vrijdag 1 augustus 2014

the dancedoll

A baby is born under a gloomy moon
The sky turned yellow
The booh-booh-wooh went waah too soon
And ever since the kid is mellow

A baby is born under fire and rain
The lady was away
A cry of hope, a cry of pain
Whatever whatever the kid is gay

                    The curtain is drawn. The spots are blazing. The Dancedoll has 
                    reached her destination. She has arrived. Her bag big and light. 
                    Her mood neutral. Will she stay? Is she welcome? Will she feel at 
                    home in this ambience? Could this entourage be an inspiration to 
                    her? Will she be able to go behind the mask? And if so, will the 
                    searching person in her get satisfaction out of what she might find 

                    The Dancedoll takes her seat at a formica table with matching 
                    chair and opens her bag. We see a beauty case, a bottle and a 
                    glass. Her face can be interpreted any which way. In the magic 
                    moment will she feel in touch with her innermost self? The magic 
                    moment that will occur when the alchemical fusion of experience 
                    and talent is a fact. Is it on the formica table, in the pattern of the 
                    tabletop, that the key is lying with which can be opened what 
                    seemed definitively closed? And will we have the pleasure of 
                    witnessing this perfect moment? Will the suprarational energy that 
                    is released when the final realization takes place, will this energy 
                    become evident and produce a moment that has passed before we 
                    see it? A moment our memory will cherish and extend to a tale 
                    that we will not be able to tell without glistening eyes, a tale that 
                    will turn into an existance. An existance that we will carry within 
                    ourselves in silence and of which we are certain that one day we 
                    will be able to call it our own, an existance without beginning or 
                    end, an eternity. An eternity that fits, an eternity never visited, an 
                    eternity never described. And now being tasted by us, never to be 

                    Or may we have the pleasure of witnessing this other perfect 
                    moment? The moment of the total disillusionment. Surrender. The 
                    final surrender to the final confusion. When the meaning of the 
                    search dissolves, or evaporates, or sinks into the deepest echo 
                    chamber. Tired! Tired! For just an instance will we be less unique 
                    in our solitude? Will we recognize the moment and for just an 
                    instance will we be together?

Gathering pairs of braille

Overstepping rules

Revolving in the forest of pain

Setting out and treading

Tasting happiness

Profess to professionals

Promise the promise

Circumsise the stringed

Trotted hooves

Needy marginal areas

                    The Dancedoll is sitting upright. Back straight. The belly in 
                    perfect cadanse. When the Dancedoll screams the upward 
                    compression puts a strain on the ribs and neatly the horizontal 
                    muscular bundle makes the epiglottis produce the smoothest 
                    human sounds ever to tickle tympanic membranes. And when the 
                    Dancedoll gets up and starts to dance, when she just moves one 
                    leg, as if connected by invisible wires the remainder of her body 
                    provides the perfect complement to a character puzzle. Now the 
                    belly sucks itself full of existance-air. And without a spot on the 
                    porn parts we witness a physicality demonstrating the whole of 
                    Reich`s theory. For was it not Willie Reich who like a conductor 
                    swinged among the lung-chests and with snapping fingers 
                    indicated the orgasm-tune? Yes. And on account of their word-
                    muscles – those pillars of their facial expressions – being put to a 
                    halt, the intelligent-amused faces do not take long to change to 
                    pathetic, and then to awkward, and then probably also to silly. 
                    And with the advanced an encouraging nod suffices. Turn down 
                    the thermostat. Tune the instrument. Ready.

Tested test methods

Methodical vibration

Vibrating rainforests

Cold borders

Border the desire

Long for the longest

Debunk panic

Pants without calling

Pasts without suffering

No bones

Prepare me
Get me done
My whole body is a present
A tried present
Or a pressing trial
Sad through and through
In the stables
Unchain the moor
A repeating rifle
Thousends of swallowed orgasms

                    The Dancedoll holds her hand over her mouth and her belly starts 
                    to convulse. She puts her arm around her belly and her shoulders 
                    start to convulse. Her head bends backwards, her upper body 
                    cramps backwards and forwards, her head falls on the table with 
                    a smack and she sits motionless for a while. Then she 
                    mechanically powders her face, steps into her shoes, fixes her 
                    hair and loosens the clip of her umbrella.

