for the poor in the dark;Now my saying shall be my undoing,And every stone I wind off like a reel.

onCe it was the Colour of saying

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Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light

Do not go gentle into that gooD night

i a o m:

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All that I owe the fellows of the grave And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask of blood,Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots.O all owe is all the flesh inherits, My fathers loves that pull upon my nerves,My sisters tears that sing upon my head My brothers blood that salts my open wounds

Heir to the scalding veins that hold loves drop, My fallen filled, that had the hint of death,Heir to the telling senses that alone Acquaint the flesh with a remember itch, I round that heritage as rounds the sun His winy sky, and, as the candles moon, Cast light upon my weather. I am heir To women who have twisted their last smile, To children who were suckled on a plague, To young adorers , dying on a kiss.All such disease I doctor in my blood, And all such loves a shrub sown in the breath.

Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune And browse upon the postures of the dead; All night and day I eye the ragged globeThrough periscopes rightsighted from the grave;All night and day I wander in these same Wax clothes that wax upon the ageing ribs; All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet trove,And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat; All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.

all that i owe the fellows of the grave

When the morning was waking over the warHe put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stoneAnd the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.Tell his street on its back he stopped a sunAnd the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fireWhen all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.The heavenly ambulance drawn by a woundAssembling waits for the spades ring on the cage.O keep his bones away from the common cart,The morning is flying on the wings of his ageAnd a hundred storks perch on the suns right hand.

aMong those KilleD in the Dawn raiD was a Man ageD a hunDreD

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All that I owe the fellows of the grave And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask of blood,Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots.O all owe is all the flesh inherits, My fathers loves that pull upon my nerves,My sisters tears that sing upon my head My brothers blood that salts my open wounds

Heir to the scalding veins that hold loves drop, My fallen filled, that had the hint of death,Heir to the telling senses that alone Acquaint the flesh with a remember itch, I round that heritage as rounds the sun His winy sky, and, as the candles moon, Cast light upon my weather. I am heir To women who have twisted their last smile, To children who were suckled on a plague, To young adorers , dying on a kiss.All such disease I doctor in my blood, And all such loves a shrub sown in the breath.

Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune And browse upon the postures of the dead; All night and day I eye the ragged globeThrough periscopes rightsighted from the grave;All night and day I wander in these same Wax clothes that wax upon the ageing ribs; All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet trove,And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat; All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.

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When the morning was waking over the warHe put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stoneAnd the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.Tell his street on its back he stopped a sunAnd the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fireWhen all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.The heavenly ambulance drawn by a woundAssembling waits for the spades ring on the cage.O keep his bones away from the common cart,The morning is flying on the wings of his ageAnd a hundred storks perch on the suns right hand.

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Sometimes the skys too bright, Or has too many clouds or birds, And far aways too sharp a sun To nourish thinking of him. Why is my hand too blunt To cut in front of me My horrid images for me, Of over-fruitful smiles, The weightless touching of the lip I wish to know I cannot lift, but can, The creature with the angels face Who tells me hurt, And sees my body go Down into misery? No stopping. Put the smile Where tears have come to dry. The angels hurt is left; His telling burns.

Sometimes a womans heart has salt,Or too much blood; I tear her breast, And see the blood is mine, Flowing from her, but mine, And then I think Perhaps the skys too bright; And watch my hand, But do not follow it, And feel the pain it gives, But do not ache.

soMetiMes the sKys too bright m:

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was there a tiMe

Was there a time when dancers with their fiddlesIn childrens circuses could stay their troubles?There was a time they could cry over books,But time has set its maggot on their track. Under the arc of the sky they are unsafe.Whats never known is safest in this life. Under the skysigns they who have no arms Have cleanest hands, and, as the heartless ghostAlones unhurt, so the blind man sees best.

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federicoxamist

COSAS VISTASI

Atenas sin dormirSantiago la persiana con el viento

Son cosas del mar solamente,no tengas miedo

Algas, piedras y conchasAlgunos barcos

que navegan indolentemente por la costaCosas del mar

Quiz resonandoen la distancia general de las tres de la tarde

De todas manerasComenzar otro invierno entre los mstiles

Un invierno que llega lentamente por el puerto

Se adentra en la ciudadPara callar de repente

Chirran las cigarras de la AcrpolisFlorecen los jazmines del Pireo

Mojas tu cuerpo en el azulEscuchas la lluvia

que existe siempre en otro lugarTodo lo visible

refluye al interior de la palabraVamos a caminar

Ciudad sin experienciaCampana de las nueve

Alguna novedad?Ni cordillera ni litoral

El suelo convertido en un mar de cenizaAqu blanquea tu primera ciudad

As comienzan aqu los dascon el olor de los hollejos.

sta ser semana de fro y lluvias,dicen los mediosPapas fritas, vino

y frutos secos

46 t

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I work all day, and get half drunk at night.Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.In time the curtain edges will grow light.Till then I see whats really always there:Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,Making all thought impossible but howAnd where and when I shall myself die.Arid interrogation: yet the dreadOf dying, and being dead,Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse- The good not used, the love not given, timeTorn off unused - nor wretchedly becauseAn only life can take so long to climbClear of its wrong beginnings, and may never:But at the total emptiness forever,The sure extinction that we travel toAnd shall be lost in always. Not to be here,Not to be anywhere,And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraidNo trick dispels. Religion used to try,That vast moth-eaten musical brocadeCreated to pretend we never die,And specious stuff that says no rational beingCan fear a thing it cannot feel, not seeingthat this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,Nothing to love or link with,The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,A small unfocused blur, a standing chillThat slows each impulse down to indecisionMost things may never happen: this one will,And realisation of it rages outIn furnace fear when we are caught withoutPeople or drink. Courage is no good:It means not scaring others. Being braveLets no-one off the grave.Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,Have always known, know that we cant escapeYet cant accept. One side will have to go.Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ringIn locked-up offices, and all the uncaringIntricate rented world begins to rouse.The sky is white as clay, with no sun.Work has to be done.Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

ubade m:

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Continuing to live that is, repeatA habit formed to get necessaries Is nearly always losing, or going without. It varies.

This loss of interest, hair, and enterprise Ah, if the game were poker, yes,You might discard them, draw a full house! But its chess.

And once you have walked the length of your mind, what

You command is clear as a lading-list.Anything else must not, for you, be thought To exist.

And whats the profit? Only that, in time,We half-identify the blind impressAll our behavings bear, may trace it home. But to confess,

On that green evening when our death begins,Just what it was, is hardly satisfying,Since it applied only to one man once, And that one dying.

continuing to live m:

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They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one anothers throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can,

And dont have any kids yourself.

this be the verse m:

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73 73t

http://rainbow-shit.blogspot.com/just imagine what would happen/ the day this flame would lastly fade/ the day the concrete walls would scatter/ just picture this splatter, grey matter grenade

Big BANg

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74 t

i a. 1985 , . . (, 2005).

a a. 1983 . [email protected]

e a. 17 1989 - [email protected]

Jazra Khaleed. 1979 . . . . http://jazrakhaleed.blogspot.com [email protected]

KyoKo Kishida. 1983. - . . [email protected]

. 1967 . -. . -, , . , - , .

75 75t

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76 t

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eMAIL:

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Kyoko Kishida

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Kyoko Kishida

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Τεφλόν 1

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Transcript of Τεφλόν 1