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“A new language that will at last say what we have to say. For our words no longer correspond to the world. When things were whole we felt confident, that our words could express them. But little by little these things have broken apart, shattered, collapsed into chaos. And yet our words have remained the same. They have not adapted themselves to the new reality. Hence, every time we try to speak of what we see, we speak falsely, distorting the very thing we are trying to represent. It’s made a mess of everything. But words, as you yourself understand, are capable of change. The problem is how to demonstrate this.”
P. Auster: City of Glass
we still celebrate our failures,
satisfaction kills desire and discontent stays young forever.
and yet peter pan runs out of style.
who would want to stay a child forever?
take all your self-referential bullshit
and don’t open(/answer) the door,
I couldn’t care less who’s there
and shut the gateway behind me,
we must keep the cold outside this ship
before it gets us all
while we’re trying to stuff these holes beneath our shirts,
before we distrust ourselves as much as we distrust gravity.
utopian sons & daughters (of fairy tales we once adored),
postmodern grave robbers eat their young
and I don’t want to stay a child forever
so shall i leave this ship, run as fast as I can
like a thief stealing hope from lonely places?
since „self-confidence“ is just one of many words
and I have no use for words anymore (because:)
Track Name: SEND IN THE CLOWNS, FRANK
the meaning of words is arbitrary
and builds fences I could never cross
it builds them around this lighthouse of blemish,
outshining all my dark.
but damn this earth, it’s flat
and I’m head-down in its shadow, restless.
(so please, tell the cavalry
that they could spare their horses the long way because)
I'll rest my weary head right in your lap,
pen in hand again, walking backwards,
I’m drawing escape-plans on your eyelids,
I study them when you’re asleep:
like thieves stealing hope from lonely places,
laughing nostalgia right in its ugly face,
as wolves in fairy tales we’d smile at certainty
while it is bleeding dry
and therefore they’d only dare to whisper our secret names
in black shadows of empires built on dust.
trading in nights for caffeine and skylines made out of ashtrays,
spray painting riddles on their walls,
we’d escape the boredom
of interesting people in crowded rooms
singing (their) same old love songs in too crowded rooms.
the stadium is empty, like thieves we’d steal their melodies.
but the king has never left the building.
all my words descend,
they melt into a meaningless bowl of sentences
and in between these lines, I found nothing there,
no answers to the question what I’m still waiting for...