Snowy oases

Destitute communists

Acquitted ex-convicts

Circumsised lust

The dramatized sacrifice

The principle offer

The offered heart

The hasty departure

Sultry suffering

Soft limbs

                    The Superwoman stood waiting for the Dancedoll. Her bag big 
                    and full. She seems to feel at ease. Or is she only behaving with 
                    the ease of someone who feels at ease? It is a riddle how, now in 
                    the full light here, her presence completely changes the look of the 
                    scene; it has to do with intimicy. Without limit one would want to 
                    stand next to her, invisible one would want to stand next to her 
                    and for just this once feel safe.

                    She takes her seat at the table and she opens her bag. We see an 
                    impressive amount of treasures in many sizes and colors. 
                    Treasures that, except that they serve the function of illustrating 
                    her appearance of being balanced, do not amount to much. But let 
                    us not be too quick with our opinion.

Measured by 

An ellipse

A parabola

A cube

By and over and caught

Bus bus, buzz buzz

From tokyo to idaho

Flat and arched

Crossed and smoothed

Mounted and freed


Dance with me

No I am going outside

It is raining hard

Now I can talk about the upward rising air column over the superheated plains, 
exerting a merciless force of attraction on the lower afmospheres
And then you can interrupt me and state that if it wasn't for the relentless cooling 
at night the airs from the barren deserted lands wouldn't continue craving for the breath 
of the warm sea
And then I would again add that, whatever the reason may be, to these regions it is 
of no consequence, because due to the monsoon the trade winds become powerless
And then it could be that you believed me
As I believed you, when you told about the millions of self-destructive insects
And about the mare trotting in the moonless night
My belly closed itself; the green meadow, once so luscious, has turned into a 
soggy swamp and all the hiding places that have not been discovered yet have silted up

Come, dance with me


Mercifull fate

Trample this dream that

De-tar this wall that

Ruin this citadel

Wave away the noblewoman

De-wave the flag

Rust away the hauberk

De-rust the song

Color away the delicate needlework

De-color the tender grass

                    What follows is a cautious rapprochement between the two 
                    characters. The Dancedoll follows the trail that connects to the 
                    photograph route, the Superwoman follows the trail that connects 
                    to the radio route. Naked blossoming delight. Our grimy faces 
                    provide free morality. Will the Superwoman, independently of any 
                    structure, triptoe to the forbidden fruit? Will the chaste hand of the 
                    Dancedoll shyly scratch? And will the mother bosom radiantly 
                    radiate? O the alluring call! For this most blushing of all bosoms 
                    stands between her and all of her little excuses. The chaste 
                    scratch-hand will have to go, go. Yes the useless feint will have to 
                    go, go. Tralala, should she lose face. (Now what is this? She 
                    almost looks like a sunny broad, who is punished mercilessly!) Will 
                    she walk on points through the high piled creamwhite floored 
                    room, the severe lines of the interior design in perfect harmony 
                    with her lithe graceful movements? On the backdrop it is windy 
                    and cold; the trees like frozen guards border the deserted country 
                    road. It must be icy silent there, without the birds who, a long time 
                    ago now, have found their way out and left for places with 
                    different facilities. And when the backdrop changes we see the 
                    polished nails of a ready made horizon flirt with the back of the 
                    head of the flowered fiance. More colorless than a village street 
                    at night as dreamed by a short-term volonteer. Colder than Las 
                    Vegas in the backlight of the highest sun. Is it going to be a kiss in 
                    the hallway, or is this Superwoman going to fuck her? Her 
                    intelligence is fixed at point zero. A toothless song resonates. Her 
                    feet fall like packaged lumps of meat. Her hair is reluctant due to 
                    the reflection of the spots. Watch how a timid Superwoman lets 
                    herself be put off side. Watch how a winged Dancedoll comes for 
                    a refund. Her breath runs in puddles. The ozone unit neighs. The 
                    molecules melt the plug, take along the head, leaving her throat 
                    red and in an asthmatic spasm. Wheezy says the dictionary. 
                    Straight lines at an angle of ninety degrees according to the 
                    yardstick. Fried expression a critic will notice. With hair like 
                    hers the sky is the limit says her mother.

