En passant

image/text composition

motto ware / breakfast poems

Earth hath not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth: Poems in Two Volumes: Sonnet 14

I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said, If there's peace to be found in the world,
A heart that is humble might hope for it here!
It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
And, Here in this lone little wood, I exclaim'd,
With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,
Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!
By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips,
Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine!

I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd
Above the green elms that a cottage was near,
And I said if there's peace to be found in the world,
The heart that is humble might hope for it here.
Ev'ry leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound,
But the wood-pecker tapping the hollow beechtree.
And here in this lone little cot (I ex- claim'd,)
With a maiden attractive to heart and to eye,
Who would blush when I prais'd her,
and weep if I blam'd,
How blest could I live and how calm
could I die
Ev'ry leaf was at rest 

recording demon /printer's devil / patron demon of scribes

Titivillus gathers up the fragments of these words
with which he fills his sack a thousand times a day.

collector of idle thoughts, errors in copying,  lost syllables, provocateur, inverter of type, mis-speller of words

This recording demon was said to frequent churches and monasteries, and write down the sins of anyone he saw there. The sins he collected were then taken down to hell where they would be counted against the guilty person on Judgment Day.


"I am a poure dyuel, and my name ys Tytyvyllus ... I muste eche day ... brynge my master a thousande pokes full of faylynges, and of neglygences in syllables and wordes."

HE MADE ME DO IT

zangezi

In 1923, Vladimir Tatlin designed, directed, and starred in a performance of Velimir Khlebnikov's play Zangezi that was presented by an amateur troupe at the Museum of Artistic Culture in Petrograd. Khlebnikov had died earlier in the year, and the performance was to be a memorial to Tatlin's favorite poet. To Khlebnikov's construction of words, where sound was the principle building element, Tatlin attempted to find a counterpart in tangible construction, built with a variety of materials in different surfaces and shapes.

Alexander Kluge: Nachrichten aus der ideologischen Antike

non written poems

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 nebesky

rock for beating breast with

rocher de bronze

Sinnbild unerschütterlicher Festigkeit,


Thoreau - 26 Jan 1858
Some men have a peculiar taste for bad words, mouthing and licking them into lumpish shapes like the bear her cubs,—words like “tribal” and “ornamentation,” which drag a dead tail after them. They will pick you out of a thousand the still-born words, the falsettos, the wing-clipped and lame words, as if only the false notes caught their ears. They cry encore to all the discords

BLESS / BLAST / CURSE

picture the word goddess

The Palace of Curtains III

security printing

homo signorum

observations, weather changes …

WE BUY MEMORY FOR CASH

future

diagonal section / guillotine

Das Weisse mit dem roten Punkt

The White with the Red Spot

"Allowing for chance
Or:
The sum of figures
Awaits the outcome
[…]
Like a mosaic broken up a long time ago
the years cast
their splinters on my shores. Only rarely a bigger piece.
So I had to collect. Carefully put them together,
bit by bit.
Thus was born, infinitely slowly, the intuition of the 'Image.'
[…]
I should not have started with this collection.
and that is my weakness, my failure,
an illusion I have always lived with."

Unica Zürn, Das Weisse mit dem roten Punkt Texte und Zeichnungen, under the direction of Inge Morgenroth, Frankfurt am Main, Berlin: Ullstein, 1988

Anagramme


Extract from
Hans Bellmer Postface to Hexentexte [here]
…What is at stake here is a totally new unity of form, meaning and feel¬ing: language-images that cannot simply be thought up or written up. They enter suddenly and for real into their interconnections, radiating multiple meanings, meandering loops lassoing neighboring sense and sound. They constitute new, multifacetted objects, resembling polyplanes made of mir¬rors. “Beil” (hatchet) becomes “Lieb’” (Love) and “Leib” (body), when the hurried stonehand glides over it; the wonder of it lifts us up and rides away with us on its broomstick.

pillow pop 2/ sandnes (Instrumental solo)

his sorry hack

V&A catalogue

in parenthesis