ubu
In Terms Of An Unfixed Shuffle
they grew up, they made tea, they typed on typewriters, they photographed their meals -once in a while would actually sit still, do nothing. they made lists of lists. and tore them up. the secretary paid the bills. the secretary was never seen. they woke in the morning quiet as mouses and drank their coffee. they woke in the afternoon stoned full of ideas that flowered in evenings that begat unusual results. they feared upheaval lest all come undone in an american scenario. theirs was a continent in miniature. it smelled of print. typography. art for the sake of art. declining officialties. they discovered new things sadly.
they relived the same years over and over unknowingly. the loop breaks at some point and becomes news. the american scenario.
lengths of dialogue unrolled, unraveled into text, became playthings for new bohemians to scatter further. nothing mattered as time continued and with it brought changes like blue filters. there were letters to write, letters to receive, automatically generated by the culture of culturism itself, a spontaneous thing. breasts were bared in formal pomp for it had to be done. the papers arrived. the numbers numbered.
the breathless vista was ignored, accepted as normal.
somewhere someone told a story and another a joke. a song was sung. money was made. some was spent. some was briefly saved. some forgotten in old stored clothes. nothing was explained. ever.
death came and went. that's all there was. the paintings, the photographs and all the miscellaneous papers were never moved. this was what kept the guns and knives away, the violence aside, the american scenario at bay. such crime was kept hidden, secret, detested by authorities. hate like cockroaches and rats and mold crept in and over. every 100 years a day of cleansing disintegrated all that and a random image was shone.
the new intelligence was a simple point that held all. when all is held, the point is as simple as a dot. it knew that and it knew it'd had been known by some that had come before. none of that mattered. neither does this. to some.
there were no candles, but matches aplenty.
please copy all this. print it out however you wish but paste it to the wall. we're home.