Dig away the bacchanal

De-dig the graves

Canalize the stench

Sink along

Roaming by the hand

Sounding the height

Giving to the shame

Yielding conditions

Adverse geography

Forge the sword now

                    Dazed the Dancedoll raves through the shiny decor; the pride of 
                    the cleaners, many awards at international congresses of industrial 
                    designers, ohs and ahs from the masses, the chequebook gets no 
                    chance to curl, daring yet proper, sparkling yet sober, functional; 
                    psychological warfare on a pre-elementary level.

                    Dazed, in her sunny constume, the Dancedoll raves through the 
                    shiny decor; the ac hums, the fluorescent lights give their sound in 
                    inaudible hertz numbers, the lights of the elevator shift, six, eight, 
                    ten, is it getting through to her? Yes, her tempo changes.

                    Dazed the Dancedoll stands in the shiny decor; the smell of fresh 
                    coffee, the civilized cough of the unobtrusively ringed Tray.

                    The footsteps sounded more hollow, as the shiny decor vanished, 
                    but hear, they sound fuller again as the sumptuous decor appears 
                    and the lights take on the benevolent warmth of the house that in 
                    reality is even more splendid than the picture promised.

                    What plagues her is this urge to please coupled with this urge to 
                    manifest. What plagues her is this yes I am willing coupled with 
                    this no I won't do it after all. Tu tu tu, easy, easy, reckless 

                    Dazed the Dancedoll raves through the sumptuous decor; a can of 
                    brown beans, an onion, mushrooms, a jar of applesauce. The 
                    cream white floor swallows the noises. Lost the Dancedoll raves 
                    through the sumptuous decor.

                    Comfortably the Superwoman stretches her tanned, slightly hairy, 
                    responsibly musle build legs. Smilingly the almond-shaped eyes 
                    are being closed and upper and under eyelash rest in each other, 
                    tenderly, passionately, as no two have ever been melted together. 
                    With its quivering shadow the glass is standing aimlessly on the 
                    side table.

                    When I hear this music I think of you, I love you as a person. 
                    Well, this sure sounds strange in our ears, scientific, a statement 
                    whose consequences are incalculable. Cha cha cha, dance, dance, 
                    reckless Dancedoll.

                    Lost the Dancedoll raves through the sumptuous decor; the tv 
                    says good evening and the Dancedoll, happily surprised, stutters  
                    g g g g good. The thermostat just right, the cigarettes for grabs, 
                    an inspired supply of liquor, the evening papers, the stack of 
                    audio's, the stack of video's, and when we look closely we can 
                    even see an accordeon.

                    The place was Buda, it could have been any place. The time 
                    is now, it could have been any time. The one hand of the 
                    Dancedoll grabs for her ear. Thumb and middlefinger of the other 
                    hand push her eyes until the black makes her dizzy. The 
                    sumptuous chair catches her. The tv brings her back to her 
                    reality. Will she finally be able to sleep?

Call and assemble

Switch and television

Copulate and grind

Over and ebb and flow

Over and go and in

Fallow and lie

Wagon and weapon

Melt the sword now

De-hoof the horse

Turn the organs into wiring

Thirtysix is a lot is what the tv now passes on, suggesting that a truth will allow 
its number to be guessed 
A metallic voice, a voice without ass
Yes thirtysix is much
Another one of those voices
What kind of hand is connected? A ringed finger?
The music takes over
At the top of her voice the Dancedoll sings along
She closes the eyes
No shadows
An endless song
Husky; the peeled inside of her mouth resonates
Is it correct to assume, that you were trained for this? 
Yes certainly, when some thirtysix years ago I
Thirtysix, aah sing Dancedoll, beat the rhythm, the imaginary rhythm, that like an 
earthquake has garnered quivering fame
The pre-inscribed grooves had a wider range than the pre-meditated reason could 
The howling was converted into weeping, and pressed in vinyl it seems to be the 
trademark of superstars
The Dancedoll is not familiar with them, but the mark is also on her face
She does not know it, although she has been told more than once
Now it talks about uncles and aunts and while our blanco Dancedoll lies sprawled 
like a baby swearing takes over! 
We can hardly believe our ears!
Thirtysix. Stop! No, we do not want to hear it and the Dancedoll does not want 
to hear it
Why? Why? Did she ever ask why? No
So you, with your assless voice, shut up too
Do not talk about identity around her
No, we do not want to hear it, you hear?
And the Dancedoll wants to be able to sleep, sleep, that should be obvious for 
anyone who has eyes!

