Are you the oddity of public space?
Can i remember you as the nameless, as the bold, as the red chock, as the key to a merely white door?
Can i understand you as oddities of public space too – or can i remember you as this:
When the legend becomes fact, print the legend (this one is for Mr. Peabody)?
Well, that’s setting the track – and i track back to the French Revolution, to the history of the rise of the emotion,
which again makes me laugh. Have the rich suddenly changed?
Are they the Arts, the new digital Gavioli organ organizers?
Are they trampling the ground of natural justice; policing instead of capital punishment?
I tell you, what is fantastic about Robespierre: saying, the rich have to honour the poor.
At the end the artists represent the poor, represent their emotion.
while the rich feed the law–identity–custom–usances
to become the political body that craves more, more artists to
be zealous seals clad in heavenly Grey – Reds?
And here comes my tribute to cinnamon red:
caramel man stood to wait,
he said: i’m blind, would you join
three yellow dots, to cut in half
the prize of the cost to swim in paradise
no question i said, i’ll join …
It’s not on loin, he said, but there is a whiff of cold …,
i know, the cinnamon color of green leaves have told …
full moon always cuts the joy,
He paid up with a 20 bill
don’t cheat him lady, i told the cashier
twenty is not ten. ( Prinzenbad
oh, that’s why i couldn’t sleep last night…
more wine would have fixed it,
do you think that is gore ? *
*In old English law, a small, narrow slip of ground. Cowell. In modern landlaw, a small triangular piece of land, such us may be left between surveys which do not close.
– Martina Gertrude Siebert