dogs will be murdered for stealing

Variation without an original

After all, this work is all about becoming

I am the center of my being

desire is based on its lack

some of you objected to the language

they will turn you into insects

you will not become a dog

and the way you treat the bugs will come to haunt you

I think in my own kind of concept

and the body of the despot is the center of attention

for a world that no longer needs violence

but the monarch is an empty place in Hegel

hunters make inscriptions on the body of the earth

and tattoos act as inscription on the body

and I speak the sacred language of the despot

and coding begets overcoding

I wrote a law and it won't include dogs

but I only forgot those who bite

The part of those who have no part

You can‘t disagree without language

what is the refrain in music?

What does it mean to have a home?

maybe you are interested in death

you must get away from your mother

you can try to make a space you call your own

connecting up bits of yourself with the outside

belonging to you in some sense

what are we to do without barbarians

if you cannot control your own budget

you political choices are void

you make decisions with no popular consent

and nationalism is more than just a nation

the people is still missing

the people are yet to come

figuration as a breakhrough of forms

to argue against consensus

money is noise

money is loud

money is static on the radio

I doubt that consensus is possible

I write all the breaks and disjunctions

but who’s to decide on the breaks?

that question is surely political

I’m puzzled as I leap into the void

you say bodies bodies bodies all the time

when you say flesh you get a different kind of sound

madness is the absence of work

we have a fundamental limit on community

what a disappearing future means for politics

you cannot be everything, everywhere

a group has to deal with its members

and all of its members are finite

but I still transcend the limits of a unit

this is a matter of others

we are always outside of ourselves

there were many outsiders in Athens

we are writing 

when writing is never complete

I still believe we need to find a future

which is different from the one we have today

he is always the object of suspicion

he is not really one of our own

to teach the young still reeks of condescension

who allows me to talk about art

who should learn writing from whom

peasant children from us

or us from peasant children

Does the fly require a spider on the web?

Everyone‘s already equal

If everybody‘s equal

Than everyone is equal in their nothingness

but some are still smarter than others

Magma explodes into daytime speech

A language outside of itself

The sadness that strengthens the ego

The falling apart of identity

The purchase of clothing on temu

The lessons of shame rendered harmless

The shattering sound of the symbol

The father as surrogate teacher

The boundary that makes it external

The object is outside yourself

Perhaps as an object of longing

But it probably eats you alive

You turn towards language as medium

And fail to deliver its promise

The words have not told you enough

You‘re reaching for what you can‘t grasp

Your practice critiques your ideas

And the subject won't die, it's decentered

I bracket my madness in text

There‘s nothing to tell anymore

Must I mean what I say?

and if not, am I fucked?

I abandon my body for visuals

I will never be the center of our world

The unconscious is the satellite i hunt

We are spoken by our language

And we get what we deserve 

because we‘re visible,

as institutions fail

They will make you aware of their pain

When you‘re locked up you want to be free

I‘m too careless approaching my body

as I lack aberration and illness

They bring me to clinics for nothing

Despise me until I‘m imprisoned

For making a meme about Gaza

And dogs will be murdered for stealing

We want better conditions for prisons

And shittier food at your work

And Marx was a minor Ricardian

and Ricardo was liberal as fuck

they say these changes have to do with population

I‘m writing the prose of the world

Reduced to a number of species

A grasp of the realm of non-thinkables

And the place of the subject is multiple

The era of representation

My face will be erased by the waves at stubborn shores

And humanism itself will disappear

Now I want to say one thing about the business of repression

It has never made me decent or alive

Sexuality is natural, like food I buy online

we surely can’t foresee what’s to come

The way we repress is by talking

The real you can‘t put into words

If language gets hold of you, it kills you

It distorts you and it puts you in boxes

I produce myself by talking

I perpetuate the process

Who cares about the victims

It‘s offensive to the king

So you open Fredric Jameson‘s years of theory

And you ransack it for a series of themes

And each of its chapters a book in itself

It means nothing but maybe it works

Translation negates the autonomy

You can read it like the one or the other

I would never fail to prove that I‘m a flower

I speak a dialect with no prison, but a flag

Never is a constant revolution

Who wants to produce a new state

But the essence of the nomad is

The nomad has no place

The diaspora from mountain to the lake

Now you ask who is more the outsider

And you carry that resentment through your life

So you create a secret garden of your own

Not what does it mean, but how does it work

I am all the names of history

Just a flood of images

Until you have reason you can‘t have a notion of madness

How to get rid of the subject

Power is what imprisons you

You‘ll be thrown out of your world

Even though you have no home

Of self-imposed rules and behaviour

That which is normal and that which is not

Abnormals are treated as such