De-chain the moor

De-sorrow the ordeal

Dung and heap

Paint and brush

Blazing and roaring

Geodynamic displacement

The porch is empty

The characters lie stiffly

The queen has the king

Beat did the lackey

                    With her back straight the Dancedoll is lying in a fluffy bed. With 
                    closed eyes the head of the Dancedoll is resting on the fluffy 
                    pillow. Her arms, the Dancedoll has crossed over her breast. The 
                    Superwoman lays herself beside the Dancedoll. The Dancedoll 
                    blushes. The Dancedoll buttons up her jacket. The Dancedoll 
                    spreads her legs and with her hands gives her face a firm rub.

Blunt the axe

The scaffold rotten

The crowd stands stiffly

Drowned games

Moldy bread

Traumatic patents

Paid in big notes

Receipt mounted in gold

Signature with coagulated blood

Reindeer skinned

                    A Concubine enters. The hands of the Concubine are quite hairy, 
                    the ankles of the Concubine are quite coarse and the movements 
                    of the Concubine are quite round. The Concubine takes position at 
                    the footboard of the bed. To have a better view on the Concubine 
                    the Dancedoll moves nonchalantly. To have a better view on the 
                    Concubine the Superwoman moves nonchalantly. And yet the 
                    Concubine is not much of a looker.

                    Do you have a light for me? the fake lashes move like the wings 
                    of a swallow, when the Concubine speaks these words with a 
                    muffled voice. With pursed lips and the cigarette at the ready the 
                    Concubine waits for the answer. The Dancedoll already raises 
                    her hand, but the Concubine turns her head and her breasts 
                    towards the Superwoman. The Concubine closes her eyes. The 
                    Concubine dreams away on the muzak of the night-emotion that 
                    still resounds in her pelvis. The thighs and the buttocks tense 
                    under the tight chiffon dress. A slight shiver pulls the shoulder 
                    down. Brrr.

                    I don't smoke says the Superwoman, while touching her nose 
                    with her hand. You sweet thing says the Concubine. The 
                    Dancedoll strikes the match. Thanks doll – and the Concubine 
                    turns herself a little closer towards the Superwoman.

Messy moss

Eight minutes eternity

Rosehip concentrate

Obscure pleasure

Waddling gangster

Strong pauper

Stigmata sold by auction

Clashing missions

Missionaries hang the laundry

Southerners blush

                    The Tray enters. The heels of the shoes too high, the cut of the 
                    blouse too tight, the color of the skin too light for one and too dark 
                    for the other. The Tray takes position in the middle of the room.

                    What can I do for you ladies? informs the Tray. The red 
                    painted mouth of the Tray smiles and the white teeth of the Tray 
                    glitter like starlets. The Tray scans the bed. The Tray looks at the 
                    Superwoman. What can I do for you? the Tray asks the 
                    Superwoman. The Tray puts the rear point of her pen in her 
                    mouth. The Superwoman looks at the Concubine. What have you 
                    got to offer honey? the Concubine asks. The face of the Tray 
                    turns red and the Dancedoll laughs.

                    The Tray leaves, but soon the Tray enters again. Have you 
                    already been able to make up your mind? informs the Tray. 
                    The red painted mouth of the Tray smiles and the white teeth of 
                    the Tray glitter like starlets. The Tray pushes the buffet cart 
                    before her and when she pauses, the Tray leans on one leg. The 
                    other leg a teeny-weeny bit bent, the hip a teeny-weeny bit to one 
                    side, the head on the craned neck a teeny-weeny bit to the other 
                    side, the shoulders a teeny-weeny bit raised, while the arms lean 
                    stretched on the bar of the buffet. The Dancedoll looks to the left. 
                    The Dancedoll looks to the right. The Dancedoll bows the head. 
                    The Dancedoll is silent.

