The half-dead poet's sham existence

This is one version of the pseudo in sonic form.  The sound of one hand clapping in a carpet-lined closet, plenty aware and not stopping despite of this.  A straight nothing dirge, misplaced bravado and muck.  Hence what this gets very right is the sense that a song need go nowhere to go straight to the sham heart of it.  Yeah, there's an ending, and yes, there need not be, and sure, it will go on.  In the meantime, something should be drooling, but it yelled itself too hoarse for that.

It rents the gray house next door to this:


R.S. said...

Surprised that you don't care for Urfaust. More surprised that your loathing is manifest in such a matter-of-fact delivery. I'd be interested to read more, because I now feel thoroughly embarrassed for taking Der freiwillige Bettler so seriously.

socialism and/or barbarism said...

No,I have made myself misunderstood. I love Urfaust. I love them precisely because they precisely spell out what I loathe: they take the sham and stretch it out and out, like all nihilist culture worth the name.