Scarlet Rouge



Do you sense the smell’s around?, – me neither! There is nothing, no thing but abSENSE left in these – sugar fields of idealisation. NOTHING BUT! (We have as a trophy his but, this filet left of God.) >Faces are surfaces<? – well, that’s like stating >trees are entities<, or >0 equals 0< – not precocious at all, but – dead!: trivial. (– We speak always in tautologies: how could it be different in coherent nets? When do the spiders called meaning finally come and eat us? –) Please, give me a hint of content (it may be a mountain of layers and foils (and fails), I’ve no need for substance no more, but content’s the tent I rested in, : once – don’t give it to me -)


Here are – here are – creatures that make it worth living, since – apparently: they in deed are alive, no example-, no sample-beings but… but like scripture that shines through pages with sun (a bit underneath), like warm shadows in our eyes: strangers who carry some prospect, who carry some prospect although they, too, seem to live in this dizzy world once baptized Earth (in?, within it?, in caves and holes? – there is no need for holy water to make babies cry), between jumping and breaking and burning and drying hearts, in this heat of hatred and scarcity’s fun, — these strangers, rangers on the edges of cups, of cups that smell like evenings melt to mulled wine; cups that turned hot without any filling, — these strangers, strange but not alien, carry – wingless – the burden of futures, of us soon released, of those who dance without reason, — these strangers, always, always just odd enough, just to be just enough for our prospects.