Zeno cheers

Madam the pom pom pom pom pom

Today it will rain

Quite a few notes

The soprano is silent

The ship sinks

Horizons slip

Hole and wood and residues

Empty stomachs

Expressive hands

                    The Pilot light, quietly pilot lighting there all this time, puts her 
                    book down. The Pilot light takes her glasses off. The Pilot light 
                    looks at the Dancedoll. Are you feeling unwell? the Pilot light 
                    asks the Dancedoll. The Pilot light clears her throat. Are you not 
                    well? the Pilot light asks the Dancedoll. She has never been well 
                    says the Concubine. The Pilot light puts her glasses on. The Pilot 
                    light takes up her book. The Pilot light reads the book. On the 
                    cover of the book a pilot light is pictured. The pilot light looks like 
                    the Pilot light when the Pilot light is not wearing her glasses.

Insured against a secret

Amount deposited

Only if it is a snapshot

Yet unexpected hunches

Centrally developed and delivered

Virginal beaches

Blue tigers

Catch this rat

Uhuh hunter

Run for your lives

                    Satin wings stick to the line of prudish desire. Oh that 
                    Superwoman, how small her Superwoman's hands are! But we 
                    have it from a reliable source that, when she was a young girl, her 
                    heart bled in the right place.

                    The Dancedoll however reacts furiously. Suddenly the stage 
                    seems much smaller. Her belly is tight now. Just the split of a 
                    second. And now the snorting of the nose directs our glances 
                    upwards. To the eyes like glowing pieces of coal. Open not to 
                    look, but because otherwise the eyelids would scorch. Fire is what 
                    they are. And the mouth is closed, the lips have vanished. The 
                    nostrils do not tremble, do not hesitate. They suck. And blow. And 
                    suck. And blow. And suck. And blow. Because. If the Dancedoll 
                    would breathe through her nose, and with the amount of air the 
                    Dancedoll needs to meet the needs of her being, now this would 
                    not be possible. In would come a burst of air that would get stuck 
                    at the top of the trachea, that would have to be thrusted out 
                    immediately. And again puff. And thrust out. And puff. And 
                    thrust out. While the shoulders would have to assist. Up. Down. 
                    Up. Down. The air would not flow through. Looking at the 
                    Dancedoll we see the belly and the breast and also the back 
                    swell. And again shrink. And swell. And shrink. And swell. And 
                    shrink. And swell. And the lips relax now. The mouth opens to let 
                    go of the air faster. The cheeks give an extra push. And the nose 
                    already sucks again. And a push. And suck. And a push. And 
                    suck. Air. Open air. Wider open air is what the Dancedoll needs. 
                    Oh yes, she lets loose the fury, she shares with the world the 
                    hyper nervous reflection-device, that has been intalled in her. 
                    Here we are witnessing an inner urge; she has to dance this role, 
                    she has to soothe the string of good taste, someting extra, for just 
                    an instant, she has to make us tremble, make us shiver, she has to 
                    give us crystal roses. Yes let us smell, teach us how to taste, burn 
                    our hearts. Here we are witnessing a bursting inner life; she has 
                    to dance this role, she has to travel over the peaks of what is 
                    acceptable. Do we see her treasure? Do we recognize her 
                    treasure? Watch her silence, watch how she is listening. Will we 
                    be her mirror, when she fixes this pose of smoldering unrest? 
                    when she makes redder from red, blacker from black, scorches 
                    our souls? when she is melancholy, and gives, is fury, and forgets. 
                    Will we live it? Yes we borrow her. And we will not keep her 
                    exclusively to ourselves; we will gather witnesses. She has come 
                    to us; we have been able to convince her that she knows the 
                    recipe to make memories from grey brains and flesh bled to 
                    death. Yes we borrow her. And we will not feast on her. No, she 
                    may feast on her own self! She can bear the betrayal. She can let 
                    the scorn of the norm melt slowly on her tongue. She may hug 
                    herself, she may caress herself. She may paralyse this pose!

Brush the collar

We want to look pretty for the ceremony

The dog stays outside

Nicely on the mat

Where is the smile now?

Where is the shepherd?

