the koran on the floor covers up vomit that leaks out of the serrated edges of the paper like, what, ya, what, blood running down the small channel for the blood of the sacrificed lambs in the temple mount.
in the b.c. days. in the a.d. version of the last tempation of christ. i don’t believe in willem dafoe as jesus.
and the blood sounds fake as it trickles down into a square hole in the ground. kricik, kricik.
i’m a man and i make big important statements about the state of the world.
which reminds me, i’ve got nothing big or important to say about/of/to the world.
that is because i know nothing about the state of my heart.
that is why i easily get sentimental like that.
“sentimentality is a failure of feeling”
it’s a failure of peeling
the onion skin of your ‘art.
pecundangkal.
do you read the ‘pecundang’
or the ‘pecun dangkal’
or the missing entry from eko endarmoko’s tesaurus bahasa
i often imagine this scene: eko, hasif, nirwan, gm, laksmi
le dernier diner aux café TUK
then jove would ask: does anyone know the indonesian word for ‘imagined’?
and EVERYONE would raise their hands.
bastards.
do you remember when we went to the strip bar
a black ACE umbrella did a headstand on its plastic tip
and you said: it’s easier to peel the apple skin of your art?
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