I am not there
Things disappear as soon as they are named.
There is a relation between language and death.
A song to pictures, pictures of Ketchup.
A love song.
A song for you, Paul, Heinz, Mayo, and a cat.
There is a relation between language and death.
Language is always related to death.
Dear Mayo Thompson..
Language makes a hole into the Real.
I am in the middle of your picture.
I am not there.
The words make things disappear.
Dear Mayo..
We will always be someone else elsewhere.
Now, that it is named, it is said,
there will be something else instead,
that may be read or red
or something Mayo Thompson said.
The symbol initially murders things, is the bloody murder of any thing.
Death in language. Death in lang–uaaaage.
And they say, also my absence,
my possible absence, qualified as death, is – for a start – given.
And to actually and utterly be in the here and now,
I even have to experience it in some way.
We will always be someone else elsewhere.
I am in the middle of your picture.
I am not there.
I may be written here – as always, even if I am dead.
Once I am I.
Once you.
And I do not even know, what you want – as I.
Desire is metonymy, me–to–ny–my, me–to–nyyyy–my, me–to–ny–myyyy..
Hey!
Catch up. Catch up with me!
What do you want?
I.. Who speaks? To say I..
Run back and catch up with me!
Run forward, run ahead, catch up with me!
Hey!
The words do not belong to me.
They are his words,
I am merely spoken by.
In other words.. His?
I am not in the middle of your picture.
We will always be someone else elsewhere.
The words are stolen, never one’s o–w–n,
stolen from language.
The Ketchup from Heinz and Paul – stoooolen.
The cat stolen from its homophone.
This song – sing along! – stolen from language only yesterday.
Strangely enough one doesn’t notice this, but must have forgotten it in order to speak.
A song on the lips, one has to forget, that one does not possess words.
Dear Mayo...
Hey!
Language is always related to death.
Always repetition, that is to say, death. Death. Death. Death.
Its deadly aspect, its murderous effect – repetition – re–pe–tiiii–tion.
To rush forward, to forget – without blushing. Sing!
Language makes a hole into the Real.
I am not there.
But the Real is ahead of it.
I run ahead. It remains a rest – always. In the same kind of vein. Too late, too often.
Let’s rock!
Where you find me? You? In language. Here.
I am in the middle of your picture.
Catch up! Catch up with me!
One has to forget, that one does not possess words.
Closing one’s eyes in view of the hole in the Real.
To a–pp–eaeaeaear in language!
Where is it? Where I? Where I as I?
Catch up! Catch up with me!
You!
Now, that it is named, it is said,
there will be something else,
that may be read or red
or something Mayo Thompson said.
I say I am not there.
Catch up! Catch up with me!
There is a cat in every catch up.
Now, that it is named, one says it,
there will be something,
see,
that may be read or red
or something Mayo Thompson..
Wait!