Co-graze in the meadow

Little fun-chicks

Yes I go

Under the smooth surface

But look, the Dancedoll takes off her hairpiece
Damn she seems to think
Why on earth do I bother at all? she seems to think
Whether I dance with a bald head or dance with lush red curls; am I being 
noticed for who I am? she seems to think
And now the Parade of Profiled Professionals also advances
And the Professor is negligent – fortunately so
And the Prophet weeps
And the Parade of Pink Rose-seekers forces the doors and cautiously yet tensed 
the Tray draws back
Thighs thunder
Oh no, no import she seems to think
Now smile
This highway to pleasure will surely be named after a woman; perhaps Rhea 
Silvia, or else Hermaphrodite

Tuned in and off

Yes an excursion

No wait some more

Quiet down

The cutting process in full swing

Gallop over the moor

White horses

White horses

White horses

White horse

The other person's drama, isn't this what we are all crazy about?
Isn't this what we can get all worked up about?
The Princess Of Midnight makes her silver cigarette-holder pop
Poison. Knifes
Even bloodier the story behind every laugh than the story behind every tear
Her pregnant belly shakes
Prairie wolves
The Princess Of Dawn yawns

Moorish heritage

Square cakes

Contritely bowed

Wrathful violence

A ladder with eternal steps

Blocked passage

Vespers sound

The occident scorches away

Riders look back

The stock of salt almost gone

                    Ah, such a desolate song. Did the star make a slider? was the ice 
                    too slippery? and will the only audience prove to be a stillborn 
                    photograph? No, let us not be too quick with our opinion! This 
                    Dancedoll might turn out to be the final disruption in a positive 
                    sense; her performance might have been a declaration of 
                    bankruptcy for all acquired values, whilst at the same time she has 
                    delivered a blueprint of the future! On this stage springboards to 
                    headlines may have been made, or even to where the applausse 
                    dies away and the key must be turned over twice! Perhaps the 
                    outstretched arm of the Dancedoll was not lost in misunderstood 

                    Yes grab the newspaper, impatient Dancedoll, and see if they 
                    have some comment on your performance. Oh but the pages are 
                    grieving, the letters too rotten to be consumed. Let us go for the 
                    images first then, to get a picture of the context. There, an image 
                    of a profile trying to win over the attention with emphatic 
                    preference; framed modesty, indecently medalled. Oh and there 
                    an image of the warehouse of ideals; pass through the revolving 
                    door and bump into the threshold of bodies, a threshold almost 
                    impossible to penetrate; know that here the battle has to be fought 
                    as the price to be payed to get access to the golden heart; then 
                    one may have as many sweets as one likes. And here, isn't this a 
                    photograph of the Dancedoll? No compulsive neurosis steers her 
                    movements, no gazing glance filled with anxious question marks 
                    behind the metallic sunglasses and still no heavy luggage; this hás 
                    to be the Dancedoll. Let us see if the words spend on her are 
                    from a fresh keg. Yes, read with me:

                    Famished thoughts like flocks of birds 
                    circle around the fleshy mask of the 
                    Dancedoll; birds born from prefabricated 
                    eggs, the mask kneaded from unhealthy 
                    tissue. The stuff of which expectations 
                    are created swims like a poorly trained 
                    but well behaved school of fishes in her 
                    presencefull absence; food for fantasy 
                    prone minds who, when they give acte the 
                    présence, have as their sole focus, it 
                    seems, to distract her from what matters 
                    to her most.

                    This Dancedoll is a mystified beauty 
                    queen, applauded from the background to 
                    the  forefront. The stairway to her 
                    present-day is paved with the grit of 
                    men's, women's and children's hearts, 
                    moorwolves, who dance in the shadow of 
                    her light. And when she chooses to turn 
                    her light down she leaves them behind in 
                    a state of bruised euphoria. Beware, 
                    because in her presence lust leads an 
                    independant life. To, when she 
                    withdraws, choose residence in misty 
                    streets of irreproachable conduct.

Parasitical adhesive force

Power to milk

Butter on the gallows

Kicked scientists gone

Exiled veterans far

Motorized or not

Gun them all down

Untie the chains

Power is ovation

Authority is calm

                    So The Dancedoll has arrived. And despite the fact that she lost 
                    the way. Or did she arrive, because she lost the way? In any case 
                    the values are faltering. And this at least gives a familiar feeling.

Tour conductors aside

Throw the change into the river

Freeze the rhythm

Sweat and brow

Pyramids tilt

Crenels crumble

And crack the mirror dull

Sad the choirboy prince

Sad the virgin princess

Useless the frog

What a tension what a sensation
Sensatione di amore
Ginger-colored, clipped wings

Time flies accompanied by a bat
The voice sounds clear, dew drops on size

Autonomous metronome
Metromania, leather jive
Paraphrase, harlequin

Spinning tops
Bolted accordions
Fleeting shadows, I know whose

Because somewhere there is someone who someday is going to meet me

Box of meccano . . . of pleasure?

Whirlwinds will find you
Make yourself go, it does not make any difference

Prairie-oysters, affordable and tragic, light the way
After for and by

The sun is low, my memory knows otherwise
Calendars torn, the figures intact
Stories under fluorescent light reach my gut and dance with me
Until the end of the night

A diaphragm of cotton-wool protects this hole, fighting
for justice and equality and fun
Come back in the future, with a bag full of proof
A paper back, a paper bug

A lump in your throat
Repentance of a hippopotamus
Take it, take it away

It is getting colder and more quiet
The magazins are inside, danger lurks, is my bed occupied?

Mayday in the square, stereotypical

Famous dynasties
distinguised lineage, last in line

Buts stopped
Mother-of-pearl buttons do it right
On the lapel of this coat

Spiral stairs
Quality pieces, razor sharp and mystical

Measures of mine
Betrayals of you
A you I cannot find, hazy face

A beach in Hawaii
The tooth of time gnaws at the masses, minutely

Move me to castles where I do not know the way
Pay me with a drawing, colored and delicately pencilled
Order me soft and nice and thank me for a no
Castles in a sandland and I will surely go


With resignation the acrobat leaves the red stage
Pestane pesta, with threads

Firm meetings take place when there is no reply

Panda pièna pala mie
Piètro maja sanda mè
Mesto fiènda, mesto fanda, mesto mara, manda fè
Manda fie
Manda misto
Panda pièla pana sie

Have a good sleep

Merry the lord sovereign

Merry the mermaid

Charioteers tender their resignation

Physical triumph

Karate billie and the seven dwarfs

Pierced to the marrow pierced to the bone

Quiet oceans

Quiet oceans

Quiet oceans

Quiet ocean quiet

                    And so the secret of the Dancedoll is revealed in all its 
                    nakedness. She is not looking for a lewd rendez-vous, oh how 
                    yummy horny, oh how yummy wild. She is not looking for a 
                    partner who only pays in counted currency. She wants a party 
                    who is in for uncivilized love-making. Love-making as the climax 
                    of a story she cannot find; dramatic, romantic, transcending. 
                    Love-making as in the photograph that dates from the period, in 
                    which a close-up with a good shadow was sufficient to generate 
                    an erotic sigh through the picture theatre. The internal bickering 
                    ceased. Only one I and an undefined if remained. And how 
                    beautiful. Hands found each other. Not damp and hungry. Nothing 
                    like how many more nights off do you think I can take this week. 
                    Hands tell each other of the great longing. From now on it will all 
                    be different, is was the hands tell. From now on it will be like I 
                    thought it would be before I met you. And when I laid eyes on 
                    you, I saw it would be. And then it did not turn out like I thought it 
                    would turn out. But now it certainly is going to be like I thought it 
                    would be. This is what the hands tell. Love-making without feints; 
                    freestyle freedom, for just an instant be together!

Quiet horses

Quiet horses

Quiet horses

Quiet horse quiet

The arena churned

The burning city in the background

The emperor and the fist

Grapes to raisins

Ashes to ashes

                    Yes the last tones of this desolate song have sounded. The spots 
                    die and the curtain falls. The wires are cut, without ceremony, and 
                    the plug lies forgotten on the floor. Elements such as light and 
                    speed are decontroled again. The dust on the busts is blown away 
                    and blown away.

                    Goodnight Dancedoll, you should really go to sleep now, because 
                    tomorrow is shopping day. Yes, she will always continue to take 
                    care of her own groceries.

© mc 1974-2014

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